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Chapter Text

Part I: A Game for an Heir

Chapter 1: A Champion From Ealdor

          Merlin was in the fields when the messenger arrived.  All of Ealdor was in the fields, except for the oldest of the old watching the youngest babies and toddlers.  They watched the messenger, too, waiting impatiently until the workday was over and the people returned to the torch-lit center of the village.  Not even a king’s messenger could disrupt a day’s work, here.  Merlin stood near the back, next to Hunith, to listen to the man deliver his message.

          “In the continued absence of an heir apparent, King Uther Pendragon, childless and unwed, declares a trial by combat, open to all comers, sorcerer and warrior alike, the winner to be declared heir to the kingdom of Camelot.”

          “The winner,” scoffed a neighbor who stood near Merlin, a man named Matthew.  “That’ll be a fight to the death, will it not?  Your winner is the last man left alive?  No, thanks.”  There was a grumble of agreement through the crowd, and several turned away.

          If any of the inhabitants of Ealdor held such aspirations, it would be news to Merlin.

          “There are incentives,” the messenger continued, stiff with offended dignity.  “The king intends to demonstrate his gratitude to the family and town of each combatant who enters the arena, a bag of grain to equal half the combatant’s weight.”

          The crowd fell silent.  Merlin’s heart dropped.  That was an incentive Ealdor would pay attention to – they couldn’t afford not to.

          “Why’ve you come here?”  It was Matthew’s question.  “We’re a border town.  Contested territory.  What does Cenred say about Uther’s trial by combat for an heir?”

          It was a valid question.  Cenred cared nothing for Ealdor, ignoring its cares and concerns.  A solid inclusion in the kingdom of Camelot would mean a reliable king to be called on in time of trouble.  And in that case, however remote the possibility, the heir would be an Ealdor native.

          “Cenred cares not.  In the case of a winner from a border town, Uther promises full rights of citizenship for every inhabitant.  And Uther expects to shower favor on the hometown of his heir – substantial and lifelong favor.”

          Several people actually licked their lips.  Glances began to nervously dart around. 

          “Someone should go,” someone said.

          “Shall we vote?” Matthew proposed.

          Hunith snatched belatedly at Merlin’s sleeve as he pushed gently to the front. 

         “I will go,” he said clearly.  In the silence, Hunith’s piteous moans were painfully audible.

          No one said anything.  Torchlight flickered.  Through a break between raggedly-clad bodies, Merlin could see Will glaring at him in frustration.  But he offered no protest.  He knew there was not much point. 

         Merlin knew in a dispassionate way that he was the obvious choice.  If he had not volunteered, he surely would have been voted.  Someone should go would inevitably lead to Merlin should go.  Ealdor held no warriors.  And in a kingdom where magic was viewed with distrust, and the open public practice of it rare, Merlin was the oddity in Ealdor.  If he volunteered, there would be no resentment, no hard feelings between the village and his parents.

         His parents.  He could not think of his mother.  She would understand, that he did it for her, for them all, for half his weight in grain for the village.  One day, she would understand.  One day, she might be proud of him.  Balinor, if he’d been there, might try to volunteer as well.  But Balinor, though he had magic also, had not matched Merlin’s strength and ability since Merlin’s twelfth year.  And there was also his father’s crippling limp to consider.  No, it was a good thing that his father would be away from Ealdor on his hunting trip at least three more days.

         By then, Merlin would be in Camelot.  By then, Uther might very well have an heir to proclaim.

         “Well, boy, you’re not much to look at,” the messenger said, a little taken aback.

         “I enter the trial by combat as a sorcerer,” Merlin said, not loudly, but his voice still carried to the edge of the crowd in the silence.

         The messenger took a step back, as though he expected Merlin to prove his claim in some ostentatious or dangerous way.  “Very well,” he said at last.

          Merlin arrived in Camelot on foot, thumbs hooked in the straps of the pack over his shoulders, mouth hanging open in amazement.  He’d never seen so many people, so many houses and shops – and there was the castle.  He was pretty sure he could stand and stare at it all day if he was given the chance – but he needed to make himself known to the seneschal, Sir Leon, in preparation for the combatants’ feast tonight.

          He stopped next to a pair of guards with ceremonial spears and long noseguards on their conical helmets.  “Where can I find Sir Leon?”

          “Through the gate, into the side courtyard,” he was told.

          Following those directions, he came upon a scene of controlled chaos.  Red-caped guards, clusters of well-dressed people, groups of poorer-looking folk.  It was impossible to guess who might be entering the trial, and who might be taking the opportunity to say goodbye to a loved one, or to gape mawkishly at a dozen people destined to die horribly the next day.

          Merlin made his way to the only man seated in the courtyard, a red-caped knight who looked as though he possessed a reliable steadiness as well as several years’ experience, with wavy red-blonde hair and beard.  Merlin stopped before the plank table laid with several sheets of parchment, inkwell and choice of quills, waiting til the knight looked up.

          “Sir Leon?” he said.

          “Name,” Sir Leon requested, pleasantly enough for someone who was in charge of such a spectacle.

          “Merlin of Ealdor.”

          Sir Leon gave him a quick but critical once-over.  “Sorcerer?” he said, commenting obliquely on Merlin’s lack of armor or discernible weaponry.

          Merlin grinned.  “How did you guess?”  The knight raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Merlin added hastily, “Sir Knight.”  He’d have to remember his city manners.  He wasn’t in Ealdor any more.

          “There’s a stack of armor and weapons you can use,” Sir Leon said, gesturing to the side. As Merlin began to turn, he added, “Merlin of Ealdor - I recommend you choose something in the hardened leather line, rather than chainmail.  It is lightweight and the color may help you to blend in with your background.”

          Merlin looked at Leon more closely, saw that the knight had surprised even himself.  Why had Sir Leon spoken to help him?  Was it because he so clearly had little chance of survival?  He pitied Merlin, maybe. 

         “Thank you,” Merlin said sincerely.

          “You’ll be in guest chamber number three,” Sir Leon instructed him, once more detached.  “The guard at that gateway –“ he pointed with the sharp end of the quill, “can point you to your room, as well as to the banquet hall, where you will present yourself at six-bells to be introduced to the court.”

          “Yes, Sir Knight.” Merlin nodded to show he’d understood, and as he turned to start his journey across the courtyard to the stack of armor and weaponry, his shoulder caught the more muscular shoulder of a blonde boy, a few years older and maybe an inch or so shorter, dressed in simple but well-made clothes, without patch or tear or fray, a large pack clearly containing armor over his other shoulder, the hilt of a sword jutting past his hip.

          The blonde boy jerked his head in an impatient but wordless command for Merlin to get out of his way.

          “Excuse me,” Merlin said politely, and the boy was surprised enough to meet Merlin’s eyes, his own a deep-sea blue-green.  Then Merlin maneuvered out of the boy’s way and began to make his way through the press.

          “Arthur of Camelot,” he heard the blonde boy tell Sir Leon.

Chapter Text

Part I: A Game for an Heir

Chapter 2: The Combatants’ Feast

            The banquet hall was overwhelming.  Guests seated, standing, strolling, arrayed in gorgeous and expensive clothing and jewels, servants with wide trays dipping and ducking through the room – Merlin could hardly bear to watch, so certain was he that a collision and a ghastly mess were both inevitable.  Yet he couldn’t look away.

            A trio of musicians kept up a continuous flow of light and airy tunes.  The scents wafting through the air were intoxicating and largely unidentifiable to a village boy like Merlin.  He kept his back to the wall, occasionally snagging a piece or fruit or a recognizable tidbit from a passing tray, though the fifteen listed combatants had a separate table prepared for them.

            Merlin found the scrutiny exhausting and nerve-wracking.  He preferred to keep to the shadows at the edge of the room and watch.

            Uther, whom he had never seen before, had a loud voice and a ready laugh, though there was something predatory about his expression.  He was a man in his mid-sixties, still appearing in robust good health, though no one could know that for sure.  Old Man Phillips had been the same way, and just last month had dropped dead while chopping his own firewood.  There had been murmurs, nasty whispers that called to mind the old man’s well-known grudge against Merlin, but he had been in full view of several villagers all day that day, and nothing could be proved.  One way or the other.

            Uther wore Camelot red, his heavy crown, and a collection of medallions on his chest, hanging from thick gold chains of varying length.  He lounged at his ease upon a central throne-like chair, Sir Leon at his left hand, and an older man in a blue robe with ear-length white hair at his right. 

         The king’s eyes fell once upon Merlin, who shuddered involuntarily and slipped behind a pillar, edging closer to the combatants’ table where he belonged.  Snagging a seed-dotted roll from a passing tray, Merlin leaned against the pillar that shaded him from the king’s view, and studied his arena-fellows.

         There were four women, one a sweet-looking girl in a wispy yellow dress, with long curly honey-colored hair, one a thirty-something brunette, comfortably plump and even motherly, a third a crafty sharp-nosed female of indeterminate age, wearing a blue turban of a color very similar to Merlin’s own shirt.  The fourth woman was much more ordinary, frightened-looking.  All four were certainly sorceresses, though that did not mean they had no knowledge or skill with weapons.  There were two others he pegged as magic-users, also, one a robed blonde with horrific scars twisting the left side of his face and his left hand, who walked stiffly and with a perpetual hunch to his shoulders.  The other was just as scrawny as Merlin himself, somewhat shorter, with a moustache that did nothing for his prominent teeth or bulging eyes.

            The warriors, on the other hand, were fairly typical, a handful of swaggering, muscular men who were nearly indistinguishable from each other.  Two looked to be older – nearing forty, even – and one might have been younger than Merlin himself.  One had a remarkable expression of calm nobility that Merlin kept checking, wondering if maybe it was a deception.  A mask that he wore to the ball.  And where was that last one, the blond with the blue-green eyes?  Arthur, wasn’t it?

            “Lurking, are you?” someone remarked from behind Merlin, and he startled so badly the bread flew from his hand.  He turned; it was Arthur, with a smirk on his face and his arms crossed over his chest.  “Jumpy, too.” 

            “Yeah,” Merlin agreed a little breathlessly.  “I’m not used to – all this.”  He waved his hand to indicate the entirety of the sense-assaulting chamber.

            Arthur snorted, a derisive sound that Merlin took no offense at.  “Try to pay attention, at least?” he suggested, pointing over Merlin’s shoulder.

            Sir Leon had risen from his place at the king’s side.  “Combatants will be called in alphabetical order,” he announced.  “Please step forward and present yourself to the court for introduction.”

            Arthur was already moving past Merlin when his name was called, confident that he would be first.  He strode down the banquet hall as if he belonged there, and Merlin envied him his grace and poise.  He himself would be lucky not to trip and pull two or three of the food-laden trays down upon himself – and the nearest ladies, too, likely enough.  At the other end of the room, Arthur performed a correct and mannerly bow to the king, and drifted to the side, where a sweet-faced noble girl with a wealth of curly black hair blushed through her dusky complexion and pretended to ignore him.

            The two male sorcerers were next, Cornelius and Edwin.  Merlin made no attempt to remember names, but was sure he would know most of them in the arena the next day.  His memory was just sharp for details – even the unwanted ones.

            Three of the warriors were next, Kanen and Lancelot and Merlin didn’t catch the third name, one of the older men, a grinning brown-haired man, and the one with the suspiciously-perpetual expression of gentle nobility.  Then came the motherly sorceress, Mary, Merlin himself, and the fourth scared-looking sorceress behind him.  He kept his eyes on the hem of Mary’s sensible blue dress, and performed a jerky bow to the edge of the high table, escaping as quickly as possible in the opposite direction that Arthur had wandered.

            After Merlin was another warrior, the youngest-looking one, Mordred, then the other two sorceresses, the sharp-faced one Nimueh, the soft girl with honey hair Sophia.  Then the last three warriors, two of their names Tristan and Val, but Merlin’s attention was caught by the sweet-looking honey-haired Sophia, dipping into a smiling courtesy before the king.  She glanced up at Merlin as she rose, and he was shocked to glimpse a flash of red in her irises. 

            That was sidhe magic, he was sure of it.  Not as bad as dark magic, but just as unpredictable.  For the first time, Merlin faced the realization that one of these fourteen opponents would be the next ruler of Camelot.  And even if Ealdor was not to be part of the kingdom, it was close enough to feel the effects of a bad monarch.

            Was this such a good idea? he wondered.  Uther would gain a strong successor, no doubt of that, but a hunger for power combined with a crown… Merlin shuddered.

            Well, if he were not to survive, who would he prefer to sit the throne?  Definitely not the sorceress allied with the sidhe.  But who else might be good for Camelot?  Maybe the one with the noble expression – was his name Lancelot or Kanen?

            “Getting enough to eat?” Arthur said behind Merlin, who had sensed his approach this time, and wasn’t taken by surprise.

            “Why do you care?” Merlin asked curiously.

            “I don’t,” Arthur shrugged.  “You just look like getting enough to eat isn’t really a regular thing with you.”

            Merlin grinned.  “It’s not.”  But that bag of grain would go a long way toward making sure the other children of Ealdor could not say the same.

            Arthur was looking him over, taking his measure.  “You carry no weapons,” he observed.

            “Of course I do,” Merlin said.  “I’m a sorcerer.  My weapon is with me all the time.”

            Arthur stretched, and a knife flicked into his hand from a sheath concealed in his sleeve.  “So’s mine,” he told Merlin, who laughed.  Arthur shook his head, his mouth twisting sideways like he was fighting the half-smile.  “I don’t know – Merlin, wasn’t it?  There’s something about you, I can’t quite put my finger on–“

            “I just told you,” Merlin said, smiling.  “I’m a sorcerer.”

            Arthur shook his head.  “No, that’s not it,” he said.  “Never mind – it’ll come to me.” 

         He sauntered away from Merlin’s side to drape himself over the back of the black-haired girl’s chair.  Judging from his smile, he was flirting with her.  Judging from her smile, he was doing it successfully.

            The rest of the feast was a trial in itself for Merlin.  Some of the other combatants tried to engage him in conversation, clearly trying to evaluate him as an opponent, while others just as clearly ignored him – he hoped because they’d already decided he posed no threat.  The sidhe girl and the motherly Mary paid him no attention, and the scared girl was in her own world, but the other three sorcerers each came to him.

            Sharp-faced Nimueh, with startlingly blue eyes – who could have been his younger sister, or his grandmother – sidled close, her smile curving provocatively.  “I can feel your power,” she murmured in his ear.  “If you want to work with me, I know we’d be perfect together.”

            Merlin stammered around his heart in a throat as dry as sand, and she floated away with a sharp, satisfied backward glance.  Both Edwin of the terrible burn-scars and Cornelius of the protruding eyes approached him with greater arrogance, promising their protection if Merlin would loan his magic to theirs initially.

            Merlin smiled noncommittally.  “I’ll think about it,” he said.  But he knew better than to pledge his strength to the control of another when only one victor would be proclaimed.

            The physical fighters by and large overlooked the magic-users entirely, but the noble-eyed warrior paused as he was passing by.  “Merlin, wasn’t it?”

         Merlin looked into his quiet brown eyes, looked deep there, and saw nothing to support his theory that the man was playing a role to garner sympathy. 

         “Good luck tomorrow, Merlin,” he added sincerely.

            “You as well,” Merlin returned, surprised.  “Ah-“

            “The name’s Lancelot,” the young man said.  He further surprised Merlin by extending his hand, but looked pleased when Merlin took it.  As he drifted on, Merlin decided that he’d do a good turn for Lancelot, if the opportunity came up.

            Merlin escaped back to the guest chamber he'd been assigned to, as soon as he could convince himself he would not be missed, and laid himself out on one of the three cots in the room.  He did not expect to sleep, but he woke much later to the shuffling footsteps and voices of both his chamber-mates.  He rolled over and squinted in the light of the candle in the hand of one of them – ah, Arthur and Lancelot.  Merlin smiled sleepily.  His luck held.

            Both warriors had imbibed no small amount of wine, it appeared, both unsteady on their feet, and with an arm over each other’s shoulder that would have been unusual in the light and sobriety of day.

            “Who have we got?” Arthur questioned in a loud whisper.  Already Merlin recognized that voice.

            The candle lifted.  “It’s Merlin,” Lancelot replied.  “That tall skinny sorcerer.”

            “Think he’ll enchant us while we sleep?” Arthur said, lowering himself to the cot next to Merlin.

            “No, not this one,” Lancelot said, heading for the furthest cot.

            “Oi,” Merlin said, “I am awake, you know.”

            “Yeah, I know.”  Arthur and Lancelot began removing their boots and outer clothing, readying for what might be the last night of their lives.

            “No, it was bandits,” Lancelot said, evidently continuing whatever story he’d been telling Arthur.  “The whole village was razed by the time I returned.”

            “And your family?” Arthur said.

            Lancelot’s brief silence was sufficient answer.  “So I learned swordplay,” the noble-faced warrior concluded.  “I thought, my life is forfeit anyway – if I’d been at home I’d have been killed, too.  The least I can do is spend it making sure that happens to no one else.  When Uther’s offer of the kingdom to the victor came, it seemed a natural conclusion to my life – and I joined the contest.”

            Arthur grunted, and both warriors stretched out on their cots, arranging their blankets over them.

            “Arthur, you’re from Camelot, aren’t you?” Merlin spoke into the silence.  “Why didn’t Uther just name one of his knights his heir?  Sir Leon seems he would make a good king.”

            Arthur, sprawled on his back, tucked one hand under his head.  “Uther was afraid that such a choice would cause resentment among the knights, might spark rebellion against the heir so named later on,” he said.  “He needs those ranks united in protection of the crown.  Also, do you think that any of these knights would fail to volunteer, if they were allowed?  This is exactly the sort of occasion they train for – contests to prove strength and nobility, to lay their lives down for the kingdom.”

            Merlin considered that.  Yes, he supposed Arthur was right.  He could understand that motivation himself, after all, though his life was offered on a much smaller scale.

            “And,” Arthur added, “Uther clears the board of any significant threat to the heir in one day.  Anyone with the ambition or ability to stage a coup is here to compete.”

            “I didn’t think of it like that,” Merlin said, surprised.

            “Why are you here then, Arthur?” Lancelot said.  The dark and the drink and the impending death hanging over all three of them was forging a connection, which kept slumber at bay and encouraged them to conversation.  “You’re just that ambitious?”

            There was a long pause, in which Arthur didn’t speak.  Deciding, Merlin suspected, if he trusted them.  Then Arthur said, “My father was a knight.”

            “Ah, we’re in the presence of noble blood,” Lancelot teased.  “Why didn’t you become a knight, then?”

            “My mother was a commoner.”  Another long pause.

         Merlin could relate – to be stuck between two worlds, not truly belonging to either… he himself had never felt at home in his village, and his father the only sorcerer he’d ever been in company with.  He wished he’d gotten the chance to say goodbye.

         “My father taught me everything he knew,” Arthur continued.  “He taught me horsemanship and swordsmanship, made sure I earned my education.  He taught me of loyalty and justice, freedom and honor.”

         “He sounds…”  Merlin couldn’t think of a good word.  Arthur’s father sounded much like Balinor, though with understandable differences of class and station.

         “He died last year,” Arthur said.

         “And your mother?” Merlin asked, thinking of Hunith with a pain in his heart and a sudden childish homesickness.

         “She understood my decision,” Arthur said.  “This honors his memory and training in a way that driving a cart for the rest of my life cannot.”

            Merlin shivered.  It was very close to what he’d said to his own mother.  I’m useless here, he’d said, that last night, as Hunith sat holding his hand, keenly reluctant to let go.  My magic is confined, resented, suspected.  My gift will never be worth anything in Ealdor.

            Is it worth one bag of grain? his mother had whispered.

            Many men are worth far less, he’d answered.

            “Right, then, Merlin, your turn,” Arthur said, kicking out his bare foot so that it connected with the side of Merlin’s face.

            “Get off, that’s disgusting!” Merlin protested, flailing a bit to push him away even as he retreated from the contact.

            “Where is Ealdor, anyway?” Lancelot asked from his cot in the corner.

            “On the border of Cenred’s kingdom,” Merlin said.  “It’s a small village.  Farms, mostly, a few cows.  A hay cart.”

            “So you wanted to travel, see the big city?” Arthur said.  “Take the throne?”

            “Oh, no, I won’t be the heir,” Merlin said.  The candle flickered; it had burned very low.  “I can’t keep my room clean or my chores in order, there’s no way I’m capable of running a kingdom.  I have one friend at home.  A crown prince should be loved by all.”

            “Then why are you here?” Arthur’s voice was puzzled.

            “I came for the grain.  Half my weight – that’s a lot for a village the size of Ealdor.”

            Each warrior was upright in his bed.  “They sent you as a sacrifice?” Lancelot said, shocked.

            “No, of course not,” Merlin defended his hometown.  “I volunteered.”

            Silence.  Several minutes passed.  Lancelot eased back down, thoughtful. 

         Arthur said, “When I said that there was something about you, Merlin… I’ve figured what it is.”

            “And what is it?” Merlin said.

            “You’re an idiot.”  The word was belied by the grudging respect in Arthur’s tone.

            Merlin laughed, and the candle guttered out.

Chapter Text

         Merlin woke up feeling sick to his stomach.  He sat on the edge of his bed, his eyes on the chamber pot tucked underneath of the next bed, breathing to calm himself down.  If vomiting could alleviate the feeling, he’d cheerfully retch his guts out in front of the other two young men, but it wasn’t due to something he’d eaten at the feast.

         Everyone dies, he told himself.  Usually it’s just more – unexpected.  Sudden.  He swallowed dryly.  His death today was likely to be very sudden indeed.  Was it too much to hope it might also be relatively painless?  And quick?

         It seemed to him that the two warriors who shared the room might be considering the same sort of question.  Arthur and Lancelot rose and dressed and armed themselves with a grim sort of silence that made Merlin both want to say something to break it, and doubt entirely that he had anything worthwhile to say.

         As he was buckling the straps of the dark leather vest over his blue cotton shirt, cinching back to front so tightly there were no gaps in either side, the armor protecting him from neck to navel, a small piece of metal dropped from a sort of hidden slit-pocket in the side, ringing on the stone floor.   Arthur bent to retrieve the object, and straightened holding a throwing star between thumb and forefinger, the sharp jagged arms spiraling out from the center glinting in the dawn light coming in at the window.

         “Merlin,” Arthur said.  “I’m surprised you have such a thing.”  He sounded a little disappointed.  

         Lancelot glanced over and his eyebrows went up.

         “I am too,” Merlin said, twisting to try to see the pocket where the star had been hidden.  “Wonder whose that is?  Do you suppose I should try to find the owner to return it?”  Or maybe the leather armor was for general use, and the throwing star part of the armory inventory.  

         He bent to pick up the pack he’d carried into Camelot, though he probably wouldn’t need it anymore.  They weren’t allowed such things in the arena, only weaponry and armor, and he couldn’t claim it was either.  Maybe he could find someone to give it to who needed it.

         “Idiot,” Arthur said.

         “What?”

         Arthur took hold of his shoulder and turned him, slipping the throwing star back into its hidden pocket.  “Take it with you,” he said.  “You may need it.”

         “I don’t know how to use something like that,” Merlin objected.  “Why don’t you take it?  Or Lancelot?”

         Lancelot said, “You keep it, Merlin.  For luck.”

         They were all ready at once, then.  Arthur said, “Good luck to you fellows.  Really, I mean it.”

         “It has been a privilege for me,” Lancelot said, more slowly, “meeting the two of you.”

         They shuffled their boots a moment self-consciously, before Merlin offered, “May the best man win.”

         At that, both warriors met each others eyes, and simultaneously reached to clasp hands.  

         “If not I, then you,” Lancelot said.

         Arthur tried to pull back on his half-smile, and didn’t quite succeed.  “If not I, then you.”

         Merlin decided then and there that either one of these young warriors would make an excellent king, and he would do his damndest to see that one or the other finished the victor.
 

         The combatants assembled in the courtyard where they’d given their names to Sir Leon the previous day, to discover that the frightened, plain-looking sorceress had fled in the night.  The grinning brown-haired warrior was also absent, having expired while he slept.  The court physician was even now tending to the body.  Merlin shivered, wondering who that man’s chamber-mates had been.  He avoided meeting the eyes of the other combatants.

         “The offer of grain for your family is contingent upon your entry into the arena,” Sir Leon reminded the crowd of combatants.  He eyed them, then said, “Come.”

         Red-cloaked knights fell into place around them as they set off down the street through the lower town, everyone in the world, it seemed to Merlin, turning out to gawk at them.  He made sure to walk very close behind the biggest warrior, a man in full body armor draped with a green and yellow knee-length tunic, his brown hair and beard the same length, a device of three snakes upon his shield.  Fewer people would notice him behind this warrior.

         The path through the city gate that led to the enormous circular amphitheatre upon the plain was lined with people.  Merlin kept his eyes on the toes of his boots, already beginning to sweat beneath the stiff leather hauberk.  Probably everyone in the five kingdoms who could possibly manage to come was here.  There were shouts of luck wished, names of favorite champions called.  No one said the name “Merlin.”

         Sir Leon led them in through a small side entrance, down a long narrow corridor.  Merlin imagined the tiered amphitheatre seating that probably rose high above their heads, and trod on the heel of one of the older warriors, who cast a vicious glare over his shoulder.

         “Sorry,” Merlin whispered.

         In the lead, Leon turned and stopped at a hall-crossing, waiting til they were all halted and he held their attention.  “The arena has been –“ he cleared his throat, “decorated, with obstacles designed to aid or shelter you.  You will be placed at intervals, and at the sound of the horn will exit your gateway.  The victor, as you know, is the last one left alive, but please bear in mind that your future citizens will be watching your every move.”

         Beside Merlin, the last warrior whose name he did not recall, began to retreat, bumping into blue-turbaned Nimueh and chainmail-clad Mordred before backing through the guards.  He stared for a minute back into their faces, then threw down his shield, turned and strode away.  Mary, the plump motherly sorceress, snorted, and Sophia of the honey hair and red eyes giggled.

         “Our odds just improved,” said one of the warriors, dressed in black, with a high helm showing only tiny slits where his eyes would be.  

         Merlin cast a glance around and decided it was Tristan, then mentally kicked himself.  Why would he want to remember their names?

         Sir Leon was not amused.  “Now is the last chance you will be given to withdraw.”

         No one moved.  

         Leon drew out his list and began to read names, assigning each combatant to the knight who would take them to their position and subsequently ensure that they entered the arena at the appointed time.  Lancelot and Arthur were taken to the right, along with Tristan, Mary, and Val.  Sophia, carrying a walking staff of white wood, a crystal entangled in delicate carvery at the upright end, led the others to the left. 

         Merlin saw Arthur turn at the first arena-ward hallway to the right, while the others continued down the curving corridor, out of sight.  He didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that the golden-haired warrior would be so close to him when the horn sounded.

         The penultimate name was recited, and Merlin found himself standing alone with Sir Leon.  

         “You’re with me,” Leon said, unnecessarily but kindly, and turned to continue down the original corridor toward the center of the amphitheatre.

         “Are sorcerers allowed to carry weapons?” Merlin said, touching the pocket where the star rested.  The sound of their boots echoed against the stone walls.

         Sir Leon glanced at him.  “Of course,” he said.  He hesitated, then, with the air of one explaining a rule rather than giving advice, he added, “As a warrior is also allowed to perform magic.”

         Ah.  That complicated things.  Merlin wondered which of the warriors might be capable of sorcery.  Not Lancelot or Arthur, he was pretty sure they would have mentioned it, even though it would be giving away an advantage to reveal such a talent.

         “Do you have anyone you hope will win?” Merlin asked Sir Leon, remembering to add, “m’lord?”

         Sir Leon cast him a look half incredulous, half confused.  “I am sure many members of the court picked favorites at the banquet yestereve,” he said.

         “But you did not, m’lord?”  Merlin said.  He thought he might be talking from sheer nervousness, but it didn’t truly matter.  He would die here today, in a matter of minutes or hours, maybe, and would never see or speak to another citizen of Camelot again.  And Merlin was nothing if not curious.

         “There are several combatants who would make a fine heir for Uther,” Sir Leon allowed.  “I, of course, will be expected to swear fealty to the winner in spite of personal prejudices.  So I try not to form any.”

         “I see,” Merlin said.  They reached the end of the corridor, where a sand-strewn ramp led upward to the sunlight.  

         That was wise of Sir Leon, he thought.  That way, he would not be disappointed if someone he hoped would win were killed, or resentful if the victor was someone he hadn’t approved of personally.  

         “Yes, I can see where that might prove awkward.”  He shrugged out of his pack.  “Sir Leon, do you mind,” he said, shy of asking a knight of the realm to do a favor for a common farmer’s lad, “if you know of anyone who has a need for such a thing,” he held out the pack and Leon took it uncertainly, “please give this to them – or, anyone who can use it, really.”

         “Don’t you mean, please hold this until I return?”  The red-cloaked knight’s words were gently ironic, and Merlin smiled.

         “Oh, no, I won’t be needing it anymore.  I won’t be coming back to reclaim it.  Although,” he hesitated, wondering how far the knight might be willing to extend the favor, “I don’t suppose, perhaps it could be sent back home, along with the grain?  I’m sure someone there will need it for something.”  At the very least, he thought, his mother would be glad to have it back.  Probably. When she stopped weeping.  

         He swallowed hard.

         Leon, still staring, took a better hold of the pack, and nodded.  Merlin squared his shoulders and drew in a deep breath.  They listened to the crowd audible from their unseen seats in the amphitheatre, excited and anticipating the spectacle.  Merlin’s heart was thundering.

         “I also want to say thank you, Sir Leon,” he said, aware that he might be saying his last words.  “You’ve treated us with grace and respect, and I, for one, appreciate that.  I hope you are happy in the heir you must serve.”  

         He stepped forward til the toes of his boots were on the edge of the ramp, gazing up at the square of blue visible, wanting his eyes to adjust to as much brightness as possible before he ran up into the sunlight to meet his destiny.

         “Merlin of Ealdor,” Sir Leon said behind him, and Merlin shifted to let the knight know he’d heard, without looking back.  “Good luck to you.”

         The horn sounded, and Merlin started up the ramp.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Valiant

          Merlin had a split second to wonder what it was, exactly, that he planned to do when he reached the arena at the top of the ramp, when his boot slipped on the sand and he went down, banging his right elbow hard enough to force a grunt from his lungs.

          The ramp began moving under him, rising in place to join the arena floor and block his gateway as a potential means of retreat.

          He made no attempt to gain his feet while he was riding the ramp, enthralled instead with his first view of the arena.

          The size was immense.  Ealdor and all its fields as well as a decent-sized chunk of forest might have fit inside it, and he had only a vague impression of the mass and populace in the levels of the stands.  Half a dozen monolithic statues dotted the sandy plain, with a couple dozen more that were double life-size, people and creatures on pedestals in stone.

          A flash of light shot past him, close enough to ruffle his hair with the breeze.  He turned his head to the left, his neck feeling stiff and creaky.  Spells shot visibly across the arena, forming a web of color that vanished and reformed as quick as thought.  There was Sophia, the honey-haired giggler, crouched in her wispy yellow dress and shrieking like a banshee, shooting thick blue lines of power from the end of her staff.

          Incongruously amid the chaotic spellwork - mage-light glinting off armor and blades - Mordred the youngest and Kanen the short and wiry of the older two warriors fought grimly together, trading blows hard and fast.  Mordred reeled back, stumbling, flinging one hand out to gesture – a slender shape rose from the ground nearby and flew at Kanen hard enough to knock the shield off his arm.

          Merlin turned his head to the right, his head beginning to pound from the scores of spells and curses being flung haphazardly around the arena.  Arthur? Lancelot? – there!

          About sixty yards away, straight across from Merlin, he glimpsed Lancelot’s orange tunic, and blinked twice before realizing that his friend was, indeed, fighting a statue.  A horse or unicorn, some four-legged equine creature, brought to life by a spell, no doubt, to keep the warriors occupied, or to defend a sorcerer’s back.  Lancelot’s sword struck the stone twice, with no effect.

          No one would hear him, no one would notice – no one paid him any attention, not reckoning him a threat.  Merlin took a deep, sandy breath, and spoke. 

         “Bregdan anweald gafeluec...”  He projected the spell to cross the distance between them.  A brief blue fire lit Lancelot’s weapon, and his next blow carved a giant chunk of rock from the statue. 

         At least now he could hold his own.

          Merlin searched for and found Arthur, dressed in Camelot red, carrying a rampant dragon as his shield-symbol, battling the taller green-and-yellow Val.  Merlin squinted against the glare of sun on sand, and the yellow glare resolved into a glow around the knight's shield. 

         Enchanted, Merlin was sure of it.  For what purpose?  For defense?

          He struggled to his knees as a blow from Val’s shield knocked Arthur onto his back – and immediately had to duck two curses shot in his direction.  He rolled, coming to his feet, and sprinted away from the circle toward the edge of the arena, taking cover behind the square base of one of the towering statues.

          His pulse thundered through his body, making his hands shake and his throat constrict.  He crept along the side of the stone, risking a quick glance around the corner. 

         Val had Arthur pinned against the statue’s base, crushing him with his shield.  His posture, his expression – whatever enchantment his shield held, it was meant for offense.  What could Merlin do?  Wait until the trap was sprung, then somehow hope to counter the threat in time?

          Arthur shoved Val so the other knight staggered back a few steps.

          Merlin made his choice. 

         “Berbey odothey arisan quickan!” he hissed, triggering the enchanted trap early, and the snakes on the shield came to life.

          Despite Val’s obvious consternation at the early release of his creatures, he immediately urged them to attack, to give himself a breather, and Arthur was forced to retreat. 

         With the attention of both warriors on the serpents, Merlin steeled himself to approach Val from behind.

          Sword in hand, helm in place over the hood of his chainmail tunic, Arthur darted up the ramp, and immediately crouched to a defensive kneeling position behind his shield.  He’d been inside the arena twice before, and ignored the addition of the decorations Sir Leon had mentioned in order to assess the threats present.

          The magic-users were focusing on each other at present, because of course they would see each other as the greatest threat.  Arthur noted with a distant but rare regret that the skinny sorcerer with shaggy black hair, the honest idiot Merlin, to Arthur’s immediate left, was already down.  Hadn’t even made it off the ramp.

          Arthur turned his head.  The next combatant on his right was the tall warrior in green and yellow - Val.  He would come after Arthur, and fast-

          With no call of warning, the other knight slashed at Arthur’s shins in a rush.  Arthur parried handily, settling into a defensive rhythm, calm now that battle was drawn.  He rested his sword atop his shield to wait on his opponent's move, and saw Val’s eyes narrow through the eyeslits of his helm.

          “Aaaagh!” Val roared, charging to another attack. 

         Arthur interrupted his impetus with an over-handed strike, which slid off the green-and-yellow three-snake sigil, and took the offensive with his own slash toward Val’s shins, smoothly following through with a falling stroke.  Shifting Val’s attack away with his shield, he leveled his sword to catch another downward swing inches from his eyes. 

         Val pushed him back, shield to shield, and they disengaged to circle each other warily, each having caught a little of the measure of the other. 

         He’s strong, Arthur thought, swinging his sword in a circle at his side, then resting it atop his shield once again in readiness, but overconfident.  Because he’s sure of his strength and skill, or because–

         He parried again, crossing blades in midair between their faces, and Val shoved Arthur off-balance with his shield again.  The other warrior tried to press his advantage, slashing from the right, from the left; Arthur’s shield met and deflected the blows – clang! and clang! again.  Their blades clashed again, and as Val allowed his to slide off, Arthur spun in a full circle to bring the full force of a backhand blow to bear on his opponent, but the three-snake shield was up in time.

