Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Disir spoke to him, their voices slithering between mouths as if they were one being rather than three, it was disorienting.

"We give you a gift—" one said, though it was becoming difficult to keep track of which one.</p>

“—and a curse," added another.

Merlin felt himself tremble.

"It is for both you and your King." 

Merlin struggled against their hold but found it wouldn’t budge, and his vision began to fade in and out. He knew gifts from the gods were tricky and strange, impossible to refuse yet not to be trusted, as likely to bring ruin as it was to bring glory. And a curse from one could end kingdoms. He couldn't let this happen, not to Arthur, and yet he was powerless in their hands to stop it.

"Arthur has chosen to lift the ban to save your life, to bow to the old religion and become its follower."

Merlin felt his breath catch. It was too good to be true, everything he wanted, not to be trusted. His eyes watered as weathered hands cupped his face.

"So that perhaps one day you and all our people may forget what it is to hide in the shadows  and fear death."

The eyes that met his were soft, even compassionate. Merlin wanted so badly for it to be true, but he just couldn't let himself trust it.., Not after so much.

̠̱̋̀͂͝"̥̦̲̖̝̹̉͠I͕̩̓͂̇́t͉̤̳̼ͬͣ͠ͅ ̷͔̮̫̝̪̥͔͆i͊ͩ͏̖̫̘̘̦͓̬̩s̵͇̘͓̠̟̆̒̌̃ͅ ̴̻̟̙͖̭ͧͫ͌ȏ͖̟͚͕͕͇͜ŭ̢͖̼͉ͭ̆̋r̵̙͖̦͈̼̠̲̀ ̲̩̜̺͖͕ͩͩ́̿͠g̢̬̞ͥ̔ͫi̡͖̲̟̝̟ͣͅf̧̞̲̙͙̯̖̪̲͋͐͆̅t̛͙̮̩̟̪̠̩͈͓̩͂̈́̀̃̒͛́"̸͎̜ͦ̒—”

It is our gift— 

Merlin's thoughts were fraying at the edges.

̧̭̟̯̯̼͔̺͋̓̌̋”"̲̻͙͇̹̣͔̒͒͠ͅ-̨̩̻͉̠͕̽͂̆͗—a̲͖͎̟͚ͧ́̚n̛̺̰͙ͯd̸̰̹̦̺̓̌͑ͮͅ ͕͖͖͓͍͙̬ͩ͡o̡̳̜̠ͧ͌ũ͙̻ͥͤ̏͠r͓̯̹̗ͮ͠ ̷̠̰͕͓̣̪̒ͫ̒ͯc̡͓͇ͮͅu̺̠͕̻̥̓̐́̀͢r̨͖̥͉̉͊ͣs͔̼͇̠̟̼̙͐̌͂ͦ͟e̴̖̩͙̹͆-̡̻̜̫͈̟̼̻̘͙̘̉ͨ̉͋̇͝—"͚̠̙͔̫̾̿ͤͣ͞

