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Chapter Text

The first time it happened was when Mordred slipped past Leon’s guard and managed to knock him out. Leon had woken to a nervous-looking Mordred gently shaking him awake. His fingers were all over Leon: on his lips to check his breath, his wrist and throat for pulse and his scalp, where they brushed a sensitive bump.

“Oh, thank Emrys,” sighed Mordred before helping Leon up and taking him to Gaius.

The second time it happened, it was in Mordred’s quarters. He had invited Leon to drink with him one night, and Leon had found he was great company. So on the few occasions where neither of them had any duties at night nor anywhere to be early the next day, Leon would come over for a cup of the cider Mordred favoured.

An hour into their cups, the mysterious Mordred was more relaxed than he ever was in public. Leon regaled him with a tale about how he had escaped death by dressing a pile of straw in his clothes while he slipped away in his undergarments.

It was a story he usually kept to himself, but Mordred’s laughter was worth the embarassment.

“For the love of Emrys,” Mordred wheezed, “Leon, you’re as bad as Gwaine.”

And he dissolved into another fit of laughter.

The third time was when Mordred found Leon, Gwaine and Elyan hiding in an alcove. Elyan was holding a lady’s dress, Gwaine had an unlit torch, Leon had a basket filled with fish, and all of them had guilty expressions. Mordred had found them whispering to each other and waving their hands about. Gwaine had a madman’s grin, Elyan a smaller, mischievous smile and Leon stood stiffly, unamused but resigned by his fellow knights’ mischief.

Mordred stared at them.

“What, in Emrys’ good name, are you doing?”

Leon had figured it was just a quirk. An expression from wherever Mordred came from. Heavens knew that Merlin had all sorts of words that they didn’t use in Camelot. Maybe Emrys was some heroic figure for a small village.

One winter night, when they shared their cider, Leon asked.

“Who is that? Emrys?”

Mordred flushed, looking for his words.

“He’s a deity of sorts. Sorry, I shouldn’t mention him in Camelot.”

Leon wondered why.

“Is he of the Old Religion?”

Mordred sobered a bit and nodded.

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course.”

Mordred was good man and a good knight. Leon knew that the Old Religion had been influential before the Purge, and twenty years wasn’t long against hundreds of years of worship, especially in the countryside that hardly ever saw people of the citadel. He’d met many people who worshipped different deities. Mentions of the Triple Goddess were the most common.

But he’d never heard of Emrys.

“I’ve never heard of him. Tell me about him.”

Mordred looked surprised.

“Never heard of him?” he echoed, “Leon, you’re a Knight of the Round Table.”

Leon scrunched his face.

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“A round table in a place of power is generally done to honour Emrys. He is a god of equality. You really should know this, Leon. He might be merciful, but he has smited people who have offended him before.”

Leon blanched. Although he did not worship such gods, he had no doubt of their existence. The Knights had crossed paths with several gods in the past. It was a wonder Leon was still alive.

That they had been using the symbol of a god and hadn’t known felt like too much danger for comfort.

“If that’s true, why hasn’t he stricken the king for using his symbol?”

Mordred smiled.

“Do you know why Arthur chose the round table?” he asked Leon.

The moment when they had found the table, when nearly all hope had been lost, was engraved in Leon’s mind.

“We found the round table in the castle of the ancient kings of Camelot. In the old tradition, it was used because it bestowed no man greater importance than another. Arthur would see us as equals.”

Mordred nodded.

“And Emrys walks among men as their equal. The gods-” he cleared his throat, “The gods can be difficult to understand, especially for someone raised as far away from them as the king has been. That he understood the Round Table and used it without distorting its meaning is impressive. Emrys doesn’t care much for recognition, but he smiles on those who understand him. And he certainly smiles on Arthur.”

When they next held council at the Round Table, Leon couldn’t stop staring at it.

It was plainer than the table of the Ancient Kings, but held that same feeling of unity, of being part of something great. Leon wondered if Mordred felt it too.

He wondered if it was the presence of Emrys.

He shook himself. Men of faith often had strange worldviews that could worm themselves into your mind, if you let them.

Council wasn’t all that different from how it used to be. It was boring grain reports and taxes. It was easy for his eyes to slip to Mordred, who was still engrossed by the novelty of it.

Mordred was listening intently to the lord droning on about the complaints of the merchants in the Lower Town. His face betrayed no emotion and his posture was stiff, but his fingers brushed the edge of the table with reverence. Leon wondered how he had never noticed before.

He caught his eye and when Mordred smiled at him, it sent a jolt through Leon. He was such a mystery. A fine knight, soon to be a great one soon, and every carefully concealed facet of the boy fascinated him. He was a knight, but when Leon was hurt, he was every bit the worrying physician. And then, he was pleasant late night company. And then, he was a follower of the Old Religion.

It made Leon wonder how many facets of his character he could find.

Later that day, Leon found Arthur at his desk, pouring over some documents. Merlin was nowhere in sight, but then, he was often running around the castle for some chore or another, if not helping Gaius. It was for the best. This should be a private conversation.

“Leon?”

Arthur put down the papers as Leon nudged the door to his chambers closed.

“Sire. If you have a moment, we should talk.”

Arthur pulled over a chair and motioned for Leon to sit. Leon obeyed.

“Speak your mind.”

Leon took a deep, steadying breath.

“I have been speaking with Sir Mordred,” he said, “You are aware of his... beliefs?”

Arthur nodded.

“He was raised with the druids,” said the king.

Leon blinked. That made a lot of sense. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t figured it out himself.

“So you’re familiar with Emrys?”

Arthur’s face blanked.

“Who?”

It was as Leon had feared : Arthur didn’t know either. There was far too much risk in using the symbols of gods they didn’t know or understand.

“One of Mordred’s gods. He says that the Round Table is a symbol of Emrys.”

Tapping his fingers on the desk, Arthur considered.

“Round table aren’t so rare. Surely, it must be a coincidence. It’s an old tradition of Camelot, after all, and we’ve never worshipped the old gods.”

It struck Leon then, that Arthur had no concept of life before the Purge. That no tutor nor mentor had truly educated him in this matter.

“We did when I was a boy,” he said.

“What are you trying to say, Sir Leon?” asked Arthur cuttingly and Leon knew he was going to be difficult. “Are you suggesting I worship some strange gods?”

Leon winced.

“No. Of course not. I mean only that we should be... careful of angering them. We’ve seen the effect of killing a unicorn. I don’t want to see what a slighted god could do.”

Arthur’s eyes shuddered and Leon knew the conversation was over.

When Arhur dismissed him, he bowed and slipped out, unsatisfied. He didn’t know what could move Arthur. But what could he do but warn him?

Leon could only prepare himself by finding all the information he could on this potential enemy. So, he peppered Mordred with questions.

“Does Emrys smite people a lot?” he asked.

Mordred gave him the most perplexed look.

“No,” he said, “I’ve only heard of it happening once.”

Leon jotted the information down on a piece of parchment.

“So how does he usually punish people?”

Mordred shrugged.

“He doesn’t.”

“So he doesn’t hurt or kill anyone? What about the smiting?”

Mordred looked uncomfortable.

“It isn’t that he doesn’t hurt anyone, but walking among us puts him at the same risks as everyone. Bandits, rogue sorcerers, hunger. Although he doesn’t punish, but he has been known to be a skilled battle mage and a master of trickery.”

“Trickery?”

Mordred smirked at him.

“Sir Leon, did you know you’ve met him before?”

Leon looked up from his parchment.

“I remember every time I’ve been met with gods of the Old Religion, and I know that none of them were named Emrys.”

Mordred’s eyes danced.

“There are many trickster gods and Emrys is just one of them. He blends into the crowd and knows how to deceive men. ”

“Then how did you recognize him?”

Mordred shrugged.

“It’s hard to explain. He has an imposing presence.”

“An imposing presence that can blend into a crowd?”

Mordred thought on it for a second.

“Yes,” he answered simply.

Every time Leon found out something about Emrys, he also learned that the opposite was true and the more he learned the less he understood. He looked at his notes that contradicted themselves every other line.

He put aside his quill and parchement to put his forehead on the table and groan.

“I don’t understand.”

Mordred had the nerve to laugh.

“Most people feel that way when they study magic for the first time.”

Leon jolted at the word.

“Magic?” he echoed.

Mordred sipped his cider.

“Well yes. Magic is difficult to study because you can’t have a teacher who knows a lot more than you. Any question you ask them tends to sound like a riddle or a paradox. To actually learn something, you need a teacher who only has a little more experience. The most powerful sorcerers have all been unhinged, or at least seemed so. And Emrys is the god of magic, so nearly anything you hear about him will sound just as vague and enigmatic.”

Leon’s head was starting to hurt.

“But then how am I supposed to find out anything?”

Mordred patted his arm.

“There is no rush. You’ve learned many things about him, you just need to digest it before discovering more.”

Leon made to interrupt, but Mordred shushed him.

“I’m sorry, Leon. I can see that I’ve really worried you. Emrys would never hurt Camelot. You don’t need to worry him. If you do want to know more about him, it’ll just take some time.”

“If he is really so inoffensive, why would you warn me against offending him with misusing the Round Table?”

Mordred mumbled something into his cup that Leon didn’t quite catch.

“What was that?”

“Emrys doesn’t mind. But I don’t like to see him forgotten.” Mordred looked into his cup instead of meeting Leon’s eyes.

And Leon didn’t quite know what to make of that.

The bits of information whirled in Leon’s mind that night.

...god of magic...

...would never hurt Camelot...

...knows how to deceive men...

...smiles on Arthur...

...forgotten...

Forgotten.

His thoughts kept returning there. There were gods associated with particular places or could only be called on in certain circumstances with the right prayer or ritual. When knowledge of these gods disappeared with the passing of their followers, they would fade from the minds of men. There were gods that were only called on by a blacksmiths or artisans for their specific domains, and they were practically only known by them.

But Mordred had practically admitted that Emrys was here. In Camelot. And that Leon himself had crossed paths with him without realising they were a god.

Leon had never even heard the name Emrys before Mordred joined them.

Leon did not worship the gods, but he knew they were powerful. He had heard how the whims and emotions of the gods could sway the weather or help create masterful pieces of armour. He had heard how they could send healing whispers in the wind or cause earthquakes.

He knew they were incomprehensibly powerful.

Emrys could smite people. Leon was not about to forget that, despite Mordred’s assurances.

So how could a being so powerful be forgotten while he was right in front of them?

Chapter Text

When he next had some free time, Leon went up to Geoffrey’s library. He wanted to know more about this Emrys and Mordred had proven to be next to useless. Leon had a suspicion that Mordred had been messing with him. After going over his notes, Leon somehow felt more confused than when Mordred had first answered his questions.

Maybe there would be some mention of this god in Geoffrey’s archive. Leon fancied his chances, especially since Arthur had allowed books with information about magic and the Old Religion when he became king. Leon rather suspected Arthur still felt guilty about killing a unicorn without having any idea of the consequences it would have on his people.

In all their adventures, Leon thought that was the lesson Arthur had taken to heart : ignorance of magic would bring nothing but misfortune.

So, now they were allowed books.

When Leon entered the dusty library, Geoffrey was paging through his ledger, looking bored. The creak of door startled him to attention, as if he didn’t expect visitors.

Perhaps this place didn’t get as many as it should.

“Can I help you, Sir Leon?” asked the archivist.

“I- Yes. Do you have anything about... gods?”

Of the Old Religion, of course. But Leon hesitated still to say that quite out loud. It was one thing in private with Mordred or even Arthur. It was another entirely with Geoffrey.

“Ah, yes,” said Geofrrey. “Of course. Follow me.”

He waved Leon down an aisle until coming to a stop in front of a shelf. Giving it a cursory look, Leon found that it was mostly about law.

“Geoffrey?”

The old man seemed to have done something while Leon was reading the spines because the wall suddenly gave way and opened into a hidden room full of books and objects.

Objects that he could not properly identify, but that looked definitely magical and therefore illegal.

Leon gawped.

After several moments, Geoffrey’s voice brought him back to attention.

“Come along, Sir Knight.”

“R-right.”

Leon stepped into the poorly lit room where Geoffrey was looking over a small collection stacked on a shelf.

“Do you want a general overview or are you looking into a particular god?”

Somehow, Leon managed to make his tongue work.

“I need information about Emrys.”

Geoffrey sneezed as he turned away from the books.

“I’m afraid the king left with that book just yesterday. If it’s urgent, you could ask him to see it. Otherwise, I imagine he will return it within the week.”

Leon thanked him as they made their way out.

When the door to the hidden room shut behind them, Leon had to ask.

“Has this room been here this whole time?”

“Certainly.”

“Uther let this room exist during the Purge?”

Geoffrey half-shrugged.

“It has been here since the castle was built. Uther was informed of its existence when he took the throne. I imagine he forgot about it.”

“Does King Arthur know?”

“He found out about it yesterday and would have sooner if he had read all his reports.”

Leon tried to cover his horror as he bade Geoffrey a good day and headed back to his chambers.

Only there, once his shock had faded, did he think over what Geoffrey had said.

Arthur had taken out the book on Emrys.

Leon smiled. It seemed his warning had been heeded after all.

While it was nice that Arthur was educating himself about the god that might smite him, Leon’s worries and–this he would only admit to himself–curiosity were far from sated. As such, he would ask around about this Emrys until he could get his hands on that book.

According to Mordred, Emrys was the god of magic. It would make sense then that sorcerers would know about him.

As it was, magic was still largely illegal outside of dire circumstances. The punishments were much less severe than they once were, however, and Arthur had excused many uses of magic when there were exceptional circumstances.

One such circumstance had been on a hunt where Percival had been injured and the weather had been awful. They had ducked into a cave for the night, but the downpour had been so fierce that Leon hadn’t bothered even going outside for firewood. Everything outside was drenched beyond hope of burning.

Leon and the knights had gone about setting up camp, taking up Merlin’s usual duties as the man fussed over Percival. The knight was pale and seemed so much smaller than he should. He shivered as Merlin stripped him of his armour and inspected the wound in his side. It pulsed purple and sickly yellow, certainly infected. The blade that had struck him might have even been poisoned.

Leon didn’t know, but the way Merlin’s eyebrows knitted didn’t bode well.

When their sleeping rolls had been unfurled and Merlin appeared to have done everything he could for Percival, Elyan passed around cold rations for their party.

Merlin chewed on his half-heartedly as he glanced between Percival and Arthur silently.

It wasn’t in Merlin’s nature to be silent.

He was always bantering with Arthur despite their difference in station. The ghost of that banter hung in the air and Leon knew Merlin was going to do or say something that no one would like.

Leon chewed on his rations too, waiting for Merlin to tell them that Percival would die tonight.

It didn’t take long for Merlin to clear his throat and grab everyone’s attention.

“Percival’s in a bad way,” he said.

Leon braced himself for the rest.

“The wound is infected. With proper tools and rest, he would be fine, but it’s too cold and wet. He’ll catch his death while his body tries to fight the infection.”

Gwaine said what Merlin didn’t.

“We need a fire.”

Merlin nodded.

“There’s nothing to burn,” said Arthur in a rare moment pessimism, “There’s no way to get a fire going in these conditions.”

Leon closed his eyes and breathed deep. He had expected it, but it hurt all the same.

Percival was going to die.

Once he had steeled himself, he looked up to find Merlin staring at the empty spot between t hem where they would usually build a fire. Then, in a strained, quiet voice, he said :

“Not all fires need wood to burn.”

Everyone froze. Leon thought for a moment that his ears might have deceived him, but there had been no other noise and Merlin hadn’t stuttered.

But there was no way. Not after a decade of serving in Camelot.

Arthur laughed and, because he had always been a bit slow, asked Merlin :

“And how are you going to find a fire like that, Merlin? There’s nothing here.”

“With a spell.”

And then Arthur froze too.

“What are you saying?” he asked, cold and dangerous.

“I’m saying I don’t fancy the pyre,” Merlin hissed back.

Arthur considered Merlin for a long moment before coming to a decision.

“You won’t burn for saving my knight.”

Merlin nodded and schooled his face blank. Leon couldn’t tell what he was thinking anymore and that notion frightened him.

Then Merlin lifted a hand.

“Forbaerne.”

And a fire came to life between them, hovering a few inches off the cavern floor.

The incantation rattled Leon. He had heard it before in battle against sorcerers. It was a spell that had nearly taken Leon’s life before.

The other knights looked similarly uncomfortable and Merlin went back to fussing over Percival, bringing him closer to the fire and whispering assurances.

No one said anything.

Leon and Elyan had second watch, but neither of them made a move for their bedrolls. In fact, none of them slept that night. They stared at the dancing fire that burned from nothing while Merlin crushed herbs and wiped the sweat from Percival’s brow.

When morning came, the fire snuffed itself out and Percival was well enough to travel to Camelot through the drizzle.

No one spoke about that fire again.

The point was that Merlin was a sorcerer. And if sorcerers knew Emrys, then Merlin might know something.

That was why Leon cornered Merlin after practice in the armoury.

“Merlin,” he said, “Could I have a moment of your time?”

Merlin stiffened for a moment before fluidly turning to him with an open and affable expression. The moment was so short that Leon would hav e chalked it up to his imagination if he hadn’t known the manservant had magic and thus, a reason to be wary of a knight of Camelot.

As far as Leon knew, no one had confronted Merlin since that night. It was understandable for him to be nervous, even if Arthur had made his decision quite clear.

But he didn’t look nervous. He appeared as open and friendly as always and that sent a shiver down Leon’s spine that the magic hadn’t.

