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Chapter Text

None listen.

In a din of shrieking and clashing swords, running feet and panicked voices, none of his men were listening.

Not to Arthur, their commander - their prince.

This was his mission to lead, on behest of their king. The orders were given; and yet he stood in the forest before the druid shrine as useless as a fawn under an arrow while his men disobey him.

“Enough,” Arthur says, although it barely carries. His grip tightens on his sword, flinching like an unbloodied boy as Ser Cador brings a druid woman low and still on the lichen covered earth.

Kills.

It is unjust to turn away from it, as Ser Cador kills a druid woman, and she falls low and still onto the lichen covered earth. Heavy mist parts as she drops, only to enshroud her like a cloak where she lies, the air smelling of blood and petrichor.

These people harbour magic users, he knows. Such a thing must never be forgotten. His heart lurches traitorously inside his chest anyway, a familiar sort of agony. Perhaps his father has been right in his criticisms; Arthur is soft, with too much care in him for those who are not his people. Unsuitable.

A child’s thin wail comes to him over the clashing of the fight, and the hair on his arms rises.

Yet what sin so great could have been done by a boy who looks like he would have stood no higher than Arthur’s hip?

With the swing of a sword the boy is silent, eyes staring unseeing in death. Arthur’s vision swims as his panic rises, the taste of bile at the back of his throat. Time seems to be moving too quickly, his heart fit to burst in his chest for how rabbit-fast it beats. He wishes Leon were here, although it makes him feel like a child himself, or Morgana. Morgana would know what to do; the older girl never would have been disobeyed to begin with, he thinks.

It is with cold comfort that he tries to soothe himself; this camp is not idle. The Dragon King Balinor of the Perilous Lands, the greatest betrayer Camelot has ever known, is funnelling magic users for his army through camps just such as these. For every druid who lives at the mercy of the crown, innocent lives - his people’s lives - are traded. They are at war.

Arthur should be grateful for the lesson, for his men, who are stronger than he. Yet he cannot be.

“Please, enough!” A prince never begs. A prince might wish, though. For all the good it does him.

Pressure builds in the air, a shadow falling over his eyes as his ears ring.

He’s heard of this before from Gaius; that a man’s own heart can fail him so thoroughly that he drops down dead from it. Arthur’s knees hit the bloody ground, but his sword stays in his hand, which is good, he supposes. If he is to die he would rather it be with a sword in his hand.

Or perhaps it is not his heart’s failure at all, it occurs to him belatedly, dull and numb as a tremendous crack resonates out from the forest. 

Although that might be kinder than what comes instead. 

Trees snap apart as easily as kindling. The shadow blots out the sun, followed by a bolt of that wind spears out of the distance, violent. The low fog of the damp forest tears away, leaving everything in stark, colourful clarity.

A roar sounds, low and dark and deep. So thunderous that the earth beneath him trembles, sticks and stones bouncing in a jittering dance, offerings spinning off of the shrine and into the spilled blood. His head rings like a struck bell while he holds onto the ground with both hands.

There is only one thing this can mean.

The Dragon King has come.

Arthur staggers to his feet, scrambling to lift his sword once more. At least his fragile heart will not falter to face this enemy - King Balinor is hardly a child who has wronged no one. How many are dead from his hand? Under Arthur’s feet the forest floor spins with his dizziness, ferns and blood mingling in a dirty swirl. Even so, on legs like water he stands.

“Run,” Cador tells him, from where he lies flat on his back next to the woman he had slain. She says nothing, of course, as she is dead.

The dragon comes into sight, and Arthur inhales sharply, something prey-like and animal in him recoiling. The size of the teeth alone - he could stand side by side and be a height with even one of those fangs, and that cavernous mouth is full of them. His sword dips in fear before he rights himself. Scales bigger than his palm armour the beast from top to tail, shimmering with an otherworldly hue like hellfire.

Courage.

He needs courage. To stand before his enemies, and face death as a man. For there is no other way for this to end, not as long as he is a true son of Camelot.

He makes a strike against the dragon’s scales, only for it to bounce off, useless. Another, and another - the dragon does not even look at him. Each glistening scale is as thick as an iron shield, Arthur’s sword sparking as it crashes against them again and again, less and less skillfully as he grows desperate. Ignored.

“Run , fool boy,” Cador tells him again, voice sticky-wet with blood. This time right by Arthur’s ear, dragging him away by the elbow even as the knight limps, clutching at a wound on his side. “You can do nothing, do not waste yourself here, go-”

“You would be wise to listen,” the dragon hisses, a laugh in his voice as he turns to pin Arthur in place under great golden eyes. A shudder runs down his spine, and a cold fear-sweat beads across his skin. He had not known that dragons could speak. “Pay heed to the murderer, child, and flee. It need not be your destiny to die this day.”

“I am a noble knight of Camelot.” Ser Cador stands between Arthur and the beast, head held high, breath catching as he staggers into a stance. “And you will not touch him.” Around them the fighting is coming to a humiliating and swift end. Knights are rounded up like cattle, marched by magic, or druids; sometimes both.

“I say only what I see,” the dragon says, head lowering to the ground and sliding forwards like a serpent, breathing them in deeply, “and I see only what I say. You still drip with their blood.”

Ser Cador pushes Arthur away as he lunges forwards with a cry, sword raised. The dragon does nothing, enduring his attack with a crackling laugh. He noses forwards in a delicate movement, sending Cador crashing to the ground like swatting a bug from the air. “I see nothing in the shape of a man,” the beast mocks.

“That’s enough,” a new voice sounds down from atop the dragon. He unseats himself with practised ease, waving a hand and wordlessly wrenching Arthur’s sword from his grip and away before his boots even strike the ground.

Arthur’s palm stings at his side, empty.

King Balinor is not much younger than his own father. Crownless, but this can be no one else. His dark hair is greying at the temples, pulled half back in braids and shining with loops of metal woven throughout. His clothes are not that of a king, but barbaric and savage, bundled like winter in furs and leathers. A long skirt like a woman’s, although split into pieces for riding, dark hose and boots plain to view underneath, with a quiver strapped to his waist and a bow upon his back.

He stands as though a weight sits on his shoulders, stooped and weary, but his bright gaze is clear and fierce. His face is unmoved, a harsh cast about his mouth that speaks of many frowns, a sad tilt to the shape of his eyes. Which turn unerringly to Arthur.

“You, boy. Come here.” He inclines his chin.

When Arthur does not move on his own he is moved by Balinor - quite against his will. Pulled forward, toes dragging along the ground until he hovers in front of the king, caught tight in an invisible fist. Balinor reaches a gloved hand and pulls down Arthur’s chain coif, exposing his golden hair, turning his face this way and that.

“You look so much like your mother,” he says, and Arthur spits on him. Balinor doesn’t strike him in retaliation, merely wipes his cheek clean with the back of his wrist. “More spirited though,” he adds. “That will serve you well.”

“Release him,” Cador commands, although he cannot even stand.

“No,” Balinor says plainly, calm as anything. “Go back to Uther, and tell him I hold Ygraine’s son as my peace hostage. If the boy is worth anything to him we will speak.”

Balinor leaves him hanging there with no further concern, Arthur’s legs going numb as he squirms to free himself. Useless against whatever magic holds him, and beneath notice. The ignominy of being ignored burns him, even as he is grateful for it.

The king goes around the camp, speaking in low tones to the druids who yet live. Curious eyes fall on Arthur where he struggles in the air, a spectacle - but at the word of their king it seems Arthur’s fate is set and he is worth no further thought.

His knights have been shepherded together kneeling in a tidy row, one after another, bound. Ser Orsric catches his eye for a moment before Arthur sees his face pale in panic, looking high above Arthur’s head. Hot breath steams down from the dragon who towers above, and he swallows. Brimstone tickles his nose.

He can’t draw enough air.

Under the dragon’s head the sun is hidden entirely.

“So small,” the dragon says. Strangely he does not sound mocking, merely marvelling. Arthur is not that small. He is fifteen as of this past summer, and nearly as tall as a man fully grown.

“Big enough to choke you ,” Arthur promises around the stone that sits in his throat, yearning to make himself as unappetizing as possible.

“I shan’t be eating you today, young prince.” The dragon booms a laugh.

“Nor any other day,” Balinor chides as he returns, one of the druids at his side. He takes off one of his many layers, throwing it around Arthur and pinning it in place like he is dressing an infant. Arthur flails and strains, but can barely budge.

“We shall see,” the dragon teases. And isn’t that a thought - Arthur had not known that dragons could tease, either.

“What are you doing?” Arthur demands, as Balinor lifts him carefully onto the dragon’s back, moving him up and around like he is a puppet on strings. The king strides up the dragon’s side afterwards in two quick steps, so light that Arthur wonders if he’s used magic for that as well. There is no saddle, merely a strange leather harness that Arthur is tied to.

“It’ll be cold,” the king warns, tucking Arthur’s new furs around him snugly, explaining nothing, “and the air is very thin. You won’t be used to it and you might sleep; don’t try and fight it. I will not let you fall.”

“I might,” the dragon says, dripping with amusement. “I wonder if I would be fast enough to catch you, if I did?”

“Kilgharrah,” King Balinor says with the same weary sigh that Arthur has heard from his nannies countless times. Before he outgrew them, of course. Balinor settles behind him on the dragon’s back, a warm mass. Arthur refuses to be grateful, but he is glad to not be left alone with the dragon.

“Knights of Camelot, face the shrine.” Balinor calls down. To fancy it a shrine is a stretch. It is more of a large flat rock, with charms and strips of cloth being the only things to mark it. Woven symbols hang down from the trees, bobbing in the air. Arthur is not a heathen, but he still looks.

The dead boy lies between the dragon and the shrine, and Arthur looks . This should not have happened. The sin today is theirs. He should have been able to control them.

Some of the knights do, some do not - proud men facing death before dishonour.

“These people were peaceful. They could have been your neighbours, your wives, your sons and daughters. Blood has been spilled.”

“Lies,” says one of the knights, a man Arthur had only met for the first time today. “Pagan, death-worshipper - ” His head spins round with a crunch, and he drops down dead, neck broken. Arthur’s eyes grow wide as he lurches backwards, only to crash into the unmovable wall that is the Dragon King.

“Innocent children have been slain,” Balinor continues as though he had not been interrupted. One hand grips Arthur’s elbow in a mocking attempt at comfort. “And balance will be restored. Bow your heads, and repent. Live to tell your king I have his son.” He waits, looking at each knight in turn. “Or meet a swift death. You will not suffer, and that is more mercy than you have shown this day.”

The strange silence in the forest lingers a heartbeat too long for the dragon, who breathes in with a sizzling, sparking sort of noise. Beneath them that great chest expands; and it is nothing like being atop a horse.

“They are deaf and blind animals, not capable of thought,” Kilgharrah says, taking one step forwards, sending Arthur rocking back into Balinor once more, nearly falling. “Nor of compassion. You ask too much of them. I shall eat them, instead.”

“They were women and children,” Arthur manages to shout down to the knights over the dangerous rumble coming from the dragon. He would not like to test if the dragon is merely teasing now. “Have honour.” A prince never begs, he thinks, but then again sometimes Arthur is not a very good prince. He begs.

These men; some of them have raised him and trained him since he was a boy. Fear grips him as they are slow to move.

Some of them - not enough of them - bow their heads to the shrine. In sincerity or desire to avoid being eaten by a dragon Arthur cannot say, and whatever the druids think of it Arthur cannot tell, either. Those who live stand among their dead like statues, and if any of them disagree none of them dare challenge their king.

Some things are the same in every land, perhaps.

The rest die, as Balinor promised.

Limp on the ground they are much the same as the bodies of the druids. Balance, the king had said; and it horrifies Arthur to see it, but there is a certain undeniable truth there. They are all made equal in death.

Cador’s glassy, unseeing eyes fix on something further than the living can see, just as the druid woman’s do. Futilely Arthur wishes he knew her name. That his knights had listened to him. Balinor still would have come, but -

“Hold on,” the Dragon King says, Kilgharrah bracing beneath them.

“My father won’t give ransom,” Arthur says in a rush, his heart fluttering like a thousand birds taking flight all at once, “he will never bend to your demands.”

“I am very sorry to hear that,” Balinor sighs.

Arthur is pressed down nearly flat at the force of their lift off as those massive wings spread, thankful for being tied to the harness for the first time. The ground grows farther and farther away, the trees shrinking, the red specks of his knights' cloaks hidden by the canopy - gone.

The air is thin, he recognizes dizzily. Just like he’d been told. His body is pulled every which way by the wind; he doesn’t know how Balinor stays steady. His silly pile of cloaks makes more sense now, too, and his skirts.

Arthur’s knees are ice cold, still wet with blood from when he fell. He blinks, head lolling.

“Just sleep now, Arthur,” Balinor soothes him, “we’ll be there before you know it.” It won’t matter, he thinks, his father won’t come for him.

“He won’t,” he slurs, but his breath leaves him.

The world has grown blurry, and he slides down into the welcoming darkness, lightheaded and out of body. He thinks he might be sick.

Then he doesn’t think at all.

***

When he wakes it is not swift. He swims up to consciousness from under murky water, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. Even the scent is strange, herbal and smokey.

Someone has changed him out of his mail and into a loose tunic and tucked him under layers of blankets, so many that he can barely lift his arms.

It is dark, only illuminated from the moonlight streaming in from the open window, catching on motes of dust. Weariness pulls at his eyes, fighting to go back under. He makes to sit up, but his stomach quivers in rebellion.

“It’s the air sickness,” King Balinor says from Arthur’s bedside, voice quiet. At his left sits a boy a few years younger than Arthur, seeming to take up more space than he has body. He’s half in his own chair, half sprawled against the king, and somehow still half across Arthur’s bed as he sleeps on, oblivious. “You will feel better in a day or two.”

The king whittles a little wooden figure, not even looking at Arthur.

“My son,” Balinor says, after a time, blowing a bit of wood dust off of his work. “In a different life… a better life, you would have grown up as brothers. I hope you can come to be friendly with one another.”

“My father won’t give you anything,” Arthur rasps, voice hitching. He feels wretched.

“I don’t want him to give anything,” Balinor explains patiently, still whispering into the dark room. “I want him to stop killing peaceful magic users. To stop patrolling the borders-” He holds up a hand as Arthur scoffs weakly, “or to at least let the druids pass out of Camelot. It is not fair, is it? To trap them there, when they would leave with no quarrel on their own?”

Arthur cannot disagree, but he does anyway. It’s the principle of the matter.

“So they may come together to join your army?” he wheezes, and the boy stirs, pale fingers clenching in the bed covers before he yawns awake.

“Army,” the king huffs a small laugh. “You will see for yourself, my army. The druids have no interest in battle,” Balinor says, putting one hand on his son’s head and stroking that dark, curling hair as he rouses. “Did those men today have any weapons to defend themselves? The women?”

They both know the answer to that question. Arthur sniffs, scrubbing one hand on his cheek to rid himself of a tear, weak. His father would be ashamed.

“Oh, you’re awake!” the boy says, blinking sleep from his eyes.

He must have no sense, Arthur thinks.

“Merlin,” Balinor says, setting down his little figure - and Arthur can see now that it is a dragon. A far friendlier dragon than Kilgharrah, though, with stubbly fat legs and happy curving eyes. “This is Prince Arthur. You’ll be kind to him, as he’s far away from home.”

“I will,” the boy promises easily. Thoughtlessly. Arthur wonders what kind of charmed life he lives, enviously watching the king stroke his head, uncaring that Arthur can see.

“And Arthur,” Balinor blinks his sad eyes at him, something fiery stirring in them even in the dark of the night. “You will be kind to Merlin, of course.” Arthur can just bet what will happen if he isn’t.

Merlin blinks huge blue eyes at him, smiling. His ears stick out, and his grin is sweet and full of even white teeth. He looks like someone who would get a lot of cheek pinches on his dimples and extra bits of food from the most gullible kitchen maids.

“I’ll do no such thing,” Arthur says, jutting his chin out even as Merlin sits up in shocked affront. “I’ll fight you, every day, and King Uther will not give you what you please. And I’ll go home-”

Balinor sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Or die,” Arthur concludes, flopping back onto his pillows, exhausted. Air sickness is terrible.

“You won’t die,” the king says, hiding his amusement in that way that adults always try, but Arthur sees right through him, “and my hope is your father values you more than you think.”

Arthur knows better; Balinor will learn.

“There are three spells on you,” he continues, pulling at Arthur’s arm as he jolts, trying and failing to wrench himself free. Balinor shows him a series of many tiny glowing runes encircling him from wrist to elbow, so small and cramped they look just like three solid bands; pointing to them each in turn as he explains, “So that you may not wander too far. So that you may do no harm to yourself, or others. And so that none may harm you . With those you will be trusted to have more freedoms. Perhaps Merlin can show you around tomorrow if you are feeling well enough.”

Balinor releases Arthur’s arm, and he tugs it back to his side, staring at the shimmering spellwork. He grips his own wrist so hard he fears it will break. He wants to tear the markings off of his skin, but when he rubs a frantic hand over them they do not so much as smudge.

It’s all for nothing.

His father will never even allow him home, now. Arthur is branded with magic - he is lost. Utterly lost.

“I don’t want to show him around any more,” Merlin says bluntly, wrinkling his nose and ignoring Arthur in favour of his father. “I want to see you tomorrow instead. My egg is going to hatch soon, you should come watch with me.”

His egg? Arthur cannot begin to guess what this means, but he tries to commit everything to memory, despite how foggy he feels. He pries his hand free, white fingerprints dotting his arm side by side with the sigils when he does. Who knows what will be important. The ways of the Dragonlords are inscrutable.

“You’ve been saying that for a year now,” Balinor smiles tiredly down at his son.

“I’m still right - to a dragon a year is not very long at all.” Merlin rolls his eyes. “I can hear her, she’s trying to sing me her name, but we don’t know it yet.” He kicks his feet, which are too big for his frame, like a puppy before their growth spurt.

Uther would never stand for this sort of behaviour.

Balinor, however, just pats his head again, ruffling Merlin’s hair until it is a fluffy cloud of curls. It is not so long as his father’s, but long enough to brush his cheeks as he grins.

Maybe it’s to hide his hideous ears, Arthur thinks, picking at the embroidery on the blanket with a trembling hand. His knuckles are red and wind bitten, fingertips aching.

“Tomorrow is a new day,” the king says, soft as he looks fondly upon his son, “anything might happen.” His frown lines turn instead into smile lines, and in doing so transform his whole face into something far less frightening than the grim man who had abducted him.

Arthur decides that he hates Merlin.

“Little bird,” Balinor says, and Merlin blushes, eyes flickering to Arthur and back to his father. At least he has the sense to be embarrassed. Little bird. “Have a heart. Arthur is alone in a new place. Tomorrow-”

“Is a new day,” Merlin says sullenly, finally reprimanded, although Arthur does not understand the how or why of it. Balinor hadn’t done anything, not even yelled. “Fine. Are you very hungry?” Merlin asks Arthur, his face scrunched up under his wild nest of hair. “Thirsty?”

He is hungry enough to eat a horse and then thirsty enough to drink a barrel of water to follow it, but he’ll hardly say so. These people are not his friends - they are his captors.

His stomach growls in betrayal, and he fights down an embarrassed flush.

“Why don’t you go to the kitchens and see what you can find, hm?” Balinor suggests, shooing Merlin up and away with gentle hands. “I know you’ve long since sussed out where cook hides all the good stuff.”

“Alright,” Merlin grouses, throwing one last dour look at Arthur before he vanishes out of the room through a heavy wooden door.

“Merlin is thirteen in a few weeks,” Balinor says, after the footsteps stop echoing down the hall. “Just over two years younger than you, if I remember rightly.” When Arthur says nothing he settles more deeply into his chair. It creaks in the quiet room. “I was there when you were born, you know. It was summer, midday. I held you.” He pantomimes holding up a baby with a bittersweet smile and Arthur’s mind reels.

Had this man known his mother so well? To compare Arthur to her even now, fifteen years later? To hold him as a child?

Had he been there when she died?

“What-?” He clicks his mouth shut. Five candle marks into captivity and he’s ready to weep and beg secrets from his abductor. His father won’t speak on his mother - no one in Camelot will. It might as well be that she had never existed at all, for all he knows of her.

Balinor is a liar, he tells himself.

“You have her ring,” the king says, and Arthur wonders if he had spoken out loud, or if sorcerers can all read minds.

Or maybe he is just that transparent. Arthur closes his hand over his mother’s ring where it sits, hiding it from view - too little too late.

“And her hair, and her eyes,” the king continues, standing to look out of the window, giving Arthur the illusion of privacy. He wipes quickly at his cheeks again. If the king has more to say he keeps it to himself, back rigid as they linger in silence.

The border of the bedding is a brassy colour on a field of green and blue. Embroidered dragons, stylized out of one line repeating over and over again, and Arthur flicks at a loose thread. The rune markings on his arm glow, a dull but unmistakable shine.

“What was she like?” Arthur asks, desperation warring with common sense. But Arthur is a fool, and his mawkish feelings always override his sensibility in the end.

“Kind,” the king says eventually, after much thought. “Her heart was vast and endless. Well loved by all who knew her.”

And she is gone, only Arthur remains.

A poor trade.

“She wanted you very much,” Balinor says.

“Are you reading my mind?” Arthur accuses furiously, bringing his knees to his chest. His feet are bare, and his toes are cold; somehow leaving him feeling more vulnerable than ever before.

“No, I just have a son,” the king looks over, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he turns away again. “My wife, Hunith,” he says, staring out the window. Arthur wonders what he sees. “She died in childbirth as well. Many years ago now - Merlin would have a brother, had they lived. Mordred, we were to call him. Some things not even the greatest of magics can heal.”

Half of Arthur wants to console him in kinship. Half of him wants to say that is what you deserve, that is what magic does .

So he says nothing at all.

The door opens again eventually, and Merlin kicks it shut with one foot, nearly tripping and sending it all crashing to the ground. The tray full of food merely floats though, the sloshing goblet freezing in the air, the berries spinning in a circle before all settling back down neatly in their bowl. Arthur takes a shaky breath, eyeing Balinor.

Was it him? Or the boy? Does everyone here do magic?

“Sorry,” Merlin says, biting his lip.

“You’ll grow into your feet,” the king comes and takes the tray before further mishaps can occur, setting it down on the foot of the bed. “You should eat, and then sleep,” he says, somehow making it a suggestion and not an order - even though Arthur knows an order when he hears one. “I will see you in the morning, and we will discuss things. For now you only need to worry about resting.” He reaches out, like he might pat Arthur on the head, just as he had done to his own son. Arthur pulls his neck in like a turtle, and the king lowers his hand. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

“We’re not friends,” Arthur says, staring down at the runes that bind him, and Balinor only gives him another one of those sad smiles before he leaves, Merlin lingering by the open door.

Arthur supposes there is no reason for the boy to fear him, even if Arthur is twice his size. He’s magic, and Arthur is bound. He wonders if he throws the tray and everything on it at Merlin if the younger boy would catch it with his magic again, or if the binding would stop Arthur from trying entirely.

His arms shake, so he will have to wait to find out another day.

Merlin comes up to him, taking the wooden dragon off of the bedding and placing it on the sideboard. It’s ancient, just like all of the furnishings here. He supposes the Perilous Lands do not get much trade, not like Camelot.

A new sorrow finds him at the very thought of her - and he wonders if he will ever set foot there again.

“I hope you feel better tomorrow,” Merlin says, frowning, opening and closing his mouth as though he has more to say. “I’m sorry you’re sick.”

“We’re not friends,” Arthur says again through his runny nose, wishing that Merlin had stayed behind to taunt him instead.

“I wouldn’t want to be friends with such a cabbagehead as you anyway,” Merlin swears, spinning on his heel and retreating to the door, before he hesitates, “but I still hope you get better.”

It swings closed behind him with a short creak and the snap of a latch.

Good, Arthur wipes his nose. It would not do to forget he is a prisoner here. Berries glisten enticingly in their wooden bowl, and he smells porridge. Nothing has ever smelled so good in his life.

He keeps his resolve to not eat it for maybe a minute before he instead resolves to keep his strength up. Halfway through the bowl of porridge, which has honey in it and everything, he starts to feel steadier. The berries are sweet, and the water is clear and clean.

He watches the moonlight stream in through the window before setting the tray to the side, swinging his bare feet out of the bed and onto the cold stone floor. It is an effort to walk such a short distance, but he would at least see with his own eyes.

Rumours abound about the Perilous Lands - he has seen the border himself, even if only once.

Rancid and burnt, a bog suitable only for witches to live in.

Outside the window it is nothing like that. Lush looking fields and shrubs spot across the landscape; although it is hard to see, for how high up he is. Wind blows in through the open window, chill against his sweat damp-face. A tower, then. It is nothing like Camelot, there is no city to be seen. A few squat buildings and huts scatter far below.

Even if Arthur wasn’t bound here he is too weak and too high up to attempt to flee. He could jump -

His arm gives a phantom throb, and his feet step backwards all on their own.

He can’t harm himself either, he recalls, shuffling back to bed. He can’t do anything at all. Not that any of it will matter. Whatever Balinor says about it, Arthur knows the truth; Uther will not bend, and Arthur will die here, forgotten.

The bed is still body-warm when he crawls back in, trembling.

The fat little dragon looks at him, grinning. He turns it around so it’s facing the other way, and goes to sleep.

Chapter Text

A new day comes.

Arthur dresses in a fresh tunic and trousers - no strange skirts, so he thinks no flying - gifted to him by a distracted Merlin, who has come to fetch him like a servant. He is given his old boots, freshly cleaned of blood. He hesitates before shoving his feet in, feeling out of sorts.

None of it had seemed real, when he woke. Like a dream that persisted past waking. He thinks of fighting, but the skin of his left arm still shines through with the curse that would never allow him to go home again.

That’s real enough.

He keeps his head down, for now.

Merlin tramples everywhere he goes, it seems; down the hall, then the endless staircase, past the windows that show a white, bright sun - and into a great open hall.

They slow to a stop in the immense room; elaborate arching beams cut across the open space between them and the tip-top point of the tower. Arthur cranes his neck up, and up, and up again. Birds of all sorts make their homes in the rafters, coming and going via a grand glassless window, flush to the floor that opens out towards the waving sea of grass. A dragon could fit, he thinks.

“Boys,” Balinor says, and Arthur whips his head back down, feeling caught out. “I’d thought to introduce you to Nimueh, Arthur.”

The woman looks young, and pale as marble against her dark hair and fey bright eyes. She’s beautiful, clad in an elaborate red dress the equal of any courtly lady - and she passes those uncanny eyes over Arthur from head to toe before she inclines her chin.

“Prince Arthur Pendragon,” she smiles, a strange sort of thing. It becomes more real when she turns it on Merlin, who has come up so close to Arthur’s side that their arms brush. His head only reaches Arthur’s shoulder, but he makes a good shield against the witch’s needle-sharp gaze even so. “Merlin,” she continues, “how go your studies?”

“Great,” Merlin chirps, unafraid. Arthur will not be shown up by a twelve year old, and he straightens his back. “Watch this,” he says, elbow knocking into Arthur as he summons pinpricks of fireflies in a rainbow of colourful lights, only to shape them into a bluebird in flight, swooping prettily around their heads. Arthur sucks in a breath of air before he can stop himself, but he doesn’t fall over his own feet when he steps backwards as the chill rolls down his spine. A small victory.

Nimueh looks upon him with disdain, and Balinor with pity - it is Merlin though, who diffuses the tension. “What? It’s just lights?”

“Arthur has not grown up with magic as you have,” Balinor explains, “he’s not used to seeing it.”

“Uther is a coward,” Nimueh speaks over him, “who would teach his child to fear and hate what he does not understand-”

“It’s just lights, though? Doesn’t Camelot have lights?” Merlin barrels on through both of the adults, bold and uncaring that he’s interrupting.

Uther would have him flogged.

“We have lights,” Arthur manages to say, as Merlin watches him with honest confusion. They have no magic though, and that is the truth. And it has never even occurred to Merlin that such a thing might be strange, Arthur realises all at once. The day feels more dreamlike rather than less as it goes on.

“It is a child’s privilege,” Nimueh says, “to repeat what they are told, without thinking for themselves.”

“He’s only just fifteen,” Balinor says before Arthur can answer, iron in his voice.

“A child, then,” Nimueh waves a negligent hand, and it burns to be thought of as a child, he’s not, “for now. Still one that Uther sends on raids, to slaughter other children. Are you quite sure you want to leave your precious little bird with the wretch?”

“I didn’t - ” Arthur shouts, before snapping his mouth shut. He hadn’t wanted to. But… he had.

“You did.” Nimueh pierces him. Merciless.

“It was not his will, but Uther’s,” Balinor says, which is no real defence at all. Arthur had failed at every measure. His mission, his men, his failure. “It is not the fault of the son who listens to his father when that is all he has ever been shown. And I believe he knows what happened yesterday was wrong.”

“Is that so?” Nimueh considers him like he’s a dog who’s just done an interesting trick, tapping one blood red nail against her lips. “Perhaps there is something of Ygraine in him that Uther hasn’t managed to smother just yet.”

“Did all of you know my mother?” Arthur’s temper snaps before he can think better, frayed thin.

Nimueh watches him, face still.

“Do you not even know?” she whispers, something mad and frightening creeping over the quiet of her stare.

Balinor steps between them, hiding Arthur from her view. “That is enough,” he says, a command. The straight line of his back does not move, standing tall. “Not like this. He needs time to recover.”

“I’m recovered,” Arthur lies. He wants to know. He’s not a child.

“Merlin, take Arthur outside, you could both use some sunshine.” Balinor’s word is law, it seems. He’s not raised his voice, not once, but even Nimueh looks aside.

Merlin grabs the cuff of Arthur’s sleeve, and he follows the younger boy like a toy on a string. “Let’s go,” he says, leading them through the gaping window - or was it a door? At this size, Arthur is not sure. Whatever it is they go through it regardless, the hewn rock under their feet and they themselves under the vast open sky.

There is a quality to the blue here, somehow, that seems bigger. Colder. Set higher above them, the sun smaller, the distance dizzying. It’s not true, he knows from his lessons. They are barely north of Mercia, it is hardly a different sky.

Perhaps it is merely a different Arthur. He’s not a prince any longer, no matter what they call him.

“I thought it was…different, here,” he says. “Burnt.”

“It was,” Merlin says, “and it still is, further away. There was a curse, and it’s been very hard to break it!”

It occurs to Arthur that Merlin might know an awful lot, and seems to have no sense with how to say it - or not say it, as the case may be.

“A curse?” Arthur prods.

“The old king - the Fisher King - tied himself to the land. I don’t know why; maybe he thought he would live longer? Or that the land would be healthier? He was wounded though, and the land was wounded too, until it was all ruined and nothing would grow!” He drags Arthur forwards, towards the edge of the raw stone that stretches out from the tower to curve over the land like the lip of a shield.

It doesn’t seem ruined.

As he thought from his look last night there are buildings and huts that pepper the countryside. A flock of sheep, and people tending to them. Peat left to dry. The ground is mossy and green with fine-leaved grasses, colourful heather, and herbs.

“But King Balinor broke the curse?” he asks, scanning the sky. He doesn’t see any dragons.

“Kili and Da, yeah.” Merlin nods, an easy, proud smile on his face. His thick blue tunic and green cloak flit around him in the wind.

“How does a dragon break a curse?” Can dragons cast magic as well as speak? He wonders why Balinor hasn’t taken his dragon and just burned the citadel to the ground - it certainly seemed as though he could if he wanted to.

“A dragon is magic,” Merlin explains as though Arthur is very slow indeed, “he breathed his fire to cleanse the rot from the earth, and then Da and I made the plants grow. Don’t you know anything?”

“We don’t have magic in Camelot,” Arthur reminds him sharply, biting his tongue to not say anything meaner - not when Merlin is being so useful. He knows about controlled burns. He doesn’t know anything about curses and dragon fire, though.

“I’m sorry,” the younger boy says kindly, which strikes Arthur as the most bizarre thing he’s heard yet today, in a series of very bizarre things. “That must be very boring. How do you heat your bath up? What do you do when people are ill?”

“Fire, and medicine,” Arthur says through gritted teeth.

“Oh, well, we have medicine, too,” Merlin acquiesces. “Alice knows medicine and healing magic.”

“Then why did your mother die if magic is so great? Just to get away from you, I bet!” Arthur snaps cruelly, knowing exactly how much it will hurt and hoping he strikes true. Magic is poison . Merlin is just a foolish child, proud of something that will turn around and bite him as soon as there is opportunity.

Merlin stares at him with huge, betrayed eyes, lip quivering. With tears or fury, Arthur cannot say. His little fists ball up, and his curls of dark hair flutter in the ever present wind.

Arthur begins to feel a creeping thread of shame. He may not be a child, but Merlin is.

“You’re the worst boy I’ve ever met,” Merlin says, turning and hopping off of the rock and down onto the grass below, striding away through the heather without looking back even once.

Now he is alone, and it’s not really any better - even if Merlin is very annoying and smug. Now it is only Arthur; Arthur and his own disobedient head, which is a place he does not like very much to be.

Kept company by his dead knights, who would be braver than he is now, and the dead druids, who would be safe and happy here instead of in Camelot.

Arthur is none of those things, to anyone. Not brave, and not safe, and certainly not happy.

His arm throbs in time with the runes as they pulse, even though he hadn’t been doing anything at all. He probably deserves it - he had done harm, after all. Again.

His stomach hurts, and his breathing is still weak from the air sickness, so he sits down on the edge of the stone, watching Merlin’s skinny back as he lopes away. All magic is good for is taking. Arthur is not wrong . His father is not.

Shreds of clouds move across the sky. He watches their shadows for a long time, growing cold under the harsh winds.