  —and our curse—

He found himself listing, leaning into his holds rather than fighting them</p>

̶̗͙̼̀ͤ"̵̖͉̦͈̹̖̳̾-̔͛͊͏̥̤͎̬͙̲t̶̩͎̹͎͎̪̠͎͌h̥͙̜͉͚̩̍ͧ̀͠aͥ̌̑̽͏̻̬̮̺̪̦̲t̶͚̱͈̬͔̀ ̷̣̮ͥ͗ͦͯf̨̝̗̲͚̠̊ͤ̈́ơ̞̲͙͍̣͎̘͑̎ṛ̦͔͇̜̞̚͟ ̹̖́͑͗̆́y͔͓͉͒̿͝ͅò̴̦̠͖ͥ̍̏u͙͚̬͔͓̅͟,͉̲̩̋̈́̏̊͝ͅ ̌ͩ͏̹͓͇̬̺͇̘̟C̳̭̫̣̩̎̈ͪ͘ȟ̛̘͉͕̣̙͕̭̑̄͒ī͍͚ͤ͟l̶̳̫̲̮̩̠ͥd̖̗̟̈́͊̃̀ ̵̖̻̰͙͍̦̜͓̐o̗̤͗ͥ̍͜f̨̭̮̣̉̿ ̵͓̹̣̼̳̪̠͒ͦ̐̔M̶̭̝̳̖̈͒̿a̡̱̘͈̻̠̞̞ͦ̋ͬ̚g͍̖̬͚͕̺̺͈̈͝i̵̫̜ͥ̈̑c̶̺̪̲̟ͤ̃ͅ,͓̤̺̠̯̯͚͐̒̌͜ ̨̬̪̬̎͛͌ͩt͎̜̣̟͉̞͙͈ͯ͘h̷̞̺͈͉̉͌aͦ͏̺̝̫̘̳̘t̡͔̝̿̔ ̂͌̊̑҉̦̹̼̬̟͇̳̠d̵͚̮̺̖̮ͭ̊a̲̮̳̗ͮ͝y̳͚͇̦̜̰̭̽̂͟ ̷͚̳͕̍h̔̈͛͏͇͖̤ͅa̳̱̬̟͉̺͌ͭ͛̆́s͗҉͔̫͖ ͤͩ̐̀҉̼͇̫͚̟a̷͓͇̣̪ͧ̽l̥̺̣̭͓̩̮̫ͬ̕ŗ͙̙͈̲̠̅̍ë̶͓̜͇́a̰̩͈̼͇̺̗̝͌̍͟d̛͙̟̳ͤy̛̱̰̮͈̣̤̖̥ͧ͑̿̚ ̗̜͍͔͙̰̔ͬ̓̀c̴̮̳̝͓̹̱̥̰ͬ̓ͫ̏o̞̲̜ͯ͘m̖̲͕̩̥͕͍̞̉ͮ͜e̵͚̼̱͇͈̝͓̍ ͖͇͇͙͉̦͊ͭ̍̄͝t̨͇͇̫͎̆͂o̡͚̯͉̓ ̲̮̟͉̹̻͋ͫ͌́p̡̺̞̱͚͎̼̦̹̉̇͋ͮà̜̟͎̠͟s̰̖̯͈̖̹̜ͫͤͭ͟sͬ̀͋̈́҉͉͍̤̯͖.̇̂̊͏̦̠͖͓͇̬̟̼̮̭͇̹͙͕͊͜"̗̯̥̻̣̼̬̠͌̌̀ͪ́

—that for you, Child of Magic, that day has already come to pass.

Merlin felt his vision go white.

Chapter Text

---Ten Years Earlier---

Merlin, only 11 summers old, trekked deep into the woods outside Ealdor, weeping. He’d made flowers grow around their house in winter, and his mother had spent the night pulling each one painstakingly from the ground. 

“You have to be more careful Merlin!” his mother had scolded him, “If any of the villagers had seen these, there could be knights here by morning. Do you know what they’ll do to you if they know about your magic?”

Every littleflower plant pulled out of the ground felt like a physical wound, like pieces of him were being ripped apart.

“They’ll take me,” Merlin sniffed, “They’ll take me and bind me in iron and make me a slave.”

Hunith pulled up another plant and Merlin gasped through his sobs. “And if they’re from Camelot?” she pressed.

Red capes. Red capes mean blood. 

“They’ll kill me,” he answered.

“They’ll kill you, Merlin.” Hunith set down the flowers and gripped his arms firmly, looking deep into Merlin’s red-rimmed eyes. “Tell me the rules, Birdie.”

“No one can see my magic, ever. I have to hide, so I’ll be safe. No one can see my eyes change, or things act unusually around me. Tell no-one; show no-one. I mustn’t tell a single soul,” he recited.

He knows the rules. That wasn't the problem. 

