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one
Arthur is not often furious. Frustrated, yes; irritated, most certainly; even angry when the occasion arises; but he rarely indulges in the full glory of rage, the hot rush of fury beneath his skin.
He is indulging now.
The corridors he strides through are deserted; the guards are all on the lower levels, blocking off the exits to the castle. Technically, he supposes he should be down there with them, making sure the sorcerer doesn’t escape, but there are more important things at stake here, and if he is questioned later it will be easy enough to claim that he’d been checking the towers to make sure the criminal hadn’t used magic to escape that way.
“Sire!”
He casts a quick look around, checking, but the corridor is empty and it’s easy for him to dart into the small antechamber the whisper had come from. Sir Leon stands there, half-concealed in shadows, trying his best not to look worried.
“What news?”
“He’s out of Camelot,” Leon tells him, pitching his voice low. “He’s away safe on the road.”
“He knows not to go to Ealdor?”
Leon nods. “He knows too well that’s the first place they’ll look, and he doesn’t want his mother to come to harm. He’s on his way to Mercia.”
Arthur crosses his arms and leans back against the wall, thinking. “His mother may be in danger regardless. Have we anyone we can send?”
“A few of the older squires are capable of lying low and watching over her until the immediate danger has passed, and they won’t be missed here.”
“Good,” Arthur says. “Send them.” He turned to leave, and Leon catches his sleeve.
“Are you sure this is wise? If you’re found to have helped him escape...”
Arthur shakes his head. “You swore the knights were loyal to me. Are they still?”
“To the death, sire.”
“Then we won’t be discovered.” Arthur leaves before Leon can say anything else to remind him exactly how much of a terrible idea this is. He doesn’t need reminding, doesn’t want to stop and think and let the hot anger thrumming through him die away.
He makes his way back down through the castle to the front gates, ignoring the servants ducking out of his way, careless that the set of his face might be frightening. He’s always known Merlin was an idiot, but until today he hadn’t realised exactly how far that idiocy extended.
The throne room is still in a frenzy, guards and servants and courtiers scurrying over and around the rubble in a barely contained panic. Arthur takes a moment to stare hard at the half-collapsed wall. The surrounding walls and ceiling still hold firm, and Arthur suspects that Merlin had probably done what he could to preserve the stones, so they might be able to rebuild without having to haul new rock from the quarries. He spares a single glance at the bloodied hand sticking out from under the wreckage before moving on; he feels no remorse for an enemy assassin, only fury that one had been able to come so close.
His father is waiting for him in the private audience chamber, one leather-gloved hand wrapped tight around the back of his chair. “Have you found him yet?”
“Not yet,” Arthur says, leaning his hands on the long table and not meeting his father’s eyes. “There’s been no sign of him.”
“He can’t have gone far,” Uther muses. “Close off the city entirely and search every house if you have to. He is the gravest threat Camelot has seen in years; we cannot let him escape.”
Arthur nods, and refrains from mentioning that after three years in Camelot, Merlin probably knows enough about the city to slip out unnoticed. He doesn’t want to give his father any ideas.
Uther comes out from behind the chair to stand next to him, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. “This betrayal must cut deeply,” he says quietly. “I know the boy was close to you. But you must remember that you never truly knew him, Arthur. He is an enemy, and all the more dangerous because he remained so close for so long. We must find him.”
Arthur wants to laugh, to turn away. Close, he thinks. As though Merlin were something ordinary, something Arthur has kept around through fondness and habit, not because Merlin is as necessary as the air he breaths, the very blood in his veins. But his father doesn’t know that, doesn’t know the anger tightening Arthur’s shoulders isn’t from the betrayal by a sorcerer but the betrayal of a friend, of Merlin. Merlin, who had seen fit to kiss Arthur that morning, had let himself be pressed into a dark corner of Arthur’s chambers so he could run his hands over every inch of Arthur’s skin, and yet hadn’t said a word about his greatest secret.
Arthur says none of what he’s thinking, only nods again and says: “We’ll find him.”
two
At first Arthur had dismissed it as wishful thinking, but he still twists around at the glimpses he catches out of the corners of his eyes – there a familiar neckerchief, there a flash of unruly hair or pale cheekbones. Merlin is well away into Mercia, far out of the king’s reach, and Arthur should be glad of that.
And he is glad, in part, because he doesn’t know what he would say if he did see Merlin. He’d acted in the heat of the moment after Merlin had brought the wall crashing down around them, killing the assassin and revealing himself as a sorcerer to half of Camelot; all he’d thought as he shoved Merlin through a hidden door and whispered fast instructions to Leon to get him the hell out of Camelot was that he could not stand and watch Merlin die.