Footsteps sound behind, and Arthur scrambles to his feet, wiping his cheeks before anyone can see. It is not King Balinor, however, but the witch, Nimueh.

“It takes a truly powerful man to be merciful,” she says out of nowhere, considering him. “Balinor is both. Kind,” she sounds out the word, as though it is the first time she has ever heard of the concept. “Perhaps it does not seem like it to you, yet.” Red skirts swirl around her finely slippered feet.

“It doesn’t,” Arthur agrees. Nothing about any of this seems kind to him.

“You’ll learn. What do you know about dragonlords?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Arthur admits, afraid to lie.

“Uther neglects your education. They are…unique.” She ambles to his side, looking over the fields with him. “Even I do not understand the intricacies of their ties to magic - to dragons, to the land itself - but suffice it to say that they are powerful. Never numerous, it is only Balinor and Merlin, now. And Merlin will outshine us all. A cleverer boy would make friends.” She smiles at him, mocking.

The king’s little bird, Arthur knows. Yet it seems like a poor reason to make friends. He always hates it when the other boys - well, not that it matters, now.

“I don’t want to be his friend,” Arthur says, “I want to go home.”

“And what? If you are petty enough Balinor will send you away?” She clicks her tongue at him, disappointed. Even if she is an enemy Arthur has always hated disappointing people, and he flushes.

“My father won’t-” he bites down on the words, but they’ll know soon enough anyway. “He won’t send anything, anyway, or agree to whatever King Balinor asks for. Not for me. This is all fruitless.”

“To think,” Nimueh muses as she smooths down her skirts, “that a man who wanted a son so desperately would turn his back on him so easily now.”

“What…what don’t I know? What you said before?” Arthur wets his lips. They are wind bitten as well, chapped and painful. He tastes a drop of blood. There is no point trusting a witch but he wants to know. Balinor knew his mother, as well. What other secret is kept from him?

Nimueh reaches out and almost touches his hair, but draws her hand back as he ducks away, taking her time to answer.

“Balinor wants to wait to tell you, but I think that might be a mistake. Honesty has its place as well as caution. Leave if you will not know the truth and I will not follow,” she instructs him, waiting for him to nod before speaking again. “Uther needed an heir, and Ygraine, beloved as she was, could not give him one. He sought magic for an answer-”

“He wouldn’t - ” Arthur snaps.

“You know very little of what your father is capable of,” Nimueh says, dripping with poisonous pity that raises his hackles to hear. “Magic - before his Great Purge - was very welcome in Camelot. It made him stronger, and made his people thrive. Camelot has been rich in magic since before man ever walked on this earth. The Crystal Caves; the font through which all magic came forth into the land - ”

“You’re lying,” Arthur says, hands clenched in tight fists at his side, his bound arm sizzling with magic so violent his whole arm shudders and shakes.

“I am not,” she says simply. “Magic was the jewel in his crown. Yet Uther wanted a son, to carry on his legacy. Magic gives, and it takes away. I didn’t - ” Something human and broken cracks her voice, and for the first time Arthur might see her as a person instead of a witch. “I knew there would be a cost. I warned him, but he insisted. I didn’t know it would cost Ygraine.”

“What?” he says, dumbly, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

“A balance, in all things.”

The wind cuts right through him, bouncing around in his bones. He finds himself sitting again before he even knows it, Nimueh coming to his side, hovering yet still not touching him.

“In a way, you are mine as much as theirs,” she says softly, her eyes tracing his face, searching for something. “You are born of magic, and when Ygraine - ”

“You killed her,” Arthur chokes out, “he always said magic killed her!”

“Uther killed her,” Nimueh snaps at him, mood swivelling on a spit as her eyes blaze, “his insistence on his legacy, his obsession with an heir - and then when he didn’t like the cost he slaughtered hundreds in her name. Innocent people. He drowned their children in the very rivers that Ygraine and he rode by as they courted! That is Uther’s legacy. You should be thankful on bent knee to be free of him.”

Arthur stares at her in shock, heart pinching into something small and dark and painful in his chest.

“Ygraine was good, and kind. She wanted you so badly, she was so happy. She would despise what he has done to Camelot.” Nimueh kneels beside him, brushing a strand of hair away from his eyes with a careful touch, her mad anger forgotten. This time Arthur does not dare flinch away. “Uther betrays her memory with every cruelty.”

“You’re lying,” he swallows, breath not coming fast enough.

“I think you know I am not,” she says, “but you may ask anyone here - outside of his reach the story is well known. It is only there where he has cast her very name into shadow, to be forgotten. Is it any wonder your uncles hate him so?”

“Uncles?” Arthur asks, and she laughs - a horrible sound.

“Tristan came to the gates of Camelot the very day he learned the means of his dear sister’s death, and challenged Uther. He died, trying to avenge her.”

It seems to Arthur that a lot of people have died because of his birth. A waste.

“Why?” he asks, blinking fresh tears away, “Why all of this when he doesn’t even want me?”

“Uther’s heart has long been unknown to me,” she says, “if I ever knew it at all. I cannot tell you. No magic can see the truth of a man. Only his actions show it. He might yet make peace for you.”

Uther’s actions.

Arthur buries his head in his knees, unable to bear thinking of it any longer.

“You are not well,” Nimueh says, her small hand cold against Arthur’s cheek as she turns his face up and into the light. “You need more rest, and to eat again. You will feel worse for it if you don’t.”

It takes him two attempts to stand.

“Balinor,” Nimueh calls out, waiting for the king to come; had he been near all the while? “Perhaps you would like to speak to Merlin. I think he went to visit the sheep. I will take Arthur back to his room, to rest.”

Balinor looks at Arthur with such sorrow that Arthur cannot endure it, turning away until the king goes off after his son. Another thing for Arthur to be sorry over. How much had been heard?

He tries to mind the route they take, so he might remember it, but he is out of sorts and useless.

Nimueh walks with him all the way into his room and settles him on the side of his bed like a child; and he lets her, waiting just where she puts him before she returns with something to eat and drink. She doesn’t speak, but she also doesn’t leave until he’s finished as much as he’s able.

Every bite is flavourless and hard to swallow.

Even though it’s still bright out, he tucks himself into bed, staring at the wooden dragon until it is blurry and swimming. Finally left alone, he can’t pretend he’s not crying.

For what, though?

For the loss of a father that never really existed outside of his own imagination?

His head throbs and his throat burns as he is wrung clean of tears. Until he is too exhausted to feel anything. It must be hours and hours later that his door opens again. This time it is Dragon King Balinor, however, and while Arthur is too tired for shame - too tired to even raise his head, in fact, he is not too tired for fear.

Balinor comes in anyway, waiting by the door with another plate of food. It must have been even longer than Arthur had thought. The half-finished bits from before still sit congealing on the table, unappetizing.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, which Arthur thinks is a very stupid question.

“M’fine,” he says; he’s certain he’s in enough trouble already without making more. When Uther won’t trade for peace, what will happen to him?

“Then you are stronger than I am,” Balinor replies, coming in and retaking his seat in the chair that still waits by Arthur’s bedside. “You seem very sure that Uther will not agree to any terms.”

“He won’t,” the answer comes easily. “He’ll never negotiate with magic users, not for anything.”

“He might surprise you,” Balinor says. It is kindly meant, but sometimes Arthur thinks the truly kind thing is to just accept the truth and get it over with.

“Was everything Nimueh said true?” Arthur asks, sitting up with great effort. He feels worse than he did the first night from the air sickness, like every limb is numb.

“Nimueh played with forces she should not have-”

“Was my father the one to order it?”

Balinor holds his gaze, face serious, before sighing. “Yes, it was on Uther’s order.”

“Then it is his responsibility for demanding it,” Arthur says. “He always taught me… that it was our duty to be better men, as rulers. Wiser. Because we are not the only ones to live with the results of our choices. Even you said it wasn’t my fault for following my father’s orders, earlier today - is that not true?”

Balinor exhales. “Save me from clever boys,” he mutters, finally setting the plate down and folding his hands across his lap. His layers of robes today are fewer, and a dark blue and practical grey, but with embroidered runes and patterns all along the hems. Arthur wonders if it means anything, and thinks about his own arm.

“Yes,” the king says, “and no. We are each of us responsible for our own actions, but… no, I do not fault you for only having seen a small sliver of the world, when that is all you have been shown. Your father has told you that magic is evil. I imagine you have not seen much good magic, to counter that.”

“No,” Arthur says, when Balinor goes silent waiting for a reply. He doesn’t grow angry, though.

“The harmless magics, the helpful ones; those were the first to fall. Sorcerers with no defences. Now all who remain are the truly desperate.” Balinor says, voice thick with a resigned sort of sadness. “We have not managed to bring every magic user here, even if they should wish to come. And some would choose to stay regardless, to seek vengeance.”

Arthur has met sorcerers like that before. Arthur has only met sorcerers like that before.

“So you…” he trails off, awkward. “You don’t want vengeance?”

“I want peace,” Balinor says, his answer swift and firm. “For those who still live, for those who would make their homes here. Yet not all druids, peaceful as they are, want to leave their sacred groves. So long as there is magic in Camelot there can be no peace - not unless something changes. And Arthur?" Balinor looks at him, unwavering as he waits for Arthur's eyes to find his. "There will always be magic in Camelot.”

Not unless something changes. Uther is the least changeable man Arthur has ever known of - it has been a quality he much admired, in the past. Steadfast. Assured in his faith.

His faith was based on a lie, though.

“A father’s love can change a man,” Balinor says, meaning to comfort, but digging the knife in deeper despite his intentions. “Don’t give up hope. He loves you, I know it. There may yet be peace, built together.” Arthur knows it will hurt all the worse when he is proven wrong.

There is nothing to be said on the matter. They’ll all see, whenever Uther replies.

“Tomorrow,” Balinor says, standing and smoothing out his tunic, “I would like you to apologise to Merlin.”

Arthur winces.

“Yes, sir,” he says, looking down.

“I know that you are frightened, and angry. But we do not hurt people just because we are hurting. Not here. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Arthur says to his blankets.

“Look at me,” Balinor demands, patient until Arthur does so. He always looks deadly serious, but even more so now. Arthur is not too tired for jealousy, either, it seems. Balinor loves Merlin very much - no wonder he thinks Uther will exchange peace for Arthur.

“I understand,” Arthur says again, voice rasping.

Balinor sets one rough hand softly on Arthur’s head like a benediction.

“You’re a good boy,” the king says. “At the shrine… know that I could feel your grief.” Balinor taps his own chest, twice, right over his heart. “You tried, I know that. Nothing that day should have fallen on you. And I don’t want you to worry any longer, not about any of this. Just rest, and tomorrow we start anew.”

“Yes, sir,” Arthur repeats, wishing very badly that Balinor would go away and leave him alone.

He does, the door swinging closed behind him, his footsteps fading down the hallway until it is just Arthur left with the discomfort of his own thoughts, and Arthur dearly wishes he would come back.

Chapter Text

Regardless of Arthur’s opinion on the matter, the sun rises again, and with it a slew of unsolved problems; at least one of which was his own making.

Arthur would apologise, if he knew where Merlin was.

It is odd to wander this place alone, even if the runes that mark his left arm keep him harmless and safe in equal measure. There are somehow both more people than he would have thought and less; and he doesn’t know what to say to any of them.

The tower is old, magic built, and strange. There are rooms that are torn half through from the outside in and left open to the elements and time. Arthur speculates on what could do such a thing other than a dragon, but he doesn’t really know.

The kitchens seem to be run by a very few people at all, a cook and two maids, neither of whom find it odd that Arthur has come to fetch his own breakfast. He was probably only brought food in his room since he’s been ill, he thinks, and resolves to remember the way back lest he starve.

In the vast centre hall today there are more people, although none he recognizes, and still not many. He skirts the outer edge, uncharacteristically nervous of them. Raw, and brittle, like one harsh word might shatter him. There are no knights or allies at his back here. He finds himself returning to the flat rock overlooking the fields, the sheep - the heather that still dances about in a seemingly constant wind.

That same wind which carries to him the familiar sound of swords. He’d know it anywhere, and his feet propel him forwards and around the rough edges of the tower and to the west. It is hardly a training field compared to Camelot, but undoubtedly that is what he finds under the shadow of the stone tower.

A crowd of maybe two dozen men and women engage in a mock battle unlike he has ever seen, and his sword arm itches to join them. He’d quite like to feel the heft of a blade in his hand, to exchange his foggy, sick-weary sleep for a clean one born of exertion.

Is this the army Balinor had scoffed for Arthur to see? Even with a bare dozen of them he thinks he could take over a kingdom. Holding it might be a different matter -

He takes another step before thinking better of it.

A task was given to him, and they will certainly not allow him a weapon, even if he were to go to them. His resolve to leave and find Merlin falters when one of them, a bald, tattooed man fighting off four others, starts spitting fire like a dragon.

Arthur stands and gapes like a fool as the dark-robed man disarms his opponents with brutal efficacy.

His father had never allowed him to be coddled, and he has trained since birth to fight - and not in the manner of the other noble boys, either. Not only for showcases and tournaments, but to fight and win when there are no rules at all. Never once has he gotten to fight someone who breathed fire, though.

He had thought the druids were all peaceful.

It is only with great reluctance that he retraces his steps - he thinks to check the folds, if perhaps Merlin had gone to visit the sheep again. Although why anyone would be visiting boring old animals when they could be watching that display instead escapes him.

Perhaps everyone here can breathe fire and it is nothing so special.

A daunting prospect, as he tries to imagine apologising to an uncooperative Merlin, only to get a face full of sparks in return. He’ll learn if his arm will protect him from that, if so, because Arthur has no choice.

It is an order.

And…it is the right thing to do.

In the fresh light of day he is ashamed. Be it truth in his actions or not, his father had tried to impress on Arthur that, as one with power, he was responsible for what he did with it. That it was the burden and privilege of a prince - a king. Arthur still believes this to be true; whether Uther has lived by it himself or not, and whether Arthur shall remain a prince or not.

He will be a better man and own his missteps, even if it stings his pride. If he didn’t need the lesson it would not hurt.

There are people out working, and he passes several before he sees Merlin’s dark head of curls, sitting on a low stone fence, with a shaggy brown late-season lamb that barely fits on his lap - it’s hardly still a lamb at all. His hair isn’t yet long enough to be tied half-back like his father’s, but an attempt has clearly been made, pins at his temples glinting in the sun. His feet kick, and in return he gets a bleat of protest until he is still again. He probably won’t set Arthur on fire if he is holding a lamb.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, biting the inside of his cheek. He’s never been very good with clever words. “I shouldn’t have said that about your mother.”

Merlin looks over at him, clutching the lamb more tightly. The little thing has clearly had enough, and butts Merlin in the chin to break free, bouncing off towards the other sheep that graze in the distance.

“You’re bleeding,” Arthur gestures to his own chin, to the same place where Merlin has a tiny scratch, barely welling with a speckle of blood. He digs in his pocket to offer a cloth, but with a flickering glow of the younger boy’s eyes the cut is gone as if it had never been.

Arthur’s hand hovers between them, a white scrap of handkerchief blowing uselessly in the wind. He takes it back, swallowing.

“My Da says that you’ve never seen any good magic at all,” Merlin says, kicking his feet again, “and that your Da never taught you to trust that people can be nice.” He wraps his cloak tighter around himself; it’s the same one as yesterday, and just like Balinor’s it is carefully embroidered with symbols Arthur can only guess the meanings of.

Arthur opens his mouth to say that no such thing is true, but he’s not precisely sure what is true anymore, so what comes out is, “Maybe. I still shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t even mean it.”

“Why did you say it then?” Merlin wrinkles his nose, and Arthur kind of hates him again. He’s only little though, and doesn’t know any better.

“I lost my mother, and my father always said it was magic that killed her. I was…” He casts about for a word, but there are none adequate. “Upset.”

Merlin frowns, considering him. “I’m sorry about your Mam,” he says, not putting up a fuss when Arthur comes to sit by him on the stone paddock. The fencing is incomplete, but an effort has been made to cut a clear path. He wonders what game is here - he’s only seen the sheep, and a few grouse.

Fat hen and bean fields roll out away from the sheep, and people are scattered about sowing. It’s not terribly different from any other small settlement he’s been to in his life. The chores still need doing. Things still need planting, and harvesting. He supposes it’s that time of year.

Will his father reply before winter?

What will happen to him when he is of no use as a hostage? He feels as though he has brought this on himself - all the times he had wished to run away to a simpler life. Well, he sure got it.

“Do you want to go pick berries?” Merlin asks, his restless feet still moving.

“Alright,” Arthur says. It’s better than sitting here moping and wondering how he’ll survive the winter. “What grows here?”

“Cloudberries, and cranberries, and bilberries,” Merlin lists, already moving, “and crowberries, but those aren’t for eating, those are for dyeing. Have you ever dyed anything before?”

“No,” Arthur says, even though he doubts Merlin is really listening.

“It’s like alchemy! It smells terrible,” he rambles on, “but the colours are nice. My favourite colour is blue, like the sea! Have you ever been to the coast?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, although he also doubts it’s the same coast that Merlin is speaking of.

“Have you ever seen sea glass? Those colours are pretty. What about a seal?”

“No,” Arthur says, even though he has seen a seal. There just isn’t much more to say about it, is all.

“Can you say anything other than yes and no?” Merlin asks, grinning cheekily.

“Sometimes,” Arthur smiles back, reluctantly amused, squinting into the wind. There are low berry bushes scattered all around, and Merlin points out every single solitary weed and plant as they go along, stopping only to kneel at a vibrant purple flower.

“It’s called saw-wort, and you use that for dyes, too, and Alice knows how to make a poultice with it!”

“It looks like thistle,” Arthur says, trying hard to be friendly, “and I’ve never seen anything dyed that bright of a purple before. Is it very rare?”

“The dye is yellow,” Merlin is all too happy to inform him, and Arthur reconsiders going back to the tower and watching the mock battle. Merlin might be good-natured, but he is also an annoying know-it-all.

“What-” Arthur starts to ask, before stopping. Merlin will answer any questions he is posed, but perhaps Arthur is not meant to know. Then again, no one had said he couldn’t go anywhere. His runes wouldn’t have allowed it if he was not supposed to see, he thinks.

“What, what?” Merlin laughs at him.

“There were people outside the tower today. They were practising fighting - I thought your father said the druids were peaceful.” He just won’t let Merlin get in trouble, if Balinor is angry. No one had said he couldn’t ask questions, either.

“Those aren’t druids,” Merlin is ready with an answer, already heading to a soft, scrubby looking bush. “These are bilberries.” He starts plucking them with deft fingers, eating them as he goes.

“They weren’t druids?”

“Those are the Catha,” Merlin says, reluctant to share knowledge for perhaps the first time Arthur can recall. “And probably the Bendrui and the Blood Guard, too.”

“Blood Guard?” Arthur raises an eyebrow, aiming for casual as he takes a few berries for himself before Merlin can eat them all, but missing by a league.

“They’re for protecting Nimueh and Da, mostly I think. And me, I guess.”

“I shouldn’t imagine your father needs much protecting,” Arthur says. Protection from what? He can’t think of anything mightier than a dragon.

Merlin laughs, a bright sound that suits him better than anything else. “I don’t think so either! Da and Kilgharrah are the strongest, of course. Oh, look,” he says, distracted, or perhaps merely uninterested in speaking on the subject any further, “a red grouse!”

Then the impossible happens.

Merlin is completely silent and still, keen eyes staring out as the red grouse hops along in the distance nipping at the heather in quick pecks. Without his childish babbling and rapid movement he seems closer to his actual age - still not very old, but more like one of the pages that might come along on a hunt rather than even younger.

“Do you like hunting?” Arthur asks, hopeful, as they watch the grouse fly away. Perhaps they can make friends after all.

“Oh, no!” Merlin baulks, “hunting is terrible!”

Perhaps not.

“Don’t you eat meat?” Arthur asks. Don’t they? Will he be expected not to? “Do druids not?”

“I’m not a druid, not really,” Merlin says, “and I eat meat, I just don’t like hunting!”

“You do know where meat comes from, don’t you?” Arthur incredulously begins. Merlin seems sheltered, but certainly he must know. “You do, don’t you?”

“I know where it comes from, I just don’t like it,” Merlin explains, his ears going crimson as he busies himself gathering more bilberries.

Soft-hearted and impractical, Arthur thinks, taking out his handkerchief and gathering more as well, for later. If it’s porridge again he’ll want them - there had been no honey today, and he remembers all at once that Merlin had been the one to fetch it for him, before.

Soft-hearted and impractical, indeed.

“What’s it like in Camelot?” Merlin asks, “Other than, well, you know.”

Arthur supposes he does know, at that.

“The citadel is made of white stone, and the windows are stained glass.” He’s not doing it justice, he doesn’t have the poetry to describe it. “When…when the light from the morning hits it everything glows like the sun, and the glass casts rainbows everywhere. It’s like walking through the sky. The grounds are vast, and have all sorts of game - the forests are old, some of the trees are as big as a house. The land is plentiful and the town has every sort of thing imaginable from the five kingdoms. Spices, and tapestries, fruit from across the sea.”

He stops for a breath, missing home very badly.

“Leon, my friend, is there. He’s a knight, older than me, and he’s very good. With a sword, of course, but I mean good . He’s a protector of the weak, and he never raises his voice at me. And Morgana, who raises her voice all the time.” He looks over to Merlin, who is looking sadly back at him, nearly as still as when they watched the red grouse.

“She says it’s the only way anyone will listen to a woman. To be twice as loud. She’s sharp, and clever; quick witted. My father’s ward, ever since she was little.”

“Like a sister,” Merlin says, cocking his head to the side, his silver hair pins catching the sunlight.

“I suppose she must be,” Arthur agrees. “It’s like no other place in the world, there. Camelot,” he says, just to say it. To hear it in the air once more.

“Maybe… maybe one day you can show it to me,” Merlin says with a hesitant smile.

It seems unlikely, to Arthur, but it is a nice thought. If his father agrees, maybe, but as it is Merlin would be killed just for existing.

It strikes him then, how much he doesn’t wish for that to happen. Merlin is a little annoying, and a know-it-all - and twelve. He likes animals, and has endless prattle about herbs and flowers, and casts magic like it’s nothing. Puts honey in a hostage’s porridge. Arthur’s heart bleeds like a fresh wound just at the thought of it, and he knows that even if he goes back to Camelot he will no longer be the same.

His father is not wrong about all magic, but he is not right about it, either.

“Maybe, someday,” Arthur says, his voice coming out all twisted up.

“Are you still sick?” Merlin asks, concerned. He wipes his hands clean on his cloak before setting them on Arthur’s forehead, eyes glowing gold. A wash of something rolls over him, like a warm hug. Even if Arthur is not sick he does feel better.

“Thanks,” he says, summoning up a smile. “That helped.”

Merlin beams at him, his cheeks dimpling as he flushes, pleased with himself.

“Maybe we should go back anyway,” Merlin says, “I’m hungry.”

“Maybe there will be grouse for lunch,” Arthur halfheartedly teases, only to have a real laugh startled out of him when Merlin’s stomach growls in agreement.

***

The weeks that follow are perhaps the longest he has ever known.

There are simply not enough able bodies for anyone to be idle, so at least his days pass quickly; even if they are full of tasks he has never done before that he had once thought beneath him. He cannot watch an old woman labour in a field while he exists on their efforts, though, so he still tries. At least he is strong.

The Catha and the others come and go; Arthur does not know to where, although he’d bitterly like to follow them. He would train, or hunt, if his runes allowed him to. It would suit his restlessness better, if he could.

Balinor and Kilgharrah do the same, coming and going over and over; although at least either he or Nimueh are always at the tower. He returns with supplies from far off places, trading - Kilgharrah complains loudly that he is not a donkey, but still goes.

Merlin follows Arthur like an overly chatty magical puppy when he doesn’t have lessons, and Arthur thinks he understands why. There are no other children here other than two infants and a toddler; the next youngest face he has seen is Nimueh. Merlin must have been lonely for company, to latch on so fiercely and so quickly.

So Arthur indulges him and plays the occasional game, even if it is childish. Nimueh thrashes them both in quoits, and they play one never to be repeated game of tug-of-war that only ends once Arthur has hauled a shrieking Merlin clear around the stone tower.

Thankfully it is clearly a joyful shrieking, as the Blood Guard are out training again.

It grows colder. The days are shorter, and if it weren’t for the magic fire Merlin keeps lit in Arthur’s room he’s not sure how he’d make it through the night with how draughty the tower is. It never goes out and never smokes, although it does occasionally reach out to harmlessly tickle Arthur’s feet as he walks by.

Merlin’s idea of a joke, he assumes.

It’s fine. It’s not bad, none of it is bad. If asked what he thought being a hostage to the Dragon King would be like he would have thought of anything other than this. He’s not hungry, he’s not tossed away in a dungeon to rot - no one even makes him work, he just thinks he ought to. He can go anywhere he likes here.

It’s just not home.

He wants word to come from Camelot, even if he knows in his heart what that word will be. The waiting is what wears him thin like an old shirt. Lately Arthur feels like if you held him up to the sun you might see right through him, he is so worn.

Inevitably, finally; this strange truce is broken with news. An answer.

Prince Arthur has been stolen by evil sorcerers, and King Uther has named Morgana his heir, as his daughter in blood. There will be no peace.

Apparently Arthur fought bravely, which is news to him.

“I’m not sure why you’re surprised,” he tells Balinor, who has delivered this with such a grave cast to his face that Arthur nearly laughs at the sight of it. Outside, foraging for old-woman Aoife and hauling peat to store for winter, Arthur’s fingers are red from the cold, and there is really nothing funny about any of this. “I told you. The war on sorcery comes before all else.”

King Balinor, the Dragon King, the most powerful living sorcerer in all of Albion, kneels down next to Arthur in the dirt, where he sits, his legs having failed him. “Your father loves you,” he says, of his enemy, “I know this to be true.”

“He hates magic more than he loves anything,” Arthur says, which really is the end of it. If only his heart would learn it as quickly as his head; he would be better off. The sky is dim with dusk, as purple as the bloom of heather had been when he arrived - which is now a rusty copper in colour. With the greens of the grass and the gold of the setting sun it is beautiful, a riot of hues just a shade different from the stained glass in the morning. The same world, off kilter.

“A sister,” he says. A final betrayal to his mother’s memory. Morgana is older than him by a year.

Balinor puts his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and it feels like it’s the only thing keeping him from spinning off into the sky.

“What will happen to me now?” Arthur asks. He’s been replaced so easily. “You… still can’t just let me go, can you?”

The king’s head hangs low, hiding his face. “No. I can’t.” Balinor sighs, weary. Slumping like he bears a great weight. “And… it is my sincere belief that your destiny lies in bringing peace to Albion,” he says, giving Arthur’s shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “You and Merlin are our future.”

Destiny, Arthur scoffs. He is a cast off prince, never crowned; what destiny could he have? History is littered with forgotten boys just like him.

“While you are here you may always choose the sort of life you wish to live, but no. I cannot let you return to Camelot. If you will forgive me for saying so, however, I am not sure a life of farming suits you.” The corner of Balinor’s mouth twists up a little, despite the gravity.

No, it really doesn’t suit him at all.

Arthur has tried to fill his days here, but he is adrift.

His hand grieves for want of a sword, and neither his body or his heart are well bred for passivity.

“I’m good at fighting,” Arthur says; it’s always been what he was best at. More at home with a sword than with finery. They have the Catha, here, and the Blood Guard - there might be space for him there. He would die before he turned his blade against the people of Camelot, her prince or no, but he also does not think Balinor would ask it of him.

Protecting Merlin, though, would be something he could come to swear and mean. Maybe. Someday, when the younger boy is older and going off on adventures with his own dragon in far away places, Arthur could be a part of his story.

Hunt grouse for him, since he’s such a baby about it.

“Hunting, too.” He can track anything. Never has he been like the other little lords, with game chasers and beaters doing all of the work. Arthur is the best at hunting.

“Ah,” Balinor says, considering. “There are many dangerous creatures still within the Perilous Lands, it would not be improper for you to learn to defend yourself, I shouldn’t think. The runes on your arm-”

“I won’t - ” Arthur interrupts, even though he knows better. “I won’t do anything.”

“I don’t think you would,” Balinor says easily. “I will remove the spellwork that would prevent you from training and hunting. The proximity one shall remain for now. The borders of the Perilous Lands are too dangerous for me to be comfortable doing so. I was also a young man once, impulsive and over-confident. Filled with wanderlust.”

“I won’t go,” Arthur swears, but he knows his word is not yet enough.

“No, you won’t,” Balinor agrees with a raised eyebrow, and the matter is settled. “Give me your arm.”

His sleeve is rolled up, but no other measures are taken. Arthur would have imagined… something. He’s not sure what, but something. Herbs, chanting, maybe a blood sacrifice. Balinor merely takes one finger and smudges two of the rows of sigils like smearing wet paint, their glow growing even dimmer. A dash the width of Balinor’s finger is cut down to clear skin beneath, but otherwise the runes remain. No matter how Arthur had fussed with them they hadn’t moved even a pinch.

“I do not believe it will be necessary, but these can be reawakened,” he warns, releasing his grip.

“It won’t be,” Arthur promises. He won’t give them a reason not to trust him. And not just because he doesn’t want the runes back on, either.

“I’ll speak with Alator about joining in training.” Balinor stands, brushing dust off of his hands and into the ever-present wind. It swirls through the air and vanishes into the growing dark. “We should return to the tower, it grows late.”

“I said I’d bring this to Aoife,” Arthur gestures to the dried peat that lays scattered around them, feeling strange. Like the rest of the world should know something monumental had happened here tonight, and all other business would halt in doing so.

He had said he would, though, and Aoife still needs it.

“Ah,” Balinor says, and starts to gather it up as Arthur tries to get to it faster and take it out of the king’s arms all at once. It doesn’t really work. “That’s enough of that,” Balinor says, waving Arthur off, “if I’m ever so above myself that I can no longer help carry for a frail old woman then may the gods strike me down.”

Balinor might be the truest king Arthur has ever heard of, and he’s met a few of them. “I don’t think Aoife would like to know you called her frail,” Arthur says instead, looking at his own feet.

“That’s right enough,” Balinor grumbles. “Well, many hands make light work. Also, magic,” he casts a look over at Arthur. “Don’t tell Merlin. I’m trying to get him to learn how to do things both ways. He doesn’t much care for it, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

The rest of the peat and the spilled basket of mushrooms and wild garlic all jump into tidy piles, following obediently along as Balinor lights their path. The lights do not shape a bluebird, but they are otherwise much the same as the ones Merlin had conjured that first morning.

It’s nice not to stumble on the roughshod path in the dark. Magic still sets his teeth on edge sometimes, but other times…other times it’s just lights.

“Merlin’s birthday is only a few days away,” Balinor makes conversation as they go.

“Thirteen,” Arthur says, with the distant wisdom of someone who has long left behind such an age.

“He’s very excited,” the king says, amusement apparent in every word, “to be grown up. He thinks his egg might hatch for him then - although I am not convinced that dragons have concepts of birthdays.”

“I would like to do something,” Arthur says, uncertain as to what he can do. No magic, no coin, no skill at crafts. He still has the little dragon. “He gave me that fire that never goes out, and I’ve given him nothing.”

“You’ve become a friend, and that is not nothing,” Balinor says, stopping before they reach the edge of Aoife’s little garden. “I’d like to know more about that fire though, if you don’t mind - it never goes out?”

“It doesn’t,” Arthur nods, “and it doesn’t smoke, or burn to touch. It’s warm though. I’ve wondered why you don’t have them for everyone, to be honest.”

Far less hassle than peat, that’s for sure. And less stink, as well. There is precious little wood for burning here though, the only forests far off and dangerous.

“Well, because that’s not a spell I know of at all,” Balinor says, considering. “A fine invention though. I’d quite like to see it.”

“It tickles my feet sometimes,” Arthur says stupidly, and the corner of Balinor’s mouth twitches as though he’d dearly like to laugh. An idea comes to him. “Would you be able to teach me how to carve? I know there isn’t much time, but just a little bit? And, and some wood. Please.”

“What are you loiterers doing up to no good in my garden?” Aoife’s voice calls down from her doorway.

“Merely a delivery,” Balinor says, as Arthur jumps in place.

“It certainly took you long enough,” she laughs, a smile splitting her wrinkling face and making her look both twice as old and twice as beautiful.

“The fault is mine,” the king bows, sending their supplies floating into her house, bobbing around her in a silly dance.

She comes forwards anyway, to press a little bundle of small plums wrapped in rag linen into Arthur’s hands.

“Growing boy,” she pats him like a dog.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, both embarrassed and annoyed, but glad to have them - plums are delicious.

“I’d say I earned a few of those,” Balinor says as they wave goodbye and start the long walk back to the tower. Arthur hands over a couple, but he’s stingy with them.

The sun is long gone now, for how quickly the night comes. The tower is an unlit shadow on a dark sky, a void against the bright stars. He cannot think of anything that looks less like the citadel in the morning, but this is beautiful too. Crisp scents of herbs and the approaching winter fill the air, and Arthur longs for the warm room that waits for him.

It is not as fine or as rich as his rooms in Camelot, but it is always warm. The sooner he can start to think of it as his the better - it is clear now, what Arthur had been saying from the very start. He won’t be going home.

Back to Camelot, that is; which is no longer home at all.

Climbing the tower stairs will keep his legs strong, if the Catha will not have him, Arthur thinks, standing before his door, catching his breath. He lets Balinor go first, to take his time poking at the smokeless fire without Arthur hovering. He leans against the wall in the hallway, raising a hand to Merlin who peeks out of his own room, nosy as ever.

“Plum?” Arthur holds out the linen, and Merlin’s face lights up.

He sleeps. He wakes.