“What can I help you with, Sir Leon?”

Not a twitch, not a stutter. A perfect performance, except for that half second of hesitation. Leon knew he must be terrified, but Leon couldn’t back off. This Emrys was someone he needed to know more about, even at the cost of frightening Merlin a little.

Not that Leon intended to scare him more than he already was. Perhaps, with time, they could come to nearly be friends again.

For now, there would be fear beneath their interactions.

“Have you ever heard of a god named Emrys?” he asked.

Merlin’s face did something. It passed through a mix of emotions before settling on bemusement.

“I have heard of Emrys,” he said delicately, “but he isn’t a god.”

“Mordred says he is. He- He worships him.”

Leon didn’t really know how else to put it.

Merlin groaned.

“Well, he shouldn’t,” said Merlin, rolling his eyes, “because Emrys is not a god and definitely should not be worshipped.”

It seemed Merlin would be quite adamant about that. Hmm.

“Then you know about him?” pressed Leon. “What can you tell me about him?”

Merlin thought on it for a second before answering.

“He’s the most powerful warlock to ever live according to druidic prophecy. I don’t know much else.”

“But you were certain he wasn’t a god.”

“Because he isn’t.”

“How do you know?”

Merlin didn’t answer. Instead, he made a noise of frustration and resumed his chores as if Leon had never interrupted him.

Leon didn’t know what to make of Merlin. He had known there would be tension between them after that night, but this was more than that. Merlin was acting more strangely than that.

It occurred to Leon then that Merlin might not know Emrys the same way Mordred did. What little magic Merlin knew couldn’t have been learned in Camelot and there was little opportunity for him to learn the same legends and faith as Mordred.

No, he must have learned about Emrys in a much different way.

“You’ve met him,” he whispered when the realization dawned on him. “You know Emrys.”

Because Emrys was in Camleot and Mordred found him to be easily recognizable. Maybe he was easy to recongize; if only one had magic. Then Merlin would have been able to recognize him too if they had crossed paths .

Merlin paused for half a second before returning to his polishing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It sounded so genuine. The tone was somewhere between confused, annoyed and pitying, the same kind of tone Leon used when dealing with peasants clearly driven mad.

But that half second pause gave it away.

“You’re lying.”

His mouth formed the words as he thought them, falling from hi s mouth before he realized that accusing Merlin wouldn’t help get more information out of him.

Merlin glared coldly and clenched his jaw.

“Mordred mentioned something that had me worried,” admitted Leon, “and I just have some questions. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but it would help lay some of my worries to rest.”

Merlin relaxed a bit at that and made a motion with his hand for Leon to continue.

“I’ll answer what I can,” he said.

Leon hesitated for a moment before launching into his questions. He decided not to mention Emrys worship for now.

“Does Emrys really smite his enemies?”

Merlin did not immediately respond.

“It was one time,” he said. That followed with what Mordred had said.

“Do you think he might smite Arthur?”

“What? No.”

That was good. This interrogation was already going better than trying to pull information out of Mordred.

“Why not?” pressed Leon, because this was what truly worried him, “He’s supposed to be a powerful magic user, right? And Camelot has been hunting sorcerers for a long time. Why wouldn’t he want to attack Arthur?”

Merlin considered his answer, making a motion with his hand as if he was arguing with himself. He started saying something then abruptly cut himself off before settling on an answer.

“None of us can choose our destiny, Leon, and none of us can escape it. Not even Emrys.”

Well that sounded ominous. And cryptic. More cryptic, in fact, than Mordred’s answers, and that was an achievement in and of itself.

“What?” he said.

“It’s like- He wouldn’t.”

“But why?”

“Because he can’t.”

“So he can’t smite him?”

Merlin was struggling again.

“He could, but he wouldn’t.”

“What if he changed his mind?”

“He won’t.”

“He can’t change his mind?”

“He could, but it wouldn’t change anything.”

“Why not?”

“He would change his mind again.”

“But why?”

“Because destiny.”

Leon’s mind wass spinning.

Maybe Arthur was right about Merlin being a bit touched in the head.

Before he could ask another question, he snapped his mouth shut. This was clearly not going anywhere.

“Thank you, Merlin,” he said, trying to cover his dwindling opinion of Merlin with cordiality, “this has been... illuminating.”

“Of course,” said Merlin with a smile, as if they hadn’t had the most confusing conversation of Leon’s life, “I’m sure you have duties to tend to.”

Leon didn’t, but he knew a dismissal when he heard one. He couldn’t even be bothered to be offended about being dismissed by a servant.

He just got out of there as quickly as possible.

Mordred thought Leon’s misadventures in interrogating Merlin were hilarious.

It was, admittedly, a comfort to be sharing cider with Mordred again at an unreasonable hour of night despite the mockery. Geoffrey and Merlin had been unsettling in a way that Leon couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Despite the riddles, Mordred had been more than happy to share his faith with Leon and truly did his best to explain. In stark contrast, Geoffrey had quite openly criticized the king and the late king and Merlin had shifted between wariness and maundering about destiny.

Besides, Leon liked to hear Mordred laugh. He was such a serious man even at celebrations or when they invited him to the tavern. Only in privacy did he seem to truly relax. Only then did he laugh freely, and Leon loved the way his laughter rang.

Even when it was at Leon’s own expense.

“You had difficulty with what I was saying so you went to Merlin? Merlin?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Mordred’s laughter rang until he eventually ran out of breath.

Red-faced, he finally pulled himself together and Leon had to ask :

“Care to explain what’s so funny about that?”

There was perhaps less heat behind the question than Mordred deserved after laughing at him for nearly ten minutes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wiping away a tear, “Merlin’s just... very powerful, you see.”

Leon mulled that over.

Merlin : Snarky yet incompetent manservant to the king. Known to scare off cute game before they could be killed and somehow still being completely incompetent with a sword despite years of “sparring” with the king.

Powerful: A quality of having a great capacity in battle or court.

No matter how he looked at it, these two words did not belong in the same sentence.

“You’re kidding. He couldn’t wield a sword to save his life.”

Mordred smiled at the thought.

“That’s true, but powerful magic is rarely about battle skill.”

Leon frowned.

“I still have a hard time believing it.”

Mordred hummed as he refilled his own cup.

“I heard a rumour,” he said, “that Merlin used magic to make a fire when Percival was injured. And rumour has it that it saved Percival’s life. You were there. Tell me: is it true?”

Leon sipped his drink. He had been hoping the knights would mind their tongues, but it seemed that had been too much to hope for.

“It is,” he answered.

“Which spell did he use?”

Leon hadn’t expected the question.

“How many spells for fire are there?” he asked. He had assumed there would be just one and that any sorcerer could deduce the exact spell from knowing it had been fire.

Mordred smiled wanly.

“There are dozens. So, which one?”

Leon remembered because it was a spell he had heard many times before.

“Forbaerne.”

That answer made Mordred’s smile grow. It rather made him look like a cat proud of having caught a mouse.

“Forbaerne,” he said, “is a popular fire spell because it doesn’t require anything besides the sorcerer’s own magic. It serves as both the flint and the fuel. Some spells, like byrne, only serve as a spark for the fire, but they need some fuel to burn. A torch, oil or wood is needed. Does that make sense?”

Leon nodded, feeling strangely naughty about learning about actual magic spells.

“Because forbaerne needs magic as fuel, the sorcerer casting it needs to pour magic into the spell for as long as the spell lasts. Otherwise, the fire will snuff out.”

Leon thought of the flame hovering above the cavern floor, seemingly burning without sustenance. But that hadn’t been true. It must have been surviving on Merlin’s magic.

Mordred continued.

“Since it is so demanding, it’s usually reserved for quick atttacks, flashy demonstrations or just as a spark like byrne. Long uses of it will burn through the caster’s magical reserves until they are magically exhausted and collapse. Tell me, Leon, how long did Merlin maintain the spell?”

“All night,” he whispered. He had never even considered that it might have been taxing for Merlin. “About twelve hours.”

Generally, there was a restrained quality to Mordred that was almost ladylike at times. The alcohol had rinsed it away. The way he leaned over the table now reminded Leon more of Gwaine gossiping at the Rising Sun.

“What if I told you that the average sorcerer could maintain it for about two hours before collapsing?”

Leon blanched. It was one thing to say “this person is powerful.” It was another to give the perspective to demonstrate exactly how so.

“Are you telling me that Merlin is six times as powerful as the average sorcerer?”

Mordred laughed at him again.

“Tell me, Sir Knight,” he began teasingly, “Did Merlin collapse in the morning?”

Leon shook his head.

“He didn’t.”

“Did he seem tired?”

“No more than the rest of us.”

“And did he rest the following day?”

Leon frowned.

“No, we travelled to Camelot and he tended to Percival until Gaius took over, and then he served Arthur for the rest of the day. What are you saying, Mordred?”

“I haven’t said anything, Sir Knight. What are you saying?”

It was strangely cruel for him to pull the words from Leon’s mouth, but Leon couldn’t help but be swept along by Mordred’s cadence.

The conclusion by Leon’s own observations was obvious.

“He’s far more than six times as powerful as most sorcerers.”

Mordred laughed again, truly delighted, but far too loud to be sober.

“I knew you were clever underneath all that First Knight primness.”

When he ruffled Leon’s hair, Leon froze. Mordred avoided physical contact as a rule. He didn’t playfully punch the other knights and did not like to be punched either. He respected others’ space and breaching his usually resulted in a grumpy Mordred.

That being said, Mordred was touching Leon. Affectionately.

There was only one explanation : Mordred was very, very drunk.

He had been drinking more than he usually did and his face was flushed. Leon wondered how much of what he had said so far was accurate. The notion of Merlin being a powerful sorcerer still didn’t seem quite right to him. Maybe this was just a drunken rant that Mordred would dismiss as ridiculous in the morning.

On the other hand, maybe it would be easier to get answers out of Mordred while he was inebriated.

When Mordred pulled his hand away to nurse his drink again, Leon refocused their conversation.

“So what’s so funny about asking Merlin about Emrys then?”

“There are two reason. The first is... well, remember why you couldn’t understand my explanation of Emrys?”

“It was because the knowledge gap made it sound like nonsense, right?”

Leon still wasn’t sure how that worked.

“Right. And Merlin is fairly more powerful than me, so while my words may have seemed enigmatic, Merlin’s would seem outright-”

“‘Unhinged,’” Leon said, echoeing Mordred’s words last time about the most powerful sorcerers.

A silence settled between them as Leon thought that over. It made a twisted sort of sense. When he thought back over Mordred’s words, he realized something.

“Wait,” he said, “you said there were two reasons you found it funny. What’s the second?”

Mordred brought a finger to his lip.

“That, Sir Knight, is a secret,” he said with a wink.

Then, he promptly passed out on Leon’s table.

Chapter Text

The following morning was supposed to be easy. A perk of Leon’s station was that he rarely needed to patrol at unreasonable hours anymore. To be quite honest, the least pleasant tasks were mostly relegated to others. Somewhat like Arthur, Leon was more valuable teaching younger knights, exchanging pleasantries with visiting nobles and participating in war councils when the need arose than patrolling or guarding.

And when the itch for battle became too much, the king was always in the mood for a spar.

That said, that morning was supposed to be easy. Leon had planned to send Mordred on his way, get a servant to fetch him a light breakfast and read over his correspondence in peace.

Mordred was at the table where Leon had left him, cheek certainly glued to its surface with sticky cider. The crick in the neck he would surely wake to would teach him to mind his drinks. However, Leon’s drinking partner was still soundly asleep and Leon knew Mordred would need to prepare for patrol soon.

Although part of Leon wanted to let him rest, maybe even set him on the bed Leon had vacated, he knew it would be wiser to wake him. If Mordred was late, it would be Leon’s duty to reprimand him.

Leon didn’t know if he could handle that.

And if Mordred was late and Leon didn’t berate him, then people would know he was partial to Mordred and Leon would just die of embarrassment. It was his duty as First Knight to be fair and impartial and to make sure that the knights tended to their duties.

No one could know that Leon preferred Mordred. And it absolutely could not get out that they shared drinks together. It was inappropriate to show such preference, especially toward a relatively new knight. Leon knew that, but it didn’t seem important when he was with Mordred.

So, he needed to wake Mordred and send him off before he put Leon in a position he could not handle.

“Mordred,” he said gently as he shook Mordred’s shoulder, “Mordred, wake up.”

Mordred grunted something and waved him off.

“Mordred,” Leon tried again, shaking Mordred a bit more roughly, “Come on. Up.”

Mordred blinked awake groggily, part of his hair sticking up as he peeled himself off the table.

“You’re going to be late for patrol,” said Leon, and that shook Mordred up.

The man came to life and rushed about the room gathering the belongings he had brought, mumbling something to himself all the while. After passing a hand through his hair and shaking out his shirt, he rushed out the door with his pack like a whirlwind.

Leon chuckled at his antics. It was nice to see this side of Mordred too.

It was quiet after that, at least for a time. Leon dressed himself and pulled back the curtains to let in fresh sunlight. The sky was tinged with the vestiges of aurora and when he opened the window, the air was dew-fresh. Below, the square came to life with the rise of the sun.

The peace of it all washed over Leon.

Sigune, a servant who was often assigned to his rooms, came in soon after and jostled Leon from his musings over the scenery. It was easy to ask her to fetch him breakfast and soon Leon had a plate of fruit, sausage and pastries to pick at while he read his mail. Sigune rubbed at the sticky spot on the table while he read.

They were letters from home. Leon hadn’t been there in a long time, but his childhood memories of studying letters with his mother and picking up a blade for the first time were ground in that place, and that made it home. There were letters from his mother, his brother Howel who now ran their familial estate and his childhood friend Matilda who, despite the distance and the years, still considered him her greatest friend.

The stories of home made Leon smile and he carefully penned his responses. To his mother, he gave false assurances that his adventures were perfectly safe and well-wishes for the illness she was combating. To his brother, he gave his best advice on handling his latest bandit problem. To his friend, he gave truthful assurances that his adventures were quite dangerous and regaled her with tales of Arthur’s bravery.

It was all so very serene and pleasant that Leon should have known something was afoot.

It wasn’t until several hours later when he left his chambers to attend council that he noticed something strange. The lords and ladies he passed carefully avoided his eyes and stopped speaking when he crossed them. Some of the servants whispered to each other.

Clearly, something was going on, but nothing too dangerous. This was a phenomenon he had witnessed before : a rumour was making its rounds of the castle.

He was sure he would hear about it sooner or later. For now, he had a council to attend.

The first thing he Leon noticed when he pushed past the solid wood door to the council chamber was a small pile in the center of the Round Table, if only because it was the only new thing. There was a pastry similar to the one Leon had for breakfast, a shallow dish of honey and a coin.

Before Leon could comment on it, he was assaulted by Gwaine who hit him him on the arm and congratulated him.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” said Gwaine, “You’ve been dancing around each other for ages. I thought for sure we would have to interfere, but I’ve certainly underestimated you-”

Arthur cleared his throat and threw Gwaine a pointed look. It was for the best, really, since Gwaine was rambling nonsense and they really needed to get this meeting started.

Leon quickly took his seat along with the few people who were still standing, except for Arthur who was trying to grab everyone’s attention.

“As most of you know, we brought back the tradition of the Round Table of the Old Kings after Morgana’s invasion. It has long been used to give to no man a greater importance than any other. I have researched further into it and found that it is attributed to the god Emrys, who presides over equality among men. In order to honour him in using it, I am making this offering in the center of the table.”

He waved to the small pile and sat down, staring intently at a spot on the wall and squaring his shoulders in a way that didn’t allow for questions.

Leon hadn’t really thought that Arthur was going to suddenly start worshipping a strange god, but here they were. Someone or something was certainly going to give. Across the way from Leon, two lords were turning redder and redder. Lady Rosalind’s eyebrows rose impossibly high, her lips pressed together and she folded her hands in front of her. Queen Guinevere side-eyed Arthur, clearly as surprised as the rest of them, but carefully supportive. Gwaine glanced madly between everyone, relishing the tension.

Everyone was waiting for someone to react.

Surprisingly, it was Merlin who broke the tension.

He set his pitcher of water next to Arthur and marched to Mordred, who had been watching the proceedings so far with his usual quiet reserve.

“You,” hissed Merlin, “This- This is your fault. Somehow.”

Mordred sighed.

“I had nothing to do with this,” he said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“That is enough!” interjected Arthur. “What has gotten into you, Merlin?”

Merlin whipped around to Arthur.

“Me?” Merlin scoffed. “You’re the one making offerings to Emrys. What’s gotten into you?”

“I am thanking the god who sent me hope in our greatest hour of need and whose philosophy I used to make the basis of my council. You, on the other hand, are making a scene, undermining the decisions of your king and harassing one of my knights. A knight who has proven to be honourable and worthy of trust. Unlike you.”

Merlin jerked back as if he had been slapped and a jab of unease stabbed through Leon. Arthur and Merlin didn’t fight. Not really; not like this. They were a team and watching them fight did not bode well. Especially not when Leon realised that for all the careful deceit Merlin had shown before, there was nothing but honesty in his reaction now.

However, he wasn’t stupid enough to put himself between them. That would be suicide.

Mordred looked at Arthur in horror until gaze slid to Leon across the way. His eyes were wide and blue and pleading for help and, as it turned out, Leon was stupid enough to interfere.

He got to his feet.

“Arthur-” he began, not really sure where he was going, but certain he had to do something. Merlin interrupted, his jaw set and his eyes icy to cover the hurt.

“Nevermind, Leon,” he said, “I’ll just go.”