Now, three weeks later, he cannot stop thinking about Merlin. The anger is still there, simmering hot and close beneath his skin although he tries his best to push it down and ignores it when he can. He is frustrated, too, and he knows he isn’t hiding it well; he’s been short-tempered, terse to the point of rudeness with his father and needlessly harsh with the servants who have replaced Merlin, who bank the fire in his chambers and polish his armour and are properly servile in a way Merlin never was, never could have been.
He knows most of the court forgives him for his quick temper, that they put his irritation down to betrayal and the fruitless hunt for the friend turned enemy, and he lets them assume. It’s easier that way. There are too many questions he has no answers for, too many dreams that end with him waking up, gasping, with Merlin’s name on his lips, Merlin’s taste on his tongue.
Even awake, he catches himself remembering the slide of candlelight over Merlin’s skin, the ragged catch in his breath and the widening of his eyes when Arthur had used his mouth the first time, starting with a hesitant lick at the root of Merlin’s cock until he’d grown bolder, more confident, swallowing Merlin’s prick whole, and Merlin’s surprised gasp when Arthur had grown bolder still, working his tongue down further in broad strokes over the cleft of his cheeks. More often, he remembers the curve of Merlin’s back, the slick shine of Merlin’s fingers, slippery with spit and oil as he gripped Arthur’s shoulders hard enough to bruise, the feel of Merlin clenching tight around him and demanding more, faster.
He tries to banish the thoughts but Merlin is disobedient even in absence, and the sight and sound and smell of him lingers in Arthur’s mind.
In the fourth week after Merlin flees Camelot, Sir Geraint trips during training while Arthur isn’t paying attention, too distracted by a stable boy with dark hair and overly large ears dawdling along the edges of the practice yard. Leon shouts a warning, but it’s too late – Geraint is falling, all flailing limbs, heedless of the sword he still wields. Arthur twists to raise his shield but already he knows it’s too late, knows there isn’t a chance he’ll block the blow entirely, and angles himself so that the sword will strike his mail-shod arm rather than the exposed flesh of his neck.
Before the blow lands, though, there’s a sudden gust of wind tangling through his sweat-damp hair, blowing his fringe into his eyes, and when he manages push it back again Geraint is sprawled on the frozen ground three long strides away from Arthur, his sword quivering point-first in the dirt. The wind has gone as abruptly as it came. Arthur whips around, sure now that among the gathering gawkers there will be a familiar angled face grinning crookedly back at him, but all he sees are the knights and a few of the younger squires. The dark-haired boy has vanished.
He leaves Sir Geraint on the ground and strides off for the stables, ignoring the calls of the knights behind him. There is only one sorcerer thick-witted enough to call a magical wind in full daylight in front of Camelot’s finest knights, and Arthur is going to rip him limb from limb when he finds him.
Merlin, though, is not so easily found. Days pass; Arthur has almost managed to convince himself that the wind was a hallucination before he stumbles over Gwen in front of the castle gates, cloaked against the wind and looking furtive. She carries a covered basket with what looks suspiciously like venison and loaves of bread from the castle’s kitchens. A cold feeling settles deep in his belly at the sight, but he forces it away; it’s foolish to jump to conclusions before he even asks her.
“Guinevere.” He crosses his arms and plants his feet, blocking her escape. “Taking alms to the lower city?”
She gives him a pleading, guilty look, and for a moment he nearly softens; he has no wish to hurt her, this gentle soul. In many ways she’s the last person he trusts left in Camelot, the last one he trusts to let him know when he’s gone too far.
“Yes, sire,” she says now, the lie plain on her face. “Alms.”
He leans one shoulder against the wall. “Last I checked, alms did not include bread and meat meant for my father’s table.” He should have thought to confront Guinevere about this long before now, should have known Merlin would include her in his plans. The two of them have always been close, he knows, and the thought sends a flash of jealousy through him, swift and sharp, though he can’t immediately tell which of them he’s resentful of.
“These are... left over, your highness. From earlier this week.”
“Interesting,” he drawls, cutting her off before she can blunder further into her convoluted explanation. “Very interesting, as I have eaten at the high table every day and I am certain we have not had venison at all for the last three weeks at least.”
“My lord, please—”
“Where is he?” he interrupts, keeping his voice low and bending nearer to her.
She freezes at that. Her recovery is admirable, but he can see the panic in her eyes even as she gives him a blank, curious look. “Where is who, sire?”
He reaches a hand out to grab her arm then, fingers digging into her skin. He thinks of his father and there is iron in his voice when he says: “I will not ask again, Guinevere.”
She’s leaning away from him, the basket held up protectively in front of her, but his grip is firm. He meets her eyes when she raises them, and he can tell she’s searching his face for something, some guarantee he cannot voice.
She must find what she’s looking for, as she’s nodding even as her shoulders slump in defeat.