He is no longer his father’s heir but the morning comes regardless, and he is still Arthur. Another day passes, and another.

There is far too much time to think; something he is loath to do. He hopes Alator and Balinor come to an agreement soon.

On the morning of Merlin’s thirteenth birthday the two of them sit in the shadow of the stone tower under Kilgharrah’s lazy watch, like he is nothing more than the worlds largest nanny. Arthur gives Merlin his clumsy attempts at game boards; one for Nine Men’s Morris and one for Nim, and in return Arthur gets a hug that he worries might break his back, which seems excessive.

Merlin makes blue butterflies to flit around their heads as they idly play, just for the sake of it. One lands on Arthur’s nose, much to Merlin’s tittering. Over across the fields the sounds of the winter thrushes sing out from the wilds.

“Life cannot usually be created from nothing,” grumbles Kilgharrah, with the tone of someone granting a great lesson.

Arthur watches the butterfly bat its wings where it still sits, nearly going cross eyed to do so.

“It’s not out of nothing, it’s out of magic,” Merlin says back, abandoning his losing game to clamour right up the dragon’s ferocious snout and sit between his brows. Kilgharrah has to go nearly cross eyed to look at him, too, and Arthur’s laugh startles the butterfly off into finding a new home.

“You never have cared much for the rules, have you, Merlin?” The dragon sighs, his hot breath rolling over Arthur and chasing off the morning chill. “Although why would you? When they have never quite applied to you.”

“Will you take us to the sea?” Merlin asks gleefully, pushing his luck.

“I think not,” Kilgharrah says, shockingly primly for his size and general aura of terror.

“Want to see the egg?” Merlin calls down from his perch, easily distracted.

Arthur does want to see the egg.

It’s his first time in Merlin’s room - it’s a mess. It’s not filthy, and it’s not even an eyesore, it is merely cramped full of every bit or bob that might have ever crossed Merlin’s fancy.

Pretty stones, and dried flowers, glass ornaments, baubles that look as though Merlin had made them himself, childish and rough. Woven decorations hang from every free space, in all shapes; some like the sigils back in the forest shrine, but others that look like birds, or fish, made somehow into bright splashes of colour. Some don’t hang at all, but fly and swim freely, as though alive.

Are these what Merlin dyes? Or is it magic?

Brass instruments and tapestries on every wall; more wealth than he has seen anywhere else in the tower altogether. A single scale, the size of Arthur’s palm, glowing like hellfire. Kilgharrah’s. It must be.

A prince’s ransom, with only that.

Two rows of wooden toys that Arthur thinks must have been from Balinor’s hands, amateur at one end of a shelf and growing more proficient over the years. A lock of dark hair tied in a loop with a green ladies ribbon.

Arthur cannot bring himself to ask, but he thinks it must have been Merlin’s mother’s.

Merlin stands proudly before a little nest of blankets set a precise, careful distance from the wide fireplace, bouncing on his heels.

“Look!” he chirps, gesturing eagerly at the egg, “Isn’t she beautiful?”

The egg is like no other Arthur has ever seen, with a strange tapered shape reminiscent of a teardrop. He comes close to kneel by it, admiring the shimmer of the light across the nearly imperceptible texture. Ever so slightly raised, like the whorls of a fingerprint, he thinks, but they shine like precious gems. He’s seen opals before, in court - but this is far more lovely.

Merlin had been right, she is beautiful.

“She is,” Arthur says, smiling, “like an opal.”

“I’ve never seen an opal,” Merlin admits. He wrinkles his nose, never one to like not knowing something. Folding his legs up under him, he sits opposite of Arthur across the egg. “What are they like?”

“Like this,” Arthur says smartly, gesturing at the egg while Merlin rolls his eyes. “Like… frozen fire every time you move it under the light, but every colour all at once.”

Merlin grins, pleased. “Here,” he says, taking Arthur’s hand and placing it with tremendous care on the side, holding it still, “can you feel her?”

Eyes closed, focusing as hard as he can, Arthur thinks he does. Just the smallest of flutters under his fingertips, like one of the butterflies that Merlin had made flapping a wing.

“That’s her heartbeat,” Merlin whispers, eyes closed. They are molten gold, though. So bright that Arthur can see them through his shut eyelids, pouring through the sweep of his lashes as he hums with power. His breath glints in the air, veins sparkling even through his skin. It rushes through them both, where Merlin still holds onto his hand.

“Aithusa.” Merlin calls out, in a voice not quite his own. Younger, and older, layered with something. A shiver runs down Arthur’s spine.

The egg rocks in place once, twice. A crack splits it down the middle, and for just a moment Arthur thinks he does hear the song of her name.

“Aithusa,” he says in an echo, voice heavy and snagged in his throat. He does not feel quite in control of his own words.

As she breaks free and into the world his first thought is that she is so very small. Smaller than a cat, even - and just like her egg she looks like an opal. Every colour that has ever been. Her wings are as transparent as a dragonfly’s, which startles a laugh out of him.

“Aithusa!” Merlin crows, sounding much more like himself, “there you are!”

She launches herself into the air, hopping up Merlin’s arms in two swift jumps, crying out in triumph. A little flare of something that looks like lightning snaps in her jaws, and Merlin’s hair stands on end.

Arthur’s eyes grow wide as she turns to face him.

“Put out your hand,” Merlin orders, with adoring eyes only for Aithusa.

He does so, and she presses the crown of her head against his fingers until he scratches her. She goes so limp she slides off of Merlin’s shoulder and into his lap, where he cradles her like a baby instead of a dragon.

Although she is only a baby, he supposes.

Outside the tower a flare lights in the sky, and he hears Kilgharrah roar. Aithusa peers at the window with interest.

“I guess we should go introduce her to Kili and Da,” Merlin says, reluctantly standing, still holding Aithusa with careful hands.

It is not until much later that Arthur learns he had intruded on a sacred sight. One that none other than dragons and their lords had laid eyes upon for generations - longer . Arthur hadn’t known any better, but Merlin had, and is utterly unrepentant. It is the only time Arthur has ever seen Balinor grow cross with his son, his eyes flickering between Arthur and Merlin as though he is not entirely sure what to do with them.

There is a lot of talk about destiny, which Arthur thinks sounds like a load of hogwash. He’s not going to be Once and Future King of anything.

When Merlin is thirteen and a day, Arthur is given to the Catha.

Chapter Text

Arthur sits in a tree, and waits.

Patiently, he will wait as long as he needs - or until the spell that makes him scentless gives out and summons his quarry down on his head. Which would at least be faster.

Since it had been cast by Merlin he is more likely to starve to death in the tree first. Such a tree that it is, anyway. The forest is thin, at the very edges of the bogland.

A bare trickle of water that might have been a river once upon a time weaves through the knobby roots, murky and only home to a few unappetizing fish and squirming, unnatural insects.

Aithusa had been most displeased that Arthur was going alone, but needs must - and this is as fine a test as any, to finally get his last nanny-rune cut; to at last again see something other than the same stone tower and the same grasslands.

It was not just anyone who could track a wyvern, after all. Exemplary hunters and trackers themselves, their eyesight is only matched by their keen sense of smell. In the air they are deadly quick, and Aithusa - even at nearly three years old and the size of a large hunting dog - is far too small to come along. It might be hunger that has pressed the wyvern so close to the tower, or merely that it had caught sight of easy prey and grown a taste for sheep. The outcome is the same either way.

Arthur is not such easy prey as that, though.

There. To the north of him. While they are a pale shadow of their cousin dragons, the wingbeats still stir the foliage in the same give and take rhythm. He would know it anywhere by now, although Kilgharrah would disdain the comparison.

He nocks his arrow, long minutes passing as he barely breathes. When the ugly thing finally crashes into the murky river he is ready.

***

The world’s eyes have turned early to summer this year. A warmth suffuses through the air and down into the stones of the tower in drips and drops. Arthur returns with the handful of Catha and Blood Guard that had followed him to ensure success, and their welcome from the villagers is warm as well; the relief of the wyvern’s defeat lends a boisterous air to their return.

By now he knows these faces, and they know him; and he’s done too many chores for most of them to get scowled at anymore.

The carts full of valuable wyvern parts can’t hurt, either. While he doesn’t understand what shall be done with them, he’d been given strict instructions by Nimueh not to harm the liver of the beast if at all possible. Something with potions that he has no desire to know in detail, he’s quite certain.

The leather will armour the Blood Guards - perhaps even Arthur himself, if Balinor finally agrees him capable. There is not a court here, or an order of knights. He will never have to kneel and swear fealty. The promises he makes are more nebulous, but no less real.

“Merlin,” Arthur calls out, laughing as the younger boy drops his bundle of herbs in surprise.

“Arthur, you’re back!” Merlin beams, jumping over the meadow clary and bellflower to lunge at him, clipping his chin on Arthur’s pauldron in the doing so. Arthur ruffles his half-tied hair until it stands on end, silver pins jutting out like miniature swords. “Stop,” Merlin protests, swatting at him, “you’ll ruin it!”

“It’s already ruined,” Arthur says, not letting up in the slightest. “It was ruined the minute it grew out of your head.”

“You’re the worst,” Merlin protests, a flick of his fingers sending Arthur scrambling away with a laugh and a shout to avoid the spell.

“I think you’ll find that I’m the best,” Arthur counters, “I’ve slain two wyverns - tell me, magical Merlin, how many have you slain?”

“Two?” Big eyes turn towards him, impressed.

It is fairly grand, Arthur thinks.

“Truly, a deed well done, ser knight!” Merlin drops into a mocking, showy bow, grinning up at Arthur even as he nearly topples over. A familiar game. They were both too old to play pretend, but Merlin’s curiosity over Arthur’s life in Camelot has never fully abated.

“As it pleases you, m’lord,” Arthur dips even lower, his voice dripping with as much obsequious smarm as he knows how. “Alator says it was a mating pair,” he lets himself boast. “Especially ferocious and madly dangerous, of course. Your father will have to let me come with them to Wenham now. I got one right through the eye with a single shot,” he mimics lifting his bow, releasing an invisible arrow into the air.

“If you’re going to Wenham I’m going to Wenham,” Merlin insists, a tidy little whirlwind of blossoms spinning into his arms up from where they had still lay scattered in a messy trail.

“Aithusa’s too small, he’ll never let you,” Arthur says, letting his hands fall to his hips. “She’s just a baby.”

“I can make her look like a dog, no one will even have to know!”

“Ah, yes, all those fire and lightning breathing dogs I keep hearing rumours about,” he says, nodding sagely. “A perfect disguise.”

“Don’t forget flying,” Merlin reminds him.

“Of course, how silly of me to forget. Flying, fire and lighting breathing dogs. Common as mud, they are.” Arthur scoffs, casting his eyes around. “Where is she, anyway? I haven’t been tackled yet. Well, by anyone other than you,” he corrects himself.

“She’s practising flying with Kili. So watch the skies,” Merlin says with a grin so wide it dimples his cheeks. At nearly sixteen, but still not quite, Merlin has not lost his childish charm - at least not to Arthur, who is of course far older and wiser, having eighteen sitting right around the corner. Nearly a man grown by any land’s measure. Nearly. They are of a height now; although Merlin mostly looks like someone has grabbed his limbs and stretched him rather than allow him the dignity of growing all at once.

“And where’s Nimueh?” Arthur asks. “She’ll want the livers, won’t she? While they’re fresh?” He affects a dramatic shudder just to make Merlin roll his eyes.

“Ah, the Bendrui will harvest them.” Merlin waves him off, “she’s with Da. While you were gone we had some more people show up. They’ve been sorting that all out - some were injured.”

“Injured?” Arthur pokes at him as he hesitates. There are astonishingly few things Merlin won’t blurt out ungraciously. “Was it Camelot?”

“No, nothing like that! It was done by magic. A dark spell. The druids that they have travelled here with haven’t been able to heal it, so they came here to see if Da can help,” Merlin says, fidgeting.

“What is it?”

“I just don’t understand,” Merlin says, fussing with his flowers and not meeting Arthur’s eyes, shuffling his feet when there is no more fussing to be done. “Is it really so dangerous outside the tower?” he eventually asks when Arthur waits him out.

“Rethinking going to Wenham?” Arthur prevaricates, not wanting to answer. Merlin has been outside of the Perilous Lands; but strictly with his father and a massive dragon as well as an array of terrifying guards - and to places like an empty sprawl of coastline, or to other druids. Druids who are nearly worshipful of him, on top of it. In some ways he is even more sheltered than Arthur ever had been, even as a child. Arthur still saw the city, saw his people; even if he was always just a few steps outside of their lives.

Merlin, for all of his cheerful nature, is out of step as well. Just like Arthur was. Is. Neither of them will ever know an ordinary life, no matter how Balinor tries to give the grounding of one.

“No, I want to go, I just…” Merlin wrinkles his nose. “I can’t imagine someone using magic for that, is all. That’s not what it’s for.”

He says it with the assurance of someone who has never felt doubt. He wouldn’t, though, would he? Merlin casts magic like breathing. A dozen impossible things a day.

“Being here has taught me that not all magic is evil,” Arthur says, picking up a loose blossom and twirling it between his fingers. “But out there,” he cocks his head towards the grand door and all that lies beyond, “it’s not all good, either. It’s just - "

“People,” Merlin says ruefully. “I do know, honest.”

“People. Good and bad.” Arthur gives him the meadow clary, with a half sort of smile. “So, do they think they can break the curse?”

“I’m sure they can,” Merlin answers with that same unshakable confidence, flushing pink as he accepts the flower.

“Do they know who cast it? Or why?”

“If they do, they haven’t told me,” Merlin complains. “Nobody tells me anything.”

“That’s because you’re a gossip,” Arthur says matter of fact.

“I am not!” Merlin purses his lips like an old maid.

“You really are,” Arthur shoves him to get ahead as they move towards the stairs, making a race of it. Merlin is as clumsy as ever, tripping over his own puppyish feet - it’s hardly a challenge at all, other than the sting in his thighs from climbing all the stairs. One thing he’s still not used to. At this point he thinks he never will be. Perhaps man is not meant to climb a mountain each day.

Merlin’s room is as cluttered as ever, too - not helped by sharing the space with a growing dragon. In the corner now sits a lyre, a gift from Balinor that Merlin is only passing at, and Arthur is worse. A dozen new books, and a set of bronze tools that are used to chart the sky.

Seeing the room empty of her Arthur sets his sights on the window while Merlin cups his hands around his mouth and gives a sharp whistle. Sure enough Aithusa is quick to stick her nose in, eyes wide.

“Aithusa!” Arthur throws his arms open. “Come on, then!”

She’s just as quick to dive, gliding those last bits of space and colliding with him, knocking him flat.

“Oof,” he groans from the floor, grateful for the mess of pillows and rugs. And from the shape under his back what feels like a shoe. “Have you gotten bigger? It’s only been a week since I’ve last seen you. She wasn’t this size when I left, surely?”

“She’s shedding,” Merlin says proudly as he scruffs at her head, kneeling next to them. “She’ll have another growth spurt soon, just wait.”

Arthur has come to understand that the precious few intact scales that fall will be collected and carefully made into armour for Merlin. These fine ones from when Aithusa is young shall be softer things such as gloves and joints - it will be several years yet before the true armour plating like Kilgharrah’s comes in.

Another secret of the Dragonlords that Arthur possibly should not know of at all. Balinor has taught him even so; shown him the hidden layer of scales under the cover of the king’s gambeson and furs. How to stitch the impossible with an ancient set of dragonbone needles and metal thread, passed down through generations and generations, from long before even the Romans.

Things not even Nimueh is privileged to know of.

Arthur understands, though; Balinor trusts him as Merlin’s first, and sure to be best, guard. His knight, in truth. Arthur might not have magic but he can still beat Alator in a fight. Sometimes, anyway.

Well, once. Which is still very impressive, if you thought about it.

So he might very well need the knowledge eventually, as the gods know Merlin can’t take care of himself.

“How long has this been here?” Merlin mutters, pulling a dinner plate out from under his bed. Arthur trades a look with Aithusa until she resumes scent marking him, quite used to them both.

“What are you looking for, anyway?” Arthur endures her headbutts with stately grace.

“There was some dried ragged robin in here, I swear. I can’t have lost it - I don’t want to start over! You have to dry it for a whole year for this potion!”

“Is it with the, oh, I don’t know,” Arthur hems and haws, “dried flowers and herbs? Have you checked?” He stares at the ragged robin hanging near the giant fireplace, unblinking. The fireplace, which is shaped to look a bit like a giant, smiling fish, stares back at him, eternally pleased. Where Aithusa’s egg once sat there is now a pile of pillows, exactly dragon sized. Although he knows she sleeps on Merlin’s bed more often than not.

“Of course I’ve checked,” Merlin grouses from under the bed, “I’m not an idiot.”

Arthur sits in blissful, judgmental silence for a full minute before Merlin reappears. With no ragged robin, but a filthy goblet that matches the dinner plate in one hand and a well-chewed boot in the other. Arthur will charitably assume it was Aithusa who got to it, not Merlin.

“What potion, anyway?” Arthur asks.

“It’s for making Aithusa look like a dog,” Merlin says, as though it should be self-evident.

“I thought you were joking,” Arthur laughs, “that will never work!”

“It will so!” Merlin says, turning a furious red as he sees the ragged robin hanging exactly where it should be. “Shut it,” he grumbles, a curl of white smoke wafting into the air as Aithusa hisses in amusement.

It is hunger that eventually drives them all from Merlin’s rooms and down towards the kitchens. He enviously watches Aithusa topple herself inelegantly out of the window.

“I wish I could fly,” he complains as they clatter down the stairs. “I’d never take the stairs again.”

“I bet I could make you fly,” Merlin says brightly.

“Like a bird?” Arthur speculates. “Would I get wings? Or just - " he flaps his arms and chases Merlin until he’s hiccuping with laughter, diving down the last three steps to avoid getting smacked.

They steal a loaf of bread and a wedge of sheep’s cheese, Merlin darting in bravely to nab a jar of honey and a handful of tart little apples while Arthur distracts Cook. It’s a short run out of range of her frying pan and further towards the jut of stone. Under the clear sky Aithusa waits for them, sunning lazily.

Watching the Bendrui and the Catha dismantle the wyvern corpses doesn’t put Arthur off his food at all; but Merlin gives up after a few bites, instead turning to press his back against Arthur’s, facing away.

“Oh, listen carefully now; they’ve reached the liver,” Arthur says, laughing as he feels a retaliatory elbow try and find his liver.

A handful of new stone cottages sit on the horizon. The fence around the fold is longer, the fields stretch ever further. Someone keeps chicken, and another keeps geese. More people come, now and again; looking for peace and shelter. Balinor doesn’t turn anyone of any creed away, not so long as they follow the code here - Arthur tries not to wonder about Camelot, and what might drive a soul away from their home and into the dangerous borders of the Perilous Lands.

He fails, mostly.

He was never even crowned prince, but he still feels a vein of possessiveness running through him towards her people. Perhaps it is a thing one never leaves behind; they were his, once. How do they fare? Leon? Morgana?

Morgana is almost certainly a better princess than he ever was a prince, at least - Morgana will not falter, not like him. Although… he cannot regret faltering, not now. If it is a fault it is one he is glad of. His hand reaches out to stroke Aithusa, who doesn’t even twitch, so deeply asleep she is.

Another thing he tries not to wonder about is his father. Does he think of Arthur at all? He mostly fails not to think about that one, too.

“You want the honey?” Merlin asks around a mouthful of food. Aithusa kicks a leg out in her sleep, and he counts himself lucky, rich in his fortunes.

“Yeah, pass it over,” Arthur says.

This is how Balinor finds them, surrounded by crumbs of their ill-gotten gains, Aithusa snoring innocently as Merlin pretends he’s never so much as seen a jar of honey before. Nimueh looks on from the king’s side with a bare shadow of a smile.

“You are fortunate that I remember being a growing boy,” Balinor says in greeting, “and that I’ve kindly persuaded Cook to forgive you and still feed you dinner.” His copper coloured robes move about in the breeze, his hair loose today. Perhaps a handful more grey hairs run through it, but they suit him well.

Somehow Merlin’s stomach rumbles at the mention of dinner, even though he ate his half and then some of Arthur’s.

“Da,” Merlin says, clearing his throat and blinking innocently up at his father, “Arthur thinks we should get to go to Wenham with you next time - "

“Hey now,” Arthur protests, but not very much. He does think they should both get to go to Wenham, after all.

“Does he?” Nimueh asks, not even bothering to disguise her amusement.

“Maybe he does a little,” he admits, dusting crumbs off his hands and into the wind as he stands.

“How fortunate then,” she tilts her head up to look at him, “that there are some things I shall need collected. With two wyverns I will not have enough ingredients on hand to put them both to best purpose.” She smiles more truly, now. “Well done, Arthur. A great feat - one deserving of a reward.”

Balinor pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I can see now you’re all set against me, then,” he says. Aithusa stirs, letting loose a cracking yawn and showing off rows of pristine teeth. “Although I am still not certain it is wise.”

“Da, please,” Merlin begs, sensing a weakness. “I’m not a baby, and you’ll be there, and Kili, and Arthur, and - "

“Enough, enough,” Balinor’s smile is reluctant but real. “You need to see more of the world some time, I suppose, and Wenham is friendly enough to us. I’ll give it some thought. There will need to be precautions, of course.”

“Disguises?” Merlin asks, eyes bright with mischief.

Nimueh bites down on a laugh, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Arthur.

“Many faces pass through a port. It’s not a bad idea,” Balinor muses. Between the two of them, Arthur fears what mad sort of disguises they might come up with. The king is a reasonable man, for the most part, but Merlin has a way of getting whatever he likes.

Arthur supposes that’s natural, when the world itself around you bends the rules in eagerness to please you.

“Come,” Nimueh nods to him, “I would speak with you.”

He follows her far enough away that they will not be overheard, casting a glance back over his shoulder at Merlin, who watches with curious eyes. Nimueh takes her time surveying the harvest, observing the work of the Bendrui.

“What is it?” Arthur finally asks.

“It’s been some time since you came here,” she says. “I like to believe you are happy, at least on occasion.”

Arthur turns away, jaw clenching; he understands what this is about. It is an effort not to be insulted.

“I am,” he says easily. He is perhaps not perfectly happy; but what man is. “I wouldn’t try to run, if that’s what you need to hear.” A stone settles in his gut. “Does Balinor still think I would? Alator?”

Arthur has no magic of his own; he will never be a Catha, but he’d thought his place here was settled, whatever shape those oaths took. His last rune was done. Has he not proven himself?

“Balinor would never doubt you, nor think you would try to flee,” she placates him. “And I don’t think you would, either, for that matter. Not truly. But Balinor does not understand that someone can hurt you terribly, and you can love them still. Still ache to please them.”

She gives him a moment, pressing down her red skirts as they twist in the wind.

“I understand it, though,” she says. “All too well.”

Uther haunts them both.

“I wouldn’t go to him, even if I could,” Arthur swears, and means it. Utterly. It damns him to admit so, but it suits him well to not be a prince. Free from the constant worry - that he wasn’t strong enough, or wise enough. Good enough. Not for his father, not for his people, not even for himself. No obligation other than to be a sword and a shield for his friend; a task he gladly takes. Arthur is unfettered. “I wouldn’t leave my home here. I - I love it here. More than I thought possible.”

“As do I,” she says.

“Would you go back to Camelot, if you could?” he asks, chin tilted up in challenge.

“Some days,” she nods, “even if what I found there was not what I remembered leaving. Just for the chance, I would give everything.”

“Oh,” he says, swallowing.

“Yet neither of us can ever go back. For all has changed, and the place we long for is in the past, unreachable by any. If it ever existed at all.” She offers him a small, sad smile. “Then I remember the people I have sworn to who yet need aid. The magic that carries on no matter what strife we face - eternal.”

She takes his hand in hers. It’s cold, and pale - small and soft where his is rough with callouses. “My place is here. I understand more of magic than I ever dreamed I could, even when I thought I stood on the very top of the world.” She lets him go with a gentle squeeze. A little vial on a chain lays in his palm. “But some days I wake up and think I am back in my chambers, and when I realise I am not…”

She turns back to the Bendrui, silent.

“Me too,” Arthur offers, insufficiently. “Sometimes I miss my bed.” His friends. But he has friends here, too; and ideals that he believes in. The quality of a person, defined by nothing other than their deeds. A nobler king than he knew could exist. Sometimes, in his most private thoughts, he wishes Balinor were his father. He doesn’t give it voice, but Nimueh probably already knows.

Arthur’s heart has always been on his sleeve. He closes his hand around the vial.

“But I have my fire here,” he says. The magic one that still tickles his feet on sad days; the one no one, not even Merlin, has been able to replicate since.

Another secret - Arthur thinks of the fire as a quiet companion, a tangible measure of Merlin’s regard for him. Nimueh probably knows that, too.

“Friends. Peace.” He takes a breath. “I promise, I won’t look for trouble.”

“I believe you,” she says plainly. “That which I have given you is water blessed from the Cup of Life. If you or Merlin have a need for it, you will drink. Swear it to me, and I will raise no quarrel for you to travel. Wear it always.”

He slides the chain over his neck, the cold metal warming quickly against his skin as he tucks it under his tunic.

“I swear it.”

“You take magic well. Born from it, as you are; it flows through you so easily,” she muses. “I wonder over it. It is a strength for you, with us. Merlin will arm you, before you both go. Wards, enchantments; perhaps with enough precautions Balinor will deign to let you two loose on the city.” She smirks at him. “Poor Wenham.”

“We’re not that bad,” Arthur protests weakly.

“The two of you are not boys, but headaches that grew feet,” she says, nose in the air. “I shall provide you with a list, and funds. You will retrieve what I ask for from the hedgewitch Agnes. You will not barter,” she lists off sharply, “nor will you be fleeced, you will not touch anything with your bare hands, and you will not wear iron into her house. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Arthur says, standing at attention. A habit unbroken from his knighthood.

“Odin will not raise a fuss - we are on fine enough terms with the brute. In so much as he does not wish war with a dragonlord.” Nimueh shrugs one elegant shoulder as if to very much agree with the position. “If you do not cause any trouble he will not take ire. You would be best served by remaining plain. A hood, I think, for that fair hair of yours. Or a dye.”

“I don’t want to dye it,” he wrinkles his nose. If he had to pick between sticking his head in a stinking potion cauldron or not going anywhere ever again, he’d have to give it some serious thought.

“Vanity,” Nimueh despairs, turning away, briskly heading towards Balinor.

“Self preservation,” Arthur corrects, trotting to catch up to her.

Chapter Text

Merlin does brew his potion; Aithusa slithering into the boiling hot cauldron and spinning in joy, sending it splashing every which way. He jumps back with a laugh to avoid it hitting his feet. A spurt of green sparkles flies up towards the high ceilings of Nimueh’s workroom, a musical sort of melody echoing as they burst one by one.

“Has it worked, then?” Arthur asks, looking up from sharpening his sword.

In answer, Aithusa sticks her head out of the cauldron - looking very much like a long-nosed dog. Her iridescent scales have turned into pale fluffs of fur. Her mouth opens and lets loose an unsettling hiss, a trail of white smoke following.

“Well, mostly,” Merlin says, still in good cheer. “Just don’t make too much noise, I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Bark,” Aithusa sounds out carefully, which is much more unsettling than the hissing. She’s not yet properly capable of human speech, and won’t be for years. Her efforts as a dog are somehow a far sight worse than as a dragon. Arthur snickers, ducking his head down.

“Hm,” Merlin says, clamping his mouth shut and tapping his fingers against the edge of the cauldron as he looks at her with fondness. “Well, you look the part, that’s the important thing.”

She leaps out of the cauldron, clean as a whistle, tail wagging.

“Come on, come on. Let’s go pack,” Arthur urges. It can’t take that long, surely; then they can finally get moving.

He’s long past ready to stretch his legs.

“Oh, and this!” Merlin throws a cloak over his shoulder, and Arthur snatches it out of the air. He had been wrong. It can take that long. “This, too,” Merlin tosses a little wooden carving on a loop of thin rope with three knots. “Is that all? No, there’s something else,” he says to himself, pausing to tap his chin.

“We’ll have to find an entire extra dragon to help carry this all as it is,” Arthur gripes. “Kilgharrah is going to eat you just to clear up some space. Or did you just want to listen to the ‘I am not a donkey’ lecture the entire time?”

“It’s not that much,” Merlin lies. “Oh!” he exclaims, hopping in place, “I’ve remembered! Wait, wait, wait.” He throws open his cupboard doors, rustling through the drawers until he pulls out a dull-looking leather satchel. “It was an experiment - it didn’t work, but it’s still pretty neat!”

“What’s it do, then?” Arthur is curious despite himself.

“Maybe you’ll find out.” Merlin beams, pleased with himself. “I think that’s pretty much everything.”

“It is indeed pretty much everything,” Arthur agrees flatly.

It seems like half of Merlin’s room is in an untidy stack - the other half is turned out upside down around it. Even Aithusa had abandoned them, romping around Kilgharrah like a kitten with a tired mother cat like usual, Arthur assumes. Well, puppy, now.

He shouldn’t complain - most of this is a condition to them going at all. Merlin has a bevy of ‘experiments’ littered throughout his rooms. Some are more practical than others.

The waterproof cloak? Immensely practical.

The pair of socks that can always find each other? Less so. Merlin still wears them, though.

“Hurry up,” he doesn’t whine. “We’re supposed to leave sometime before nightfall - "

“It’s barely past breakfast!” Merlin throws another sock at him - this one is not magical at all, merely stinky. Arthur bats it out of the air, and they both wince when it lands in the fire.

“Whoops,” he snorts.

“Well,” Merlin laughs, “at least it was just a sock! I’m sure that’s all the bad luck used up for the day now, too.”

“You’ve gone and jinxed us,” Arthur starts gathering up the rest, happy when Merlin enchants some to float behind him.

“I have not,” Merlin protests, his own arms full as well, but Arthur knows better.

“You have so,” he says smartly.

This continues down the stairs and through the hall, on to the hewn stone and up to Kilgharrah; who sighs at the sight of them.

“I am not a donkey,” Kilgharrah says, as Arthur mouths along with him, Merlin hiding a smile poorly. “I see that, young Pendragon,” he complains. “I may be old, but you will find my eyes are still sharp. And my teeth.”

“See what?” Arthur says innocently, coming to greet him. “Thank you for taking us, Kilgharrah.”

“Perhaps you’ll faint again, and I won’t have to listen to you,” the dragon says optimistically.

Having flown more than a few times in between, Arthur knows it for the lie it is. He’s got his long surcoat on and everything, as well as the high collar that has been embroidered by Merlin himself with runes for clean breathing. He stands it up pointedly in front of Kilgharrah, hiding his smile.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Merlin cheers, giving Kilgharrah a kiss on his giant snout before veering to climb. Aithusa flies to his side - uncanny to see, as a dog.

“You have everything,” Balinor asks wryly, looking over the contents of Merlin’s rooms.

“And my list,” Nimueh hands Arthur a folded sheet of parchment, waiting for him to tuck it safely away. “You will forget nothing,” she instructs him. “Wenham has all sorts - behave yourselves.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, back straight. It’s just an errand, really, but it’s thrilling nonetheless. It’s somewhat galling that he used to be trusted to do so much more, in Camelot - yet he can’t imagine Merlin leading a raid. He’s still a child. He shouldn’t ever, of course; too soft-hearted, but he’s only fifteen.

Arthur remembers feeling older, when he was fifteen. Perhaps he wasn’t.

“Up you go,” Balinor orders him.

It’s a familiar climb, now; as much as Kilgharrah gripes. Arthur fastens himself in, and checks Merlin’s as well, dodging his harmless swats.

“I know how to do it,” Merlin protests, blushing.

“Then it doesn’t matter if I check,” Arthur agrees.

“Children,” Balinor says. “Nimueh,” he calls down as Kilgharrah prepares to fly, “I leave the tower in your care!”

“The easier job, by far,” she smiles up at them, dark hair twisting madly around her head.

Then they are off. Arthur doubts he will ever fully be used to the press as they launch - let alone walk about, as Balinor does. Dragonlord magic, he tells himself. His hood is pulled up tightly, but even so he can hear the roar of the wind, the flap of those mighty wings.

There is nothing in the world that can compare. At his side Merlin leans perilously far to look at the ground below, and Arthur twists a hand in his belt like a nanny with an unruly child. He does the same, though, peering over at the twisting rivers, glinting in the mid-morning light.

Aithusa hops into the air, gliding, her pretty face turned up towards the sun.

Merlin presses in to rest against him, and Arthur allows it without teasing - even as they come to face summer it is cold so high in the air at such speeds. Balinor’s back is a steady shape in front of them, cutting the headwind in half.

It is both too long and too short of a journey. Merlin spots the city with a shout.

“Look,” he bellows into Arthur’s ear, “I’ve never seen a city this close before! Are they all like this?”

“Camelot is nicer,” Arthur yells back over the wind, “and prettier.” It is . Wenham has nothing on the white spires of Camelot. The port city is a circle of dull greys butting up against the water’s edge, white caps of waves cresting on the docks; the harbour heaves with ships, sure to be crowded to bursting.

Kilgharragh takes them daringly close to the water of the sea, sending birds scattering and shouts up from one of the ships. Merlin shrieks in joy, and Arthur can’t contain a laugh, his heartbeat thundering with the exhilaration. No horse or longboat in all the lands can compete.

They circle the city once before finding a clear space to land - for Merlin’s benefit, he thinks. Kilgharragh pretends to be firm, but he’s an easy mark for the youngest dragonlord.

“That was amazing, Kili!” Merlin unlatches himself and climbs over to slide down Kilgharragh’s nose, sitting between his eyes and giving as much of a hug as one can give to a giant dragon.