          “Go on!”  A single shout disconnected from the roar of noise above them in the stands.

          Each attempted a falling overhead blow, but each blade rebounded from the other’s shield - this isn’t working!  Arthur saw an opening, and drove the toe of his boot into the other’s mail-covered stomach, managing to land a glancing blow to Val’s head that knocked his helmet right off.  The helm went bouncing, rolling across the sand.  Arthur's breath burned in his lungs, and his hair dripped sweat inside his own helmet as he spun his sword at his side, crouched in readiness rather than pressing advantage. 

          The other knight, his face now bare, grimaced dreadfully as he rushed him, knocking Arthur’s sword aside with his shield as he leaned into repeated hacking blows - Arthur blocked and blocked and blocked.

          Then Val tread heavily on Arthur’s left foot, slamming his shield upward into Arthur’s face, and he felt himself reel backward, falling too swiftly to catch himself.  A diabolically eager expression crossed the green-and-yellow warrior’s face as he planted his foot on Arthur’s shield, trapping his left arm. 

         Arthur swung at him to force Val’s attention to his sword, but the blow was deflected off the shield.  Val jabbed down with his own blade, and Arthur abandoned the shield to roll away, coming to his feet.

          The crowd gasped, but whether it was for their fight or for something else, he didn’t know.  He panted, trying to regain his breath, dancing in a backward circle around his opponent.  He blocked an overhand blow from the right, blocked a low slash at his legs from the left – and knew his mistake the minute his blade darted to meet the other.  He tried to pull back, but Val stomped on the point of the blade and the hilt snapped from Arthur’s hand.

          He leaped back to avoid what his father would have called a wild I’ve-won swing, then lunged forward to grapple with the other warrior more closely, one arm gripping Val’s shield, the other grasping the hilt of the remaining sword between them.  Val pushed him again, and he realized his second mistake – he’d been maneuvered too close to one of the monoliths, and his back slammed into the statue’s base.

          Reacting, he shoved Val back, and a yellow glow bloomed from the other warrior.  The blood ran cold in Arthur’s veins as two of the snakes from the shield moved, their heads swaying into being.  Oh, damn.  Sorcery.

         “No, I did not call you!” Val exclaimed.  He met Arthur’s horrified gaze briefly, then threw back his head and laughed. 

         The snakes separated from the shield, their sinuous bodies thick as Arthur’s wrist following until they dropped to the sand. 

          “Strike him!” Val hissed.  “Kill him!”

          He recognized Val’s desperation, resorting to trickery to win out against him, and didn’t know whether to be flattered or frightened.  He backed away, slipping his sleeve-knife out.  The snakes struck, left-right, and he retreated, waiting, watching his timing – at least the presence of the snakes prevented Val from rushing him again – until the two snakes struck simultaneously.  Arthur slashed, cutting off two heads with the knife at once.

          His retreat had taken him past a mace abandoned on the ground – a mace? that’s little use against a sword, much too heavy and slow!  Even as the fanged heads flew and the thick green bodies recoiled and splashed blood on the sand, Arthur scooped up the mace in his left hand and hurled it with all his strength at Val, to throw off his charge, his balance. 

          Val swerved violently and the mace tumbled end over end past his shoulder, only to collide with someone else Arthur didn’t see until too late, another combatant who’d come up behind Val, a bareheaded boy with a dark vest and blue sleeves.

          The mace glanced off Merlin’s shoulder, the impact sending him skidding to the ground, teeth bared in a grimace of pain.

          Ah, hells!  Arthur leaped forward, spotting the momentary opening to his left.  As Val swung again he ducked, then drove his dagger into Val’s unprotected armpit.  Val reeled, the sword dropping, and landed atop Arthur, the edge of his shield pushing Arthur’s helmet up so he couldn’t see.

          His breath hissed through his teeth.  He yanked the knife back, stabbed unseeing at the body pinning him to the sand, again and again until the yellow and green warrior was motionless.

          His panting and his heartbeat thundered through the close blinding metal of his dislodged helmet. 

         Merlin - either deeply duplicitous or vulnerably naïve.  His momentary surge of relief that Merlin had somehow survived the first minute was swallowed up by the guilty despair that it had been his weapon, after all, to cause Merlin to fall.

Chapter Text

          Merlin kept his eyes on Arthur, struggling under the green-and-yellow-clad warrior, until both of them were still.

          “Arthur,” he choked out.  Breathing sand into his nose, he sneezed, sending pain stabbing from his right shoulder down his arm, up his neck, through his body.  He sneezed again, coughed until his eyes watered, then raised his head and forced out, “Arthur!”

          Val moved, rolling off the warrior pinned beneath him, and for a moment Merlin’s heart froze in his chest.  Then Val’s body twisted and flopped over, and Merlin could see Arthur more clearly, panting for breath.

          Merlin made it to his knees, glancing around them for any other imminent threats, hoping the other combatants were suitably preoccupied.  He concentrated momentarily, whispered a few words, and a shield sprang up between him and Arthur and the rest of the field.  It was inverted, invisible, and so would not draw the attention of the other magic-wielders unless they were searching for it, but would deflect any stray curses or spells, as well as all but the keenest of glances.  What it would not do, however, was stop anything more physical, like projectile weapons, or the other combatants themselves.

          Merlin hugged his right arm to his body to keep it from moving about, and repeated urgently, “Arthur!”

          The golden-haired warrior scrambled to his feet, casting about him for his sword, the bloody knife still in his hand.  He bent to seize Val’s sword, the closest weapon to him, then paused still kneeling, sword prone on the arena floor.  He looked up at Merlin, who couldn’t see his eyes through the slits of the helmet.  Then he reached up and knocked the visor back, revealing his familiar reluctant half-smile. 

          “Merlin,” he said.  “I thought you were dead – twice!”

          “Well, not yet,” Merlin said.  “Are you hurt?”

          “No, but you are.”  Arthur straightened, carrying Val’s sword as he approached Merlin, his eyes scanning the rest of the arena.  He'd taken two steps before he inexplicably quickened to a full run, raising the sword as his face twisted into a battle-grimace and he bellowed, “Down!”

         Merlin dropped, tucking his injured arm between his chest and knees, making himself as small as possible.

         Steel-on-steel rang above him.  He glanced under his elbow – a second pair of greaves danced and shuffled behind him, close enough to touch.  He shouted, shoving his hand and his magic toward those greaves, and the warrior stumbled back.  In the same instant, Merlin threw himself to the side, rolling out of Arthur’s way, coming up against the base of the statue where Val had pinned Arthur only moments before.

         It was the warrior in black, one of the older two – Tristan, Merlin thought.  The one who’d appreciated the improvement of his odds at the last warrior’s forfeit.  He fought without a shield, wielding a sword nearly a foot longer than Arthur’s, heavier and wider.  He used a double-handed grip which gave him the advantage of strength and reach, but even a farm boy like Merlin could see how such a fighting style might potentially leave him open to attack.

         Arthur caught the first strike on his shield, then the blows fell thick and fast, falling from above - left, right, left – forcing Arthur to give ground, forcing him to stay on the defensive, to use his shield alone.  Another falling blow, then left, right, downward strike – and Arthur went down on one knee.

         Rallying, he pushed Tristan back, but as he rose, Tristan’s hilt connected with Arthur’s helmet, sending him staggering.

         “Come on, Arthur!” Merlin shouted.  He readied himself to cast a spell, the only one he knew which might help a warrior in a swordfight – one that was usually used by blacksmiths, to perfect the aim of the falling tool, to lend unending strength to the arms and body until the task was complete, but paused.

         Would that be unfair to Arthur?  Would he not prefer to win the fight himself?  Would he tell Merlin to stay out of it, if he could?  Interfering in a duel seemed risky at best; casting a spell in such a fluid situation could have many unforeseen consequences, could potentially work against its user or intended recipient.

         Arthur sidestepped a swipe to his shins, then caught two more blows on his shield - left, then right.  Tristan’s tactic was clearly to overwhelm his opponent with brute strength, wear them down.  The two warriors disengaged, Tristan spinning to the left while Arthur whirled to his right, managing to deliver a underhand blow, a low slash.  Tristan caught the strike on his sword and slung the connected weapons around counter-clockwise - then kicked Arthur in the chest, knocking him down. 

         Merlin rose to one knee, but as Arthur rolled away from a killing blow, he privately determined he would prevent such a blow, freeze the weapon in midair, slow time and throw himself in the way, if he had to. He would protect Arthur from any other treachery, any other sorcery – but the battle was Arthur’s to win, not to have handed to him.

         “One well-aimed blow!” Merlin shrieked at Arthur, who went down on one knee, blocking blow after blow with his shield.  How that must hurt his left arm!

         By now Merlin had lost count of how many of those full-strength, double-handed hits had landed, but Arthur suddenly lunged up, and Merlin was sure his strike had met its target. 

         “Yes!” Merlin exulted.

         But Tristan was unfazed.  He attacked again, forcing Arthur down to his knee, then kicked his helmet right off his head.  The crowd in the stands groaned collectively and Merlin quit breathing - til Arthur leaped up, executing his own falling blow from above, which was caught on Tristan’s sword, then blocked a sweeping head-lop blow from the right.  Arthur hit Tristan in the helmet with his shield, knocking him back.

         What stamina he has, Merlin marveled, what courage and strength!

         Tristan blocked Arthur’s strike and regained his feet, and Arthur leaped back from a slash at his chest.  Their swords met overhead, down low, crossing in a t-shaped form.  Tristan elbowed Arthur away, and caught his sword again.

         And Merlin realized with a sinking heart, that a one-handed blow simply could not match the two-handed grip Tristan used.

         Arthur trapped Tristan’s long, heavy sword between his own and his shield momentarily, but was thrown off and had to dodge another swipe at his chest.  They crouched and circled.  Arthur leaped back from another blow, caught a second on his shield, then jammed his blade right into Tristan’s chest – the warrior in black shuddered and staggered back.

         Merlin was on his feet.  Yes! Surely now the fight is Arthur’s! 

         Arthur spun his sword in a circle next to his side, still wary until victory was sure - and Tristan attacked again.  Those two-handed blows - left, right, over and over - as though his strength was untapped, his body unbroken.

         “The sword went in, I’m sure of it!” Merlin whispered fiercely to himself.  He concentrated, focused his vision, and realized that Tristan’s armor was imbued with a charm of magic, shielding him from harm.  Merlin clenched his teeth – why didn’t I think of that?  Is Arthur the only warrior who does not have a single benefit of sorcery also?

         Arthur used his shield, then his sword, to block the blows, but staggered back as Tristan aimed two more slashes to his shins.  He jumped back again from a cut to the chest, parried, then ducked another blow as his own sword was knocked away.  In a flurry of offense, he landed a strike on Tristan’s helm, kicked him back, drove at him, knocking Tristan’s sword aside. 

         This is the last of his strength, Merlin worried, and he can’t touch Tristan!

         Tristan swung to the left, to the right - Arthur ducked and spun as Tristan off-balanced, then as the two swords clashed once again, Arthur slammed his rampant-dragon shield into Tristan’s chest.  He spun to bring a full-strength swing to bear, hitting Tristan so hard the shield knocked the black warrior’s helm off completely.

         The crowd beyond them groaned, in disappointment or sympathy, Merlin didn’t know.  And didn’t care.

         “AAAGH!” Tristan roared, aiming two blows at Arthur’s head, sending him once again to his knees.  He knocked the sword from Arthur’s hand and beat on the dragon shield as though he was chopping wood. 

         Merlin flinched, readied his magic to aid Arthur – and Tristan’s sword stuck in the edge of Arthur’s sword.  He jerked, trying to free his weapon.

         Arthur released the shield, kicking Tristan back for the moment. Unarmed and undefended, he scrambled for his weapon, several yards away on the sandy arena floor. 

         Tristan yanked his sword free from Arthur’s shield and came at Arthur’s back, raising his blade over his head – and Merlin raised his hand – and Tristan’s body jerked, his mouth opening in a grimace of pain and horror.

         Arthur and Merlin both stared at the eight inches of blade protruding from Tristan’s chest, but only Merlin saw the faint familiar blue gleam on the metal.  Tristan fell to his knees, revealing the only warrior in an orange tunic, braced behind him for the killing blow. 

         Lancelot slid his sword free as Tristan’s body tumbled to the sand.

         Arthur gave him a weary salute, and Lancelot nodded, both deciding in the same instant to turn away from each other to seek other opponents.  Lancelot sprinted to the next towering statue, crouched to check around the corner of the base, then disappeared from view.  Arthur struggled to his feet and turned to come back to Merlin

         But froze unnaturally mid-step, eyes widening in shock.

         Merlin startled, sure that somehow a curse or spell had managed to penetrate his shield, but he caught a flutter of blue out of the corner of his eye before motherly Mary in her sensible blue dress stepped into view. 

         She flicked her fingers, and Merlin’s body was slammed into the stone behind him, so hard he thought the stone would melt through his clothing and into the pores of his skin.  Was it his imagination that he could feel blood trickling down his shoulder, now, the pain whiting the edges of his vision.

         “It was a very nice shield, young man,” she said, a favorite aunt giving a compliment to a doting nephew.  “More than I expected from you, actually.  I just had to come over here to see for myself what you were protecting, or if you were just hiding.”  There was an odd quality to her voice, a singsong sway to it, her words in rhythm with her gait as she paced toward Arthur, himself a frozen statue.  She began to hum.

         Merlin shook his head to clear it, raised his left hand to cover one ear.  It wasn’t a painfully high pitch, but rather a low vibrating hum, that set his blood and bones to thrumming unpleasantly out of synchronization with his heartbeat and breathing.  His shoulder throbbed erratically. 

         With precision and almost with apology, Mary drew a dagger from her belt.  She was six steps away from Arthur.  Five.  She cleared her skirt to step over the body of the warrior in black.

         Merlin tried to lift his hand, to push her away as he’d done to Tristan, to knock her flying across the arena if he could – and found his magic could not touch her.  She threw a mocking glance over her shoulder, and interrupted her disturbing hum to make a “tsk”ing sound at him between her teeth.

         Foolish boy.  Not against me.

         He shifted his gaze and concentrated, and Arthur flew through the air, pulled back toward Merlin, dragged across the sand.  His body remained motionless, though the horror in his green-blue eyes showed that he was still acutely aware of what was happening.

         Mary was unprepared for the sudden departure of her victim, but hissed and hurled the knife vindictively at Arthur’s prostrate body. 

         Merlin froze it with a thought, inches from Arthur’s face, and reversed the spell Mary had used to aim it, sending it flying back along its path toward her.  Knowing she would merely freeze the blade in place as he had done, Merlin forced his hand to his side, to the hidden pocket and the throwing star.  He cut his thumb on the sharp edge as he drew it clumsily out – so slow!  Faster, or you die! Arthur dies! – and flung it at the sorceress, sending it instinctively toward the most vulnerable place of her life force.

         Mary gasped, then choked, as the star struck and stuck at the base of her throat.  She clawed at the bit of metal, mixing blood from her fingers with the blood that poured from her torn neck.  Her eyes were on Merlin, wide with shock and impending death.  She choked again, trying to speak, and collapsed to her knees, her momentum carrying her forward til she lay motionless on the sand.

         He tried to swallow, and it hurt.

         I've just killed somebody.  I've just...  This, was not something he'd expected to happen when he volunteered.  To die, yes.  To kill... no.

         As the sorceress stilled, Arthur’s limbs were freed and he moved, sitting up and scrambling back crab-fashion to stop at Merlin’s side in the cover of the enormous statue. 

         “It’s a helluva contest,” he gasped, dropping his weapons in the sand by his side, and reaching up to drag the cowl of his mail shirt down.  A quick glance told him that though the rest of the arena saw action, their little corner was quiet.  For the moment.

         Merlin made a little choked noise in the back of his throat, and Arthur focused on him.  He was white as a sheet, eyes fixed on the body of the sorceress, mere paces from both of the knights that Arthur had defeated. 

         Was it different for a sorcerer to kill in self-defense?  But probably a farm-raised boy like Merlin had never been trained for battle - to kill or be killed, in a single moment, and to accept either outcome without the distraction of second-guessing instinctive action.

         “We’re still alive,” Arthur told him.  "That's good enough for now.  Are you hurt badly?”  He drew in his legs to kneel over Merlin, simultaneously blocking his view of the corpses on the sand, and pulled back the shoulder of the hardened leather hauberk the sorcerer wore to inspect the wound.  The blue cloth of Merlin’s shirt was torn and bloody, the set of puncture marks on the leather tiny, no larger than a needle might make, sewing leather for a saddle.  He found the bottom of Merlin’s shirt, used his dagger to make a cut, then ripped off several inches of the blue material.

         “Oi,” Merlin roused to protest, “did you have to do that?”

         “If you’re very fond of this shirt, you can mend it later,” Arthur said, purposefully ignoring the rule of one living victor in the arena.  He made another tear lengthwise, then folded the remainder into padding for a bandage.  Lifting Merlin’s hand to rest upon his own shoulder, he placed the bandage over the worst of the mace wound and wound the loose ends under the arm, tying it firmly in place.  He noticed Merlin’s wince and grunt, but pretended not to.

         “Thank you,” Merlin said, a little breathlessly.

         Arthur checked to make sure they were still unnoticed by any other combatants, settling back onto his heels.  “There’ll be bruising, too,” he told the sorcerer.  The mace was a heavy weapon, and Arthur was sorry about that.  “But that’ll help with the bleeding.  First battle wound, huh?”

         Merlin managed a smile.  “Not many battles take place in a farming village.”

         “Do you know what they’re shouting right now?”  Arthur jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the stands of spectators, guarded by bowmen placed every ten yards, to ensure their safety from the combatants.  Any hint that flying magic or weapons might endanger the crowd, and the careless combatant would be shot down.

         Merlin’s eyes focused over his shoulder.  “No, I don’t,” he confessed.  “I haven’t really been paying them any attention.”

         “Ever since that sorceress hit the sand,” Arthur remarked, watching the other boy's blue eyes dart over his shoulder, “they’ve been screaming for me to kill you.”

         Merlin’s eyes widened, and he looked back up at the stands as if he felt personally betrayed by those calling for his blood.  Dazedly he said, “Are you going to?”

         Arthur cuffed the back of his head gently, just to get his attention, maybe knock some sense into him.  “Just bandaged your wound, idiot,” he reminded him.  “It’d be a thankless way of repaying you for saving my life.”

         “Yes, I guess it would.”  A smaller version of his wide smile, but genuine enough to reassure Arthur that the younger man was regaining some emotional equilibrium. 

         “You know,” Arthur continued conversationally, testing - “there are a few encouraging you to kill me.”

         “What?” Merlin scowled at the stands for a brief instant as if trying to identify those few.

          Abruptly his expression changed to one of horror-fear-anger and he spun around, rising to one knee as his arms spread to the sides, very much as though he meant to form a human shield.

         Hoof-beats.  Thundering down on them – there were no horses in the arena.  Three thousand kinds of craziness, with sorcerers battling each other, but–

         A statue galloped into view, beyond the sheltering edge of their chosen monument, twice the size of any horse Arthur had ever seen, with the head of a roaring lion, the horn of a unicorn, and a snake’s head hissing and whipping back and forth on the end of its stone tail.  Perched atop the stone back was a young sorceress with a blue turban and a smirk on her red lips.

         She looked right at them and spoke. 

         Arthur heard no words, but his body jerked backward as it had when Merlin’s magic had yanked him away from the older sorceress’ knife.

         He felt himself falling, and the brightness of the sandy arena went dark.

Chapter Text

          Merlin sensed her coming – the one magic-user who really unnerved him - coming at twice-running speed, somehow.  He turned from Arthur, spreading his arms to form with his body the shield against sorcery that otherwise Arthur did not possess.

          Her blue eyes sparkled mischievously at him, her red lips quirked, and she spoke the death-charm so casually he almost didn’t interpret her intention in time.  He threw his magic around them, a stronger version of the shield-spell he’d used before, a desperate last effort.

          But her curse had not been intended for him.

          It was devious, and it almost worked.  He could counter a death-charm aimed at his own life-force, but Nimueh had spoken to kill Arthur.  The most he could do was deflect such a thing, hinder it, alter it.

          The sorceress galloped away on her grotesque statue-steed, and Merlin let his arms drop heavily to his sides, his injured shoulder pulling painfully.  He was almost afraid to look.

          “Arthur?” he ventured.  Hearing nothing, he turned.

          The golden-haired warrior was crumpled on his side on the sand of the arena floor.  But clearly still breathing – the red tunic that covered his chainmail armor rose and fell. 

         Merlin bent and jostled his shoulder.  “Arthur!” he said more insistently.  No response.  He tried, “Now is not the time to sleep!”

          What if he never woke?

          A shivering sort of wave flowed over them from the direction of the middle of the arena.  The sand danced and bounced around them as the ground shuddered.  The stone of the monolithic statue next to them grated and groaned.  Dust filtered finely down, into Merlin’s eyes – he squinted up into the sun, almost directly overhead.  Pebbles pattered down – the statue was swaying.

          Merlin pulled Arthur’s body into a sitting position, kneeling to grip him firmly under one arm, and maneuver his good shoulder as close to Arthur’s center of gravity as he could guess.   Then he strained to a standing position with double his weight, and staggered a dozen yards closer to the arena wall before collapsing, Arthur half on top of him.

          The statue’s arm snapped – if stone as thick as Merlin was tall could be said to snap – and crashed down, rolling toward the center of the amphitheatre.  He concentrated, throwing out his hands as a guide for what he wanted his magic to do, as the crowd behind him shrieked hoarse, excited.

          The statue was coming down.  He had no reason to attempt to balance it, hold it in place, but it would be an excellent barrier – refuge – shelter – if he could nudge it, place it – oh! it was heavy! and coming down fast!

          The earth shrugged beneath his feet, as the statue landed, cracked, crumpled, chunks rolling, bouncing – he was knocked back across the slumbering Arthur, who grunted as Merlin rolled off him.  They choked on dust and sand for a handful of moments, and the air hazy when Merlin finally cleared his streaming eyes.  He was probably lucky the archers stationed to protect the audience from the combatants hadn’t shot him on suspicion of what he might have been trying to do, he supposed.

          He could still sense the fighting, some of it, but it was more remote, isolated.  The combatants, he guessed, were doing as he and Arthur had, retreating from the mob in the center of the arena.  Seek cover, catch a few moments’ rest, plot a strategy.

          Merlin’s strategy was simple.  Survive in order to protect Arthur.  He looked down at the warrior, whose eyes were open, though unfocused, and his body was still.

          “Arthur, can you hear me?” he said.  “Can you move?”

          Again, no response.  He turned to study the fallen stone giant, his good hand on his hip.  There, just behind the knees, an enormous stone sword formed of milky white quartz, once unsheathed and held point-down at the statue’s side, had cracked and slid backward.  Shards were scattered around in a small semi-circle, ranging from fist-size to head-size.  The diminished main piece formed a shallow cave-like shelter, where Arthur would be safe until he recovered.  And Merlin could decide whether to hide there with him, or venture away to distract the attention of any combatants who came looking for them.

          Wiping sweat from his face on the blue sleeve of his shirt, he hoisted Arthur up once again, half-dragging and half-supporting him to the sheltering stone sword behind the statue’s knees.  He watched warily for any sign that another contestant for the throne had discovered them, or approached from another direction, but reached his destination without incident.

          “M'rlin,” Arthur grunted as he laid him down, but was unable to control his limbs, sagging limply to the sand.

          “You’re lucky, you know,” Merlin panted.  It wasn’t easy to arrange someone else’s body for comfort when they were largely unresponsive.  “You get to rest here in the shade.  I’ll take first watch, shall I?”

          Arthur attempted to speak, but Merlin slipped back out of the alcove, glancing swiftly right and left, then overhead.  Prostrate, the statue was still half again as high as he was.

          He moved toward the head of the giant, sparing a glance for the spectators.  They were restless, conversing with each other rather than hollering or cheering, standing and craning their necks to peer around the far edges of the arena.  It occurred to Merlin that the crowd could be useful, as a sort of shiny surface – not as good as a mirror, but still an indicator of other action out of his line of sight.  He couldn’t see what was going on over the statue, elsewhere in the arena – but they could.

          He paused at the edge of the statue’s tunic, a vertical wall two feet out from the legs, and glanced up into the faces.  No one was paying him much attention, they were watching some dramatic scene unfold much further along, the distance rather lessening the impact of excitement.

          Merlin glanced back – in the triangular corner made by the broken piece of stone sword, in the dark of the shade, Arthur wasn’t even visible.  He was safe – they were safe – for now.

          The spectators released a collective gasp, and a female voice shouted, “Look over there!” 

         Whether it was meant for his ears, or for her companion in the stands, he didn’t know, but he risked a glance around the hem of the statue’s tunic.

          A warrior in battered armor limped toward him, shield missing from the arm clasped tightly to his side, sword dragging lifelessly by his feet.  His wavy dark brown hair was matted with sweat and blood in the absence of a helm, his chin dragging low over his chest.  Orange tunic.

          “Lancelot!” Merlin gasped, leaving his sheltered corner to rush to his friend, quickly glancing around to make sure no other combatants had followed Lancelot.  “You’re hurt.  How bad is it?”

          “Bad enough.”  Lancelot’s voice was calm, detached.  “I won’t survive it.”

          “Of course you will,” Merlin said, ducking under Lancelot’s arm and straightening to take some of the warrior’s weight.  “I’ll help you.  I’ll heal you – I’m not very good at that sort of magic, but–“

          “How strong of a sorcerer are you?” Lancelot asked curiously, as they shuffled forward.

          “Oh, I don’t know,” Merlin said.

          “You’re not much to look at,” Lancelot continued, as if evaluating Merlin for the first time, taking no trouble to be kind.  “You look too young and weak to be taken seriously or given much respect.”

          Merlin snorted.  “Don’t try to talk, Lancelot, save your strength.  Arthur is just up here, there’s a bit of shade where you can rest while I try to–“

          “Arthur?” Lancelot interrupted again.  “Is he wounded then, too?”

          “No, he’s fine – or at least, he will be,” Merlin said.  They passed the tunic’s edge and continued working their way toward the knees.  Merlin risked a glance at the audience – no longer screaming for the combat, but watching them in a quieter fascination.  No one was looking away to watch any other combatant approach – Merlin hoped that meant the three of them had this little corner of the arena to themselves.  For a while.

          “What happened to him?” Lancelot said.

          “Hit by a curse,” Merlin said, short of breath from the work of bringing the injured warrior to the makeshift cave.

          “What sort of curse?”

          Merlin grunted.  Talkative, all of a sudden.  “See for yourself,” he panted, nodding to indicate Arthur’s position.

          Lancelot began to laugh, a chillingly insensitive sound.  “Perfect,” he pronounced.  They were twelve feet away and now could see Arthur clearly, reclining in the shade of the enormous broken sword, the lumps of quartz glittering on the sand around them.  “A killing curse reflected, yes?  Resulting in equal parts paralysis and slumber spell.”

          Merlin twisted his head to try to see Lancelot’s face at such close range.  He said abruptly, “How do you–“

         Lancelot’s eyes had changed.  No longer warm brown irises with intelligent reactive pupil, his eyes were orbs of pure black.  This wasn’t Lancelot.

            Arthur felt, at once, a great lassitude and a great apprehension.  He saw the golden blur of the hot arena, knowing he was there to fight for his life, knowing that battle wasn’t over.  But he heard Merlin’s voice, reassuring and humorous.  He trusted that boy, sorcerer and fellow combatant though he was, and was confident he was in no danger. 

          There was the question, however, of Merlin’s safety without Arthur able to watch his back.

          Merlin’ voice subsided beneath the murmur of the audience in the amphitheatre.  At least Arthur was out of the heat and glare of the sun.  He waited for the return of the oddly selfless sorcerer, practicing moving his fingers and toes. 

          It felt very much like his whole body had “fallen asleep,” the blood flow constricted for a time, causing a numbness and inertness that was giving way gradually to an extreme clumsiness and an excruciatingly distracting pins-and-needles pricking all over him.  Every involuntary twitch filled him with ridiculous but very real agony.

          He heard voices, and managed to turn his head far enough to see Merlin approach, the orange tunic of his fellow warrior Lancelot draped across the farm-boy’s shoulders.  A stone’s-toss away, Merlin dropped Lancelot’s arm, springing away from him as Lancelot stood still.

          “Who are you?” Merlin demanded, and Arthur was shocked and confused by the stern maturity in the boy’s voice.  “What happened to Lancelot?”

          That didn’t make sense.  Arthur wondered if maybe somehow he’d hit his head, after that sorceress had spoken her spell.

          Lancelot said, just as illogically, “The warrior managed to kill my body.  So I thought it only fair to take his, damaged and failing though it may be.  But his–“ he pointed with the forefinger of the hand still gripping the hilt of the sword at his side – “yes, I think his body would be perfect for my purposes.” 

         Arthur blinked.  Lancelot was pointing at him.

          “I won’t let you hurt him,” Merlin warned, tensing.

          Lancelot – or rather, whoever now resided inside Lancelot - chuckled mirthlessly.  “And you’re going to stop me?”

          Merlin didn’t hesitate to vow, “I’ll stop you.”

          The Lancelot-sorcerer reached a hand out as if in appeal.  “This body is dying,” he said.  “That one can mean nothing to you.  He does not deserve your loyalty – he knows nothing of magic.  He will use you for his own ends, then discard you.”

          “That’s not true,” Arthur whispered, at the same time as Merlin said the words aloud, but he didn’t think either of the men standing heard him.  He struggled within his body, trying to gain more range of motion, more control, and it was a miserable failure.

          “He will cast you aside without a moment’s thought, when it comes down to the final contest,” the Lancelot-thing said persuasively. 

         It came to Arthur’s mind that perhaps whatever sorcerer had appropriated Lancelot’s body for his use did not want to force a confrontation with Merlin in the weak state of the warrior’s wounded body.  If Merlin could just keep him talking long enough, Arthur could perhaps get to his feet to fight.   But then, maybe the other sorcerer was waiting until Arthur recovered from the effects of the spell to take him.

          “That doesn’t matter,” Merlin said stubbornly.

         Arthur stilled his attempts momentarily, unable to believe his ears. 

          Lancelot closed those inhumanly black eyes, took a deep breath, and Merlin stiffened in response, their bodies quivering, though Arthur saw no physical conflict.  The Lancelot-sorcerer said softly, “You have such power – you!  How can you stand to help him, promote him, further his ambition?”

          “That is the way it should be.”  Merlin’s voice was just as quiet.  Arthur realized he could hear no sound from the audience in the stands at all.  “My power was not given to me that I should rule, but that I should serve.”

          That was an astounding concept, coming from a boy from a tiny farming village.  It was a noble concept, and one that even the bravest of knights might hesitate to state so baldly.  Arthur’s heart constricted – the sorcerer wearing the body of the warrior had not so much as glanced at him for several minutes, but was now focused entirely on Merlin.  He had continued a conversation which was clear from the first words he could not hope to sway in his favor.  He had spoken almost hungrily of the boy’s power – and he was looking for a body.

          “Be careful, Merlin,” Arthur panted, in the shade of the stone, but could not see that his words had been heard.  He shifted, fighting to move arms and legs in spite of the painful tingling and lethargy binding him.   

          “You are so young,” the Lancelot-sorcerer said, almost pleading with Merlin.  “Look inside, you have yet to discover the full strength of your power.  I can help you.”

          Oh, no you won’t, Arthur thought.  Only one winner, remember?  The Lancelot-sorcerer had spoken of Arthur betraying Merlin at the conclusion of the conflict – that thought must be first and foremost in his own mind.  Or – was it possible for two sorcerers to inhabit the same body?  It would be survival, of a kind… they would be stronger together, no doubt.  Nigh invincible, maybe.

          Merlin said nothing.  Did he understand what he was being offered?  Threatened with?  The other sorcerer continued, encouraged, “The world will appreciate your greatness – join me, together we will rule the land, everyone will tremble at your voice, kneel at your feet–“

          Merlin shuddered, and suddenly looked taller to Arthur, who thought exultingly, That’s done it – you’ve lost him now! 

         The farm-boy said, quietly decisive, “I don’t want that.”

          “You would rather die putting another man on the throne?” the thing inside Lancelot managed to twist his features into an expression of incredulity.

          Merlin raised his voice.  “Better to serve a good man than rule with an evil one!” 

         There was a whisper of sound, as though every person watching from the stands had drawn in a breath at once.

          The face of their friend drew together into an evil scowl.  “So be it – if you will not join me, I will become you, and your power will be harnessed to my will!” 

         Lancelot groaned, grimaced, gasped.  He put out one hand toward Merlin, eyes once again a warm brown as he dropped to his knees.  Merlin took one step toward him - hesitated - and Lancelot’s body dropped to the sand, lifeless.

          An eerie wisp of blue smoke trailed from the fallen warrior’s mouth, and Arthur found he could sit up.  The smoke lengthened, thickened, crossed the sand, whispering and curling around the ankle of Merlin’s boot.  The spectators began shouting in anger, in encouragement, whether in support of Merlin or to urge along his defeat, Arthur couldn’t tell.  He put his palms on the sandy floor of the arena, to push himself up by the strength of his will alone.

          The blue smoke teased Merlin’s clothing, climbing higher around his body.  The voice that came from the young sorcerer’s throat was desperate, deep and throaty and trembling with strain.  Arthur could hear the words clearly, Ic thin sawol her beluce, though they made no sense to him at all.  Abide thaet ic the alyse…  Merlin’s muscles were tense, his head lifted as though he stood in deep and rising waters, trying to turn his face up to the clean air. 

         The blue smoke swirled, wrapped around him, entering mouth and ears and nostrils.  Arthur made it to one knee, panting and gasping as though he could keep the evil stuff out of his friend’s body by proxy.

          Merlin choked, twitched, and fell to his knees.  Arthur reached out toward him – Merlin fell forward, his outstretched hand falling on one of the broken pieces of the quartz sword.  He convulsed, his body shaking, then opened his eyes to look at Arthur.

          The deep-sea blue of the farm-boy’s irises was completely obscured by an inky and malevolent black.  

Chapter Text

          The deep-sea blue of the farm-boy’s irises was completely obscured by an inky and malevolent black.  

          Arthur struggled to his feet, hand on the hilt of his sword, a great sorrow oppressing him.  Now he would have to kill Merlin, before the enemy sorcerer inhabiting his friend killed him.  Merlin turned away, hands flat on the sandy floor to push himself to his feet, slowly - as though unused to his body.  He stood a moment, head lowered and exuding menace, then stepped toward Arthur with a grim set to his jaw, his shoulders.

          Merlin stopped at arms’-reach.  Arthur’s hand was still on his weapon, though he hadn’t drawn it.  Then Merlin raised his head, and met his eyes – pure blue - and Arthur thought he’d never seen a color so beautiful.  The young sorcerer grinned triumphantly, raising the piece of quartz sword still clutched in one hand – it glowed a very similar blue.  Arthur looked more closely - it seemed to him that the blue color came from smoke swirling inside the stone. 

         “You’ve trapped him?” Arthur asked incredulously.

          His friend nodded without saying a word.  Arthur took his hand from his sword-hilt to pass it over Merlin’s good shoulder and clasp him in a quick but tight embrace. 

         “Well done!” he said, then cuffed the back of the boy’s head to knock the look of surprise off his face, turning the gesture into a hold so he could rub the sand off the side of Merlin’s face.  “So is he in there?” Arthur said, releasing the boy to gesture at the glowing stone.  “Can he get out?”