When she leans up to whisper in his ear, he catches a whiff of the scent which always clings to her, something earthy and faintly tinged with mulling spices. His head spins a little at it, and he pulls back abruptly before he can kiss her again, see if she tastes like it as well. A kiss is a promise, his father had told him once, years ago when he’d tried to kiss the daughter of a visiting lord and earned a stinging slap for his boldness. He cannot promise something that he isn’t sure he can give; his heart is pulling in too many directions to know which is right, which is his true duty.
“Thank you,” he says instead, and steps away to let her pass. She goes quickly, glancing back only once to make sure he isn’t following. He puts a hand on the hilt of his sword for unconscious comfort and walks in the opposite direction, willing himself to be calm and unconcerned.
three
It’s snowing as he slips through the dark, narrow streets of the lower town, keeping his head lowered against the fat white flakes flying thick through the air, the wind driving them through the fastenings of his blue cloak. He pulls the hood farther over his face and squints ahead, looking for the stable Guinevere had described. It’s backed up against the city wall, nearly invisible where it’s nestled in a tiny corner between a farrier’s and a run-down tavern.
He studies it for a moment. No light spills out from between the wooden slats of the wall, the door is shut firmly against the wind, and for a moment he wonders if he’s wrong about all this. It would be easier if he is; if Guinevere has given him the wrong directions or if Merlin isn’t behind that door, if he is indeed far beyond Camelot’s borders.
Arthur needs to talk to Merlin, needs to see him again, if only to reassure himself that the idiot is still alive, but he doesn’t know what to say. The words are tangled in his head; he isn’t sure which ones he wants or how to say them, and that kind of uncertainty feels too dangerous to test.
It’s dangerous for him to be here, too; he knows he shouldn’t have come. His father will have his hide for it, but beyond that it’s dangerous for Merlin, dangerous for Arthur to be drawing any attention to his hiding place.
Behind those thoughts are more treacherous ideas – hurt and anger and lust burning deep in his bones – but he shakes them off. He’s already here, knew the moment he saw Guinevere that he would come, and he can’t stand in the street all night, can’t return to the castle without following through on this. Merlin’s been an itch beneath his skin for weeks, and Arthur has to see him, has to figure out why.
The door sticks, but gives reluctantly when Arthur puts his shoulder to it. The stable is nearly bare inside, a few wisps of mouldering hay left on the floor in the stalls, and Merlin is nowhere in sight. Arthur pushes his hood back to get a better look as he walks forward to stand in the middle of the building, perplexed. He can’t imagine that there would be two stables in the same spot; Merlin should be here, according to Guinevere, but the stable is empty and Arthur can feel the worry in him mixing with fresh anger until a small sound behind him makes him turn.
“Arthur,” Merlin says, sounding resigned. “Gwen said you’d talked to her.”
He’s standing by the door, hands hanging loose by his sides, watching Arthur with a careful, guarded look on his face. His cheeks are hollowed out a bit, and there are dark, bruised-looking circles under his eyes; he looks smaller somehow, afraid. Arthur has to bite back the urge to tell him he looks like a wreck.
The problem with stifling that comment is that he has nothing else to say – or rather, that he has too much, and none of it is easy. They stand looking at each other for a long moment, the distance stretching quiet and thick between them until Merlin buckles and gives way to the heavy silence.
“Why are you here?” he asks, turning away from Arthur, and now that Arthur’s able to look away from the sharp corners of Merlin’s face he can see that Merlin’s taken over one of the front stalls to live in – there are a few books and a pile of blankets in one corner, and not much else. Arthur studies it, trying not to see how the wind is blowing snow through the cracks between the boards in the wall, and doesn’t answer Merlin’s question.
“I mean,” Merlin says, kicking one foot at the floor, “I assume that if you were going to arrest me you would have brought a few more men, and also probably wouldn’t have helped me escape in the first place. So why are you here?”
Arthur can’t say he doesn’t know, can’t say he hasn’t been able to sleep without seeing the curve of Merlin’s smile every time he closes his eyes, so he goes on the offensive instead, stepping up to Merlin and grabbing his arm before he can pull any further away. “Why are you here, idiot? My father’s had the headman sharpening his ax for you since you left; you should be in Mercia, or even in Cendred’s kingdom, if it comes to that.”
Merlin tries to pull his arm away from Arthur, but Arthur’s always been able to hang onto Merlin even when he gets wily and tries to pinch the soft spots in Arthur’s hand. Although, Arthur thinks, struck for a moment, Merlin’s never really tried to pull away before, never seriously tried to get himself away from Arthur. The thought is uncomfortable, and stirs up old, small fears in the pit of Arthur’s belly; he’s become excellent at ignoring them, but the vulnerability makes him cross.
“I have to stay in Camelot,” Merlin says, folding his mouth into a stubborn line, and Arthur only barely resists the urge to shake him until he sees sense.
“You will die,” he says fiercely, “if you stay here. I thought you’d be a hundred leagues from Camelot by now. You’ve nothing to keep you here—” Something catches at him when he says that, though, and he loses the thread of his argument for a moment.