“I can’t lose you Merlin, I love you too much to let them take you. Whatever would possess you to be so reckless?”

“I didn’t mean to,” He cried. “I can’t help it!”  Merlin had dreamt of a laughing wind, carrying him over mountains, and birds that he knew by name, and twittered to him secrets on what makes flowers grow. He’d woken up giggling, and the flowers had been there. “I can’t stop it, it just happens!”

“You must learn Merlin! No-one can know about your magic! No-one! You have to learn to stop it, or I'll never see you again. Please, Birdie.” She pulled Merlin into a hug, shaking a weeping, and Merlin nodded into her shoulder, promising he’d find away.

--

Since then, he’d found ways to suppress it—biting his tongue, repeating phrases in his head—but the longer he went, the more his hands started to itch and burn, the more the magic would writhe restlessly under his skin till he felt like he’d burst. So Merlin ran deep in the woods, never daring to slow or release his vice-like grip on his magic until his blistered feet had carried him far past where the village men ventured to hunt.

There he collapsed, heaving into the ground. Magic flowed from him. The trees trembled as he wept and gasped, their branches twisting and groaning with him as he shuddered and seized. With every greedy breath, flowers blinked into existence and cool relief flowed through him. Panting, he eked out more little whips of his magic, cool wind soothing his face, until he was well and truly spent. He’d have to do this more often, and more regularly, to keep his magic in check. 

His mother couldn't know how much it hurt him to stop his magic, more like biting your tongue to keep from breathing than stilling one's hands in their lap. He’d heard his mother trying to suppress her sobs, seen the worried lines under her eyes from the fear of discovery. His trips into the woods would remain his secret.  

 - ---Present Day----

The stones around Merlin seemed to sing and pulse with an ancient energy, little offerings sat in natural shelves and hallows in the cave walls and floor—their contents setting goosebumps across his skin, and a strange pulling in his gut. This was a deeply sacred space, charged with magic and fate. It sat starkly at odds with the crowd of people tramping through it. The knights were looking for enemies, not the presence of the cave, or tiny shrines set in the floor. They were blind to the real danger, and careless in their path, blundering though as if the cave were nothing more than common stone.

(Only Mordred was careful to place his steps around the small shrines on the floor. It gave Merlin a strange relief that he chose to ignore.) 

Arthur had marched into the Disir’s cave with weapons drawn, a condemnation in its own right, Melin knew, especially on the eve of judgment. His heart was beating in his throat, and his mouth was dry with fear and anticipation

Shitshitshitshit. Why hadn't that great prat listened to him?

Because to him, you're no more than a servant, his mind whispered. No more than a fool with 'funny feelings' to his eyes. Why should your King heed your council? 

Shut up, he told it, and prayed for his King.

Truth be told, Merlin had been praying ever since Arthur had been issued the runemark, when they’d confronted Osagrad and killed him. The sorcerer’s words haunt him.

The Disir have spoken. The circle of fate begins to close. For even as Camelot flowers, the seeds of her destruction are being sown.

Merlin couldn’t help but think of Mordred, the young druid had to be what the man was referring to: “The seed’s of Camelot’s destruction.” Merlin had just barely kept his suspicion in checky regarding the boy, deterred only by the fact that he was, well… incredibly likable. By all accounts Mordred was thoughtful, modest, and personable, as well as highly skilled and loyal to Arthur. Beyond that, he was someone else with magic in Arthur’s court that didn’t seem to want him dead. He knew Merlin’s secret as well, and in any other circumstances Merlin and Mordred likely would have been fast friends—incredible allies and confidants toward the dream of Albion. 

If it weren’t for what Merlin had seen… 

A sword piercing Arthur’s middle, a plain full of fire, confusion and betrayal on the face of his king, nothing but anger and loathing on the face of the young knight.

He couldn’t be trusted.

And yet…. 

Merlin recalled Osgar’s dying words.

It is not too late, Arthur. Not too late to find the true path. Redeem yourself. No further chance shall be given.