Arthur lets himself stand, fixing his bow and quiver to himself, checking his sword. He’s got a job to do.

“The hedgewitch lives near the border of town near here,” Balinor says, watching Merlin with a soft  shimmer in his eyes. Aithusa runs mad circles around Arthur’s feet. “You’ve been told - "

“Yes, I’ve been told,” Arthur interrupts with his impatience, toes tapping with eagerness to join her run. “Sorry,” he says, as Balinor stares him down.

“Bear with this old man’s worry,” the king says. “You’ll mind Merlin, and meet me here again once you’ve fetched Nimueh’s things. Then, together , if all is well, we shall go into the city proper. Am I understood,” he calls loudly to Merlin, who sticks his head up.

“Yes! I don’t need a minder , though,” he says, which is drowned out by Kilgharragh’s booming laughter. “Arthur’s not that much older than me,” Merlin continues, blushing hotly and refusing to meet his eyes.

“Of course,” Balinor placates, fighting an indulgent smile. “I will meet with someone at the port while you get going - return here when you have finished,” he says again.

“We will,” Arthur promises.

There are few daring enough to come close enough to have a clear look at a dragon, but enough necks crane towards them that Arthur keeps his hood and high collar up, tugging Merlin’s hood back on as well.

“Don’t wave at people.” Arthur smacks his hand out of the air.

“Well, how else are we supposed to make friends?” Merlin asks, rubbing at his hand, which is rubbish. Arthur barely hit him at all.

“We’re not here to make friends,” he says, feeling poorly for it when Merlin seems to wilt. “Not today, anyway - today we are going to get Nimueh’s ingredients, and cause absolutely no trouble at all.”

“And then when we’ve proved they can trust us - " Merlin catches on.

“We’ll get to come back,” Arthur agrees, spreading his hands wide. “And then go to other places besides. Don’t you want to see the north? The lights in the sky? That’s more than a day trip, even on a dragon. So be good.”

“You be good,” Merlin mutters, far too happy to complain much. Bouncing more than walking - too excited by half, as well. Every cart of goods and new person they pass is a fresh experience though; if Arthur feels a little out of sorts himself with all of the bustle, he can only imagine how it is for Merlin. Aithusa stays loyally at their feet, and he can only be relieved that she has more sense than either of them.

Agnes hates them seemingly on sight, but at least she still trades with them.

Arthur tries to explain that it was an accident that a pot was broken, and Merlin even fixed it. Improved it, really; it was now coloured a very pretty blue, and it hardly moved on its own at all. But the deed was already done. He hopes Nimueh won’t mind too terribly that their reputation outside of the Perilous Lands begins in tatters.

Aithusa whines outside, where she has been banished. The fire was so small, though, and put out so quickly. It seems unreasonable to hold it against her.

Agnes has neither taste nor wisdom, clearly.

“Thank you,” Merlin says, not meaning it at all, as they bundle up their things to leave. The door slams shut behind them without so much as a word. “Mean old witch,” Merlin says to him, colour high in his face. He is used to cheek pinches and at worst playful swats from Cook, who is sick of the pair of them - has Merlin ever met an old woman who didn’t love him?

“Never again,” Arthur swears.

“At least it was fast.” Merlin, who can always find the bright side, struggles to locate one now. “Maybe the jinx is over?”

“Don’t say that,” Arthur throws his bag over his shoulder, “now we’re double jinxed. It’s like you don’t understand magic at all.”

“Oh, and you do?” Merlin asks. That very moment the window breaks with a crash; the blue pot rolling to their feet in its own escape, as Agnes starts swearing up a storm behind the door.

“Better than you! Go!” Arthur shoves Merlin ahead of him.

“I’m sorry, Agnes!” Merlin shouts over his shoulder, Aithusa hissing as she runs alongside, smoke trailing behind them and the pot clattering. Its lid rolls along like a little wheel, and Arthur can’t help the undignified laugh that pours out of him.

They run farther than they need to, just for the joy of it. Arthur fares better than Merlin, who is giggling madly. Aithusa is tireless, but even her tongue is lolling as she pants. It’s poor luck that the fun ends on the busy road into the city, as they pass a caravan with a girl - a girl in a cage.

“What’s that?” Merlin asks him, slowing to a breathless stop, all the happiness fleeing from him in a rush. His hood is pushed back, dark hair wild from the wind and run; pins doing as little as always to keep it contained. Arthur reaches over and pulls his hood back up over his big ears - foolish to have forgotten. The silver is too rich a lure to be so careless. “Is she a criminal? She feels… like magic, Arthur.”

The girl must hear them, sending a fearful glance towards Merlin before hiding her face. She can’t be a criminal, Arthur thinks. Even with magic - too fearful, too sorrowful. Perhaps he is only a fool, but his soft heart doesn’t believe it. She is a wisp of a thing, as thin as Merlin but probably a good head shorter - if she could stand. Which the cage would not allow. Cruel even if she is a criminal.

“Piss off,” the heavyset man leading the men spits at Merlin’s feet as they pass. The caravan continues, none of the other men sparing them a look - only the girl sends one last longing glance at them through the bars.

Tear tracks cut clear paths through the filth on her face, and she is only half clad in scraps of clothing. Pale skin shows through, dotted with angry bruises and welts.

“We have to help her, right?” Merlin asks, unsure and lost. He bites his lip, one hand coming to tug on Arthur’s sleeve, looking between him and the girl. It's the first time he would have ever seen such a thing, Arthur knows.

His blood boils.

Teeth grit together until his jaw protests. Only one job has been given to him - take care of Merlin. Balinor trusts him.

But Arthur has never had much self control when it counts, now has he?

“Oh, hell,” he says in a sharp exhale. They’ll never let him set foot outside of the tower again. “Give me one of your stupid magic socks.”

“What?” Merlin blinks at him, but starts taking off his boot, too startled to put up much of a fight.

“They can find each other, right?” Arthur says, taking the sweaty thing with a grimace and making a ball out of it. “Go back to Kilgharrah. I’ll follow them, and then you can bring your father after me.”

“What are you going to do?” Merlin stands there, wide eyed and hopping on one foot, the other bare and dangling in the wind.

“I said go,” Arthur urges him, Aithusa dancing frantically under them, distraught. Merlin shoves his foot back in his boot, but otherwise doesn’t move.

There are two guards at the back; lazy ones. Ready for a rest in a bed with a roof, presumably. Arthur swallows. He could take two less than vigilant guards, he’s certain of that. It’s what happens after that concerns him. Slavery isn’t banned everywhere, even if it should be - nor is bounty hunting, whichever this is. Her conditions are cruel, but not illegal.

The law will not be on his side.

“A distraction?” Merlin suggests. He rolls his eyes when Arthur shoots him a dark look. “I’m not leaving, don’t be daft.”

“And I’m not getting in trouble with your father if you get your head chopped off,” Arthur warns him.

“I won’t!” Merlin promises, eyes sparking with gold.

“Then be subtle!” Arthur says, ready to run in.

Merlin wouldn’t know subtlety if it bit him on his skinny ass. The wagon loses a wheel with an unnatural crack of wood like thunder, halting it as the horses rear in place.

It’s a scramble, and there are more men near the cage than ever.

“Great,” Arthur stares judgmentally, “really subtle.”

“I’m sorry! Well, maybe this?” Merlin tries again with a grimace. The harnesses and togs that attach the horses snap, sending them bolting. The men give chase - slow, halfhearted chase for some of them, but still. It’s something. Aithusa hisses a laugh, smoke rising from her canine jaws.

It’s as good as it’s going to get - and considering Arthur probably would have just ended up headbutting anyone who got in his way he’s got no right to complain. He takes off, loping right up to the bars of the cage, giving them a testing rattle.

“It won’t work. There’s a lock,” the girl says, blinking huge brown eyes at him. He tries again, regardless. He’s certain Merlin knows an unlocking spell, the nosy toad. The lock is thick - there will be no breaking it with force.

“We’ll free you,” Arthur promises her, “you don’t have to be afraid.”

“Hey! Get away from there!” The heavyset man whirls to come charging back. He hadn’t gotten terribly far to begin with - not wanting to leave valuable cargo in the open, Arthur presumes.

“Take this, hide it!” Arthur shoves her the sock, and she looks at him like he’s lost his mind. If Merlin won’t follow him they can at least follow her. “I’m serious, it’s magic,” he explains, feeling like maybe he has lost his mind. Magic socks. “We’ll come find you!”

“I told you to piss off.” The man shoves Arthur off the cage, Aithusa nipping at his feet and slithering eerily away from his kicks, a warning clicking rising from her that Arthur knows means lightning follows.

“I’m going!” Arthur says, holding his empty hands up.

“Go faster,” the man spits again, red faced and furious.

“Come on,” Arthur nods to Aithusa. He meets the girl’s eyes, and tries to convey that he means it. It is an ugly and difficult thing to turn away from her.

“She’s not worth your pity,” the man calls out to Arthur’s back, “she’s a killer, she is!”

He elbows Merlin to keep them moving, and when he throws another look over his shoulder the girl’s head is down, shoulders shaking. It’s the only reason Arthur sees her push the sock out of the cage.

‘He’s right,’ she mouths at them, when she sees them watching.

“Arthur?” Merlin whispers, wringing his hands. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” he says. Even as they walk slowly away, he doesn’t believe it. Maybe he’s wrong, but his gut doubts she’s a cold blooded killer who’s had a fair trial. There’s more to it. “I don’t know.”

At a distance he can see the horses being rounded up - this close to the city they will be lost in the crowds in no time. Indecision makes him useless.

In the end it is the little blue pot that makes the choice. Rolling sedately forwards and scooping up Merlin’s filthy sock under the shadow of the wagon, waiting.

“Oh,” Merlin cheers, biting down on a smile. “He’ll follow!”

“How is it,” Arthur exhales in disbelief, “that your worst magic is also your best magic?”

“It’s a mystery,” Merlin agrees. He lifts his foot like a dowsing rod, closing his eyes. “I think I can tell which way, too,” he elaborates, toes wiggling under the soft leather. “Barely, though.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose.

Things like this never happened in Camelot.

“Alright,” he says. It’s not a total loss. “We’ll tell your father - we can try again when it’s less crowded, maybe. Or - "

“We can’t tell Da,” Merlin protests in outrage. “You’re the one who said it - he won’t let us leave again until we’re ancient.”

“We can’t sneak off, either! Somehow I think they’d notice,” Arthur scoffs right back. Balinor would know in an instant. He’ll know they’ve been up to no good at first glance already - not to mention Kilgharrah will smell it on them at fifty paces. “Besides, your father would help her if she needs it.”

Merlin bites his lip. “You don’t think she’s really a killer, do you?” The nervous silence lingers between them. “She seemed so sad.”

“If she’s killed… I think there’s more to it.” Arthur speculates, shuffling where he stands. He kicks a stone down the dirt road. “I don’t have a reason, though - just a feeling.”

“Me too,” Merlin says. “Nimueh says to trust my instincts. She feels… a little like the other druids. Cursed.” He blinks trusting blue eyes; that same certainty in them, that they will fix it. “Look, they’re going,” he slaps at Arthur’s shoulder as he points, Arthur dragging his hand back down.

“Don’t point,” Arthur reprimands him, gritting his teeth. The little pot trundles along under the cart, smaller and smaller as they approach the city gates.

“I can still feel it, but it’s getting weaker - socks were never meant to be so far apart,” Merlin exclaims as they vanish. An absurd statement to hear spoken with such heartfelt agony. “I think we have to follow them!”

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts as the younger boy takes off. “Oh, hell,” he says again to himself, bolting after him. It’s too warm to be running about in his heavy clothes all day - sweat sticks them to his back as he rushes to catch up. The guards at the squat stone gate are only there to keep peace, clearly, and not ask much of anyone’s business, as they are not stopped.

Arthur would have stopped them - they clearly have a suspicious look about them. Shifty.

Aithusa’s long nose is going wild with the smells of the market. There are people every which way you turn, foods he hasn’t seen in years, the smell of them igniting old memories as if they were only yesterday. He swallows roughly, overwhelmed. Merlin’s head whips back and forth, not sure where to look.

“Focus. Which way?” Arthur pulls him out of the thoroughfare, keeping his hand fisted tightly in Merlin’s cloak. He obediently lifts his foot, turning on his other heel like a top.

“This way,” he says, darting off again, dragging Arthur behind him, and immediately bouncing off of a stone wall and into the corner of a market stall before getting his bearings.

“Excuse us,” Arthur says tightly as he swoops to catch an apple before it can hit the ground, setting it among its fellows and stepping double time to keep up with an increasingly distressed Merlin.

“There are so many people,” he says, blinking wild-eyed around the market as they move. Passing by bolts of fabric of every colour, metalworks, butchers. “It smells terrible.” The fishmonger they stand by clears her throat meaningfully, scowling.

“Cities will do that,” Arthur eyes the woman's goods, nudging Merlin further along before they make any more enemies today, “especially port cities.”

“Oh, left!” Merlin veers hard down a side street, then right - left again. They continue through the tangle of narrow back alleys; until suddenly there she is again. Arthur throws his hand over Merlin’s mouth before he can say as much, dragging him back out of sight.

The cart is stalled outside a rickety looking tavern, an empty space around it as people afford it a wide berth. The blue pot claps its lid at them in greeting, safe in the shade of a table and bench, a scant handful of other patrons sitting in the sunshine.

“Will they go in and leave her, do you think?” Merlin asks, breath warm against Arthur’s hand. “It’s horrible! Why isn’t anyone doing anything?”

“I doubt it,” Arthur mutters back, letting him go, “I don’t think we’re that lucky, and they’re already spooked.” There’s nothing for it. “And no one is doing anything because it’s not actually against the law . We’ll have to get closer. I already know you can’t be sneaky, but can you try?”

“I can be sneaky,” Merlin says loudly, and Arthur closes his eyes and prays for patience.

“Why couldn’t you have invented magic that makes you invisible, or silent or something? Instead of the charm that detects sheep?”

“Sometimes the sheep get lost!” Merlin defends himself.

“Not here, they don’t.”

They loop the long way around the tavern, out of sight. Well - out of sight of their quarry, Arthur amends, nodding awkwardly to a woman selling little cakes and fritters who clearly wants nothing to do with them. He knew they looked shifty - she’s got more sense than the guards.

“Can you see the lock?” he asks Merlin in a barely there whisper. The only answer he gets is a grimace. No, then. Alright.

“Where are you lot headed?” The barmaid’s voice is just loud enough to carry when she comes bearing ale. Mugs are passed about, and things seem to settle. Arthur lets his head fall back against the wall, cocking his ear.

“Camelot,” the leader says after a long drink, “old Uther pays well for ones like her.”

Merlin tenses something awful at his side, and Arthur fights down his urge to reveal himself and demand answers. News. He bites his tongue, instead. She’s certainly magic, if they truly intend to take her all the way to Camelot when Odin is so near.

And if Merlin is right and she is cursed this is hardly a just fate. She’ll be killed, without question.

“She won’t be causing trouble?” the barmaid wonders, a nervous lilt to her voice. Magic might not be illegal here, but it is plenty feared.

“Nothing to worry over.” Arthur hears the rattle of the cage. “Look, she’s got iron chains, love,” he cheers, “ain’t no magic getting through that.”

Arthur is entirely too busy listening to notice Merlin hurling himself around the corner until it is too late.

“Merlin!” he hisses, making a grab at his cloak, for all the good it does. Aithusa follows with an entirely too eager hop; ready for a fight, and Arthur is right on their heels. Also ready for a fight, but slightly less happy about it. Slightly.

He would quite like to punch someone today.

“Let her go,” Merlin orders, with that same bone deep assurance as always.

Outside of the tower it is only met with a mix of disbelief and anger - a wild sort of fury from a man who is used to his strength getting his way. Or so it seems to Arthur, at least. A familiarity in countenance he’s seen before on knights and bandits alike. Confidence from the size of his arms, his crew of men behind him - the weapons they are quick to put hands to.

“She’s cursed, not magic,” Merlin says, hands out and open as he pleads, “I can help her - "

“Halig,” one of the men starts.

“Lad, I really don’t care,” Halig stands between them and the cage, a meaty hand resting on the axe at his side. Barely restrained temper quivers in every muscle. “For the last time, walk on unless you want to join her.”

“Halig,” the other man speaks again, nodding at Merlin. “You magic too?” he asks, eyes narrowing in consideration. The only one who is not blind and deaf - there are only so many ways one can ‘help’ a curse, after all.

The barmaid ducks back inside the tavern in a rush, and one of the fellows at the far table grabs the hilt of his sword as well - not one of Halig’s men. He’s about their age, with floppy hair and an unflattering, patchy scruff of beard coming in. More importantly, he also has an easy stance and no way to tell one way or another where his attention may fall.

An ally, or an opportunist? Six opponents or seven. It will be fine either way, he thinks, shifting his feet.

“That so?” Halig weighs them anew. His beady eyes pass over their plain cloaks, Merlin’s empty, spindly hands - Arthur’s sword, undrawn. He clearly decides they are worth the risk. “A lucky find, then, we’ll be paid twice over.”

Well, Arthur had wanted to punch someone. Merlin will never set foot in Camelot so long as Uther is king, not when Arthur has any say about the matter.

Halig draws his axe, advancing towards Merlin - and thus Arthur’s conscience will be clean, later, when he has to relate this to Balinor.

“You won’t touch him,” Arthur warns a final time, but is unheeded. For a man this clumsy he doesn’t even need to draw a blade. It is with a quick snapping kick that Halig’s knee is broken, the axe swept to the side, and the pommel of Arthur’s sword to his temple knocking him clean out.

“Shit.” One of the others rushes in, followed soon enough by the rest. Aithusa snarls, but compared to Alator or the Blood Guard this is nothing - a fast twist to disarm one, a knee to the face of one that Merlin trips. He does get to headbutt someone, too, which feels very nice in the moment; although he always regrets it later. The tavern sign falls and cracks one over the head, which must feel far worse.

The last dares a dive at Merlin with a knife, and so Arthur breaks his wrist, tossing him to the ground in the same motion.

It barely takes any time at all, a spilled mug still rolling at their feet so quick it all was. His blood isn’t even rising. A pathetic effort.

“You want to try anything?” Arthur asks the other boy, who has risen out of his seat and is watching with a gratifying amount of awe. Arthur tries not to feel too smug.

“No, mate, I thought I’d help?”

“Don’t need your help,” Arthur says, stepping over to the cage.

“I can see that,” the other boy doesn’t try to flee, either, just pushing his sword back into the sheath and coming over like a busybody while Arthur rifles through Halig’s things for the key.

“What’s your name?” Merlin’s voice comes over his head.

“Gwaine,” says the boy.

“Not you,” says Arthur. “I don’t see the key.” Actual guards might come at any minute. He huffs, standing once more, impatient. “Can you just break her out?”

“Freya,” the girl in the cage says, shaking and quiet. “I’m Freya.”

“Can you break Freya out?” Arthur asks, more gently. This predicament is hardly her making.

“Oh, yes, of course! I can,” Merlin says easily, the first lock clicking open with a thought. The iron though - Arthur is not certain how that works.

“Allow me! I can help with that much,” Gwaine interrupts with a grin, waggling a set of lockpicks at them. He tosses them up into the air and catches them again until Arthur finally steps out of the way.

Merlin merely looks impressed, and beggars can’t be choosers. Thankfully the square has deserted itself for the most part - those who remain keep their heads steadily down, uncaring and going about their days. The shackles fall to their feet, the little blue pot rolling to join them.

Merlin pulls his cloak off, shoving it at her, flushing bright red until she pulls it around her shoulders. It is then, of course, that the fretting barmaid returns, a city guard following, spear already in hand.

“Oh,” says Merlin, swallowing hard.

“A misunderstanding, my friend,” promises Gwaine with a wide grin.

“Bullshit,” says the guard.

Chapter Text

“He attacked my charge,” Arthur speaks over all of them, pushing his way to the front and trying inanely to look older than he is. “Who has committed no crime. A bounty hunter whose eyes were bigger than his stomach, that’s all.”

“It’s true,” Gwaine says, “and look, he didn’t even draw his blade.” He gestures to the bloodless ground.

He can see the guard’s eyes pass over the quality make of Arthur’s sword - the gleam of fine chain mail that peeks out from under his rustled cloak. Merlin’s hair, free of his hood, sparkles with enough silver to buy out half the marketplace. His surcoat for flying is lined with marten fur, and dyed richly, as is Merlin’s wont to do. The embroidery that lines the edges will have no magical meaning to the guard, but he’ll recognize the time spent and quality of it.

It’s perhaps not absolutely moral, to hide behind the assumption that Merlin is a rich young lord who is out and about with a well armed attendant. And a magical one, at that, on a day where a dragon sits just beyond the gates. Yet on the other hand Arthur can also see the very instant the guard does the maths and realises it’s just not worth it.

Jaw clenching and eyes flinty, he still does not take a step forward.

“Our apology,” Arthur bows shortly to the barmaid, “for the disturbance. Allow us to repay you for the sign, and the lost custom.”

“Oh, yes, let me - ” Merlin says, and the sign flies back into place, the crack mending itself. A spill of roses drapes prettily over the swinging hinge and chain that anchors it. Even the paint obediently stops peeling at Merlin’s wish. The table and mugs all right themselves, while the barmaid holds up her tray like a shield, fingers stark white. Only her wide eyes peek over the top of it.

“Here.” With his best, most harmless smile Arthur sets slightly too many coins on the table, not even attempting to approach her. “We’ll leave you to your business, if that’s all?”

“And your business?” the guard asks tightly, over the groaning bodies of Halig and his company.

“Is concluded, and we’ll be departing,” Arthur promises, his shoulders straight.

“I think that might be for the best,” the guard agrees, exhaling sharply through his nose before unclenching his fist from around his spear.

“Go,” Arthur hisses at Merlin, keeping himself between the tavern and the others as they retreat the way they came. Freya’s bare feet make his heart twist; legs unused to carrying her, she stumbles. How long had she been trapped in that squat, miserable cage?

“Here,” he says, stopping once they are out of sight, offering her his back. “You’ll only hurt yourself,” he explains, “just hop on.”

Embarrassed as she is, the logic is irrefutable, and so she tentatively accepts it after Merlin gives her an encouraging smile.

“It’s alright, really,” Merlin says, assurance writ plainly across his face, “we’ll help you, I promise.”

He can hear her sniffle in his ear.

“Merlin,” he orders, overcome with the need to do something, “there’s more coin, buy us some of those cakes, won’t you? Or some fritters. You’ve never had them, have you? You’d like them. And some fruit. Freya must be hungry.”

“I’m alright,” she whispers, but Merlin is already digging around in Arthur’s pockets with no further encouragement, and the same woman who had turned away from them before looks on them with sympathy now.

Not everyone in Wenham is hardhearted, he thinks, watching her as he listens to Gwaine tell Freya a joke.

“These are too rich,” the stallkeeper says when Merlin tries to buy half the lot, “you’ll be wanting to eat those yourself, you skinny thing. These ones for your friend, if she’s not well,” she points at a plainer row of soft, yeasted buns that look as though they were made with a fine flour.

“Thank you.” Merlin dimples at her, relieved.

With their arms full they leave the city more sedately than they had arrived, the guard trailing them all the while. It’s no less crowded; business never stops in a city like this, not even for a brawl. A scuffle, barely, he tells himself. Merlin buys some strawberries and pears as well, only dropping a few - and Gwaine saves him from being overcharged too badly. They pass under the gates, and Arthur hesitates - just for a moment, but he can’t help it. He’s not afraid of Balinor, not anymore, but he is afraid of disappointing him.

Gwaine lingers as well.

“I suppose this is where I leave you,” he says wistfully. “Was fun.”

“You could come with us,” Merlin says. It’s thoughtless, though. Gwaine really can’t. There is no such thing as promising an open seat on a dragon with a mind of his own.

“Nah,” Gwaine laughs him off. “I’ve more that needs seeing to in town, just wanted to make sure you didn’t manage to find any more trouble on the way out. Wouldn’t want to miss it.”

He holds out a hand, and Arthur hefts Freya up a bit to reach out and take it. They didn’t fight together, in the end, but Gwaine would have helped. That counts for a lot in Arthur’s book. The lockpicking might have been pretty alright, too - maybe.

“Arthur,” he offers his name, remembering far too late that he hadn’t.

“I’m Merlin,” Merlin says, flushing red, looking between Freya and Gwaine like he doesn’t quite know what to do with this many people his own age. Which he doesn’t.

“And the Lady Freya,” Gwaine winks as he sketches a bow - an affect of one, at least - but the core of it is real. His own sword is very fine, come to think of it. A suspicion builds in the back of Arthur’s mind. “I bid you safe travels.”

“And you,” Merlin grins shyly, juggling with his armful of goods until Gwaine shakes his hand as well. His blue eyes are sparkling and his face is bright. Arthur feels a swell of something rising in him. Not pity, but something close to it. Merlin deserves to have this. His freedom. Friends. New places to explore.

It’s not safe. Balinor isn’t wrong to worry so; but Merlin deserves it despite that.

“Come on,” he says eventually, after they’ve spent enough time dithering at each other. “We’re already running late.”

“Do you think Da will be terribly mad?” Merlin asks around a mouthful of fritter - Arthur had been right, of course, he loves them. Against his back he can feel Freya tense.

“No,” Arthur lies as best he’s able. “He’ll understand.” That, at least, was the truth. Balinor would never turn Freya away. “He’s a good man,” Arthur says to her, trying to offer up a smile. Not that she can see most of it.

“Of course he is, Da’s the best,” Merlin rushes to assure her. “He won’t be mad at you. Me, maybe,” he guesses, flicking crumbs away. Aithusa licks at his fingertips until he laughs.

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Freya says.

“He gets in plenty of trouble on his own,” Arthur assures her. “He doesn’t need your help.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Merlin grins at him. “Or shall we tell the story of how we learned that we can’t walk on water? Bogwater, too.”

“I was testing your stupid boots! Which did not work, by the way,” he adds to Freya. “There’s a system now,” he expands, “no human testing.”

“Not at first, anyway,” Merlin allows. “He looked like a filthy, wet cat. He stank for a week. Da wouldn’t even let him in the tower until he had a bath, right there and then where he stood.”

“I barely got damp,” Arthur insists. “He’s making it sound worse than it was.”

‘No, I’m not,’ Merlin mouths to her, unsubtle. She laughs, though, a small, startled kind of noise, like she hadn’t known she could make it; so Arthur lets it lie. The closer they get to Kilgharrah the more his nerves prickle - he’d rather fight a dozen bounty hunters than endure what comes next.

Balinor stands waiting for them, arms crossed. He’s not a particularly large or imposing man, but the grim cast to his face is severe even when he’s not worried.

“I see you believed our discussion earlier to merely be a suggestion,” he says mildly. “When you were not even to go into the city without me.”

“No, sir,” Arthur says, setting Freya down on the soft grass. She stares down at her feet, and he can’t be sorry she’s here with them instead of back in that rotten cage.

“It was my fault,” Merlin says, one hand clenched in Arthur’s sleeve like a much younger boy.

“It was mine,” he counters.

“It wasn’t their fault,” Freya says quietly, and Balinor sighs.

“I’m sure you’ll spin the whole tale for me,” he says to Merlin, who sets his chin in response.

“She’d been kidnapped, Da!” He alights with his own righteous fury. “She’s cursed, and they were going to take her to Camelot, to - to sell her, or - "

“Is this true?” Balinor’s arms come down, and Kilgharragh rumbles a discontent noise.

“Yes, sir,” Arthur says. A horrible truth, but a truth no matter how you looked at it.

“We had to follow them,” Merlin says, “before they got out of sight. Arthur told me to go back, but I didn’t want to leave him, and the sock - but the pot went with it, and we followed it in, and they said they were going to take her to Uther,” he rambles nonsensically, Balinor’s eyebrows raising higher and higher as he steams on regardless. “And I said to let her go, and they figured I had magic, so they tried to - "

“They tried to what?” Balinor’s eyes go flinty, and snap to Arthur.

“They thought they had an easy payday,” Arthur admits, “but they were wrong.”

“Arthur stopped them,” Merlin says, as though the whole affair were a foregone conclusion, “he was amazing! And then Gwaine helped us get Freya out, and we came straight back.” After a fidgeting pause, he admits the truth. “After buying cake.”

Balinor takes in a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I assume you can make sense of all that,” Balinor asks of Arthur.

“He’s actually got most of it,” Arthur says, biting the inside of his cheek and squinting under the sun. “I know…I know Wenham allows things like this. Bounty hunting. We went against the law.” He swallows, feeling torn. “And I know you trusted me to watch Merlin - but… you didn’t see. You didn’t see how it was.”

He is not any better with clever words than he was a year ago, or two. Balinor has assuredly seen all of that and worse.

“The cage was small, and she was in irons. And what is legal is not always moral - you taught me that. I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you, but I’m not sorry we freed Freya.”

“Me neither,” Merlin agrees, standing taller. He doesn’t let go of Arthur’s sleeve, though.

“I am not disappointed you wanted to help,” Balinor says with as much patience as he can muster. “You should have come to me - "

“But Da - ” Merlin interrupts.

“You should have come to me,” Balinor speaks over him with enough force for even Merlin to shut his mouth with a snap, “which I believe Arthur knows, if he tried to send you away.” It is a terse silence, as Balinor waits for Merlin’s nod. “We will discuss the rest of this back at the tower. You have all your fingers and toes? The reagents for Nimueh?”

“Yes, sir,” they say in unison.

“Freya,” Balinor says more gently. “You will be welcome, if you seek aid. Is this all true - you are cursed?”

“I am,” she says, wiping furtively at her cheek. Under Merlin’s cloak she seems very small indeed.

“If all parties are willing, perhaps Kilgharrah can handle one more passenger today. Would you like to come, and see if you may yet be healed?”

She bobs her head, still looking only towards her own feet. The dragon gives a mighty sigh that sends Aithusa skittering back from where she was crowding up against his face in greeting.

“Just this once,” he agrees. “Next time,” he demands of Merlin, flexing his wings, “don’t push your luck.”

“I knew you’d help,” Merlin says, and Kilgharrah rolls his giant eyes, turning away from them entirely.

“Up,” Balinor orders them shortly.

Only Arthur’s cloak is enchanted - as only he needs one. Whatever magic of the dragonlords that allows them to fly with their dragons untroubled is innate, and the same thing that lets Merlin stick his hand in the hearth unburnt. He shuffles it off.

“Here,” he offers to Freya, as Merlin helps her up. Her eyes are wide, but she’s less afraid of Kilgharrah than he would have thought. She’s brave; a survivor. “You’ll want this one now - it’ll help you breathe when we’re up high.”

“What about you?” she asks, hesitating to take it.

“You’re already unwell,” Arthur shakes his head as he sorts the harnesses, “trust me, I’m in better shape to handle it than you, and I’ve had practice.”

The trade is done with reluctance, but done even so.

In the air it is not as fun as before, the mood slightly soured; but Arthur does his practised breathing and he doesn’t pass out, so that’s a small mercy. Merlin is jammed up tightly on Freya’s other side as she holds on for dear life, her dark hair a tangled banner behind them as they make their way.

As exciting as it was to see Wenham from the air he is relieved to see the tower once more, safe and sound. A weight slides away from him as they approach the sprawling fields and grasses. The shadow of the tower cutting across the land like a sword, splitting the sheep’s meadow in two.

“We’re here,” Merlin yells inanely to Freya as Kilgharragh circles towards the stone to land. They rock and shudder as he hits the ground, no matter how carefully he does it.

“Start getting Kilgharragh free of all this,” Balinor orders them, “I shall take young Freya to Nimueh - I will return and speak to you both.” His face is tired, but not as ominous as Arthur had feared.

“Yes, sir,” he says, as Merlin echoes him.

“Yes, Da.”

Freya tries unsuccessfully to free herself from Arthur’s cloak, her hands trembling.

“Just keep it,” Arthur tells her, hopping the last step down to the ground, only a little dizzy. Merlin helps her down until Arthur can take her hand. Someone will have to find her some shoes, he thinks. “I’ll have it back later.”

She casts glances over her shoulder at them as Balinor leads them away, leaving the two of them behind.

“I don’t think that went too badly,” Merlin says, once they vanish.

“You never do.” Arthur curses his optimism some days.

“It is a noble thing,” Kilgharrah muses, “that you have both done. Foolish, perhaps, but noble. Were you king, young Pendragon, would you change these laws that you call immoral?”

“I’m not king,” Arthur says, “and I won’t ever be. So I’m not so sure how it matters.” He gets about his business unloading their cargo rather than think on that any longer - instead turns his attention to whatever goods Balinor had gotten at the docks. Some raw timber is unstrapped from the dragon’s side, Merlin floating it peacefully out of the way.

“Humour me, as I have humoured you this day.”

“Of course he would,” Merlin answers for him. “Arthur would be a great king, he’d never let things like this happen. You’d find a way to help her, wouldn’t you?”

Arthur is not quite sure where Merlin’s faith in him stems from, but even now he hates disappointing people.

“I’d try,” he says with a snort. “I don’t know how good I’d be at curse breaking, though.”

“That’s why you have me,” Merlin beams. “You’d do all the boring stuff, I’d do the fun bits.”

“Why do I have to do the boring bits in this scenario, Prince Merlin?” Arthur baulks.

“Don’t call me that!” Merlin wrinkles his nose up in distaste.

“Oh, do you prefer your highness? Your Majesty? Your Radiance?”

“You know I’m not.”

“Dragon King,” Arthur weighs in one hand, dodging Merlin’s weak attempt at a kick, “his son,” he weighs the other, looking between them.

“Prince of the sheep folds, maybe,” Merlin laughs.

“Now, now,” Arthur soothes him, “you’re worth at least the chickens, too. Maybe even a goose on a good day.”