The distraction is enough for Merlin to yank himself away from Arthur’s grasp. “Think what you like,” he says, sounding angry now. “I’m not leaving.”
“What part of you will die don’t you understand?” Arthur demands. “Do you want to be executed?”
“It might be better than working for you,” Merlin snaps, and Arthur takes a step back.
“I’m sorry serving me was such a horrible experience,” he says, close to spitting the words out. “It must have been a dreadful thing to have gainful employment, a roof over your head, well-made clothes on your back...” He stops himself before he can add a warm body to share your bed, and Merlin cuts in tersely.
“Don’t be an ass.”
“I ordered you out of Camelot; you can’t disobey a direct order.”
Merlin’s eyes narrow. “You can’t order me to do anything anymore, not since you dismissed me from your service. I’ll do what I like.”
“Who says I’ve dismissed you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Merlin shoots back. “Maybe you, when you threw me out the door without a backward glance?”
Arthur stands stunned for a moment. “Threw you out the door? What the hell are you on about?”
“I’m on about you having knights escort me out of Camelot, Arthur! How much more obvious a dismissal could that be?”
Arthur throws up his hands. “You’re angry about that? You think I wanted to—” He bites the inside of his cheek. He isn’t going to say it; he’s slipped too far already. “Fine, believe what you like.”
They stand in silence again, not looking at each other. The wind is howling now, whipping against the stable until the old wood creaks. This time, it’s Arthur who breaks first, because he has to know, because his thoughts have been preying on him for weeks now and if he doesn’t lay them to rest they’ll only drive him mad.
“Have you...” he begins, and hesitates. “Why didn’t you ever...”
He stops again, but Merlin must see the question in his face anyway, and looks worried for a moment. “I didn’t want to force you into a decision,” he tells Arthur; a diplomatic and therefore un-Merlin-like answer, which makes Arthur suspicious.
When Merlin ducks his head to avoid meeting Arthur’s eyes, Arthur realises what he’s trying to hide. “You thought I’d hand you over without a second thought? What kind of man do you think I am?”
“What was I supposed to think?” Merlin demands, looking up again. “Your duty to your father trumps everything for you—”
“It doesn’t trump my honor,” Arthur interrupts sharply. “It doesn’t trump my duty to protect those who are loyal to me, to Camelot. And it doesn’t trump that I—” This time he bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood.
“That you what?” challenges Merlin. “That you’d miss having a willing bedwarmer? Is that what this is all about? Losing a good fuck?”
Arthur’s vision narrows with the hot wave of anger that sweeps through him at that. “A good fuck? You think that’s what I care about? You think I helped you escape and lied and protected your mother from my father and misled every patrol that went out searching for you because I was that desperate for sex?”
“Not – when you put it like that...” Merlin hedges, but there’s still a flash of obstinate distrust in his expression and the set line of his brow.
“It has nothing to do with bedding you,” Arthur says, moving slowly forward under the pressure of anger, of resentment that Merlin thinks so little of him. “I’d do the same for any servant who’s served me, protected me, risked their life for me.”
“You would not,” Merlin objects, standing his ground. “You’ve never done it before.”
“I wasn’t able to before!” Arthur yells, losing his temper entirely. “And none of them have ever been as idiotic or as loyal as you – I can’t lose you, Merlin; you’re too important.” It’s out before he thinks about it, before horror locks his jaw entirely. He nearly backtracks, denies it, denies that Merlin is any more important to him than a servant should be, but Merlin’s looking at him with something like recognition burning in his eyes, and before Arthur can decide what to do Merlin’s throwing his arms around him, pulling him close.
Arthur doesn’t get a chance to relax or push Merlin away before Merlin steps back and punches him hard in the arm.
“That’s for being an idiot,” Merlin informs him. “You prat, do you think you’re not important to me? Why do you think I haven’t left Camelot? It isn’t because I like the weather.”
Arthur scowls at Merlin, rubbing his arm, and Merlin adds, more softly: “I did want to tell you, Arthur. I hated keeping it from you.”
“You should have told me,” Arthur says. “I can understand why you kept it secret at first, but after this long...” He lets the thought trail off because the restless fury is fading, seeping out of him and leaving him worn out. There’s still a hurt there, a part of him that will always hate that Merlin never told him, but he can’t truly blame Merlin for hiding such a dangerous secret, and in a strange, backwards sort of way it’s easier to accept now because Merlin didn’t leave Camelot right away, that Merlin stayed because of him. He knows it makes no sense, since he was the one who orchestrated Merlin’s escape into exile to begin with, but the sight of Merlin alive and warm in front of him dulls the sharp edges of his thoughts, makes it in some inexplicable way easier to face the world.