         “Yes, and probably.”  Merlin looked exhausted, pale and shaky.  He had, Arthur realized, fought against the other sorcerer very hard.  Arthur shook his head.  There was much more to this farm boy than met the eye. 

         What had the other sorcerer said, How can you stand to help him when you have such power – you are so young, you have yet to discover the full strength of your power… 

         Merlin had said so casually last night, I won’t be the heir.  He expected to die, yet fought so hard to live.

         Arthur was glad of that.  They made a good team.  Already he’d have been dead if not for this boy, and the thought of seeing the lanky frame still and bloodied on the sand, blue eyes blank and dead, left him feeling sick and oddly lost.  He hadn’t intended to make friends in a kill-or-be-killed contest, it wasn’t smart or practical.  And yet, it had happened.

         “Bury it,” he suggested to Merlin, who nodded, and knelt somewhat unsteadily beside the statue, digging the sand out from under the enormous heavy stone with his hands.

         Arthur went around to check Lancelot, felt in vain for a pulse at his neck.  Nothing.  Lancelot was gone.  He contemplated the body of the man who might have been his next best friend, then carefully straightened his limbs, bending his arms to place hands on his chest, covering the bloody tear in the orange fabric and the mail armor beneath.

         “We owed him, both of us,” Arthur said out loud.  “He was courageous, he was compassionate, he was noble.”

         “We will remember him,” Merlin said.  There was assurance and comfort in his voice, but Arthur knew it was a possibility that neither of them would last the day.  They might not carry the memory of this young warrior very long.

         “How are you holding up?” Arthur said, standing and checking for threats, left and right and over the top of the prostrate statue.

         “I’m thirsty,” Merlin said, from where he crouched with his back to the stone, the blue quartz now hidden.  He smacked his lips in a way that Arthur would have chuckled at, had his own throat and mouth not been so dry.  They’d fought and sweated in this deserty place for several hours now, and if they wanted to perform in peak condition, they needed water.

         “Yeah, I could use a drink.”  Arthur accented the word heavily to make a joke, and was rewarded with one of those wide innocent grins.

         “Arthur, I doubt they’ve included a tavern somewhere in the arena,” the young sorcerer said.  He hadn’t moved to regain his feet, and Arthur could see his hands were trembling.  He himself felt as stiff and sore as if he’d spent all day being thrown repeatedly from a fractious horse, then spent all night swimming in a vat of ale.

         “Well, why not?” he said, to keep their spirits up with a little light-hearted banter.  “Wouldn’t that increase the entertainment value?  A bunch of drunken sorcerers and warriors all trying to kill each other.”  He reached his arm down in a clear invitation.

         Merlin grasped Arthur’s forearm as he pulled him to his feet.  He snickered at the comedic initial image of Arthur’s suggestion, then groaned at the realization what the reality of such a circumstance would probably be.

         “There’s at least two wells built into this arena,” Arthur said, glancing around warily.  “Let’s just hope they haven’t been hidden or –“

         “Or tampered with,” Merlin said. 

         Arthur drew his sword, kept it ready in his hand, and led the way toward the base of the statue at a partial crouch.  “How many of us are left do you reckon?”

         “Val’s dead, and Tristan,” Merlin said behind him.  “Mary and – Lancelot.  And I think the sorcerer in – in the blue quartz was Cornelius.”

         Arthur glanced back, catching Merlin’s gaze as the sorcerer turned forward from keeping a watch behind them.  “You remembered their names?” he said.

         The farm boy shrugged uncomfortably.

         That really wasn’t the best idea, Arthur wanted to say.  Remembering names and faces in such a situation.  Don’t think about it, he wanted to say.  Don’t worry about it.  But it seemed to him Merlin was one to care, to remember, to think.

         They continued on.  “How could you tell?” Arthur said.  “I mean about Cornelius?” 

         The sorcerer wearing Lancelot looked like him, sounded like him.  And no one could have recognized the blue smoke for the human person it had been.

         “Cornelius and Edwin both spoke to me last night, offering to make – an alliance,” Merlin said.

         Arthur stopped at the edge of the monolith’s vacant base, and peered around it.  Broken stone and statuary littered the arena, but he saw no one moving - and no bodies, either.  With five combatants dead for sure, and he and Merlin right here, there were five others somewhere in the arena, alive or dead.  Like them, creeping, watching, waiting… plotting.  Those two wells would be a drawing point.  If someone else was there first, it would be an obvious place to stage an ambush… which that person would also be stupid not to recognize.

         “Why didn’t you take either of them up on the offer?” Arthur asked, scrutinizing every piece of stone for any indication of someone lurking.  “How far can you fire a spell?” he asked on the tail of his first question.

         “Ah, as far as you can see – clearly,” Merlin answered.  “But the accuracy decreases as the distance increases.”

         Which could, Arthur thought, make long-distance magic less dangerous – or more.

         Merlin added, “And I already told you, I’m not crown-prince material.”

         “I don’t know about that,” Arthur said.  Nobility, loyalty, self-sacrifice, yes.  The small-town naïveté would probably erode soon enough under the duties of the appointed office.  “I think you’d make a good king.”

          He glanced back to see a comical open-mouth speechlessness on the young sorcerer’s face, and gave him a lopsided smile.  “One of the wells should be just the other side of that statue.”

          He pointed to the next fifty-foot high figure, a nearly-naked male with a sword held point-down in front of his stone loincloth, his head sporting a frog-wide mouth and a single huge eye under a carved feather headdress.  One arm had been blasted away, and was lying in pieces behind him on the sand.

          “I’m going first,” Arthur continued.  “You’ll watch my back for hexes and spells, won’t you?” 

         Without giving Merlin a chance to answer, Arthur darted out into the open space, sprinting across the sand toward the cover of the next statue-base, shield ready in case another combatant stepped out to meet him.

          “Arthur!” Merlin hissed in fearful exasperation, but he didn’t slow, and reached the statue without any ambush being sprung. 

         Merlin continued scanning the arena for another moment, then caught Arthur’s motion commanding him to join him.  He moved more slowly than the warrior had, ready to counter an attack rather than outrun it, but he reached Arthur’s side without incident as well.

          There was noise, then, an occasional crack! or hiss or grunt.  A battle, and near the well, by the sound of it. 

         “What’s going on,” he whispered to Arthur, who had the vantage point at the corner of the one-eyed statue’s base.

          “The sorceress in the yellow dress has cover behind the well,” Arthur replied in a low voice over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the action Merlin couldn’t see.  “She’s trading – curses, or something, with the scarred sorcerer.” 

          Edwin, Merlin’s memory reminded him, giving him the picture of the hunched, crippled man with horrific twisted burn-scars. 

          “The male sorcerer has a companion – a warrior, guarding his back with a crossbow.”  Arthur threw a grin over his shoulder.  “Guess we’re not the only two who paired up.”

          Which meant, Merlin supposed, that Edwin wasn’t physically strong or agile, and that the other warrior probably didn’t have magic.  Kanen, then, since he’d seen Mordred fling a spear with magic.  He wondered if that meant Kanen had won that duel.

          “This is what we should do,” Arthur continued.  “Oh! – wait –“  His body stiffened, and he carefully laid both sword and shield down on the sand, before standing and stepping out from cover.

          “Arthur!” Merlin hissed.  “What are you doing?”

         Arthur gave him a backward glance.  The sky-blue eyes flared red, briefly, and he moved away from Merlin.

         Ah, hell.  Sophia and the sidhe magic. 

         Merlin scrambled out behind Arthur, freezing one, then another bolt midair before they could reach the golden-haired warrior.  He launched himself, tackling his friend to the sand – Oh, no, you don’t, he thought grimly at the sorceress.  No one uses Arthur for a distraction.

         Sophia had noticed Arthur, but not Merlin – and as the two crashed to the arena floor, she swung her staff – white wood with a blue crystal entangled in delicate carving on the end – bringing it to bear on Merlin.

         “Onbregdan!” Merlin shouted, and saw Sophia’s sweet face twist in surprise as her staff sprang from her hand.* 

         With Arthur squirming to free himself from Merlin’s weight, Merlin almost missed catching the staff he’d summoned, but as soon as the smooth wood met his fingertips, he shifted it around to face Edwin and Kanen, knowing Sophia was momentarily disarmed, and the other two would take immediate advantage of his own distraction.

         The crossbow bolt aimed at Merlin struck the staff, piercing the carved cage of the blue crystal – and it burst in a scatter of light.

         “No!” Sophia shrieked, just before her body mimicked the stone in her staff, and fiery scraps of her body, face, clothing and hair flew violently outward, fading quickly to an ash that dissipated on the breeze.

         Merlin rolled off Arthur, scrambling to his knees, arms spread in readiness for whatever Edwin or Kanen might attack with, before rising to his feet.  He kept the staff in hand, though it was useless now, and took three quick steps forward to put himself between Arthur and the other two, just visible behind a chunk of the one-eyed statue’s blasted arm, as they tried to safely assess the changes to the situation.

         He risked a quick glance back at his friend, who crawled for cover behind the well.  Arthur looked back at him, eyes a clear blue once again.  He made a series of rapid hand gestures, and Merlin’s initial exasperation at the warrior’s expectation changed to a surprised agreement as he actually grasped Arthur’s intention. 

         “Might I have a word?” 

         Merlin turned back at the sound of another’s voice.  “I’m listening."

         He watched Edwin move out from behind the rock, Kanen just behind him, cradling his crossbow.  He wondered about their arrangement, whether they’d discussed the eventuality of facing each other, if they succeeded in overcoming their other opponents.  It hadn’t come up between him and Arthur.

         “You came for water, didn’t you?” Edwin asked, his manner urbane, his smile smooth and self-assured despite the scars that twisted his features. 

         Merlin nodded warily. 

         “By all means, come and welcome,” Edwin said.  “Our thank-you for your help with the sorceress.  Take what you need, we will take what we need.  Go in peace and good luck to you both.”

         Merlin didn’t trust for a minute that the other sorcerer would let them refresh themselves and saunter away. 

         “Why would you do that?” he said, glancing back to the well, where Arthur’s last position would be hidden from their view.  He wasn’t there, and Merlin wasted neither time nor advantage looking for him, but turned his eyes back to the sorcerer opposing him.

         “I believe it is time for magic to rule on the throne of Camelot,” Edwin said.

         Merlin noted that he did not specify whose magic should rule. 

         “What about the deal you’ve made with him?” he said, to draw the warrior’s attention.  Kanen’s short, wiry body exuded uncomfortable wariness, his middle-aged face dark with suspicion.

         Edwin made a deprecating gesture, intended to both placate and denigrate his warrior ally.  His face, turned toward Merlin, left no doubt as to his intentions.  Kanen meant nothing to Edwin.

         “We could allow the two warriors to face each other,” Edwin proposed, flicking his fingers toward the well to indicate Arthur.  He and Kanen approached slowly, leaving the cover of their chunk of statue.  Probably so Kanen could take a closer shot, hoping Merlin wouldn’t have enough time to stop the bolt.

         “And you and I?” Merlin said.

         “We must look after each other,” Edwin said, cultured and persuasive.  “Magic can be a force for good, to make this world a better one, and where better to accomplish that than from Camelot’s throne?  A gift like ours – like yours – should be nurtured.  You need someone to help you, to encourage you.  Imagine what we could achieve, if we shared our knowledge.”

         Merlin imagined the speech would be much more tempting had they both been standing innocuously in a shady lane somewhere, not fighting for their lives in a contest that would not admit of two survivors.  Much more enticing were it not for Balinor, who had all his life nurtured Merlin’s gift, helping and encouraging as much as he was able.  What Merlin heard was, Imagine what I could achieve, if you gave your knowledge and power to me.

         What was taking Arthur so long?  Merlin could not keep up the peace-talks pretense much longer!

         Over Edwin’s right shoulder he saw movement.  Edwin noticed the shift of his gaze and began to turn, as Arthur reached the top of the boulder closest to the arena wall.  The golden-haired warrior let out a piercing whistle that had Kanen spinning also – crossbow cocked, aimed – fired-

         What was Arthur thinking, to make himself such a high and obvious target?

         Arthur dropped down to the sand, avoiding Kanen’s crossbow bolt – and the three arrows shot by the nearest bowmen guarding the spectators feathered Kanen’s chest as he staggered, wheeled, and fell.

         Merlin took one step forward. 

         Edwin absorbed the death of his own warrior-partner in a glance and turned back ready to fight Merlin, screaming out,  “Forbair ypile!” **

         A ring of fire sprang up around Merlin, the flames licking inward, roaring chest-high.

         Merlin was unafraid – fire was his element, after all – he put his palms out calmly, forbidding the ravenous orange tongues from touching him.  He could hold Edwin off indefinitely if need be, but he could not break the circle, could not walk through.  Arthur would attack the sorcerer, and with their attention on the fire - one pushing, one resisting – it was a pretty even bet that Arthur’s actions would upset this stalemate.

         Arthur darted forward, pausing to retrieve a weapon from the sand – Oh, great, Merlin thought, recognizing it for an ax, another bloody heavy hacking weapon! 

         Edwin closed his fist, keeping the flames leaning inward toward Merlin so he could turn his attention over his shoulder to Arthur.

         Arthur’s eyes were on Merlin, not Edwin, as he tilted his body back into his cast of the weapon – you tried this before! Merlin thought, feeling the ache of the wound in his shoulder, didn’t you learn – oh.  Oh.  Merlin readied himself, and Arthur hurled the weapon, haft over head, at Edwin. 

         The scarred sorcerer, as Arthur and Merlin had both anticipated, dodged the weapon easily, and turned to watch it strike Merlin, directly behind him.

         Merlin released his control of the fire for one instant, to catch the ax just before his face, and jerked his whole body forward to propel the ax back the way it had come – which Edwin was not prepared for.  The ax bit deeply into the other sorcerer’s skull, cleaving his brain, dividing his face into one scarred half and one clean half, and he dropped to the sand with the force of the blow.

         Just as Sophia’s enchantment of Arthur had ended at her death, so the ring of flames around Merlin vanished at Edwin’s.

         The crowd was screaming.  The entire half of the arena, it seemed, was on its feet, waving its arms wildly.  Arthur ignored the noise to approach Merlin.

         “What the hell was that?” Merlin said breathlessly, flapping his arms in a parody of Arthur’s come-get-me beckon to Kanen.  “ ‘Just shoot me for the idiot I am’?”

         “It worked, didn’t it?” Arthur said, grinning unapologetically.  He retrieved his sword and shield from the base of the statue, and glanced around to see that there were no other combatants near.  “I didn’t think I could take a crossbowman without my sword, anyway, no matter how distracting you were being.  Anyway, what about you?”  He dropped his armor by the well, and sheathed his sword.

         “Me?” Merlin said.

         “Yeah.”  Arthur tapped his fingertips together, adopting a sinister tone that made Merlin grin.  “ ‘Tell me more of your nefarious plan while I decide whether to ally my power with a manipulative sorcerer.’ ”

         “I was being distracting, like you wanted,” Merlin said, pretending to grumble.  “If you’d waited any longer to pull that stunt, he’d have talked me to death.”

         “Talked you to death – never!” Arthur declared.  He slung one arm around Merlin’s neck, causing him to drop the white-wood staff, and pulled him close to rub his knuckles on Merlin’s skull.

         “Hey, ow!” Merlin complained, but he was still grinning.

         “How about that drink of water, then?” Arthur proposed.

Chapter Text

            “How about that drink of water, then?” Arthur proposed, moving to the well. 

         He leaned his shield against the matched-and-mortared stone, the rampant dragon of Camelot facing inward, so he could snatch it up in a moment if need be.  Merlin followed, perching on the stone lip of the well to lean forward and peer down into the depths.

            “Three more down, huh?” Arthur said.

         "Guess so..."  The farm-boy released the catch on the wheel.  The rope spun out as the weight of the bucket drew it down to plunge into the water. 

         “What happened to the sorceress?" Arthur added.  "She looked at me, and her eyes were red, and the next thing I knew I was flat on the sand.”

            “She enchanted you,” Merlin said, so matter-of-factly that a shiver went up Arthur’s spine.  “Brought you out to distract Edwin and Kanen.” 

         Arthur winced – again with the names, Merlin! 

         “I grabbed the staff away, and one of Kanen’s arrows hit the crystal in the end of it.”  Merlin pointed at the staff, the end empty and charred.  “Her life force was tied to the crystal, so when it exploded…”  He shrugged, and began to wind the wheel to pull the water bucket back up.

            Arthur glanced around – only two others left, and there was no one to be seen, despite the commotion their battle undoubtedly caused.  The spectators had calmed – some were watching them, some straining to see deeper into the arena, some just relaxing and chatting casually with neighbors.  Arthur circled the well to help Merlin with the wheel.  They were both tired, and sore, and Arthur knew Merlin’s shoulder had to be causing him pain.

            “How’s the arm?” he said. 

         Merlin just smiled - and scoffed when Arthur continued. 

         “You know, we’re lucky magic-users are such a chatty lot.  We warriors, we don’t waste breath on words - out with the weapons, and have at it.  And keep going until we’re dead, or the victory is ours.”

            Again Merlin smiled that soft, secretive smile.  “I guess, to a sorcerer,” he said, “words can be weapons.”

            “And to you?” Arthur said.  And knew immediately he should have bitten his tongue on a comment meant to be a joke.

            Merlin stilled, his hand dropping from the wheel Arthur continued to turn.  His face was away from Arthur, scanning the arena, the crowd.  “Are you asking if you can trust me?” he said quietly.  “I think, if you have to ask, then you already know the answer.  And there is nothing I can say to persuade you.”

            Arthur felt like an ass.  “I didn’t mean–“

            “Never mind, Arthur,” Merlin said, bending to catch the handle of the bucket as it rose to his grasp.  “It doesn’t really matter, does it, if you trust me?”

            “It does matter,” Arthur said roughly.  Damn it, there were only two combatants left.  It would break his heart, the more fool he, if Merlin turned on him.  But maybe it would be better to be killed by a friend than to live knowing the friendship was a lie, the betrayal planned all along.  He was still incredulous whenever he thought about Merlin’s responses to the sorcerer inside Lancelot.  “Merlin, I just – this contest – we probably shouldn’t trust each other.  Shouldn’t be friends.”

            Merlin tossed him a cheeky grin.  “I’m glad for it,” he said.  “If I have one day left on earth, I’d want to spend it making a friend.”

            Arthur shook his head.  “You know, that something about you I just can’t put my finger on, what is it…”

            “You said it already – I’m an idiot,” Merlin joked.  He balanced the water bucket on the edge of the well, then frowned at it.

            Arthur snorted.  Yes, probably that was true.  No one else had come to this battle intending to make friends or protect other contestants.  No one else would be humble enough to say, You’d make a better monarch than I.  Though if Arthur didn’t make it, he’d want Merlin to win. 

            He removed his glove with his teeth, then dipped his cupped hand into the water in the bucket, raised it to his lips.

            “Stop, it’s poisoned!” Merlin exclaimed, knocking his hand away.  “Don’t drink it.”

            “What?” Arthur said.  “How do you know?” 

            Merlin answered with a succinctly reproachful look.  Sorcerer, remember?

            “Yes, right.  Well, what are we going to do?” Arthur said, mostly to himself.  They both badly needed water.  Neither of them was the sort of man to surrender, or admit defeat.  They could sit and wait for the other two to seek them out here, resting in the shade to conserve energy.  Or – “We’ll have to go find the other well,” he decided.

            “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Merlin murmured, spreading his hand over the surface of the water but not touching it.

            “Why not?” Arthur demanded.

            “It’s just a – funny feeling I have,” the young sorcerer answered.  “Let me try something first, and if it doesn’t work, you can go to the other well.”

            Arthur blamed it on the heat.  The glare, the unusual amount of physical exertion, the lack of invigorating water.  He didn’t catch the significance of Merlin’s distinction me and you.  Before he could reach the sorcerer, Merlin had dipped his own hand into the water and drank several swallows. 

            “Merlin!” Arthur said, leaping to his friend’s side and putting a hand on his shoulder as he swayed slightly – it would be just like the farm-boy to tumble right down the well.

            “Oh, so that’s what she did to it,” Merlin murmured.  He swallowed with difficulty, and gathered himself.  He spoke a long phrase that Arthur didn’t understand, in a compelling and almost musical tongue, and when he finished, his deep blue eyes glowed golden. 

         Arthur had never seen someone do magic that close before – it was fascinating. 

         “It should be fine for you now, sire,” Merlin said.

            The gleam of sorcery faded from his eyes, and Merlin’s features constricted in discomfort.  One hand rose to fumble at his neck - and without further warning, he collapsed lifelessly in Arthur’s arms.

            “Merlin!” Arthur shouted, almost knocking over the bucket trying to keep Merlin from falling. 

         Bending to lift the boy over his shoulder, he carried him to the base of the one-eyed statue some paces distant.  It was past noon, the shadow cast by the enormous figure beginning to lengthen, and it was a much better defensible position.

         “Don’t you dare,” Arthur said.  He tapped Merlin’s face without any response.  Remembering the comfort of Merlin’s voice, he softened his tone.  “Merlin, you need to fight.  You need to live.  Please don’t give up now.  Maybe you think this is your time, you never wanted to win, you never thought you would survive… but we’ve come too far, together.  Please, just don’t give up.”

            Merlin lay motionless, eyes closed, skin damp and pale, laboring for breath.  Arthur thought of the water, and went to retrieve the bucket.

            Suddenly, above the murmur of the crowd, he heard a child crying, sobbing.  A small boy dressed in brown trousers and a white tunic ran out from behind one of the chunks of stone blasted from the one-eyed statue’s arm.  “Please, please, you have to help me!”

            “Where did you come from?” Arthur said, bewildered.

            A couple of paces away, the child slowed, his face grimy and tear-stained.  “I fell into the arena.  The wall is too high for me to reach my parents’ hands.”

            “Are you hurt?” Arthur said, scanning the crowd for a worried mother or father.  “The guards will help you–“

            “They told me to find one of the fighters and ask for help,” the boy said.  “If you could lift me up, I could catch their hands.”

            What kind of parent would tell their child to find one of the fighters for help?  He’d be an idiot to turn his back on the arena and encumber his hands and arms with a child – although, he thought ruefully, Merlin would do it.

            “Is he dead?” the boy asked, pointing to Merlin’s body in the shade of the statue’s base, behind Arthur as he'd risen to take a protective stance.  “Can I have a drink?”

            “No, he’s not dead,” Arthur said shortly, and motioned for the boy to help himself to the bucket of water.

            “Don’t you think it would be best to kill him now?” the boy said innocently, pausing before the bucket.  “Everybody says how you and that sorcerer fight like a team.  But there’s only one winner.  What’ll you do if it’s the two of you at the end?”

            “There’s two other combatants left,” Arthur said obstinately.  He hated that this child could so easily voice what had been bothering him, too.

            The boy bobbed his head agreeably, dabbling his fingers in the water.  “Sure, and a tame sorcerer could be useful.  If he doesn’t turn on you first.” 

            “Not Merlin,” he said with conviction. 

         The sorcerer Cornelius had said, You would die putting another man on the throne?  If it came to the two of them, sure as the sky was blue Merlin wouldn’t kill him to take the throne for himself.  They were a good team, but Arthur suspected, if Merlin had any ambition for himself, he wouldn’t need Arthur to win.

            “If you’re planning on turning on him, then,” the boy continued, “don’t you think now would be best?  Now, while he’s weak and unconscious?” 

         It was an un-childlike sentiment, and Arthur stared as the boy scooped up water to slurp.  The boy glanced at him, and Arthur gave him a disgusted glare. 

         The boy spread his hands as if to excuse himself for repeating what everyone was saying.  “If you like him as your friend, it would be kindest, too, do it while he’s asleep.  He’d probably rather it be quick while he’s already unconscious, don’t you think?  At the hand of someone who cares something for him?”

            Arthur’s heart twisted.  Unless Merlin somehow won – which would mean he’d failed in his absurd self-appointed task of keeping Arthur alive – he would die.  And soon, most likely, with only four left out of twelve.  Would he rather die quickly, with Arthur at his side, than with violence and blood?

            He shook his head.  Just a moment ago he’d been begging the young sorcerer not to give up, not to leave him.  Was that selfishness speaking?  Wasn’t it sensible, wasn’t it practical, to follow this child’s advice?  Merlin had said, and showed, that he was willing to die for Arthur.

            No.  What sort of prince – or king, even – would he be, to reward such loyalty with what amounted to backstabbing?  Such an action would prove that he wasn’t worthy of Merlin’s loyalty.  That choice was not his.  Even if Merlin placed his life in Arthur’s hands, he would not take it.

            “Let’s get you back to your parents,”  Arthur said.

            Merlin’s magic hummed, cleansing him from the poison of the well, the curse the remaining sorceress had tainted the water with as she worked her dark magic.  It was really too bad that he couldn’t have identified the curse, and thus the counter-curse necessary to purify the water, without this dreariness. 

         He was aware that his body was breathing, dragging in one breath after another.   Why was that?  Why should it matter?  Oh, yes, Arthur.  He wasn’t the heir yet.  How many more combatants?  Names tumbled through Merlin’s thoughts, and he found he couldn’t separate one from another, or calculate the living from the dead, either.

            He could hear Arthur’s voice, and that was comforting.  Rising and falling, as though Arthur was in calm conversation with someone.  There was something wrong with that, Merlin felt.  Weren’t they fighting for their lives in the arena?  He squinted his eyes open, at the brightness of the afternoon, the color and flash of the spectator stands, the cool blank of the stone he was beside, and under. 

            Who would Arthur be stopping to have a conversation with?  Merlin turned his head, the sand beneath him grinding into his hair.  There was Arthur, near the well, his chainmail glinting in the sun, the red tunic grubby from the fighting.  Near him, helping himself to the water that Merlin had cleansed, was a young boy.

            A boy?  A child, in the arena? Speaking to Arthur so casually?  Merlin found his eyes had trouble focusing on the boy’s face.  His child’s body wavered slightly, as though heat rose from the sand to distort the image.  But the effect did not encompass Arthur.

            “Arthur,” he tried to say, but only a croak came out.  He tried to move, but the poison had stiffened his limbs.

            His friend moved away from the well, heading for the arena wall – turning his back to the child.  Merlin watched in horror as the boy crept along behind Arthur.  Metal glinted in the small childish hand.  There was nowhere to conceal a warrior’s sword on the small form, but a long-bladed dagger would do the job.

            Merlin opened his mouth to cry a warning, but only a hoarse rattle came from his throat. 

         No.  This couldn’t happen.  He wouldn’t allow it. 

         He gathered his magic, his resolve – both of which were formidable – and threw the thought-spell across the distance with all the speed and accuracy and potency he could manage, Hierste thaet cicen sona!*  Immediately afterward, he screamed with all his being, Arthur! Turn and fight!

            The boy’s glamour dissipated, revealing the youngest warrior, Mordred.  Arthur glanced back just as Mordred thrust the dagger forward, and Arthur’s body jerked in response.

            Merlin watched in paralyzed shock – no No No NO! 

         Arthur drew his sword and thrust, and the movement seemed clumsy and slow.  Mordred’s attention was on his own weapon, the success of his own blow, and his reaction to defense was delayed.  He dodged with more alacrity than Arthur had displayed - but Arthur’s blade emerged inches beyond the younger warrior’s back, between his shoulder blades, and Merlin forgave himself a dark satisfaction.

         The two stood face to face for a single moment and Merlin couldn't see either expression, before Mordred’s knees buckled, and he tipped sideways to collapse lifelessly on the sand.

            Merlin sobbed - Arthur’s clutched his left arm to his side in just the way that Lancelot had done, mortally wounded. 

            He pulled his sword free from his enemy’s body, and came slowly back toward Merlin, as if in a dream.  Or in shock, pausing once to lift the bucket of water by its handle, and carried it in the same hand as his sword.  Once he reached the shadow of the statue, Arthur dropped heavily to his knees, and Merlin tried to roll to face him, force his hands to answer the need to help. 

         “Damn kid broke a rib, I think,” Arthur managed.  Releasing the bucket and his weapon, he inspected his side – there was a slit torn in the red tunic, but the pattern of the chainmail beneath was unbroken.  “That hurts.”     

            Merlin started to laugh from sheer relief, and coughed until it hurt, spitting bloody foam to the sand, expelling the last of the curse.

            “You’re still alive, then?” Arthur added.  He raised Merlin’s head and brought a palmful of water to his mouth, then again.

            Merlin had never felt anything so wonderful as that cool, pure liquid sliding down his tight dusty throat.  “Yeah, just about,” he said.  “Thank you.”

            “You, too,” Arthur said, giving him a strange half-smile.  “That was you, wasn’t it?  He had me fooled – I turned my back to him.  But you did something – you must’ve – to make him show himself.  Didn’t you?”

            “It’s not a hard spell,” Merlin said.  He leaned his head forward, and Arthur understood he wanted to sit up, helping him accomplish his goal in spite of weak muscles, sand scattering from his hair and clothing.  “Just a question of making him lose his concentration, really.”

            “So,” Arthur said, as they both helped themselves to the water.  “One left to go.”

            “Yes,” Merlin said, shivering.  They should wait, he thought, regain as much strength as possible.  He had a feeling that facing Nimueh was going to be an experience he would never forget.

Chapter Text

            “We can’t stay here,” Arthur said.  They sat side by side, backs to the one-eyed statue’s base, legs outstretched in the shadow that lengthened imperceptibly, the half-empty water bucket between them.

            “Why not?” Merlin said, his voice without energy.  “I find I lack any inclination even to get up.”

            “Well, not everyone can be as lazy as you,” Arthur teased, elbowing the young sorcerer gently in the ribs.  He’d watched Merlin’s recovery closely, and was now comfortable in the assurance that there was no lasting damage done.

            “Lazy, that’s nice,” Merlin scoffed.  “If the poison had killed me, would you have called me a hero?”

            “Of course,” Arthur said.  In his opinion, Merlin had been a hero all day, since – well, probably since he’d volunteered to leave his village.

            “But since I’m alive, I’m lazy?”

            “As a cat in the sun,” Arthur said with half a grin.

            Merlin groaned.  “You have no idea how tempting that sounds right now.”

            “You could turn yourself into a cat?” Arthur said surprised.  He watched as the spectators grew more restless, many to the point of getting up and moving up and down the rows to stretch their muscles.  It’s funny, he thought, at this point in the afternoon we only want to sit still – and that’s the one thing they’re tired of doing.  He swiveled his head to check their periphery for the last sorceress once again.  Based on the ambivalence from the audience, he didn't expect to see her, and didn't.

            “Probably.”  Merlin’s eyes were closed, his skin so pale it was almost translucent, but at least there wasn't much blood showing through the makeshift bandage around his arm.  “I don’t know a spell for it, though.”

            “It’s not much of a strategy, anyway,” Arthur said.  “I think, Merlin, we probably need to be up and moving, when you feel strong enough.  I doubt they let us sit here much longer – we’re not entertaining anyone, and we’re not getting any closer to finishing the contest.”

            “You don’t think she’d eventually come after us?” Merlin murmured.  “We seem to have managed to attract just about everyone else.”

            “We have, haven’t we?” Arthur realized with a grimace.  “Are you the draw for trouble?”

            “Why does it have to be me?” Merlin complained.  “I think it’s you.”

            “Out of twelve combatants in the arena, and nine dead,” Arthur said.  His own throat was suddenly dry; choosing to train and expecting to have to kill was one thing... this had become something else.  “We’re responsible for eight of those.  That’s terrible luck, Merlin, and you know it.”

            Merlin was silent for a moment.  “There’s something wrong with us,” he said, trying to make a joke, but his voice was husky and his tone was off.  “It was worth it, though – swear to me it was worth it?”

            “We’re not done yet,” Arthur reminded him.  “But for the record, Merlin, you’re one of the bravest men I’ve ever met, and a noble warrior.  You fought in defense of your life and mine, and you’ve nothing to be sorry for or ashamed about, you hear me?”

            “Yeah,” Merlin said, and cleared his throat.  “Yeah.”

            A loud authoritative voice hailed them from the stands.  The knight who’d signed their names to the list of combatants – only yesterday! – waved for their attention.  “Three combatants remain,” he called, holding up gloved fingers to make sure they understood.  “The king has decreed that all fighters make their way to the center of the arena to force the conclusion.”

            “Or else what?” Arthur muttered rebelliously.

            “Thank you, Sir Leon,” Merlin called back, moving to climb to his feet.

            Arthur was upright first, and assisted the younger man in regaining his balance, retrieving the charred white-wood staff for Merlin to lean on.  “What is it with you and names, Merlin?” he said.  “You know everybody in Camelot?”

            Merlin gave him a wide brilliant smile, beginning to shuffle toward the center of the arena.  “No, just the important ones.”

            “Hey, take it easy,” Arthur said, keeping pace.  “Wait a minute.  How are you doing really?  Are you ready for this?”

            Merlin shrugged.  “Just feel a little weak and shaky,” he said.  “I’m all right.”

            Arthur stepped into the lead, proceeding cautiously in case the last sorceress waited to ambush them.  “What do you think?” he said.  “Shall we split up, take her from both sides?  You hold her attention, I’ll come up from behind?”

            “I think she has something else in mind.”  Merlin paused, and Arthur looked back at his friend.  “The poisoned water in the well – it’s a result of sorcery.  I think she’s made an afanc.”

            “An – afanc?” Arthur said, frowning.  “I’ve never heard of an afanc.”

            “It’s a beast conjured by powerful magic, dark magic,” Merlin said.  “It’s made of earth and water, two of the four base elements.”

            Arthur gripped the hilt of his sword at his side.  Well, at least it was something he could see.  And kill.  “How many of these creatures can we expect?”

            “I hope only one,” Merlin answered.  “It’s a spell that uses the caster’s blood, so she weakens herself in making more, not to mention that after the first, the water source is polluted.  A second or third creature would be much weaker itself, and might not be worth wasting blood and strength to make.  What?”

            Arthur had stopped to stare at the farm boy, leaning on the charred white staff like an old man.  “Had much experience with them, have you?”

            Merlin gave him that wide beautiful smile.  “No, sorry – it’s book theory.”

            “So she wants me to fight this creature while the two of you have your sorcerer’s duel?” Arthur said.  “How can she know we’re still working as a team?  How can she know there’s only three of us left?”

            Merlin grimaced, and motioned for Arthur to continue on, making their way toward the center of the arena, stone by stone, statue to statue, ready for the sorceress’ ambush.  “She used the other well to cast the spell and form the afanc,” he said.  “She’s probably scryed us all in the water, she’s had the time and opportunity.”

            “She can see us right now?” Arthur said, halting behind a twice-life-size statue of a seated griffon. 

            “Not if she’s been told to go to the center of the arena also,” Merlin said.  “Why lug a bucket of water around with you when you know where your enemies have to go, and soon?”

            They edged to the corner of the statue, and Arthur leaned around it.  “There’s the center,” he said.  “I don’t see her, yet.”  He eased his sword from its sheath at his side.  “Right, then, anything special I need to know about this afanc?”

            “The other two elements will destroy it,” Merlin said.  “You want fire, wind and fire.”

            “Where am I about to get fire?” Arthur hissed, spreading his arms to remind the boy where they were.  Merlin considered, then handed the wooden staff to him. 

            “I’ll light it for you,” he said simply.

            “And the sword is useless?”  Arthur considered again, how lucky he was to have Merlin fighting for him – never in a million years would he have been able to hold out against the sorcery performed against him in this arena.