They continue to bicker as they finish releasing Kilgharrah from all of his trappings. Aithusa chases the blue pot around until she’s weary of the game - and Balinor has still not returned.

Aoife comes to pat them on their heads and ask when they’ll come to visit. The pot follows her when she leaves, Merlin waving to it as it goes. Some of the Blood Guard pass them by as they sit playing red hands, which Arthur of course is winning, with Aithusa snoozing away with her head on Merlin’s lap, still looking like a dog. Kilgharragh is long gone, bored of them.

“Do you think we should go up? Or keep waiting?” Merlin asks, flopping to lie flat out on the stone. He picks at his tunic, his heavy surcoat long since set aside. “I want a bath, I got all sweaty.”

A bath does sound nice. Some more to eat, too; he feels a little poorly from their flight, but his stomach still grumbles, uncaring. They split the last soft bread roll, nibbling halfheartedly at it no matter how delicious it is. A cake saved for Balinor sits temptingly, but they mutually decide to leave it, in case bribery will be well received. The sky is growing dim before he finally returns. Purple streaks of clouds break through the dusk while Merlin’s golden lamplights float around them.

“Ah, so you are both capable of waiting,” the king says, when he sees them. “Truth be told, I checked your rooms first. I had not intended to be so long, but Freya’s curse. Well…” He sighs at them, more fond than upset, to Arthur’s inexpert eye. “Come, it is better to speak privately of the rest.”

All their agony over waiting was for nothing, as they are shooed up the stairs. They trudge up until they make their way to Arthur’s rooms - Merlin’s still turned inside out, and unsuitable for one person, let alone three.

“After you, brave ser knight,” Merlin whispers, hovering outside rather than face his father.

“No, no, I insist! After you, m’lord.” And since Arthur is the bigger of the two of them, so he shoves Merlin in.

His fire glows merrily in the hearth, barely warm at all in deference to the summer heat. Just a cheerful, welcoming light.

“Freya will be fine, in time,” Balinor begins, standing as Arthur and Merlin move to sit on the edge of his bed. “The curse she is under is a terrible one, but Nimueh is confident she can assist her, eventually.”

“What is it?” Merlin asks, nosy as ever.

Balinor is not prone to dithering, but he seems to struggle to find the words now. He paces, face serious.

“A man attempted to assault her,” he says, and Arthur can sadly guess his meaning. He looks to Merlin out of the corner of his eye, unsure if he understands. “She defended herself - to his death.”

Good riddance, Arthur thinks.

“In return, the man’s mother cursed her to change, every night, into a creature who would kill, endlessly. A Bastet - "

“Why?” Merlin asks, face miserable.

“She is safely held here, where she cannot harm anyone - or herself - until the curse is broken.” Balinor ignores the question. Or has no answer at all. He sighs again.

“I do not know what to say,” the king admits. “I am proud of you both, but I fear for you. So many things could have gone wrong.”

“They didn’t, though,” Merlin says, trying a smile.

“Indeed,” Balinor frowns at him, until Merlin pulls his shoulders up tight, his smile fading. Arthur keeps his head down, feeling like an intruder for all that these are his rooms. “You are sheltered, and have never once faced true consequences. Your magic shields you, where I cannot - one day it may fail. I might fail. And that is why I fear for you. Freya will have aid here, but she could have been dangerous. I doubt many others than Nimueh or I could contain her - she might have killed you.”

“But she’s not,” Merlin says, colour high in his cheeks, “I knew we could help her! And I’ll never not want to help someone just because it’s dangerous!”

“And I would not change that, not of either of you,” Balinor closes his eyes. “You are good boys, but too young to need to make these choices.”

“I’m almost sixteen,” Merlin says, and Arthur tucks his head down lower. It doesn’t sound very old, not right now.

“Far too young,” Balinor insists, “for as much power as you have. You could have gotten hurt, or Arthur, or hurt others. Started a war, if Odin took enough umbrage at our audacity in his city, with his laws. A war we can scarce afford. Did it never occur to you?”

The crackle of the fire is the only answer. It had occurred to Arthur - it just hadn’t stopped him. He’s not sure which of them is the greater sin, of the two.

“I have tried to consider what is fair, and just, so that you might absorb this lesson. But I could never wish to change your compassion, or that you would leave that young girl to her fate - and so I am at a loss. How could I stand to punish you when you’ve done no wrong?”

He kneels in front of his son, arms braced on his knees.

“I love you, little bird, and your kind heart,” he peers up and Merlin, face serious, before looking over at Arthur. “Both of you. I am so proud. My boys.”

Arthur feels his eyes well up - this is far worse than getting shouted at.

“Arthur,” Balinor says, “you will have time to reflect and see the broader world once more as you travel with Alator and the others to retrieve a healing bracelet. It will allow us to remove the curse from Freya. For now she will be in an enchanted sleep each night, so no harm will be done.”

“Yes, sir,” Arthur says roughly. It doesn’t even seem like much of a punishment. He’d go anyway, if he got to pick.

“Merlin, you will stay here,” Balinor says, as Merlin’s jaw drops in outrage.

“Da,” he says, in absolute agony.

Perhaps Balinor has a point, Arthur muses. Merlin does always get his way.

“You will have your own time to reflect when Arthur is away. We will spend quite a lot of time together, you and I,” Balinor says like it’s a threat, “discussing the consequences of great power. Sometimes it will not only be you who lives with the results of your actions - something I wonder if you truly understand.”

“I do so,” Merlin says sullenly, and Arthur looks at the canopy of his bed.

Merlin… does whatever he likes, and it is to his credit that what he likes to do is largely very good. He’s also been touched by a lucky star, so far, that he has never run into a problem he couldn’t stumble his way through with either magic or a smile.

“Then the lecture will pass quickly,” Balinor says, standing once more.

“Oh,” Arthur remembers, digging the last cake out of the bag. “Uhm, here,” he offers it up; only a little mangled, but still tasty. Balinor takes it without a word, his eyes dancing with amusement. He’s not too angry, Arthur thinks. Worried, maybe; about destiny, and kings, fate and other things Arthur feels too small to understand - but not angry.

“Tomorrow Nimueh or I will speak more with you about the bracelet,” he says, quickly catching a sticky bit of fig before it can fall to the ground. “Rest, tonight.”

“We will,” Arthur promises.

It’s quiet, once the door clicks shut, not even Aithusa making a peep.

“I still want a bath,” Arthur says, elbowing Merlin once, and again when he doesn’t budge. “Hey, it’s alright,” he says. Merlin doesn’t get told off, much, he remembers. Balinor is not like Uther, letting his temper loose at every little thing. “He’s not angry with you - "

“He thinks I’m stupid,” Merlin says, flopping onto his side upon Arthur’s bed.

“He does not,” Arthur rolls his eyes. An actual child. “You just - "

“I just what?” Merlin throws a pillow at his face. Arthur catches it, whipping it back down and throttling him with it until he squirms away.

“Merlin, if you come across a boulder in the road, blocking the path, you just ask it to move and it rolls out of your way,” Arthur says. It’s true, he’s seen it with his own two eyes. “That’s not how it works for everyone else, you know? You have to be careful is all, not to bite off more trouble than you can chew - ”

“I know that,” Merlin insists.

“You know it in here,” Arthur agrees, flicking his head, “In here,” he pokes at his bony chest, “you think you can do anything. You mostly can, too, so why wouldn’t you? Your father is just worried.”

Arthur leaves him there, discontent, and starts readying for a bath and then bed. He doesn’t feel terribly well, no matter how much better he is at flying. Will they leave right away? His bath fills itself with water when he slaps it on the side - one of the best bits of magic Merlin has ever done, if you were to ask Arthur about it.

The only flaw in the design is that the harder you hit it the hotter it gets, and Arthur likes his baths as close to boiling as he can stand. He shakes his stinging hand out with a swear, eyeing the steaming water.

Worth it.

“Go on, get out of here,” Arthur says. “You’ll feel better tomorrow after you sleep, you’ll see.”

Merlin doesn’t even say anything, just rolling off the bed and slamming the door behind him in a dramatic strop. Arthur waits for it. The door opens again to let Aithusa out, then slams a second time.

Merlin doesn’t know how lucky he is to have Balinor, and Arthur hopes he never has to learn that particular lesson.

He bathes, scrubbing through his hair and dunking his head, staying under until he’s gasping.

Later, half dry and tucked into bed his door swings open again, Merlin letting himself in. Barefoot and embarrassed, he settles himself in Arthur’s bed next to him without so much as a word, Aithusa hopping up to lay between them, gleeful.

“Sorry,” Merlin mutters eventually.

“You haven’t done anything to be sorry over,” Arthur rolls his eyes. Dramatic.

“I’ll miss you,” Merlin says, and when Arthur looks over he’s bright red. He turns on his side to face away, and Arthur rolls his eyes once again as Aithusa kicks him in the ribs.

Dramatic.

***

“Her name is Morgause,” Nimueh says, as she explains who they will seek. “The bracelet was forged years ago on the Isle of the Blessed, but it is an artefact of her family, and so she retains it even now. Undoubtedly she carries it with her.”

“Will she allow us to have it?” Arthur asks, not entirely certain what kind of mission this will be.

“Perhaps,” Nimueh says. “Perhaps not. It is more powerful than any other healing magic I know, and she may not be willing to part with it. Either way, Morgause is a high priestess, much like myself - you will not attempt to force her over the matter, and nor would any of the others dare. She may be willing to trade its use, for a time. We need it for the length of one full moon to break the curse, do you understand?”

“I do.” Arthur nods. “What are we offering her?” He’s sure the Bendrui and Catha that go are better versed than he is, but he wants to know. Merlin is unusually subdued behind him, halfheartedly helping to get him ready.

“Finna will speak to her about that, and you will observe.” Nimueh raises an eyebrow at him. “If you think you can manage to be obedient that long.”

“I’m not sorry,” he confesses easily. Well, not for being disobedient, at least. “Thank you for helping Freya.”

“I am not sorry, either,” she says, looking him in the eye, red lips twitching into a smile. “Even if we were unable to help her, I have learned something about you. That has value to me, and so I am glad.”

“What did you learn?” Merlin asks, fiddling with one of Arthur’s arrows, twisting it to and fro between his fingers. He’s still in his soft, green sleeping shirt, dark circles under his eyes.

“Never you mind.” She tweaks his ear. “There will be plenty of time for us to chat while your Arthur is away.”

Merlin flushes red as a beet, dodging her. Sparks trail up the arrow like bursts of blue lightning.

Now what has he done?

“You better not have enchanted that to turn into a fish right when I need it or something,” Arthur takes the arrow, slotting it safely back into his quiver.

“It’ll turn into a fish if you’re lucky,” Merlin says ominously. “At least you can eat a fish.”

“That’s true,” Arthur laughs. “Better a fish than a worm, or a toad. Oh, wait, we already have a toad,” he teases. “His name is Merlin.”

“Yes, haha, thank you,” Merlin picks Aithusa up for a cuddle, although she’s really getting too big for it. “I’ll turn you into a toad.”

It’s not the first time Arthur has heard that threat, and yet here he is, still not a toad. He raises a challenging eyebrow. At this point he’d almost like to see Merlin try.

Nimueh shepherds them away as though they are unruly sheep, directing them towards the horses - several of which are recent additions. There are only barely enough hands to support more than a few in their little settlement. Arthur has his eye on a fierce looking chestnut mare, but he supposes he’ll be lucky if he’s not walking the whole time.

He can’t make Finna walk, she’s old.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Merlin grabs him by the elbow, pulling him to the side. “I’ve got - uhm, here,” he says, handing Arthur the satchel from before; the one of which he still has no idea what it does. “I tried to make the inside as big as my cupboard,” Merlin explains, “but it didn’t work. But now, if you leave something in for long enough it shows up in the cupboard back here, instead, and the other way around. It’s slow, but still!”

“That’s… actually quite brilliant,” Arthur says, taking it with care.

“I can be,” Merlin blushes, “on occasion. If I start putting things in it now you might see some of them in a week or so. You should take notes; see if it gets slower the farther away from the tower you get.”

“I will,” Arthur promises. He’s used to it, by now.

“And, hm, I think,” Merlin only gets redder, “I’ll probably miss your birthday. So this, too.” He thrusts something wrapped in a dark red cloth at Arthur. “Don’t open it until your birthday, though!”

“I won’t,” Arthur says, fiddling with the edges of the cloth. He’d better not put it in the new satchel, then. “That’s… really, thank you, Merlin.”

“And this,” Merlin rushes on, putting one of his hair pins in Arthur’s hand. “This one is the one if you stand it up and let it fall it always points to the tower. I know you don’t get lost like I do, but, uhm. Just in case.” He digs for another gift.

“Oh, the magic detector,” Arthur laughs, taking the ring that is offered.

“Shut up,” Merlin says.

“It was a good idea,” Arthur says, punching him on the shoulder. The magic detector, which was to glow in the presence of magic, was quite magical itself, and therefore always glowed. Now it was like being given a candle that never went out; still good.

“You’ll be careful,” Merlin says, rather hypocritically.

“I will,” Arthur agrees anyway. “I’ll send you a note through your wardrobe - I guess I should go fetch parchment - "

Merlin digs back into his own seemingly never-ending bag, handing Arthur a stack of blank parchment and refusing to meet his eyes. Aithusa breaks the awkward silence, standing on her back legs and putting on a begging face until Arthur kneels and gives her the attention she is due.

“It won’t be so long as all that,” Arthur consoles them. He knows full well how much he would hate to be left behind, and is not without sympathy. “You’ll have Freya now. Make sure you show her around, of course,” he continues, although he knows Merlin will without prompting. “Introduce her to Aoife, and that new man who brought the geese. Didn’t his wife just have twins?”

“Eithne and Ellis,” Merlin nods.

“See? I’ll be back before you can even miss me,” Arthur kisses Aithusa on her head.

“I’ll miss you,” Merlin mutters, wringing his hands. His ears burn redder than ever. Arthur feels as though he is missing something terribly obvious, but he’s not entirely sure what.

“I’ll miss you too, you big crybaby. Come on.” He punches Merlin in the shoulder again for good measure. “Buck up, and enjoy having your father all to yourself.”

“We can share him,” Merlin rubs at his arm, but doesn’t grumble too much as they go to meet with the others. Alator gives him a once over, but isn’t prone to much chatter. If Arthur hasn’t prepared wisely Alator will watch him struggle; an arrangement that suits both of them fine.

Balinor speaks quietly to Finna. His back is turned, but the slope of his shoulders is a familiar shape, and Nimueh placidly watches the Blood Guard prepare the horses.

If he doesn’t count Wenham this will be the first time he’s out past the edges of the Perilous Lands - no dragon at his flank this time, or an unstoppable Merlin. Arthur has come to think Merlin can do anything too, perhaps; and begins to see Balinor’s wisdom in sending him without. Maybe they do both have something to learn.

As they say their goodbyes Merlin crashes into him in a messy hug. Somehow it feels as though there are extra elbows involved.

It’s a strange feeling, to wave farewell, and watch the tower grow smaller in the distance, until it vanishes behind the treeline.

He hopes Merlin won’t be too lonely, and that Freya will heal well.

“Where are we headed?” He asks Alator, squinting into the dusty wind.

“South, and east,” Alator says simply.

“If the Lady Morgause is not at the fortress she has taken, it may come that she has found passage to the Isle of the Blessed,” Finna elaborates. She sits easily in the saddle, taking point.

“We might make our way through Camelot?” Arthur wonders, uncertain how to feel. He aches for news, but he was known there, once. There is no reason someone in an outlying village would recognize him, but any knight would still know his face. Leon would. Arthur swallows down a half dozen questions. “Or would we go by water?”

“We shall see if it comes to that,” Finna says, and that is the end of it.

They ride until dusk, and make camp - it’s much like being a squire again, in Arthur’s mind. Although it was a rare few knights who actually treated him like one. He fetches and carries with the others, but at least the load is eased by magic, assuring that the fire is steady and the water clean. The horses need hand care, though, and he spends much of the evening brushing them down.

“Alright,” Alator says, once he’s finished, and has shovelled a bowl of hot stew into his mouth. “Let us begin.”

The rest of the evening is spent being beaten into the ground by Alator and all four of the Blood Guard who have come; then he is kindly healed by Finna, so they can do it all over again.

Morning comes, and the days repeat.

“Tell me,” Finna asks him, at the border of the impenetrable forest - one of the deadliest defences the Perilous Lands has, “how you would proceed.”

“You can only find your way through magic,” Arthur says slowly, uncertain why she asks. “So I’d follow you.”

“Should I fall? And Alator?” she asks again, before Arthur can get smart with her.

“Merlin gave me a pin,” he answers, “so I suppose I would use that. It always points to the tower. I could work it out from there.”

“Your faith in Emrys is so strong?”

“I, well - yes,” Arthur agrees, feeling very put on the spot. He’s never quite sure what the Bendrui think of him; or the Catha, for that matter. They love Merlin, though, and it seems some of that halo falls on Arthur, to his fair fortune.

“That’s good,” Finna smiles at him, “I’m glad to hear so. Lucky for you we will not have to find out this day - come. The horses will be displeased with it, but I know the path.”

On foot, through the marsh and knotting roots it is a slow and tedious march. The air is thick and cloying, clinging to his skin. He is grateful for the ring that Merlin had given him - the canopy is so thick the sun barely finds them at all. Dark, and rife with pitfalls, the light is welcome.

They walk unceasing until they see the sky once more. He is tired enough to collapse for a week, and filthy up past his boots and to his breeches in mud and god’s only know what else.

“Go hunt,” Alator commands him, so Arthur leaves the horses, armed with his bow, and hunts. Mercifully one of the Blood Guard comes with him, so he doesn’t have to drag the small roe deer back for cleaning all by himself all while feeling like one massive bruise.

He sleeps like the dead, stars spinning above him, navigators lighting the path.

When he checks the magic bag the next morning it has a week old stale roll of bread and a little pot of honey with preserved fruit in it, and he misses Merlin so fiercely it shocks him. In the poor light of dawn it is difficult, but he still has the ring to see by, and so he writes a clumsy reply, hunched over double on the uneven ground. Thanking him for the gifts, and telling him how much nicer flying is than walking. He tosses a truly vile looking plant in after his note. He’s seen Merlin coo over it before, and so Arthur had done his best to collect it properly, and now he prays it will be gone quickly before he has to look at it again.

The forest slows them, and it has been another week before he knows it.

They take a long route around a town, for it is better for them to sleep in the rough rather than draw attention. The road is far enough out to not see many faces, but not so far as to see none; a perfect opportunity for bandits looking for easy pickings.

Nothing about their company looks easy, armed to the teeth as they are, but Arthur does get to shoot a bandit in the shoulder that tries to steal from a lone woman. It’s pouring rain, and he’s no small distance away, but the arrow flies clean.

“Well shot,” Alator says, which is really a marvellous amount of praise from him, and Arthur tries not to puff up too much about it.

This is how they acquire news of Camelot; the woman is quite content to gossip with Finna in exchange for walking alongside armed guards. The Princess Morgana is very beautiful, apparently, which Arthur already knew. Uther has invited suitors for her, none of which please her, which he hadn’t known, but could have guessed. Prince Tyr, Odin’s son, was sent home in disgrace after failing to win her hand.

Arthur doesn’t laugh, upon hearing it, but it takes an awful lot of effort. Serves Tyr right, the obnoxious little prick. Too proud by half, with nothing to back it up. It does Arthur’s heart a world of good, to know she is as fierce as ever, and not leg-shackled to some violent brute.

A magical beast is on the loose, the gossiping woman leans in close to whisper. Deadly, and none of Uther’s knights can best it. It snatches away all his good humour in a cold rush. Guilt nestles under his breastbone - he should go. Fight. But he has another task, and is ages away and useless in Mercia, besides, twiddling his thumbs.

It’s two weeks after their departure before they find Morgause, and then a full day of talking, for which he is a wordless observer. Each morning he checks the satchel; more days than not there is something new. A treat or a note, and Arthur tries to reply every time with whatever small things he learns and the order in which things arrive, which he knows Merlin will want a full report on. Anything from the attacks in Camelot to blathering on about the summer rain. Pretty stones, or flowers.

Morgause is a striking woman, with fair hair and a scowl that could peel paint off of a barn at thirty paces. Clad in the armour of the Blood Guard as he is, she pays no more attention to him than any other.

Not at first.

Chapter Text

Her eyes track him.

Bright, and blue. Severe in her eternally unsmiling face.

Finna says nothing, and neither does Arthur - uncertain why she is so interested, or what could have drawn her attention to begin with. Is his lineage meant to be a secret? Not that it much matters anymore, but sometimes people can get funny about it.

Magical people, mostly. Destiny, he continues to believe, is a bunch of hogwash. If enough people with enough power put stock in it, though. Well. It has a chance of coming true.

Her fortress is unmanned, and he wonders how she holds it. Dilapidated and wanting care, it is maybe just one roof of many to her. Moth-eaten tapestries, dust and spiders, rats and even foxes have made their home here. He has rarely slept in worse, and would prefer a nice tree in the forest, but he doesn’t get any say in the matter.

He misses his bed, and his fire. His bath that Merlin had made for him so he didn’t have to haul water up the tower stairs.

Fiddling with the little brass latch of the satchel, hoping something comes though, he misses Merlin more than ever. More than the bath, even, which is high praise.Two weeks is all it’s been, and likely another two weeks back. It’s not so long as all that, so he tells himself. Although the meetings with Morgause feel eternal. How people can speak around each other for so long Arthur will never know. He is relieved anew to be free of politics.

Morgause’s keen eyes seek him out, over and over throughout the day.

“You,” Morgause says eventually, perhaps tired of dancing around the subject. She beckons him with an imperious wave. “Come forward. Show me your face.”

From the corner of his eye he sees Finna give a nearly imperceptible huff and Alator shifts in place; but neither of them make any motion to stop him. He pulls back his hood, and she surveys him with an unsettling new interest.

“Uther’s boy,” she says, after a long look at him.

“No,” Arthur interrupts, even though it’s rude, and even if it’s true by blood. He is Ygraine’s son, and Balinor’s ward, if he is anything. Merlin’s friend and Aithusa’s second favourite pillow; not that he suspects Morgause cares one lick about that.

“No loyalty to your father? What would he think?” She comes a bare step closer to him. She is not a tall woman, but she makes him feel small under her gaze.

“I don’t imagine I know,” Arthur says. This is true enough at least. He doesn’t have a clue what his father is thinking, and likely never has.

“And your sister?” Morgause asks, with an edge to her that Arthur does not care for. What business is it of hers?

“What of her?” His back is ramrod straight, jaw locked.

She smiles. A tight, irritated sort of thing.

“You hate her, perhaps? For she has usurped your throne? Your crown?” Morgause mocks him. “When she has stolen everything from you; your very birthright?”

“Morgana has stolen nothing from me,” Arthur says. He is quite sick of people assigning emotions to him on the subject; especially ones he does not have. If she’s expecting him to throw a fit so she can justify not allowing them the bracelet she’s got another thing coming.

“You would not fight her, to have it back?” Morgause asks, as though such a thing had never occurred to her.

It’s easy, then, to feel pity for her. There are far more dear things in life than thrones and crowns. Aithusa is a brighter jewel than any of them, and he would not trade the sound of Merlin’s laughter for the cheer of any tournament crowd. The freedom of the sky, and the steady feeling of Balinor’s hand on his shoulder when he’s done well.

Incomparable.

“She’s my sister,” Arthur says, although he’s not sure that will make much sense to someone like Morgause, who is disdainful even to Finna, a woman who has sworn her life to serve her.

She throws her head back in a laugh, delighted. Her chain mail gleams in the setting sunlight that streams in through the window, hair lighting up golden and curling, like something out of a storybook. Morgause herself is well kept, just not her ruin of a fortress, nor the towns that scatter the low bowl of countryside that surrounds it.

He does try now, not to be overly quick to judge, but he cannot help but wonder what that says of her, or of King Cenred.

“Very well,” she agrees at long last, “you may take the bracelet, and may it serve Nimueh well. For the time it is gone from me I will have young Arthur as a guest to ensure its safe return, does that sound fair?”

“No,” Alator says, coming to stand at Arthur’s side, “such a thing was never agreed upon.”

“Balinor won’t have it,” Finna agrees, flanking him. Her mouth is pursed closed with displeasure, chin tilted up in challenge. “Nor will Emrys,” she says, and Morgause ignores her entirely.

“And an oath,” Morgause continues, still in good humour, “that I will allow no harm to come to him. I will care for him as though he were my own kin.”

It is the last thing he wants to do, but it is also the first time he’s thought Morgause might actually let them trade. A girl’s life is at stake - and from a curse that exists solely with the purpose to take other lives, at that. There is no choice at all.

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, “I’ll stay until the curse is lifted.”

Two weeks back to deliver their prize - hopefully faster, now that there will be no searching for their quarry. However long until the first full moon, and then a month. The return here, and then back once more. How long? Two months? Three? Of all things that should concern him it strikes him that he might miss Merlin’s birthday, and feels a stone settle in his gut.

Merlin will understand though.

They’ve never tried to send anything magical through the bag, it occurs to him. They should have. It would be a week or so to send it and another to have a reply and know if it works - the timing is much the same. A shame, to only think of it too late to be of any use.

Once Arthur has agreed there is very little anyone can do to change his mind. Instead Finna extracts promise after promise from Morgause, as her patience wears thinner and thinner.

A blood oath of safety from a High Priestess is nothing to turn your cheek at.

They eat in the ruined hall, Finna tense and displeased at his side, not parting from him until nightfall and Morgause’s retreat.

“She’s a cruel woman,” Finna whispers to him, after she’s gone. “Made hard by Uther, it’s true, but she makes her own choices now. She turns away from the very people she swore to serve.”

Alator says nothing, which means he agrees.

“It was her, who is the source of the dark magic that drove the druids to the Perilous Lands while you hunted the wyverns,” Finna imparts to him, and he can only look to her, stunned into a stupor.

“Why?” he asks in a whisper, “What goal could that serve?”

“Serve?” Finna laughs, a bitter sound, “The only thing Morgause cares about is that they would not serve her, and so they are only a tool. To insight dissent, among those who would follow the path set by Balinor and Emrys, and as a warning to others who would not join her. You must be careful, Arthur.”

“She has sworn your safety, on the cost of her own life,” Alator says, tending the fire. “But enter no other agreements with her. She is a canny liar.”

“One who seeks open war,” Finna agrees, “against the will of Emrys.”

While Arthur still does not entirely understand the nature of Merlin’s other name, he knows the argument is entirely settled with that.

Sleep is slow to come. He has his own room; the fortress is large, as miserable and bleak as it is. In his bedroll on the floor he sits Merlin’s silver pin upright a dozen times, watching it fall towards the stone tower, over and over again. Worry plagues him.

Morgause has her own agenda. What it is, he does not know.

He wonders what Aithusa is doing now. What mischief they might have found without him. Does Freya help them raid the kitchens?

Arthur will be eighteen tomorrow - that’s close enough for counting.

The wrapped gift sits tucked away in his non-magical bag, carried all this way safe and hidden. Quiet as a mouse he draws it out, at war with himself. It’s past midnight; it must be. His fingers tap a restless rhythm. In the dark the red fabric is so shadowed as to be almost colourless, and he plucks at the knot until it’s loose.

A burst of light comes so suddenly that he blinks, blinded, heart racing. He rubs the stars out from his eyes three times before he realises why he can’t - the stars are in here with him.

All around him swirl constellations of golden light, dancing merrily about. He marvels at them, their unambiguous joy stunning him to stupor for the second time this night. A smile spreads across his face unbidden, the tension of the day leaving him in one tired rush.

If a tear comes to his eye, it is between him and the stars.

They spin and swirl, becoming a dragon in flight, a knight on a galloping horse, a great long boat crashing on waves. A grand adventure playing out for an audience of one.

Arthur lays on his back and watches until his eyes refuse to stay open even a moment longer, feeling very much like how he had as a young boy staying up late. Demanding just one more tale of knights and daring rescues before bed.

Between one dragging blink and another, he is asleep.

He wakes to shuffling outside his door, his head aching and mouth fuzzy from staying up far too late. They must be getting ready to break fast and depart. The room is bare of lights now, save one; small and flickering like a firefly. A glittering treasure in the cold reality of the ruins.

Groggily he rubs at his sleep-slow eyes, but it’s still there. Merlin, bending the rules of the world itself to forge a little bit of fun.

Alone in this poor excuse of a castle he smiles to himself, not feeling very alone at all.

***

Morgause’s smirks and pointed questions cannot stoke his temper.

His worries are smaller, if not gone - she can say what she likes. Everything about her seems to roll off of him without so much as a touch, which in turn seems to drive her mad.

“We depart,” she orders him one day, fuming and tired of this place. No servants, no joy to be found from baiting Arthur, who has been gifted patience and peace seemingly solely to give her a headache. He has not been; it is merely a side benefit. “To Camelot. I have business on the Isle of the Blessed.”

“I’ll pack,” Arthur says blithely. Alright, some of his peace is a little put-on, but her jaw clicks in a hilarious way the more unbothered he is.

She has tried to press him, over and over. To learn more about Camelot, but about Morgana more specifically; neither of which he offers much of. Bland answers. She either thinks him devious or simple, and he doesn’t care which.

He will not give up anything of Morgana to whatever Morgause’s machinations are.

Finna had bartered for an oath with little room for clever twists; Morgause is bound to give him back. She cannot hide him away or evade the Bendrui’s return, or put Arthur in danger - she must protect him with her life until his safe return to the tower. If she intends to make way for Camelot he will either be safe or she will be struck down dead.

Both outcomes suit him.

If he did not already dislike her so, he might be able to admit she is not a poor travelling companion. Despite her rigidness and high standards, she is not spoiled, and is unafraid of labour. Capable. Dangerous. He vows to remember.

Care is taken to hide the satchel from her, only opening it when she is away. It is weeks before he starts getting furious letters detailing how stupid he is. They must have arrived with the bracelet, then, he thinks, reading through the eye-watering rant from Merlin. The edges of the page smoke and sizzle, and he folds it up tight before Morgause returns.

‘We make way for Camelot and the Isle of the Blessed,’ he writes quickly, once the decision has been made. ‘I will be cautious, but tell your father.’

Sentiment still does not come easily to him. It had not been encouraged in Uther’s household, seen as a weakness to exploit. So it is with great effort that he finally succumbs.

‘Thank you for my lights, they were very beautiful. Give Aithusa a kiss from me.’

He blows on the ink carefully until it is dry, reading it over and over again, feeling see-through as glass. He misses them. Plainly, utterly.

Whatever oaths Morgause has made must mean she considers it too dangerous to take them near any towns, as they traverse the Plains of Othanden at breakneck speed away from any other souls. Their horses tear through the lowlands as if black grave hounds are nipping at their heels, never tiring, unnaturally bolstered by magic.

He does not hunt; Morgause just snaps the neck of whatever creature is unfortunate enough to come into eyesight when it’s time to rest and eat. He is unsure how to feel - is it more or less moral? More or less cruel? His disfavour of her makes him question his judgement.

It is painless, but also hopeless.

“What manner of father is Uther?” Morgause tries to begin a conversation with him again.

“A demanding one,” Arthur answers, poking at the fire. “With high standards.” Terrible standards, but still hard to reach ones.

“Would he be softer with a daughter?” she pushes.

The fire crackles, sparks trailing up towards the sky in a twist of smoke. The grass underneath him is fine and lush. His enchanted cloak sits around his shoulders even though it is not chill enough to call for it; still a comfort of home and a protection he dares not toss aside. His fingers idly trace the runes of safety and good fortune, knowing the stitching well by now.

“Sometimes,” Arthur admits, after a long, thoughtful silence. Uther had been different with Morgana, from long before Arthur knew they were tied by blood. If it is guilt or love… maybe there is no way to split the two, in his shrivelled heart. Or maybe it is simply that Arthur cost him something he could not withstand the loss of, and must now bear the burden of his regrets.

At first light they cross the border into Camelot, picking their way more carefully through the Alabraith Mountains. He knows these trails, and his chest aches with familiarity.

To the west rests the citadel.

If he closes his eyes he can still see her. Feel the grooves in the steps up to his chambers under his feet, or the notch splintered in his bedpost where he hit it practising in secret with his first sword. If Morgause’s goal is to disquiet him it is working.

“I have something for you,” she tells him, as they stop and rest for the night. She deems it unwise to light a fire, only the moon above them shining down. Barely a sliver - a new moon has passed. Freya’s month is over half done. “It is called a Blood Crystal, and it will disguise you. We venture too far into Camelot to rely on isolation and ignorance any longer.”

He takes the heavy crystal with a gloved hand, testing the weight of it. She’s sworn to do no harm to him. A rusty red thumbprint of blood flakes on the side of it, eerie with a sickly yellow light.

“Tomorrow you will wear it,” she says, eyes set and feverish. Her skin is covered with dust, a slight damp of sweat shining.

“Whose blood?” Arthur asks, wary.

“No one of consequence,” she says, waving his concerns away. “A bandit, dead. He will not be missed. That will hold for three days.”

“Three days,” he repeats. They can make it through the most populated areas of Camelot in three days. “Very well,” he agrees - he has little choice.

Arthur is not prone to dreams, and he is thankful for it. The hard stone gives little enough rest as it is.

“Rise,” says Morgause, shaking him awake. “I will not lose more daylight.”

She watches him slip the crystal over his neck with a huff of impatience, the magic taking hold - it feels nothing like Merlin’s. Cloying and sticky like tar in the back of his throat, reeking of copper. There is no mirror, so he has only the satisfaction of her face to know it has worked.

“I shall call you Thura, should there be need,” she says, already mounting her horse. “Better to be overly cautious than not cautious enough.”