Merlin’s coming forward again, laying a careful hand on Arthur’s arm, and Arthur reaches across with his other hand to catch hold of Merlin’s wrist, rubbing light circles across the delicate skin there. “You really should leave Camelot,” he says quietly, without demanding; just a statement.
“I know,” Merlin replies, looking up at him. “I won’t.”
Arthur sighs unhappily, but in some perverse way he’s glad. He’s in too deep, but at least now he thinks he might not be alone; Merlin might be in just as deep as he is.
Before he can think better of it, he leans over to place a kiss on Merlin’s mouth. It’s chaste, brief, nothing like how he’s kissed Merlin before, but it’s a promise of more, of everything Arthur is able to give him, even if Arthur doesn’t know what that will be yet.
The kiss doesn’t stay gentle for long – Merlin’s tongue is flicking against Arthur’s lips, and when Arthur relaxes into it Merlin pulls him down onto the pile of blankets and goes about stripping Arthur bare, working him until Arthur’s panting, squirming on the floor beneath Merlin’s clever touches, hot skin prickling where the wind hits it.
“Merlin,” he pleads, because Merlin’s the only one who can bring him here, who can make him want to beg for anything, everything, and Merlin surges over him to kiss him again, hard and deep and messy, taking them both in hand and moving until Arthur’s vision goes blurry and he breaks the kiss to gasp, to muffle a cry in Merlin’s shoulder.
“I won’t leave you,” Merlin whispers, harsh, his own promise, and follows Arthur over into shuddering bliss.
four
Arthur’s barely drifted off into sleep in his own bed, the first grey light of dawn just beginning to lick across the sky, when there’s a pounding at his door. He stumbles across his chambers to open it, his mind thick and muzzy with exhaustion, and stares blankly at the servant outside.
“My lord,” the servant says, “the king requests your presence immediately.”
“Now?” Arthur asks, stupid with surprise and confusion, and the servant nods. “Does he have any idea what time it is?”
“He said with all deliberate speed, your highness.”
Arthur knows his father well enough to know that that means something serious, and he waves the servant away before shutting his door and pulling on whatever clothes he can find.
The audience chamber is full of guards and a few knights in various stages of wakefulness, and before Arthur can pull anyone aside to ask what the hell is going on, his father spots him and calls him forward.
“Arthur,” Uther says, his face curiously closed. “We have good news.”
Arthur doubts that whatever is important enough to wake everyone up at the crack of dawn can be good news, but he says: “Wonderful, father. What is it?”
Uther beckons to someone behind Arthur, and as Arthur turns to look he says: “We’ve found the sorcerer.”
His father keeps talking, but Arthur’s no longer listening. Merlin’s ringed by five of his father’s guards, bloodied and bruised, chains around his wrists and ankles. There’s even an iron collar ringing his neck with another chain which the guards yank at until he stumbles forward, looking sick and disoriented, his eyes glassy.
Iron, Arthur remembers from his early lessons on recognizing and defeating magic. Iron can help a non-magical knight defeat a sorcerer, since it prevents them from using their powers. He hadn’t wondered at the time whether or not the metal caused them pain; now, looking at the sweat beading on Merlin’s pale face, he can feel his gut twist in horror.
“He was discovered within the walls of Camelot itself,” Uther says, and Arthur forces himself to turn away from Merlin, schools his face to be impassive. “How do you explain that, Arthur? Your search of the town was meant to be exhaustive.”
There’s a condemnation in his father’s tone, but for once Arthur doesn’t care. “It was,” he replies. “Perhaps Mer... perhaps the sorcerer left at first and only slipped back into Camelot recently.”
“And how would he have done that?” Uther asks. He’s studying at Arthur too closely for comfort; Arthur tries not to shift his weight and locks his knees. “Every gate was guarded – for him to have eluded all of the guards indicates he had help from the inside.”
Guinevere, Arthur realises, turning cold. His father suspects Gwen, and is trying to see if Arthur knew and will betray her. “Merlin is a powerful sorcerer,” he offers mildly. “It is possible he used his magic to remain unseen.”
“Possible,” his father allows. “But we have proof he was in contact with someone very close to the heart of Camelot. Are you still sure you have no idea how he evaded capture for so long?”
“I’m sure,” Arthur says, openly lying to his father for the first time since he was five and had been caught stealing sweets from the kitchen.
His father’s face darkens and turns dangerous. “Then how do you explain why two of my men followed you to the hole this rat was hiding in tonight?”
“You had me followed?” Arthur exclaims before he thinks, and Uther’s face turns positively thunderous.
“You don’t deny it? That you were conspiring with the enemies of Camelot?”