He spun around and stalked to exit , slamming the large wooden doors as he left.

A distant part of Leon noted the melodrama of the action. He wondered whether Merlin had learned his dramatic flair from Arthur or if it was an innate quality that all sorcerers had. Leon immediately squashed the inane thought.

Arthur cleared his throat and brought up the first order of business in stunted sentences. Slowly, the people around the table relaxed and discussed the issues, putting the wayward servant out of their minds and certainly not commenting on the offering.

Leon too, decided to put it aside for now. Arthur and Merlin always came around. Arthur would apologize later and maybe they would actually discuss Merlin having magic and everything would be fine again.

It was perhaps about twenty minutes later that Leon noticed that Mordred was still incredibly pale, as if something truly horrid had happened.

He wondered if Mordred had seen something in that fight that the rest of them hadn’t.

Arthur was frustrated.

“Get up!” shouted Arthur to Mordred, “Again!”

There were plenty of ways to handle frustration and the gods had sent Guinevere to this plane of existence to whisper them in her husband’s ear. Talking featured prominently. Going for a walk. Taking some deep breaths. Making a plan to overcome the source of the frustration. They were all excellent ideas befitting of a queen.

Arthur, however, was a knight to his core.

And there was only one way knights vented their frustration.

Training. The place where knights spent their sweat and energy.

While Mordred valiantly kept up with Arthur’s assault, Leon focused on his own opponent.

Elyan was a tricky fighter. His footwork was impeccable, which gave him grace and speed that was usually reserved for slighter men. It was also the foundation of original counters and movements that made him unpredictable. Leon liked fighting Elyan; he kept him on his toes.

Leon stepped forward to jab at Elyan’s torso, but his opponent side-stepped and swung his sword down in a sweeping arc toward Leon’s side.

Leon braced his foot for a clash of swords and twisted his blade to deflect.

The weight of the deflected sword pulled Elyan downward and dangerously close to Leon’s blade, but Leon had to change his footing to aim at him properly.

Still, Elyan had no time to prop himself back up properly and pull his sword back around to defend himself.

Leon was surprised when he swung to find Elyan had twisted to an unusual stance in a low lunge of sorts to pull his sword through the space he had occupied before.

Having forgone getting back up had bought him time to bring his sword closer, and bringing the sword through that path instead of around had given him just enough time to parry.

Very clever.

Then, Elyan pushed off the ground in an explosive movement to fling himself into a counterattack that would have subdued an average fighter, but Leon wasn’t First Knight for nothing.

With his feet on solid ground and a sword in his hands, he controlled the space around him. He countered with minimalist adjustments and handled every attack smoothly.

Elyan, on the other hand, rode off the momentum his sword was gathering and his hits were getting fiercer and faster. At this rate, Leon couldn’t keep up long.

When Elyan darted forward, Leon braced his sword to deflect Elyan’s to an uncomfortable angle. If he’d been going slower, Elyan might have been able to hold onto his sword, but at this speed, the gathered momentum flung the sword away from him.

Elyan looked at his empty hands before laughing. Leon smiled.

“Well fought, Sir Elyan,” he said.

“Well fought.”

Elyan fetched his sword and went to challenge Gwaine to a spar. Meanwhile, Leon went to the the table just outside of the fighting area where Merlin kept flasks of water and medical supplies.

Mordred was seated at the bench for Merlin to fuss over a scrape the cheek he must have gotten from Arthur, who was now having a go at Percival. Mordred’s eyes met Leon’s and he turned slightly toward him as Leon took a flask. The water washed over his tongue, cool and refreshing.

Once he had drained it, he wiped the last droplets from his lips to find Mordred craning his neck and staring intently at him.

“Stop squirming around,” ordered Merlin as he patted some sort of ointment on the wound, “Or you’ll get some all over your face.”

Reluctantly, Mordred turned to look forward again. Or rather, face forward and look down to avoid Merlin’s eyes.

Merlin’s accusation was still fresh, even as he applied a bandage over Mordred’s cheek and muttered unkindly things about recklessness with pointy objects.

It was strange and almost endearing how Merlin seemed to at once despise Mordred and want to dote on him.

Maybe it was just his physician’s instinct that curbed his hatred.

“Arthur nicked you?” asked Leon.

“He did,” said Mordred, “He seems quite... angry.”

Mordred dared to glance up at Merlin who snorted as he worked.

“And I’m still angry with you,” he said.

“But I didn’t do anything!” he insisted.

Merlin didn’t answer.

“Actually,” interjected Leon, “it’s my fault. I brought up Emrys to Arthur because I was worried we would offend a god. I didn’t know he would make an offering and I don’t pretend to understand your anger, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry we upset you. Neither of us really know what we’re doing.”

Merlin thought on that for a second.

“Alright, fine. Just stop messing with Emrys if you don’t know what you’re doing. And you may have spoken to Arthur about Emrys, but I know you got it from this one,” he said, poking at Mordred’s other cheek.

And, well, Merlin wasn’t wrong. But how could he possibly know that?

“What would make you think that?” he asked aloud.

Could it be that someone had noticed him drinking with Mordred? Had anyone noticed that Leon favoured him?

Merlin rolled his eyes just as he finished patching up Mordred’s cheek.

“Everyone knows about you two, you know, there’s no need to keep it secret. It’s all anybody’s been talking about since morning. I certainly don’t care unless it affects Camelot or Arthur. Except it is affecting Arthur, so let me be blunt :

“Mordred, stop filling Leon’s head with stupid ideas about Emrys.

“Leon, stop goading Arthur into worshipping Emrys.”

Leon paled because, apparently, everyone knew. He would be fine, he was a nobleman who had been serving for many years after all, but he had a reputation to maintain! And what about Mordred? He had far more to lose than Leon since he was just starting to career. What would people think if they thought Mordred got to shirk his duties by befriending the First Knight?

Mordred blinked up at Merlin.

“What exactly do the rumours say?” he asked innocently.

Too innocently to be entirely honest.

“Well, you stayed the night in Sir Leon’s quarters. You’re lovers, obviously.”

Leon’s thoughts ground to a halt.

No.

He should have known. He should have seen that morning that the sky had been just a tinge too blue, the air a tad too crisp and life just a little bit too wonderful.

He should have been waiting for the other shoe to drop; it always did. He had been a fool to hope otherwise.

This was a nightmare. Merlin had to be joking, but he didn’t look like he was joking at all. This was worse than Leon had feared.

And the part of him that fussed over his public image needed to see the previous night through the eyes of the gossips. He saw Mordred escaping his quarters, hair ruffled and clothing wrinkled. He saw Sigune rubbing at the sticky table. And perhaps through the keyhole or from the window, someone might have glimpsed Mordred ruffling Leon’s hair or eavesdropped on the way Mordred teased him.

It all coalesced into a night of drinking and passion where Mordred’s teasing pushed Leon over the edge and he took him on the table instead of moving to the bed a few feet further. And that was worse than showing favouritism toward a new knight or seducing them. It would mean Leon being discourteous to his lover by not showing basic care for his comfort.

Leon was horrified at the notion.

Meanwhile, Mordred stared at Merlin. His face was unreadable, as it often was in public spaces, and he just stared Merlin for long moments and mumbled something under his breath. He stared and stared and stared and-

Mordred was very good at staring. Most people got bored of it quickly, but Mordred could stare at someone for hours without tiring of it. Leon should know; he had been on the receiving end of it too. At first it had been unnerving, but it quickly became obvious that Mordred was trying to learn the way of life in Camelot. He had stared at everyone, mimicking their actions and interactions to get by. He was settled in now, but his gaze still rested heavily on Leon sometimes. Now, that unnerving gaze of a stranger had become the eyes of fellow knight watching his back.

It was that stare that rested on Merlin now, and Merlin responded with a cocked eyebrow too reminiscent of Gaius. Before long, he broke eye contact and grimaced.

“I really don’t need to know,” he said.

The words jostled Leon out of his reverie. Somewhat embarrassed, he bottled up the thoughts about Mordred buried them deep inside of himself. It wasn’t as if there was any truth to the rumour; it shouldn’t be dwelled on.

He promised to himself not to think about it again and focused on the Mordred and Merlin’s interaction.

What was Merlin talking about?

Mordred kept staring at Merlin until Merlin put his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, fine. Fine. I’ll talk to Arthur.”

Mordred narrowed his eyes.

Merlin sighed.

“And the offerings can stay.”

Seemingly satisfied with that and not concerned in the least about the rumour, Mordred smiled his cat-who-caught-the-canary smirk, took his sword and went back toward the training field to return to sparring.

Something must have shown on Leon’s face because Merlin patted his arm.

“You really don’t need to worry so much.”

But there was everything to worry about. If the rumours already existed, then the damage to their reputations was already done. And if the meeting earlier was anything to go by, it didn’t take much for Mordred to goad Leon into a reckless decision.

Without the bond of his reputation or of his chivalry, what was to stop him from doing whatever Mordred asked of him?

For the first time since Mordred came to Camelot, Leon empathized with Merlin’s view of Mordred.

The man was dangerous.

And while he watched Mordred launch into a swordfight against Elyan, all smooth, deadly motions and defined muscles wrapped in chainmail, he wondered how he had missed it all this time.

He was no stranger to peril. He knew it well, in fact. So many of his assignments had turned deadly. He could smell it now when there was danger approaching. That danger must have at some point seduced him because there were times when a chance to go on a life-threatening journey presented itself and something in his chest begged to chase after it.

Perhaps seeing too much of the battlefield had branded the call of danger inside of him. Perhaps it was something else.

In any case, he knew danger and recognized in the way Mordred danced with his sword, but Leon didn’t mind.

He had long acquired the taste for it.

Chapter Text

Leon had promised to himself that he wouldn’t think about it again.

That promise had lasted six hours.

He lay in bed that night haunted by fantasies of Mordred’s piercing eyes and his hands all over Leon like that day when Leon had gotten hurt during training. In Leon’s mind, those butterfly touches rested just a little longer and drifted over delicate areas.

Leon hadn’t quite realized how much he fancied Mordred. Leon wasn’t innocent; he had been with men before. He had never been caught quite so off-guard, however, and felt somewhat betrayed by his own mind that had kept this from him.

Of course, he wasn’t blind. He had known Mordred was handsome and clever and well-built. But then, so were all of knights. That didn’t mean he would be fantasizing about them.

That brought to mind an image that he immediately squashed, buried and promised to himself he would never examine again.

But then, he had also promised himself that about Mordred.

The next day, as Leon went about his business, something bothered him.

There was something he wanted to know. Something that factored into Merlin’s dramatic exit from council, something that explained how very pale Mordred had turned then. Something to explain the tension between Merlin and Mordred and something to explain Arthur’s sudden show of respect for Emrys.

There was something about Emrys he wanted to know, though he wasn’t quite sure what it was. And after last night, he wasn’t sure he would be able to look Mordred in the eye just yet.

There were other sources of information. Namely, that book that Arthur had taken out. It should be back with Geoffrey by now.

So he went up to the library and Geoffrey led him into the hidden room of magical curios and books.

The book on Emrys was thin and its paper delicate. It was old and though the title was too faded to read, the pages were well woven into the spine and the writing crisp.

“Be careful with that,” said Geoffrey, “It is difficult to find true collections of druidic legends. Most of their stories are shared verbally and many of them come from seers. Much is lost or misunderstood due to mystification, so true collections like this one are very rare. Do not lose it.”

“Mystification?”

“It’s a tendency that sorcerers, including seers, have to speak in riddles.”

So it was called mystification. Leon wondered if Mordred knew or if it was a term used by non-magical people. He would have to ask him later.

Leon thanked Geoffrey and promised to treat the book well before retreating to his chambers with it.

Now he could see what the fuss about this Emrys was.

The book was divided into short works from different authors. Leon skimmed it and found Emrys’ name speckled throughout, but not in all of the stories.

Part of him wanted to skip to those parts, but the part that won out chose to read the book from cover to cover to understand the whole of druid belief.

After all, he was curious about Emrys, but the chance to understand the druids more thoroughly was difficult to pass by. He wanted to know more about the clans that drifted through the forests of Camelot and preached peace. Or rather, he wanted to understand one druid in particular.

So, he started at the beginning.

The first story was about magic. It didn’t describe magic as the rituals of the High Priestesses or the fireballs of vengeful sorcerers. According to the author, magic was rather the spark of life. The thing that made babes take their first breaths, that made sprouts push from their seeds and that created the bonds between lovers. Magic was life. And it was to be protected and cared for.

That was all the first author had to say.

The second author was more disparaging. They spoke of a kingdom that had foregone magic until the crops withered, the fish died in their creeks and the land became uninhabitable.

Leon recognized it as the Perilous Lands.

That writer went on to warn that a greater assault on magic would come and that magic would be driven from Albion entirely. They warned that the death would spread like disease and weaken magic until it ceased to exist entirely.

Leon paused on the grim thought. Were they speaking about the Purge? The book was clearly written decades before that. It didn’t make sense until Leon remembered the book was written by seers. He felt a pang of sympathy for this druid who had glimpsed into the future only to see Uther’s genocide against his people.

The next writer was more hopeful.

Even from text, they seemed young and excited. They claimed that though they too had seen a grim future, they had also seen that the dark times would be turned around a king who would be king again and a wild warlock.

The following stories expanded on these characters.

The wild warlock appeared most often. Some said he lived in a forest. Others said he lived by a lake. They all named him as powerful in magic and a source of hope. Many said he went mad, either by witnessing a traumatic fight or by experimenting with dangerous magic.

Later stories said he was immortal. They named his eternal life as the source of his madness. Other more grim voices described very graphic, impossible torture. Well, impossible without magic and against mortal men.

Though there were many stories, no one ever heard his name so they called him by the word for immortal in the druid tongue : Emrys.

And though he would be mad, he would also be kind and wise. He would guide a king to restore magic to Albion and bring about a golden age.

They called this king the Once and Future King. Leon suspected the title was some seer hogwash that would only make sense to Leon if he could see the future too.

It was the stories of the Once and Future King truly captured Leon.

They spoke of a brave king who would fight injustice in the court and save his people. They spoke of court intrigue and terrible battles. They spoke of wars against the undead and a sword pulled from a stone that could slay them. They spoke of battles against dragons and corrupt magical creatures and...

Leon knew this story.

He hadn’t heard this one from Mordred. Neither had he heard it from the druids or any sorcerer.

He had heard it piece by piece at a tavern, from a prince recounting his adventures after finally returning home.

This was Arthur’s story.

And that meant Arthur was the Once and Future King.

It answered a question Leon hadn’t asked himself, but should have : Why would a druid become a knight of Camelot?

It made sense if Mordred believed Arthur would restore magic, make peace with the druids and be the greatest king to ever live.

It was strange, he thought, to read the words of someone in the distant past comment on events that had taken place recently in Leon’s life.

Would it have changed anything if Leon had read this earlier? If Arthur had?

He tried not to dwell too much on the what-ifs.

The latter part of the book was less about the visions themselves, and more about discussing them. What did Emrys’ actions mean about his character? What could be extrapolated?

Emrys himself became more and more of a legendary figure the further Leon read. What had been a wildman became a scholar and then a figurehead of magic. The druids idealized his philosophy and made it their own. Latter essays wondered if he was human at all, or if he was some magical creature like a changeling or a diamair.

The timing of Emrys’ arrival during the Purge may not have been a coincidence and one writer thought he was some sort of protector of magic or a being so close to magic itself that it felt threatened by its purge.

Another suggested that Emrys was the incarnation of magic itself. And incarnations of the natural world were called deities. They believed that Emrys was a lost deity who didn’t know his own nature and who would not know what to do if treated as most gods were : with reverence, offerings and worship. After all, he never behaved as gods did in their visions.

The following writer responded directly to that one by wondering what would happen to a god who never received worship or respect. Would it affect them? Could they die? How could anyone know?

Deserters of the Old Way may wonder, but we have Seen Emrys’ madness. Pyres may burn him, but blasphemy shall fray his mind. This prophecy may yet be overcome with proper respect.

What follower of the Old Ways would deny worship to the Lord of Magic himself?

Morrígan’s lost priestesses vie for the veneration he is owed.

Mysticism prickled at Leon’s skin. He could recognize it now. It felt like swimming in deeper waters than he could manage without ever having left the shore. It was the feeling of discovering something impossible but discovering it all the same.

A god who did not know he was a god. How strange.

And madness induced by a lack of worship. Was that really so?

Emrys doesn’t mind. But I don’t like to see him forgotten.

Those had been Mordred’s words.

A god who did not know what he was, who could hide himself from recognition and whose symbols of power were used in ignorance. Emrys was cloaked in mystery so thick that without the druids, knowledge of him would certainly disappear.

The druids were a nomadic people and had very little. Leon doubted they had temples or altars dedicated to him. He doubted they could manage much besides small offerings and prayers.

That would put Emrys’ main place of power either at the original Round Table, which was abandoned. or at Camelot’s. The one in the council room was only one being visited by people and that probably made it equivalent to a main temple for Emrys. And no one had known.

No one except Mordred. And what was a new knight to do?

They were lucky things things had played out as they did.

Now, at least three of them knew, and Arthur had made a statement about Emrys, if briefly, so everyone else seated at the table would at least know his name.

Leon had more faith now that Emrys wouldn’t go on a killing spree unprovoked, but he didn’t want him to lose his mind.

Leon really didn’t want to deal with a mad god who could smite people.

When Leon finished the book, he was happy to find that he understood Mordred’s people that much better. The druids had strange notions about equality and pacifism that Leon couldn’t quite agree with, but he could see the way these views were reflected in Mordred.