            “It could keep the afanc from getting close enough to injure you,” Merlin suggested.

            Right, then.  Arthur took a deep breath.  “Are you ready?”

           Merlin chuckled, and it had a desperate sound to it, to Arthur’s ears.  He looked again at his friend.  Merlin, it seemed, could be nervous as a girl, given too much time to contemplate impending danger, but had proven remarkably level-headed once battle had been joined.

            “You’ll do fine,” Arthur said, gripping Merlin’s good arm.  “I believe in you.”

            Merlin met his eyes, and calmed.  “I believe in you.”

            The repetition carried nothing of sarcasm, and everything of significance.

            “Let’s go meet our destiny, then,” Arthur said.

            Merlin wished he still had the staff, something to grip in his hands.  He felt decidedly vulnerable, following Arthur empty-handed as the golden-haired warrior crept forward, sword and staff at the ready.

            Arthur began to circle to the right, but Merlin continued straight on, maneuvering toward the center of a ring of broken stone – he recognized the pieces of the lion-headed, snake-tailed equine creature Nimueh had been riding earlier.  She wasn’t visible yet.

            A growling noise rumbled behind them, and he resisted the urge to turn as Arthur spun about – the creature was Arthur’s job; his focus was the sorceress.  Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed talon-fingered claws, ropy sand-colored arms, and a wide mouth with rows of jagged teeth.  It swiped at Arthur, who leaned back to avoid the claws, spinning to bring his sword to bear – and it was gone by the time he completed the turn.

            “Where is it?” Merlin said.

            “It’s – quick!” Arthur gasped.  “I think it went – down in the sand!”

            Behind Arthur, the sand bubbled like the water of a trickling brook, as if something large swam below the arena floor, from Arthur’s feet and away, the same growling sound ominous in the silence. 

            No one was cheering.  The air was completely still – Merlin tested it, recognized the sorceress’ hold.  Wind and fire, he’d told Arthur. 

            But she was holding the wind.

            “There,” Merlin called, pointing, while trying to look all around for Nimueh.

            Arthur turned again, as the sand erupted to the creature’s bellowing attack – Arthur slashed it hard with the sword, but it was as if he’d aimed a blow at swamp water or a sand dune.  The blade passed right through, barely leaving a mark, and the two sides met and re-formed easily.  Arthur cursed again as the creature sank below the sand, which rippled away toward the nearest statue, clearly trying to lure the warrior from the sorcerer’s side.

            “You have to go after it,” Merlin said.

            “I don’t want us to be too far apart,” Arthur growled back.

            “I don’t think she’s coming out while you’re here,” Merlin said.  His heart was pounding, trying to watch all sides at once.

            Arthur began to pace forward, keeping off the sand which had shifted at the creature’s passing.  Overhead, dark clouds began to gather, forming and floating from all corners of the sky, drawn to the center over the arena like murky water going down a drainage hole.   Arthur reached the edge of the statue’s head-height base, gave Merlin a backward glance, then rounded the statue.

            “Hello, Merlin.”  Suddenly, she was there, casually stroking the stone lion’s decapitated head.  Her blue turban was gone, her hair dark and long and curly, with beads threaded into it to separate the locks.  “Do you know who I am?”

            “Nimueh,” he said, his throat dry.

            “Have you considered my offer?” she said coyly, leaning against the stone in clear physical invitation, tossing her hair back.  “I can feel your power, you know.  Can you feel mine?” 

            He could, he realized, it was like a revolting pull somewhere in his middle.  He glanced to the side as Arthur came into view again, creeping warily, searching for the hidden afanc, and the pull he felt from her disappeared.

            “He’s nothing compared to us, you know,” she said.  “Come, now, we are too valuable to each other to be enemies.”

            “Cornelius and Edwin said the same thing,” he observed.  “They are dead now.”

            Her red lips smiled provocatively.  “I can offer something they could not,” she said.  “You and I, we can both walk from this arena.  As king and queen, we could share the throne.”

            Two heirs.  He wondered if it would be allowed.  Perhaps if they were bound in marriage before walking off the sand. 

            He shuddered.  His instinct to live was stronger than he had thought, but the idea of being bound to this woman for the rest of their lives was not preferable to death. 

            “No.  I will share nothing with you,” he said.  “I will make Arthur king, and you will never see that day.” 

            He struck quickly, razoring her hold on the air, and a wind began to whip round the arena.  The sand just behind Arthur billowed, and he spun.  The creature, looking like a grotesque parody of a man on crouched legs and knuckles, crept out from behind the statue.  Arthur moved to meet it.

            Nimueh’s smile faltered, just a little.  She tipped her head up to the sky, where the dark clouds roiled and twisted.  She spoke her spell quietly, calmly, “Tidrenas.” 

            Rain began to fall, a mist, a drizzle, a downpour.

            Merlin heard the growl as a faint thunder; blinking water from his face, he could see the monster drooling from where he was.  Arthur retreated, severing the grasping claws as fast as they could form and stretch again as the rain poured down, strengthening the creature and drenching everything else.

            In front of him, the sorceress rubbed her palm against the air in a small sensual circle.  “Your childish tricks are useless against me, Merlin,” she told him, in the voice of one lover scolding another fondly.  “Forbearne.” 

            He dove to the sand and the fireball exploded against a chunk of stone behind him, casting rocky splinters everywhere as her power bored a hole straight through the statue. 

            “You should join me,” she repeated, balancing a second fireball despite the downpour, as he scrambled up to face her.

            “You think I would join forces with such a selfish and cruel magic?” he managed, breathing hard. 

            Behind her, Arthur retreated from the snarling afanc, his sword useless, the staff still in his hand, and it was their last hope. 

            I’ll light it for you.  Merlin spoke, pushing his hand toward Nimueh – “Astrice!”  

            She dodged as a bolt of golden light from his palm shot across the arena – missing her, it caught at the top of the staff in Arthur’s hand, as Merlin had intended.  Wind gusted as the afanc struck, shrieking, and the fire he’d conjured blew in a great aerial inferno, engulfing the monster.

            “Akwele!” Nimueh cried, and Merlin's attention was fractionally too late to return to his own opponent.

            The fireball exploded on his chest, over his heart.  He had the sense of being airborne for an instant before slamming back down to the sand so hard he couldn’t breathe.  He smelled the leather of his vest-armor smoking, heard Arthur shout his name, heard the sorceress’ voice even closer. 

            “Pity,” Nimueh enunciated snidely.  “Together we could have ruled the world.  So be it.”  She spoke again, and this time he heard the words of the death-chant. 

            Merlin opened his eyes to see his death coming – but she was not looking at him. 

            Arthur.  He turned his head, and saw the golden warrior fall. 

            Merlin’s magic was powerful, as they all had said.  But it was a talent raw, untrained.  Instinctive.  His magic reached out, and the world froze around them.  He gazed up into the sky, into the storm, and beckoned, coaxing the wild energy down – and the bolt charged toward the arena.

            “You should not have killed my friend,” Merlin said, and the sorceress exploded in a flash of blue screaming light.

Chapter Text

          Arthur pushed himself up from the wet sand of the arena floor.  His body felt too heavy - from exhaustion, from drenched clothing and armor, from the memory of the sorceress’ fireball catching Merlin full in the chest and sending him flying.

          Just before Arthur had tripped, damn it.  Now who was the clumsy one?

          There seemed to be an odd disconnect in his memory, then, as if he’d blacked out for a moment and the world had continued without him.  His eyes were dazzled from a bolt of lightning he didn’t recall seeing, and he couldn’t locate the sorceress visually - hopefully that meant she was dead.  A dull roar filled his ears, above the clattering of fat raindrops on the stone and sand of the arena.

          He stumbled slowly over to Merlin’s crumpled body.  A blackened circle the size of Arthur’s hand with fingers outstretched marred the leather of the boy’s hauberk, and his blue eyes gazed blankly up at the clouds.

          Arthur dropped to his knees beside his friend.  He touched Merlin’s chest, fearing what he might find beneath the thin protection of the hardened leather, but he couldn’t detect a single hole or tear where the armor had failed.  There was only the grimy smear of black transferring to Arthur’s hand - and Merlin’s chest heaved suddenly at the sorcerer’s indrawn breath.

          The blue eyes blinked in the rain that fell on his face, then focused on Arthur, who laughed in incredulous joy.

          “Arthur?” Merlin croaked, as Arthur jammed his sword into the sand, and helped his friend to sit up.

          “I can’t believe it either,” Arthur said.  “You did it?  She’s gone?”

          “I thought she’d killed you,” Merlin admitted, slouching to trail a negligent finger through the soot-smear on his armor.  “She cursed you and you fell and I – I tried to stop it happening–“

          “I tripped,” Arthur confessed.  “Maybe you did stop it or maybe the curse missed me – what happened to her?”

          “Lightning,” Merlin said.

          Arthur blinked at him through the rain.  “You called lightning out of her own storm?”  Merlin nodded, and Arthur laughed again.  “Then you should have no problem stopping this blasted rain, should you?”

          Merlin straightened, and they both looked around.  The spectators’ seats rising around the amphitheatre were dry – rain only fell within the circle of the arena.  The young sorcerer spoke a few words, and his eyes gleamed golden beneath the shaggy black hair plastered wetly to his forehead.

          The pattering slowly but perceptibly faded to a drizzle, then a mist.  Then the clouds relented and began to break, allowing shafts of late afternoon sunlight to pierce to the ground.  Arthur stood and hauled Merlin to his feet, also.  He filled his lungs deeply, realizing for the first time since the horn had sounded, that it was a free breath.  No one in the arena was after his life.  He gave a short chuckle of disbelief, pulling the sword from the sand to hang loosely at his side.

          “We did it,” he said.  “We made it.  It’s over.” 

          He looked around - and frowned to realize the people still watched them in silent expectation.

          “But, Arthur,” Merlin said.  “It’s not over.”

          “What do you mean?” Arthur turned back to him - pale, but composed, with water from his hair trickling down his face. 

          “Have you forgotten?” Merlin said.  “Only one victor – one heir.”  He twisted sideways and began fumbling awkwardly with the lacing of his charred leather armor, one-handed.

          Arthur guessed that the shoulder bandaged with a torn piece of the sorcerer’s own shirt was probably too stiff by now to allow for much movement.  He reached to help his friend, but the laces gave, finally, and Merlin ducked out of the hauberk, letting it drop to the sand. 

          “Arthur, you’re a great warrior," he remarked, managing to sound sardonic and sincere at the same time.  "And one day, you’ll be a great king.”

          “What are you saying?” Arthur said, beginning to be annoyed at Merlin's lack of relief in the cessation of hostilities.  Then the young sorcerer did the most extraordinary thing. 

          Merlin put his right foot forward and dropped to a kneeling position in front of Arthur. 

          Raising his voice, he spoke clearly, his voice carrying in the hush of the arena.  “I, Merlin of Ealdor, do hereby vow my loyalty to Arthur of Camelot as my liege and sovereign.  I solemnly swear to serve and protect my lord to the best of my abilities as a sorcerer and a man, to the last drop of blood in my veins, the last breath of life in my lungs, the last light of magic in my heart, both now and always.”

          He raised his face and Arthur was stunned to see two tears making their way through the rain-smeared battle-grime on the farm-boy’s face. 

          “Promise me one thing,” Merlin said.  “Promise you’ll go to my mother and father yourself, promise to tell them kindly, and – look after them?”

          “Merlin, that’s three things, not one,” Arthur said, teasingly protesting - uncomprehending, but willing to joke along for a moment.

          “Well, while I’m asking, I might as well ask a fourth,” Merlin said, giving him an impudent grin that quickly faded.  “Arthur – please make it quick.”

          Arthur wondered briefly if the sorcerer had hit his head when he’d fallen, or if maybe the sorceress had cast a spell on him after all.  "You can't mean that you think I'm going to kill you, after all this."

          “Don’t worry about me,” Merlin said, with a slight and tremulous smile.  “One day I will see you again.”

          “Why don’t I ask you a favor,” Arthur said, starting to lose his temper in the midst of an awful apprehension.  “Why don’t you get up off your knees and quit being an idiot.”

          “Please – no, I’m serious,” Merlin said.  “How can I–“  He made an impatient movement with his shoulders, bowing his head again.

          Then he reached forward to curl the fingers of his right hand around the back of Arthur’s knee, and Arthur almost lost his balance in shock, trying to retreat and yet hold still, at the same time. 

          The gesture was an ancient one.  I am your slave, it said.  My life is yours to take, it proclaimed before every citizen of Camelot present.  Anyone who hadn’t heard the words of Merlin’s spontaneous oath of fealty could be in no doubt now why the black-haired boy was on his knee to Arthur.

          But there was something else, something that Arthur suspected a farm-boy would not know.  That particular grip was peculiar to warriors on a field of battle, a last act of surrender in the face of impending death. 

          My life is yours, it said – to take or to spare.  Mercy, it said, in the midst of chaos and violence and bloodshed.  Have mercy – spare me.

          Arthur allowed his knee to bend, allowed Merlin to draw it forward, bow his head to touch his forehead to Arthur’s kneecap.

          Arthur reached down and placed his hand on Merlin’s mop of black hair.  “I, Arthur of Camelot,” he said, and had to clear his throat so as many people as possible would hear him.  “Accept the oath of Merlin of Ealdor fully, freely, and with honor.  As his liege, I take responsibility for his actions, his safety, and his wellbeing.  Now and forever.”

          Merlin tipped his face back, his eyes wide and dark with surprise.  He let his hand drop, and Arthur found his knees were shaky.  He lifted the sorcerer – his first subject - by the shoulders. 

          “Now you are mine,” Arthur told him fiercely, shifting his grip to the back of Merlin's neck.  “And no one can take you away from me.”

          “I think he might want to,” Merlin stammered.

          Arthur turned to see King Uther Pendragon approaching across the sand, resplendent with golden crown and billowing red cape, expression thunderous.  Behind him came an elderly man in a blue robe.

          “What the hell is going on here?” Uther demanded, as Arthur and Merlin both bowed to him.  “Both of you knew and agreed to the rules of this game.  One winner, one heir.”

          “Yes, Your Majesty,” Merlin said, gesturing to Arthur.  “Arthur is your heir.  He is the victor of the games.”

          “For him to be the winner, you must be dead,” Uther declared bluntly, drawing his sword.  Merlin made no protest, but bowed his head - and Arthur reached for him again, interjecting himself bodily between the two.

          “No, you can’t!” Arthur protested, trying to do so respectfully.  “Sire, he saved my life – he made my victory possible.  I can’t watch him die!”

          Uther turned on him with steely gray eyes and no hint of compassion.  “Then don’t look,” he ordered.  “If you become king, he will not be the last to die for you.”  He drew back his arm, raising the sword.

          “No!” Arthur said again, thrusting Merlin aside, behind him, ignoring Merlin’s hiss of protest.  He'd spoken a vow only moments ago, to assume responsibility for Merlin's safety and wellbeing, and he meant it. “You will have to kill me first!”

          “Sire, if I may,” the old man added, with forceful respect and decorum.  “The boy has already sworn to Arthur as his subject in front of nearly the entire kingdom.  I don’t believe he poses a threat to the line of succession passed to Arthur as the victor.”

          “But he is a sorcerer, Gaius,” Uther said, not lowering the sword.  “And when have you known a sorcerer to lack ambition?  It is a trick.”

          Gaius silenced the two young men’s arguments with a single raised eyebrow.  “After this display, Highness, there is no way the boy could rise above Arthur,” he said.  “As a matter of fact,” he gestured to call Uther’s attention to the mood of the crowd, “I believe you may find yourself with an uprising on your hands if you do not grant the boy’s life to your new heir.”

          Arthur risked taking his eyes from the king’s blade to glance up into the stands.  Thousands of hands were extended, thousands of thumbs silently pointing upward in the universal signal of Live.

          Beside him, he heard Merlin’s breath catch in his throat in a disbelieving sob.  It felt surreal to him also - when he'd entered this competition, he meant mostly to honor his noble father and prove his training the only way the son of a common woman would be allowed. 

          “A prince should have the heart of the people,” Gaius continued softly, as the king contemplated his audience.  “A prince should also know when to pass judgment, and when to extend mercy.  This young man will make you a good heir, Uther.  I’m afraid your only other choice is to kill them both, and it would be – an extremely unpopular choice.”

          Uther reluctantly lowered his weapon... then deliberately sheathed it.  The crowd erupted in reaction - calling, crying, hugging each other, throwing hats and scarves into the air.

          Under cover of the noise, the king stepped close, his eyes and face like granite.  “You have opposed me successfully this once,” he said to Arthur.  “Do not make it a habit.”

          “Sire,” Arthur bowed his head to show his intended submission.  He had survived – had won! – and Merlin was allowed to live.  At the moment, he had absolutely no wish to cross his monarch.

          Uther glanced over Merlin with an expression of sneering distaste, then turned away.  “As you have spoken to vouch for him, Gaius, let him live in service to you and Arthur, both.”  He strode away, back across the sands toward the great entrance where the iron portcullis had been raised.

          “I am Gaius, the court physician,” the old man said.  “Arthur, and Merlin, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.  Now, perhaps you’d like to follow me to my chambers, where I can assess and treat your injuries?”

          Consciousness chose that moment to abandon Merlin, and he would have tumbled to the sand had Arthur not caught him, awkwardly and tiredly embracing the sorcerer's limp weight.

          “My lord, allow me,” said a red-caped guard hurrying up behind Gaius.  Arthur recognized the knight with wavy red-gold hair who had supervised the combatants.  Sir Leon, Merlin had called him.  Leon bent and lifted the sorcerer over his shoulder.

          “Thank you, my friend,” Arthur said.  “Thank you, Gaius, it is very kind of you to offer.”

          “Well, as of now you are our prince,” the old man responded.  “Do not take it amiss if I hope I do not see you in my professional capacity too often.”

          Arthur laughed wearily.  “Yeah, I hope not, too.”

          Merlin woke in an unfamiliar but cozy room.  He was warm, he was comfortable - sore all over, but motionless - and he was dry.  Turning his head to the high window, he noted it was already late into evening by the dark look of the sky beyond.  The pungent odor of herbs that the wound on his shoulder had been bound with was strong.  Sitting straight up was nearly impossible, his injured muscles protested, but he rolled to the side and managed to struggle upright.  He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for his head to clear, and realized he could hear voices from beyond the room’s door.

          Pushing to his feet, he crossed to the door, the boards of which had begun to warp away from each other despite the iron bindings.  He put his eye to the largest of the cracks, and saw Gaius, the elderly court physician, seated at the table in his blue robe, working with mortar and pestle.  The old man spoke, addressing someone beyond Merlin’s line of vision.  He shifted to the side, and there was Arthur in profile, clean and dry as Merlin was, out of his armor, dressed in simple trousers and a white cotton shirt.  His arms were crossed and he leaned comfortably against a side table as he chatted with Gaius.

          Merlin took a deep breath and let it out, happier than he’d been in a long time, since before he’d left his home in Ealdor. 

          No, that wasn’t quite right.  He hadn’t left his home.

          He had found it.

            For the victory banquet the next night, Arthur had been dressed in the finest of clothing, the red of Camelot, chainmail and his own red cape.  Merlin had been given a new blue shirt and a red sleeveless tunic to wear over it, bearing the rampant dragon of Camelot embroidered in gold, and falling mid-thigh.  His right arm rested in a sling – not absolutely necessary, as Gaius had pointed out, but a good precaution in the press of the crowd to be expected at the celebration.

          Arthur, of course, was the center of attention, as it should be.  Merlin kept his back to the wall, aware that he was something of an oddity, trying to remain inconspicuous, not wishing to attract the king’s ire along with any undue attention from the guests.

          Gaius had checked on him twice, telling him, “If you feel light-headed or dizzy, do sit down before you fall.  The magic you performed yesterday would exhaust even the most experienced of sorcerers, and the last thing we want you to do is interrupt Uther’s speech.” 

          Merlin had grinned and agreed.

          Sir Leon had made a point also of stopping to speak to him, congratulate him.  “You have amazing good luck,” the knight told him good-humoredly.  “I’m pleased that Arthur has you.”

          “I’m pleased you recommended the hardened leather,” Merlin returned, in the same light manner.  “Only think what a burn I would have had with all the holes there are in chainmail.”

          Sir Leon smiled, and reminded him, “I still have your pack, if you’d like it returned.”

          “Oh, yes, please,” Merlin remembered.  “Gaius has already assigned me herb-gathering duties.”

          He was surprised when the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl that Arthur had flirted with at the combatants’ feast approached him, elegant in a salmon-pink dress embroidered with white flowers across the bodice.  “I’m Guinevere, but most people call me Gwen.”

          “Right, I’m Merlin,” he said, awkwardly offering his right hand, which was tangled in the sling.  She took it gracefully, and carefully.

          “You were so brave,” she said.  “That was incredible, what you did for him.”

          Merlin scoffed a little.  “You may be the only one who thinks so,” he said.  “Everyone else seems to believe that I either begged for my life like a coward, or planned all along to leave the arena at Arthur’s side - in hopes of enchanting him to do my bidding later on.”

          She gave him a puzzled frown.  “Surely not,” she said.  “I mean, surely people don’t really think those things, do they?”

          “It doesn’t matter,” Merlin said, sensing Arthur's approach.  “They don’t know me, and the important thing is that Arthur knows the truth.”

          “Arthur!” Gwen exclaimed, the blush coloring her dusky complexion with a rosy pink.

          “My lady,” Arthur said gallantly, bowing to the girl.  Merlin thought he hid his smirk successfully, but Arthur shoved his good shoulder.

          Gwen curtsied prettily.  “My champion,” she returned playfully.

          "People of Camelot!..."

          Uther beckoned imperiously for Arthur.  Merlin stayed in his place by the wall and was pleasantly surprised when Gwen remained with him. 

          Arthur knelt before the king and the whole assembly on a red velvet pillow.  A golden circlet studded with diamonds was placed on his head, and the king extended a small jeweled rod of state between them.

          “Do you solemnly swear,” Uther began, his voice ringing out over the hushed gathering, “to govern the people of this kingdom and its dominions according to the statutes, customs, and laws laid down by our forebears?”

          Arthur said, in a strong, confident voice, “I do, sire.”

          “Do you swear allegiance to Camelot, now and for as long as you shall live?”

          Arthur reached to take hold of the jeweled rod.  “I, Arthur of Camelot, do pledge life and limb to your service and to the protection of the kingdom and its peoples.”

          Gwen leaned over and whispered, “How does it feel to be the servant of the crown prince of Camelot?”  Merlin, incapable of words at the moment, merely snorted and grinned.  She nudged him gently.  “You’re proud of him, I can see it in your face.”

          “From henceforth,” Uther proclaimed, “you shall be Crown Prince of Camelot.  My honorable guests, I give you – Prince Arthur!”

          The golden-haired warrior, Merlin’s best friend, stood and turned, accepting the applause of the nobility with grace, nodding here and there.  But when he met Merlin’s eyes, he grinned, and inclined his head with its crowned-prince’s circlet - in a small bow of appreciation to his sorcerer.

Chapter Text

Part II:  A Game of Two Kings

          In the second year that Arthur was prince of Camelot, King Cenred sent a messenger to Uther with a singular and yet familiar proposition.  Arthur himself didn’t hear the proposition until two days after the king and council received it.  The old men had two more days worth of time to cogitate and discuss and plot, which considerations were far from the minds of Arthur and Merlin, as they traveled leisurely down the road from Ealdor back to Camelot.

          The recently-crowned victor-prince was glad they’d finally gotten the time to make the journey and spend a fortnight with Merlin’s family; it had revealed quite a lot, actually, about the young sorcerer.  Arthur turned in his saddle to watch Hunith perched behind Balinor in the saddle of Merlin’s horse, while Merlin loped alongside.  Balinor was, again, trying to gently argue his son into taking a turn riding – despite the older man’s obvious limp when he walked – and was having no luck.

          Arthur’s first impression of Ealdor had been one of well-disguised shock.  No wonder Merlin had been sent to the heir-games a year ago in return for a sack of grain.  The people lived in hovels, grubbed in the dirt with old and broken tools, shared a mule and a cart and a well.  Arthur’s bed in Camelot was bigger than the one Balinor and Hunith slept in together, and the crown prince had joined his friend on the floor of a hut that would have fit into the Camelot bedchamber, the anteroom not included.

          Arthur’s second impression of village life was much better.  The people had next to nothing, but they were humble and hard-working and resourceful.  They were respectful of Arthur’s new status without being obsequious, and while they allowed him to help with the work, no one ever expected it of him, and all were appreciative of it.

          Arthur’s third impression was a faint passing shadow the first week.  Balinor was something of a loner, preferring to hunt or trap or gather in the forest rather than work the fields, and Hunith was so kind and generous she was a friend to all.  But their son…  The first week Arthur ascribed Merlin’s touch of melancholy and the hesitant awkwardness of the people to the absence of Merlin’s best friend Will, who had left some months earlier to look for other work in Cenred’s kingdom.

          “He was bored without you, Merlin,” Hunith had explained.  “He was just – at loose ends.”

          “He could’ve come to Camelot,” Merlin had argued, sitting at the wood plank table beside Arthur, the firelight on their faces.  "We could have found work for him to do."

          “He’s too proud for that, you know as well as I do,” Balinor said from the darker corner where he’d tipped his chair back and lit his pipe.

          The second week Arthur was more sensitive to the glances the villagers gave his friend, which ought to have passed the stage of self-consciousness in the presence of one they’d let walk to the arena to his expected death, and who was now back in their midst.  There remained a lack of congenial conversation in the fields or while occupied with other jobs.  There was a distinct mistrust of Merlin’s casual use of magic to aid his daily chores, something Arthur had grown accustomed to in Camelot even in one short year – and these folk had lived with it all Merlin’s life. 

          Once Arthur had opened his mouth to advise his friend that the people were jealous, hadn’t he considered offering to use his magic to help them also, when he realized – they didn’t want Merlin, his magic or his help.  They congratulated Arthur on his victory, praising his skills.  They excused themselves to other duties when he tried to credit Merlin, or gave him looks of skepticism, or began to argue only to snap their mouths shut and bow.

          By the time the four of them had made their plans for Balinor and Hunith to accompany them back to Camelot, Arthur was rather tempted to beg them to stay in the city permanently so a return to Ealdor would never be necessary.  Camelot, at least, had welcomed Merlin.  After a year, the nobility had accepted the young sorcerer, had mostly cleared their suspicions of ulterior motives in the arena.  And the common folk had loved him, it seemed, from the moment he’d tripped making his grand entrance into the fray.

          Behind him, Merlin grunted, and Hunith said, “Oh, Merlin.” 

          Arthur twisted around to see his friend’s lanky form sprawled in the dust of the track, his wide grin white in his dirt-darkened face.

          “Ye gods, boy,” Balinor said.  “Now will you please get on the horse?”

          Arthur turned his own mount, as Merlin picked himself up and started to argue with his parent.  “No, Father, you know your leg pains you –“

          “Well, now your leg pains you,” Balinor pointed out.

          “I have the solution,” Arthur announced, kicking his left foot free from his stirrup, and reaching his arm down.  “Climb up here behind me, Merlin.”

          “Oh, no, sire, I couldn’t possibly –“ Merlin objected, inspecting his elbow and giving it a brisk rub. 

          “Merlin, obey your liege,” Balinor rumbled in amusement.

          The young sorcerer stepped into the stirrup, his elbow crooked around Arthur’s for balance, and wondered aloud, “Are you sure we’re not too heavy for this horse?”

          Arthur grinned, facing their mount toward Camelot once again.  Now that they’d shaken the dust of Ealdor from their feet and breathed freer air, Merlin’s spirits had perked up considerably. 

          “Are you calling me fat, Merlin?” he said in a tone of mock outrage. 

          “Of course not, sire,” Merlin assured him.  “Although, if I recall correctly, the extra sausage did go to your plate this morning.  And yesterday, and the day before–“

          Arthur’s elbow caught in Merlin’s ribs, making him grunt, as Hunith chided gently, “Merlin,” and Balinor’s hearty chuckle rang out.

          With the weight of two extra passengers for the horses to deal with, it took them nearly twice as long to make the return trip to Camelot.  They entered the gates with an hour to spare before they were closed for the night, and Arthur saved the dispute over where Merlin’s parents would stay – Balinor insisted upon an upper room at the Rising Sun – by leading them to his mother’s home instead of the tavern.  His old room, empty now for a year, would be perfect for the couple, and his mother would be glad of the company.

          Ygraine, as Arthur had expected, welcomed them warmly – and effusively, to the point of breaking into tears as she embraced Hunith, whispering, “Thank you,” over and over into the country woman’s ear.  As she had spent several months greeting Merlin this way whenever they met, the young sorcerer only looked slightly self-conscious. 

          Arthur chose to rescue his friend, and save himself the embarrassment of re-living the events of the arena, who was more responsible for saving whose life.  “Merlin and I are going to return to the citadel,” he said, when Ygraine mentioned dinner.  “I have some catching-up to do with reports and so on, and Merlin can get our dinners from the kitchen.”

          “I’ll see you both tomorrow,” Merlin promised his parents.

          “Not too early,” Balinor said.  “I have an old friend I’m planning to visit tonight.”

          “Oh?  Anyone I know?” Ygraine said innocently, but was distracted by Hunith asking a question about the herbs the Camelot native grew in her window-boxes. 

          “I didn’t know your father knew anyone in Camelot,” Arthur said, once they were mounted on their own horses again, and headed up from the lower town.

          “I didn’t either,” Merlin answered.

          Arthur urged his horse to a faster pace.  “Let’s go - it's late, and I’m hungry.”

          “You’re always hungry.”

          Arthur grinned because the younger man couldn’t see it from behind him.  This was why he enjoyed Merlin’s company – he always had something to say.  “That’s because I’m so active,” Arthur said.  “If I sat on my rear and read books all day –“

          “I don’t read all day,” Merlin protested.  “Gaius runs me near ragged fetching and carrying.”

          “Is that why you look like a scarecrow all the time?” Arthur shot back.

          “Well, of the two of us, I’m not the stuffed shirt…”

          They rode into the castle courtyard, bickering comfortably, and were met by Sir Leon.  “My lord,” he greeted him, “Merlin.  There’s news – a messenger from Cenred.  Uther requested your presence as soon as you returned.”

          Arthur sighed.  So much for getting to eat and wash in his own quarters, first thing. 

          “I’ll have your dinner and your bath ready for you,” Merlin promised.

          “Ah, no, sorry,” Leon said.  “Uther wants you as well, Merlin.”

          Merlin gritted his teeth as he followed Arthur and Leon down halls and up stairs to the council chamber.  While he was often present for meetings, standing respectfully – and silently – behind the crown prince’s chair as his attendant, he had never been included by the king in word or look.  His handful of absences had never been mentioned, and his presence was never requested.

          It was something bad, he decided.  Something he’d done?  Maybe that goblet of wine he’d spilled over two of Lord Geoffrey’s record-books in the library.  Or there was that small matter of leaving the stable door open by mistake…

          They marched into the king’s presence, too soon to suit Merlin.  Lord Geoffrey was there, bending with Uther over a large map spread on the table.  Several council members and a handful of Leon’s red-caped knights, and... Merlin sidled over to stand with Gaius, his back to a pillar.

          “Welcome back, Merlin,” Gaius said in a low voice.  “I trust you had an enjoyable visit?  Your parents are well?”

          “Yes, and you’ll get to meet them – tomorrow, I hope,” Merlin whispered back.  “They’ve come for a visit here.”

          Uther Pendragon cleared his throat, and the room was immediately silent.  The king straightened, his hard gray eyes seeking out his heir.  Arthur inclined his head respectfully.  “There you are, Arthur,” the king said, his tone one of disappointment rather than pleasure.  “I expected your return two days ago – I trust you encountered no difficulties on the road?”

          “I apologize for the delay, my lord,” Arthur answered.  He absorbed the implied criticism without offense, but made no excuses, for which Merlin was thankful, as it was his fault they were late.  “Sir Leon mentioned a messenger from Cenred?”

          “Yes,” Uther said.  “As you know, Cenred is himself without an heir, aside from a niece which his council will not accept as having a legitimate claim.”

          Arthur nodded.  It was part of his education and training as Uther’s heir, to learn about the ruling families of neighboring kingdoms, and as Arthur’s shadow, Merlin had picked up some of those details also.

          “He’d recently received information from his court physician that a passing illness has life-threatening, and he must decide upon his line of succession,” Uther explained.  “He applauded the ingenuity of our arena games last year.  He and his council were inclined to make just such an attempt themselves.”

          What did that have to do with Camelot? Merlin wondered.  Did Cenred maybe wish to use their amphitheatre?  He would, if it was all right with Arthur, beg off attending that event.

          “He further proposed for Camelot to join the games.  The victor would then be a joint heir to both kingdoms.”

          Merlin saw Arthur stiffen.  Beside him, Gaius shifted to watch his own reaction.  He felt nothing but confusion.  Why on earth would Cenred–

          “Cenred has long wanted to attack and claim Camelot for his own,” Arthur said, in the voice he used when his feelings did not match what he felt himself required as crown prince to say.  “If he is willing to offer his own land to our champion as incentive for us to join this contest, we can safely assume that he is sure of winning.”

          “And yet, the opportunity he offered,” Uther said.  “I have long wanted to claim that pestilential den of vice he calls a kingdom.  A little forceful cleaning, and it would be very productive territory – and increase Camelot’s size by half again as much.”

          Arthur shook his head slowly.  “I do not trust such an offer,” he said.  “Cenred cannot take Camelot, not if all his citizens were conscripted into the army.”

          “And Camelot cannot win Cenred's kingdom without much bloodshed on both sides,” Uther countered. 

          “Why is conflict inevitable?” Arthur argued.  “The treaty has kept peace for years.”

          “It is a moot point, however, Arthur,” Uther countered.  “I have already dispatched a messenger accepting the offer.”

          Merlin bridled at the insult to his prince, but Arthur merely inclined his head, his posture tense.

          “We are studying this map,” Uther went on, waving a hand to the scroll-covered end of the table, “to familiarize ourselves with the contest-ground.  Cenred suggested, instead of the arena, that we stage the event in either the Valley of the Fallen Kings, or the Labyrinth of Gedref.”

          Arthur leaned his hands on the table, his eyes on the map.  “The valley is full of bandits, thieves, and cutthroats,” he said.  “You would either have to clear them out or include them as an obstacle.”

          “I agree,” Uther said, pleased for the first time since the two young men had entered the room.  “My message to Cenred, therefore, specified the labyrinth as the setting for this contest.  In two weeks’ time, five champions from each kingdom will enter the labyrinth from ten different points, and one will emerge as future ruler of both kingdoms combined.”

          “What will Anhora have to say about this?” Arthur asked, referring to the keeper of the labyrinth, a man he and Merlin knew by name only.

          “Anhora will have nothing to say,” Uther stated irritably.  “He will do as he is ordered.  He will provide scrying-pools for Cenred and myself, of course, and a handful of ranking officials, that we may observe the contest and record the status of the combatants.”

          Arthur studied the map a moment longer, then straightened.  “Sire, you have made your decision to accept the proposal, you have determined the time, the place, the number of champions.”  He paused, and Merlin’s heart dropped – he knew what was coming.  “Why then have you requested my presence?”

          Uther stared at him.  “Isn’t it obvious, Arthur?” he said.  “As my proclaimed heir, you are consequentially and irrevocably enrolled as the first champion of Camelot.”

Chapter Text

Part II: A Game of Two Kings

Chapter 2: The Gift of Magic

          Uther told Arthur, “As my proclaimed heir, you are consequentially and irrevocably enrolled as the first champion of Camelot.”