Willowdale is much as the last time he had seen it. More developed than the settlement in the Perilous Lands, and richer. There are multi storied buildings, tidy thatch roofs, even glass gleaming in some windows, here and there. It seems well cared for, wealthy and clean. Peaceful. A forced reminder that in many ways Uther is a good king.

For some. For some, they thrive under his rule. It would be simpler, were he entirely one thing or the other.

“Regrets?” Morgause goads him. “Homesick?”

“It is not my home,” Arthur says, catching a glance of himself in one of those glass windows as they make a brief stop to buy provisions and water their horses. A stranger looks back at him, plain, and forgettable.

Arthur hopes he was a bandit, and cruel, and that no one is missing him; Arthur has no way of knowing. He looks away, feeling ill.

“I wouldn’t travel these parts, good lady,” Morgause is told by the stablemaster. “Not now, a’least.”

“Oh?” she asks, smiling prettily. “Why ever not?”

“A monster,” the stable boy says, big eyes wide with a mix of childish fascination and dread. Eager to impress a Lady from afar. “A real one.”

“The knights?” Arthur finds himself asking. This must be what they had learned of on the road in Mercia. It is still not slain?

“Thura,” Morgause warns him, that same pretty smile fixed unmoving upon her face.

“It’s no bother,” the stable master says, happy to gossip. “They’ve not been able to kill the thing - King Uther sent a half dozen, and none have returned successful.”

“I thank you for the advice, sir,” she says.

They leave, her hand sharp on his back as she jabs him forward.

“We should help,” Arthur says, knowing it is fruitless.

“I have sworn not to put you in danger,” she says righteously. “What a misfortunate turn. Alas, we will avoid the beast, whatever it is.”

They press on, with no time to waste lingering.

A day passes, and they trade watches in the night; it is dangerous to go on and dangerous to stop. He wonders what pushes her to the Isle of the Blessed, but does not think she would answer truthfully if asked.

The forests are rich and bounteous in ways he has forgotten. Night and day to the Perilous Lands. Ancient trees; older than any man. Mossy and covered with flowers like a carpet, what a lovely land it is. Morgause mocks him, but she is not wrong. He is homesick; for a home that is not his any longer. He cannot speak, but for once Morgause does not ask him to, on guard and wary.

It is peaceful until it is not.

Inevitably, for that is his luck, they hear the crashing and creaking of something massive in the woods. Morgause rolls her eyes, as though he has somehow summoned this to them just by wanting it. She directs her mare away from it.

“Come,” she instructs him, but he hesitates.

“You are sworn to protect me, isn’t that right?” Arthur asks. She whirls to him with fury written stark on every line of her face. “Am I wrong?”

“Do not dare,” she hisses at him.

He draws his bow, watching her carefully. He rocks his weight, his own horse taking the instruction well, heading towards danger with only a flicker of her ears.

“Arthur,” she seethes, “stop. You will not.”

“I will,” he declares, kicking into as much of a gallop as they can manage in the woods. She is hot on his trail; limited in what magic she can cast on him. At this speed, any force she stops him with might be a deadly one.

Red, out of the corner of his eye. His heart thunders in his chest, knowing it at once. Crimson, Carmine, Camelot red.

“Turn back!” Leon of all people shouts at him in warning, his cape stark and bright against the green of the forest. He holds up another man standing at his side, who is clutching a gut wound - Arthur is too far and too fast to see how badly they fare. “Turn back,” Leon bellows again, as Arthur presses on; all the more set, bow drawn. Firing from horseback is simpler by far than from dragonback. He is steady.

His first glance of the monster is somewhat horrifying - he’s never seen anything like it. The head of a falcon and the body of a beast, and massive besides. His second thought, tellingly enough, is that it’s not even half as big as a grown dragon, not even a fourth.

It dives towards Leon, and Arthur fires. The arrow is let fly, striking the eye true, but doing nothing other than making it irritated. It abandons Leon to charge through the trees at him, barely impeded. Arthur’s horse seems to make a game of dodging it - as brave and quick as any out of Camelot’s stables. She leaps like she’s trying to fly.

Ducking below a branch before it can take his head off he takes up the enchanted arrow, and prays it doesn’t actually turn into a fish. With Merlin you can never be sure. He can hear nothing over the sound of the creaking woods, the high pitched screaming call of the beast and his own panting breaths - he spares enough worry to hope that Morgause follows him still. He fires once more.

It does not turn into a fish.

It hits like a thunderclap. The hand of a god. Sparks of lightning trail down the creature as it falls into a seizing sprawl, trees popping and sizzling as they are struck, molten sap spraying. The scent of burning greenwood and ozone hit him sharply, ears ringing in the echoing silence that follows.

A fox tears past him, uncaring how close it comes as it flees.

“Hell,” he says to himself, patting at the neck of his horse, her ears pinned back flat, quivering beneath him.

Leon stares, some distance away, looking very thunderstruck himself. His eyes fall to Arthur’s bow, which smokes in his hands. He waves it to put out the fire.

“What was that?” the knight asks. The forest is empty even of birdsong, only the last spitting hisses of flash fires make a sound. “You have saved us,” he says, when Arthur fails to answer, speechless. He clears his throat.

“Lightning strike?” Arthur says hopefully, hoping he doesn’t sound as ruined as he feels.

Leon hefts the stranger up at his side. They both know it was magic; they both know all three of them would be dead without it.

“A fortunate bit of luck,” the wounded stranger strains to say, allowing the dignity of the lie to hold. Arthur wonders if he said it was raining if anyone would believe that, as well.

“Indeed, fortunate,” Leon says, breathless. He’s growing a beard, and Arthur wants to weep. It looks awful. His heart is a tangled mess in his chest that has nothing to do with a monster.

Yet it is his arrogance to think it is so easily defeated.

The beast stirs, twisting in pain, struggling to find its footing. His heart sinks into his gut, fear shivering up his spine.

“No,” Leon says, raising his sword once more.

It does not even get the chance to rise, Morgause stepping out of the treeline, blade held high. It flares with an otherworldly fire, and without hesitation she plunges it straight into its feathered breast, unerringly to the heart.

She turns towards Arthur with a promise of retribution in her eyes.

He holds her gaze unflinchingly. She cannot hurt him, not without breaking her oath, and much like with Freya he cannot be sorry for helping. It had been killing freely for months now. How many dead? How many might live, now that the deed is done?

She inclines her chin, perhaps the first sign of respect she has ever spared him.

Leon lowers his sword, even though there is no way to spin this into anything other than magic. He helps the stranger find rest at the foot of a great oak, sheathing his blade and meeting them as a friend.

Morgause tosses him aside like he is nothing.

“No!” Arthur shouts at her, cold with a betrayal he has no right to feel. Morgause has made no secrets of herself. It stuns him even so. Foolish. “He’s no danger, leave him be!”

“A knight of Camelot? No danger?” She mocks him, gleeful even as he drops off of his horse in an ungainly lurch, sprinting to Leon’s side on clumsy feet. “I must protect you,” she sneers.

Leon is shaking, his breath weak. Blood stains his side, his temple - from Morgause or the monster Arthur does not know. Blue eyes stare unfocused up at him. His hands tremble as he tries to stem the bleeding.

“He needs help,” Arthur calls to Morgause. “You’ll be fine,” he says to Leon’s colourless face. He blinks up, roused, but unseeing. “That’s enough, please, I’m sorry! He needs help!”

“The wound is mortal. He’ll die,” Morgause says, pleased. She goes back to her horse, mounting without a care. “For your hubris. Say your goodbyes, so that you may remember this the next time you attempt to cross me.”

“Leon,” Arthur says, pulling the knight’s head onto his lap and patting carefully at his curly hair. “Leon, wake up, look at me - it’s Arthur,” he leans down to whisper. “It’s Arthur, I’m here.” He sniffles, feeling like a child as Leon looks up at him, disoriented and afraid.

The crystal hangs heavy around his neck - he wants Leon to see him, at least once more, if this is the end of it all. Maybe Arthur has been forgotten, but he has thought of Leon every day; his friend. A bright burst of goodness in conflicting memories of childhood. He fumbles to take it off, his hands wet with blood. Slipping against the back of his neck -

It is not the only chain.

He blinks, dizzy with relief at how grand of a fool he is. An incomparable, thrice-blighted fool.

“Listen to me.” He lowers his head. “Stay down, do you understand? Play dead.” Leon is too delirious to respond, so Arthur just has to hope some of his urgency makes it through. He pulls out the vial Nimueh had given him, unstopping it to trickle into Leon’s mouth and waiting for a heartbeat. Two, three - ten.

Life seems to come to Leon in stages. The pallor leaves him, his eyes sharpen to awareness.

“Stay down,” Arthur begs him again, head low in a whisper as Morgause watches. “She is an enemy. Let her think you dead. Live, please. I beg you.” He catches his breath, panting against Leon’s brow, shoving the vial back down under his gambeson, hidden once more. “Don’t tell my father.”

The vial emptied, it is better to leave, before she realises what he has done. It is with regret he turns away, tearful and shaken - this, at least, is not an act. He does not dare spare a glance towards the stranger, hoping Morgause leaves him be. There is no last trick he can pull, no miracle gifts given to him by greater powers to snatch safety up out of a failing of his own making.

“Do not test me again,” Morgause commands, her voice a dark shiver that rattles down his spine. He hates her like he’s hated precious few things. “Come. The Isle of the Blessed awaits.”

They leave once more, and do not stop until long past dark, near a river he knows. He’s swam here before, but now he washes the blood off of his hands under the moonlight, splashing his face and his neck in turn until dribbles of cold water run down his gambeson and chain.

He’s wrung out like he’s fought in a siege, not merely fired two arrows while his horse did the heavy lifting.

A heart is the hardest muscle to tend to, he thinks, and his was slow to get much use. Still developing, like when he was twelve and had sticks for arms. It strains, now.

“Why does Balinor not take the citadel?” She sits in front of him, confident he is cowed into obsequiousness.

It is easy to recall his own thoughts when he arrived in the Perilous Lands. Balinor could. Not without great loss of life, though, and he could never hold it - not without slaughtering all who came to her gates. He would come to only rule over ash and bones.

“Answer me,” she snaps. “Answer me or I will find the nearest town and slay the first ten people I see.”

“He could take the citadel,” Arthur agrees, meeting her eyes. “If he killed everyone in it.”

“And?” She scoffs.

“Sometimes,” Arthur muses, “people need to eat. They need fields, which need workers. Castles and cities take manpower to run; or do you prefer your hovel of a fortress, infested - "

She raises a hand as if to strike him, and he turns his face into it. Let her. Morgause lowers her open palm, closing it into a fist that perches on her knee, ready to fly.

“When enough of them fall, the others will bow their heads in time. They are cattle, and will learn to behave.”

“Perhaps Balinor just doesn’t advocate for wholesale slaughter,” Arthur says. Cattle.

“Uther killed countless children,” Morgause says, deadly quiet. “So much of our sacred magic snuffed out before it could even take spark. Do you think he deserves mercy?”

“I’m certain they were counted,” Arthur says, refusing to look away. “I’m certain every mother remembers. Every father, and every brother and sister. I’m certain they’ve counted each and every day that has since passed. And so every innocent child who burned under dragonfire would also be counted, and missed, and mourned. With their own sparks of life, be them magic or not. They deserve mercy.”

Morgause’s eyes do not soften in the slightest.

“Time has weakened him, and he forgets where his duty lies. The Old Religion is owed blood.” She unclenches her fist. “Retribution.”

“And it will not be found ruling over a heap of broken stones,” Arthur says. He may understand little about magic, but he knows Merlin. How he speaks to the land itself, how well he loves all creatures, from flowers to his butterflies, from the sheep to dragons. People; magic or not.

Emrys, eternal.

The Old Religion was made by man, not magic, and magic will remain long after the Old Religion has come and gone, woven through every blade of grass. No lake or mountain calls out for sacrifice. The river that had washed him clean of blood was not made any swifter for it.

Morgause is as wrong as Uther. And if the Old Religion calls forth for innocent blood, it is wrong too.

“I shall pretend you are not the dullard you are so eager to imitate,” she says, sitting back at last. “As long as Uther reigns, my people die. No pretty words will change that.”

“Then kill him,” Arthur says. Not filial, perhaps, but practical. “Not the people you pretend are under a protection you do not give.” He wonders if this is why she seeks answers about Morgana so stridently. “She would not mindlessly continue his purge, not without cause.” He tries to reach her, knowing the futility as he does it. “Morgana, I mean. She’s black tempered like him, sometimes, but not like that. Through her there may be a way forward that doesn’t end in war.”

Morgause strikes him, then, so hard his ears ring, head twisting to the side. Her own cheek bleeds, a mirror cut welling with red.

“Not yet,” she promises him, his murder writ plainly in her eyes, “but someday.” She cannot even speak the threat out loud, he thinks, so strong is the oath that binds her. But she does not need to. Morgause’s anger is like the otherworldly fire that finally slayed the monster, a cold burn. She turns away from him, trembling with barely restrained fury. “You will not speak of her again.”

Their path to the Isle of the Blessed is a tense one with their mutual disdain, more akin to animals circling each other than civilised people. Night after night he watches the moon blossom. Freya will be well, and it gives him strength to know it. Morgause is temporary, and can be endured to secure a lifetime of freedom for an innocent girl.

The blood crystal has long since gone clear like glass, empty. He keeps his hood raised, and edges away from the roads, wary of what else Morgause might call protection in his name.

She doesn’t seem to sleep any longer; not where he can see. Magic, or stubbornness. Either way he cannot check if Merlin has written to him again, and cannot send a missive of his own.

They make their crossing in a tiny boat, abandoning their horses on the shore. His fine, brave girl stomps one hoof in the sand, watching him go. The wind is cool on his cheeks, stinging with salt. He hopes she does not wait too long.

The Isle of the Blessed is a ruin.

In the eighteen years since the purge began it seems as though a thousand years of wear have struck it in one blow. Wet, green life springs out of the stones around the altar.

Morgause does not so much as look at him.

She cannot harm him freely, no matter how she wishes to; but he knows by hard proof that she can harm others. Perhaps the impetus for this journey had nothing to do with him all along, and he is merely the bait in the trap. Finna, savvy as she is, would not hold a candle to Morgause in a fight, nor Alator. If they would turn against her at all; if their vows would even allow it.

The night of the full moon he cannot take his eyes off of the sky. Come morning Freya will belong to herself and herself alone.

Chapter Text

It is not Finna who comes, and not Alator. Not the Blood Guard, or even an overly ambitious Merlin who had somehow learned to fly.

Mere hours after sunrise, once the full moon has moved under the horizon, a dragon approaches.

Kilgharrah’s roar shakes the very ground underneath their feet, the ruins trembling. Morgause draws a small, sharp breath, fearful for the first time he has seen. Whatever she had hoped to happen, whoever she waited for, she had not anticipated Balinor would come for Arthur himself.

Unprepared, she scrambles.

There is no delicacy to Kilgharrah’s landing, here; he lets the barbed end of his tail gouge a deep cut into the island itself, claws finding purchase with rending tears. His chest glows radiant with banked fire, hissing at Morgause while sparks flare and die endlessly behind the cage of his teeth.

“You have much audacity, witch,” he snarls, dripping fire.

“Morgause. You dare bring him here so close to the approach of Samhain,” Nimueh finishes for him, standing on his back next to a deadly silent Balinor. His face is a mask, set in judgement. Nimueh is clad in armour he has never seen before, red and copper, a fine weave that moves like water, and a short, jewelled knife in her hand. There is a mad cast to her face that promises violence.

Balinor has eyes only for Arthur.

“Here,” the king calls to him, reaching a beckoning hand out. “Arthur. She should not have taken you.”

“Sister,” Morgause says in cool greeting. She does not attempt to stop Arthur from parting, snatching up the magic satchel from their camp as he goes; does not even spare him a glance. “I would have words with you.”

“You are no sister of mine,” Nimueh refutes her. She tosses the bracelet down without care. Storm clouds brew from the clear air, fat drops of rain beginning to fall. “Take your bauble. With this, I have fulfilled my end of the bargain.”

Arthur makes the familiar climb, throwing himself onto Kilgharrah’s warm back with such relief it leaves him trembling. Balinor touches his hair, his face.

“Did she do this to you?” he asks gently, careful of the cut across his cheek. It’s deep enough that it will leave a scar. The mirror wound on Morgause tells the tale plainly enough.

“I had no intent to hurt him by bringing him here,” Morgause says, spreading her hands. “I could not without harming myself. I am bound by oath.”

“Vengeance against Finna then, or Alator.” Nimueh dismisses, her grip upon the knife going white-knuckled. “For outwitting you into staying your hand. You have always so hated to be outmanoeuvred.”

“The Bendrui are sworn to serve us, not some would-be king! I care no longer for prophecy! Where is Emrys in our time of need? What fair King has come? You throw away your gifts and spit in the eye of the Goddess.” Morgause draws her own blade, outrage making her bold.

“Come, then,” Kilgharrah goads her.

Not too bold, though; she stays planted where she is. Dripping rainwater next to the altar, where pools rise higher, the conjured storm beating down in earnest.

“If you wish magic to thrive once more,” Nimueh shouts down through the drumbeat of rain and wind, “then turn yourself away from continuing Uther’s work. You harm only your own kin!”

“Coward!” Morgause howls at her. Her bright hair is dark from rainwater, plastered to her face. “They should have joined me, as should you! We could raze Camelot, together!”

“Hypocrite,” Nimueh spits. “Uther’s judgement fast approaches, and I will witness it! Will you?”

Not even the threat of a dragon is enough to stay Morgause, who attempts to rush at them with a rasping cry. Clear, icy hands reach out of the water, dragging her mercilessly down, trapped in place. She writhes, spitting fire that smokes and sizzles uselessly in the torrential rain until one of those pale hands covers her mouth. She sputters, futilely struggling. Choking, drowning.

Arthur sits as a breathless spectator, sheltered under Balinor’s arm.

“Go,” Balinor says to Kilgharrah over the raging wind, “this place does not need to see more death. The veil is too thin already.”

Nimueh glares down, either unhearing or uncaring, eyes manic.

“My friend,” Kilgharrah answers, “you are too generous. And you are wrong.”

Below them the great dragon rears up, chest filling like a bellows. The fire that pours forth is white hot and blinding, molten. Balinor throws his arms around Arthur, a watery shield taking the worst of the heat, Nimueh a dark silhouette between them and the blaze.

“Close your eyes!” the king demands, and Arthur does, terrified down to his very bones. Everything is red. The earth itself must be shaking to pieces. His teeth rattle in his head.

It seems to last for an age, the roar of the flame going on, and on.

When the world comes back into focus it is not nearly as changed as it should be - the flowers still grow. Impossibly, they endure. The grass waves, green and healthy; a dragon’s magic. The altar, though, is cracked in three. Precice, clean cuts, from the sharpest of blades. Smoke and steam rise as the rain ends.

Nimueh takes a breath, closing her eyes before stepping to the side, peering down.

“Morgause is gone,” she says simply.

“Dead?” Arthur asks, not yet able to pull away from Balinor.

“No,” she answers. “Though her injuries will be grave ones, and to rend space to travel costs dearly. It will be a long, difficult recovery, even with her trinket, but Morgause yet lives.”

“She will seek revenge for that,” Balinor says, resting his cheek on the top of Arthur’s head. His hands twist tightly in Arthur’s cloak, pulling him close. Like a child instead of a man grown, and taller than Balinor besides. “Nothing less will satisfy her.”

“It is all she knows how to seek, now,” Nimueh agrees, weary blue eyes passing over them both. Not yet, but someday, Morgause had promised him. He cannot stop the shiver that makes its way down his spine. “Let us be gone from this place. There is much to discuss, back at the tower where it is safe.”

“Wait,” Arthur says. He can’t bring himself to speak further, though, not at first. He drags himself away from Balinor, to meet his eyes. “She swore an oath,” he says, “not to harm me - "

“Yes, Finna told us,” Nimueh frowns at him. “It was well done of her.”

“Until I’m safe at the tower - " he fumbles for his words. “When she cut me, it cut her as well. Does her promise still hold? Must she protect me, even now?”

“Ah,” Nimueh acknowledges, mouth twisting unhappily. “That is true. An… unusually powerful geas, from a deadly enemy. Little can stay the hand of a High Priestess.”

“No,” Balinor protests. His fur collar sticks wetly to his neck as he swallows harshly. He shakes his head in denial. “We can keep you safe. The tower is safe.”

“Such an oath should not be dismissed so easily,” Kilgharragh says. “Morgause is single minded. She seeks to end not only Uther, but his line entirely. Indeed, all those who would not bow to her.”

“And what is better done?” Balinor asks, mouth pressed into a flat, displeased line. “Hm? Send him out into the world where any bandit or foolhardy young knight might have his head.”

Arthur should be insulted that Balinor thinks any old bandit could get the drop on him, he thinks, but he is still marvelling over the fact that Balinor came to fetch him at all. To have a father’s worry; it is not an unwelcome feeling. Despite himself, despite the dire day, he fights a smile down.

“You cannot truly believe he’d fall to a bandit?” Nimueh speaks in his defence, arguing above his head as though he is a child with no say. “A bandit is not in the same vein of danger as Morgause,” she continues. “It is worth considering.”

“You could ask young Arthur what he thinks,” Kilgharragh says with no small amusement. He flexes his wings, the grass swirling at his feet.

Arthur… wants to go back, and he doesn’t want to go back. He wants to see the world, and help people, and curl up safely in his bed every night and spend every day laughing with Merlin and Aithusa. He wants everything, overwhelmed with greed.

“What - " he stutters, and tries again, “what would you have me do?” He asks Balinor. Wise, and just, he will have an answer.

“A father always wishes their children to be safe,” he says, and Arthur’s heart swells impossibly further in his chest. The king’s face crumbles, his eyes wet, before he smiles. A sad sort of one, that might mean goodbye. “But you are unsuited to be a farmer,” he huffs. Arthur’s shoulders are taken in a gentle grip and given a shake, before being pulled in for an embrace. Balinor’s hand cradles Arthur’s head, and he hides his face, overwrought. “I want you to be happy. Whatever choice that is, you will have to make it for yourself.”

“I - ” he starts, unsure.

“I would ask you a question,” Nimueh says as he falters, weighing him. Her armour blazes bright under the returned sun, waiting for his nod. “It would have been easier,” she says, “to leave Freya behind - ”

“No,” Arthur interrupts her. He can still picture the tear tracks on Freya’s defeated face with perfect clarity, the hopelessness. It wouldn’t have been easier to leave her to her fate - it would have been impossible. “It wouldn’t have been.”

Nimueh considers him, something he cannot recognize settling over her.

“Perhaps this is the path your destiny would have you walk,” she says, looking with great significance towards Balinor.

“What is destiny, compared to either of them?” Balinor asks her, and Arthur can only speculate his meaning.

“Do you regret it?” she asks, ignoring his query entirely. “Helping Freya?”

“No,” Arthur says, immediate and sure. He worries his bottom lip, lowering his gaze. “I can’t go back,” he says, knowing it for the truth. “Not while Morgause is out there; not if she can’t hurt me.”

Not if he can stop her.

“She can hurt you,” Nimueh corrects him sharply. “There is a cost, but she can hurt you.”

Nimueh means the cut upon his cheek, their shared wound. He doesn’t care. Let both of them carry it until death. It matters little. His mind turns instead to Leon, in the forest.

Yes. Morgause can hurt him.

But she can’t kill him, not without falling alongside him. If this body is good for standing in front of her as a shield then so be it. Let her ire come towards him, who can endure it.

“Merlin will have my head,” Balinor mourns, putting upon a better humour than he feels to coax a smile from Arthur. “Perhaps I will join you, and leave the tower to Nimueh.”

“Not on your life,” she says, the corner of her mouth curling up.

Arthur has the satchel, he reminds himself, tugging it closer to his chest. A stack of parchment, and his sword. He will not be abandoned - he will just be… away. For a while.

Just for a while.

He thinks of the lights Merlin had crafted for his birthday, the grand adventure. Dragons, magic, and knights. Arthur has sworn no oaths after Camelot, save the ones in his heart. There, though, he was Merlin’s knight.

More than that, he misses his friend.

Even with a set course, Nimueh and Balinor argue.

Where he should go. What he should do when he gets there. Where? He still doesn’t know, of course, as that would require a consensus of any sort to be reached.

Arthur stalwartly refuses to be taken to Northumbria to wait for old age to take Morgause, or else what is the point? Twiddling his thumbs in some ally lord’s estate or shut up in the tower - what is the difference?

Well, Morgause can’t gut him in Northumbria, but still.

It goes in tedious circles, pleasing no one.

This is not how any of them want to part, tempers stoked high out of worry and love. In the end, Nimueh takes his cheeks in her hands and brings him low, blowing a cool breath of air over the crown of his head, the light shimmering in waves around him like a gossamer veil.

“It will hold for some time,” she says, releasing him, then hefting the weight of the empty Blood Crystal that he had shown her. “It’s not a proper disguise, not like this. But people will struggle to remember your face. Be out of Camelot before the next new moon; from that night on you will be seen clearly. And be wary of lingering anywhere too long; it is not infallible to keen eyes.”

“Would the runes work again?” Arthur asks, thinking back to his first days at the tower. A tidy row of magic, and how it had terrified him. Yet even now the markings are on him, persisting. Strange, how they have turned into a comfort.

“Not away from the tower.” Balinor shakes his head. “Many long years of magic flow there; from the Fisher King, centuries before us, then kindled under dragon fire. Cut away from a fount of power like that the workings won’t hold, or I’d put them on everyone who sat still long enough.”

Nimueh snorts in amusement, the most indelicate sound he’s ever heard from her. She had not been well pleased with him to learn the vial she had bestowed on him is empty, but nor was she terribly surprised.

“It will take time before we may meet again and I can procure more for you,” she warns him, taking the empty vial back with a chiling chide to her voice. “Do not treat it so cheaply; it is not called forth without effort.”

It was Leon, though, Arthur thinks.

Nimueh is not heartless, but she is ruthless; so he keeps his mouth shut for once. Many favours have been done for him as it is, and there is no need to provoke her needlessly. All that he is and all that he has comes from accepting the help and guidance that has been offered.

Sometimes he thinks the day he was taken was the best day of his life. Yet two homes he will leave behind, now.

“This is not goodbye,” Balinor comforts him, reeling him in for yet another embrace. “Neither Nimueh or I are bound to the tower. We will return to you.”

“Morgause will die,” Nimueh says.

She has a very different idea of comfort than Balinor.

They walk with him to the boat; better not to have a dragon sighting too close to the coast. Arthur knows it, but is loath to bid them farewell.

Under his boots the boat rocks. Waves splash against it, and he knows it is all in his head, but they seem lonesome somehow. He sets the satchel, plain and dull, down at his feet.

“Tell Merlin,” he says, a dozen things caught in his throat like birds in a trap. None of them make much sense. How terribly ordinary the world is without Merlin there to make it fun. That Arthur is worried he is lonely, and that he’s sorry he’ll miss his birthday. “Tell him… his birthday present is under my bed.”

A chess set, half finished, with several pieces left to be carved. Poorly carved, still. Years later Arthur has gained no skill at it. But he remembers the rules, and he’d made some of the pieces dragons and wizards, which he thought Merlin would laugh about.

“I will,” Nimueh promises, when Balinor can’t seem to speak, giving a short nod.

“And look after Aithusa,” he says to Kilgharrah, who has watched over them all with uncommon patience. “You know he spoils her.”

“I shall,” he rumbles back. “Although you have given me a task greater than these old bones can keep up with.”

Arthur could stay on the dock for another hour, another day entirely, a month, just filling up the silence with things he doesn’t know how to say.

“Thank you,” he says instead, hoping they understand.

Smaller and fainter they grow on the dock, until even the shape of the great dragon is obscured by mist. Arthur is happy to be rid of Morgause’s company, but the journey back to the beach is strange by himself; though he’ll need to get used to the feeling quickly. Not too used to it, it turns out.

His horse is still there. A miracle as much as any other he has known, and he has known a few.

Patient as well as fierce, then.

He’ll have to name her. The way she had leapt through the forest as surefooted as a deer bounding, only one is fitting.

“Llamrei,” he says, as she approaches him, pushing her velvety nose into his open hand. He gives himself a moment, his eyes closed, letting his head fall to rest against hers. There is much ahead of them. “Let’s go, girl.”

***

He wanders. Like a stunned fawn.

First along the coast, north, then east into the sparse woodland, retracing their path. For all of Morgause’s many faults, impracticality and poor planning were not among them. She had chosen well with a route that avoided most of the populace of Camelot. One with clean water and rich forests with game, yet close enough to the borders of the Northern Plains that settlement was sparse.

With only an empty path ahead of him and the company of his horse Arthur admits he is… daunted. The satchel seems heavier, although it never is; always unchanging, whatever it carries. Thudding against his hip all the day through, until he makes a bare bones camp at dusk and resigns himself to a lonely evening.

He will have to grow used to quiet, he reminds himself. Better not to fall apart the very first day.

A little handful of notes come out of the bag that he reads, perched on a log by firelight as Llameri grazes, then by the light of the ring as the sun sets even further. Many sentiments that Arthur will kindly assume come from worry and not a desire to fit as many swear words as possible onto one sheet of parchment.

‘Don’t go,’ Merlin begs in sloppy, rushed letters.

Far too late, Arthur thinks. He does not envy Balinor, who will be the one to tell Merlin that not only has Arthur gone, Arthur won’t be coming home. Not for a long time.

Guilt settles over him, tangled up with his determination in a terrible knot. He rests his head on his knees, eyes closed tight. An advantage against someone like Morgause cannot be thrown away so lightly. He can protect Merlin better this way, he assures himself.

“It’s only sensible,” he tells Llamrei. “Morgause is a powerful enemy. She can’t strike at me so easily; and she’s sworn to defend me, besides.” Llamrei huffs, uninterested.

“So you see, it’s sensible,” Arthur insists, as she turns to nibble on a different patch. Another, sadder thought refuses to be ignored. “Merlin doesn’t even really need a knight.”

Knight to the most powerful sorcerer he’s ever heard of - it’s a silly thought.

Taking up a feather quill and ink feels heavier than hefting a sword and shield. Even after a full day of drills, when his arms are so weak they shake with effort. Balinor and Nimueh will have returned by now. It’ll be a week or so before Arthur gets a letter about it; he should send something now. It would be cruel to leave Merlin waiting even longer.

Still, they’re heavy.

The dry quill taps against the parchment as he idles, thinking. What to say? ‘I miss you, and anticipate missing you for months more. Years, maybe. Ta, Arthur.’

It is a mark against his letter-writing willpower that he is almost thankful to hear someone creeping through the woods, approaching his camp. They are skillful, and quiet. The quill is set aside carefully, since he only has the one for now; and his sword is taken up in its place.

“I wouldn’t,” he recommends blithely to the treeline, standing ready. Hopefully it is merely someone who is cautious and scouting before hoping to share a fire, or someone who will turn away from a man armed.

It is unclear how a treeline manages to be awkward in silence, but this one does.

“Arthur?” Leon asks, coming forward from cover, his own sword drawn. His awful beard is still awful, Arthur observes vapidly. The knight is still clad in his bloody clothes, stiff with dried sweat. There’s a leaf in his curly hair.

Arthur blinks, too shocked to even be properly aghast at being caught out on his first day on his own. What is Leon doing here? How?

“What?” Arthur says, sword dipping. He swallows and tries again. “How?” Alright, it’s not much better. But how? “Leon?”

“It is you!” Leon sheaths his sword, a hand over his heart, dropping to his knee.

“Get up,” Arthur says, sheathing his own sword as well, still numb with disbelief. “That’s enough of that, come on.”

“You’re alive,” Leon does not rise, merely looking up at Arthur with his own share of disbelief. They just stare at each other like fools for long heartbeats. Leon finds his voice first, standing once more and casting wary eyes over the empty camp. “The woman you were with; has she gone? Are you safe?”

“I am,” Arthur is quick to promise. “But Leon, what are you doing here?”

“You cannot think I would not follow you?” Leon asks. “You might not have looked yourself, but you saved my life; you spoke to me. I would know your voice anywhere. Arthur, my lord, we can return to the citadel - ”

“No!” Arthur shouts before he can even think better of it.

“Is there still danger?” Leon asks into the silence that follows. “I do not know how you have freed yourself, but your father would march - ”

Arthur snorts inelegantly, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t free myself,” he explains to Leon’s wounded face. “I’ve never been in any danger. And of course he’d be happy to march to war when he wouldn’t even agree to peace over me. No. I’ll not return.”

He watches the firelight throw shadows across Leon’s face, still familiar, despite the changes over the years apart. The confusion does not leave him, not for an instant, and Arthur shuffles his feet. In all of his imaginings of seeing Leon, or Morgana - even his father - again, exactly none of them were so stilted. The Arthur in his imagination always knows just what to say.

“Want to sit?” Arthur tries, gesturing at the fire. “Catch up? You aren’t going to try and drag me back, are you?”

“What?” Leon says, shaking his head. The leaf falls out of his hair, and Arthur bites down on a smile. “I think you’re confused,” Leon says carefully.

Arthur sits himself back down on the fallen log, leaving enough space for another. It shifts with the weight as Leon joins him, elbows on his knees, fidgeting as much as a dignified knight of Camelot can fidget.

“Will you explain to me how you have come to be here? I don’t understand; were you not captured by the Dragon King Balinor?”

“I was captured,” Arthur admits, fighting down an inappropriate smile. “Got taken away by a dragon and everything. Kilgharrah is great, though.” He does laugh as Leon’s face grows more and more distressed.

“I beg you not to laugh at me,” Leon says, eyes flinty, “you have no idea how worried I have been. All of us!”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, calming himself. “It’s just funny; you’d think so too if you knew how it’s been for me these past years.”