“What?” Arthur can feel the trap now, sucking him down and destroying all the hopes he’d had for his kingship. For one brief second he considers turning against Merlin, but his father will never believe him anyway, and nothing is worth denying Merlin now, in front of the court when Merlin’s already beaten and in chains. “I’ve never conspired against Camelot in my life, and I’m not about to start now.” Perhaps he can talk his way out of this hole, if he plays his cards right. His faith and loyalty to Camelot are unshakeable; his father knows this, and if Arthur can get him to recognize that, he might be able to smooth this all over.
“Prove it,” his father says immediately, his voice as hard as the lines of his face.
Arthur spreads his hands. “Say the word, my lord. I am yours to command.” He bows his head and waits, holding his breath.
“When the pyre has been prepared for this traitor,” Uther says, “you will prove your allegiance by lighting it yourself. Prove yourself worthy of Camelot by destroying her enemies without a second thought.”
There’s a curious roaring in Arthur’s ears, and all he really remembers after drawing his sword is two guards tackling him to the floor and his father’s furious, disappointed face.
five
They’ve put him in one of the best cells, he notices when he swims into consciousness. The stones are dry and there is fresh water in one corner. He stretches, wincing a little at the ache in his muscles from lying on the floor, and stands to look out the bars on the door.
The guard outside is courteous enough when Arthur demands to know what’s going on. “You’re to be held overnight, my lord,” he tells Arthur. “The king wants to see you in the morning.”
“Where’s Merlin?” He needs to know how long he has, how soon he needs to start chipping away at the mortar between the stones with his belt knife.
“Next door,” the guard says, jerking his head to the left. “You’re both here until tomorrow.”
Arthur nods and turns away to hide his relief, pacing along the wall the guard had indicated. If he remembers correctly, there is a small hole between these two cells – and yes, there it is, near the floor almost at the very back of the cell. He crouches down to look through it, but the cells are too dimly lit and the angle too awkward to see through to the other side.
“Merlin,” he calls softly, and after a moment there’s a shuffling noise on the other side, and Merlin’s voice comes back through.
“Arthur?”
“How are you doing?”
Merlin’s laugh is short and sharp. “I’ve been better.”
Arthur sits more comfortably and slides his fingers through the hole; it’s a tight squeeze and his hand is too wide to fit all the way through, but Merlin catches on quickly and puts his own hand through far enough that their fingertips brush.
“Can you get yourself out?” Arthur asks, pitching his voice low and speaking almost directly through the opening between them. “Don’t tell me you can’t handle magicking yourself out of a tiny cell when you nearly brought down the entire audience chamber.”
“Iron cuffs,” Merlin says in answer, and snorts in an unconvincing show of humour. “I don’t think I can walk to the door on my own right now, let alone blast my way out of Camelot.”
Arthur can’t do much except rub the pads of his fingers along Merlin’s hand and lean his forehead on the cold stone wall. “I never thought my father would have me followed.”
“I’m glad you came anyway, even with the guards.” Merlin’s voice is still thin and strained, but it’s warm enough that Arthur finds a little comfort in it.
“I can’t do it,” Arthur says after a pause.
“Arthur—”
“Merlin, I can’t. I won’t. I’d rather—” He doesn’t know what he’d rather do. Give up Camelot entirely, run away with Merlin and live as a bandit somewhere in the wilds? The thought makes him sick, but the idea of lighting the pyre, of being forced to watch Merlin burn, is still worse.
“You have to,” Merlin says, fierce despite the weakness of his voice. “Arthur, you have to. You have to become king. You’re going to lead Camelot to greatness; if you leave the kingdom will be ripped apart.”
Arthur wants to believe the seductive truth ringing in Merlin’s words, but there are more important things than what he wants. “I won’t deserve to be king if I let my greatest friend be killed; I deserve it even less if I’m the one holding the ax.”
There’s a long silence from Merlin’s cell, so long that Arthur nearly draws back his hand.
“Merlin?”
“Sorry,” Merlin says at last. “I just – you took me by surprise. I don’t think you’ve ever called me your friend out loud before.”
Arthur shifts uncomfortably on the cold stones of the floor, and changes the subject. “There has to be a way to get you out of Camelot before tomorrow morning.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“If we can smuggle you out of the dungeons you should be able to sneak out. You’ll have to travel fast once you leave; my father isn’t going to stop hunting you. I’ll do what I can to keep him off your trail once we get you out, but you’ll have to lay low—”
“Arthur...”
“—don’t go to Ealdor, and for fuck’s sake don’t be completely dense and stay here again, you’ll just get caught again—”
“Arthur.” Merlin squeezes one of Arthur’s fingers between his thumb and forefinger, and Arthur trails off. “It’s going to be fine.”
“It is not going to be fine,” Arthur retorts. “I’m supposed to bloody light you on fire in the morning.” There has to be a way out, some way he can keep Merlin and Camelot both – he was raised to one and found the other, but somehow they’ve fused in his mind, and he can’t imagine living without either now.