          “Then I will be the second champion of Camelot.”  Merlin didn’t even have to consider his words.

          “Merlin!” Gaius hissed.

          Arthur was staring at him like he wanted to give an order maybe, as the crown prince, tell Merlin to shut up, stand down-

          “So be it,” said the king.

          Merlin watched Arthur transfer his gaze to their king, a fuller comprehension of something Merlin had already accepted dawning on his friend’s face.  That the crown prince would be included in a mad scramble for both kingdoms was hardly more than a matter of course, logical if cold and harsh.  But Merlin – Uther had counted on Merlin volunteering also. 

          I solemnly swear to serve and protect my lord to the best of my abilities as a sorcerer and a man, to the last drop of blood in my veins, the last breath of life in my lungs, the last light of magic in my heart, both now and always.    

          “You do understand, don’t you,” the king continued, in a tone of easy assurance – of satisfaction, even – “both of you?  It is to the death.  Only…one…victor.”

          “I understand, my lord,” Merlin said. 

          Uther looked at Arthur, who didn’t immediately respond.  Merlin watched the golden-haired warrior fight the urge to argue.  It was intriguing, most of the time, to see how Arthur’s respect for his king conflicted with his natural stubbornness, how the idealism finally melded with the practicality.  Right now it was odd to think that he was the cause of Arthur’s inner tension.

           “Yes, sire,” Arthur said aloud.  “I understand.” 

          Merlin had seen it before a handful of times, when the heir would agree with his sovereign to his face, then find a way to have his own way, later on.  Merlin didn’t see how it was possible, this time.

          “Very well,” the king said, nodding to Geoffrey, who seated himself at the table beyond the edge of the map, brought ink and quill from an inner pocket of his robe, and began to compose the document both kings would sign, binding their agreement.  “Prince Arthur of Camelot, and Merlin of–“ he waved a hand to indicate that he’d forgotten where Merlin was from.  Or didn’t care.

          “Merlin of Camelot,” the sorcerer said softly. 

          “We’ll need three more champions within ten days,” Uther said to the room at large.  “We meet in the morning to discuss a public proclamation as well as to compile a list of names for private invitation.”  He met the gaze of each council member – Gaius, Leon – then Arthur.  “That is all.”

          Arthur turned and stalked from the chamber.  Merlin hurried to take his place a step behind and beside him. 

          “Do you want me to get–“ Merlin started, but Arthur held up one hand to signal his desire for silence.  It lasted until they reached Arthur’s chamber, and Merlin had closed the door behind them.

          “Dammit, Merlin!” Arthur exploded.

          “Well, what did you expect me to do?” Merlin snapped back.  “Sit beside the scrying pool to watch you and twiddle my thumbs and hope?  Ten to one Cenred brings magic-users to fight for him, and I am your defense against hostile magic.”

          “You’re my friend, too,” Arthur said.  “And I wish you wouldn’t–“

          “Wouldn’t what?  Give my life for you?  I’m here because you’re here.  My life isn’t worth a hill of beans if some other champion comes out of this contest, and you know it.”  Merlin stepped up close to him.  He knew exactly what he was doing, and he only wanted for Arthur to accept it.  “So if I die watching your back and making sure you are the victor, so be it.  That is my purpose in life, after all.  Magic is my gift – and I give it to you.”

          Arthur kicked the chair away from the table and dropped into it, rubbing his forehead. 

          “Damn Uther for a greedy soulless sonuva – goblin,” he said, and Merlin grinned at the conviction that his friend had changed the last word at the last minute.

          “That’s treasonous,” Merlin said lightly, beginning to arrange the room for Arthur’s comfort after a two-week absence, opening the window for fresh air, turning down the coverlet on the bed.

          “What am I going to say to your mother and father?” Arthur said.

          Merlin paused in arranging the privacy screen before the tub - realized, and groaned, “Oh, hells, my mother...”

          Arthur had never considered Merlin a cowardly person.  He himself, as the son of a knight and now the crown prince, never shirked a duty.  But neither of them was eager to enter Ygraine’s home late the next morning, tired as they already were from Uther’s council meeting.  Merlin kept his self-appointed position slightly behind Arthur during their walk to the lower town, and remained there as Arthur knocked politely, pushing through the door of his mother’s house.  He remained there as Ygraine greeted her son and as Balinor and Hunith came into the kitchen, and put his back to the wall when Arthur seated himself at his mother’s invitation.

          “What is it, what’s the matter?” Hunith demanded.

          Ygraine took another look at the son she had greeted with warmth and affection, and saw whatever had struck Hunith immediately also.

          Balinor took his eyes from Arthur’s face to give his son, invisible to Arthur behind him, a searching glance.  “What’s happened?”

          Arthur said, “King Uther has this week taken an opportunity to absorb Cenred’s kingdom into Camelot with a minimum of bloodshed.”

          His mother and Merlin’s looked blank – this surely could not be interesting enough news to upset both their sons.  Arthur clasped his hands together on the tabletop and studied his knuckles.  “There will be a second round of arena-games, held in the Labyrinth of Gedref,” he said, and had to clear his throat to continue.  “Five champions from each kingdom, winner take all.”

          His mother said, in hesitant disbelief, “You mean, if Cenred’s champion wins, he will be our king?”

          “And you’re Uther’s first champion, aren’t you, Arthur,” Balinor said. 

          Arthur nodded once, wincing at Ygraine’s cry of horror, stifled behind her hand.  Merlin’s parents looked from Arthur back to Merlin simultaneously, and the expression in Hunith’s eyes was just as tormenting as his own mother’s lament. 

          “Ah, hells, boy,” Balinor said softly.  “That means you volunteered too, didn’t you?”

          Merlin said nothing, but Hunith gave a miserable little moan as her fears were confirmed.  Ygraine gasped sharply, and Arthur knew her thought instantly, it was clear on her face.  The sudden hope Merlin’s presence in the battle gave her for Arthur’s safety conflicted with the knowledge that she or her new friends and houseguests must lose a son.  Whatever she saw on Merlin’s face, Arthur watched her turn aside, as if ashamed to be hopeful and grateful in the presence of his parents.

          Hunith rose and circled the table, and Arthur turned to watch her reach her hands up to cradle Merlin’s face.  She was smiling through tears.  “You break my heart,” she told her son.  “But I am proud of you.”

          It was nigh unbearable for Arthur.  He addressed Balinor, somewhat desperate to explain, excuse, apologize, “I might have tried to talk him out of it, if it would have done any good.  He seemed just as determined to enter as Uther was eager to have him do it.”

          “Hm.”  Balinor’s eyes hadn’t left Merlin.  Sad, and proud, as Hunith’s were.  “Your king is not as much a friend of our Merlin as his heir, then, young prince?”

          Arthur combed his fingers through his hair distractedly.  “Tell you the truth,” he said ruefully.  “Uther has never wanted him at court.”

          Hunith murmured, her face pressed into the shoulder of Merlin’s coat, “Would that I could take you home with me, then.”

          “Mother,” Merlin grunted.  “Ease up a bit, I can’t breathe.”

          “Uther is a man suspicious by nature,” Balinor observed, “and doubly so of magic.  Merlin could spend the next decade proving his loyalty, and the king would still mistrust.”

          “It’s a good thing I don’t have a decade, then,” Merlin said lightly.  “Two weeks ought to do it, then he won’t be able to argue.”

          “Two weeks?” Hunith whispered.  Fresh tears started from her eyes and she clutched him close again.

          “Let me know when you find out who the other champions are,” Balinor told Arthur.  “My – friend – may have some useful information for you.”

          The next ten days were extremely busy for Arthur.  Meetings, discussions, studying, training… more training.  Scheduled periods of rest when he couldn’t keep still.  Reactions of those around him to deal with, from the pleasantly poignant encounter with Guinevere in a hidden alcove – soft tears, and an even softer kiss – to Leon’s sympathetic yet silent support, to Uther’s calculating greed.  All of it was exhausting.

          And what was worse, he could never get more than a minute or two, a word or two, with Merlin.  Busy as Arthur was, his friend was even busier.

          Gaius had been advised by Uther, quite callously, to begin to train a replacement, but both sorcerers, old man and young boy alike, seemed to Arthur to be resisting the change.  Arthur overheard a snatch of a conversation from outside the physician’s chamber door, on his way to yet another meeting and searching for his assistant to accompany him.

          “Do you honestly think,” he heard Gaius say in a tone of fond exasperation, “that you’ll be able to remember any of these spells or incantations you’re trying to cram into your head?”

          Merlin’s voice, softer, “I have to try, Gaius.”

          Arthur pushed the door open to find Merlin seated at a table covered with open books, pale with exhaustion and wincing as the old physician molded the muscles of his shoulders and neck with strong hands.

          “It’s not going to do you any good to push yourself so hard you’re dead on your feet the moment you enter the labyrinth,” Gaius continued, nodding to Arthur, who winced at the old man’s choice of phrases – intentional, it seemed.  “And no matter what you may have been told about osmosis, you cannot learn new spells by falling asleep with your head on the books!”

          When Merlin wasn’t with Gaius, he was in the lower town with his parents.  Arthur knew he was the only one who would not accept the near-inevitability of the farm-boy’s death, so he encouraged his friend to spend as much time as possible with Hunith and Balinor, even to the point of doing some of his own errands and receiving a reprimand for it by Uther.

          “This is your time of preparation as Camelot’s first champion,” the king had stated sternly, as Arthur had tried – and failed – to hide the folded stack of clean sheets he was carrying to his chamber.  “Your boy swore to serve you – so let him do it!”

          Two days before Cenred’s deputation was scheduled to arrive, Uther settled on two of the other three champions for Camelot.  The first was a man Uther had persuaded to come, the man who served as the judge for the sorcerer’s court, rendering verdicts of guilty or innocent to magic-users accused of any crime, and answerable only to Uther.  The other was a woman who had requested entrance to the contest, her age being of greater concern than her gender, as Arthur understood it, closer to the king than his heir numerically.  He couldn’t pin Uther down on whether either one of the candidates would enter as warrior or sorcerer or both, which gave him pause.

          “I would think,” Merlin said, as they headed back to Arthur’s chamber after that meeting, “he would choose three more champions who understand that their task is to get you through alive.  Form a team.  Don’t you think Cenred’s five will work together?”

          “I would be surprised if that wasn’t his plan,” Arthur answered.  “And I’m sure he is well aware that Camelot’s most ambitious dozen are down to you and me.  However, once in the arena – or labyrinth, whatever – loyalties can change.  It will probably come down to every man for himself.”

          “Or woman,” Merlin added humorously.  Arthur wondered if the sorcerer’s loyalty was really so deep and instinctive that it hadn’t even occurred to him to argue his exclusion from “every man for himself.”

          They reached Arthur’s door, but Merlin kept walking. 

          “Where are you going?” Arthur said.  It was dinnertime, and he’d expected to eat and strategize with his friend.

          “My father wanted to know the names Uther decided on,” Merlin explained, turning to walk backwards, to face Arthur as he spoke while still covering distance.  “He said his friend might have some information that would be useful to us.”  He shrugged.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  He reached the end of the hall and disappeared.

          As Uther’s heir, Prince Arthur of Camelot should have been present to welcome King Cenred and the other guests from the neighboring kingdom.  As a champion, he was kept sequestered until the banquet that evening.  Unfortunately, that meant that he and Merlin were kept apart, also.  As another manservant, whose name he could not recall, helped him don and arrange his chainmail, the ceremonial red cloak, and his prince’s diamond-studded circlet, he wondered what clothing was being provided for the young sorcerer.

          As Uther’s heir, Arthur entered the banquet hall at the king’s elbow, accepting the obeisance of the guests already gathered, then looked around to find Merlin at his own elbow, clean royal blue shirt covered by the red thigh-length tunic embroidered with Camelot’s rampant golden dragon, the twin of the one on the back of his own cloak.

          “What’s the matter with you?” Arthur asked.  The young sorcerer’s face was grim for a celebration, even one held on the eve of battle.  “Can’t you try to relax a little, at least for tonight?  Plenty of time for–“

          “My father is gone,” Merlin whispered tersely.  “Went out two days ago to speak to his friend, didn’t return to your mother’s house last night.”

          That was unlike Balinor, Arthur knew.  He opened his mouth to suggest maybe the older man had gone to drown his sorrows at the tavern, and had gotten carried away – though that was unlike Merlin’s father, also – when Lord Geoffrey announced from the door, “His Majesty, King Cenred.”

          In strode a man Uther’s junior by a good fifteen years.  Lean, wolfish, dressed in black and leather, his hair hanging down by the sides of his face as he kept his chin down, glaring in a predatory manner at the world from under heavy brows.  He didn’t look ill, Arthur thought, before Geoffrey was announcing the five foreign champions.

          The first two were warriors, one as fair as the other was dark, though the dark one had an expression of cynical mirth, while the blonde was suitably grave for the occasion.  There was a third warrior, a compact man whose eyes, hair, and skin were dark as the shadows; Arthur didn’t bother to remember the names – Merlin surely would know them, if it was important.  His attention was focused on the combatant announced third – a sharp-featured woman with long blonde ringlets and eyes rimmed in kohl, dressed as a male warrior, even to the banquet.  Morgause, Cenred’s rumored niece, but she looked several years older than Arthur himself, at least.  He wondered as to the accuracy of the relationship, especially considering the look in Cenred’s eye as she was introduced.  It was likely that she was meant to be Cenred’s victor.

          As the last name was called, and a fourth warrior in chainmail and a yellow tunic stepped forward from behind the others, Merlin startled and gasped, eyes widening in shock.  Arthur’s mind replayed Geoffrey’s words of introduction.  Will – and he caught Merlin’s sleeve. 

          “That’s your friend?” he whispered.  “From Ealdor?”

          “Yeah.”  Merlin looked bewildered, hurt.  The young man bowing to Uther glanced sideways through the crowd, seeming to search for someone in particular, rested his gaze on Merlin with a pinched expression.

          Arthur noticed something else.  Both Uther and Cenred were also watching Merlin for his reaction.

          He and Merlin were, probably, the biggest obstacle to Cenred’s victory.  And Uther would be thrilled if Merlin never emerged from the labyrinth.  Arthur would have paid good gold coin to learn how exactly Merlin’s childhood friend had ended up a champion for Cenred, and just exactly what kind of private verbal agreement the two kings might have made.

          Lord Geoffrey concluded his speech of introduction and welcome, and Uther’s voice rose over the murmur of guests’ voices.  “I am pleased to present Prince Arthur Pendragon, winner of last year’s games and my proclaimed heir, first champion of Camelot.”

          Arthur strode forward to give the bow proper to his king and royal guest, Merlin following just behind and beside as he always did, as if the shock had robbed him of volition and he kept his place by force of habit. 

          “And Merlin of Camelot, the second champion,” Uther added. 

          Arthur stepped to the side, drawing his friend with him, worried.  Merlin’s eyes were down, his face blank.  Was he furious, scared, grief-stricken?  Arthur couldn’t tell, and it bothered him.  Uther signaled for Geoffrey to continue. 

          “Third champion of Camelot, Aredian, premier judge of the sorcerers' circuit.” 

          He was an older man also, Arthur saw, with iron-gray hair and pale eyes, wearing no obvious weapon, but if he was unarmed, then Arthur was a turnip.

          “Fourth champion of Camelot, the lady Catrina.”  She did indeed look middle-aged, beauty still present, but it was clear to Arthur that the fine clothes and arranged hair and pleasant expression were all just a mask.  A sorceress, then, most likely.  What was Uther’s game?  These two would not support Arthur in the conflict, would they?  Was Uther angling for a new heir?  Or just making sure he was the strongest and smartest after all, while separating him – permanently – from his loyal sorcerer?

          Geoffrey paused, and Cenred glanced from the official to King Uther expectantly. 

          “What of your fifth champion, Pendragon?” he said, with a feral grin.

          Uther returned the grin.  “We have this very day chosen our fifth champion,” he said.  “You do recall, I assume, our years of warfare to rid the land of the peculiar and powerful scourge of dragonkind?”

          “Who could forget?” Cenred returned shortly, glowering.  “I myself owe my declining health to an injury dragon-inflicted.”

          “You are also aware that I had captured and imprisoned one of the oldest of that dread species, not far from this city, in a great cavern beneath the ground?” Uther continued, obviously enjoying the gasp and whispering of his crowd of guests, and Cenred’s own unease.  “Camelot’s fifth champion has the distinction of being the last of an ancient race of men rumored to be able to control the beasts.”

          Cenred sat forward in his high-backed chair to Uther’s left, leaning on the wide armrest to growl, “You have a dragonlord?”

          For answer, Uther motioned to a guard at a side door, who led in a prisoner, a tall man in chains binding hands and feet alike.  A man whose long hair, black sprinkled with gray, hung loose about his face, a man whose skin was bruised and whose beard was matted with dried blood.  A man who limped in a way that was familiar to Arthur…

          Into the expectant hush of a fascinated room, Merlin said in an awful voice, “Father?”

Chapter Text

          Arthur really was in no hurry to reach the Labyrinth.  He was, however, in a hurry to be done with the ride.   Two hours, they’d been told, at the same time that they’d received their assigned positions within the cavalcade.  Talking with the other combatants was discouraged, and the guard assigned to Arthur was new, young, and understandably tongue-tied around his crown prince once again facing death.

          It had almost been better, last year.  The first combatants’ feast, he had teased a farm boy with wide blue eyes and flirted with a black-haired noble girl.  He’d enjoyed the food and the wine, not really worried about the arena-trial.  He would win, or he would die.  Simple.

          Until he’d really spoken to Lancelot, and to Merlin.

          Until he began to respect those two of his competitors, and then he owed them his life.  Until that wide-eyed farm-boy somehow became his best friend.  Now he cared, and now he worried.

          The two kings rode in the front with the honor guard.  They’d been chatting since the procession's departure from the city – another thing Arthur didn’t want two hours to think about.  He’d seen his mother in the crowd, waving to him – tearful but not hopeless – but next to her, Hunith.

          The country woman’s tears had streamed freely, her arms held tightly around her as she watched for both husband and son, knowing they could not both return.  Arthur averted his eyes quickly, not wanting to see her expression should her gaze fall on him – because his survival meant neither of her men-folk would return.

          No.  He would not accept that.  Somehow, he’d find a way around the restrictions.

          In front of Arthur rode Aredian, the magic-judge Uther had requested, next to Cenred’s blonde warrior, each ignoring the other.  Arthur wondered what Aredian might have been told, or promised.  What would persuade a man to enter this contest when his king already had a proclaimed heir?  Would Aredian kill him to gain the kingdom?  Had Uther promised a handsome reward to the man’s family if he died protecting Arthur?  But Aredian hadn’t so much as glanced at him.  To Arthur’s right was the Lady Catrina, still simpering and posturing though there was no one but him and the guard close to her. 

          But behind them trundled the cart, drawn by a team of horses, driven by one guard.  A second rode beside the first, facing backward, crossbow at the ready.  Two of the combatants were in the cart, chained to their seats.  One of them was Balinor, as Uther’s prisoner – dragonlord? prisoner? combatant? what the hell? – Arthur could hardly believe it, even now. 

          The other prisoner was one of Cenred’s warriors, the one with the cynical grin and dark hair and beard.  There was a mystery there, and an opportunity, perhaps.  He was present under duress in a way that Balinor was not. 

          Arthur knew Merlin’s father possessed magic; though he gathered it was nowhere near as strong as his son’s, escape at any time shouldn’t have been too hard for the man.  Arthur wondered if Balinor might not have managed to get himself volunteered.  From what Merlin had said about his entrance into the first arena-contest, it might have been a different story had Balinor not been absent from the village on a hunting trip when the messenger arrived.  By the time the father had returned to Ealdor, the messenger with the grain and the news of the heir and his sorcerer-son had been halfway back to Camelot.

          He twisted round in his saddle, seeing the back of Balinor’s head as he watched his son, mounted in position just behind the cart.  Ye gods, he realized, it ran in the family.  Balinor was fully prepared to die making sure his son was safe.  He was not content either, it seemed, to sit and twiddle his thumbs and hope.

          Arthur was strategist enough to wonder if that made Balinor his enemy today, and friend enough to be disgusted with himself at the thought.

          He weaved a little in his saddle, trying to get a better look at that friend.  Merlin rode with his head down, paying no attention to his father ahead of him, or his childhood friend who brought up the rear with Cenred’s shadow-warrior, who wore no sword but carried a crossbow.  He paid no attention to the blonde sorceress next to him – beautiful, powerful, dangerous, possibly considered a princess in her own country – who looked on him with such obvious contempt.

          Arthur was worried.  Balinor’s presentation the previous night, so close upon the heels of Will’s introduction, had very nearly provoked... a riot, a civil war, a coup? – he did not know what to call it.

          Merlin had stalked right up to the two kings – dressed little better than a servant among all the finery in the hall, he still somehow managed to command the atmosphere of the entire hall by sheer presence.  A powerful, angry sorcerer.  Arthur had never seen Merlin angry.  Never.  Exasperated, hurt, scared, yes.  Tired, worried, determined – grouchy, yes.  Not furious, like this.

          Guards had jumped in his way, only to be brushed away like so much lint from his tunic from several feet away.  Did anyone in the hall breathe as Merlin had demanded, in a thunderously quiet voice, “What is the meaning of this?”

          Uther actually sat back in his seat, and Arthur saw in an instant the king had never fully realized how much Merlin allowed Uther’s disdain.  Cenred looked between the two as if thanking his lucky stars he wasn’t the focus of those furious blue eyes.  Balinor himself tried to interrupt, was pulled up short by his guard – who was immediately tossed several yards away with a jerk of Merlin’s tousled head.  The crack of the guard’s helmet hitting the stone column was audible throughout the hall.

          Arthur went right over the table to get to Merlin’s side, to put himself between Uther and his friend before one of them did something Arthur would regret.

          “Merlin, look at me, focus on me, calm down, now, easy,” he’d murmured a lot of soothing nonsense, the way he would to a spooked horse.  Merlin had looked at him, and the gold had faded back to blue.

          “My father,” Merlin had whispered to him.

          “I know,” he’d said.  “I know.  We’ll figure it out.”  He glanced back at the king, who wore an unmistakable get-him-out-of-here look, though probably he didn’t dare to say it.  Ah, Merlin, yet another reason for Uther to hate and fear you, he thought as he led Merlin back to their table.

          Merlin hadn’t eaten anything.  Pushing serving dishes, plates, tableware, goblets out of the way, he buried his head in his arms and hadn’t moved again.  Arthur stationed himself as his sorcerer’s guard, and headed off the handful of people that had ventured to approach with his best kingly death-glare.

          Their only company was, for a moment, Guinevere and a friend of hers, a cousin or something, new to Camelot.  She was a little slip of a girl whose name Arthur had forgotten, if he’d ever known it, with eyes as dark and hair as long and wavy as Gwen’s, but with skin several shades lighter than the older girl’s warmer complexion.  Guinevere gave him a shaky smile, tried to speak and couldn’t, through her tears.  Hanging on to Arthur’s hand, she seated herself beside Merlin also, putting her arm around him to pet his black hair and lean to whisper in his ear.

          Arthur wasn’t jealous.  He’d had his eye on Guinevere ever since they’d met, but figured Uther for the sort who’d want to initiate any discussion of his heir’s nuptials, and would shoot a proposition full of fiery arrows if it wasn’t his own.  Merlin, though he’d blushed and stammered his way through a couple of temporary-attraction situations, had never seemed anything but comfortably friends with Gwen, as if he’d understood more about Arthur’s feelings and intentions than either had ever voiced.

          Whatever Gwen had said to Merlin, he straightened, letting his arms drop, and turned to look at the other girl.  His face was white, his eyes dark, and both blank.

          “Thank you,” the girl had spoken so quietly, so privately and intimately, to his friend, that Arthur felt guilty for what he heard.  She pushed back the silk of her sleeve and Merlin’s eyes dropped down to take in the darkly swirled symbol on the inside of her wrist.  “You are – an inspiration.  To all of us.  Thank you, Emrys.”  She slid a wide burgundy ribbon from her sleeve, rolled it in her fingers, and bent to tuck it into his hand.  She held his gaze another moment, then curtsied to Arthur, and she and Gwen had left them alone again. 

          Merlin watched the girl until she was out of sight in the crowd, then had wrapped his arms around his head on the table once again.

          Emrys? Arthur thought, but did not dare to ask.

          After the banquet, the champions were sequestered once again.  Arthur had paced for a good hour after the door had shut behind his personal guard, worrying about what had been done with Merlin.  Had they led, dragged, carried him to a room?  Would Gaius see to him?  He remembered sharing the room with Lancelot and Merlin, and wished the accommodations had been the same, this time.

          Then he remembered the one combatant who’d been dead when they woke, and was glad.  At least no one else was with Merlin.

          “There it is!” the new guard at Arthur’s side exclaimed, and Arthur looked up from his thoughts.  A great field lay before them in the valley between two tall hills, filled with a square pattern of hedges – just thick lines, from this distance.  His first impression was that the labyrinth was laid out in square sections, rather than rounded, but then he realized that there were both.  Straight walls, curved walls, angled walls.  Several miles’ worth.  The amphitheatre outside Camelot could have fit into the valley half a dozen times.

          He wondered about water, about food.  He wondered if they’d be spending the night.

          Merlin deliberately wrapped oblivion around himself like an ankle-length cloak with a deep hood.  After losing his temper at the banquet, his magic seemed on edge within him, alert and ready, spoiling for a fight, as his father used to say.

          Father.  And Will.  And Arthur.  There was no choice for heir but Arthur, and he’d gladly give his life any day for the golden-haired warrior who was now his prince.  He would refuse to kill his father or Will – but what if they attacked Arthur?

          They wouldn’t.  They couldn’t.  His stomach turned at the thought that he could contemplate such treachery.  He’d stop them all if he had to.  Just in case, his magic hummed.  He concentrated on his memory of Arthur’s eyes – calm, steady. 

          We’ll figure it out, the prince had promised.

          Twice since then Merlin had been tempted to release control of the simmering magic.  Once, during the morning procession from the city.  A brief glimpse of the agony in his mother’s eyes had him mentally cataloguing each weapon in the cavalcade, calculating the distance between himself and the two kings, then whatever guards might threaten, whatever combatants might oppose him…

          No.  Focus on Arthur.  Calm down.  Not like this.

          “Merlin?” his father had said once, just past the gates of Camelot.  Balinor leaned toward him on the bench of the cart where he was chained.

          He didn’t answer his parent, but when the guard snapped, “No talking!” shifting his weapon in his grip, Merlin had lifted his head to glare at the man, feeling the molten gold in his eyes.  The guard blanched and sat back.

          “Merlin,” Balinor spoke again, quickly.  This isn’t what your magic is for.  Not to attack.  Not to seize command.  Remember what I taught you.  If you use your magic to force your will on the world, on the people around you, you are nothing but a tyrant.  You use it to protect.  To serve.

          He didn’t look up again, but he held the words like a lifeline to sanity.

          Merlin’s first indication that they’d reached the conclusion of their ride was the realization that his mount had halted.  And the cart in front of him.  Everyone else was dismounting, so he did the same.  He kept his eyes down, but he knew to the inch where Arthur was, and Balinor, and Will – how far, and in what direction, though he recalled speaking no spell.  He supposed, in a distant sort of way, that it would be smart to use such a spell on all the combatants, in such an arena, but didn’t.

          He didn’t actually know how to, after all.

          He found himself in a line, the sorceress with the scornful eyes breathing unpleasantly down his neck, the swordsman with the devil-may-care grin and the chains still on his wrists turning to ask him, “You okay, mate?”

          Merlin didn’t answer, just shuffled along behind the dark-haired warrior.  When the man stepped away, he found himself at a table carved from stone, a scroll of parchment unrolled and held in place with little stone markers.  He watched disinterestedly as his hand was taken in another’s, turned palm-up.  The ball of his thumb was pricked with a sharpened sliver of some hard white material, not bone nor wood, and was squeezed til blood welled.  Then his hand was guided down to the parchment, his bloody thumbprint added to a row of such marks.

          A jolt flashed through him, and he jerked back, shuddering, as the cloak of oblivion shrugged away.  His eyes focused sharply on the parchment, written in the runes of the old language, which Gaius was beginning to teach him.  He caught a few phrases of uncertain wording – Swear upon life/soul/honor – Combat/fight/battle until my last enemy is vanquished – The victor/master is hereby tied/linked to the land/people–

          He raised his gaze to the old man seated on the other side of the table.  He wore a white robe and mantle with the hood up, his eyes and nose aquiline in shape and expression.  In the crook of his arm rested a long staff with a three-point antler affixed to the top and a beaded grip with a small orange globe swinging from it.

          “What have you done to me?” he demanded.  Magic lingered over the parchment he’d just signed in blood.

          Peace, Emrys.  The old man’s eyes held his.  You have nothing to fear from me.  Aloud he said, in a raspy though mild voice, “The two kings require a contract to bind the combatants to the task of determining the one worthy to rule their two lands.”

           “Anhora,” Uther’s voice snapped from somewhere behind and to Merlin’s right.  “This wastes time.”

          Someone plucked at Merlin’s sleeve and he followed, stumbling, his eyes on Anhora as the keeper of the labyrinth took Morgause’s hand to continue the ritual.  He neither looked at nor spoke to Merlin again.

          When Merlin tripped, and the someone holding his sleeve said,  “Careful, now,” he was surprised to discover that he was following Sir Leon, encumbered by a bulky burden under his other arm.

          “Where are we going?” Merlin asked. 

          Leon answered, “Each champion is taken by a personal guard to his or her own entrance into the labyrinth.”  The knight looked back at him and gave him a compassionate smile.  “I am your guard.”

          They followed a footpath, where another red-caped guard and another combatant – Will, he thought, in the chainmail and yellow tunic – were so far ahead of them that they were frequently hidden by turns in the trail.  He stumbled over a root and looked back.  The connection that told him where Arthur and Balinor were, added that he was increasing the distance between them.

          Through the foliage to his right as they hiked, Merlin caught glimpses of the outer wall of the labyrinth.  It was seven feet tall, thick and green, leafy with offshoots like a hedge that had missed its yearly trimming.  They walked for some moments in silence, then Leon diverted to a side path, a very short lane that ended at a pair of stone columns flanking an opening into the labyrinth, as far apart as a man could reach with outstretched fingers.

          “You need to be careful, Merlin,” Leon said seriously.  “Uther would prefer Arthur the lone survivor.  Cenred knows the two of you will fight as one.  Your father and your friend–“

          He cut himself off, both of them turning their heads to watch another red-caped guard escort the blonde sorceress Morgause along the path, past Merlin’s turn-off point, continuing on until they were both out of sight.

          “I thought you’d probably prefer this to chainmail,” Leon said, and Merlin recognized the knight’s burden for the first time. 

          "Yeah," Merlin managed.

          He lifted a hardened-leather hauberk over Merlin’s head, and as Sir Leon laced the armor tightly down one side, Merlin’s fingers sought a hidden pocket and a throwing star, but didn’t find it.  Then Leon held out his own pack, smelling now of the herbs he gathered for Gaius, and he turned to take it onto his shoulders, adjusting the two straps. 

          “Each champion has been given two days’ rations,” Leon told him.  “Bandages – and a full water pouch.”  He settled that over Merlin’s head and one shoulder.  “You’ll pass the columns at midday.  And you won’t be allowed to exit the labyrinth until there is one survivor.”

          Merlin nodded, saying in a husky voice, “Once again, thank you, Sir Leon."

          Leon stepped back, with a small smile.  “You intend on fighting for Arthur’s victory again, don’t you?”

          Merlin frowned slightly.  “Of course.”

          The knight squinted up at the sun through the leaves high overhead.  “It’s almost time to –“  he was interrupted by a sound from the columns, as if the stone had been lightly struck with a blade, singing its vibration.  “There’s your signal.  Good luck, Merlin.” 

          He put out his hand, and as Merlin reached to take it, Leon suddenly thrust his forward to clasp his fingers about Merlin’s forearm.  A salutation between comrades-in-arms. 

          Merlin nodded, and moved forward, shivering at the sensation of a fine, invisible mist as he passed between the pillars.  He glanced back and saw nothing, but knew he would find it physically impossible to retrace his steps, should he try to exit the labyrinth.

          He stepped to the first juncture, a path running parallel to the outer wall, and glanced both ways.  Arthur was to his right. 

          The tall hills to either side of the valley were always visible, along with a large tree growing somewhere toward the center of the maze.  Sometimes the end of a row brought several options for a new route, sometimes it was a curved turn that took him back, resulting in a five-minute walk and an actual distance covered of about eight feet, sometimes even in a dead end.  Merlin was soon frustrated.  Of course that was the point of a labyrinth, to prevent a straight route anywhere, but every moment that passed without a sight of Arthur – or any other champion, for that matter – made him nervous.

          Two days’ rations.  And he could survive a week on the water, if necessary.  Were they meant to run wildly through?  Creep along?  It might be possible for ten people to wander a week without ever meeting one another, in here.  He wondered if Uther had considered the mental obstacles when using this place as his arena.  He wondered if Cenred had formed any plots before proposing the labyrinth alongside the valley of the Fallen Kings.

          He wondered if it was allowed to climb up the leafy hedge-walls and leap from one to the next – whether the advantage of a clear line of sight would be worth making himself a target for anyone around.

          Turning to the wall next to him, he wormed his arm into it, scratching his skin on the sharp, stiff twigs.  When the leaves and tiny yellow flowers were tickling his face and his ear, his outstretched fingertips still felt hedge.  He pushed his arm down, and it dropped with little resistance.  It wouldn’t hold his weight, then.

          He scuffed at the packed earth of the path, the noon sun overhead shimmering on occasional puddles that formed on the clay.  Tunneling wasn’t really an option.  He’d get to Arthur in a straight line, sure, and be fairly safe from other champions as he went, but he’d be a sitting duck should anyone find the mouth of the tunnel, and the amount of magic it would take would leave him exhausted and useless once he finally popped up at Arthur’s side.

          It would be possible to burn a sizeable hole through the walls with a single fast fireball… he breathed in the cool green scent of the crushed leaves and bent twigs his foray into the hedge had left on his sleeve, and decided against it.

          Slow and steady, then.

          He’d been focused primarily on Arthur’s location, and was encouraged to find it nearing, when he realized that he sensed Will just behind him, only four yards or so.  He turned.  Quiet, green avenues, corners.  He could hear nothing but his heart and a little breeze shuffling over the hedges.

          Was it worth the risk of speaking?  He slipped to the end of the aisle, risked a look.  Two choices – continue at right angles, or move back parallel to his original course.  He checked Will’s position, moved to another juncture, waited.

          He heard his friend’s footsteps on the packed earth, and just before he reached the corner, Merlin said, “Will.” 

          The footsteps stopped.  “Merlin?”

          “It’s me,” he answered, and stepped out at the same time as Will.  For a moment neither reacted, gauging the other warily.  Will’s sword was drawn, but down at his side, as Merlin’s empty hands were.  After a moment in which it was clear neither would attack the other, Merlin cleared his throat to ask a bit desperately, “What made you come?”

          Will grimaced as he approached him.  “Rotten timing and my own big mouth,” he said.  “When I left Ealdor, I went to Cenred.  Figured since my da died serving him, I might ask for a place in his service.  He welcomed me, invited me to join him for dinner, got me talking about Ealdor and–“ Will grimaced again – “you.  I ended up swearing into his service – and between him and his sorceress-niece, I found I didn’t have a choice when he ordered me to this contest.”