The most notable was Mordred’s pacifism.

It was somewhat expected for problems between men of good standing to be settled in duels. Most knights had quite a few under their belt, including Leon. Such duels were rarely deadly and they allowed you to fight properly against those who offended you without harming your status, surroundings or friends.

Mordred, however, had never fought a duel. That wasn’t to say he got along with everyone. His silent brooding and serious demeanor got under the skin of many, but it never came to a challenge.

Mordred sort of just... slithered out of those situations. Leon didn’t fully understand how. It rather reminded him of how some ladies of court managed to worm their way out of scandal.

Mordred was a very pacifist knight. Or, if Leon thought of it like the authors of the book, a very violent druid.

Hmm.

A sudden thought came to him. If Leon had recognized Arthur as the Once and Future King, then surely Arthur had recognized his own story reading this book. Since they were sometimes together, Arthur may have identified who Emrys was.

And that would explain his sudden turn of behaviour.

He needed to speak to Arthur.

“Leon?”

It was Guinevere who answered the door in her nightgown. Leon hadn’t realized how late it had gotten during his reading and hoped he hadn’t woken her.

“Could I speak to the king?” he asked her.

Guinevere smiled politely.

“Sure. Come in.”

The royal chambers were huge, gawdy, and far from immaculate. Merlin was in charge of them, after all, and the years had done little to improve his skill in household chores. There was a comfortaable disarray to it that somehow put Leon at ease. It felt lived in.

Arthur himself was seated by the fireplace with his sword in his lap, inspecting it carefully in the firelight. He was dressed more casually than usual in loose trousers and an untied tunic. There was a slightly rumpled look to him. His hair was mussed, his shirt wrinkled and his shoes were nowhere in sight.

When Leon approached, Arthur looked up from the blade. He seemed tired.

“It’s late, Leon,” he said as way of greeting.

Leon sat down across from him. There was no point in leaving now.

“My apologies. I hadn’t realized how late it was.”

“If this is about Merlin, don’t bother. Mordred’s already given me a dressing down.”

Quiet, pacifist Mordred, reprimanding the king? Leon couldn’t imagine that.

“He has?”

Arthur hummed and looked away from Leon to resume his inspection of his sword. It was certainly a beautiful blade, but the attention he gave it made it seem like more than a simple weapon. Maybe, to Arthur, it was. Or maybe he was just avoiding Leon’s eyes.

“Oh, yes,” said Arthur, “He had a whole speech too on behaving at the Round Table. ‘It really is unwise to shame a warlock for their magic at the place of power of the god of magic himself,’” Arthur quoted in what Leon guessed was what Arthur thought he sounded like. “ ‘The Round Table’s a symbol of equality, it’s disrepectful to pull rank on anyone.’ I’m the king; pulling rank is what I do!”

Leon sat through the rant somewhat at a loss. Guinevere had vanished off somewhere and Leon had the distinct impression that she had left Leon at her husband’s mercy so she could escape from this very rant.

On the other hand, this was the thing Leon had been missing. This was why Mordred had reacted as he did at council. It hadn’t been about the way he treated Merlin, it had been about the disrespect it showed toward Emrys.

“The very audacity of the man,” grumbled Arthur, “Anyway, he is right. I’ll figure out how to apologize to Merlin somehow, and to Emrys. I don’t need another lecture.”

“Actually,” said Leon, “I meant to speak to you about this.”

He placed the book on the table between them.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed at the sight of it and he met Leon’s eyes with a guarded look.

“What of it?” he asked with feigned indifference.

“I know you read it. Geoffrey said you had taken it.”

“As is my right.”

“The passages on the Once and Future King seem familiar, don’t you think? Arthur, this is about you.”

Arthur sighed before answering carefully.

“It isn’t the first time I have heard of that term. It isn’t even the first time I’ve been called that. The content of that book has... clarified much about the past several years.”

“You knew?”

Arthur waved off Leon’s incredulity.

“Not truly. Some of the druids and monsters I’ve met have called me that. They’ve never really explained it. The monsters usually try to kill me; druids tend to wander off without elaborating.”

That followed with everything Leon knew of druids.

“And the book clarified what exactly?” he asked.

“When I was younger, I was a bit... eager to throw myself into fights. I didn’t care if a fight was hopeless as long as it was right. And I always won those fights in the end.”

Leon nodded seriously. Though Arthur seemed embarassed by his recklessness, Leon was just proud that the arrogant little prince he had taught had grown to have such an unshakeable sense of justice.

“However,” he continued, “it doesn’t make sense for me to have won them. Most magical creatures cannot be killed without magic, but I managed it. When I was in hopeless danger, I would be guided to safety somehow. When I had to fight the undead, I found Excalibur.” He brushed the hilt of the sword. “It doesn’t make sense, but that book says it was Emrys’ work. Emrys sent me magic when I needed to slay a beast. Emrys gave me a sword to slay the dead. And the thing is, Leon, it makes sense. For the first time in a decade, somebody has an explanation beyond my getting lucky or being skilled.”

Leon didn’t immediately react. All that really went through his head was : Oh. That’s why he decided to worship Emrys overnight.

Leon didn’t know what he would do if he found out a god had been backing him up for years without knowing about them. But why would Emrys do that? He got nothing out of Arthur all this time. Worst, Arthur had actively led hunts against magic. Why would Emrys help someone who hurt his people? Even Arthur’s good nature was relatively new; Merlin wasn’t wrong when he called Arthur a royal prat. So then, why?

The only thing Arthur had done was, as he so eloquently put it, was to throw himself into hopeless but noble fights. But surely that wasn’t enough to sway a deity. Leon was under the impression that sacrificing pheasants or fervent prayer was more popular.

But then, Emrys wasn’t that sort of god, was he? He lived among men and thought himself one. The question wasn’t whether or not Arthur’s bravery could be enough to sway a god. Rather, it was whether or not it would be enough to inspire the favour of a man.

And that question was easy to answer : of course it was.

In that castle with that the true Round Table, Arthur had had nothing else to offer, and he found the fealty of a diverse group of people with it, Leon among them. Under everything else, the will to fight despite the odds and the bravery to stand for what is right were all that truly mattered. That was what had inspired Leon, Elyan, Gwaine and all the Knights of the Round Table.

Of course it could have inspired Emrys.

And maybe, just maybe, part of the inspiration they had felt that day had been Emrys’. They had been at his table, after all.

“Do you know who he is? Emrys?” he asked Arthur, “Apparently he lives in Camelot as one of its citizens.”

Arthur blinked.

“Really? I didn’t think he was literally here. I imagined he would be more,” he made so hand motion that might have meant “wind” in other circumstances.

Leon deflated.

“So you don’t know,” he said, “I suppose it was a long shot.”

Something suddenly sparked in Arthur’s eyes and when he sat up, Leon knew he was up to something.

“But you know who might?” asked Arthur rhetorically.

Leon tasted the answer leaving his mouth before he fully made the decision to speak. Arthur, who hadn’t really been expecting an answer, soldiered on with his idea and they ended up saying the name at the same time.

“Mordred.”

Chapter Text

Leon was on edge.

The previous night, after Arthur had promised to put together a plan and made Leon promise to keep silent, he had kicked Leon out of his rooms.

There wasn’t anything left for Leon to do but wait until Arthur acted.

Well, maybe there was one other person he should speak to, if only because no one seemed to have managed to speak to him properly yet.

He knocked on Gaius’ door, a rather rare occasion since they usually just barged in whenever someone got hurt. It was Merlin who opened the door and his guard went up the second he saw Leon. By the table, Gaius paused in eating his porridge to see who came in.

“Leon,” greeted Merlin, “What can we do for you?”

“I just wanted to chat. Can I come in?”

“Of course, of course.”

Soon, Leon was seated with the two physicians and a porridge bowl of questionable consistency. Still, he didn’t want to seem rude, so ate it in small spoonfuls.

“So, what takes you to our quarters? An injury?” asked Gaius.

“No, nothing like that. I meant to speak with Merlin about... you know. Have you spoken to the king about it at all?” The last question he directed to Merlin.

Merlin pursed his lips.

“Not exactly. I’m just glad he let it go. We don’t need to talk about it.”

Leon wished Merlin weren’t so defensive. Arthur was more open to magic and the Old Religion than Merlin seemed to believe, even with the public display Arthur was putting on for Emrys. If Merlin weren’t so afraid, maybe he would see Arthur would accept his magic. As far as Leon was concerned, he already had.

“You’re a good man, Merlin,” said Leon, “Everyone knows that and you’ve proven your loyalty time and again. The king would never allow anything to happen to you. You know that, right? You can’t stay silent forever.”

Merlin snorted and ate his porridge in silence to make his point.

Gaius sighed at his nephew’s childish behaviour.

“It may be time,” said the old physician.

“The law hasn’t changed,” argued Merlin, “Just because Arthur chose to look the other way once doesn’t mean he’ll do it twice.”

Gaius didn’t have an answer to that, but Leon did.

“Arthur can change the law. It won’t be easy, but he is king.”

“I don’t think he will, Leon,” insisted Merlin, “Not anymore.”

Just like when they fought in the council room, there was a wrongness to Merlin not having faith in Arthur that made Leon squirm uncomfortably. The implication that Merlin had hoped for the return of magic wasn’t surprising, but that he had given up on it made Leon wonder how long he had been waiting.

How long had Merlin been practicing magic, anyways? He was powerful, sure, but that didn’t necessarily reflect how long he had been studying it. Some sorcerers who had been studying for years could only manage a couple of spells and others became more skilled over shorter periods. Morgana, for example, had become a true threat within a few months of studying under Morgause.

Leon couldn’t imagine the clumsy boy who first came to Camelot as a powerful sorcerer. At what point had he turned to it? Enough sorcerers had passed through the citadel for him to find basic tutelage from and, though pardoned, Gaius was a former practitioner himself. There were too many possibilities for Leon to pinpoint how Merlin had found magic.

“How long have you been waiting?” he asked, “How long have you been practicing magic?”

“My whole damn life.”

Wait, what? Did Merlin just swear?

“What do you mean your whole life?” asked Leon.

“Since before I could walk. Mother says I was a troublesome child,” said Merlin.

Now Leon had to rebuild his world view to accommodate a younger Merlin as a powerful sorcerer. Oddly, it was easier than Leon expected. It certainly explained all the times he had found Merlin acting cagey.

“So you’ve been... this entire time... Why would you come to Camelot?!”

Merlin shrugged.

“I didn’t want to be recruited into the army. Gaius was in Camelot and he knew a bit about magic. This was my only chance to get ahold of my magic while staying free.”

“Weren’t you afraid of the pyre?”

Merlin gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Cenred’s sorcerers were little more than tools of destruction. I’d rather burn than become such a man.”

The layer of accusation in Merlin’s voice didn’t come as a surprise. Leon had, after all, acted as Uther’s sword against sorcery. It was the risk of swearing fealty to a lord that their orders might be unjust. Turning traitor would have been worst, Leon knew. Turmoil within a kingdom always lead to its downfall and to suffering for its people. It had been the price to pay for order.

What took him by surprise was the bitterness in Merlin’s voice. In his mind, Merlin would always be that clumsy, cheeky boy from Ealdor. And sure, he had magic. And yes, Leon realized there had been a mountain of fear and lies behind the facade. But when had that boy from Ealdor become so angry?

“What happened to you?” whispered Leon.

Merlin didn’t answer. He angrily shovelled down the rest of his food and quickly excused himself to bring Arthur his breakfast. Leon found himself alone with Gaius and his judgmental eyebrow.

“You know,” began Gaius, “I’ve been here the whole time and the late king did consult me on magical matters.”

Leon hadn’t thought of asking Gaius. Trying to pry answers from the old man seemed like a waste of time. He was a bit like Mordred like that ; he knew how to sidestep questions entirely until you forgot you had asked them. The difference was that Mordred and Leon were on good terms so Mordred entertained him. Gaius had always been a neutral party and very private. Without being in his close circle, there would be no way to get answers from him.

But if Gaius was volunteering, then that changed things.

“I don’t understand Merlin,” said Leon, “He doesn’t really think Arthur would turn on him, does he?”

Gaius sighed.

“Merlin... has had to make difficult choices, some of which still haunt him. Even I don’t know everything. It isn’t so much that he doesn’t trust Arthur than he is reluctant to share those mistakes. He holds them close to his heart and will keep them secret if he can help it. He’s quite proud.”

Leon had never heard Merlin described as proud before, but it did fit. It might be why he could put up with Arthur for months and years on end : he had the pride to stick up for himself and damn the consequences. Leon imagined he would have been a nightmare to deal with if he’d been born noble. Especially with magic at his fingertips.

It hadn’t happened so there was no use dwelling on the idea.

But if that pride stood in the way of him connecting with the rest of them, it could be a serious problem. More than that, if he wasn’t talking to anyone about what must have been a rather stressful decade, then he would crack sooner or later. Everyone had to share their burdens with somebody. Arthur shared his troubles with Guinevere. Leon shared his burdens with his brother and with Mathilda.

Merlin had to speak to somebody.

A suspicion niggled at the back of Leon’s mind.

“It isn’t just embarrassment over some mistakes, is it?”

Gaius swallowed thickly.

“I have my suspicions, but we haven’t spoken of it in many years. As a boy, he was prone to bouts of melancholia. Uther’s views of magic were widespread even in Ealdor and they... affected him.”

Uther’s view of magic was that it was pure evil that corrupted everything it touched.

“Surely he doesn’t view magic as evil,” said Leon.

“Not magic itself, no,” replied Gaius, “But he has always been harsh on himself.”

And Leon didn’t like the sound of that at all.

Attending council was, for once, not boring at all, if only because something reeked of one of Arthur’s ill-conceived plans.

The king had put on a false expression of innocence that just screamed he was up to something. His plate of offerings, a handful of nuts with a tart this time, sat squarely in the centre of the table and he stared down anyone who gave him a sideways glance for it.

More importantly, and this Leon only realized once everyone was seated, there was an extra chair at the table.

He thought he saw where this was going.

“Our first order of business today,” said Arthur loudly, “is an apology.”

He turned to Merlin.

“Merlin, you may have forgiven me, but I must apologize here too. The Round Table is a place of equality and magic and I shamed you for being a servant and a sorcerer.”

Gasps sounded around the table. Some nobles turned to the knights pointedly, but no one moved. Everyone who mattered already knew Arthur had forgiven Merlin his magic.

Arthur carried on.

“It was wrong of me and I owe Emrys an apology as well for disrespecting his tenets here. Furthermore, I have realized that at the true Round Table, you sat with us. You should have kept your place when we brought the Round Table here.”

Merlin stood stock still for several long moments. Arthur made an exaggerated motion toward the chair.

With stilted movements, Merlin lowered himself into the seat between Gwaine and Arthur with a very straight back.

The table exploded into arguments.

“A sorcerer?!”

“Good to have you-”

“Sire, surely you jest...”

“-about time!

“-can’t be trusted-”

“-haven’t been consulted at all!”

That last comment came from Lady Rosalind, and she did have point. They were meant to vote on these kinds of decisions and Arthur grudgingly allowed the vote to go around.

Although there were a few naysayers, the knights, including Mordred, voted in favour, along with the royal couple, which secured Merlin’s place.

Leon didn’t think having Merlin there would change much. He’d always had Arthur’s ear, more so even than the queen. It was the principle of the thing, he supposed. It did make for a rather elegant, two-fold apology. Leon had never taken Arthur for such poet.

Judging by the circles under Guinevere’s eyes, it hadn’t entirely been his idea.

“Now, for our second order of business” declared Arthur, “I know that someone in Camelot is secretly Emrys in disguise. Mordred, you know who. Tell us.”

Mordred, who had yet to say much of anything, was jostled by the sudden attention on him.

“Emrys?” he echoed, eyes wide with a sort of panic that reminded Leon of a deer realizing there was an arrow trained on them.

“Emrys,” confirmed Arthur calmly.

So this was the so-called plan. Just... call Mordred out during council. It was simple, but efficient enough. Mordred couldn’t easily leave or dodge the question in front of so many people.

When Mordred sent him a pleading look, Leon felt guilty for setting the king on him. Surely this wasn’t so important to warrant Mordred’s clear panic. There wasn’t much he could do at this point, though, and he did think it was important information to share.

He mouthed an apology that made Mordred frown in annoyance before composing himself.

“Right,” he said, “Emrys is...”

Mordred’s eyes darted from points on the pillars around them to the others seated around them and bouncing between Merlin and the king. He drew out the pause. Whether it was to buy time or for dramatic effect, Leon couldn’t tell.

“Dragoon,” said Mordred stiffly, “The Great.”

The silence that followed was only broken by Merlin’s hand meeting his own forehead.

Arthur blinked and tried to compose himself.

“Dragoon the Great?” exclaimed the king, “The sorcerer who murdered my father?”

Someone nudged Leon. He inclined his head toward Percival who whispered.

“Who?”

“A really old warlock with a long beard. Rude but powerful. About yea tall. He’s the one who knocked us out once out in the field,” Leon answered back at a stage whisper.

“Oh, him.”

Meanwhile, Mordred was valiantly trying to field Arthur’s questions.

“I don’t know much about his interactions with the late king,” said Mordred vaguely with an odd look in his eye, “I suppose he could have, but I thought Morgana had killed him.”

“It was that definitely Dragoon,” insisted Arthur. “I should know; I was there. And here I thought Emrys was supposed to be on my side! Why would he kill my father?”

“The gods can be difficult to understand.”