The fate he had seen was only one possibly, one of many. According to Osagar, there was still a path forward, and perhaps in it Mordred was an ally, rather than an enemy.

No further chance shall be given.

Whatever Arthur’s fate. It seemed the Disir’s judgment would be a turning point.

The Disir stood before them, three old women cloaked in gray, their eyes concealed in shadow. Yet, behind them, Merlin felt the will and presence of something greater. He lowered his eyes. 

“I am Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot,” Arthur introduced, “I come to know the meaning of this." He flicked the runemark at their feet.

Merlin cursed his friend’s brashness, and the ignorance it flowed from.

"The Grove of Brineved is in the kingdom of Camelot, subject to its laws, its decrees," Arthur said. "Every man, however humble, however noble, has the right to be judged only by his peers. Yet you judge me in my absence. Explain yourselves.”

Arthur stood as any King should, back straight and uncowed, noble and proud in his decree— yet here was not the place to approach as a King. Whatever he might believe, these were not his people, but Merlin’s . And even Merlin was subject to their Lady’s judgment. The Disir replied, one voice sliding smoothly into another, as if three mouths were simply one vessel.

“We do not judge—"

"—We do not condemn—"               

        "—We are but the internuncio of the one who presides over all."

"Who sees all—"

   "—Who knows all—."  

The Disir speaks together; Melin holds his breath and Mordred winces.

    "T̮̤͔͈͓̓̐͢ȟ҉̫̩̲͍̞̲͇e͂͛҉͚̘ ̶̠͓̠ͫͫ͒̃ͅT̸̻̝͉̈́r̵̹̬̘̞̀̿ͬ̆i͕̘̗͍̮̭͈̹͋͡p̲̝̽̿ͣ͞l̢͕̞̦̉e̴̫͇ͩ̾̉ ̡̻̙̹̬̪͇͌͆ͅG͍̪̜͙ͥ͛̉͝o̴̟̘̱̟͖͚ͮd̒͒̿̚͏̩̼͇̖̞d̫̪̅͠e̢͔̲͍̹͎͍ͧ̑ͤ̓s̹͓̹͇̆͠s̸͇͉̮͔̣̯̬̀̚ͅ"

The Triple Goddess

“—And you, Arthur Pendragon, have angered her.”

As the Disir spoke to Arthur another layer of voices whispered behind them, and in Merlin’s mind he heard them. 

Wh̀y͟ ̢d͏o̢e̸s Yo̡u͘r̴ ҉Ki̡ng̸ not kn͘ow h̸i̛s ̸pla̧c͏e͘?

why does Your King not know his place?

C͘͟h͘il͟d̢́ ̢͢͢of̶̀ ̡͞Ḿá̕g͜ic͡,̛͘ ̵͢ẃ͠h̷̢y̸ ̕d͞ó̸ ͜ý̵͝ơ͢u͜͠ ̢͡l̢e͡t̶ h͏͢͡i͏m ͝c̡omę̵͘ ͢҉t҉o ̴͘u̢̧s̶ à͜r̷̛m͢ed̵͝?    

Child of Magic, why do you let him come to us armed?    

Their voices, resonant and powerful, rock Merlin in place.

Please, Merlin pleads, I tried to tell him, but he doesn’t understand the ways of magic, he doesn’t know!

"₳₦Đ ₩ⱧɎ ₦Ø₮?"

and why not?

Arthur continues, unknowing of the mental conversation happening on his behalf, “How so? Have I not been an honorable king? Have I not made Camelot a fair and just kingdom?”

“So much is true,” the first Disir replies aloud, mentally it questions Merlin, time slowing around them, their voices settling into less of an ear-splitting resonance, and more of a deep drone, like the depths of the earth:

It has been years since your king has killed any of his subjects for mere possession of magic

  he lets the Druids, your people, live in peace, yet still you fear him? Is he not your friend? Your Destined?  