          Merlin didn’t say anything.  He hated the suspicion that sprang into his mind, but couldn’t shake it.  And couldn’t voice the questions, either.  Had Cenred given Will any orders to obey?  To serve Morgause? To distract him? To kill Arthur?

          “What are we going to do?” Will said.  “Blast a hole through the outer wall and make a run for it?”  He said the last as a joke, but there was something in his eyes that made Merlin suspect he wished Merlin would agree to that.

          “I have to get to Arthur,” he said, starting to walk again, checking the corner before choosing a new path.

          Will huffed, but followed him.  “So why did you come, Merlin?”

          “Arthur,” Merlin answered.  “One day he’ll be a great king.  I protect him.”

          “I heard you’re just a servant,” Will said.

          Merlin side-stepped a puddle.  He studied the mushroom-top of the great tree off to their left, and chose another avenue.  “It’s not like that, really.”

          “How’s it like then?”  Will was genuinely curious.

          “Well,” he paused at another intersection, this one with three choices.  He felt for the connection, waited to see what Arthur would do.  “I groom and exercise his dogs and horses, but I don’t clean the kennels or muck out the stables, and both of us tend his training and ceremonial armor.  I carry the laundry but I don’t have to wash it.  I bring him his meals but I don’t have to cook the food, and half the time I end up eating with him.  I go with him to meetings, and anytime he leaves the citadel.”

          “You scrub his floors and sew his buttons on?” Will said, deliberately trying to provoke him. 

          “No, that’s what maids and seamstresses are for,” Merlin said, without taking offense, and stepped out to take the middle route.

          Will caught his shoulder.  “Merlin.  I saw you at the banquet,” he said.  “Your magic – with the power you have, why are you using it to protect this prince?  You’re strong enough to defeat anyone – everyone, aren’t you?  What’s stopping you?  Use it, and no one else has to die.”

          “I – can’t,” Merlin said, feeling tears prick at his eyes.  He pulled away.  Not to attack.  Not as a tyrant.  Protect, and serve, and – Arthur.

          The prince was close – two, maybe three rows away.  He started to jog, Will close behind him.  They came to the end of that row – and it suddenly opened into a hub of leafy paths.

          “Merlin!” Will called urgently, and he turned his head to catch a flash of a figure that was neither Arthur nor Balinor.

          He threw up his hand, gasping out, “Cume theoden,” and a vicious dust-devil whipped up loose earth, twigs, droplets from the puddle, rushing down the aisle toward the enemy, and Merlin and Will ducked down the first path on the right – then left – then right again, just to put some distance between them and the enemy.

          They rounded a corner, had to double back, and Merlin’s magic gave him enough of a warning that he stopped short of impaling himself on his prince’s ready sword.  He gulped for breath as Arthur gave a short, incredulous laugh.

          “Merlin!” he said, dropping his sword to pull Merlin into an awkward, left-armed hug.  He retreated, but kept his hand on Merlin’s shoulder.  “I was worried about you - are you with me?” he said, and Merlin understood what he was truly asking, his sky-blue eyes searching Merlin's.

          “Always,” he answered firmly.  “Arthur, I don’t think you’ve properly met my friend Will.”  He turned, catching an odd expression on his first friend’s face – disbelief, fascination, a bit of grudging respect.

          “Will,” Arthur said, extending his hand.  “It’s a helluva place and time to be making your acquaintance, but – any friend of Merlin’s is a friend of mine.”

          “You’re joking,” Will said.  He didn’t take Arthur’s hand. 

          “No, I’m not.”  Arthur threw Merlin a quizzical look.

          Merlin wasn’t paying much attention.  He had Will, he had Arthur.  Balinor was close as well, he thought, maybe less than twenty yards away.  But in this place, it could take them an hour to connect with him.  Eager to be on the move, he began shuffling away.

          Behind him, he sensed the other two turn, raise their weapons in a swift simultaneous jerk.  Merlin turned–

          "Look out!" Will shouted, shoving Arthur into Merlin, who lost his balance and crashed into the hedge, unintentionally pulling Arthur with him.  He heard the faintest twang! over the sound of his prince’s startled yelp and the snapping and crackling of the hedge. 

          Merlin threw out both arms, bellowing “Cume theoden!” sending whirlwinds spiraling out from them defensively.

          Arthur scrambled off his legs.  “Merlin!” he said urgently, kneeling on the packed-earth path.  Merlin struggled from the brambles to find Will on the ground on his back, resting clumsily on the pack strapped to his back.

          With an arrow in his chest.

Chapter Text

          Merlin found Will on his back on the packed-earth path of the labyrinth... with an arrow in his chest. 

        “You saved my life!” Arthur exclaimed in remorseful astonishment, glancing up and down the green aisle they were in for any sign of their attacker.  Merlin didn’t bother; he trusted Arthur to protect them.

          “Yeah!” Will gasped.  “Don’t know what I was thinking.”

          Merlin reached to lay his hand on his friend’s chest, the arrow shaft in the curve between thumb and forefinger.  He closed his eyes and concentrated.

          “Can you do anything for him?” Arthur said in a low voice. 

          Will gasped and grimaced.

          It felt like Merlin's own heart was pierced through.  “Will,” he said, fighting for calm.  “Can you hear me?” 

          His friend’s brown eyes met his.  Pain there, but awareness remained. 

          “It’s right through your heart,” Merlin managed. 

          Arthur’s breath hissed through his teeth.  The prince stood and stepped back to stand guard on privacy for Merlin and Will. 

          “The arrow is blocking its own holes, now,” Merlin continued, striving for the manner that Gaius used when dealing with patients.  “You’re not losing too much blood.  But if I try to pull it out– “ by hand or by magic – “I’ll rip your heart in pieces.”

          “Then leave it!” Will wheezed.

          “That’ll give you minutes, only.”  Tears dripped from Merlin’s chin.  He found Will’s hand and held it tight.

          “Merlin,” Will panted.  “Merlin!”

          “I’m here,” he said.  Use it, and no one else has to die.  His magic rioted through his veins, and there was no outlet.  He could barely breathe.

          “You’re a good man,” his friend gasped, “a great man.  One day, your prince is going to be a great king.  Make it happen.”

          “I will,” Merlin swore.

          A pained smile flitted across Will’s face.  “It was boring without you,” he said, even as tension relaxed from his body.  “It was... good to see you again.” 

          All that was left was his grip on Merlin’s hand.

          “You, too,” Merlin said.  His voice strangled on his heart in his throat, and all his words were stupid and inadequate.

          Will’s face twisted in a last spasm of pain, then was still.  The internal connection, inadvertently forged, that told Merlin he was mere inches from Will faded, faded…  Merlin huddled over on the pain that slammed through his own heart with every continuing beat; his forehead rested on Will’s shoulder, and he shuddered with the effort of controlling his sobs. 

          The two remaining connections seemed to hum more strongly, sustaining him with the reminder - he wasn't alone.

          “I’m sorry,” Arthur said huskily, kneeling to put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze gently.  “I know he was a close friend.”

          “It was my fault,” Merlin told him.  “Cenred put him in because he was my friend.”

          After a pause, Arthur said, “I know.” 

          "You know?"  Merlin straightened, swiping at his tears with his cuff, so he could see his prince clearly. 

          Arthur returned his gaze with grim blue fire.  “And that’s my fault.  They know they have to go through you to get to me.”

          Merlin looked down at Will, at the grotesque and absolute stillness of his body, then pushed himself to his feet.  “It will be,” he vowed, “harder to accomplish than they expect.”

          Arthur wished that there were more living creatures in the labyrinth – birds, crickets, frogs, anything that might signal all’s well by their soft cheerful cacophony, and danger! when they fell silent.  But aside from the gently waving leaves and tiny yellow flowers, there were only men in the labyrinth.

          He’d stepped back to give his sorcerer a moment’s peace with the death of his friend.  It was going to be impossible to let the body lie – in this arena, Will might go unfound for days… or longer.  He wished he could perform this service for Merlin, but he simply wasn’t sure the sorcerer was up to the task of guarding them while he worked. 

          “Merlin,” he tried, “Do you want me to–“

          “No.” Merlin didn’t move, but – they had time, Arthur supposed.

          A soft footfall scuffed against the packed earth from the next row over, hidden from view, and Arthur whirled to face the curve where that row would turn into theirs.

          “It’s my father,” Merlin said in a dead voice, without turning to see.

          Arthur didn’t lower his sword until Balinor stepped into view, his own weapon still belted at his hip.  The older man tensed instinctively, taking them in at a glance – Arthur ready for defense, Merlin standing immobile over Will’s body.  Balinor sent a quick glance around them for enemies, and limped past Arthur to his son’s side, putting his hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

          “I want to build a pyre for him,” Merlin said suddenly.  “He deserves a knight’s funeral.”

          And otherwise, Arthur knew, he wouldn't get it.  Did the kings have any arrangement for retrieving the fallen from the maze?  Or would it be left to Anhora to accomplish, at some point?  But none of them would have any particular care for handling the bodies.

          Balinor glanced back at Arthur, and he read his own hesitation in the man’s face.  It wasn’t a good idea.  It would take time, it would keep them in a place where at least one enemy – Cenred’s shadow-warrior with the crossbow – knew where they were, and the smoke would alert every other champion to their location.

          “Let me help,” Balinor said gently, voicing the only choice they could make, rational or not, and Arthur agreed.  It was for Merlin as much as for Will.

          “I’ll keep watch,” he offered.  Stepping back, he transferred his sword to his left hand, pulling the knife from his sleeve to hold in his right.  Perhaps he should have carried a crossbow himself, but he had figured, in the close quarters of the labyrinth, a sword would be of more use.  At least, if he saw the bowman, he could throw the knife in defense.

          Balinor drew his own sword to cut down two sections of the hedge wall, roughly three feet wide, tipping them flat onto the ground, then lifted one with magic to stack in upon the other, a square green pyre about chest high.  Merlin gently removed Will’s pack of provisions and water bottle, then struggled to lift his friend in his arms.  Arthur exchanged a silent suggestion with Balinor for the older man to take up the watch, and sheathed his weapons to help Merlin with Will.

          The hedge gave a little at the young man’s weight, but not much more than a bed mattress might.  Merlin carefully straightened Will’s limbs, laying his hands on his chest.  He touched his friend’s forehead briefly, then backed several yards away, where Arthur and Balinor waited, but didn’t – quite – join them. 

          Lifting his hand, he hesitated as if loathe to perform the duty... then finally spoke, “Baerne.”

          Fire leaped up through the hedge beneath the body, everywhere at once.  The smoke, though it did rise thick from the greenery, actually helped to obscure them from that direction.  Arthur turned to face away from the pyre, that between him and Balinor, they might keep watch in both directions, and the older man could have a time to mourn his son’s childhood friend.

          Merlin’s father caught Arthur’s eye for a moment.  “I have said my goodbyes to Hunith,” he commented in a low voice, that Merlin would not hear.  “I wish you neither harm nor ill, Arthur, but I am here for our son – I would send him home to his mother, if I can.  I have lived a good life, a long life… this is the least I can do for the woman who gave so much to me.  And for my son.”

          Arthur nodded.  He had no quarrel with Balinor appointing himself Merlin’s bodyguard - he of course was no threat to Merlin, so Balinor of course was no threat to him.

          Long moments passed, and Arthur grew more and more edgy.  Every instinct told him they should be away, before they were ambushed.  He glanced back, squinted through the smoke, just as Balinor pointed to the figure on the other side of the burning pyre, indistinct through the heat of the flames. 

          Merlin raised his hand and spoke softly, almost whimsically, “Hors beride.”

          The smoke gathered itself into the form of a great billowing horse which galloped through the air, away from them and toward the figure, who disappeared in the dirty cloud of ash.  After a moment, smoke once again rose uninterrupted from the pyre, and the figure was gone.

          “We need to go,” Arthur said in an undertone to Balinor, and Merlin turned to them. 

          “Shall we go after the archer?”  Merlin's face and tone were calm, but so very unlike the friend that Arthur knew that his heart ached again.

          “I wouldn't,” Balinor said.  “It would be a fool’s errand to try to chase someone through this maze.  I think we should make our way to that tree.  It would provide shelter, as well as an advantage of seeing what surrounds us.”

          “The others will think the same,” Arthur observed.

          “Then we go cautiously,” Balinor said, with a small smile. 

          Merlin cocked his head, and the look in his eye was anything but cautious.  He took the lead, and by unspoken agreement Arthur and Balinor allowed him.  As they walked, they unwrapped strips of dried meat to gnaw on as a midday meal, softened by mouthfuls of water from the bottles.  Balinor carried Will’s extra water, Arthur the rations.

          “So,” he said to Merlin’s father.  “Your – friend, that you went to talk to-" when he hadn't come back, and everyone was on edge... and then Uther revealed him at the banquet a captive assigned to certain death in the arena - " was the dragon?”

          Merlin did not turn, as he checked around another corner, but the slightest sideways twitch of his head told Arthur that he was listening, and interested in his father’s tale also.

          “His name is Kilgarrah,” Balinor said mildly. 

          “What’s the story there?” Arthur said.  “You’re a dragonlord?”

          Merlin did turn, then, for a single, intense look at his parent.  He might as well have shouted, Why didn’t you tell me?

          “You don’t choose to become a dragonlord,” Balinor explained.  “It’s not something you can be taught.” 

          Arthur thought he was explaining to his son, more than to the prince questioning him, there was a please-understand note to his voice.  Knowing Merlin meant, Arthur had found, that he had insight into the older man’s character as well. 

          “It’s a sacred gift," Balinor continued.  "For thousands of years it’s been handed down from father to son.”

          "What?"  Merlin stopped short, though they were in the middle of an aisle.  Arthur glanced instinctively behind them to make sure no one was on their trail.

          Balinor said softly, “Uther asked me long ago, to use my power to bring the last dragon to Camelot.  He said he wanted to make peace with it, but he did not.  He lied to me.  He betrayed me.  He killed every one of my kind.  I alone escaped – Ealdor is beyond Uther’s realm.  I thought I was beyond his reach, and – years passed.  Twenty years passed.  I thought he must have forgotten me.  I don’t know if he had someone watching me in Ealdor, but I should have guessed that there would be more than one guard on the dragon’s cavern.  I went to speak with him, and I wasn’t careful.”  There it was in his voice again, saying so clearly, I’m sorry, son.

          Merlin turned his head to say over his shoulder, “Is that why he hates me, then?” 

          Balinor didn't respond.  Arthur wondered if Uther had known Merlin’s parentage before the banquet, and if so, for how long.  Or if throwing Balinor into the arena had simply been an interesting way of having him killed. 

          “Did your dragon – ah, Kilgarrah – give you any good advice?” Arthur asked, carefully redirecting the discussion.

          “Perhaps,” Balinor said.  “What do you know of the others?”

          Merlin began to move forward again, but at a slower pace, a less reckless pace.  Arthur spoke for a moment, sharing what details he knew about Aredian, Catrina, and Morgause, the little he’d picked up about the others.

          Balinor nodded.  “Catrina is a mystery,” he said.  “She is no warrior.  Greed, I believe, is her motivation, and her skills in magic are devious.  Aredian also would avoid an open fight.  He has no magic, himself, but is well-educated in the ways of sorcery – if anyone knows how to circumvent a sorcerer for capture and execute, it’s him.”

          Arthur watched Merlin lean around another corner, not reacting at all to his father’s words, and felt a cold chill.  Was Merlin not afraid, not worried?  He thought he’d prefer his friend to have those feelings, and control them, than to feel nothing. 

          “As for Cenred’s champions,” Balinor continued, “I agree with your observations.  The niece, a sorceress and highly trained warrior also, is to be the champion.  The blonde warrior is Alvarr, he trained with the druids for a season and has some skill with sorcery.  The dark-skinned warrior, Myror, has no magic, but is a highly-skilled assassin.  The last warrior, I spoke with during our mutual – incarceration.”  Merlin flinched, and if Balinor saw it, he didn't let on.  “He is a drinker and a fighter and has no loyalty for Cenred, who bought him from a slaver to provide entertainment.  Forced to fight for his bread.”

          “He’s skilled, then?” Arthur said.

          “He survived,” Balinor said neutrally.  “I don’t suppose he has any great wish to rule two kingdoms, but he seems to be one who – loves life.”

          Merlin, in the lead, stopped just short of an intersection, raised his hand as a signal to them to hold.  Arthur fell back two steps to check the last corner they’d rounded.  The central tree loomed on their right, maybe a hundred yards away.  They’d been in the labyrinth two candle-marks, maybe, and would have five or six more before dark.  He waited several moments before moving up next to Merlin. 

          “What is it?” he said, leaning out for a look.  They faced another hub in the maze, where half a dozen aisles intersected.

          “A funny feeling,” Merlin said in a low voice.

          Arthur studied the ground, then straightened and took a deliberate step out.  There was nothing – no one.  No movement. 

          So... they could wait, or they could move. 

          Arthur glanced back at Balinor, indicating that he would skirt the open area to the left, if the older man would go right.  To Merlin Arthur hissed, “Keep your eyes open.”

          Moments after Arthur shifted to the right, his gaze snapped forward, caught by sudden movement, dark within the green of the labyrinth walls – Morgause, Cenred’s niece, strode to meet him like she expected him, her blade unsheathed.  He raised his sword, moving to block her – Merlin had no blade, not that he needed one, and Arthur had no idea as to Balinor’s level of experience with his weapon.

          The sorceress spoke a quiet phrase and he tensed–

          Nothing happened - except that Merlin tripped, and Balinor grunted. 

          “Merlin!” Arthur said, keeping his eyes on the female warrior.  No answer - but Balinor would protect himself and his son from whatever threat came from that side.

          Morgause drew her sword up in a duel-ready stance, an eager smirk on her face.  He faced her, assuming a similar position.  He’d never fought a woman before, and a nervous apprehension curled in his stomach.  She struck first, flowing through a series of attacks, mostly aimed at his upper body, getting his measure.  She used a two-handed grip, as he did, since neither had brought shields to this arena, but he had no problem parrying every blow, and she withdrew, circling. 

          Then the sorceress whirled through a backhanded blow, and he instinctively countered with a slash across her middle – a slash which he pulled short even as she jumped back.  She! 

          He was appalled at his hesitation, recognizing his disinclination to kill a woman as a weakness.  Surely she knew it as well – he went on the offensive, duplicating her attack, raining blows around her head and shoulders.  She countered and blocked, but she was weaker than he, and he beat her down – and her sword dropped from her hand. 

          Disarmed - but that wasn't the way this arena match would be won.  There could be no surrender and no forfeit, but Arthur stepped back before thinking, and was again shocked with himself.  She’ll kill you, he reminded himself.  Doesn’t matter that she’s a woman – this is no sparring match! 

          She snatched up her blade as he lunged forward to prevent it, and a long cut opened down her right arm.  She hissed at him, angered, and attacked again, using more varied blows – low, high, right, left – he threw her off, slashed again at her middle, this time driving hard.  She leaped back, and he followed, shoving her into the hedge at her back. 

          He raised his sword, steeling himself to deliver the killing blow, but she ducked, and his blade was stuck for an instant in the greenery of the wall.

          She slipped out from under his arm, and he felt a sharp blow on the back of his left knee, the knee that held the majority of his weight.  His leg buckled, and he twisted as he fell to his back on the packed earth of the path.

          “Keep your eyes open,” the prince commanded, as if Merlin didn't already know, and wasn't already doing that.

          He bit back a retort, knowing it would be bitter and caustic, right now, and the last thing Arthur needed was to worry about Merlin’s state of mind.  The golden-haired warrior stalked to the left, sword at the ready, and Merlin paced to the middle of the hub, trying to look everywhere at once.  His father glanced down the row immediately to the right, then stepped forward to check the next.

          Straight in front, the central aisle ran less than ten yards before it made a turn.  Merlin tensed as a figure strode around that corner, sword drawn, long blonde hair rippling over the chainmail. 

          "Arthur!" Merlin shouted, tossing up one hand.  The prince took one long step to put himself between Merlin and Morgause, lifting his weapon.

          She gestured and spoke, and Merlin recognized the selfsame killing spell Nimueh had tried a year ago in Camelot's arena.  Merlin leaned into the shield he tossed up in front of Arthur – except she hadn’t spoken to curse the prince.  He stumbled, desperately trying to spread the shield, pull it, stretch it, and heard his father grunt as the spell hit him also. 

          Merlin’s chin collided with the clay.  In the blurry distance he heard Arthur call his name, and couldn't answer. 

          Sunlight glittered from the prince’s sword as he spun it, moving to engage the sorceress - at least he wasn't allowing himself to be distracted by the attack on Merlin.

          She was trained in sorcery but dressed as a warrior.  He should have realized that Morgause would want to cripple him and best Arthur with the sword.  Of course she’d want to pit her skills against the growing reputation of Camelot’s new prince. 

          He blinked against the fog covering his eyes.  His magic spun and shifted inside him, begging to be used, to defend and to save.  He held his breath, and the magic rushed to his head – it felt his skull was splitting right down his forehead – his eyes cleared.  And he only needed to see, to be able to fight.

          The insistent drone of an entire colony of bees in his ears was punctuated by the clang-clang-rasp of swordplay.  He focused on Arthur and Morgause – who seemed to be fighting entirely without magic.  Good - for the moment.  He turned his head to find Balinor without losing Arthur - a killing curse reflected, yes?  Resulting in equal parts paralysis and slumber spell – and a shadow fluttered toward them from a side avenue.

          The black-skinned warrior flowed toward them, raising his crossbow.  He fired at Balinor – Merlin caught the bolt dead in midair as Balinor gasped and flinched. 

          Myror’s attention flicked to Merlin, and he raised one eyebrow and nodded, a bizarrely civilized tribute to a worthy enemy, in the moment.  He fitted another bolt into the bow, pointed-aimed-fired as swift as thought.

          “Merlin!” Balinor rasped, twitching toward him. 

          The second bolt froze midair also. 

          Myror frowned at him, took two steps closer.  “Your death does not have to be difficult, or slow."

          Merlin!  see to Arthur! Balinor ordered.  I will handle this!

          His hands and feet were nerveless, his arms and legs sluggish.  He pushed himself up to his knees as Arthur pressed Morgause sharply into the hedge-wall, raised his sword for a killing-blow – she twisted away, fast as a snake, and kicked the back of his knee.

          Arthur dropped, and Morgause struck.

          Merlin reached, freezing her weapon in place.  Arthur flinched in pain, but grabbed the blade in his gloved hands as she thrust her weight on her weapon and snarled.  Blood ran down her arm.

          He heard his father scuffling with the assassin, but the connection he felt to Balinor shone within him, so he didn’t worry – and he didn’t look.

          At the junction beside the one where Arthur and Morgause struggled, a twig snapped – a twig snapped! – and all three of them jerked around to see the cynical dark-haired warrior standing, arms crossed over his chest, one foot crossed over the other as he affected to lean on the leafy green wall, watching them as if they were there for his entertainment.

          “What are you waiting for!  Kill him!” Morgause growling, nodding toward Arthur at her feet.

          Merlin immediately flung up an invisible barrier to prevent the dark-haired warrior from leaving his row, but he didn’t so much as shift his weight.

          “Cume–“ Merlin whispered – even his tongue was slow! – “Cume theoden!” 

          It was nothing more than a burst of breeze and dust, but it was unexpected, and Morgause stumbled back, far enough that Merlin slammed another protective wall into place.  She slapped it angrily, unable to reach Arthur, who climbed slowly to his feet, his sword and hers now both in hand.  She placed her palms against the hardened air, and her eyes glowed golden.  Merlin put one hand down on the earth and pushed against her efforts until she released her force.

          The sorceress glared at each of them in turn, then spun and sprinted down the corridor, around the corner, out of sight.  Merlin sighed, pulled his feet under him, and straightened.

          And his connection to Balinor fractured.

          He turned so fast he lost his balance, and his father, who was near enough to touch, tipped backward into him.  They were falling – blood on Balinor’s sword... in Myror’s hand... a foot of the steel reddened and dripping.

          Merlin clutched his father and screamed his fury at the assassin.  Myror was dead before his feet left the ground, his spine shattered in more than one place.  His body fluttered backward and bounced off the hedge at the end of the row.

          Balinor crumpled to the ground, taking Merlin with him.  Immediately he sealed off the center of the hub to shield them both indefinitely, and eased his father down, kneeling beside him as pins-and-needles pain filled his body – arms, legs, soul.  He put his hand over the blood-soaked hole in Balinor’s shirt and began to speak the healing spell.

          “No!” Balinor coughed, catching at his hand and disrupting the magic.

          “I can save you!” Merlin protested urgently, trying to free his hands from his father’s grip.

          “Merlin, listen to me!”  His father coughed again, and blood flecked his lips.  “We cannot all survive victorious.  I knew I would die today…”

          “Please,” Merlin pleaded, tears blurring his eyes.  “I can’t do this alone.”  Dammit, he was not ready for this.  Not prepared.  Always he had Balinor’s warm presence behind him, to comfort, to guide, to instruct.  “Let me–“

          “No, you mustn’t use your magic for this,” Balinor said, and Merlin knew it would be impossible to heal his father against his will – healing magic nearly always needed the cooperation of the patient, especially for a serious or fatal injury, he had learned this from Gaius.  His father coughed again, laid his head down on the packed earth.  “Use it to save yourself, save your prince.”

          “Father, please,” Merlin sobbed, unashamed of his tears.  “Don’t–“

          “Promise me,” Balinor whispered.  “You will remember what I taught you, you will tame your magic to the precepts you learned – for healing, for protection, for good.”

          “I promise – but, please, I am strong enough–“

          “I have seen so much in you that makes me proud,” his father sighed, raising a blood-covered hand to Merlin’s shoulder.  “I know you will continue to make me proud.”  He smiled at Merlin-

          And light and life left his eyes.  His hand dropped limply to the packed earth by Merlin's knee.

          “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.  “I’m sorry.  Father…”

          Healing, protection, good.  Make me proud.  How could he dishonor his father by doing any less?

          No, it was too much.  He hunched over, sobbing - then threw his head back to scream again.  Every instinct wanted to lash out, unleash his rage.

          Calm down, now.  Easy, Merlin.  Sympathy and comfort and love throbbed through the link with Arthur, golden and strong.  We’ll figure it out. 

          He trusted, and wept.

Chapter Text

          The sun was shining.  The air was fresh.  They’d given him rations and water enough for a week.  A week of freedom before he died was good enough for him.

          The twin stone columns flanking his entrance into the labyrinth chimed softly, invitingly, and he stepped forward eagerly, ignoring the sensation of walking through an invisible full-length spider-web, complete with morning dew.

          “Stranger,” said the knight behind him, the guard who’d led him to the entrance. 

          Who’d taken the chains off his wrists and had given him a sword – a better-than-decent weapon, actually, and he was grateful because really, they could have given him a piece of –

          “I have nothing against you,” the knight continued.  One of the biggest men he’d ever met, knight or not, the guard’s tunic and chainmail armor were both sleeveless, leaving his arms bare.  His hair was short, his manner mild, polite.  “But if you return, and Arthur does not…” the big knight shrugged.  “You will not make it alive to your coronation.”

          He felt his eyebrows lift at the bland way the threat was spoken, and he chuckled.  “You know, Cenred said as much to me about his niece, friend.” 

          Turning, he headed into the maze.  In spite of Cenred’s orders, he had no plans beyond living as long as he could.  Perhaps seeing some of the action.  Perhaps participating.  He grinned to himself, and fumbled in the knapsack they’d given him.  Would it be too much to hope for – ah!  His fingers found the firm, round shape, and he drew out the apple.

          Now his day was perfect.

          He sauntered along – no hurry, really, when you were enjoying your last week on earth – choosing new avenues at random, wandering, though alertly.  He wasn’t going to starve to death, but he figured he’d hold out against picking the fight that would kill him as long as he could.

          As he walked he took note of the high hills forming the valley of the labyrinth, and the top of an enormous tree positioned roughly in the center, as near as he could figure it.

          And, having nothing else to do but eat, breathe, and walk, he decided to spend his time and amuse himself seeing how long it might take to find his way to the tree.  After all, that’s where everyone else would go, wouldn’t they?  And when his provisions ran out, he didn’t want to have to wander half a day, hungry and thirsty, to find someone to put him out of that misery.

          In the first two hours, he saw only one other champion, the female entry from Camelot.  She wore a simple white dress and was quite attractive, for a woman maybe fifteen years his senior.  He stepped back behind one of the hedges as she paused and looked his way, and when he dared to lean back out, she was gone.  He didn’t fancy fighting a woman in any case, but at least Cenred’s niece would fight you fair and kill you with steel.  The woman from Camelot carried no weapons – she would use sorcery.  He shivered at the thought, and prowled more warily, trying to skirt the area where he’d seen the woman in white.

          He’d been walking about two candle-marks when he saw the smoke, rising low over the hedge-wall on his left, too far in the distance to accurately judge.

          Interesting.  A fight, maybe?  An ambush? 

          At the next intersection, he chose to head toward the smoke, but he wandered for the better part of an hour, and couldn’t tell if he’d actually gotten any closer to the source.  Judging from the small and steady amount of it, and because of the green state of the hedge-walls, it wasn't a wildfire raging out of control, at least.

          He fingered the hilt of the sword at his hip, pondering the idea of cutting a way through the hedge.  It would be tiring, no doubt, and eventually would dull his blade, and – he doubted that keeper fellow would appreciate his labyrinth being hacked apart.  Anhora did not seem the type of person you’d want unhappy with you for chopping down his hedges.

          Pausing, he cocked his head to listen - and heard voices.  Two short calls, though the words were indistinct...

          And then the unmistakable steely clash of a duel. 

          He turned and backtracked, chose a new route, half his attention on the sounds of the fight.  Two swordsmen, fairly evenly matched, he guessed, and glimpsed several scuffling figures down another aisle.  Hand on his hilt, he crept forward.  Dying the first day – hell, he’d be disappointed in himself if it came to that.  But neither did it appeal to him to spend his last days running away from his arena-mates.

          Before he’d gotten halfway down the row he’d chosen, he could tell that it ended in a more open area, an intersection of half a dozen rows rather than just one or two or three.

          There were two bodies lying on the packed earth, but they were both moving – not dead yet, then, though they were both in some pain, that much was obvious.  Another champion approached them from the maze opposite his own position; he tensed until he recognized the assassin Myror, another of Cenred’s men.  They’d been instructed not to kill each other until the prince of Camelot and his sorcerer were dead.

          Arthur’s sorcerer.  The skinny boy in blue – he was one of the men down on the ground, and the other, he now recognized, was his fellow prisoner on the cart-ride to the labyrinth, the dragonlord.  Myror aimed his crossbow and pulled the trigger– he winced, but the bolt stopped before it ever reach the man.

          He gave a soft, incredulous chuckle to himself, and inched forward as a second bolt was halted.  To his immediate left, Prince Arthur and Cenred’s niece Morgause circled each other with bared weapons, each looking for an opening to exploit.

          Cenred, are you watching this in one of your scrying-pools? he wondered.  For once I am the amused spectator, and I am entertained by your niece, the prince of Camelot, his sorcerer, a dragonlord, and your assassin.

          Oh, life was sweet.  He could die happy, right now.  Are you watching, Cenred?  Watching me, watching this?

          The skinny sorcerer struggled to his knees.  He saw no blood, but in a battle sorcerers joined, anything was possible.  The boy reached out toward Cenred’s niece and the prince, now on his back with Morgause’s sword just touching his shoulder.  The prince flinched, but it seemed to him that somehow the blade was stuck.  However hard Morgause tried, she couldn’t force it down into her opponent’s flesh.

            Fascinated, he crossed his arms over his chest and watched her frustrated struggle. 

          Then, after a few seconds, he made a choice that he would have been hard pressed to explain.  It was clear they were at an impasse - Morgause could not move the frozen weapon, the prince was at least partially pinned, and the boy-sorcerer was too weak to do more than hold them apart.

          He decided to intervene.

          A twig from the hedge beside him was poking into his left shoulder, and he leaned on it deliberately to make it snap.

          Both fighters startled, glancing at him, and Cenred’s blonde, beautiful niece growled, “What are you waiting for!  Kill him!” 

          He smirked at her, but made no move.  He cared little for the big knight’s threat, but he cared even less for Cenred’s plans.  Every choice belonged to him this week, for the first time in a long time, and he aimed to make the best of them.

          Then a sudden breeze kicked up and Morgause staggered back, out of his sight.  He watched Prince Arthur roll and come to his feet, both weapons in hand – but the fight did not resume.  Morgause snarled in aggravated fury, and then the prince relaxed, as though she had retreated.

          He turned to make sure she did not choose to come down his row behind him, but didn’t see her at all.

          And behind him, sudden enough to make him jump and whirl, a warrior’s roar of pain and wrath echoed through the open space.

          His line of vision was poor.  He saw the sorcerer’s back, the dragonlord’s head over his shoulder – but when they collapsed, there was no enemy visible.  Myror, the assassin – where had he gone?  In the middle of the hub, the boy scuffled over the body of the dragonlord – there was blood on his hands.  Both of them spoke, tension and desperation in every line of the boy’s body, but he could hear nothing but the prince’s voice in the row beside him.

          “Merlin!” the prince said urgently, sparing him a single wary glance before turning his attention back to the boy.  The prince raised his fist to make some odd gesture at the air, and his chainmail flattened and clinked in a curious way.

          He shifted to get a better look, and bashed his nose against something in the air.  His eyes teared, and he put up a hand instinctively – his knuckles grazing an invisible barrier.  What the hell? 

          Beside him the prince argued, commanded, “Merlin!  Lower the wall!  Let me – Merlin!”

          He passed his hand against the hardened air, searching for its edges – and not finding them.  It seemed to extend up from the ground, as high as he could reach, and well into the hedge on each side.

          “He’s got you trapped as well?’ he said in amusement to the prince.

          Arthur Pendragon, crown prince of Camelot, glared at him and punched the air-wall half-heartedly, then leaned against it, an exquisite pain on his face.

          He looked back at the pair huddled on the ground.  The dragonlord, he guessed, had passed, and the boy was crumpled motionless at his side.  He remembered the lifeless look of the boy’s blue eyes as they’d waited in line to sign the contract-oath, and asked aloud, “Was that really his father?”

          "Yeah.  Really was."  The prince gave him a weary look.

          “Uther’s a bigger bastard than Cenred then, isn’t he?” he remarked, and the prince snorted, his gaze sharpening as he studied him.

          He turned away and strode to the end of his row, glanced around for Cenred’s niece.  Still not seeing her, he took the right-hand turn, hurrying around the end of the hedge, and coming up, as he hoped, right behind the prince – who spun defensively, his left hand open as if to stop an attack.

          “Truce,” he said to Arthur.  “At least for now.”

          “It doesn’t matter,” the prince answered, turning back toward the hub.  He tapped at the air between them.  “He’s got one here, too.”

          He brushed his hand over the second wall experimentally, finding it as large as the other.  He leaned on it, but there was no give at all.  The prince had begun to pace, though he couldn’t manage more than two steps in either direction. 

          “He’s more powerful than he looks, isn’t he?” he asked the prince idly, leaning on the air-wall.

          “Merlin?  Yes.”

          “Last night at the banquet, I was ready to dive under the table,” he went on.  “Thought he might bring the roof down on all of us.” 

          Everyone had heard the boy say, Father, in that clear, dreadful voice, but no one he’d spoken to had known truth from conjecture.  The prince didn’t answer, watching his sorcerer. 

          “You weren’t scared of him at all, were you?” he asked curiously.  “You got right between him and your king.”