“And how has it been?” Leon asks him sceptically, leaning away to look clearly into Arthur’s face.

“Wonderful,” he answers with a snap of old authority, slipping back over him like a familiar cloak. “I’ve made friends, and learned about magic, and dragons - ”

“You were stolen,” Leon says in outrage. “Kidnapped - ransomed!”

“For peace,” Arthur argues back, “which was judged too steep a price, I will remind you. Uther would rather keep slaughtering old hedge witches for spelling bugs off of their vegetables than end a war he started over his own hubris.”

“Not a single season goes by there is not an attack made - ”

“Ah, yes, and Uther has never done anything to provoke them, has he? Never slaughtered innocent druids? Or hanged someone with no proof?” Arthur rails right back, suddenly furious that Leon does not understand. This could have so easily been Arthur sitting there, and it horrifies him and ignites his temper in equal measure, until his heartbeat thuds in his ears. “Or because their neighbour cast a charm, or a shopkeeper sold to the wrong person. Oh, eye contact with a sorcerer? That’s a beheading! I know you cannot think that is just!”

“It is not my place to question my king,” Leon says, face grim. He’s too good of a person to not question it, Arthur thinks. Hopes.

He sets his jaw, taking in a deep breath of the night air. Looking away and seeking patience from the rustle of the trees, the familiar smells of the forest.

“I don’t think that’s true.” Arthur says it quietly, towards the fire. “A king should be questioned. Perhaps more so than any man.”

“That woman - the sorceress,” Leon changes tacks, “you said she was an enemy.”

“She is; just not because she is a sorceress. The High Priestess Morgause,” Arthur gives the information freely. “She is vindictive, even to other magic users. If you cross paths with her - ” he stumbles over his intent. He cannot order Leon at all, anymore, and he can’t in good conciseness advise him to abandon his duty, either. “She’s dangerous. Be careful, should you see her again. She doesn’t mean well to anyone.”

Leon nods, mouth shut tight. Arthur can’t stand it. It’s not supposed to be this way; this tense, terse tension. Tight like a drawn bowstring. Not between the two of them.

“You’ve been safe?” Leon ventures.

“I have been,” Arthur says.

“And you have friends? You’re happy?” He’s not imagining the hopeful tone in Leon’s voice. It’s nice, in that strange way, to know that someone has worried about him. He was missed, at least by one.

“I do,” he says, his thoughts going back to Merlin once more. “And I am. A sorcerer, actually. Gave me that arrow - the, uh.” Arthur makes an explosive gesture with his hands.

“Ah,” Leon huffs a little, awkward laugh, “a fine gift. I owe him my life, as well. Must be a good friend.”

“He is,” Arthur says. He’s afraid to give too much information; Camelot had not known about Merlin at all when Arthur had left. He will not be the one to betray the knowledge; anonymity is the warlock’s greatest protection for now. “The best. I think you’d like him. He’s smart, and funny. Kind.”

“I’m - well, I’m glad then,” Leon says, and it’s just as simple as that. “I’m relieved you’ve not been alone.”

“And you? Camelot?” Arthur dares to ask. “Morgana?”

Leon makes a face that he is not quick enough to suppress. A sideways sort of smile, a few degrees off.

“Your father has not taken your absence well,” he admits. “His use of force has displeased some. And that he would not make any concessions for you or your return. It does him little credit. I am not the only one who has worried you had been killed, and Queen Ygraine is still fondly remembered. Morgana has not been happy with him for some time, either. Over that and many other things. The secret nature of her,” he stumbles. There is no chivalrous way to put it, for it was no chivalrous act.

“He cuckolded his dear friend and ally while Gorlois went to war for him, and she is the result,” Arthur says it plainly. If he is not precisely unbothered by it he is not overly troubled, either. He’s had time to take it in, and has spent his disdain already. “And then he sat silent while Gorlois raised her, and took her in only after he died, ignorant. And lied about it further, for years. Until his other heir was snatched up, of course,” Arthur rants. Alright, so there is still a pinch of room in him for more disdain. A snug fit, like a puzzle piece alongside his derision and weariness. “That’s about right, isn’t it?”

“You’ve become blunt,” Leon says, and it startles a laugh out of him.

“Perhaps,” Arthur grins.

“And unfortunately,” Leon adds, “there are some who will never be pleased with her; not only because of questions over her legitimacy, but simply for being a woman set to inherit the throne at all.”

“I heard she sent Tyr home weeping, so I assume Camelot will not be under Odin’s banners any time soon?”

“Not just yet,” Leon agrees, eyebrows creeping up to his hairline. Arthur would like to hear the story, he thinks. “No matter your differences now, King Uther would not let Camelot fly other colours - he’ll find someone to fall in line and have Morgana take the crown, and any sons be Pendragons; mark my words. Unless you come back, that is; you were never disinherited, and you are the only son of his lawful union.”

“I won’t,” Arthur swears, unwilling to dig up that grave. “Let Morgana have it.”

Conversation flows more easily after that, skirting around the harsh edges that lie between them on the subject of magic. Leon will come around; more quickly than Arthur had, he wagers. Too kind and too just to not think carefully once a nobler idea is given seed.

He is better company than Morgause, at least, and Arthur is unafraid to finish his note to Merlin, letting Leon add in a small postscript thanking Merlin for the arrow which had saved him.

Arthur had not had plans to tell Merlin through letters about the giant magical beast, but he has little recourse now. He scribbles away while the fire crackles, Leon a steady presence at his side.

“How did you find me, anyway?” Arthur asks, folding the note up and placing it in the satchel. “I’m supposed to be hidden. Magically, I mean.”

“There was a trail,” Leon says. “Not much of one, and I was delayed. Lancelot was injured - that’s the man who was with me.”

“Does he live, then?”

“I am grateful he does. A brave man. The truth is I noticed your bow,” Leon says, nodding to it where it leans. “The scorch, you see?”

“Ah,” Arthur sighs, looking at the dark stain on the wood where it had been briefly alight after firing Merlin’s arrow. “Well, not many would know it, at least. I’m supposed to be careful.”

“Since you don’t intend to go back,” Leon says, graciously letting Arthur agree without a scolding. “I would help you, if I could. In whatever way I can. Let me at least travel with you until you are out of Camelot.”

The offer doesn’t shock him. Leon is too himself to be shocked by it; but Arthur is still… something. Moved. He clears his throat, hiding his smile.

“Won’t you get in trouble if you don’t return?”

“Maybe,” Leon says, unconcerned. “You saved my life, though. More than that, you are still my friend, and my prince; if you would call yourself such or not,” he speaks before Arthur can get a word in edgewise. “And I would know more about your life outside of the citadel, if you would tell me. Please.”

Arthur manages a halfway dignified nod. If he could get out even a portion of the feelings in his chest with words he would be a poet.

He’s not now any more than he ever has been; but he tries.

***

‘Lancelot seems a good sort,’ Arthur writes. ‘So far as I can tell, anyway. Brave at least, if a little foolhardy. You’d probably like him.’

He twists the quill this way and that, watching the feather change hues in the red wash of the firelight.

The man in question is asleep across the other side of the camp, Leon nodding off as well, as Arthur takes first watch.

So much for his lonely life of wandering. The entire half day of it.

‘It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you. I assume everyone made it back safely.’ He wets his bottom lip, feeling too cowardly to put ink to paper and just ask what he wants to ask. Do you miss me? Are you angry?

‘Leon will go back to the citadel once we are safely seen off.’ He writes, instead.

Leon could no sooner abandon his duty or his family than he could sprout wings and fly. Arthur had not asked him to, and would never. They had spoken much of magic, though, and morality. What one owed to those they are sworn to serve.

What, Arthur wished to say, but couldn’t quite give voice, a man owed to himself. A selfish thought, but one he could not shake.

A welcome breeze shifts the grasses and leaves of the copse like a warm sigh. Summer in armour was never quite as romantic as ballads would have one believe. A bath would be paradise, but the evening has some good qualities. The stars are out in force now, after a day of the sun bursting into scattering lights on the leaves. The unmistakable scent of the lush forest; so different than the rocky plains he’s grown used to.

Their travels have been peaceful, if slow. Lancelot’s injury was mending, but there was no magic here to speed him along or make sure no infections set in. Alice would have words for them, he’s sure.

Yet the other man seems too noble to leave behind for the sake of speed; not when no one is chasing them. What little risk there is seems worth it. If Lancelot seeks a purpose Arthur can sympathise. And if he seeks to help people, well; Arthur might have some ideas on the subject.

He’s given much thought to the matter, after all. Morguase needs time to recover, but recover she will. In the meantime there are druids and peaceful magic users who need aid and guidance to push through the unsafe borders of the Perilous Lands.

Kilgarrah and Balinor only heal the cursed land so far; for reasons of both time and sheer practicality. The borders protect them from armies better than anything else one could devise; ready-made layers of traps and impassible landscape.

In return it keeps all but the most desperate out - even those who seek aid.

Arthur has learned to traverse it, though.

As could Lancelot, he thinks. Leon… might be willing to keep an eye out for people with magic who are innocent of wrongdoing. And there are plenty outside of Camleot who do not wish their powers to be conscripted to serve a king like Odin, or Cenred. Or bow to Morgause, when she sticks her head out of whatever cave she’s retreated to in order to lick her wounds.

It seems as good a place to start as any.

‘I hope you,’ Arthur writes, a drop of ink splatting down as he hovers, uncertain. ‘I hope you do miss me, even half as much as I miss you.’ It seems a cruel thing to wish for. ‘I hope we are looking at the same stars. I don’t want you to be lonely. I hope you don’t stay angry with me forever.’

‘I hope you are not growing anymore,’ he settles on, ‘as I couldn’t bear it if the next time we see one another you were taller than me.’

Merlin will know what he means, Arthur thinks. He always does.

Chapter Text

Aithusa’s shriek of betrayal claps in his ears like lightning.

Or thunder, maybe - the noisy bit.

“I’m working on it!” Merlin swears to her, biting at his lip in frustration. The stone frame of the window refuses to budge, no matter how nicely he asks. She beats her wings outside, impatiently trying to force her way in, scrabbling at the tower.

“You won’t fit any better now than twenty minutes ago,” Merlin says. “Maybe I should just sleep outside with you for the night. Try again tomorrow with a clearer head?”

Aithusa stares at him in flat judgement, sopping wet and impatient.

It seems highly unlikely his head will be any clearer tomorrow, of course, but there’s always hope. It is stuffed full to the brim with fuzzy misery, and his magic mopes along with it. He’s already been scolded about the persistent rain cloud that hovers very specifically over his room in the tower. The puddle at the base of the landing where Kilgharrah tends to rest is turning into something closer to a lake, causing many lectures that do no good other than making Kilgharrah feel a bit better.

“I’ll get the tent,” Merlin says with false optimism.

Arthur is always the one to set up the tent when they sleep outside, but Merlin is pretty sure he can manage. He does not need help; which is good, since Arthur isn’t here, and that suits Merlin just fine.

He gathers up everything he needs with quick, furious hands, sending a long look to his cupboard before he leaves, the door shutting behind him. When Arthur had first gone Merlin checked for letters nearly every hour it seemed; it’s been weeks since his Da returned, yet Merlin still can’t bring himself to look. Now his shoulders just hunch as he passes by Arthur’s empty room. The door hasn’t been touched in ages, shut up tightly, just as it had been left.

His heels shuffle down the quiet stairwell as he guiltily takes his time. He loves Aithusa more than anything, but he doesn’t much want to see anyone right now.

It was just so unfair.

His stupid rain cloud finds him as soon as he hits open air, and he heaves a sigh, breath fogging. It’s cold.

“It can’t be that hard to do without magic,” Merlin says to no one. He’s learned better than to try using magic right now; as likely to turn the tent into a pile of rocks as actually set it up.

He should have paid more attention when his Da showed him how to do this, or Arthur. It’s not that no one had tried, after all. Merlin remembers asking how a prince knew to do anything for himself.

“Mostly nobody other than my father could make me do anything,” Arthur admits. “I handled my sword maintenance and that was about it. It was the only thing worth taking care of myself. Or so I thought.”

He looks up at Merlin from the fastenings of the tent, mischief on his face.

“Well, Leon got fed up one night. After a long day; he said no one at all was to have a tent at all until I set them up. He was the youngest save me, but everyone still listened to him. He’s got a long temper, but If you saw his face you would have listened too. Even you’d learn to set up a tent properly after that.”

“He did not,” Merlin gasps in delight. “All of them? By yourself?”

“Oh,” Arthur muses, “I think I went to sleep eventually. Probably. ‘There are some things worth doing properly,’ he told me, ‘and swords are only one of them.’”

“And so tents are another,” Merlin waves his hand, swirling the canvas up into standing, laughing brightly at Arthur’s annoyed look, dodging his playful swipes at Merlin’s head.

It is a brief moment where Merlin thinks he’ll actually succeed, only for the lanolin rich cloth to pitch inwards under the force of the rain. He flops down onto the wet mess with a groan, laying defeated with his eyes shut tight.

He can hear the footsteps before the rain stops, the radiant warmth of Kilgharrah chasing away the worst of the chill. Merlin rolls limply onto his back, prying one eye open to look. A massive wing extends over him, blocking the rain and the dim light of the moon both.

“Young Merlin,” Kili begins, marvelling, “I have never known such a strop in all my years. You have refined it into an art form in itself.”

“Thank you,” Merlin says, voice a sharp snap, before closing his eye again.

“Would you be better pleased had Arthur returned?”

“Yes,” Merlin says.

“Knowing what you know?” Kilgharrah asks.

Knowing how dangerous Morgause is, that is. Knowing she would seek revenge; not only on Arthur, but on his Da, on Nimueh. On anyone, really. Merlin is fully aware of Kili’s meaning; how can he not be? Every lecture and lesson of the past few months echoes in his head.

“No,” he sullenly admits.

If Arthur is afforded protection from her… Merlin would be the worst sort of person to begrudge it.

It turns out he is a little bit the worst sort of person though.

“It’s not fair,” he complains like a fool, sitting upright and turning over into Kili’s warm side. He ignores the dragon’s huff of exasperation. “It’s not,” Merlin insists. “We were supposed to go together, and what if he’s all by himself and in trouble? Instead I’m stuck here, and never get to go anywhere at all! I barely get to leave the tower. In the whole of my life I’ve seen one city. I’ve only ever met three people my age,” his voice chokes up. He can count them on his fingers. Arthur, Freya, Gwaine.

More hurt than even he knew. Chafing under the small shape of his life. The ache is not only Arthur being gone, or even being in danger. If he could shed his scales like Aithusa and take to the sky and see the very edges of the land he would; yet neither of them can, wings or no. “I miss my friend,” he sniffs. Freya is nice, but she’s not Arthur.

“I know,” Kilgharrah says, more gently. “It is not your fault the world is so tumultuous; and yet the world is.”

Merlin lets his head fall forwards, tucking his chin against his chest as he slumps against Kilgharrah. The rain beats down in an unceasing drum. Kili’s chest grows with a heaving sigh, nearly toppling him over.

“It will not always be so,” the great dragon continues. “Aithusa will grow. Strong enough to carry you into that future you wish to chase so eagerly. You and your Arthur both.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees, plucking at the wet edges of his tunic. Maybe.

“Far be it for me to lecture on deaf ears,” Kili says, to Merlin’s scoff. Lecturing on any ears is the dragon’s absolute favourite thing to do. “But I think you would settle better should you check your absurd, rules-of-magic-breaking cupboard. Write a letter. Speak to your father; if only to spare me more of his moping. Champion mopers, both of you,” Kili rolls his golden eyes.

“I come by it honestly,” Merlin acknowledges. His joy came from his Mam, Da always said. It had made him laugh as a child, happy to be like her; but now he thought of his Da’s sadness instead. A stirring of guilt churns in his gut.

His Da.

He hates fighting with his Da.

“I’ll send him up after you,” Kilgharrah promises, nosing Merlin back towards the tower, “and keep Aithusa company for one night. May all the gods help me.”

“She’s not that bad,” Merlin says, blinking rainwater out of his eyes. “Just… feisty.”

“You would say so, wouldn’t you?” Kili huffs, turning away entirely. “When she takes after you so well.”

And the truth is that Merlin has no defence to that, and so he retreats back up the stairs, silent and sodden. Feet squelching with every step. Dripping, he halts in front of Arthur’s door. Goosebumps from the cold roll over his arms and down past his knobbly knees.

It’s plain and wooden, like every other door.

Even still there is a whole history of marks and notches from the people who lived here ages ago under the Fisher King. Stories that no one remembers any longer. That scratch, though, by the latch - Merlin traces it with a fingertip - was them. The tiny scrabbling marks at the base were theirs too; from Aithusa’s sharp claws as she impatiently tried to wake Arthur.

“You must be missing him too,” he says into the empty corridor, feeling like a cad. Neither of them had been being very kind to one another lately. Perhaps Kili was right after all; they are similar in nature. Bullheaded, and used to getting their ways.

He turns away and back towards his own room before he can self reflect too deeply, not enjoying it a bit.

The cupboard seems to loom, somehow, even as it sits as it always does. Cheery flowers with flaking paint curl up from the corners, a bit of fraying ribbon and a charm looped over one of the handles. He swallows, unaccountably nervous.

What if there is a pile of letters, and Merlin has ignored Arthur when he needed help?

What if there are no letters at all?

He throws the doors open before he can wind himself into further circles. Inside, a messy stack of notes sit, along with a few bits and bobs of wood. He reaches to pick one up, looking over it. It seems to be made of the burl of a birch tree, and if you twisted it just so it looked a bit like a dragon. He sets it back down, biting at his lip as he picks up the parchments.

Flipping through, Arthur has written loads; at least by his standards. As always it’s lots of ‘I’ve gone here, and I’ve done this,’ with precious little given to how he actually feels about any of it. Merlin is perfectly happy that Arthur loves his new horse, but it’s also maddening to read when Merlin mostly wants to know if he misses them at all. Is he eating? Is he sad?

Leon has included a thank you, of all people; underneath which is a postscript in Arthur’s scrunched, cramped letters explaining they fought a terrifying magical beast.

The horse got more space on the page.

Forget a hug, when Merlin sees Arthur next he will strangle him.

“Stupid Arthur,” Merlin says, scrubbing at his cheek with the cuff of his tunic and telling himself it’s rainwater. Unable to stand reading any further he picks up another of the bits of wood.

At least no matter what else changed in life Arthur was still a terrible artisan. Clunky and blunt; Merlin thinks it’s a person? He squints. With a very pointy head.

A knock sounds at his door, and he straightens his shoulders and makes sure his face is dry. Even if the rest of him isn’t.

“Come in,” he calls, swallowing.

“Ah,” his Da says in understanding, eyes catching the little wooden figure. “He’s a bit early.”

“What?” Merlin blinks.

“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” Balinor says, a heavy eyebrow raising, “in case you had forgotten.”

“I didn’t,” Merlin lies, looking over the figure again. It doesn’t make more sense with context.

“You’ll need the full set,” his Da continues, “and I think Arthur will forgive us for giving your present a little early under the circumstances. Come,” he nods, turning away, the open door between them.

Merlin follows him into Arthur’s room, feeling like an intruder even though he’s spent nearly as much time here as in his own room over the past years. He idles by the unending fire as his Da ducks to reach under Arthur’s bed, kicking off his wet shoes and dreaming of being dry. He rolls his pale toes back and forth.

“Here we are,” Balinor says, holding out a game board after blowing a thin layer of dust off of it. “Nimueh and I were given strict instructions to give you this.” Merlin takes it, eyes tracing the wobbly lines that make up the squares.

“I don’t know this one,” he admits around the sudden lump in his throat.

“It’s chess,” his Da says, “and I can teach you.”

“Arthur can teach me,” Merlin says, feeling quite cruel when his Da’s smile falters for a heartbeat. “I didn’t mean that, of course you can teach me,” he rushes to amend. “It’s just usually Arthur and I - ”

“I know the two of you have your own traditions,” Balinor waves his concerns away, his eyes soft, “as you should. I’m glad of it, truly. I am… more sorry than I can say. That you are without your - ”

“Da,” Merlin complains, embarrassed. His crush on Arthur is obvious to everyone but Arthur; and his father is the last person he wants to discuss it with.

“Friend,” Balinor says innocently.

“You can teach me,” Merlin says again, fighting down his blush and making a peace offering, “and next time I see Arthur I can trounce him.”

“I’m sure you will,” his Da allows, pushing a hand through Merlin’s hair and whispering a spell; leaving him finally dry, only to linger a moment. “When did you get taller than me?” Balinor asks, and Merlin is startled to realise it’s true.

When did that happen?

“Come,” his Da says, “and I’ll try and see if I can remember how to play.”

“If you teach me wrong as a joke,” Merlin threatens, following him out of Arthur’s room, arms loaded with the precious wooden game pieces.

“I would never,” Balinor says, eyes crinkling into crescents as he grins.

***

They trade letters, of course - but letters are not enough.

Too long of a wait to suit Merlin’s impatience, not to mention Aithusa’s. Merlin still has a fading bruise from where she headbutted him in her eagerness to share a look, clumsy and unused to her yet to slow growth spurt.

It’s been heartbreaking for both of them coming to learn he can only lift her with magic now; his arms alone simply aren’t cut out for the job. Her mood was quickly turned around when she learned that she could lift Merlin now, however.

Merlin remains undecided on the matter.

It was one step closer to being able to fly together, of course; but she is also a sneak and a bully with an immature sense of humour, and he has taken to looking over his shoulder constantly, never sure when she will strike. He has no idea who taught her such poor manners.

Certainly not him.

His Da had helped him turn his window into a little balcony, so that they could still live indoors rather than become completely feral. Kili mourned for their codependency, but if he didn’t have something to mourn about he would be bored to tears, so really they are doing him a favour.

At least the storm cloud above the tower had mostly stopped, if not entirely; which meant the lake had nearly dried up by now as well.

Nearly.

For now, however, Merlin lay on his bed, watching his little menagerie swim through the air. Woven out of all sorts of things; dried grass and scraps of cloth, eyes made out of pretty stones and flowers. A fish with brass scales is polished to a mirror finish, sending light dancing across the walls. He wonders if any of them could make it all the way into, well… wherever Arthur is now.

Mercia, probably, or further. Wherever the most interesting people were, probably, where he’d already made a score of more worldly friends.

It is not as though he doesn’t have time to experiment lately, with everyone other than him busy being useful; he might as well give it a go. His magic is being all funny, but sometimes that works in his favour.

Sometimes.

He clears his throat, but none of them pay him the slightest mind.

“Ahem,” he says more loudly. “Oh, come on,” he huffs when there isn’t so much as a twitch. One of the butterflies takes pity on him and comes to idle in lazy circles around his headboard, eventually coming to a landing on a carving of a flower.

“Would you go to see Arthur?” he asks of it. Casts his eyes over the dried-leaves that make up the faded yellow wings in sceptical appraisal. “Could you even carry a note that far? Or be faster than a week?”

The butterfly snaps its wings in irritation, re-joining the circling cloud up above.

“You know what,” Merlin begins, annoyed, “that’s… fair, actually,” he admits. Rubs his hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms in until it aches. “Sorry, I’m not feeling myself lately.”

When none of them respond, as they cannot speak, he continues.

“It’s because I’m frustrated,” he says into the empty room, completely ignored, “because sometimes it seems like no one listens to me.”

With that, he rolls himself off of his bed and to his feet, Aithusa finally stirring from where she has been napping on the balcony, legs akimbo in the air above her. She blinks at him when he sighs.

“Want to go see if Freya has some time?”

Freya, while quite nice about it, doesn’t have time.

She doesn’t send him away, though, either, and Merlin is so bored and lonesome lately that he doesn’t mind doing some chores; even by hand.

“Is it nice living with Aoife?” Merlin asks her, kneeling in the little garden.

“It is,” Freya smiles at him, like she still can’t believe the truth of it. Her hands are marked with pale scars, but veiled in the rich soil they didn’t seem to bother her at all. The tunic she wore now had been one of Merlin’s when he was a boy, and she still has to roll the sleeves up. The green suits her, he thinks. It’s bright under the sunshine and a measure of his frustration sputters out like he’s buried it deep in the earth. She seems so much better; Merlin can have no regrets.

“I think she likes having the company here, too. And the extra pair of hands.” Freya continues, squinting into the sky.

Neither of them mention Aoife’s increasing frailty, and Merlin forces his one-track mind not to think about how he and Arthur used to come help her with her chores together. Alice has been visiting her little cottage more and more, on top of that, and he turns his head back down to harvesting.

“There’s going to be a frost soon,or so she says; although I’m not sure it will matter. Nothing seems to stop things from growing in this garden. Is it magic?” Freya asks. “Aoife won’t tell me, she just grins at me when I ask her.”

“Then I shouldn’t tell, either,” Merlin wrinkles his nose, laughing when Freya elbows him in the side.

Aithusa indulges in her favourite sport of chasing the blue pot in the distance, sending some of the newer sheep scattering, not knowing yet that she’s harmless.

Time passes.

He watches the new twins for their exhausted parents sometimes, and visits with Freya. When it snows they take up sticks and draw patterns in the soft powder, barely there for a morning before it’s melting away. Aithusa has taken to sleeping under his blankets with him; and one night the cold is so bitter that they are both driven into Arthur’s room with the unquenchable fire, freezing.

It feels forbidden, even though Arthur wouldn’t care at all.

No fish or birds swim in the air, no creaking of Merlin’s wardrobe and no humming magic from Kilgharrah’s bright scale. A tunic is thrown over the changing screen, and Arthur’s second pair of shoes are lined up by the wardrobe, just waiting for him.

Merlin’s own magic is stubborn, even now. Refusing to do things he’d been capable of for longer than his memory allows. He doesn’t really know what’s wrong with him; it’s like a cutting of his heart is missing. The anger is gone, the sadness is banked, his days are full, but they are quiet and still. Dormant with winter.

Nimueh is gone most of the time, chasing leads on Morgause, who seems to have disappeared into the ether. Finna and Alator as well; even the blood guard. Sometimes they return with more people, their little home ever growing. His Da comes and goes, his eyes tired, always trying to muster a smile or a kind word for Merlin, trying to head off loneliness at the pass; like he can halt it in its tracks if only he’s quick enough.

With all of the troubles that he’s trying to prevent already Merlin can’t bear to add another; to tell him it doesn’t seem like it’s working. Will he feel this way forever?

Stuck, while the world passes them by. Passive, while others actually do.

Aithusa looks pleadingly at the window, then back at him.

“We’d get in so much trouble,” Merlin says. She huffs, pretty eyes narrowing at him. “So much.”

He can’t really think of a worse idea.

Sleep takes an age to come; and when it finally does he dreams about wide open skies, the whole of the earth weaving below him and a beaming Arthur at his side. He knows it’s a dream because it’s warm and perfect; even so high up, and Arthur doesn’t need his enchanted cloak. Instead, the wind pushes through his golden hair, blowing it away from his face, leaving his smile open and unhidden.

When Merlin wakes up for the first time in weeks it’s not even misty; the sky a potent, alluring blue.

“The worst idea,” Merlin says, voice hitching and catching in his throat. Aithusa’s tail ticks over once, twice, before she smiles at him, teeth shining.

Merlin is a fool, though; so the more foolish the idea the less likely it is to leave him.

It doesn’t really matter that it’s winter, or that his magic is being disobedient. Aithusa being able to lift him doesn’t much matter either, not when she can only hold him up for a moment before they both crash to the ground, let alone fly. But they have perfectly fine feet for walking, don’t they?

If Merlin concentrates, he imagines he can feel the tug of where Arthur is. Much like he could with the sock; only instead of his foot it’s his heart, which probably works a lot better than a foot, magically speaking.

“It’s not like we wouldn’t come back,” he poorly justifies, “we’d just… visit. And make sure everything is alright. Maybe we can help.” Aithusa merely spins excitedly in a tight circle on top of the bed, pushing against him until he’s rolled clear off and onto the floor to escape her. It’s dusty, but still much tidier than under Merlin’s bed.

It feels like he has new eyes this morning somehow.

Everything seems sharper.

Feeling daring, he steals the tunic from its spot on the changing screen. His face burns hot like he has a fever, but he still does it, resigning himself to life as a criminal all the while. It’s five quick steps down the hallway and towards Merlin’s door; and for each one he is convinced Arthur will pop out of nowhere to call him a thief.

It’s red though; the shirt. And soft. Well-loved.

He shoves it to the bottom of a bag, imagining that he surely must match it in colour. He scurries around, gathering everything he can think of. First comes a leather sheath with a smart little traveller’s knife to fill that. Boots, and then socks to fill the boots. A bedroll, which he will fill with himself.

“What does a person need?” Merlin asks Aithusa, who tilts her head at him. “Water,” he ticks off on his finger, “food, shelter. I can’t hunt, of course, I’m terrible at it. Will you, then?”

Aithusa hisses in amusement as his stomach growls.

“I don’t know if that is a yes or a no,” Merlin admits, “but I will kindly assume it is a yes. Still… we should probably visit the kitchens.”

They do so, with all the giddy glee of one’s keeping a tremendous secret.

His Da will be going to Nemeth in only a few days time; they’ll just have to be patient until then.

***

It turns out doing something illicit, bold, and rule-breaking is only fun for the first three hours of walking; after about four it mostly starts to just feel like walking. Merlin has stopped picking herbs entirely, as he’s already managed to distract himself twice and it’s barely noon.

The hoarfrost that had spiked across the thin winter grass that morning has long since melted into nothing but slush. Merlin’s breath puffs in front of his face in a little white cloud, while at his side Aithusa prances along; undeterred by either chill or boredom.

“Do you think he’ll be glad to see us?” Merlin asks her, to which she tosses him an incredulous look, as if to say ‘of course, who wouldn’t be?’.

“I bet he’ll be mad,” Merlin says, “and tell us to have been sensible and stayed at the tower. Even though he’s very almost never sensible. After all, it’s not very sensible to go traipsing along in the wilderness without us, is it? Following strange sorceresses who knows where.”

Aithusa considers this, and agrees. For a moment the world is in perfect harmony, two souls in complete understanding that their dearest friend is a bit of a toad sometimes, but that they love him anyway.

Merlin knows well enough to set up camp when the sun begins to dip below the horizon. Long shadows mix across the fields, illuminated in the last fleeting rays of light. A flat rock makes for a fine seat, and even he can make a campfire without incident.

It is Aithusa that alerts him; her head swivelling towards the still distant treeline. More brush than anything, and too dark now to make out more than their most bare edges. Scanning the sky, Merlin can seek out nothing; but a dragon’s senses are far sharper than a humans, and while Aithusa might have an abysmal sense of humour, she would never play a jest like this.

She rumbles a warning; not to him, but to whatever approaches.

It is so quick and so soundless that he doesn’t see anything before he is already on the ground, pinned - a sharp set of teeth tearing at his shoulder, narrowly missing his neck. Only for a heartbeat though, as Aithusa tackles the creature off of him before he can even open his mouth to shout. She lets loose a bolt of white-hot lightning, making the camp as bright as daylight, and it’s then he sees them.

Wyverns; a good half dozen of them.

A mating pair, he dizzily remembers; although they had - all of them, to the last - thought that the nest had been abandoned. The flash of lightning sizzles into darkness, tracking paths along the ground, leaving him blinking spots from his vision.

“Shit,” he swears, rolling towards the fire, willing it larger and brighter with his magic. It is his luck to be born from dragonlords, and so sticks his hand right in the flames, fumbling until he grasps a sturdier bit of branch, waving it in front of himself to ward off another wyvern.

They are small. Only Aithusa’s size, and thin. Weak, without their parents - although they have clearly survived well enough on their own. One lunges towards him to nip at his ankle, trying to tumble him to the ground once more. He flares the fire out further, sending it scrabbling back.

“Aithusa!” He squints into the dark, still half blind. She cries out in answer, coming to his heels with a bloody muzzle and wide, wild eyes.

There are still more of them, circling, their own eyes bright as they reflect the firelight.

One leaps forward, and he knocks it out of the air with a sickening thud; it does not rise again. They look enough like Aithusa that he hesitates, horrified at himself, but foolishly so, as they only come for him again.

She shoves herself in front of him, and lightning illuminates the world once more as she lets out a cry. In the wake of it three fall, the bolt finding its way between them like links in a chain. His heart is making home in his throat, beating a harsh rhythm. Dizzy, he whirls. Where is the last one?

Ambush predators by nature, and silent in the air, he only thinks to look to the sky in time to see it gliding towards him, poised to strike. Wickedly sharp claws gleam as they flex, time seeming to slow and speed all in one. A frantic flare of magic summons a gust of wind with an edge like a blade to cut its wing, but too late to change the path. Injured, it hits Merlin in a tangle of limbs. The flat stone where he had made rest flashes in the corner of his eye as they fall together, before everything is dark.

***

The rock is a lot softer than he would have supposed, is Merlin’s first thought.

His second thought, a long, uneven blink later, is that he is not laid out on a rock at all. Instead he is laid out on his bed, Aithusa a tight curl next to him, her nose buried under her wings. Sorrowful eyes turn towards him when he stirs. Above them fly the birds and fish, the little yellow butterfly bobbing along without a care.

How?

“You’re awake, that’s good,” Alice says, looking up from her work. She’s sat on a chair next to his bed, a bundle of bandages in her lap that she sets to the side. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he says, voice creaking like a rusty hinge. It’s not even a lie; he doesn’t feel much of anything. Until he tries to move that is. He settles back down into his pillow with a groan. “Ouch. Oh, oh my head.”

“Hmph,” Alice tuts, unsurprised. “You’re quite lucky it’s not worse.”

Merlin doesn’t feel very lucky. In truth it is not just his head; everything about him feels like one pulsing bruise. His ankle throbs, his side aches, and his fingers don’t seem to want to so much as bend.