“So you have no idea whatsoever?”

“Well,” ventured Mordred, “I suppose he might have been a bit upset about having his people slaughtered like cattle for two decades and his cult driven into near extinction.”

Leon had to suppress a snort.

“Do you know where he is?” demanded Arthur.

“Camelot, certainly,” answered Mordred, “But he is a trickster god and can pass as a common man. He would be hard to find.”

“How can you be so calm? He killed the last king!”

However amusing Mordred’s answers were, the tension was palpable. Leon had to interfere.

“Enough,” he said, “Leave him be. Mordred isn’t responsible for Uther’s death. Stop taking out your anger on him.”

Arthur flushed a deep colour, but Guinevere put hand on his shoulder in a soothing motion that seemed cool it down. Merlin said something low which made Arthur take in several deep breaths.

Once he had returned to a more normal shade, he spoke again.

“You’re right, Sir Leon. My apologies, Sir Mordred, and thank you for telling us. Since no one had seen Dragoon in years, there isn’t much point dwelling on it, I suppose. Let’s move on to our third order of business.”

By the time council was over, Leon was exhausted. Arthur had come in with a plan that had left everyone reeling. Between bringing in Merlin and grilling Mordred, the meeting had gone on for far longer than usual.

When Leon made his way out of the room, Lord Melrose caught up to him and brought him to an alcove.

“Is something wrong, Melrose?” asked Leon.

“Of course something is wrong! A sorcerer has joined the council. Surely the king is enchanted.”

Leon tried not to glower.

“Merlin has proven his loyalty to the king time and again. He may be a sorcerer, but he is Arthur’s.”

“Magic is against the law,” insisted Melrose, “You are a reasonable man. Surely you see that a criminal should be brought to trial, not council.”

There were some things that would need to be spelled out for this man.

“As far as I am concerned,” said Leon, “the word of the king is the law. If he does not want Merlin tried, then he won’t be. King Arthur has been more forgiving of sorcery than Uther ever was. If he brought a sorcerer onto the council, he’s likely thinking of reworking the law with someone who has knowledge of the topic.”

Melrose froze.

“I thought were an upstanding man, but Benedict was right about you,” he said, “You don’t have any thoughts of your own. You’re just... a blindly obedient puppet for whichever king comes along.”

“Careful,” warned Leon, “You’re speaking treason.”

Melrose hacked up a glob of spit that landed right in Leon’s face and stormed off.

With a handkerchief from his inner pocket, Leon wiped it off his face. He clamped down on his indignation as best he could. Were Melrose a younger man, Leon would challenge him, but it was in poor taste to duel a man of his age.

Leon settled for glaring at his back. He took a deep breath and decided not to dwell on it before going on his way.

He had more important things to do today.

Mordred wasn’t answering the door.

Leon frowned and knocked again, but still, no answer. Leon was right on time, but maybe Mordred had forgotten about their appointment.

He tried the doorknob and, when it opened without resistance, Leon’s worry spiked. It was unlike Mordred to ignore a knock and even more uncharacteristic of him to leave his door unlocked.

Something about this reeked. As Leon carefully went in, his fingers brushed over the space where he kept his sword when he was on duty. He wasn’t on duty now and his sword was locked away in the armoury.

Mordred’s room was relatively dark. There was only a small flame in fireplace, fuelled by paper remnants. It illuminated the room enough for Leon to see Mordred seated at his desk a few feet away, watching the fire.

He hadn’t noticed Leon come in.

Without wood or kindling, the flame consumed the remainder of the paper and died out, leaving them with nothing but the moonlight filtering in from the window as lighting.

Mordred, pale in that soft light, took a paper from his desk and crumpled it. He tossed it into the ashes of the fire that had just burned out.

“Forbearne,” he said and a small ball of fire appeared between his fingers. It was only about as large as a marble, but it brought warmth to the room and threw broken shadows around it.

Mordred threw his hand forward.

“Acwele,” he said and the marble of fire shot forward into the fireplace. The ball of paper caught fire and quickly burnt to ashes.

The room was lit by nothing but moonlight again.

When the crinkling of paper started again, Leon cleared his throat.

“Mordred?”

Mordred jumped at the sound.

“Sorry,” said Leon, “You weren’t answering the door. I was worried.”

Mordred ran a hand through his hair.

“It’s fine. I just... lost track of time. I didn’t realize it was this late already. Let’s get a fire going, shall we? It’s gotten dark.”

Mordred busied himself with getting the fire going. He tossed a log in and arranged some smaller pieces of wood. Soon, he had a flint in hand for a spark.

All of it without the magic he had displayed seconds earlier.

While Mordred got a fire going, Leon drifted to the desk to take a look at the papers Mordred had been burning. If he angled it right, the moonlight was enough to read the first paper.

Dear Mordred,

Rumours say Camelot has treated you well, and for that I am glad. I would never have forgiven Arthur hurting you. Still, I worry. Camelot has never been kind to those like us.

I wish you would come home, but if you insist on remaining in Camelot, remember to keep your wits about you and trust no one.

With love,

Morgana

Leon flipped to the next page.

Dear Mordred,

I cannot stand to see you in Arthur’s grasp.

Though he and I share blood, he is as cruel as Uther had been and hunts down magic all the same. He is no brother of mine.

I found my family in Morgause and in you. With Morgause passed and you gone, I find myself quite alone with Aithusa. Though your betrayal hurts, I miss you too much to remain angry.

Please come home,

Morgana

And on and on it went. The pile on Mordred’s desk was significant and Leon wondered how long Mordred had been receiving mail from Morgana. Or how, for that matter.

Parcels from Morgana were supposed to be stopped from entering the city.

Once the fire was going strong, Mordred stood and slowly approached the desk. He pulled the letters from Leon’s hands.

“That’s a lot of letters,” said Leon, not quite sure what to say.

“It is,” said Mordred simply. He took his seat and balled another letter to toss into the fire.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“How about that drink I was promised then?”

That drew a tired laugh from Mordred.

“Sure. Help yourself,” he waved vaguely toward the cabinet where he kept his alcohol and cups, but didn’t move from his spot. He was staring into the fire.

The alcohol didn’t seem so appealing if Mordred wasn’t going to drink with him.

Leon pulled up a chair next to Mordred and tried to come up with a way get Mordred to talk.

“I knew her,” began Leon, “Admired her, even. I wouldn’t think less of you for any affection you hold for her.”

Mordred didn’t look away from the flames. He tossed in another letter.

“I knew she had turned down a dark path, but I believed she respected me enough to tell me the truth. She lied about Uther. All of it is just... lies.”

Of all the things that could have been bothering Mordred, Leon hadn’t thought it would be this.

“You miss her,” Leon realized.

Mordred went on with burning letter after letter.

“Of course I do. We were close, but she isn’t the woman I once knew.”

Leon reached for the letters and carefully pried them for Mordred’s fingers to place on the desk. Mordred looked at him curiously until Leon took Mordred’s hand in his, hoping to bring him some comfort. The man tensed for a moment before allowing it.

“For what it’s worth,” said Leon, “I miss her too.”

Mordred squeezed back.

“Can I...?” asked Mordred, and though he didn’t know what Mordred was asking, he nodded.

Mordred brought his chair next to Leon’s so that they sat right next to one another. He held onto Leon’s hand and leaned into him. Soft curls tickled against Leon’s neck when Mordred lay his head on his shoulder. He felt so warm against Leon like this.

Leon wished it was under happier circumstances.

“I don’t know how to do this. How did you manage it?” asked Mordred, “With Uther, I mean. How did you handle it when he went mad?”

The situation wasn’t the same. Uther had been king.

“There wasn’t anything for me to do,” said Leon, “At most, I could have turned against the king, but it wouldn’t have done much good. No one else was in line for the throne. The kingdom would have been thrown into anarchy until someone slaughtered their way to power. There was nothing to do.”

“Except wait for Arthur to grow older,” whispered Mordred.

He was right.

They stayed like that, with their hands laced, making quiet conversation about Morgana, Uther and Arthur and all the kingdom of Camelot. Mordred worried so much about how to do right by everyone.

It seemed, to him, that there was no way through without betraying somebody.

Leon listened to his worries and gave the best advice he could. It wasn’t really helpful, he knew. They were just words to say while he kept Mordred company. Mordred had a good heart and, in the end, it would serve as Mordred’s guide.

Leon was just there to remind Mordred he wasn’t alone.

They stayed like that until the fire petered out.

Chapter Text

Leon woke up slouched in a chair and with a horrible crick in his neck.

He yawned and rolled his shoulders, hoping to release the tension in his neck. No such luck.

Muted light filtered in from the window. Unlike the view of Leon’s rooms, Mordred’s overlooked the courtyard, around which only a few people milled about. It was a cloudy day and the sun glowed dimly behind the blanket of clouds. It was higher than it usually was when Leon woke.

By the wardrobe across the room, Mordred was already dressed and tying his boots. His cloak and the equipment he would need for a patrol were neatly prepared by the door.

When Mordred felt Leon’s eyes on him, he glanced up at him.

“Good morning, Leon,” he said with a hint of a smirk and Leon just knew Mordred had let him sleep like that as vengeance for letting Mordred sleep on his table last time.

“Vindictive little pooka, aren’t you?” accused Leon without any real heat. He was glad Mordred had pulled out of his bad mood from the previous night. “Good morning,” he added because he did have manners.

Mordred stood, having finished with his boots.

“Just part of my charm,” he said.

Leon huffed a laugh. He felt grubby and passed a hand through his hair, trying to get it into some semblance of order. He needed to wash his face and change clothes.

“You know,” said Leon, “most people don’t find that charming at all.”

Mordred didn’t miss a beat.

“I’m not trying to charm most people.”

Where Mordred found the gall to say such things, Leon didn’t know. Heat burned at his ears and he stopped fussing with his hair as he tried to come up with an appropriate response.

If anything, Leon’s stammering only made Mordred’s smirk grow.

No one noticed Leon when he left Mordred’s room.

They didn’t notice his rumpled clothes. They didn’t care to spread new rumours about him and Mordred.

It was old news, after all, hardly worth commenting on when there were much more poignant rumours circulating. All of them centred around one person: Merlin. And many of the gossips were suspicious of him.

The idea that charming, bumbling Merlin had been a sorcerer all this time was admittedly jarring. He had had plenty of opportunity to kill both Uther and Arthur, but he hadn’t. Even Leon had wondered for a moment if Merlin had some other plot in the works, if only because most of the time that’s what a sorcerer infiltrating Camelot meant.

But he was Merlin. The only possible plot Leon could think of would be that Merlin had infiltrated Camelot to teach Arthur to act like a decent man instead of a spoiled brat.

But that would be crazy and incredibly dangerous.

Not that Merlin had the reputation of being reasonable or cautious.

Leon put the thought out of his mind when he reached the door to his chambers.

He had to get ready for the day.

As First Knight, it was Leon’s job to manage all the other knights and to arrange shifts with the guards. It could get tricky making sure that all went well. Sometimes, knights had personal issues that came up. Sometimes they got hurt or sick.

Sometimes, they were useless drunkards.

Arthur had organized a hunt with the Knights of the Round Table and the only ones who weren’t in the courtyard yet were Arthur, Merlin and Gwaine. Leon didn’t know what was holding up Arthur and Merlin, but hopefully they would be late enough that Leon could fetch Gwaine and get him ready before Arthur noticed.

Leon rushed down to the Rising Sun and flung open the door with more familiarity than he would like. A barmaid was clearing off the tables when she heard him come in and she knew exactly what Leon was there for.

“He’s not here,” she said.

“What?” said Leon, “When did he leave?”

She shrugged.

“He didn’t come last night,” she said, “ ‘Haven’t seen him in the night before ‘last.”

That was strange. Gwaine practically lived here. Leon was fairly certain Gwaine ate every meal here and slept half his nights in one of the rooms.

In that case, where could he be?

Leon knew that, bad habits aside, Gwaine was a noble knight and a good friend. He also knew that Gwaine and Merlin were close. If Gwaine had heard the rumours about Merlin that were circulating, surely he would try to cheer up his friend.

And Merlin, despite not being the most subtle manservant in the world, did not care to be outed as a sorcerer. At all. Every attempt Leon had made to know more about his magic had been about as easy as plucking a live griffin.

That was to say, not at all.

Leon thought he knew where he might find his errant knight.

Gwaine and Merlin were in fact at Gaius’ table, both rubbing at their temples. The old physician himself was brewing some concoction that made the room smell so strongly of anise that Leon suspected it was to cover up some other smell to make it more palatable.

If Gaius was trying to be kind with his medicines, the previous night must have been more difficult than Leon had assumed.

“The hangover cure should take another ten minutes. It’ll get them both back on their feet,” said Gaius.

“They should already be outside,” said Leon, “The king won’t be happy if we keep him waiting.”

“The king will sleep until Merlin wakes him,” shot back Gaius with more confidence than Leon thought appropriate.

With nothing else to do but wait, Leon crossed his arms.

“Very well,” he said, “But I will be escorting them to the courtyard personally.”

Eventually, Leon managed to steer Gwaine into fresh clothes and out to their gathering place.

Arthur and Merlin had yet to show up and Leon was unhappy with how late they were running. Merlin, unlike somebody, didn’t usually drink. The state Leon had found them in had Gwaine’s influence written all over it. Leon blamed Gwaine entirely.

He had plans, damn it all, and that drunk was going to ruin everything.

Plan A had fallen through the previous night because Mordred had been in a bad mood.

Plan B that morning had fallen through because Mordred had been all charming and it had addled Leon’s senses. He forgot about Plan B.

There was only a narrow window for Plan C that evening between their return from the hunt and Mordred’s night shift on patrol. Between putting away the hunting equipment and Mordred’s preparation for patrol, he would have just short of an hour to knock on Mordred’s door and properly ask to court him.

It wasn’t something that could be done publicly or off-handedly. They needed the space and time to discuss it if Mordred had any misgivings, but they should have more than enough time then.

Or they would have had enough time if somebody hadn’t made them horribly late.

At this rate, Mordred was going to have to rush from the hunt directly to the patrol and Mordred’s night shifts that week meant that their schedules wouldn’t align again until the following week.

Leon couldn’t even alter either of their schedules. Sir Caridoc who usually did that route (he was a bit of a night owl) was travelling to his home estate for his sister’s wedding that week. Arthur himself had decided it would be a good opportunity for Mordred to try a week of night patrols.

Arthur had also asked for nearly the entirety of Leon’s time that week for some yet unspecified reason (which was almost definitely magic).

Leon couldn’t do anything. He could almost feel this opportunityit slipping through his fingers.

If Gwaine noticed Leon glaring at the back of his head, he didn’t comment on it. Eventually, Arthur and Merlin arrived.

The forest was calm.

The birds chittered; the leaves rustled. The sounds of the forest were ordinary, but the silence among the party was not.

Arthur and Merlin, riding at the front, normally bickered back and forth, but today they were silent. It was odd because nothing had truly changed besides the seat at the table. They had all seen the magic and seen it forgiven. Arthur had alluded to apologizing before doing so publicly, so even that hadn’t been different.

Maybe it was saying the word “sorcerer” that had done this.

After some time travelling at a lethargic pace, Arthur cleared his throat.

“So, Merlin,” he said, “do tell.”

Although Leon could only see the back of his head, he could imagine Merlin’s guarded look.

“Tell what?” he asked.

“About your magic,” replied Arthur with forced patience, “You know, your secret sorcerer life. I want to know the details.

“It started when my father met my mother in a little town called Ealdor-”

“No, you idiot! I don’t want your entire life’s story. I just want to know about the magical bits.”

“Well, sire,” replied Merlin, “my entire life is magical. The only reason I’ve kept my head this long is because Uther had the observation powers of a turnip and you inherited it. If you want to know all the magical happenings in my life, I’ll have to write an autobiography.”

“Fine,” grumped Arthur, “In that case, tell me about the first time you used magic near me.”

The silence stretched for several long moments.

“Come on, Merlin,” urged Arthur.

“Hold on a second, let me think. Was it...? No, before that was... Ah yes.”

Now, Leon could not see his face. There wasn’t anything to his posture that gave away what Merlin was thinking. But he sort of... emanated mischief.

Leon exchanged a few hand motions with Percival to prepare themselves just in case Arthur tried to strangle Merlin for whatever was coming.

“On my second day in Camelot,” said Merlin, “I picked a fight with a right ass who had been bullying a servant. It was a mace fight, you see, and I didn’t know how to use a mace at all. But my opponent didn’t seem to know either. He kept fumbling with it or knocking into the stalls...”

Arthur slowed.

Actually, everyone slowed. Picking a fight with the prince of Camelot and blatantly using magic to publicly humiliate him wasn’t just reckless, it was suicidal.

How had Merlin managed to survive this long?

Maybe Emrys was watching over him. Only divine interference could salvage this level of stupidity.

“That-” stammered Arthur, “That was you?!”

Merlin continued ahead, forcing everyone else to speed up again to keep pace. He laughed at Arthur’s outrage. Arthur himself visibly suppressed his fury.

“And you know what else?” taunted Merlin, the temptation of mocking Arthur apparently outweighing his recalcitrance, “That same day, I used magic to kill Mary Collins and Uther rewarded me for it. With a position as your servant!”

Merlin laughed harder. He laughed so hard, it was bordering on maniacal cackling.

It sounded like a bad joke, but Leon had been there. He had attended that banquet and seen how the sorceress had nearly killed Arthur and how she had been crushed under a chandelier.

He had dismissed it as luck and moved on. After all, why should anyone suspect sorcery being used in public to rescue the prince?