          “Scared of him?”  The prince gave him a brief bewildered frown.  “No – he’d never hurt me.  He’s my best friend.”

          Best friend.  Something stirred in him at the words, warm and forgotten.  How long had it been since he’d had even one friend?

          “Merlin’s his name?  And you’re Prince Arthur?” he checked.  “I heard the stories after your triumph, last year.” 

          The tale had filtered through Cenred’s court, whispers gathered here and there, until even the dungeon guards were discussing it.  Uther’s new heir, the champion of the arena.  And a miraculous, mysterious second survivor.  It was a female, some said, a sorceress who’d married the champion to rule by his side.  No, a sorcerer, others argued, who’d enchanted king and court as well as heir to rule as a shadowy puppet-master.  No, it was a child, a weak young boy who had begged to be made a slave rather than killed.

          “Yes, I’m Arthur.”  The prince studied him again.  “You’re Cenred’s prisoner?  The warrior-slave?”

          He grinned and stretched his arms.  “I’ve been reprieved,” he quipped.  “For a week, anyway.  My name is Gwaine, m’lord, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

          “Just Arthur,” the prince said absently.  “So – you have orders to kill me, and protect Morgause?”

          He snorted.  “Yes, but - I’m through fighting on command.”

          “Balinor – Merlin’s father, the dragonlord,” Arthur gestured to the still form on the packed earth.  “He said you probably didn’t have any wish to rule two kingdoms, but you’re one who loves life.”

          “He seemed like a good man,” Gwaine offered.  He’d never known his own father, but the dragonlord had seemed like he’d be a good one to have.

          Even through the invisible wall, he could hear Arthur sigh.  “He was.  But Merlin – your fellow warrior Will, the one in the yellow tunic?”

          He remembered.  “Country boy,” he said.  “Fair with a sword.  Probably could defend himself for a few minutes.  What about him?”

          Arthur gestured.  “Merlin’s best friend when they were boys.  They grew up in a village on the border.”  Ah – that explained a lot.  He couldn’t figure why Cenred had sent the young man, who’d seemed so reluctant on the assignment.  “Killed about an hour ago by your crossbowman, the assassin Myror.”

          Ah, hells.  “That’s rotten luck.”

          Arthur gave him a measuring look.  “It wasn’t luck,” he said coolly.  “It was deliberate.”

          Gwaine understood, and pointed at the young man in question.  “To bring him to this...”

          Arthur nodded, put his hand to the outer wall.  “Merlin,” he called softly, but the sorcerer gave no sign he’d heard.  “Calm down, now.  Easy, Merlin.  We’ll figure it out.”

          Gwaine glanced over his shoulder.  It was making him nervous to stay so long in one place.  He jumped, felt the upper edge of the invisible wall.  “If you can reach my hand,” he offered, “I’ll help you over, and then–“

          Arthur gave him an incredulous look.  “And then what?” he said.  “I’m not leaving him.  If he has this row blocked, he has every row blocked.  We won’t be able to circle around and–“

          “How long are you going to stay trapped?” Gwaine asked.  “They wanted to get to him – they got to him.”

          “He’s my friend,” Arthur insisted stubbornly.

          “And only one person is going to live past this week,” Gwaine reminded him.

          “Doesn’t mean I’m going to leave him.”  The prince’s jaw set determinedly.  “We’ll figure something out.”

          It was, Gwaine thought, a particular brand of idiocy, to hang on to loyalty of friendship in a time and place like this.  A particular brand of idiocy a lot like nobility.

          And, though there was no wall trapping him into the row with Arthur, he stayed.

          “Merlin,” Arthur tried one more time. 

          There was no response.  He and the warrior behind the wall of air, Gwaine, had watched the young sorcerer weep.  They’d watched him scream.  Now they were watching him sit motionless, his back to them.  Arthur certainly didn’t relish the thought of building another pyre, but something had to be done. 

          Merlin.

          His friend shifted, turning toward them, looking over his shoulder.  Arthur put his gloved hand out and said, “Take down the walls.” 

          Merlin studied him a moment as if he was finding it difficult to process the meaning of words, then jerked his chin at Gwaine in question and reminder.

          Arthur turned to the dark-haired warrior.  “I don’t know you and you don’t know me,” he said quietly.  “We may end up killing one another, but I give you my word that I will give you fair warning.  I will not strike at your back, or unawares.” 

          His own sword sheathed, he stabbed Morgause’s blade into the ground, and put out his hand.  Gwaine, older by a couple of years, cynical and hardened, looked surprised. 

          Arthur raised his voice, “Lower the wall, please, Merlin.”

          Gwaine glanced over Arthur’s shoulder at Merlin, then tentatively reached through the space where the wall had been to take Arthur’s hand.

          “And if you harm Merlin in any way,” Arthur added, “I will leave pieces of you all over this maze.”

          Gwaine huffed, in amusement, but also, Arthur saw, in agreement.  “All right,” he said.  “Introduce me to your sorcerer.”

          Arthur turned, stepping out of the row into the hub.  Merlin watched them – he looked exhausted, unnaturally still and quiet.  Arthur’s attention was caught by a small object, white against the blue of the sky, soaring up into the sun – he blinked, and the object was descending.  Not a bird – a stone?  Did someone have a slingshot?

          “Look out!” he shouted in warning, pointing.

          Merlin turned in time to freeze the object in midair for a single instant, a pouch with a tied-off mouth, of a size to fit comfortably in a man’s hand.  One instant only, then it burst, spattering clear liquid all over Merlin, and Balinor’s body.

          Gwaine caught at Arthur’s arm, whether in caution or dread, he didn’t know.  Merlin himself sat still in shock - then coughed, and gasped, and clawed at his face.

          “Merlin!” Arthur called, but Gwaine held him back a moment.

          “You don’t know what that stuff is, what it does,” he hissed.  “Be careful!”  He drew his sword and dashed to the row nearest the direction the pouch had come flying from, checked around the corner, then disappeared.

          Arthur skirted father and son, to face his friend.  Merlin scrubbed at the liquid wetting hair and hands and face, sputtering.  Arthur saw no acid burns, smelled no odor at all. 

          “You all right?” he asked, crouching down.

          Merlin coughed, leaned to the side and spat, then blinked up at Arthur, hair and eyelashes spiky with the clinging liquid.  His eyelids were pink from his rubbing.  He blinked and rubbed again. 

          “Yeah, I’m okay,” he responded quietly, his voice raspy and confused.  He widened his eyes as if that would help him focus, looked down at his father lying in front of him.  He shook his head, then knuckled his eyes again.

          “Arthur!” Gwaine hailed him.  Arthur straightened, moved away to meet the dark-haired warrior.  “I caught a glimpse of him, that older man your king put in.  He ran from me, though, and I lost him.” 

          “Aredian,” Arthur said bitterly.  “He’s the judge of the sorcerer’s court.  He has no magic himself, but is very experienced in dealing with sorcery.  He won’t fight openly; he has no sword.”

          Gwaine gestured over to Merlin, struggling to his feet.  “Is he okay?  What was that stuff?”

          "No idea."

          Merlin swayed drunkenly, nuzzling his head into his forearm.  He looked down at his father’s body, then leaped back in such shock that he stumbled and fell. 

          “Oi!” Arthur said, starting toward him.

          Merlin gazed around wildly.  “Arthur?  Arthur!” he shouted, startling at absolutely nothing, flinching back from empty air.  He scrambled to his knees, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.  “Arthur!” 

          The young sorcerer raised both hands, palms out – and fireballs began to fly.

          Faster than Arthur could see, the flaming projectiles formed and flashed, and no point around Merlin was safe.  He turned his head, and flames shot, burning blackened smoking holes in the hedges all around.  He was shouting, howling as though every enemy suddenly surrounded him.

          “Come on, we gotta go before he blasts us!” Gwaine shouted, using Arthur’s body to shield his own, but pulling him backward toward a leafy alley getaway.  “He’s gone mad!  No telling what he’s seeing!”

          What he’s seeing.  That liquid.  Arthur wrenched free from Gwaine’s grip and advanced upon his friend, calling his name.  "Merlin - Merlin!"

          The sorcerer whirled around, his eyes wide but unfocused, holding one palm toward Arthur as if signaling him – warning him – to stop.  “Arthur? Where are you?” he shouted, and his tone suddenly changed to one of venomous threat – “You, stop right where you are!”

          “Merlin, it’s me,” Arthur coaxed.  He held out his hands as if his posture could calm and reassure the sorcerer.  “It is me.”

          “Arthur?”  Merlin glanced around, shivered, then suddenly ducked and rolled, roaring some words in the old language, and the hub was filled with swirling wind dashed with licking tongues of flame.

          Gwaine was probably long gone.  “Merlin,” Arthur tried again.  “Please stop – there’s no one here but us!”

          Merlin snarled and reached behind him to shoot another fireball – his eyes glared golden at Arthur.  “Don’t come any closer!” he warned with a hitch of terror in his voice.

          “Can you hear me? do you trust me?”  Arthur commanded, “Close your eyes.”

          Merlin obeyed.  The labyrinth went still around them - no wind, no flame.  No sound.  The sorcerer, still on his knees, shoulders hunched, shivered and panted.  His outstretched hands twitched as though anxious to keep fighting.

          “You hear me, don’t you?” Arthur said, sliding his feet slowly forward.  “You know it’s me.  You trust me.  I’m right here.”

          “Arthur, be careful,” Merlin said desperately.  “All around us-“

          “There’s nothing,” Arthur soothed.  “There’s no one.”

          “There’s–“  His head jerked to the side, but he kept his eyes obediently shut.  “But I saw…”

          Arthur knelt before his friend.  “Keep your eyes shut,” he said, and glanced around them to be sure they weren’t about to be ambushed.  “There must have been something in that pouch to make you see things.”

          Merlin sank back on his haunches, his arms dropping to his sides.  “There’s really nothing there?” he whispered.  “No one?”

          “Just us,” Arthur said, striving for cheer in his tone.  He rummaged in his pack for his roll of bandages, shook it out, wadded it up, then poured water over it and began to scrub at Merlin’s face.

          “I caught it in the air,” Merlin said.  “But the minute my magic touched it…it burst apart.”

          Leave it to someone like Aredian to think of that.  Arthur tipped Merlin’s chin up and squeezed water into the hollows of his eyes.  “I’m not sure this is going to help..."

          Merlin coughed again.  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse.  “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

          “Open your eyes,” Arthur ordered.  “Slowly, carefully, and tell me what you see.”

          Merlin looked at him, the blue of his irises faded slightly, red-rimmed, his pupils unnaturally dilated.  He recoiled from Arthur, then jerked to the left, falling over with the violence of the movement.  The look on his face – whatever he saw, it was terrifying.  Arthur tackled him, covering his eyes with his hand.

          “Okay, never mind,” he said.  “I’m going to wrap this bandage around your eyes, you can just keep them shut.”

          Merlin nodded, swallowed dryly.  “Arthur.”  His whisper was hoarse.  “If I can’t see, I can’t fight.  I’m going to be useless to you, slow you down…”

          “Then it’s lucky we’re not in a hurry to get anywhere, isn’t it?” Arthur said, winding the bandage and tying it, unintentionally tangling Merlin’s black hair in the knot. 

          Movement distracted him, and he looked up to see Gwaine at the entrance to one of the aisles.  As the other warrior’s boot-heel scuffed faintly, and Merlin’s head began to turn, Gwaine said cheerfully, “That was quite mad, wasn’t–“ 

          Merlin’s hand rose as fast as thought, and Arthur lunged to knock it aside.  Gwaine was flung back against the hedge-wall.

          “That’s Gwaine,” Arthur told Merlin.  “He’s not an enemy.  Not at the moment.”

          “Yeah, not ever, with you, mate,” Gwaine quipped, pushing himself upright, collecting his cynical amusement back from shock.  He widened his eyes at Arthur to express his shock, since Merlin couldn’t see his expression.

          “I’m sorry,” Merlin said in Gwaine’s direction, his voice raspy.

          “Here, drink something,” Arthur said, putting a water-skin into Merlin’s hands, guiding his fingers to the spout.

          "The assassin is dead," Gwaine reported, squatting beside them. 

          Arthur noticed the extra pack and water-skin, as well as the crossbow slung over Gwaine’s back.  Now they had Will’s provisions, and the assassin’s, and – Balinor’s.  That lengthened the time they could survive in the labyrinth, but Morgause might return, or Aredian.  And all the holes in the hedges made the area more vulnerable. 

          “Let’s put a few twists and turns between ourselves and this place,” he proposed, standing and reaching to pull Merlin up by his elbow.

          “My father,” Merlin said, in the same quiet, rough voice, turning to where his father lay, though he could no longer see him.  He cleared his throat, coughed, and spat.

          “We won’t go far,” Arthur promised.  “I’ll return, and ready the pyre.”  He glanced at Gwaine, to gauge the other’s intent, wondering if he could trust him to stay with Merlin.  Wondering if he should tell him to take a hike – and keep going.

          “Well,” Gwaine said, offering a wide grin.  “Seems like you two have got yourselves in a bit of a pickle, haven’t you?”

          “You should get out of here while you have the chance,” Arthur told him.  “Merlin and I, we have a tendency to attract this kind of trouble.” 

          Merlin made a sound equal parts laugh and sob.

          “You’re probably right,” Gwaine agreed cheerfully.  “Your chances look between slim and none – but I guess I kind of like the look of those odds.” 

          Arthur gave him a skeptical look.

          The warrior’s expression intensified.  “I am through dancing to Cenred’s tune.  His gal Morgause would be a plague and a half on our kingdoms.  Are you going to be a good king?  I dunno.  Are you going to be alive in a week, a day, an hour?  I dunno.  Am I?”  He shrugged.  “Same answer.  But there’s – something – I see in the two of you.”

          “You know what that is?” Merlin rasped, perfectly serious.

          “What?” Gwaine said.

          Merlin put out his hand, patted at the air until he felt Gwaine’s sleeve, then gripped his arm.  He grinned, though the smile without the light in his eyes was considerably dimmed, it was a smile.

          “We’re idiots,” Merlin told Gwaine.

Chapter Text

          This particular brand of idiocy the prince and the sorcerer shared – it was catching.

          Gwaine brought up the rear as the three of them traveled, not far but far enough for a momentary safety.  He watched the blindfolded sorcerer, one hand on Arthur’s shoulder for guidance, stumble trustingly behind the prince, pausing when Arthur checked corners or new avenues, moving forward as Arthur did.  Moving as one.

          If it had been him, Gwaine wondered, to catch a faceful of that poison, whatever it had been, who would be there to lead him?  Who would he trust so implicitly, with such childlike purity?  No one.  Who was there in his life that he cared about so wholly that he would risk everything to make sure they reached a place of shelter and safety?  No one.

          But oh, he wished it was different, for him.

          He’d urged the prince to abandon the boy-sorcerer and run.  It would have been the smart thing to do.  Merlin himself probably wouldn’t have blamed either of them.  But, if he was being honest with himself – and you pretty much had to be honest with yourself, didn’t you? – he would admit that he would have respected Prince Arthur quite a bit less had he abandoned his crippled sorcerer.

          He’d never seen anything quite like the other warrior, creeping cautiously out into that storm of magic to try to rescue the terrified and confused sorcerer who caused it.  The initial thought, that Arthur wanted – needed – the sorcerer’s power, that the prince had been unwilling to leave the best weapon behind, so to speak, had been quickly obliterated.  It was almost as if the strength of the magic didn’t matter to Arthur.

          They paused again at another intersection, the prince’s head turning this way and that, listening.  He hadn’t so much as glanced over his shoulder to see if Gwaine was still following, to make sure he hadn’t pulled a knife to use on the boy between them.

          His heart jolted in his chest.  It was almost like – he was part of a team, in a way that Cenred had tried to force, and could not.  Choices he had, this week, and he’d already chosen not to help Morgause.  Neither the king nor his niece could wake an ounce of loyalty in Gwaine’s heart, and instead inspired contempt and loathing.

          Mere moments with these two – idiots, as Merlin had joked, yes, maybe – had him longing to have just a taste of what they had.  To have someone trust him like that, to be able to trust someone so instinctively…  The moment of choice had not come, but seemed almost as if it had been made for him, or that he’d made it long ago, and just needed the right circumstances to recognize it.  He knew, didn’t he, if Arthur felt he’d lost his usefulness, if Arthur felt he threatened them in any way, he’d give that fair warning he’d promised, and then fight him dagger and sword til one of them was dead.  That was honor.  But it wasn’t trust.  Not like what Arthur and Merlin had.  There would be no warnings, between those two, no call of on guard.

          “Here,” Arthur said, finding a short lane that dead-ended.  He guided Merlin inside, pressed him down to rest.  “Food, and water if you need it,” he told his friend, placing the boy’s hand on the pack and water-skin.  “I won’t be gone long.”

          “Take Gwaine with you,” Merlin said.  “He can watch your back.”

          “He can watch your back,” Arthur said, and stood, giving Gwaine a stern look.  Gwaine merely nodded, and Arthur moved away without further hesitation, back the way they’d come.

          Gwaine looked down at Merlin curiously, alone with a sorcerer for probably the first time in his life. 

          The boy-sorcerer had slumped back against the hedge, one hand fisted over his chest, one pressing thumb and fingers together against his temples.  He was breathing hard, though the walk had been slow and short.

          Gwaine had a knife.  Hell, he was cradling a crossbow ready to fire with one twitch of his thumb on the trigger.  The boy would be dead in moments.  He’d lost his childhood friend, his father, his eyesight, his health – he might even be dying slowly of poison, right now.  He had to know his prince was risking himself for his safety.  He might even agree to such a move, were Gwaine to be stupid enough to suggest it before implementing it.

          It might even be doing Arthur a favor.  The prince would have no one to worry about but himself.  He’d hunt Gwaine down, sure, they’d cat-and-mouse around the labyrinth for days, maybe, fighting whoever they met, til one or both of them were killed, or one of them killed the other.

          Gwaine looked down on Merlin, and couldn’t contemplate ending his life.  There was something, just as he’d said, something more than friendship or loyalty.  There was something special, about Merlin, and about Arthur.  About Merlin and Arthur.  Something important.

          There was far more to this boy that just the power of his magic.

          He knelt down sideways to the boy, so he could keep his eye on the opening to the maze, keeping the crossbow ready across his knees.  “Is it getting worse?”

          Merlin struggled upright.  His throaty, hoarse voice tried to be cheerful.  “I’m all right.” 

         Sure.  Without comment, Gwaine pulled the plug from the spout on the water-skin, put it into his hands. 

          Merlin drank, gulp after gulp.  “Please – please go after Arthur.  It doesn’t matter what happens to me, but please – he must live.”

          Gwaine chuckled.  “You know he’d kill me if anything happened to you, right?”

          Merlin laughed, coughed, and spat to the side.  Gwaine was concerned to see that there was blood in the spittle, but didn’t say anything.  “I’ll put up –“  He dragged in a breath like a swimmer surfacing.  “I’ll put up a wall, a glamour, it’ll look like this aisle is empty.  No one will find me, no one will see.”

          “If that’s so, how will we find you?” he retorted.  “Every path looks like every other path, in here.”

          “I’ll know when you’re coming, when you’re close,” Merlin said, unsettlingly earnest below the blindfold-bandage covering and protecting his eyes.

          Gwaine snorted.  Most men, in Merlin’s position, would be begging not to be left alone.  But this boy was begging Gwaine to leave him and guard Arthur instead. 

          “Why?” he said.  “What makes him worth your time and effort?”  Your life?  “I’ve known plenty of nobles, and not one of them is worth…”  Worth dying for?  Worth losing your father for?  Not one of Cenred’s court – and none he’d seen in Uther’s, either – deserved the sort of loyalty he saw in this boy.

          If you return, and Arthur does not, you will not make it alive to your coronation, the big knight had told him when they entered the labyrinth.  Was that what it was about Arthur?  That somehow the new prince was the sort of sterling character that was deserving of loyalty?  Any man’s loyalty?  His?

          “Titles don’t mean anything,” Merlin rasped.  “It’s what’s inside that counts.  Arthur’s fair, he’s loyal… He’s going to make a great king, I know it.”

          “Let’s hope he lives that long,” Gwaine murmured, already tensing to rise, to leave.

          Merlin made an impatient gesture.  “Go make sure of it.”

          Gwaine paused at the entrance to the blind alley to look back.  As he said, Merlin had erected a look-alike hedge-wall.  The dead-end row looked empty now, and shorter.  He hurried back toward the hub, relying on speed more than stealth to keep him safe, if anyone else was about, and nearly ran into Arthur, who was lugging the body of the dragonlord away from the small battlefield.

          For a single second, each warrior tensed and reached for his weapon, til recognition calmed them a bit. 

          “What the hell are you doing, Gwaine?” Arthur demanded.  “I told you to stay with Merlin.”

          Gwaine smirked at the royal attitude the prince had picked up in only a year.  “He told me to come look after you,” he said.  “He can hide.  You don’t have the talent of making yourself look seven feet tall and leafy green, do you, sire?”

          Arthur growled, and sent a searching gaze around them.  “I didn’t want to try to build a pyre in that place,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.  “Too open, too easy to ambush.  But here – should be all right.”

          He reached for his sword, wincing, and Gwaine remembered the tip of Morgause’s sword in the prince’s shoulder. 

          “You all right?” he asked, stepping close to probe at the chainmail, dampening his fingertips with blood.

          Arthur nodded dismissively.  “It’s not much more than a scratch.”

          “It’s still bleeding,” Gwaine observed.  He twisted to reach into his own bag for his bandage-roll, and handed it to Arthur.  “Stuff it in there – stop the bleeding, at least.”

          “Thanks.”  The prince shrugged a gap in the chainmail, tucked the bandage between the armor and the tunic beneath. 

          Gwaine unsheathed his own sword, hacking at the hedges to get enough brush for a decent pyre.  Sorry, Anhora.  He said, “Did you see the assassin’s body?” 

          Arthur grunted. 

          “Your sorcerer broke his neck, you know,” Gwaine persisted, curious for the prince's reaction.  Broke, hell, he’d crunched it. 

          “Good riddance,” Arthur said briefly.  “Let him lie.” 

          Gwaine agreed, and between him and Arthur, they made the pyre and arranged the dragonlord’s body, without any interruptions from other champions.  The edge of the sun’s yellow circle was just touching the top of the hill when they finished.

          “You think we should bring him?” Gwaine asked.  “He’s not going to be able to see anything…”

          “We have to,” Arthur said.  “I can’t fire it, can you?” 

          Gwaine conceded the point with a shrug, and Arthur started off again, toward the dead-end where they’d left Merlin. 

          “If he’s disguised as a wall, how are we supposed to–“  Arthur stopped suddenly, cursed, then rushed into the row.

          Merlin was crumpled on his side.  Gwaine swore to himself, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.  If someone had found and killed the boy, Arthur would turn on him in fury–

          Arthur’s whole body expressed his sigh of relief.  “Merlin,” he called softly, shaking the boy’s shoulder.  “Wake up.” 

          "Wha..."  The boy moved, raised his head, and the prince helped him to sit up properly. 

          “Merlin, you idiot, you fainted like a girl,” he chided, affection overlaid with relief.

          “Sorry,” Merlin mumbled huskily.  “I just got so dizzy…”  He raised his hand to the bandage covering his eyes.

          “Shall we see what you can see?” Arthur said, untying the cloth. 

          Merlin blinked, squinted up at Gwaine, and flinched.

          “Come now,” Gwaine teased, “I’m not that ugly – unless the ladies lie.”

           Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, saying in a voice dry and strained, “Arthur, please swear to me that Gwaine is not vomiting purple toads.”

          What?  Hells...  Probably not as amusing to experience as it sounded.

          Arthur sighed, reaching for the water-skin next to the sorcerer’s knee.  “Gwaine is not vomiting purple toads.”

          The prince held up the water-skin for Gwaine to see that it was empty, raising his eyebrows.  Gwaine shrugged.  It was rather too much for Merlin to have consumed, especially considering how long they might have to stay in the labyrinth.  Arthur took his own, dribbled more water over the bandage before replacing it over Merlin’s eyes and tying it with infinite care and gentleness.

          “Is that better?” he said. 

          Merlin took a moment to consider, then nodded. 

          “Come on, then.” 

          Arthur pulled the sorcerer to his feet and steadied him, placing the boy’s hand on his shoulder for guidance, and with Gwaine in the rear once again, they walked – or weaved unsteadily, in Merlin’s case – to the pyre. For a moment they just stood, and Gwaine watched Arthur consider if he should guide Merlin's hands to the broken twig-ends of hedge-brush... which might inevitably lead to touching his father's clothing or body.

          “Are you ready, then?” Arthur said softly.

          Merlin nodded, reaching out.   Arthur helped him to find the dragonlord’s hand, and Merlin raised it to his forehead. 

          But after a moment, he said hoarsely, “I can’t, Arthur.”

          Arthur was silent for quite a while before answering.  “I understand, Merlin.  I understand.  When my father died, it felt like part of me was missing.  I learned everything from him, I valued his pride, his smile… when he told me, well done.”

          Gwaine wondered if he should move away, give them a moment of privacy, but found he wanted to stay.  He hadn’t known his father, but… he wanted to hear what Arthur would tell Merlin.

          “He gave so much of his life to me, making sure I knew enough and understood enough to be my own man.  It’s hard, Merlin.  I know.  But your father did the same for you.  You are a good man.  He was proud of you.  He would be proud of you still.”  The prince put his hand over the sorcerer’s chest.  “You have his heart, Merlin.  You have his loyalty, his nobility, his honor and self-sacrifice.  He is here, with you, and always will be.  No one – not Uther, nor any assassin – can ever take that from you.”

          Gwaine swallowed a lump in his own throat.  He’d meant to offer condolences at some point, though it was awkward in the extreme, the situation they were in, but after Arthur’s words… Gwaine chose to say nothing, but simply placed his hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

          Merlin was trembling, his breathing uneven, but his shoulders were squared and his head was high.  He nodded, letting his hand slip from his father’s to rest on the prickly hedge forming the pyre. 

          “Step back,” he told them, his voice hoarse but calm. 

          Arthur and Gwaine retreated.  Merlin spoke a spell, a single word, and fire ignited throughout the pyre, in spite of the moisture in the green and living foliage.  Then he backed up to them, and they stood for some time.  Gwaine kept the lookout, and pretended not to notice that the bandages over Merlin’s eyes were soaked through.  He pretended not to notice when the prince wiped his face dry, also.

          “Come,” Arthur said finally.  The sun’s rays were orange on the few leaves that waved above the top of the hedge.  “We need to cover some distance before dark.”

          “There’ll be a moon tonight,” Gwaine observed as they turned away.  “Near-full.”

          Merlin stumbled over Arthur’s heels, offering with tired humor, “I’ll take first watch, shall I?”

          Gwaine scoffed a little, but Arthur patted Merlin’s hand on his shoulder as if he’d heard something Gwaine had not, in Merlin’s words.

          Before long it was Gwaine’s turn to step on Merlin’s heels, as the sorcerer lagged suddenly, coughing and clutching at his chest. 

          Arthur stopped instantly in concern.  “Merlin?”

          The coughing triggered a spasm through the boy’s muscles, and only the grip of the two warriors kept him on his feet, as he shuddered and wheezed.  Then he croaked out, “I’m okay – we can keep going.”

          “Let’s rest a minute,” Arthur said, dropping to one knee. 

          Gwaine let Merlin collapse, and at a look from the prince, he stepped back to take up a guard position.  Arthur dug in his pouch for a biscuit and more dried meat, which Merlin took, only to nibble at.  He did gulp more water, though. 

          “You study with Gaius,” the prince said to his sorcerer.  “Do you have an idea of what that liquid was?”

          “Belladonna, maybe.”  Merlin’s voice was light, breathless.  “There are any number of plants or tinctures that cause hallucinations, but the other side effects point to belladonna.”

          The prince looked up to share a grim look with Gwaine.  Belladonna was a poison, wasn’t it?  Who was this Gaius, he wondered. 

          “What other side effects?” Arthur demanded.

          “Nothing you have to worry about,” Merlin assured him, taking another drink.

          “Merlin,” Arthur said, and Gwaine heard the note of worry through the light scolding tone, “What other side effects do you have to worry about?”

          Gwaine could fairly hear the boy-sorcerer deciding whether or not to answer his prince honestly and fully. 

          “Just – some dizziness,” Merlin said finally.  “Headache, mouth and throat dry…”

          “What else?” Arthur said.  “What about that fit you just had?”

          “Arthur,” Merlin rasped, managing to sound amused, of all things.  “I can’t exactly guess what the dosage was.  Belladonna’s not meant to be inhaled or ingested, either.”

          “Merlin,” the prince commanded. 

          “Spasms,” Merlin mumbled.  “Heart palpitations, difficulty breathing, slurred speech.”

          Gwaine couldn’t help blurting, “Death?”

          Arthur glared up at him.

          “No,” Merlin said, but it sounded more like a promise than a fact.

          “Can’t you–“ Gwaine fumbled for a polite way to say it, and couldn’t find one, “heal yourself?  With magic?”

          Merlin turned his head toward Gwaine, though of course he couldn’t see anything past the bandage, and bumped his forehead gently with the heel of one hand to joke hoarsely, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

          “You have been trying, then?” Arthur said. 

          Merlin coughed, and nodded. 

          “Keep trying,” Arthur ordered sternly.  Then he said, “Damn witchfinder.”

          “Witchfinder?” Gwaine said; the term was unfamiliar - but self-explanatory.

          “We’re good then,” Merlin whispered.  “I’m not a witch.  Look – no dress.”

          Arthur shook his head, and Gwaine chuckled.  He could see why Arthur liked the boy – he had an indomitable optimism of the sort that buoyed the spirits of those around him.  He was far more than the simple exercise of his power.  And this upon the heels of his father’s death…

          Gwaine ventured, “Did you want to stay the night here?”

          “Let’s keep going,” Arthur decided, rising and reaching to pull Merlin to his feet also.  “I want to find a better place.”

          They moved in silence, and as dusk fell, they used their ears more than their eyes.  Arthur, Gwaine guessed, was trying to move them away from the hub and the pyre without increasing or decreasing the distance between them and the tree.  They’d been maneuvering between the rows and hedges, up one and down another, parallel lanes and right-corner turns, for almost an hour, when Merlin tripped again, and this time went down on one knee.

          “Ow,” he said.

          Gwaine reached for his elbow, but Merlin twitched violently away from his fingers, thudding to the packed-earth path with a grunt.  Arthur turned from checking the corner ahead of them and hissed, rushing to kneel next to the boy as his body convulsed.  Gwaine knelt, too. 

          “Shall we hold him down?” he whispered to Arthur, as the boy-sorcerer jerked and shuddered, boots scraping erratically on the dirt.

          “No, don’t touch him,” Arthur said, and Gwaine heard the agony of uncertainty in the prince’s voice. 

          Gwaine sensed rather than saw Arthur study the layout of their current position, a Z-shaped row with a turn at each end but no intersecting avenues.  “It’s as good a place as any,” he offered.  “Let’s not make him go any further?”

          “No,” Arthur said.

          The spasm gradually calmed to an occasional involuntary twitch.  Merlin was on his side, curled up as small as his long limbs would allow.

          “Merlin?” Arthur whispered.  Moonlight glinted from his chainmail as he removed his glove and reached to touch the boy.  “He’s cold, Gwaine.  Merlin?”

          “Sssorry, Arth-rr,” Merlin mumbled.  “ ‘L be a’right ‘n morn…”

          Gwaine thought bleakly, slurred speech – dammit, the boy was getting worse. 

          “I’ll take first watch,” Arthur said to Gwaine.  “Could you – he’s cold, Gwaine.”

          He understood, and crawled into the space between Merlin’s body and the base of the hedge, pillowing his head on his arm, scooting so his back provided the boy with shelter and warmth.  “Call me for the second watch.”

        "Thank you, Gwaine."  The prince backed off a few feet, settled himself down. 

          Gwaine the warrior, the slave, was shaken by the sincerity of the words themselves, as much as the feeling behind them.  How long had it been since someone was grateful to him?  He spared the lives of his opponents in Cenred’s circus-matches routinely, but that provoked resentment and hatred, never gratitude.  And his name?  How long since any had used it at all when addressing him – swine or filth or damn madman – names, surely, but not his name.  The way these two had said it today, multiple times.  It was like having friends.

          Merlin cuddled against his back like a puppy craving warmth and companionship from a litter-mate, demanding it as a right and giving it just as freely in return like a responsibility taken for granted. 

          Like brothers, maybe, packed into a bed too small for growing bodies – kicking and pinching and laughing under their breath, and finally falling asleep tangled in each other’s space.  Or like fellow-soldiers, comrades, crammed into barracks or camped in rows on a campaign, back to back and thankful for it on a cold night.  And he was a stranger, who just this morning was an enemy.  Incredible, this boy.

          Gwaine was used to the cold.  The stone and filthy straw of a locked dungeon – and here at least the air was fresh.  He found it had been easier to fall to sleep many nights in his lonely cold cell, than this one night with a prince close enough to touch, giving up sleep to guard his safety, and a blinded, powerful boy-sorcerer with sharp shoulder-blades and bony elbows breathing in soft snorts and whuffles and twitching sometimes behind him.  Not for the discomfort of the situation, no.  For the very opposite reason.

          Because it felt like he belonged with these two.  For the first time in – ever.  It felt like home.

          And it occurred to him that this – whatever this was – might very well be worth dying for.

          Merlin woke to darkness and a heavy cold weight pinning down his left shoulder.  He drew in a deep breath carefully, wary of starting another coughing spasm, then let it out in a sigh.  The gleaming golden link to Arthur pulsed warmly; he knew it was Arthur’s shoulder pinning his own down, and that was all right with him.  It meant that Arthur was sleeping – and that meant they were safe.

          He took another experimental breath.  Yes, pretty clear.  There was an urge to cough, but it was controllable.  His magic, used several times during the course of the night, had healed, had sustained – and now, probably, the other effects of the poison would wear off, if they hadn’t already.

          He squirmed out from under Arthur, and sat up, reaching for the bandage still tied over his eyes.

          “Whoa, slow down,” someone said, and he flinched in surprise before recognizing Gwaine’s voice.  That made sense, he supposed – if Arthur had gone to sleep, Gwaine would be on guard.  “Take it easy, there.  You sure you want to do that?”

          Merlin curled his fingertips over the edge of the bandage, pulled it down over his nose.  Then he opened his eyes - it was a blur of darkness.  No, no, no – belladonna was not supposed to cause permanent blindness!  He blinked, widened his eyes, scrubbed at them vigorously.

          “What do you see?” Gwaine asked in a curious whisper.

          “Nothing,” he admitted hollowly, letting his hands fall into his lap.

          Gwaine chuckled.  “Not yet dawn, Merlin,” he told him.  “Give it an hour, then you’ll be able to see – whatever it is you can see.”

          Whatever it is… he shuddered, remembering.  He’d looked down at his father, seeing not peaceful stillness or a dark saturation of blood, but the filthy pale swollenness of a long-submerged corpse, opening milky-white eyes and blackened lips to scream and whisper in silence.

          And then, more had come, all around.  Dead, drowned faces, dripping like fountains, dragging their limbs toward him, glowing with a sickly blue-green luminescence, closing in… And one, more horrific than the rest, because of the link that told him – that corpse was Arthur’s.  The golden hair and blue eyes were bleached and pouring foul water, reaching webbed fingers – and he couldn’t strike back.  He shuddered again.  Ye gods, if he had acted upon the hallucination…

          “Pendragon,” Gwaine hissed.  Merlin heard a shuffle of motion, the soft clink of Arthur’s armor.  “Dawn approaches.”