The question is like a slap to the face. No! No, I’m not afraid of Arthur! I just… 

Merlin closes his eyes, memories playing, all the times he could have told Arthur, has been so close, but the moment was never right, he could never get past the block in his throat, like a glass wall. Lancelot had been a breath of fresh air, a true friend, a mercy granted to ease his burdens. Even he, though, had found out by accident. Even Will before him. Even Gaius.

Tell no one, his mother's desperate voice rang in his head, you mustn't tell a single soul. And he hadn't.

After Lance had died, he'd gone back to doing things on his own, his nerves fraying at the ends, jumping at shadows with no-one to confide in, save Giuas.

All I know is hiding, Merlin confessed.

He was afraid. He had been his whole life.

He took a deep breath. Yes, he told them . Yes, I am afraid. I’ve… I’ve been hiding as long as I’ve known, as much as Arthur only knows to fear magic I only know to hide it, I don’t know how to do anything else. I want to tell him but… I can’t. I just can’t.

Forgive me, he begs them.

Time speeds up, and the second Disir speaks, condemning, “But you have denied the Old Religion—”

No, NO! He didn’t know, it’s my fault, he didn’t know!

“—Dismissed its faith—”

“—Persecuted its followers—”    

“—Even unto slaughter.”

NO! Please, he didn't know!

Don’t you tire of it, Child?

Arthur responded, “I fight against sorcery. Superstition, that is all.” Merlin winced, feeling the string of unknowing dismissal.

Do you tire of a King who does not know you?          

He did. He was so tired of hiding, constantly hiding, secrets upon secrets until he thought he might burst, until all the lies had become like a chasm between them. Merlin was a liar and a fraud. He felt like the only thing he was good for was keeping Arthur alive, for a prophecy that, some days, felt impossible to still believe in. How could he tell Arthur now? After everything he'd done? Was it safe? Mordred and their fate loomed over him like a dark shadow, the hatred he held for the boy he'd saved felt sick and festering and wrong. Someone who knew of his magic, and yet could never confide in. He felt, so, so alone

….yes, he confessed. I do.

The Disir continued.

“Embrace the ways of the Old Religion, Arthur. Or risk the ire of the Goddess—”

“—The destruction of everything you most value—”       

“—The end of your reign—”

“—The fall of Camelot itself.”

Arthur stood firm, “I refuse to be judged by those who do not know me.”

Merlin’s eyes stung, reminding himself that he only has himself to blame, his own cowardice.

Oh, Child.

The second Disir frowned at him, their voice softening momentarily, “You are known, Arthur. you have always been known.”

Arthur stayed still, unknowing.

“And now you come here to the most sacred of the sacred. To the very heart of the Old Religion, with weapons drawn—”

Please, Merlin begged.

“—Trampling hallowed relics—”   

Your King must know you, Emrys.

“—Treating our sacred space like you do your kingdom, with arrogance—”    

“With conceit—

“—With insolence.”     

We will remind them your value, Child.

We are… sorry, in advance.  

Wait, what?

Gwaine stepped forward, indigent on Arthur’s behalf, “Enough! You speak of the King!” Instantly he was blasted back, and the cave erupted in chaos,

“On me!” Arthur shouted.

The knights drew their swords but before they could make a move, the Disir’s eye’s flashed gold and Merlin’s world went dark, the last image he saw before hitting the ground, his king, lunging toward him to catch him in his arms.

“Merlin!”

Chapter Text

Arthur saw the moment Merlin began to fall, collapsings as if a puppet with his strings cut, all at once, and Arthur’s world went still.

No .

The sight of his manservant’s eyes rolling back into his head, not as if he’d been struck but as if he’d just… stopped. Someone had quenched a wick and snuffed out the light that was Merlin.

No no no no no—

 “Merlin!”  The name tore from his lips like a prayer, and before he even registered the choice to move he was lunging forward to catch his servant; he barely noticed as the knights closed around him.