They had stopped entirely, most of the party in shock and Merlin in doubled over on his horse laughing.

It was Gwaine who finally spoke up.

“Wait, what?”

It was simple, but it perfectly encapsulated Leon’s feelings.

Magic was fine. Secrets were alright. Enigmas were annoying but understandable.

This was... something else. It was really very odd.

For one, murder and Merlin didn’t go in the same sentence. He didn’t even like hunting rabbits. It was one thing for guards or knights with training to interfere, but a civilian as peaceful as Merlin killing a dangerous sorceress was unthinkable.

For another, how had no one noticed anything? Twice within a day, Merlin had used magic in very public settings and come out with nary a suspicion on him.

For a third, how could Merlin be taking this so lightly?

It was hardly the first time that Leon thought Merlin might be a bit mad.

When Merlin’s laughter died down, they resumed their way through the woods. And though the knights were a bit wary, Merlin had relaxed and seemed quite at ease telling them about every unimportant, nonsensical time Merlin had used magic to humiliate Arthur.

Nothing more, nothing less. Leon hoped it would be a starting point to get him to talk about the more difficult aspects of being a sorcerer in Camelot. Maybe they just needed to give him space and let him talk in his own time.

Merlin bragged about embarrassing Arthur up until they saw the gates of Camelot.

Then, he quietened and Leon had the distinct impression that trying to question him here would be as difficult as before.

Leon had been right about their lateness.

They returned later than the start of Mordred’s shift and the man darted off as soon as they got off their horses. He passed the reins to Elyan and had him take care of his supplies. Elyan waved him off in good humour as Mordred ran off.

After sullenly putting all of his equipment away and dragging himself up to his quarters, Leon changed into his night clothes before plopping himself by the fireplace to mourn Plan C and stew in his misery.

Eventually, a knock came on the door that startled Leon out of his stupor. He reluctantly rose to crack open the door and shoo away whoever was bothering him.

What he found was a rather familiar young man, nicely dressed and with an equally familiar bottle of cider in hand.

“Mordred?” said Leon, “Aren’t you supposed to be on patrol?”

Mordred scratched the back of his head.

“Well, yes, but I found someone to cover for me. I wasn’t in a good place yesterday and I owe you a drink. Can I come in?”

“Right,” said Leon, somewhat taken off-guard. He was suddenly very aware that he was only in his nightshirt. “Alright, come in. I just need to make myself presentable.”

When Leon turned toward his wardrobe to find himself some trousers, a hand on his shoulder held him back. Mordred turned him back towards him.

“Don’t bother,” he said, as he nudged the door shut and his eyes drifted to Leon’s collarbone before meeting his eyes, “Stay just like that.”

That was odd but... alright. Whatever made him happy.

Still, he felt oddly under-dressed when they sat with their cups. Unlike Leon, Mordred wore a fine blue tunic with dark trousers and boots. They all had that deep colouring that only new clothes had. It had taken a bit of time to get Mordred clothing appropriate for his rank and entirely worth it.

He couldn’t look more the part of a dashing nobleman.

And Leon was in his nightshirt.

They filled and refilled their cups. Mordred mocked some of the more ridiculous conspiracies circulating about Merlin and Leon went on a bit of a tangent about Gwaine.

He meant to proposition Mordred. He had had a script prepared and a gift in the breast pocket of his coat, but Mordred’s presence and his cider made him forget his lines and where he put his coat.

Somehow, it seemed much more important to find another story to make Mordred laugh and to wonder if his lips would taste as sweet as his cider.

When the fire started to dim, Leon stretched back in his chair. It had been a long day and the tension in his neck hadn’t entirely faded. He stretched it this way and that.

The motion brought a smirk to Mordred’s lip.

“Still have a crick in your neck?” he asked too innocently.

Leon glared at him, but when Mordred stood and made his way around Leon, his annoyance made way for curiosity.

What was he up to?

Suddenly, there were hands gently pressing on Leon’s shoulders.

“Let me help,” whispered Mordred into Leon’s ear and Leon could think of nothing more foolish than to refuse.

His hands were like magic. They pressed into his muscles in ways that mere stretching couldn’t achieve. Soon, Leon felt more relaxed than he had in a long time and the crick was nothing more than a memory.

All the while, Mordred kept whispering in his ear.

“It’s a little ridiculous how we keep falling asleep at the table, don’t you think?”

Leon hummed an agreement, only paying half a mind to the words.

“Such a shame when there’s a proper bed available,” continued Mordred.

Leon remembered the rumours then that he hoped to give credence to.

“What will people say if I leave you at the table twice?” he said.

Mordred laughed softly.

“It’s your fault,” he said, “You’re too distracting. It makes me lose track of my drinks.”

Improvisation wasn’t in Leon’s habit, but there was something rough in Mordred’s voice that emboldened him.

“Better get an early night if you don’t want to fall asleep on the chair again.”

Mordred was silent for a moment before answering.

“That would be for the best,” he whispered without a trace of humour for once.

So they left their half-empty cups and the wooden chairs in favour of Leon’s bed.

And Leon discovered that Mordred’s lips really did taste cider-sweet.

Chapter Text

Leon was pretending to still be asleep while Mordred played with his hair when Sigune came in, loudly slamming the door open. Leon jolted to wakefulness, the movement flinging the cover over Mordred, who grumbled grouchily.

Outside, the sky showed no sign of dawn. Sigune panted in the doorway as if she had run across the entire castle.

“Sir Knight,” she said, “Gaius sends for you; it’s an emergency. Come quick!”

Within a few seconds, Leon found his trousers and boots, and followed Sigune toward the physicians’ quarters. An emergency summons from Gaius meant one thing: a knight had been wounded.

Mordred followed not far behind.

Leon stormed in to find Gaius and Merlin fussing over a patient. The old physician leaned over his patient and inspected a growth on his hand while Merlin rummaged through their cupboards for salves or potions.

“What’s going on?” asked Leon.

“Ah, Sir Leon,” greeted Gaius, too calm for Leon’s taste, “Easier to show than explain. Come see.”

He waved Leon over.

Leon and Mordred approached the bed where someone lay still. They wore a knight’s armour, though parts of it now lay heaped beside the cot. Wherever Leon could see skin, dark tendrils, resembling veins or roots, tore in and out of bloated, red flesh. A thick, pulsing vein wrapped from the nape of his neck and through an ear. A thin one sewed the right eye shut while swelling overtook the left. Leon could not even discern the colour of the man’s irises. Odd dents deformed the armour; the veins must have covered the man’s entire body.

He was too disfigured for Leon to recognize. Was he even conscious?

“Is he still... alive?” he asked, fighting down his discomfort.

“For now, but we must reverse the effect as quickly as possible.”

Mordred walked around the knight. He inspected a vein passing through the man’s scalp.

“This is certainly magic,” he said, “but I don’t recognize it.”

“We’re not sure kind it is,” chimed in Merlin, bringing the jars he had been looking for to Gaius. “Sigune saw him collapse near the western flanking tower. We were hoping you could tell us who was patrolling the area to identify them.”

Cold crept up Leon’s spine.

“Mordred,” he said, “wasn’t that supposed to be your path last night?”

Leon didn’t want to imagine Mordred as the victim of such a curse.

When Mordred’s gaze shifter from the wounded knight to meet Leon’s, Leon saw something brewing behind those blue eyes that could not name.

“Sir Griflet replaced me. This must be him.”

Griflet, a knight a few years older than Leon, came to Camelot to be knighted later than most. His lands bordered Odin’s kingdom and neared a magical mercenary outpost. As a young man, the surrounding danger had inspired him to mount a guard for his home land.

Griflet’s guard had earned him a fearsome reputation and a host of enemies. Arthur had gladly knighted him.

“This looks like foul play,” said Leon. “Griflet’s reputation makes him a popular target. The mercenary’s guild may have come for revenge again.”

“It could also be a personal grudge,” interjected Mordred. “We need to consider Lady Eilir or,” his eyes fluttered to the servant hovering by the door, “Sigune.”

Sigune stiffened.

“I would never...” she said.

“Sigune brought him here,” said Gaius without pausing his work, “She would not have bothered if she wished him dead.”

Mordred conceded the point.

“Then perhaps Lady Eilir,” he said.

“Sir Griflet might not have been the intended target,” said Merlin. “Outdated intel would have placed Caridoc or Mordred in Griflet’s place. I know nothing about Caridoc’s enemies, but Mordred has plenty.”

He didn’t say her name, but they heard it all the same. Morgana. The suspicion was fair. Morgana was infamously vindictive, but Leon did not believe she wished harm to Mordred after reading her letters. Morgana rather seemed like she wanted to kill everyone except Mordred.

Mordred looked stricken at the thought of Morgana attacking him.

“She wouldn’t,” he said.

Merlin looked unconvinced.

“It doesn’t have to be her. Anyone within her ranks could have taken offense to you leaving,” insisted Merlin. “You have many enemies.”

Clouds gathered behind Mordred’s eyes.

“Like you?” he asked, a challenge in his tone. Leon was uncertain whether he meant that Merlin had enemies or if Merlin was Mordred’s.

“Like me,” confirmed Merlin.

They could not afford to waste time on this tangent and Leon needed to their focus if they wanted to save Griflet’s life.

“Killing a man is terrible, but relatively simple to achieve,” he said. “An unexpected knife, arrow or sword would have sufficed. By the parapet, a shove would have sent him falling to his death. Why use a complicated spell? The timing cannot be a coincidence. Someone has purposefully orchestrated a magical attack on a knight the day Arthur is opening negotiations to legalize magic.”

Merlin pursed his lips.

“Someone wants magic to stay illegal, and they’re using magic to ensure it.”

But what kind of sorcerer would want that?

“Why would a sorcerer want magic to stay banned? They could lead easier lives.”

“Coin,” said Mordred, “The rarity and risk of practicing magic means that sorcerers can charge exhorbitantly for magical services. Power, as well. Many people rely on Camelot’s laws to attract sorcerers to their service. If magic was legal, Morgana’s base of followers would dwindle and desertion would be easier for Lot’s sorcerer-soldiers.”

Leon feared he was right, but he didn’t want to assume hastily. For now, they needed to see what they could do for Griflet.

“How can we help you, Gaius?” asked Leon.

Gaius waved to his bookshelf.

“My medical journals hide a collection of magical tomes between them. Help Merlin research Griflet’s affliction. Mordred, you are familiar with druid diagnostic spells?”

Mordred nodded.

“Then please,” he waved over Griflet, “whatever you can find will help.”

Several hours later, once night gave way to morning, Leon and Merlin were still flicking through books detailing horrible curses and potions when Arthur slammed the door open. The sound startled Mordred—who had been waving a dim glow over Griflet—who aborted his spell to inspect his nails.

“What happened?” Arthur demanded to know. He looked around for Gaius, but the old man had left for the Lower Town for an unexpected birth, leaving Griflet in Merlin’s hands.

From behind him, Sigune, who had gone to fetch him, drifted back into the room with her brow in a worried crease. Unexpectedly, Melrose trailed behind her.

“Sire, please, your manservant-” he begged, but Arthur’s patience had worn thin.

“One more word and I will have you in the stocks. Get out at once.”

Melrose wisely swallowed his words and stepped out. His appearance made Leon feel as if he had forgotten something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Without preamble, Merlin gave Arthur a run-down of Griflet’s condition. While he did, Griflet’s breathing quickened and he shuffled on the cot. The commotion must have woken him. Arthur noticed first.

“Sir Griflet.” He paced his voice at a soothing tempo. Placing a steadying hand on his knight’s shoulder, he asked: “How are you feeling?”

Thankfully, Griflet’s mouth was relatively untouched by the veins, but the hoarsness of his voice was undeniable.

“Sire...” he croaked, “Like... trampled by... Wild...ren,”

Arthur laughed for Griflet’s benefit. It only highlighted the worry in the king’s features.

“Right. What happened? Were you attacked?”

“Not attacked. Wine...”

Arthur blanched.

“From Sigune?”

Griflet tried to nod, but winced and thought better of it.

“Yes...” he said.

“Do you know what kind of poison this is?”

“No...”

Realizing that Griflet could offer no more information, Arthur motioned for a gathering at the table. Merlin found his usual seat while Arthur slid onto the bench and Mordred quietly joined at Merlin’s other side.

Arthur’s eyes were wide with churning thoughts.

“You know what happened,” prompted Leon.

Arthur pressed his lips together.

“Last night, Merlin prepared a wine skin for me. I meant it as a gift for Mordred’s first night shift, to make the last hours in the cold more bearable. Sigune occasionally stays nights in the castle, including last night, so I sent her a few hours before sunlight. I didn’t want him drunk during all his shift, after all.”

Arthur’s eyes slid to Merlin.

“Did you check the wine for poison?” he asked.

“I always do,” replied Merlin. “It was fine when I left it on the table.”

“Then the only people who could have touched it are myself, Sigune, Guinevere or... Melrose,” said Arthur.

“Melrose?” wondered Leon. “What was Melrose doing in your chambers so late?”

Arthur sighed.

“He waited until I dismissed Merlin to come lecture me against trusting sorcerers, rambled about Merlin enchanting me, and so on.”

“Lord Melrose and I get along,” said Mordred. “Why would he try to poison me?”

While Leon tried to wrap his head around how his very magical druid lover could get on with Melrose, of all people, a thought came to him.

“Not poison,” he said, “Antidote.”

“What are you on about?” said Arthur.

“Melrose couldn’t have known the wine skin was for Mordred and likely presumed Merlin had prepared it for you. Am I wrong?”

Arthur considered.

“Actually, I told him it was for me when he asked about it. There are... enough rumours of favouritism for Mordred going around, I think.”

Mordred had the nerve to smile contentedly, the smug little git.

“Then,” said Leon, “if Melrose had some reason to believe the wine to be enchanted, he would need a magical antidote to counteract the spell. That’s how magic works, right?”

Merlin nodded.

“Surely he wouldn’t try something so risky on a hunch,” interjected Arthur, “even if he thought I was under the influence of magic, it could be a spell or a poultice.”

“Oh,” said Merlin slowly, “I have a confession to make.”

“What did you do?” asked Arthur.

“So, checking for poison in the kitchens takes a while. It’s at the other end of the castle, you know, and I was tired. I had a long day. I wanted to get to bed soon.”

“And?” said Arthur.

“And a spell to detect poison takes like five seconds. So I cast it in the alcove by the royal chambers, found nothing and came back.”

“And Melrose saw you,” said Arthur, looking distinctly unimpressed.

“Probably, yes,” said Merlin, “But this is good! Now we know that we’ve been looking in the wrong books. There aren’t that many magical antidotes.” He picked up a book from the shelf that he started paging through quickly. “Not if you don’t know what you’re working against and Melrose doesn’t- Here we are!”

The four of them crowded around the open book.

“‘Blanchefleur’s Theriac,’” read Merlin, “‘is an archaic cure-all for magical ailments that sucks the magic out of the patient with a root-like magical system that withdraws once the magic is removed. May affect a sorcerer’s magical reserves.”

Arthur frowned at the words.

“Then why are they still there? There’s no magic for them the roots to find.”

Merlin shook his head.

“There’s no curse and no magical reserves, but life force is magic, too. It’s literally sucking the life out of him.”

“Then what can we do?” asked Leon.

“Magic, Sir Leon.”

Merlin made for the cupboard, pulled out a cup and filled it with water from the pitcher. He whispered something under his breath and his eyes flashed a familiar colour: gold.

Then, as if he did this every day, Merlin brought the drink to Sir Griflet. He brought the cup to Griflet’s mouth, only for Griflet to turn away from it. It looked distinctly painful to turn his neck.

“Sorcerer...” he croaked out with enough vitriol to make his meaning understood. He must have been able to see more than Leon had initially assumed.

Arthur rushed back to his knight.

“It will help you,” he told Griflet.

“Won’t...”

“You’re dying, Griflet,” said Arthur.

“Better.... magic...”

Merlin carefully schooled his face, as if the man wasn’t insulting him to his face. By Leon, Mordred had a similar expression.

“What would you have me tell your wife?” asked Arthur.

Griflet’s wife, Eilir. Leon had forgotten to send someone to tell her about her husband’s condition. He knew he had been forgetting something. She was going to skin him alive.

Merlin set the cup down on the tray next to the cot.

“Then I will not force it on you,” he said, and Griflet relaxed.

“Why not?” asked Arthur, rather outraged.

“I won’t force anyone to do anything they do not wish to,” said Merlin.

“Then I will.”

Arthur reached for the cup, but Merlin batted his hand away.

“I am the king,” said Arthur, “And I want to save my knight. The cure is right there.”

“This is my magic. I will not force my magic on anyone. Do not mistake me for Nimueh. Nor for Morgana.”

While they squabbled, Sigune, who had been hovering by the door, moved.

“Ceolwaerc!” she shouted and Griflet jolted. He started seizing on the cot and Merlin held him to keep him from hurting himself. After a few moments, the seizing stopped and the roots slowly began shrinking away. Before long, they had vanished entirely and Griflet was left in Merlin’s arms, looking as he usually did, if paler.

The knight shoved Merlin off. The young physician let him go without protest. Griflet looked at Sigune with confusion and hurt.

“You... all this time?” he asked, searching her face for answers.

“I didn’t- I wanted-” she stammered, “I-I-I...”

Giving up on words, she ran out of the room, making the door clang as she went.

“Sigune,” called Griflet, “Wait!”

And he ran after her without seeming to mind that he was half-dressed.

“Well,” said Arthur, not seeming to know what to do with himself. “I’ll just... go. And I will see you all at council soon. Except for you, Mordred. It’s the stocks for you.”