          Arthur grunted, then groaned, and the sound was so familiar, Merlin couldn’t help smiling.  The few times the prince had still been sleeping when Merlin had entered the bedchamber with his breakfast tray, he always woke in the same way, rasping his name in the same questioning tone.  “Merlin?”

          “Rise and shine,” Merlin whispered back.  Gwaine snickered.

          Arthur’s hand found Merlin’s arm.  “Are you all right?”

          Merlin heard in Arthur’s voice that he asked about more than the physical symptoms of the poisoning.  He heard the prince’s concern over the losses he’d suffered the previous day, Will and… his father.  Gone.  The ache was there, but dull.  It was likely he himself would die today – he wouldn’t have long to mourn.

          Arthur’s words about Balinor – he was right.  Balinor had taught him so much – not only how to use his magic, but when and why.  To serve and protect my lord to the best of my abilities as a sorcerer and a man…to the last light of magic in my heart, both now and always.  Will had told him, one day, your prince is going to be a great king - make it happen.

          The deaths of his friend and his father had been intended by the two kings to distract him, to break him.  It hadn’t worked.  It wouldn’t work.  He had sworn upon life, soul, honor to fight until Arthur’s last enemy was vanquished.

          “The headache is gone,” Merlin said, keeping his voice low.  “And I’m not so thirsty.  No dizziness, either, but then again,” he shrugged, though probably they couldn’t see him do it, “I’m sitting on the ground.”

          “The spasms?” Arthur said.

          Merlin could see now the lighter gray that was the sky, his two companions as shadows more solid than the rest.  “Not at the moment,” he said.  He felt around then for the packs.  “Want breakfast, sire?”

          “What are our plans this morning?” Gwaine said, his hand meeting Merlin’s as he doled out the rations.  “The tree?  I don’t fancy running into more poison – though I do fancy running into the thrower.”

          “Mm,” Arthur agreed grimly.  “As far as I’m concerned, the other four are equally our enemies – Morgause, Alvarr, Aredian, and – what’s her name, the woman Uther approved to enter?”

          “Catrina,” Merlin said, picking up one of the water-skins to share among the three of them.

          “You said this Aredian, this witchfinder,” Gwaine sounded amused, though it was still too dim to read facial expressions.  “He has no sword, he won’t face us directly, right?  What if we were to lure him into an ambush?”

          There was silence.  Merlin glanced around them warily; he could see green now in the darkness of the walls that surrounded them.  But nothing that seemed out of place, strange or frightening.  He hoped his vision would continue to stay clear.

          “I thought the same myself, last night,” Arthur said.  “But what would lure him?  I’m sure he’s not meant to kill me, as I’m sure he wouldn’t risk facing your sword.  And Merlin–“  he paused.  Merlin found he could see the shadowy figures of both warriors turn to him at the same time.  “Has Aredian any reason to believe you dead?”

          Merlin opened his mouth to scoff, to protest, but stopped.  Without his magic’s healing force… But Aredian would be used to dealing with sorcerers and healing magic, he argued.  I’m nothing special, nothing different, only…

          Emrys, Gwen’s druid cousin had said.  Ridiculous.  The mistake of a young girl, a country girl in the big city of Camelot for the first time.  He couldn’t be…could he?

          If Balinor… if another sorcerer had taken a faceful of belladonna – swallowing, breathing – would their magic be potent enough to save them?  Both Gaius and his father had commented more than once on his unusual level of power and control – but he’d mostly dismissed the words as the requisite compliments of a proud father and an encouraging mentor.

          “He might,” Merlin allowed.  The dryness of his mouth and throat had little to do with any lingering effects of the poison.

          “Build another pyre,” Gwaine proposed.  It had grown light enough to see the gleam of his eyes and grin.  “You’ve already done it twice.  He’ll see the smoke and think Merlin’s dead…”

          “And he might not guess you’ve stayed with us,” Arthur added, his head bowed in thought.

          “Merlin can disguise me,” Gwaine went on.  “And I’ll be waiting if–“

          “If Aredian comes to make an alliance,” Arthur finished.  “It would be safer for him to work with me, than on his own.  And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Uther has already agreed to release him from his contract, grant him his life, if he and I remain at the end.”

          “If we don’t get Aredian, we’ll surely attract someone’s notice,” Gwaine concluded.  “Well?”

          Arthur raised his head, and a subtle smile of approval crossed his face as he looked from the other warrior to Merlin.  “What do you say?” he said.  “Bring them to us?”

          “I am yours to command, sire,” Merlin said, and made no attempt to stop his own grin.

          “Right, then,” Arthur said.  “Let’s get to work.”

          They spread out over a few rows, choosing a place that suited Arthur’s plan, and found an eight-foot section of hedge that was free-standing, not linked to any other wall.  Cutting it down left a small open area, and Merlin used magic to smooth the earth over the gnarled roots.  The cut sections of hedge were placed to block access from the east, and Arthur with crossbow in hand would be in a short row with a blind turn at one end, just back from an opening in the middle of the next row.  Gwaine and his sword would be stationed behind a hedge-illusion in that row, and across from Arthur, while Merlin would be behind the prince to guard his back.  All three possible approaches were covered.

          Arthur nodded at Merlin, who breathed the fire-spell, “Baerne.” 

          The smoke began to rise from the sections stacked like a pyre.  They waited tensely, but for only half of an hour.

          A voice came from the adjoining row, maybe ten feet from Gwaine’s position, a cold, implacable voice.  “Prince Arthur, are you there?”

          Arthur exchanged glances with Merlin, who made an arcing motion to demonstrate where he guessed Aredian to be.  It seemed the witchfinder was too wily to come straight to the prince.  The question was, would Gwaine hold, or attack without Arthur’s signal?

          “I am here,” Arthur answered.  “Speak your mind.”

          “You have lost your sorcerer, have you not?” Chill amusement.  “I have come to offer my – services.”

          “Come where I can see you, then,” Arthur invited expressionlessly.

          The witchfinder chuckled, a dry sound, like dead leaves blown by a cold wind over forgotten bones, and made a counter-offer.  “Cut me a path through the hedge, prince.”

          Merlin shook his head emphatically.  Who knew what the older man planned to do with Arthur’s hands and attention busy with the little chore. 

          “Come around the corner, Aredian,” the prince said, his mouth twisting in a distasteful grimace.  “So I know I can trust you.”

          Again the dead-leaves dry-bones chuckle.  “So you can shoot me with the assassin’s crossbow?” he said.  “You disappoint me, Arthur.  Perhaps you are not ready for this caliber of game.”

          There was a whisper of movement, a flash of danger.  Merlin glanced up as the small pouch sailed over the hedge – he put up his hand – and it burst as it touched his magic, splashing open inches from Arthur’s stunned face.  The prince flinched as the liquid belladonna ran harmlessly down the edges of the air-shield Merlin had conjured.  He sent a wide-eyed glance back at the sorcerer, and Merlin twirled a finger to indicate that Arthur should keep play-acting.

          Arthur affected to cough and splutter.  “What the hell, Aredian?” he snarled.  “What is this–“

          Whether Gwaine had seen that Arthur had been shielded, or whether he thought the prince had taken the poison in his face, the other warrior roared and charged through his wall-illusion.  Merlin ducked under the air-shield, avoiding the droplets rolling off it, following Arthur to the opening of the next row.

          Their new companion, it seemed, had attacked with an overhead swing, expecting the older man to retreat.  Over Arthur’s shoulder Merlin saw Aredian avoid the swing and leap forward, dagger flashing in his hand.  And before Arthur could aim the crossbow or pull the trigger, Aredian had spun around with Gwaine’s back to his chest and the dagger at his throat.

          Gwaine’s sword slammed to the earth, and his hands clutched at his thigh.  Blood spilled down his left trouser leg at an alarming rate, and Merlin held himself back with an effort, not wanting to crowd Arthur.  But the prince had no shot, with Gwaine in the way.  Aredian surely wanted Gwaine dead as much as he wanted Merlin dead, but not enough to risk the prince’s crossbow bolt.  Stalemate, but it wouldn’t last for long, not with how fast Gwaine was losing blood.

          “Put it down, Arthur,” Aredian commanded condescendingly.

          Merlin whispered, “Ceolwaerc.” 

          Arthur twitched, but kept his eyes on Aredian, the crossbow raised.

          The witchfinder cleared his throat.  “We all know your–“ cough “-deplorable tendency for–“ cough “-taking in the – strays that follow you–“  Aredian’s pale eyes widened, and he began to choke. 

          Gwaine wrestled with the hand holding the dagger, keeping it away from his throat.  

          The witchfinder’s mouth opened, lips spreading wide – and he vomited a purple toad right over Gwaine’s shoulder. 

          Arthur took half a step backward, but Gwaine – who was probably concentrating on other concerns – pivoted around the older man, tripping him to his knees – and snapping his neck with a single savage twist.

          The body fell, pale eyes sightlessly fixed on the purple toad, who belched out an impressive croak.

          “Merlin?” Arthur said incredulously.  “What in the–“

          “Gwaine!” Merlin said, as the hedge beside the dark-haired warrior failed to hold him up, and he crashed to the ground.  Merlin skipped over the body to get to Gwaine, ripping open the dagger-tear in his trousers to get a clear look at Gwaine’s wound.  Blood poured from the narrow cut in spurts – the blade probably had nicked an artery, Merlin guessed.  “May I?” he asked, meeting the warrior’s eyes, which had begun to glaze with pain or blood-loss.

          “You do what you gotta do,” Gwaine gasped out, and forced a chuckle.

          Merlin placed his hand over the bloody wound, closed his eyes to center himself briefly and concentrate, then whispered “Wel cene hole.” 

          But blood continued to flow.

Chapter Text

          It never ceased to amaze Arthur.  Put a sword in Merlin’s hand and he was pathetically inept – more than one knight had requested that Arthur excuse his sorcerer permanently from group training, for all their sakes.  He tripped, he dropped things, he spilled things.  Merlin’s clumsiness was something of a running joke in the castle.  Arthur privately believed it was due to Merlin’s mind being entirely elsewhere a good deal of the time.  Where, exactly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he’d be surprised if ordinary daydreams of love or leisure could catch Merlin’s attention so completely.

          But, let there be an injury or illness, no matter how small or slight, and Merlin’s entire being took on a sort of otherworldly grace that was astonishing to watch.  Not that he’d ever tell his friend that, of course.

          Merlin was kneeling by Gwaine before Arthur managed to tear his gaze from the bizarre purple toad beginning to crawl toward the hedge.  His long fingers were gentle and sure as he inspected the wound. 

            “Gwaine, may I?”  He requested consent of the wounded, as Arthur knew he was required to.

           The warrior’s skin was pale and clammy.  He let himself drop back to his elbows, then flattened out on the bare earth, responding somewhat fatalistically, “You do what you gotta do.” 

          Merlin spoke as blood gushed over his fingers.  “Wel cene hole.” 

          Arthur glanced around them warily, then watched his sorcerer in fascination.  The blood continued to seep, but that didn’t seem to bother Merlin. 

          He shifted his fingers minutely, spoke again, “Purhhaele dolgbenn.”  And again, crooning the foreign words over the injury as the moments ticked by and the cloth of Gwaine’s trousers soaked the blood in an ever-spreading stain.  Finally Merlin sat back, but it was more of a collapse.  “Is there extra water, Arthur?” 

          Arthur reached for Aredian’s water-skin, hesitated, then left it lie by the body.  Who knew?  No point in taking a chance.  He held out one of the extras, and Merlin indicated that it should be given to Gwaine.  Arthur didn’t miss the tremble in the sorcerer’s hand at the gesture, but knelt by Gwaine’s head to raise it and trickle water over his lips.

          Gwaine came to with a snort and a shake, swallowing the water before lying back once again to gaze at the sky, then meeting Arthur’s eyes with surprise.  “I’m alive.”

          “Got it in one,” Arthur said, amused.

          “But there was too much blood,” Gwaine stated.  “Even a bandage and a tourniquet only delay the inevitable.  You can’t treat a wound like that under conditions like these.”

          “Merlin can,” Arthur said, with considerable satisfaction.

          “I thought–“ Gwaine’s eyes returned to the sky.  “I thought he was just going to - make it easier, or faster.  Make it hurt less.  To die.”

          Arthur laughed, and repeated something he’d told Merlin a year ago.  “It’d be a thankless way of repaying you for saving our lives.” 

          Gwaine barked a harsh laugh. 

          “Can you get up?” Arthur added.  “That pyre is still smoking – we need to move again.”

          Gwaine grasped the hand he extended, and he pulled him up to a sitting position.  Poking open the tear in his trousers he revealed the mark, over an inch wide, red and irritated, but completely closed.  If it wasn’t for all the blood, sticky and fresh, the injury could have been weeks old.

          Arthur turned to Merlin, to find him slumped sideways on his knees, leaning on the hedge with blood-covered hands lying limply palm-up on his knees.  Fast asleep.  Or unconscious. 

          “Merlin,” he said, moving around to the sorcerer’s side.

          “Is he all right?” Gwaine said.  “Did that poison hit either of you?”

          “No, he blocked it,” Arthur answered.  He tapped Merlin’s face until his friend blinked at him, and smiled his wide wry grin.  “Have you finished your beauty sleep?” Arthur teased him.

          “Nope,” Merlin answered, with less than half his usual energy, but still popping the ‘p’.  “We haven’t got that kind of time.”

          “Unfortunately, you’re right.”  Arthur offered the water-skin, and Merlin held out his hands, scrubbing off most of the blood in the small trickle Arthur allowed, then wiping them on his own trousers before taking a swallow from the water-skin.

          Gwaine turned to raise himself to hands and knees, and struggled upright to test the injured leg.  “Merlin,” the dark-haired warrior said, “Thank you for this.  I mean–“

          “Don’t worry about it,” Merlin said immediately.

          “Gwaine?  You going to make it?” Arthur asked, pulling Merlin up also.

          “He’s lost a lot of blood,” Merlin said, swaying and turning white as a sheet, so Arthur didn’t dare to move from his side.  “Take it slow, Arthur.”

          “And you,” Arthur returned.  He wondered if they should check the witchfinder’s body for other weapons.  The idea of using any more belladonna that they found bothered him.  It was different, somehow, from appropriating Myror’s crossbow, and he decided against it.  “That poison still bothering you?”  

          Merlin grinned.  “Not a bit.”

          Arthur made a rude noise of disbelief.  “You’re wearing yourself out with too much magic, aren’t you?”

          The last time he’d seen Merlin do so much in such a short amount of time had been last year in the arena – and then he’d slept for fifteen hours straight.  And Arthur was sure he hadn’t seen half of what Merlin had done since yesterday.

          “There’s no such thing as too much magic,” Merlin protested impudently.

          “That’s not what Gaius says,” Arthur reminded him.

          Gwaine limped back to them, took Merlin’s arm to duck underneath it, and swung his own around the sorcerer’s shoulders. 

          “We’ll manage, sire,” the other warrior promised.  “Onward, fearless leader.”  Gwaine’s tone hovered between genuine respect and something akin to Merlin’s own fond impertinence.

          Arthur chose not to respond, but headed into the long rows and confusing turns once again, stealing swiftly to a corner or a break in the hedge to watch and listen as the other two labored behind him.  He kept the towering bulk of the central tree in front of them, mostly, choosing the way at random and not trying to do more than get far enough away from the pyre-ambush to rest for a few hours.  

          “You’re dragging your feet, mate,” he heard Gwaine say behind him.

          He stopped.  “We’ll rest here.”

          Gwaine lowered Merlin to the ground before easing himself down also.  Arthur checked both directions through a break in the hedge, as well as a turn further up their row, listening, waiting - and deciding they were alone.  He turned to see Gwaine’s head tipped back against the hedge behind him.  Merlin eyed the packed dirt of the path, then sank down sideways, not even bothering to pillow his head before his eyes were shut.

          He stepped over them to seat himself in the corner they’d just rounded, the crossbow ready on his drawn-up knees, noting that there were only three bolts left to fire.  From the position of the sun, it lacked an hour or so til midmorning; there was no reason to move, and every reason to rest.  There remained three sorcerers, two of whom carried swords and might be working together.  It was probably a good bet that they would not be easy to overcome, especially in this twisted, constricted space that encouraged ambush, trickery, and subterfuge.  In the amphitheater they’d been allowed the same armor and weapons – swords, daggers, crossbows and so on, as well as whatever spells and magic the sorcerers could perform.

          Here, it seemed, more subtle weapons were allowed - poison had been used.  What else was in store for them?

          Gwaine, Cenred’s slave-warrior, had surprised him.  Out of the ten chosen champions, if he’d been pressed to judge, he would have declared the assassin or the slave as the least trustworthy.  When had it happened that Gwaine had become an ally?  More and more he hated to think of having to fight the other warrior and end his life.  He’d not turn on Gwaine, that much he knew.  Arthur believed Gwaine’s loyalty would last until the three of them remained, and then he would make Arthur fight to kill him.  Gwaine was not one to bend his knee and swear everlasting servitude and invite Arthur to end it quickly.

          “He’s not doing so well, is he?” Gwaine said softly, and Arthur saw his eyes were on the sorcerer.

          Merlin’s skin was nearly translucent, dark circles had formed around red-rimmed eyes, and his hair was spiked stiffly by that damn poison he’d had to fight out of his system.  His hands, not entirely clean of Gwaine’s blood, still trembled and twitched as he slept.

          “You weren’t kidding about it taking a lot out of him, were you?” Gwaine went on, giving him a curious glance and lifting a water-skin for a drink.

          “Gaius says healing magic is the most draining for a spellcaster to perform,” Arthur said, “because it’s so personal, so – unselfish.  Gaius could explain it a lot better.”  Merlin could explain it a lot better, and often grew downright talkative when discussing magic in theory.  But he was always so embarrassed and apologetic when it came to explaining anything about himself.  He was sensitive to the surprise and wonder sometimes shown by people unused to his capabilities, and avoided thanks whenever possible.

          “Who’s Gaius?” Gwaine asked, rummaging in the pack and coming up with a biscuit.

          “Our court physician.  Merlin trains with him when I don’t need him.”

          Gwaine gestured at Merlin.  “I’ve heard quite a few different things about the two of you,” he said.  “Stories about that day in the arena – the victor, and the survivor.”

          Arthur grinned.  “Good things?”

          “Truth is stranger than gossip,” Gwaine said, rubbing his outstretched leg absent-mindedly, his eyes on the unconscious sorcerer.  “I can’t figure him out.”

          Arthur laughed softly.  “If you ever do, let me know, and you can explain him to me.”

          Gwaine said, “Some said he was a child, terrified of dying and begging for mercy.”

          Damn.  He grimaced, and shook his head.  How to put it into words?  Merlin, wounded by Arthur’s own hand – and he’d not said one word about it, then or since – having just blasted the last sorceress with lightning and cleared the storm from the sky, struggling out of a hauberk very similar to the one he now wore, kneeling and asking–

          Arthur said hoarsely, “He told me, one day I would make a great king.  He told me not to worry about him, and asked me to – make it quick.”

          “Hells,” Gwaine breathed.  After a moment, he added, slowly, as if he thought Arthur might be angry, “There was another rumor, that a powerful sorcerer had enchanted your king and the court as well as the victor-heir, to rule you all from the shadows.”

          Arthur only smirked.  “If you handed Merlin the crown on a purple velvet pillow, he’d look around the room to give it to the person he thought most deserved it.”

          Gwaine stared at Arthur.  “A kingmaker?” he said incredulously, and his eyes widened.  “He’s not – you’re not–“

          “What?” Arthur said, but Merlin was stirring restlessly in his sleep.

          “Shall I wake him?” Gwaine asked, with a crooked grin, bracing himself to rise.  “What do you suppose he’s dreaming about?” 

          Arthur shook his head, wincing.  In spite of Merlin’s cheerful smile and eternal optimism, there was already far too much in his friend’s life to cause him nightmares. 

          Gwaine tipped his head to align his face with the angle of Merlin’s.  “Bad dreams?  You can keep sleeping if you want to.”

          Merlin pushed himself up, with a wan acknowledgement for Gwaine, and turned to Arthur.  “Something’s coming."

          Something, not someone.  Crossbow in hand, Arthur stood, and Gwaine and Merlin provided each other the counterweight they needed to get to their feet. 

          “What is it, mate?” Gwaine asked, immediately alert and drawing his sword.

          Arthur stepped to the side to check down the row next to theirs.  It was empty.

          Merlin turned, cocking his head.  It was a little like watching one of his hunting dogs trying to pick up a scent, using eyes and ears and nose… and maybe Merlin was using a sense that he and Gwaine did not possess.  Well, all three of the remaining champions could be expected to use sorcery.

          “Arthur, I don’t like it,” Merlin said uneasily.  “It’s something powerful.  And I – didn’t sense this, when we were riding in.”

          Arthur refrained from pointing out that Merlin hadn’t seemed to sense much of anything, as they were riding in.  “Is there anything native to this labyrinth that we might not have been told of?” 

          “No, no creatures, not according to Gaius’ books,” Merlin said distractedly, still trying to pinpoint the source of his discomfort.  “And I doubt Anhora would leave artifacts just lying around.”

          “A weapon someone’s brought with them?” Arthur asked.

          “If that’s the case, then it’s something that has the ability to lie dormant, to activate with a–“ Merlin’s head tilted slightly to one side, a motion almost birdlike in its swift instinct – “spell.”

          “Do we run, or do we fight?” Gwaine said, glancing through a break in the hedge behind him to examine that row for any approaching threat.

          “Arthur?”  Merlin shivered, intent on a point diagonally behind him, beyond the hedge.  “It’s powerful, and I don’t know what it is, and I’m not sure I can–“

          Six paces behind Merlin, around the corner into their row strode Cenred’s last male warrior, the serious-looking blonde, hand extended.  Alvarr, Arthur thought, bending sideways so he could fire the crossbow around Merlin.  Gwaine began to pull back from the break in the hedge and Merlin faced Alvarr, his own hand rising.

          “Folgie min bebeod!” Alvarr cried out.

          Merlin grunted, pushing his hand back at the sorcerer, but Arthur was weightless.  From the corner of his eye he saw Gwaine’s body tip and tumble also.  The stock of the crossbow left his fingers, and Merlin dropped to one knee as Alvarr called the weapon to his own hand, narrowly missing Merlin’s head.  Arthur landed heavily on his back on the path, losing the air in his lungs for crucial seconds.

          Alvarr’s left hand shook something out of a pouch like dice from a cup, something like a grain of salt the length of a man’s hand.  It arced toward them – and froze in the air between Merlin and Gwaine, close enough for either to touch.

          Gwaine glanced at it warily as he pushed himself up from his prone position.  Merlin, still down on one knee, put up one hand as if to shield his eyes from a glare.

          The crossbow reached Alvarr’s hand.  He caught it lightly, spun it about to point at them, met Arthur’s eyes with a cocky grin, then aimed and fired.

          Arthur twisted violently sideways as the bolt shot by his throat, gaining his feet and drawing his sword in one fluid motion.  Gwaine gazed at the – weapon? clear crystal rock? – with a look of horror on his face.  Merlin’s hand shook, and his head turned slowly, inexorably toward it.

          Alvarr shot the last two bolts in quick succession at Merlin.  The sorcerer wasn’t even facing the blonde warrior anymore, but both bolts struck into the hedge beside Merlin’s head and chest, instead of into his body, and Arthur didn't really believe he was that bad a shot.  Alvarr cast the crossbow down at his feet, reaching for the hilt of his own sword. 

          Merlin’s head turned far enough for his eyes to lock on the crystal.  His face twisted into a snarl of dead hope and excruciating pain, and Arthur was startled into looking at the crystal properly for the first time.

          Leon and Percival appeared in the row, their red ceremonial capes cutting through Gwaine and Merlin like smoke.  The faces of the knights held twin looks of absolute disgust.  They exchanged a glance, then turned in tandem finality away from him.  No amount of training can correct a fundamental inadequacy.

          Between and through the knights, Alvarr’s sword cleared its sheath, and the blonde warrior leveled it at Arthur.  He brought his own up–

          Guinevere appeared, regal in purple silk, her hair arranged as if for a banquet, with flowers crowning the curls.  Her head was high, and her nostrils flared in loathing.  He stepped forward and she twitched her skirts away from him.  You delude yourself thinking there could ever be love between us…

          Past her left shoulder, Alvarr took his first step toward Arthur, an expression of gleeful anticipation on his face. 

          “Beg for your life,” he called to the prince.

          Ygraine shook her head in sorrowful frustration, You are not your father.  You could never measure up… She turned away, drifting through Gwaine’s body, as Arthur moved another step forward, bringing himself nose to nose with - Uther Pendragon.

          The king glared at him coldly, the crown majestic on his head, his fists on his hips, his lips twisted in rejection.  Utterly worthless… incapable… no longer my heir… nobody’s heir…

          Arthur lowered his head and one shoulder and plowed through the king, one more step.  Alvarr put one foot in front of the other, shifting his weight forward.

          Hunith.  Hair tucked under a green scarf.  Gentle disappointment, and bottomless sorrow.  She glanced to the side, and Arthur helplessly followed her gaze.

          Merlin, on his knees, fingers clutched through his hair, eyes black as Cornelius’ possession, the exquisite torture plain on his expressive features as though the heart in his chest was being wrung bloodless.

          He would gladly die for you.  Hunith’s work-hardened hand brushed lightly at the chainmail covering Arthur’s own heart.  His father is already dead.  He has given his father, his life… You are not worthy of him.  You do not deserve –

          FIGHT.  Merlin’s furious, commanding voice resounded through his soul.  Fight, Pendragon.  Eyes forward. 

          Arthur felt the bones of his neck creak as he dragged his gaze from his sorcerer, his friend, his suffering brother, to Alvarr, just beginning his attacking swing.

          Fight, Arthur.

          He pushed forward, between and past his two companions, ducking under the suspended crystal.  His sword rose to block Alvarr’s strike, and time sped up, fasterfasterfaster – overhand, underhand – he slung their joined blades around in an arc, blocked a blow to his face, and freed his left hand from his sword’s hilt to punch the other warrior full in the face.  Alvarr stumbled back, surprised, then roared and slashed out wildly.

          Arthur ducked the blow, sprang past the man – and felt his blade slice through the flesh of the man’s back.

          Alvarr screamed and fell to his knees.  Arthur used both hands to plunge his sword downward through the base of his neck, burying more than half the length of his blade in the body of his enemy.

          He managed to keep his grip on his weapon as the corpse slipped sideways, freeing it from its bloody sheath.

          The crystal dropped to the packed earth without so much as a bounce or rattle.  Gwaine gasped as though he’d been holding his breath and a great weight the whole while, sagging down and having to support himself with his hands on his knees.  Merlin didn’t move except to shift his hands to cover his eyes.

          Arthur breathed.  And breathed. 

          Then thought to check the other approaches to their position - no one else attacked... Alvarr had been alone... they were alone.

          “What the hell was that?” Gwaine said in a strangled voice.

          Merlin’s voice, by contrast, was so quiet and calm that Arthur shivered.  “There should be a pouch for the crystal.  Arthur.”

          There had been.  He looked down, all around, saw the drawstring beneath Alvarr’s knee, and yanked it free, pausing only to wipe his weapon on the dead warrior’s clothing.  Gwaine staggered two steps toward Arthur, two steps away from the crystal, giving it a glance of helpless horror and fascination.

          Arthur was reluctant to come closer.  He could swear the stone was whispering, still.

          “The wielder is dead,” Merlin said in the same calm near-whisper.  “You will see nothing.”

          Gwaine exchanged a glance of revulsion with Arthur, who stepped to his sorcerer’s side, pulling the drawstring mouth open as far as it would go.  Merlin held out his hand and Arthur didn’t think twice before giving him the pouch.  His friend’s eyes were still shut, his features glacially still, but he seemed to pause and take a deep breath before scooping the crystal into the pouch.

          Merlin’s clumsiness was a joke through the castle, but one smooth motion was sufficient to enfold the crystal, and Arthur could swear Merlin’s skin never touched the rock.  The sorcerer tied the drawstring, his long fingers knotting it tightly and swiftly, before he dropped it again, and sat back with a sigh.

          Then he looked at Arthur – no, he stared intently at Arthur – and gold flickered in the depths of his blue eyes.  “Are you all right?” Merlin asked him.  “I’m sorry.”

          Compulsion was a gentle thing, a soft thing, Merlin thought.  Light voices sang to him, promising, low voices growling and threatening, and all intertwined in a dissonant beckon.  It was not a compulsion he felt, but a vicious, merciless itch, and Merlin’s fingers twitched toward the pouch with the need to scratch his soul bloody gazing into that crystal.

           He kept his eyes on Arthur, the sky-blue of the prince’s eyes gradually clearing from the effects of the magic.  Merlin laced his fingers together in his lap and squeezed so hard he might’ve broken his own bones if he wasn’t careful.

          “You’re sorry?” Arthur said, uncomprehending.

          Gwaine said again, from several paces away, and not facing them, “What the hell was that?”

          Merlin took a moment to give attention to his body’s need to breathe, then answered as calmly and matter-of-factly as he could manage, “I believe this is the Crystal of Neahtid.  I read in one of Gaius’ books – it holds great knowledge.  Some say, the secret of time itself.”

          Arthur glanced down at the pouch uneasily, and Merlin wrestled against the temptation to let his eyes do the same.  He closed them and lifted his chin to ease the effort of breathing on his airway. 

          “Great knowledge?” Arthur said, and Merlin could hear him remembering whatever disturbing visions he’d seen.

          “The knowledge of what is, what has been…what is yet to come,” he whispered, blocking the memory of his own visions with absolute resolve.

          “I saw things,” Gwaine said hoarsely.  “Terrible things – but things that never happened.  Are you telling me I saw the future?”

          The muscles in Merlin’s neck and shoulders tightened, pinching nerves.  He answered, hearing the strain in his voice and attempting to soften it, “Gaius taught me, there is nothing on this earth that can know all possible futures, even the crystal.” 

         Ye gods, send it isn’t so.  What he’d seen – he was aware that he was shaking as if he’d spent the last two days in the snow.

          “But what I saw,” Gwaine persisted, “it was so real.”  He was begging Merlin to tell him it was nothing, a dream a vision a hallucination.

          Merlin swallowed, and his throat was so dry it stuck shut for a moment.  “Just one reality.  The future is unshaped, Gwaine.  It is we who shape it.  The decisions we make.  The actions we take – I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  Forgive me.”

          He felt Arthur’s hands on his shoulders, and opened his eyes again.  “Hey, come on,” the prince said roughly.  Arthur took off one glove and rubbed the heel of his hand across Merlin’s face - he hadn’t even noticed the tears spilling out of his eyes.  “What are you sorry for?  It’s not your fault.”

          “I wasn’t strong enough,” Merlin said.  The thing in the pouch snickered never strong enough to save the ones you love… He tore his eyes from it and fastened them intently on his prince once again.  “Gwaine was caught because his defenses were weakened by the blood loss.  I was caught–“ he gulped.  “I could not fight the crystal’s magic, not for all of us.  And you, Arthur–“

          “Stop it,” the prince commanded, his own eyes unusually bright.  “I heard you, Merlin.  I heard you.  He’s dead, and we’re all alive, and that is success, in my book.”

          “We’ve got to go,” Merlin told him.  “That much magic – like a blaze of light – the sorceresses will have seen it.  They will come.”

          Gwaine cursed.  “You realize we now have two women to face?” he said.  “So what do we do with that thing?”

          “We can’t leave it,” Arthur said, looking to Merlin for confirmation. 

          Leave it… take it…the damage is done. 

          “We can’t let it fall into their hands,” the prince added.

          Merlin nodded and reached for the pouch, freezing momentarily as his magic simultaneously howled eagerly for more and screamed in terror to retreat.  He felt a ravenous nausea and the bones of his skull ached.  Had the crystal never been activated, had he never looked into it, it might have provoked nothing but mild curiosity, a thoughtful whim easily decided against.

          The damage is done the damage is done.

          He pinched the ends of the leather tie of the pouch and rose, carrying it away from his body as one does the body of a dead rat swinging by the tail, so it did not touch him, but also trying not to betray to his companions the depth of his revulsion and attraction. 

          “I can carry it if you’d rather not-“ Arthur began, and Merlin brushed past him, forcing a grin.

          “Who’s the servant here, you or me?” he said.  “I can carry the baggage, that’s my job.”

          He rounded the corner and continued swiftly, the two warriors following him.

          Nervous energy flooded through him.  If he stopped, he might very well dig the crystal out and lose himself gazing in its depths.  He didn’t know the spell to activate it again, not in his rational mind, but his instincts warned that wouldn’t matter, he wouldn’t need a spell.  So he stalked along, ducking down this row, turning up the next one, seeing nothing but blue morning sky, brilliant green hedge-foliage, dark brown earth underfoot. 

          Seeing also the very path that would lead them to the tree, seeing the location of the two witches, one about a hundred yards away to the northwest, the other over two hundred yards to the north, on the other side of the tree.

          A burning stitch stretched along his side, and he walked faster, sweat pouring from his body.  His nostrils stung with dragging air into his lungs.  He began choosing turns that were not on the path to the tree, and immediately sensed the new route to that central destination. 

          “Hey, slow down,” Arthur panted behind him. 

          Merlin spun on his heel to retreat back the way they’d come, crashing gracelessly between the two warriors. 

          “Stop!” Arthur ordered, snatching at his hand. 

          He gripped the pouch-strings so tightly he could no longer feel his fingers, and focused on standing absolutely still, as obedience required, his breath sobbing softly from his lungs.

          “What on earth is wrong with you?” Arthur demanded.

          He couldn’t move, could not allow mouth and lips and tongue the freedom to speak, for fear his control would slip.  He would be lost, lost in the crystal, useless to Arthur…dangerous to Arthur.

          “It’s hurting him,” he heard Gwaine say behind him.  “Isn’t it, Merlin?  You’re trying to get away from it, except that you’re…carrying it with you.”

          “Let go, Merlin,” Arthur said gently.  “Let me have it.”

          Merlin shook his head, feeling scalding tears roll down his face once again.  No, it was his burden.  His responsibility.

         “Can we smash it?” Gwaine said, desperation in his tone.  “Can we hide it up in the tree?  Get to the edge of the labyrinth and chuck the damn thing over the side?”

          Emrys, another voice said gently.  Emrys, let go.  Let me have it.

          He opened his eyes, blinded momentarily by late-morning sunshine.  Down the row they were in, almost to the end, a puddle glinted on the packed-earth path.  He moved forward slowly, dropped to his knees next to the thin sheen of water, vaguely aware of the two warriors behind him.

          “Diegol cnytte, gweitte me yst.”  The surface of the water glimmered, and the scowling countenance of Uther resolved.  “Move out of the way,” Merlin told him, clearly and calmly.  “Anhora?” 

          Another glimmer, and he saw the image of the old man, the hood of the white robe on his head, eyes keen over the hooked nose.  The old man’s lips quirked.  I am here, Emrys.  You carry a burden I can lift.

          Merlin held out the pouch over the puddle.  It twisted in the air.  Every tiny fiber of the leather was riveting in the extreme.  If he really tried, he might even be able to look through the–

          Emrys.

          “Aliese hine,” he gasped.  “To Anhora he cymth.” 

          He released the string, and the hidden crystal dropped like a stone, through the water – there was no splash, no disturbance of the surface.  The pouch was gone.

          Merlin sighed, and collapsed onto the dirt of the path.