Be alive be alive be alive, please gods be alive.

He hung limp in his arms, like a doll.

There was a mail-clad hand gripping his arm but he didn’t feel it, too focused on his friend’s unmoving form. 

“Merlin, wake up!” He begged, but his friend did not stir. He placed a hand on Merlin’s chest, breathing, thank the fates— gods he was breathing— but the man was unresponsive still. Distantly he noticed that Mordred had joined him on the floor, placing his hand on Merlins head as if to check for fever. His eyes widened, and his breath caught.

“My Lord,” he breathed, almost to himself.

Arthur snapped out his reverie, scanning for the attackers, but the Disir had already withdrawn into shadow, making no further move. Still, they couldn’t be sure. “Fall back!” He called. “It’s not safe here!” 

They pulled Merlin from the cave. Still, he did not stir.

….

Outside the cave and out of danger, Arthur was reeling. Before the world had seemed to slow down and go still now it was too-fast and frantic. The knights propped Merlin against a log, still unconscious. Should they try and wake him? Would it make it worse? Was he getting worse now? He needed a physician.

“Merlin—” he began on instinct, before realizing anew the man was in right front of him. Shit. Merlin was their physician, Merlin needed a physician; what do you do when your physician is the one in need of a physician? Arthur didn’t know.

God, this was all his fault. Merlin had warned him not to come to the cave armed, but he’d done it anyway. And what had it gained him? Nothing. Their weapons had been useless against the Disir’s ire, and now Merlin was—

His breath was coming too fast. He felt Leon’s hand on his shoulder.

“Sire, breath. Focus. He’s only unconscious. Many of us have been knocked unconscious with magic before and turned out fine,” he reassured, though his voice held doubt. 

If that were the case, why would the Disir only target Merlin? And why would they withdraw immediately after? 

Arthur’s mind whisperes that this was no simple incapacitation, but something much deeper.

Regardless, Arthur followed Leon’s advice and took a breath, and then another one. Focusing on the moment before him, until the buzz of his thoughts receded enough for him to concentrate. 

Focus, he chides himself.

 When your physician is hurt, you take them to another physician—Gaius. But first Arthur had to ensure that Merlin was safe to travel.

“Mordred. “

“Yes sire?”

“The people who raised you, the Druids, many of them were healers, yes?”

“Yes sire.”

“Did they teach you anything of medicine? Enough to see if Merlin is safe to travel? We need to get him to Guias at once.”

“They did, sire. I will see to him.”

Carefully, Mordred checks over Merlin’s condition.

“He is physically unharmed, sire. Merely unconscious, as Leon said. He should be safe to travel.”

“Good, that's good, we should ride out at once then.”

Mordred doesn’t move.

“Sir Mordred?” Arthur asks.

The knight seems to fight with himself before coming to a decision. 

“Many of my people were…” He took a breath. “…sorcerers, sire, as well as healers. As such they taught us how to identify the effects of enchantments as well as see to physical wounds. What most sorcerers use against you is a simple charm of unconsciousness—it wears off in minutes. This, is a sleeping enchantment; the magic is self-sustaining, he won’t wake unless the enchantment is broken or lifted.”

“But it can be broken?”

Gods, Arthur hadn’t even thought of Mordred’s past experiences with sorcery, to think he’d almost been too afraid of Arthur’s reaction to come forward with his knowledge. That would have to be rectified going forward.

“Yes sire, but only by a sorcerer of equal or greater power.”

Distasteful, but Mordred’s presence did present a unique opportunity, and desperate times, called for desperate measures.

(For Merlin, he would try anything.)

“So we go to the Druids then. Do you think they would agree to help him, if we asked?”

Mordred blinked owlishly at him for a moment. Arthur supposed it was surprising to see him turn to magic so quickly, even given the circumstances.

“Without a doubt, sire. But the Disir are no ordinary beings, there are ways but,” his eyes flicked to Merlin, “few on this earth that could match them in power, to break the enchantment. It’s no use.”