Leon blinked.

“What? Why?” he asked.

“For blackmailing Sir Griflet.”

Leon was due in the council chamber in just a few minutes, but he wouldn’t miss this for anything.

Mordred was stuck in the stocks, his neck and wrists trapped by the thick plank of wood.

The children were delighted to throw beets at his head and, if Mordred’s small smile was anything to go by, he was delighted to see Leon.

He looked up at Leon, who kept a fair distance to avoid getting hit by beets.

“The view is better from the other side,” said Mordred as way of greeting.

“You’re incorrigible,” said Leon fondly. “Enjoying yourself?”

“I’d say my morning has been delightful,” he said, catching a beet with his teeth and spitting it onto the ground before continuing, “I get to entertain the children and I got to see my lover show off how clever he is. It’s very compelling; did you know?”

“Is it now?” said Leon, entertained by how casually Mordred tolerated his humiliating position. He dodged beets and chatted more gracefully than Leon thought reasonable. It was annoyingly compelling.

“Quite,” said Mordred, “But it made me wonder, clever as you are...”

“Yes?” prompted Leon.

“...how haven’t you noticed Emrys yet?”

“I barely know the old man.”

Mordred’s eyes danced with a secret that made Leon suspicious.

“You lied about Emrys’ identity, didn’t you?” he said.

“Dragoon was... a compromise,” replied Mordred. “Dragoon is Emrys; that is completely true. Yet, it is not the complete truth. I won’t lie to the king, but will not betray Emrys. It is,” he dodged another beet, “an adequate compromise.”

“You’re being cryptic on purpose now,” accused Leon.

“What I mean to say is that I suspect Emrys of influencing Camelot to avoid notice. However, I am certain Emrys would despise the notion. I think... he’s done it instinctively to protect himself and I don’t think he’s noticed.”

Leon watched him flick bits of rotten vegetable out of his curls.

“You think all of Camelot is under a spell from a god? How can we break something like that?”

“Break it?” Mordred scoffed. “I certainly don’t have the power to do that. And why would I? This is hilarious. I only mean to warn you because, if I am correct, then you might notice Emrys if he does something remarkable enough. It could be jarring, but don’t panic.”

“You think something could happen today,” realized Leon.

“I do,” said Mordred. “You need to stay cool-headed if it does.”

“You think—no, you know—that Emrys is actually at the Round Table,” continued Leon.

“He always is,” said Mordred. “That was the first thing I told you about Emrys, remember?”

Chapter Text

Bickering and squabbling.

Barely five minutes had passed, and council had already traded its veneer of politeness for bickering and squabbling.

In her husband’s absence, Lady Eilir had come. She was the picture of fury, hair wild and voice thundering. She fought against allowing into Camelot that which had nearly killed her husband just a few hours prior.

Gwaine was trading arguments with her, refuting her fears about magic by citing his experiences from his travels.

Meanwhile, Melrose used his healing spell gone awry as proof that magic’s danger. Too much so for its use to be permitted. For his trouble, Merlin rewarded him with harsh words on reckless use of magic.

Guinevere spoke in softer tones with Benedict, a middle-aged nobleman who had been quite against magic so far. She relayed her close call with the pyre and the concerns she had about punishments disproportionate to their crimes.

Across the table, Lady Rosalind inspected her nails. A peach and cream gown that wrapped around her shoulders. It would have been more appropriate for a ball than council, but Leon would never be the one to tell her that. She rolled her eyes and ignored the chaos.

Meanwhile, Arthur was explaining to Elyan and Percival that offerings to Emrys were reasonable. He carefully avoided mentioning the myths of the Once and Future King. He was becoming increasingly flustered. An entire conversation seemed to pass between Elyan and Percival with their eyes alone. One that questioned their liege’s sanity.

And so Leon watched their bickering and squabbling in silence. He didn’t know what to say. His choice had been to follow Camelot and its king, no matter the circumstances, to maintain stability. No more, no less, and so the discussion didn’t particularly concern him. He was little more than a bystander in this debate. As the hours dragged on, Leon felt Mordred’s absence keenly. If there was someone who should be here, it was him. He was the one with the understanding of magic and the guile to navigate its politics. He would know what to say.

But Mordred wasn’t there and when council came to a close, Leon realized that Mordred had been wrong.

Emrys had kept his silence.

In the evening, after council had concluded, they were free to spend their time as they wished. The Knights of the Round Table gathered at the Rising Sun for some much needed tankards of mead. After several drinks, Gwaine pulled out a humble, if familiar, cup.

“Behold,” said Gwaine theatrically, “Drink enchanted by Merlin himself. I offer fifty coins to whoever dares to take a sip. Who will rise to the challenge?”

“What does it do?” asked Elyan.

“No idea,” said Gwaine, “but I would love to find out. Now, any takers?”

Leon blamed the mead. A sip for fifty coins through a drunken haze had given his skin an eerie golden glow that attracted the eyes of everyone around. The potion had had no other effect and was by far the least harmful magical effect Leon had ever seen.

When Sigune came to his rooms in the morning, she made a pathetic attempt at hiding her snicker. Leon frowned as she brought him his mail and a breakfast of blancmange with almond slivers. Where she found the nerve to laugh at him when she should be worried about an impending trial, he didn’t know.

Magic was still illegal, after all.

“Is there something funny?” he grumped.

She put on a properly subservient expression.

“Not at all, my lord,” she said. “Enjoy your meal.”

She briefly bowed and left him to breakfast while she started on her chores. The cook had outdone herself as usual. This peaceful little morning routine nearly had him forgetting the condition of his skin.

The first thing he noticed was that he had only received two letters. He hoped one had only gotten lost somehow, but a stone settled in the pit of his stomach as he read the missives of his friend and his brother. Mother’s illness had taken a turn for the worse. Most of her time was lost to sleep these days, and Howel feared the sickness would reap her life.

Part of Leon longed to go home to nurse his ailing mother and help Howel with the estate. A better part of him knew that times in Camelot were too tumultuous for him to leave with a good conscience. The laws were changing. Within the council room, division and discord threatened. In the shadows of the kingdom, Morgana’s armies grew. The Triple Goddess stood behind Morgana as Emrys stood behind Arthur. It smelled of war.

It was a gods’ game and Camelot was their playing field. Leon didn’t know how to help, besides trying to stabilize things, but if there was war, he had to be there to fight. What truly frightened him was what he might return to if he left. He could not stand the thought of being absent from the battle that might end Camelot.

He’d run from enough battlefields as it was.

So he penned his worry, tried to bring up their morale, and begged them both to look after his mother in his absence. Then he stopped thinking about it because thinking about it wouldn’t help one bit. However, eating his breakfast in silence did nothing to stop his thoughts from returning to his mother.

“Hey, Sigune,” he said to distract himself, “How is Sir Griflet doing?”

She paused in her dusting of the mantle.

“He’s feeling much better. Another day of rest should see him back on his feet, though he’ll probably go to training this afternoon if no one ties him down to his bed.”

That was good news. Leon really needed to hear some good news.

“Excellent,” he said. “How has Lady Eilir been taking things? She was out for blood at council.”

Sigune shuffled awkwardly.

“We haven’t spoken. She hasn’t been home since Griflet’s poisoning.”

Now wasn’t that curious?

“Any idea where she’s been?” asked Leon.

Sigune shifted.

“I... have heard some whispers about it. But we really must be discreet.”

Leon motioned for her to continue.

“I’ve heard,” she said, “that Lady Eilir spent last night in Lady Rosalind’s quarters.”

Really? While that did sound like Rosalind, Leon thought that flirting the very next day of Eilir’s husband’s near-death was too short of a delay. If Eilir was of another mind, then by all means. Hopefully, she would be calmer today and spare Leon’s eardrums.

That woman could screech.

“That’s... good,” he said, “I think. Whatever the case, consider me surprised. I didn’t know you knew magic.”

Sigune scratched the back of her head.

“I don’t,” she replied, “not really. Once, I saw someone else cast the spell and thought it was brilliant. I studied it plenty, but I wasn’t sure it would work. I’ve never cast a spell before.”

“Oh,” said Leon, “Well then, what was that spell meant to do?”

“I, well, it makes the target cough up a toad.”

Leon blinked.

“A toad? You mean like...”

“Aredian, the witch hunter,” said Sigune. “Back when he had caught Morgana and Merlin for practicing magic, Merlin cast it to frame Aredian as a fraud and a sorcerer himself. It got them all off the hook.”

“Wow,” said Leon. What else was there to say?

“Wow indeed,” she sighed, “So brilliant. So ruthless. The things I would do to that man if I could get my hands on him...”

Leon cleared his throat. Sigune blushed when she realised she’d been musing aloud.

“I... should really take the laundry down for washing.”

Once she’d swished out of the room with the basket, Leon’s mind ran over their exchange again. Gaius had made it understood that Merlin had some guilt or regrets he wouldn’t speak of out of shame. That Aredian had caught them both at the same time implied that they had to be involved enough with each other magically.

Had Merlin and Morgana been in cahoots?

Or worse. If Merlin had known magic this entire time, could he have taught her?

Leon really had to get some proper answers out of Merlin and soon, or he was going to lose his mind. What kind of strange, backwards conspiracy was going on around here? Leon needed to know.

And if thoughts of magical conspiracies distracted Leon from the morning’s news, it didn’t need mentioning.

Eyes trained on him as he made his way to the council room. He crossed paths with Mordred, who seemed slightly haggard from the long night, but whose eyes danced when they noticed Leon.

When warm hands guided Leon into an alcove, he followed without question and found himself quickly wrapped up in Mordred. It was soft and wonderful and over far too quickly. Though the risk of being caught brought the familiar thrill of danger, it limited their time.

Mordred complained when Leon pulled away.

“I can’t keep the king waiting,” said Leon.

Blue eyes trailed the length of Leon’s subtly glowing arm.

“Merlin will be furious,” he said. “Hold still for a second.”

Strange words turned his irises gold and Leon found himself entranced by them for just that second. He’d never seen Mordred perform magic so close. In fact, Mordred often concealed his eyes on the few occasions Leon had seen him cast. He would look down or shield his eyes. He’d drift further away from them.

It was never like this.

“Your eyes,” whispered Leon, “they’re lovely.”

He was rewarded with a facet of Mordred he hadn’t seen yet. For all of his teasing and flirting, it turned out that he was far from immune to compliments. Mordred blushed something fierce and turned away, pretending to check that no one was coming their way as he did. He cleared his throat.

“It should be fine now,” he said, entirely ignoring Leon’s comment. “We should get going if we don’t want to be late.”

Leon looked down at his hands to find them perfectly dull again.

“Right,” said Leon, feeling oddly disappointed. “Yes, we should go.”

More bickering. More squabbling. A never-ending cycle of bickering and squabbling that sucked away at Leon’s energy. Rosalind was dressed in yet another unsuitable dress for the occasion, throwing winks at Eilir, whose volume hadn’t diminished from the previous day.

More nothing. Little progress. Leon observed Merlin to pass the time. He was surprisingly quiet for a man whose continued existence was being heatedly debated. He answered questions about magic and clarified misconceptions. Something about his manner of speaking reminded Leon of Mordred. Magic as being inherent to life rang as druidic, though Leon couldn’t imagine Mordred had taught Merlin that. The two had met less than one year ago, after all.

Merlin took the insults against sorcerers far too well. The degrading comments about magic swept right off him. He didn’t so much as blink. He was good at hiding his true feelings, but Leon couldn’t tell if he was putting on a show or if he was simply used to it.

Suddenly, every magical attack from a sorcerer who snapped and went on a murderous rampage made sense. For Merlin, who had always been magical, every comment about magic had to be personal. Leon couldn’t imagine sitting there and accepting it all. He would challenge whoever dared to a duel. Even if they were old and defenseless, like that worm Melrose.

But not Merlin. That which seemed to offend Merlin the most was the bowl of almonds and sage leaves at the center of the table. He scowled at it, ignoring Melrose’s tirade about malicious sorcerers as he did.

And it was Merlin’s discomfort with the offerings that gave Leon an idea. If he wanted to get answers out of Merlin, Leon would need to put pressure on him. Give him something to sweat about. Leon couldn’t threaten his life, not with how much the king favoured him. And even if Arthur disliked Merlin, it would still be dishonourable and utterly socially inacceptable.

No, Leon needed something more subtle. More... Mordred-ish. Besides, Merlin didn’t have the self-preserving instincts possessed by ordinary mortal men. He followed Arthur into battle after battle with no armour. He, as a sorcerer, worked as a manservant to the royal household.

Threatening the life of such a man would accomplish little. Merlin didn’t much care for his own life, but worship of Emrys...

Worship of Emrys bothered him a lot.

Leon leaned over to Percival.

“Hey, Perce,” he said, “I know what we’re going to do today.”

The land across the street for the stocks was cheap because it was across the way from stocks and smelled of rotten vegetables.

It was easy to excuse himself from the table with Percival, claiming to have forgotten something urgent that needed taking care of. It wasn’t as if he had been contributing much anyway.

It was even easier to find workers and materials. There were always desperate people in the Lower Town ready to work for coin. Also, there had been so many recent attacks that they had taken to keeping a solid stock of materials ready in case the houses got blown to bits or burned down again.

With all of his preparations in order, there was nothing left to do but wait.

It was only a few hours later that the guards marched Merlin down to stocks. What for? Who knew anymore? Honestly, Leon didn’t particularly care. Whatever it may be, Merlin had a way of being sent to the stocks with more regularity than anyone Leon had ever met.

Which was why he had chosen this location. Once Merlin’s wrists and neck were secured in place, Leon motioned for the construction to start. The seven young folks from the Lower Town looked at him blankly.

“That means get going,” he said.

Once the message was received, they wasted no time bringing planks, nails and tools to the site. Leon stood back to enjoy the progress. He was paying salaries for others to do it for him, and he had some pressure to put on a certain someone.

Percival watched him drift toward the stock curiously.

As for Merlin, he had yet to be the target of vegetable throwing, but it was only a matter of time.

“Good afternoon, Merlin,” said Leon. “Whatever has landed you here today?”

Merlin looked decidedly unimpressed.

“Nothing Arthur didn’t need to hear,” he replied. “Is this the ‘urgent business’ you had to get to?” Merlin awkwardly motioned toward the workers.

“Of course,” said Leon, “with the king’s recent change of heart, it is only natural that the constructions within the city reflect his values.”

When Merlin looked at him with fear in his eyes, Leon knew he had him.

“What are you building, exactly?” asked Merlin delicately.

“A shrine, of course.” Leon relished the words. “To Emrys, naturally.”

Merlin sighed.

“You’re just doing this to get into Mordred’s pants, aren’t you?”

If Mordred appreciated it, then that would just be a bonus.

“No,” said Leon, “but I understand you have been withholding information. Given proper, complete and transparent information, I could be persuaded to call the project to a halt.”

Merlin looked up at him incredulously.

“Have you completely lost your mind? You know, most people just ask when they have questions.”

Something about Merlin’s attitude grated at Leon’s nerves.

“I have asked. Time and time again. I have neither the time nor the patience to drag out every bit of information from you. It is my job as First Knight of Camelot to ensure that every knight making up Camelot’s army is of sound mind and body. It is my job to make sure that none of them are compromised by the horrors of the battlefield and can act go about their duties afterwards. And I have had so many good men slip through the cracks and drive themselves mad.”

Leon took a breath and lowered his rising voice back to a conversational level.

“I know the patterns,” he told Merlin. “I’ve seen them before, and I’m seeing them now. You’re not keeping it together. And frankly, every rumour I’ve heard about you makes me worry as much for the sake of Camelot as for you. Let me do my heavens forsaken job and help you.”

“I am not a knight,” gritted out Merlin, “And my business is none of yours.”

“You’re right,” admitted Leon, “You aren’t a knight. You don’t study the sword to fight on behalf of the king. You aren’t noble, you haven’t taken the vows. Anyone who looks at you and thinks ‘that man must be knight,’ would be out of their mind. No, you’re just the king’s closest confidante, his most trusted advisor and one the most powerful sorcerers in the kingdom. You’re just part of the backbone of this kingdom. And I need you to be stable because regardless of my opinion, you’re the man that leads Arthur right whenever he starts down a dangerous path. Not me. Not Guinevere. Not any of that lot bickering in the council room. You. Do you understand?”

Merlin looked up at him, irritatingly nonplussed. Just like in the council room, the words seemed to slide off of him, and he just looked at Leon with a mildly pleasant expression.

“Are you done?” he asked with a challenge in his voice. “I assure I know exactly my role here and I guarantee that you have no understanding of it. I will do exactly what I must.”

Leon looked down at this twig of a man. He practically sneered at Leon with his voice alone and not a hint of doubt lingered in his eyes. Like this, Leon could see how such a man might get on with Morgana as they knew her to be now.

“Then we will continue with our project,” said Leon, projecting a false sense of calm. In truth, his blood was pounding in his temples and his fingertips tingled with a desire to do something about this infuriating man.

Merlin twisted his trapped hands to flip him off.

A cart sat nearby, empty but for a few cabbages. Leon didn’t exactly remember when he noticed it, but at that moment, he decided that enough was enough. Leon made a decision. He was going to throw the fattest of the cabbages at Merlin’s stupid face.

Leon woke to Mordred’s intense eyes inspecting his face.

“Hello,” said Leon, somewhat breathlessly.

Mordred scowled at him as he dabbed a damp cloth to Leon’s temple.