“I trust you,” Merlin says, and Arthur’s about to demand to know what the hell that has to do with anything when he realises Merlin’s voice has gone soft, slightly slurred around the edges.
“Merlin?” he ventures.
“Arthur,” Merlin replies, voice even quieter. “’M fine, just tired. The chains are – hard.”
Arthur grips Merlin’s fingers as well as he can. “Will you be alright if you fall asleep?”
“Think so,” Merlin says, and when he doesn’t say anything else Arthur bends himself into an uncomfortable position to try and look past his hand through the hole in the wall. He can’t see a thing, but he thinks he can hear Merlin’s breathing, slow and even, and it steadies him a bit.
When he sits up again, he nearly jumps out of his skin at the flash of colour at the door.
“Your highness,” Gwen says, slender fingers curling around the bars. “Are you alright? Is Merlin – how is he?”
“Asleep, I think,” Arthur says, pulling his hand out of the hole in the wall, but not before she notices. “You shouldn’t be down here.”
She dismisses that with a shake of her head. “No one stopped me; they don’t want to see you...” she stumbles, stops. “Never mind. I won’t get in trouble for it, if that’s what you mean.”
“Still, you shouldn’t risk yourself on my—” He glances at the wall separating him from Merlin without thinking. “—On our account,” he amends, before something clicks in his mind. “Guinevere,” he says slowly, thoughtfully, climbing to his feet. “No one stopped you?”
Her expression is guarded as he comes to stand directly by the bars. “No one,” she says.
“My father doesn’t suspect you,” he muses to himself, and when she opens her mouth again he reaches out to place a hand over hers. “Can I ask you to do something?” He keeps his voice quiet, barely a whisper, conscious of the guard not five paces from them.
“Something to help Merlin?” she murmurs back, and he nods. “Anything.”
“I need you to find Sir Leon for me,” he says, slipping a key from around his neck. It does him no good locked up here, but for Guinevere, on the outside, it will mean the all difference for Merlin. He hopes.
He slips her the key when the guard yawns, and she hides it swiftly somewhere in the folds of her dress.
“What do I have to do?” she asks, her face set and stubbornly serious, and, leaning closer, he tells her.
six
The guards aren’t happy to be bringing him before his father like this, he can tell, but least he isn’t in chains. He looks for Leon but doesn’t see him; he can’t do anything but trust Guinevere, believe that she’s taken care of everything.
“Have you reconsidered your rash actions?” his father is asking him, standing in front of the throne and looking like everything Arthur once wanted to be. He’s standing straight and tall, pride and dignity in every rigid line of his body, and Arthur takes a moment to mourn just a little for what he’s about to do, the things between them he’s about to break.
He’ll never not love his father, but some things are more important than filial piety. Some things are bigger than his father would have them be – it isn’t just Merlin Arthur’s fighting for anymore. He’s been thinking about it all night while Merlin slept in fits and starts in the cell next to him; about Camelot and what it means. To his father he knows it’s lines on a map, borders and trade routes and supply lines, but Arthur’s walked every inch with him and where Uther sees problems to be resolved, subjects to rule and defend and subdue, Arthur sees people, his people.
They’ve both shed blood for their kingdom, but Arthur has done it out of love, out of a burning desire to protect, to lift up, not out of fear. He doesn’t blame his father for grieving, but his mother’s life has been paid for a thousand times over and the time for blood is long since past.
He doesn’t want to be king, not yet, but that won’t stop him from letting Uther think he does, if that will help save Merlin and help fulfill Arthur’s duty to him, to Camelot.
“I have considered them,” he says now, his chin up and his hands clasped behind his back. “I will not change my mind.”
Uther’s face darkens. “Do you forget the sworn oaths you’ve taken?”
“I hold true to my oaths,” Arthur says. “I have sworn my allegiance to Camelot, father, and it is with her my loyalty lies.”
“And you think by letting this sorcerer walk free you are keeping her safe? He will only wait until your back is turned before he strikes.”
“He will not. He’s proven his loyalty to me – and to Camelot – more times than I can count.”
“That counts for nothing; he is an enemy, Arthur.”
Arthur takes a step forward before he can help it, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “That loyalty counts for nothing? Then whose loyalty does count? Does mine? Does yours, sire?”
Uther’s excellent at hiding his emotions, but Arthur knows his father too well; he can see the blow hits home.
“The execution will go forward whether you wish it or not,” Uther says, and signals two of the guards who are standing near the doors of the chamber. “This foolish display is unbecoming to you, Arthur.” Arthur inclines his head and says nothing, waiting. He isn’t sure he’s given Guinevere enough time to do her work, and there’s a tight, tense feeling in his gut.
They wait. Arthur can see his father’s expecting him to misstep, to make some sort of grand gesture, maybe grab for his sword again, but he’s too busy trying to look around as unobtrusively as possible for Leon. There are so many ways this plan could fall apart, some of them he’s only now beginning to comprehend. He locks his jaw and pushes his thoughts away – there’s no time now to go back and undo what’s already been done.