Arthur took a deep breath, steading himself against the news. “But would they be willing to try?” he asked, unable to keep a note of desperation from his voice.

“I—Yes sire.”

“Then we ride at once.”

…

When Arthur had asked him to look over Merlin, Mordred knew what he’d find, at least magically speaking.

In the cave, he had placed a hand on Merlin’s head, searching for the spell he’d been afflicted with. The enchantment was deep, and stunningly powerful, every wave of magic settling over Merlin’s waking mind, dragging it under and keeping him from the waking world. Mordred had had to pull back his magic before he’d gotten pulled under as well.

Still, he placed his finger over his pulse point, his wrist, and listened to his chest. His heartbeat was steady, and breathing was even and measured. Arthur had caught him when he fell, so he hadn’t sustained any new injuries. He still had a bruised rib that Mordred had noticed him hiding from the King after one of his “outings.” The King was watching him too closely for Morded to try and heal it.

If Emyrys had confided in me, his pain, I would have helped him, he thought.

“He is physically unharmed, sire,” He reported, “Merely unconscious, as Leon said. He should be safe to travel.”

He hesitated to voice the rest of his assessment, but Arthur had already asked about his history with the Druids, and he was able to mask his magic as a skill that all were taught in he camp.

It stung, as always, to hide from his King.

He hadn’t the heart to tell Arthur that the only one who’d have any chance of breaking an enchantment cast by the Disir was the one currently enchanted with death-like sleep.

So now they rode for the Druids.

They pushed hard, with Mordred in the lead, looking for the familiar signs that lead to his camp that he never thought he’d follow again. The signs were subtle and difficult to spot, even if you are one of the few who knew what to look for. The last one he’d found indicated that the next marker wouldn’t be until a clearing a few days' ride from there, so till then Mordred was left to his thoughts.

It was… strange, to be going back after all this time. He’d watched for signs left out by them in the forest, little pieces of news. Looking for small tidings of deaths, births, newcomers, good fortune or peril. It seemed they had joined with another camp from farther west after the attack in his childhood. He was glad for them, but hadn’t felt the need to go back.

After Emrys had tripped him, he’d been so angry. He’d joined with Morgana, hoping for the same powerful and good women who had saved him in his childhood. But she had changed, twisted and angry, while Aurthr seemed to have only grown, matured into his role as King Reagent. 

He still didn’t know why Emrys had tripped him then. In all he saw now, he was as good as the legends said, protecting and advising Arthur at every turn, although somewhat… sadder, grimmer than he remembered. There seemed to be an ever-present weight on his shoulders that hadn’t been so heavy when he had met him as a child. He supposed the weight of Destiny was a hard one to bear. 

Emrys was cold with him; cordial, but cold. Mordred didn’t know why. He wondered if his King did. He was afraid to ask. Was it his past alliance with Morgana? Had he wronged him in some way, and not known it? Was he just that unlikeable? Merlin seemed to like everyone, which made it sting all the more. What do you do when one who is basically a deity to your people hates you? Completely inexplicably? Mordred didn’t know. He hoped that it would pass… somehow.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Arthur called for a rest, which meant it was time to tend to Merlin. His condition was the same, although a day prior Arthur had been distracted long enough that he was able to heal Emry’s bruised rib. He gave the man some water and broth, and then reported back to the King. His expression was stormy.

“There’s no change sire. He sleeps, and his breathing and pulse are steady. He has no fever.”

“And of his… other condition?” The King asked.

The magic. Morded had dared to brush briefly at the surface of the enchantment, and found it as powerful as before.

“The same, sire. No change.”

“I shouldn’t have let him come. He’s not a Knight.”

“He would have followed you once you left.”

Arthur paused and took a long breath, breathing out from a pinched nose.

“He would have. The idiot.”

“He cares for you.”

“Idiot.”