“‘Hello’? Is that all you have to say for yourself?” The dabbing became more aggressive. “When hurling a cabbage at a powerful warlock, one can expect that cabbage to stop in its path and return to its sender twice as fast.” He stopped dabbing to rinse the cloth. “And now you’re concussed, you idiot. And here I thought you were clever.”

A silence came between them while Mordred got back to work cleaning the wound. Leon, somewhat disoriented, looked at the side table and the fireplace in the corner to recognize Mordred’s quarters.

This made no sense. He shouldn’t be here. Mordred had elsewhere to be right now. Away with Leon. He wasn’t meant to be with Leon until the following week. That’s why they had been kissing in alcoves.

“Why am I...?” he asked, hoping Mordred would fill in the blanks for him.

“Percival fetched me because leaving you with Merlin, the cause of your concussion, seemed unwise. And I’m skiving off patrol to take care of you, you fool.”

“Good man, Percival. ‘Always knew I could count on him.”

Mordred didn’t seem amused.

“While Percival may help out of sheer altruism, I’m afraid my help comes at a price.”

An embarrassingly confused sound escaped Leon.

“You must answer me two questions as payment. Do you understand?”

Leon nodded mutely.

“First: why did you throw a cabbage at Merlin?”

“I... he was acting like... an annoying cabbagehead,” said Leon.

“Fair enough, I suppose. Anything more specific?”

“I just want to help. It’s my job to help, you know?”

Mordred raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

“Alright. Second question : why did Merlin throw a cabbage at you?”

“I’m building a shrine,” he admitted.

Mordred pursed his lips.

“I didn’t believe you to be religious. Why build a shrine?”

“To annoy Merlin. He hates Emrys. I thought I could...pressure him to talk to me.”

Mordred barked out a laugh.

“You’re building a shrine to Emrys as a mean of coercing Merlin’s secrets from him?” He whistled, impressed. “We’ll make a bandit out of you yet, Sir Knight.”

Leon sniffed. His head hurt so badly.

“Well, it didn’t work.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Mordred, “Finish building the shrine and give it a couple of days.”

Leon tried to wrap his head around Mordred’s meaning, but his efforts only worsened his headache.

“Urgh... don’t you have spells for concussions? I thought druids had healing spells for everything.”

“I do, but I’m not helping you. You cannot brush off the consequences of your actions.”

“Please?” Leon tried.

Mordred caved.

“Alright, alright. On one condition : if you find yourself in a position like this again, do not act on your own. If you want to coerce, blackmail, steal, deceive or manipulate, you come to me. We will make a plan. I will verify that the plan will not get you killed, and we will enact it together. Deal?”

“Deal,” said Leon, “but why?”

“Because you have the subtlety of a rampaging dragon. Merlin is a dangerous man to back into a corner. You could have died. I have years of experience as a bandit. I know it works. I may have turned over a new leaf as a knight, but if you are going to engage in bandit-like activities, let me help. Now don’t move.”

Mordred’s eyes flared gold. His whispered words sharpened the world around them. The pulsing fog eased from Leon’s mind.

Leon leaned back, enjoying the relief.

“Thank you.”

Mordred snorted.

“We’re both already skipping our duties, so,” he climbed into bed, straddling Leon, “I think there are much better ways for you to thank me than words.”

Chapter Text

“It’s not coercion,” said Leon once he had largely recuperated.

“Sure,” agreed Mordred noncommittally, calmly buttering his bread roll as he did.

“It isn’t,” insisted Leon as he buttered his own roll with more ferocity. He wasn’t a boor.

“Alright,” said Mordred mildly. “Anyway, it is wildly reckless.”

Leon waited for him to elaborate. One look at Leon’s expression, and Mordred did.

“Emrys doesn’t care for worship. For a man so worried about getting smitten, you certainly don’t balk at making a target of yourself.”

Leon choked on his bread.

“What?” His voice pitched higher than Leon had hoped. “But you worship Emrys.”

“And he despises me,” sighed Mordred fondly.

Sometimes, Leon understood Mordred. This was not one of those times.

And if Mordred was right, then Leon had to stop the construction immediately.

Voices dropped as he walked the halls that morning. He sped down to the courtyard, hoping to reach the stocks quickly, but the king himself stopped him. And nothing could take precedence over the king’s wishes, not even Leon’s impending doom.

Arthur led him to the training area. He loaded Leon’s arms with spare equipment to strap on and join in the swordplay. Merlin took it all from Leon a moment later.

“Absolutely not,” said Merlin. “No strenuous activity.”

“Come on, Merlin, he’s fine. Right, Leon?”

Leon nodded. He felt recuperated. Although saying otherwise might get him out of training, he would not lie to the king.

“No strenuous activity,” repeated Merlin with strong emphasis on every word. “But he can watch.”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Fine.”

And so Leon found himself quite stuck on the sidelines of training with Merlin. Every knight was giving it their best, and Leon found himself envious. From the corner of his eye, he observed Merlin, wondering what the standing between them was now. He was unreadable.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Merlin in a low voice to avoid eavesdroppers. “You are right about some things. Something has been weighing on me. You might be the worst person to ask, but I- I could really use some advice.”

Leon blinked in surprise. This sudden turnaround from Merlin was surprising, but Leon welcomed it. Finally, he was making some headway here.

“Of course,” said Leon, “I would be happy to help.”

Merlin took a steadying breath.

“There is a... duty I should tend to, but I haven’t ye. I’m not shirking it, I’ve just been putting it off. Procrastinating, I suppose.”

Well, no one had ever accused Merlin of punctuality, but Leon doubted this was about chores. Something else was bothering Merlin, something he wouldn’t talk about directly.

“Is there a reason you are putting it off?” asked Leon.

Merlin passed a hand through his hair.

“I don’t want to,” he admitted. “There are so few of us and I-”

Merlin cut himself off. Leon realized with dawning horror that they were speaking about Morgana. If Merlin was truly powerful, he could use his magic to fight her. Leon knew little about the links between the two. They were at least fellow sorcerers of Camelot, but all evidence pointed to a closer relationship.

What Leon knew was that Merlin despised violence. Although he had admitted in a joking tone to killing Mary Collins, Leon remembered how he had reviled Cenred’s sorcerers. He would not forget the risks Merlin had taken to avoid using his magic maliciously.

Leon understood Merlin’s reluctance, but he also recognized Merlin’s dedication to Arthur. It was no wonder Merlin felt so torn. Leon prodded Merlin to elaborate.

“The king has asked you to perform this duty?”

Merlin snorted.

“No,” he said, “But it is for him. I must protect him.”

That confirmed their true subject of conversation.

“Can I help in any way? Protecting the king is much more my duty than yours.”

Merlin didn’t smile. He shook his head.

“I can’t put this on you. That would be... beyond cruel for both of you.”

Leon and Morgana had been good friends. They had sparred together many times. Leon’s dedication had earned him a seat within speaking range of the king, and thus, Morgana. During banquets, they would often chat and joke. She knew his preference, but enjoyed acting provocatively around him to annoy the king. Leon took this show in stride and with good humour, if only to keep his head.

Merlin’s concern touched Leon, but Leon’s friend was long gone. She had become an enemy. A broken, hateful thing possessed her body now.

Leon had nothing but contempt for her, but Merlin had proven to be a stubborn bastard so far.

“I won’t change your mind on this, will I?” asked Leon.

Merlin shook his head.

“Sorry, Sir Leon.”

Leon sighed.

“What would you like my advice on then?”

“I just... How do you do something you don’t want to do, but that you must do?”

Leon thought about it for a moment. Many times, Leon had been given off-putting orders. He’d searched friends’ quarters for magic. Vicious battles had been fought against former allies of Camelot. Leon had run from some for reinforcements. But his role had been to serve Camelot, to make it safe, peaceful and orderly. And he had done that. He had fended off Camelot’s enemies; he had protected its citizens and he had negotiated with neighbouring kingdoms for peace. His accomplishments would have been impossible had he turned his back on knighthood.

“Focus on your goals,” he told Merlin, “see how to bring the most good in the long run. Sometimes, sacrifices are necessary.”

Merlin finally looked him in the eye.

“I thought so,” he said. “Thank you.”

“What do you plan to do then?” asked Leon.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

A silence stretched between them, punctuated by swords clanging. After several long moments, Leon cleared his throat.

“About yesterday,” he began, “Are we... good?”

“That depends. Are you following through with that ridiculous shrine?” replied Merlin as he crossed his arms.

“Actually, I was just-”

At that moment, Arthur came toward them for a drink of water.

“What shrine?” he asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Nothing,” said Merlin too quickly. “A shrine? What shrine? There’s no shrine. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You said it just now.”

“ ’Must have misheard,” he laughed nervously, his usual composure having apparently left him.

“I started building a shrine to Emrys across from the stocks, sire,” said Leon, “but considering some new information, I must halt its construction. I was just on my way.”

Merlin’s shoulders relaxed, but Arthur’s eyes lit up.

“That’s brilliant. That’s... that’s perfect. Why would you stop it?”

Leon did not fancy a smiting. That was why. But how could he tell the king this?

And so the king took over the shrine’s construction. In the end, that was for the best. Emrys wouldn’t strike down the Once and Future King and, with some luck, he would gain enough popularity to preserve his sanity. This was good.

The council disagreed.

“This all just seems a bit fast, Arthur. We know little about Emrys, and I’m worried about this sudden change,” said Guinevere.

“The god of magic cannot be Camelot’s patron while magic remains illegal,” commented Lady Rosalind. “We’ll only confuse the populace.”

“He’s already a patron of Camelot. We just need the proper structures,” argued Arthur.

“I would just like to remind everyone that Emrys is not a god and we should definitely not be building any shrines in his honour,” said Merlin.

“Trying to undermine the king, sorcerer?” Melrose sneered. “I, for one, stand with the king.”

“You’re a sorcerer too, you hypocrite!”

And on and on it went. Bickering.

Leon hated bickering.

At last, Arthur rose.

“Don’t you understand anything? Emrys is being detracted from. Sorcerers don’t follow him, they follow the Triple Goddess, but she corrupts magic. If people worshipped Emrys instead of the Triple Goddess, the magic will be less destructive. It’ll help the crops, the birth rates, and prevent plagues.”

Leon hadn’t known that. He wondered how Arthur did.

So, after the meeting, he pulled Arthur aside and asked.

“You’ve read the same book I have, Leon. Don’t play the fool, it doesn’t suit you.”

“The book on Emrys? The one brimming with mystification?” asked Leon.

“Mysti-what?”

Leon coughed.

“I mean... didn’t you find the book difficult to understand at all? It was a bit riddle-like, no?”

Arthur bristled.

“My education in letters was flawless. I understand written language is perfect.”

“You understood it perfectly?”

“Obviously. I must get going, Sir Leon. I will see you in the morning.”

As Arthur left the council room, Leon wrapped his head around that.

Arthur was immune to mystification. However, Leon didn’t believe Arthur had any magic. He’d had no opportunity to learn and there had been countless situations where it would have been useful. In the end, Arthur had his knights and his sword, and not a smidge of magic.

How could he understand sorcerers so well? Could it be because he was the Once and Future King?

What was a Once and Future King anyway?

In the early morning, Leon invited himself to Mordred’s quarters to ply him with food, drink and questions before Mordred could go to sleep.

Somewhat tired, but always welcoming, Mordred took it in stride.

“What exactly is a Once and Future King?” asked Leon.

“The Once and Future King is the Once and Future King.”

Leon was unimpressed.

“Isn’t Arthur the Once and Future King?”

“Yes.”

“You realize he’s the king right now.”

“Yes.”

“He isn’t a past king. Nor is he going to be king in the future. He’s king right now.”

Mordred half-shrugged.

“If he hasn’t once been king, he will be. And he’ll be king again. Or he is king and has been before.”

“How does that make any sense?”

Mordred shrugged.

“It doesn’t have to make sense to me to be true. Most magic makes no sense until you’re in the middle of it. ”

“So you don’t know.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“What exactly is a Once and Future King?” asked Leon once again, this time to the only other sorcerer he knew.

Merlin raised an eyebrow.

“A dollophead,” he said.

“You mean King Arthur.”

“Exactly.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about that title?”

“No, that about covers it. Once and Future King, dollophead, King Arthur. What more could you need to know?”

Leon wasn’t sure why he had bothered asking.

“Guinevere wants to go to Denaria. Apparently, Lady Reinhilde has taken ill.”

Arthur was the picture of displeasure. His arms crossed over his chest and scowl distorted his features. Unsure how to proceed, Leon defaulted to his politeness.

“Yes, sire.”

“And you were aware of this?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Why did you not inform me your mother was sick?”

“We were... busy? With magic law reforms and shrines?”

He didn’t mean to make it sound like a question.

Arthur huffed.

“Well, you will have the honour of escorting the queen to visit. You are to leave tomorrow morning with Sir Elyan and Guinevere. I do not expect you to return within the week. Your duties will be assigned to another during your absence. And Leon?”

“Yes, sire?”

Arthur leaned in close.

“Go take care of your ailing mother, you idiot.”

Leon stepped back.

“I- Right. Yes, sire. I should go... pack.”

Leon was worrying. To avoid worrying, he put his mind to packing. Unfortunately, he had so much practice packing that he didn’t need to think about at all.

So Leon was packing and worrying all at once.

For one, who was going to cover for Leon? He had many duties to cover and the king was far too busy as it was. Maybe one of the Knights of the Round Table?

And then, what about the legalization of magic? Sure, Leon had little to contribute at the council table, but it would cause some chatter that might escalate to more within the citadel.

What if Morgana attacked? What if another dragon attacked? Could that idiot Melrose accidentally poison the entire water supply? What if Emrys lost his mind for real and smote the entire city?

It was a poor comfort to think that against magical threats to Camelot, from the most banal to the most outlandish, Leon could not do much against even if he stayed.

He was just making excuses not to go home. In letters, it was easy to maintain a familiarity. In person, he feared he would feel like a stranger.

They never wrote about the Old Ways in their letters. It was too risky. It had never been a large part of life, but it had been normal to honour certain deities at festivals, at weddings or at funerals.

Leon had had some tokens when he came to Camelot. Normal, silly things for luck or as signs of friendship. He’d been lucky and seen what happened to others when they were mistaken for magic. Everything he had of the Old Ways, he had sunk in a well. Leon knew nothing of use, not like Mordred. He had never met a sorcerer before going to the citadel. All he’d had had been things that trickled into the lives of ordinary folk.

Leon had told neither Howel nor Mathilda nor his mother. He rid himself of mostly everything he had come to Camelot with out of paranoia. Some phrases were unwelcome in Camelot and had to practice replacing carefully until he became used to it. Phrases like “by the Triple Goddess” or “falling through the Pool of Nemhain.”

There was much from home he had abandoned to become a knight. It had been his dream all his life and brought honour to his family. He was proud to be a knight, but he didn’t want his family to know about these things. It would be so obvious that he had nothing left from home.

Leon felt like an absolute coward.

Once packed, night had fallen. He opted for an early night.

He fell asleep berating himself for his cowardice.

It was a bright morning that found Leon, Guinevere and Elyan climbing into a carriage. Sir Caridoc would join them, along with a carriage driver Leon didn’t know by name. They had chosen a small party and a humble carriage to avoid attention.

Despite the circumstances, Guinevere was full of excitement and her smile was contagious. Leon found himself swept up by her rhythm. She ordered away the servants trying to help pack the carriage, claiming that packing was part of the fun.

When they were nearly ready to leave, she went to the king to exchange some parting words. While they spoke, Mordred came out, having clearly just gotten off his shift. He approached Leon somewhat awkwardly.

“I wasn’t sure I could see you before you left,” said Mordred. “I wanted to send you off.”

Leon was warmed at the sentiment. Seeing Mordred like this reminded him of something he had tucked away in his breast pocket some time ago. Leon pulled it out.

It was a brass brooch. Simple enough not to be ostentatious, but more than fitting for a knight, and the pattern reminded Leon of the druids somehow.

“I got this for you. Before. I meant it as a courting gift, but, well, I guess I’d like for you to have it now.”

Mordred took it carefully and inspected it in the morning light and smiled.

“Don’t you know your etiquette, Sir Knight?” he berated, in stark contrast to the soft curve of his lip. “I’m the one who should you a gift for your travels.”

He tucked the brooch away into a pocket and reached around his own throat for a cord. Once he’d pulled it off and set it in Leon’s hand, Leon inspected it. It was an amulet made from a fang, with delicate engravings adorning it. It was obviously magical.

“For protection,” said Mordred, “It’s easy to wear under clothing.”

Leon was moved. The humbly made amulet was obviously something Mordred had brought from the druids. Something from Mordred’s home. Despite that, he was thinking of how Leon could hide it, like Mordred hid his golden eyes.

Slowly, Leon reached for the hilt of his sword. He angled himself so Mordred could watch. He wanted Mordred to see Leon fasten this gift to the hilt of his sword. He wanted Mordred’s eyes on him when he put this gift in plain sight.

“You’re a fool,” said Mordred fondly. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

Leon reached for Mordred’s hand and held it between his own hands, hoping to convey how he would miss him. He didn’t know how to put it in words, not in the public courtyard in front of so many people. He couldn’t put it into words, not when he could feel dozens of eyes on him watching, assessing and judging.

Further up the stairs, Guinevere was holding Arthur tight. A pang of envy jolted through Leon for their casual affection. But Leon and Mordred weren’t like that. They were like... this. Only ever relaxed behind closed doors.

Reluctantly, he pulled away and bade Mordred goodbye as he climbed into the carriage with his traveling companions.

They set off for Denaria.