Finally, there’s a small movement in the crowd he catches out of the corner of his eyes, and he flicks his gaze over to see Leon in the ranks of courtiers and guards, looking a little pale but holding firm. He gives Arthur a tiny nod, and Arthur turns his attention back to Uther, relieved and trying not to show it.
A guard runs in to whisper in Uther’s ear, and Uther stiffens, his face going pinched and cold. Arthur tries not to tense his shoulders, tries to look as calm and composed as he can.
The guard draws back again and Uther turns his head to fix Arthur with an accusing stare. “The sorcerer has escaped,” he says, and Arthur does his best to look surprised. “I will not bother ordering you after him; you will be whipped and then imprisoned until the boy is caught and executed. Do you see now?” he adds, when Arthur only raises his chin proudly; “Do you see that magic will only betray you, leave you stranded and in peril?”
“No,” Arthur says. “Not especially, since I helped him escape to begin with.” There’s a murmur that runs around the chamber at that, but really, Arthur doesn’t see why – surely they must have seen this coming since the first time Arthur stood here and went against his father. “Have me whipped if it will make you feel better, but you won’t be going after Merlin.”
His father’s hands are the ones clenching now, making short, abortive grasps at the air. “And why not? Who’s to stop me protecting Camelot from its enemies?”
“Me,” Arthur says simply. “And Camelot.”
His father is gaping now, shocked and – Arthur suspects – angry beyond words. Arthur just stands, waiting. This is the true test of faith, of the future, because if he stands alone everything will come crashing down around him. There is one long, agonizing moment where he thinks it’s failed, and then Leon steps up on his right side, standing just behind his shoulder in clear support, and Arthur hides a grin as he listens to the other knights moving to stand silently with him.
“What is this,” his father says, low and menacing – not a question, despite the phrasing. Arthur knows what it looks like, meant it to look that way: the knights of Camelot allied with and loyal to him, not to his father. He thinks hundreds of violent takeovers have happened exactly like this, but at the same time not like this at all, because he has no intention of usurping the throne yet.
“Let Merlin go unharmed,” he says, “and I will not overthrow your kingdom.”
The whispering in the room crescendos until Arthur thinks it could probably be mistaken for a strong wind. Uther’s expression hasn’t changed, not even to scowl, and Arthur wonders if he’s too shocked to even move. He can hear the knights shifting uneasily behind him; he hadn’t really prepared them for this, for such an open display of treason, but he wills them to hold steady. If they falter his bluff is as good as called, and he will lose Merlin and Camelot both. He doesn’t want to take over Camelot by force, doesn’t want to destabilize it and leave it open to Cendred or Bayard or anyone else, but if force is the only way to make his father listen he will gladly use it.
“You dare threaten to murder your own father to inherit,” Uther says, voice flat, and Arthur holds his gaze steadily.
“If it is what I must do to protect Camelot.” He does not add the words bloodthirsty or tyrant, though he thinks of Morgana and what she might have had to say if she were here, and that is another wrong he will address, though he thinks it might already be too late.
They stand for long moments, father and son, striving in a silent battle of wills, but Arthur isn’t afraid now of how it will end. He has Uther outflanked on every side, and Uther has always been willing to concede a victory if it serves him in the long run. Arthur knows too that Uther will never execute his only heir, even after defiance like this; he risks too much by removing Arthur, risks open war and Camelot ripping itself apart as its lords fight for the crown.
Finally, Uther inclines his head the barest fraction of an inch, and Arthur knows it’s all he’ll get. Without breaking his gaze, he bends his knee before the throne, and his knights do the same around him, a silent reminder of the fact that they are only loyal to Uther so long as Arthur is.
For now, Arthur thinks as his father turns away. This is enough for now.
seven
There will come a time of light, a time when Albion will be bright and prosperous beneath its high king, when the world will speak with reverence about its fortune and beauty. The streets will be wide and clean, the people fed and warm and happy.
There will be a king and a queen, and a sorcerer, confidant to both. There will be a table, round to make everyone who sits at it an equal, peasant and noble made brothers by blood and battle. The king will lead his knights to war when necessary, and he will show mercy to his enemies with the sorcerer by his side. They will ride home again together victorious, to meet the queen with open arms and open hearts, and the three of them will sit together, beautiful and regal on their three thrones. During the day they will speak their minds, rule Camelot with wisdom and justice, and in the night they will rule each other, speak to each other as they speak to no one else, about the past and guilt and exile; about fate and resolution and love.
There will come a time after that when fear and darkness will return, when anger and distrust will creep back in to mar the brilliance of this world and tear it into shreds, but for now, Camelot is fair and beautiful and those he loves are safe, and that is all Arthur will ever ask for.