Mordred chuckled. The relationship between Emrys and the King was odd, but strangely endearing. Merlin at least, seemed to enjoy it, and so did the King. It was just how they worked. Insults, masking care so deep it was too much to voice.

Having him gone was tearing Arthur apart.

The silence seemed too much for the King then, and he turned to Mordred.

“You don’t speak often of your time with the Druids, what was growing up with them like?”

Mordred was startled by the question. Everyone seemed to overlook where he’d come from after he’d become a knight. It was easier that way, don’t talk about his past, don’t talk about his magic, focus on being a knight. The departure from their usual routine threw him.

“I avoid speaking of it my lord. I know the laws regarding magic in Camelot, and its views on its practice. I can’t imagine that speaking of my childhood among the Druids would be looked upon favorably. I have no desire to be arrested for treason, my lord.”

Arthur paled. “Ah. Ehem, yes. I’ve been meaning to speak with you about that actually. I want you to know that you aren’t to be afraid of speaking to me about your past with the Druids, I assure you nothing will come of it. Your expertise was invaluable today, and I can’t imagine what we’d have done if you’d been too afraid to speak up because of my views on magic. I have to issue with the Druids, they are a peaceful people. You may speak freely.”

Oh. A weight lifted from Morded’s shoulders. Still, he was cautious to continue.

“I was… nice. Peaceful. Everyone cared for everyone there, it was as if we were all one family and I was raised among brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles. I loved learning healing with them, I loved the woods.”

“And the Magic?” Arthur pressed.

Mordred tried to steady his heart rate, even without speaking of his own magic, his words could land him in the dungeons, or worse. But his King was asking him about magic, peaceful magic, and he couldn’t refuse.

“It was normal. People used it to wash their dishes, heal wounds, farm, cook, play, anything. It was as much a part of life as anything else.”

Arthur was listening intently, captured by this seemingly impossible picture of peaceful magic.

“And it never got out of hand?”

“There were fights and disagreements of course, children’s pranks that went too far. Some theft and so-forth. But we had people to settle disputes and break up fights as needed, just like with anything else, and it was fairly uncommon given how close we were with each other, and the camp’s size.”

Arthur was quiet for a long time. Mordred held his breath.

“What you’re describing… it should be impossible. Everything I know about magic, everything I’ve been told….. If what you’ve told me is true…” He shook his head “I don’t know what to do with this, Mordred.” 

Every word seemed to cost the King something to say. Given what he was raised to believe, Mordred imagined it did.

“I would never lie to you, my King.”

A lie.

“Not about this.”

Arthur sighed deeply. “I know Mordred. You’re a good knight, and an honest man, which makes this all the more difficult.”

He walked to where Merlin lay, sleeping, and he sighed and sat down hard on the log beside him, eyes glued to the sleeping man’s face. “Gods, Mordred, I feel like I’m being pulled apart at the seams without him.”

A coin missing his other side.

“He’s so wise sometimes, you know? A foolish idiot that trips over his own feet most of the time, but every now and then he’ll say something that just… makes everything make sense.” Arthur stroked a piece of dark hair away from Merlin’s sleeping face in a surprisingly tender manner. Mordred felt like he was intruding somehow. 

“I wish I could ask him about all this,” Arthur continued, “Some of the things he says sometimes, about magic, I wonder….”

It’s like seeing Abion balanced on a knife's edge, tipping toward its birth, a single pence in the air, spinning before it falls. Speaking to the King like this was nerve wracking; if this was how Merlin felt being so near to him, day in and day out—with Abion just a hair’s breadth out of reach— goddess , it must drive him mad.

The King seemed to gather himself up, make a decision. He turned from Merlin and looked to Mordred. “I’ve had my suspicions, Mordred, and honestly? What you told me was nothing less than what I’d suspected you’d say. You’ve given me much to think about. Hopefully your people may have some answers for me after they wake Merlin. It’s time to ride out.”

Emrys needed to wake up soon, Mordred was going to faint.