“I don’t suppose you might keep this a secret?” he asks, knowing it for hopeless even as he does. He throws an arm over Aithusa’s back, clumsily scratching just where she likes with an uncooperative, bandaged hand. She lets out a sigh, not raising her head.

“Well, I suppose it’s encouraging that you haven’t lost your sense of humour,” Alice says, touching his forehead. “Even if you have lost all good sense.”

Merlin only has eyes for Aithusa, though.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, even though she cannot answer. She doesn’t so much as make a peep.

“Poor thing had to drag you back to the tower all by herself,” Alice supplies into the silence, “and it was no small task. Thanks to her you won’t lose any fingers, but we’ll need to be attentive - all night in the slush and snow?” Her friendly face is pinched, and Merlin realises this might be more than the common amount of trouble.

It’s horrible to think of, Aithusa all alone. Helpless. She’s so small, yet. His poor girl.

“My fingers?” He repeats dumbly, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Frostbite,” Alice says kindly, standing with her hands on her hips. “Now let me see, the poultice should have some effect by now.”

She checks with a deft hand. Professional. Merlin stares blankly at the red skin that is revealed, mottled with white. The bed of one of his fingernails is a shocking purple.

“More a nip than a bite,” Alice reassures him, fixing the bandages back into place. “A few days for the stiffness to pass, maybe a bit longer for the sting. Your skin will be tender, and sensitive to harsh things - absolutely no potion brewing, and take care with what you handle for a time.”

Merlin doesn’t even have the capacity to react, stunned into placidity.

“Are you alright?” he asks Aithusa, alarmed when she doesn’t respond. “Is she alright?” he turns on Alice.

“Tired,” Alice says, “but alright. Dragons do tend to be sturdier than people, after all. Her pride is more injured than anything else.”

“And… will you tell my Da?” he asks, swallowing. He’s not even sure he doesn’t want him to know. Merlin doesn’t wish to be in trouble, as he certainly will be, but he would like a hug. Aithusa drops her head onto his lap, and he folds down over her like a spindly blanket.

“Oh, lamb,” Alice prevaricates, before patting him on the head like she used to do when he came to her with scraped knees and bloody palms, “he already knows.”

He lifts his head to look at her, and she nods to his arm, opening her hands to him. Butterflies alight in his stomach, but he extends his arm to her, letting her tug up his sleeve, exposing the rune-binding. Glowing, they are set against his skin, immovable. Final.

“Shit,” he says, settling his head back down on Aithusa, who lets out a croon. Shit. Shit. “Was he angry?” Alice makes a face, and Merlin decides he’d rather not know. “Don’t tell me,” he says, before she can get a word out. His stomach turns over, sour.

Aithusa wriggles until she can press her face against his, nosing him until he takes a breath, matching her. In and out.

Shit.

Chapter Text

I got in trouble.

Merlin’s letter starts ominously and only grows worse from there.

Trouble, Arthur scoffs. Trouble is stealing from the kitchens. Trouble is turning yourself pink for a week because you used the wrong enchantment, or making it so every time Arthur got in bed he floated to the ceiling. Trouble is not haring off into the wilderness without a plan, nearly getting yourself killed, and then having to be dragged back to safety by your baby dragon.

Da says the rune will only come off when Aithusa is old enough to fly with or when I can take it off myself - no exceptions.

Despite himself Arthur does feel a pang of sympathy. Merlin, already going mad trapped in the tower, now bound all the more thoroughly.

He could have been killed.

And Arthur wouldn’t have even been there.

It’s his duty to protect the little idiot. It’s Arthur’s mistake for missing the nest. His and the rest of the Blood Guard’s both. Merlin could have died, alone in the cold -

This is not a productive train of thought. He stops gripping the letter so tightly, smoothing down the crinkled edges where he’s clutched it, and forces himself to take a breath. It steams in the air in front of his face.

Aithusa blames herself, even though it was both of our ideas. She was splendid though. I was the one who was useless. I thought I was going to throw up - fighting is awful! I don’t want to be so helpless again, but I don’t know how to practise, either. I didn’t even realise they were there!

Of course he hadn’t, Arthur thinks. Merlin doesn’t know how to hunt - that’s what Arthur’s for. At night, in the dark, a wyvern is as silent a predator as an owl.

“Everything alright?”

Arthur looks up, having quite forgotten where he is. Lancelot looks back at him, Tom hovering at his shoulder.

“Nothing for you to worry over,” he promises, folding the letter up. “Nothing that will stop us.” He digs in his very non-magical bag for Merlin’s silver pin, handing it over with a tug on his heartstrings. He’d best get this back, so help Lancelot if he doesn’t. “You remember how it works?”

“I do,” Lancelot nods, taking it with great care. Three months after his injury he was hale and eager to help.

“Tom,” Arthur nods. He doesn’t know the blacksmith well, but when Leon had begged sanctuary for him there was only one answer. Sorcerer or not, falsely accused or not, there would be a place for him. Besides, he thinks, feeling mercenary about it, the growing tower could use a blacksmith.

“My lord,” Tom bobs his head. Arthur has not been able to get him to stop.

“I wish you all the best,” he says, reaching out to shake his hand instead, “stay with Lancelot. The forest is dangerous. I’ve news that some wyverns have been slain though,” he says optimistically, wincing as the older man’s eyes widen. So much for reassurance. “The tower will welcome you, I swear it.”

The impenetrable forest looms in front of them, yet this is as far as Arthur will go. He does not dare so much as set eyes on the tower, not yet.

“I’ll wait for you in Loidis,” he says to Lancelot, taking Llamrei’s reins in hand.

“You will not wait long,” Lancelot promises. Stalwart, and noble, Arthur can’t yet decide if he hates him or wants ten more of him.

There is no sense dragging it on any longer. They part ways, and Arthur watches them until they are swallowed by the trees, the dark canopy spreading above.

Gone.

He has a letter of his own to write. There’s two days travel to Loidis, and this shall be a long, long letter.

***

Loidis is small, and humble. A pocket of houses in the low bowl of a valley, surrounded by rocky hills that scale into mountains in the distance ahead, tips covered with a gleaming mist.

More importantly, they need help.

Arthur has a bow, and a sword, and needs more than a bedroll to sleep in for winter while he waits for Lancelot - and so it seems as though they can make a trade.

“There’s bandits,” the woman says plainly, her curious son looking from around her back. “They take our supplies, and they’ve killed one of Thomas’s pigs. The leader is making eyes at Letty’s daughter now, and we’ve all had enough of it. You get rid of them, you can stay here as long as you need.”

Arthur sees the tightness in her face, the thinness of her fingers, red from the cold. It is a generous offer, from her - just not one he is convinced she has the means to make. It barely looks like they’ve got enough food for the two of them. If Arthur were a mercenary, as she assumes, it would not be worth the while.

“How strict is the lord here on the matter of poaching?” Arthur asks her, appraising the treeline. This settlement is close to the Perilous Lands, he doubts many come at all. Now that Merlin’s talking to him again he’s sure it will be a small matter to convince him to send some provisions through as well. In the meantime there’s sure to be a boar or two about.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she says, evaluating him anew. “He doesn’t come by much, too afraid of the Dragon King.”

Arthur can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. Balinor might not think it terribly funny, but Arthur certainly does.

“Aren’t you afraid of him?” the boy asks, coming out from behind his mother at last.

“None of that,” she chides him.

“I’m not,” Arthur can only laugh, “I’ve met him you know, and he’s not scary.”

“You have?” The lad’s eyes go wide.

“He’s just teasing you, Galahad,” his mother says. The boy looks between the two of them, considering them in turn. Arthur winks, happy when he hides a laugh. His mother huffs a fond breath of air, petting his fair head. In truth, he looks much like Arthur had as a young boy; hair so bright it’s like sun-bleached wheat.

“Those bandits,” Arthur nods back at the woods. “Do they come from there?”

Her smile fades, but she nods. “Aye,” she says. “They’ve made home for winter, we think. Be careful.”

“I’ll return,” Arthur promises. It’s early in the day; more than enough time to get started. “May I trust you with Llamrei?” Arthur asks Galahad, catching his mother’s eye, who inclines her head in agreement, while the boy stares up at the mare in fascination.

It is not difficult to find the bandit’s trail - for they do not remotely hide it. Confident. Why wouldn’t they be, though? The village seemed to only have had a handful of men, and not one weapon to share between them. In a castle, as a prince, he had never known the value of a good sword. And then in the tower he had never once gone wanting, favoured as he was.

Out here, though, such things are rare, the metal better spent on practical things. He takes his bow in hand.

As he stalks their path, spotted with sloppy, muddy footprints, he considers the hunting that Morgause had done as they made way to the Isle. The quick snap of a neck. Painless and hopeless in equal measure. Out here, with no lord that the village would turn to or rely upon, a bandit’s only justice would be a hanging. Is it a crueller fate to take them alive?

He is not a prince, or a king, and has no place to make a judgement. Other than that he is the man who holds the bow. His fingers flex and tighten, thumb stroking the now-familiar dark burn.

The camp sits ahead, barely two hours walk from the village. A handful of tents are set up around a firepit, and eight men sit; eating and drinking, telling stories, unaware. A spindly armed boy sits a ways away, tending to some chore or another, head down. Not a watchman among them. He nocks an arrow, weighing his choices. It seems callous to shoot a man in cold blood over a pig - currently roasting over the firepit, at that.

The village is hungry, though, and desperate. Letty’s daughter, whoever she is, should not be afraid. And eight against one will not be a fair fight, no matter how Arthur’s conscience feels about it.

Silently, he lets the first arrow fly, and then two more before they even see where he’s coming from. They writhe on the ground, hobbled. He strikes a fourth, and a fifth as they rise, shouting in alarm.

“Lay down your weapons,” he calls, slotting his bow back in place and drawing his sword as the few remaining men spring to action. He ducks under the swing of a woodcutting axe, disarming the wielder and catching another sword before it can strike him. They trade three quick blows, but the bandit is a clumsy amateur, and Arthur does not have the time to dally with him. The axe swings towards him again, the first man recovered, and it is with a decisive cut that Arthur takes the hand and axe off of him entirely, turning to gut the swordsman before he can strike at Arthur’s back.

The last man tears away into the forest, away from the village and towards the Perilous Lands. He’s far more likely to die in the forest as make it, but Arthur is not willing to take the chance.

A last arrow is fired, and the man drops.

The camp is not quiet, filled with swearing and bellowing, promises of death and dismemberment, but the fighting is over.

“You,” Arthur waves over the boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, who is sprawled out on the ground, covering his head. “I’m not going to hurt you, stand up.”

The boy comes over, face wet with tears and a runny nose, and Arthur feels like a beast. “Come on now, here you are,” he hands him a handkerchief, feeling quite awkward now that the deed is done. “Where’d they pick you up, then? Do you have family?”

“In Jorvik,” the boy says, with a trembling voice, reaching out to take the cloth.

“Rat,” one of the men accuses him from where he struggles to sit, “we saved him. He was starving. You shut your mouth!”

“Don’t,” Arthur cautions him. “You will stand trial for - ” he pauses as he waits for the laughter to stop.

“Trial?” one of them guffaws.

“You will stand trial by the people of Loidis, against whom the suffering was done, for your crimes - ”

A barrage of mocking is all that this earns him, so he turns to the skinny twig of a boy instead. “Help me gag them, I’m not listening to this any longer.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy says, hopping to it.

Some of them can’t walk, and he can’t run herd on the lot of them; he’ll have to have some of the villagers come back here with him. They’ll want to strip the camp anyway - take back what they can. He snatches a rock out of the air where one of the bandits has thrown it - a fine shot, too, had it landed. Right at his temple. He bats another out of the air before he realises he should have tied them up from the start. He sighs.

“And find some rope, if there is any.”

“Are you a knight?” the boy dares to ask, down the line as Arthur finishes tightening the last ties, leaving the bandits bound. He’s followed close on heel ever since he figured Arthur wasn’t going to kill him.

He was a knight. He was of Camelot, once. Sworn by his father, the king.

It seems a lifetime ago.

In his head he still is, but he’s never quite sure it counts.

“Maybe,” he answers, which doesn’t impress the lad one bit. “Let’s go,” Arthur waves him ahead, “and see if we can’t find some game on the way back. The villagers have gone without long enough thanks to this lot.”

***

Your most valiant knight protector has made a name for himself, Arthur writes wryly, and is much lauded. In the village of Loidis, whose population is piddling, there is a fierce warrior named Galahad, who has sworn his undying allegiance to me. I believe he is nearly ten and one, and that his mother has something to say about the matter. Contain your jealousy.

I have told him the first duty of a knight is to be kind and listen to his mother, which, if I am fortunate, should spare me some injury. He’s a new friend to play with, so that should keep him busy.

I hope Lancelot and Tom have arrived safely, and that you will welcome them. I know you will. Tom has a daughter just a bit older than us, or so says Leon. I was hoping you might conjure up a way for him to get a message to her, or to Leon. So that she knows he is safe and whole.

He imagines that Camelot is in quite the uproar - it is not every day that someone vanishes from the cells. Leon has outdone himself, and Arthur lets his heart warm, revelling in the satisfaction of it all. For now, Arthur lays back into the floor of the barn, Llamrei lipping happily at his hair. It’s quite warm enough under his fine cloak, thick and enchanted besides that, and he hadn’t wanted to intrude into a widow’s home.

Also Galahad has so many questions. Inexhaustible, really. Could talk even Merlin’s ear off, which Arthur would have previously sworn was impossible to do.

Maybe you can even come up with a way for us to talk. He writes before he can think better of it, tired and lonely. I miss hearing your voice.

***

It is months later that the bird finds him. Exquisite and lifelike, he will appreciate it - later.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice comes out of it, questioning and hopeful, “can you hear me?”

“I’m a little busy!” Arthur yells, diving behind a rock for cover, acid splashing with a near-miss that has his heart dropping down to his gut. The rock dissolves in an alarming show of speed, clicking and sizzling as it corrodes. Miraculously, his cloak does not. That is a measure more than waterproof - he’ll have to tell Merlin. Later, though, as he has no such hopes for his skin, and so keeps running.

“What is that?” Merlin demands, “are you fighting something? I can’t see anything with this!”

“Just a minute,” Arthur bellows, stabbing frantically at the great thing’s side. It flails, and wrenches the hilt clean out of his stinging hand. “Hell,” he swears, as it slithers away with his sword still in it, sticking out like a pin.

“What is it?” Merlin asks again, impatient as ever.

“Can you send me a sword through the bag do you think?” Arthur pants as he chases the snake through the woods, losing ground. He’d left Llamrei behind, unwilling to risk her, but he wishes for half her speed now. “Or a lightning arrow again?”

“In a week, maybe. Why, where’s your sword gone?” Merlin asks, the bird flying along with him. It glints bright like silver, a red ribbon of a tail streaming merrily behind it.

“Snake’s got it,” Arthur wheezes.

“What?”

“Nevermind,” he says, seeing the snake diving into its den in retreat, drawing his bow as Lancelot barrels in from the west, his own sword out and bloody. Victorious. Arthur has finally decided; he wants ten of Lancelot - maybe twelve. Ten might be too few. “I’ll be getting it back.”

***

It has been a year, and Arthur has not stayed in one place longer than a fortnight, although this might break the streak.

“It’s purple, it’s thistle,” he says to the bird. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“The leaves,” the bird snaps in Merlin’s flustered voice, over which Arthur can hear the flipping of parchment, “are they marbled white? Or just green?”

Arthur kneels closer on the damp ground, knees growing cold, turning the leaves this way and that under the cloudy sky. It’s so misty out it’s hard to see.

“Marbled,” he says decisively.

“Alright, good, that’s the milk thistle,” Merlin says. The bird’s wings flutter as it hops about, red tail ragged and damp. “Da will be there soon with Finna and Alice, they’ll make the potion, you just have to get everything together.”

“I’ve got it,” Arthur says, placing it with care amongst the other weeds and herbs Merlin has been busy directing him about all morning. The fever that has spread throughout Lothian has yet to touch him, but it is a frightening thing to witness. Dead stack high in the streets.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Merlin says, unsure. “Keep your hood up, for clean air. And we haven’t heard anything of Morgause, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t her work. She’s cursed people before.”

“It also doesn’t mean it is her,” Arthur says, the bird clutching fast to his shoulder as he mounts Llamrei and they retrace the path back to the city. It is made of pieces of metal, fine and thin as paper, light as air. A familiar companion, now. Long grass parts around her quick steps, still wet with morning dew. “It might just be sickness. Finna will know, or your father.”

“Yeah,” Merlin sighs.

Arthur can never leave well enough alone, and finds the silence unbearable. He pokes, and prods.

“You aren’t still fighting, are you? I thought you’d had it all out.”

“We’re not fighting,” Merlin is quick to protest, “I just can’t believe he gets to go see you and I don’t.”

“It’s a plague,” Arthur says, dry as a bone.

“It’s not fair. I miss you,” Merlin says, muffled as though he’s thrown himself face-first into a pillow. As dramatic as ever, Arthur smiles.

“Yeah, yeah,” he sniffs, pleased, although it’s not something he can admit out loud. The silence is no more bearable the second time. “I miss you too,” he finally says, embarrassed for a reason he cannot name, even though the only people to hear him are Merlin and the horse.

Aithusa hisses dangerously in the background.

“And Aithusa, of course,” Arthur says quickly. “Who I miss most of all.”

***

Arthur is being haunted.

All week, the song follows him. Every tavern and street corner. He’d swear it was about his duel in the folly, but he’s got no idea who would write a song about the matter.

Tyr was always a little shit, though - he might very well have paid a bard to follow him. It seems like something he would do.

He is not getting his coins worth, if so, as it is a very unflattering tale. Made larger than life and embellished to fiction. Arthur is not tall or as broad as an oak tree, for one thing, nor is he as handsome as a sunrise. Tyr is as craven as a hare, though. That much is true. If he didn't want trouble then he should have kept his hands to himself. The lady had said no, after all, it was just sheer luck that Arthur was there to intervene. Lucky for her, that is, not for Tyr. Listening to this song for the rest of his days is a far better punishment than death for the bastard - he hopes Morgana hears it, all the way in Camelot.

The thought puts a smile on his face. It’s also quite catchy, he admits, tapping his foot along with the melody and resolving to never, ever, tell Merlin.

The Knight of Drake’s Spire, the bard sings, with bright kiss of his blade, did raise it aloft, splitting the shade -

***

The air is more mist than anything else, cloying and sticking to his skin. It’s been days since there’s been even a hint of sunlight, grey and murky from sunup to sundown.

It is pure fortune that Arthur stumbles upon the village - good or bad remains to be seen. It seems near abandoned, barely a soul in sight. It sets his teeth on edge.

“Good morning,” Arthur calls as he passes a house with a woman minding a gaggle of children.

“Sir,” she answers, hiding her face and shooing the children back inside.

“Is all well?” he asks, wary of what sort of trouble this might be. The silver bird is hidden from sight tucked under Arthur’s hood, too plainly magical to risk.

The only reply he gets is the door shutting firmly behind her. Loud in the quiet.

“Great,” he sighs.

“Do you think there’s trouble?” Merlin’s voice comes out in a whisper.

“When is there not?” Arthur mutters, directing Llamrei further into the village, hand finding the familiar pommel of his sword. There is nothing more to see than empty houses and sheds, full gardens and fields with no one tending them.

It is not until the outskirts of the village that he hears voices through the fog. Raised in disagreement, tones he recognizes on the cusp of violence. He urges Llamrei faster with a grim worry.

What must be most of the population surrounds a tall tree, a rope being drawn over a branch. A story writes itself quickly, the players all ones he has seen before. The setting being a hanging instead of a pyre doesn’t change much. A little girl weeps but doesn’t even try and fight as someone loops rope around her neck, and Arthur has his bow out and drawn before anyone even sees him approach.

“Enough,” he barks, “let her free.”

The man holding the rope drops it with a startled yelp, the girl’s sobs the only sound for a moment before the shouting begins anew with twice as much vigour. Arthur twitches his arrow at the first person to try and pick up the rope.

“What was her crime then?” he asks. She looks all of Galahad’s age at the most. Her feet are bare and filthy, hair a rat’s nest so tangled and matted he cannot even tell the colour.

“She’s a witch,” someone says, and the girl curls up into a ball, her hands over her head. Arthur feels his jaw tick, and fights the urge to just fire an arrow or two into the crowd, just to make himself feel better. Magic might be a crime commanding death, in Camelot, but they are in Cumbria.

“That is not a death sentence, not here,” he tries, although he thinks people who would string up a child are not ones who can be reasoned with.

“She’s cursed us,” another woman calls out, “though I don’t see how it’s any business of yours!” She darts forwards for the rope, and Arthur lets an arrow fly and catch her skirts, pinning her, drawing another before anyone can take a lunge at him.

“Somehow I doubt your words,” he says with a snort. The rope is still around her neck, loose on the ground in a coil. “Take that off,” he calls to the girl, trying to gentle his voice, “and come here. I swear to you that I will take you somewhere safe. Magic or not.”

He feels the little bird free itself from his cloak, fluttering and sparkling as it does a loop around Arthur’s head, showing off.

“It’s alright,” Merlin’s voice says. The woman he’d shot at makes a sign against evil and Arthur gives her a tight smile. “My name’s Merlin,” the bird says, landing on the tip of Arthur’s bow, red tail eye catching in the gloom, “what’s yours?”

The girl stares unblinking, looking between Merlin and everyone between her and salvation.

“No one will stop you,” Arthur says, gesturing for them to clear a path. He’s banking on the fact that none of them want to die over the matter - and no one does. There was fighting about this, before he even arrived; not all of them can possibly agree with this.

“Go on,” a man says to her, shaking, but still lifting the rope off of her neck with care and stepping aside, shouldering others back as he does. On her other side a pair of young women do the same, pale faces set with determination.

She stands up on weak legs, taking two tentative steps before bolting forwards all at once, hiding behind Llamrei. Arthur dismounts, bow still drawn.

“Can you get up on your own?” he asks her quietly, backing them away from the crowd. He doesn’t get a reply, seeing her shake her head out of the corner of his eye. “That’s alright,” he says. Once they are far enough away he relaxes his grip, sliding his arrow back into his quiver and offering her his hand. “I’ll help you.”

***

“Are you awake?”

Merlin’s voice comes quietly out of the dark. Arthur peels his eyes open to look, the little bird standing upright on his chest where he lies in his bedroll. Lancelot sleeps across the fire, undisturbed, as well as Tom’s son, Elyan. They cross into East Anglia tomorrow, on rumours of a redcap, and all three of them need the sleep.

“I am now,” he whispers.

“Arthur,” the bird hops a step closer, peering down at him like a living thing. “I’m so sorry.” In this strange space where he is barely woken he merely wonders what Merlin has to be sorry for; it takes a moment for the fear to hit him.

“What’s happened?” he asks, sitting up. He catches the bird in his hands before it can tumble to the ground.

“It’s Aoife,” Merlin says, voice wet, “she’s gone. In her sleep. Alice says it was peaceful.”

He doesn’t understand immediately, his mind slow and disbelieving. She was old, he knows, and ill, but somehow seemed untouchable.

“Freya was there,” Merlin keeps speaking, voice gentle and low, “so she wasn’t alone. I wanted you to know - I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“It’s - ” he shuts his mouth. It’s not alright, not really; but he’s glad she wasn’t alone. “I never got to see her again,” he says, pressing the bird snug against his chest. It has no heartbeat of its own, but it’s still a comfort.

“She left you some things. Some of the preserves that she makes, the ones you like, and she was sewing you a new tunic. She talked about you a lot,” Merlin says, sniffling and weepy, and Arthur blinks his stinging eyes. “She lost all her sons, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Arthur whispers, watching Lancelot roll onto his side across the camp, peaceful. “Are you alright?” he asks. “Is Freya?”

“Not really,” Merlin admits, “but we will be. Aoife knew it was coming. She was ready, bossing us around til the end. Making sure the garden was prepared for next season, and that the twins had new socks ready for the next half-dozen winters.”

“That sounds like her,” Arthur snorts, laying back down. The bird settles in the curve of his shoulder, resting against the pulse of his neck. “I don’t think I can go back to sleep,” he says.

“Me neither,” Merlin answers. They don’t speak, not for a long time, but it is nice not to be alone. The stars above him flicker and shine, unchanging.

***

It has been two years and then some. He is twenty, and it is a rare day where his thoughts turn to Morgause.

Some nights, when it is just him and Llamrei, with even Merlin’s fantastic little bird quiet as the warlock sleeps, he wonders if she did not survive her wounds after all.

If he might go home.

It feels selfish, even considering it. There are places now that he trusts; safe places. Points of contact, when Leon has word of an unjust execution, where Lancelot or Elyan know to wait for a message. And there are more people than those in Camelot are willing to help.

Galahad’s mother, Wulfhild, on the border of the Perilous Lands. A couple in Wenham, and an old man in Dun Holm; even a pair of smugglers that move about between Camelot and Mercia. Not to mention Alator and the other Catha, who have never lost purpose, not since long before Arthur had lifted a sword. He’s made friendly with the ferocious king of Lothian; not even Uther can say that.

There is so much that still needs doing, but some days he wants to rest. He’s not sure he could ever tire of seeing the world, not truly; but to lay down his head on a pillow once more seems a luxury unimaginable. A hot bath. His fire. Feet that don’t ache.

Balinor and Nimueh. Aithusa. Merlin.

Many wandering souls, he assumes, dream of home. In this, Arthur is thankful he is not prone to much dreaming, as it seems a sad thing. An almost, but not quite thing. Drifting between awake and asleep in the cradle of the earth and stars, his thoughts are mostly about what breakfast shall be tomorrow.

He is sick of salted meat, but he’s been hoarding the last little pot of Aoife’s preserves, though she’d have his hide to know they go uneaten over something so silly as sentiment.

He wakes to a piercing cry, and a sound like a campfire doused by oil and water, popping and seething; then utter silence. He is full awake in an instant, armed and on his feet, but there is nothing at all in the dim light of his smouldering embers, or under the half moon.

He cannot sleep with his magic ring on, not unless he also wants to sleep in gloves, but it is never far from reach. Light spills from the crack in his bag, flaring unnaturally. It vibrates in his hand as he takes it up, pouring red from underneath his skin and bone as he clenches his fist around it for how brightly it burns.

Whatever has happened, it is no mundane magic.

The horizon is dark, and other than Llamrei’s quick, nervous breaths he hears nothing.

Blade gleaming, he paces in widening circles around his camp, his shadow flickering. Once, he loops, then twice.

“Who’s there?” He calls, still finding nothing. It is too silent, even for night, no bugs chirping or animals rustling.

Finally, a spot of light reflects back at him from the woods, like the eyes of an animal - but unblinking. Heart hammering, he approaches.

“No,” he gasps, catching sight of it and rushing forwards the last few steps. Before him, Merlin’s bird lies broken into pieces on the forest floor where it has fallen.

Arthur reaches for it, hand halting in the air as he sees the rest - nearly the colour of the wood around them, well hidden, is an adder. Dead, clutched tightly and withering within the bird’s talons - pierced through. The punctures ooze a black, oily tar, ugly and ominous. Its own fangs are stuck fast in the bird’s neck, poison spent.

“Merlin?” He asks, swallowing. But there is no answer, the bird is still and hollow. Never alive at all, it is uniquely lifeless, now. His eyes sting, for all that Merlin is undoubtedly safe in his bed, back at the tower. His constant little companion, it can’t be gone.

The pieces are silvery in the moonlight, but he doesn’t collect them - whatever has happened this is no normal adder, and there is no telling what curse or poison remains. Arthur is not so foolish as to be unable to recognize dark magic when it is so clearly shown.

And he cannot throw away the sacrifice that has been made.

There is no sound, but the leaves below him start drifting backwards, as if pulled. The little feathers of metal stutter in place, and he feels the wind change; air swelling like a storm. He surges furiously back to his feet, sword in hand. A shadow of a figure is taking quick shape by his camp, nebulous and hard to see. Rapidly becoming clearer - he knows of precious few souls who can do such a thing, and no one who would do this means him well.

Arthur lunges, the tip of his sword gliding to stop only a hairsbreadth from their neck, ready to finish the job.

“Reveal yourself,” he orders, barely able to draw his blade back before they turn to slice their own throat with it.

Pulling down their hood, it takes Arthur far too long to recognize the face that stares back at him, shaken with disbelief. Made out of sharper lines, yet still familiar after years apart - Arthur would know Merlin anywhere.

And only he would be so stupid as to nearly kill himself on Arthur’s sword instead of holding still for a minute.

“Arthur!” Merlin cries out, diving at him. Arthur drops the sword just in time - twice now, the fool’s nearly done himself in - and brings his arms up. Catching Merlin is an instinct, but the shape of him has changed. He’s grown; of course he has, but there is nothing of this that feels real.

“Are you really here?” he asks, words hoarse. Merlin’s face is buried against his neck, where Arthur can hear and feel his every breath. He’s warm, and solid. “Or are you a spell?”

“I’m here,” Merlin says, “I felt the bird - oh!” he pushes half-way out of Arthur’s arms, hands still gripping tightly, face wide-eyed and flushed with fear. “Where is it, what’s happened? There isn’t much that could do that, so I, well,” he stutters, letting go at last and smoothing down his cloak. “Let’s just say it’s possible I panicked.”

“I didn’t know you could travel like that,” Arthur fills in, still in shock perhaps, because he cannot tear his eyes away. Merlin, Merlin, Merlin, his mind seems to say, over and over, tumbling around like a river rock.

“Neither did I,” Merlin laughs, pushing his hair back away from his red face, not quite meeting Arthur’s eyes. It’s longer than Arthur has ever seen. Finally his father’s length, and half falling out of his ties, as always. A mess, shining so dark it is nearly blue in the night. Arthur raises a hand to touch it before he thinks better of it, drawing it back to his side. There’s not a trace of baby fat left on him, the fine lines of his face fey and -

“I thought you couldn’t leave,” Arthur hears his own voice at a distance, like he’s underwater, still catching up. The adder - they should probably sort that out. “I thought not until you could fly, or - ”

Merlin pushes back the sleeve of his sleep shirt, showing his arm; the broken rune. Where Arthur’s three runemarks are thin bands, dormant for years, Merlin’s is a fragmented mess of gold, shattered across the pale field of his forearm.

“I told you I panicked,” he laughs, looking down at his feet. “Oh, Aithusa will be so angry with me. Us. Don’t go thinking you’ll escape her. She’s already flying, I promise you that, but she can’t quite carry me yet. In the air, that is. On the ground,” Merlin makes a gesture that Arthur assumes means something, he’s just not quite sure what, “she barely puts me down lately, she’s so eager to practise.”

Merlin’s still looking at his feet, the trees, Llamrei - anywhere but at Arthur. Arthur, who cannot take his eyes away, even still. He feels possessed, or enchanted. Bewitched. Something. His words fail him. Merlin finally meets his eyes, looking once, and away, and back again - turning redder and redder.

“What?” Merlin finally snaps, chin up and challenging. “Oh, you’ve got a scar,” he says, struck by it now that he’s really looking. He traces the short, sharp mark on Arthur’s cheek. A neat line underneath his eye, but he sees mirrors so rarely he’s quite forgotten. “What?” Merlin asks again, when Arthur stands silent for another beat too long.

“It’s just really, really good to see you,” he rasps. The smile that overcomes his face is as unstoppable as the tide, pulling until his cheeks pinch with it - and the answering one he gets in return is the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen. His sword lies quite forgotten by his feet, and it’s only a step to reach out for Merlin again, taking his hand.

His throat clicks as he swallows. He brushes his thumb across Merlin’s fingers, each in turn; colourful with a rainbow splattering-smear of potion stains.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Merlin says, gripping back with a tremor that Arthur is gracious enough to ignore. He dips his head, a sparkle of mischief alight in his smile. “Ser knight.”

It startles a laugh out of Arthur, one he can’t help at all. No matter how terrible the night had been, it isn’t any longer. He bows over Merlin’s hand, play-acting and flourishing his arm like he’s in court. “M’lord.” He means it to come out a jest, but it betrays him with fondness.

By his feet lays a silver feather, and his grin fades.

Morgause. He shakes the cobwebs from his head. The adder, the precious bird.

There is only so much time one can stand staring at another, he supposes, especially when there is dark magic afoot. He already hates Morgause, who’s working he assumes this is, but he decides he now hates her even more. He clears his throat, stepping away like he’s walking through molasses.

Merlin stands before him, whole, and perfect. Dressed in sleeping clothes with his boots only half done up, cloak loose around him, showing off the fair line of his collarbone.

“Is that my shirt?” he asks, noticing it for the first time.

Whole, and perfectly, wretchedly embarrassed.

Chapter Text

“Do you think you can mend it?” Arthur asks, as they both kneel over the tangled mess of the bird and the snake.

A bright mage light hovers above them like a will o’ wisp, so he can see the ‘no’ written plainly on Merlin’s face before he can so much as open his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, leaning back on his heels. “This spell was powerful. Very powerful. And dark. Meant to kill. The bird wasn’t alive, not really, but the magic I had imbued it with was all spent when it was struck.”

“It saved me.”

“Then it did its job,” Merlin says, “and I’m glad for it. Although I’m sorry it’s gone.”

Arthur does his best to bite back on his own sorrow. The red ribbon of the bird’s tail catches his eye, and he wonders if he might be able to take that much at least, as a token.

“As am I. Is it safe to touch?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Merlin pokes the brackish tar with a stick, and Arthur is torn between absolute despair and laughing like a loon. Gods help him, he’s missed Merlin’s particular brand of daring. “That’s a good point, though. We wouldn’t want someone to find this, it’s dangerous. Right then.”

His eyes shine with gold as he brings his cupped hands to his mouth, stick tossed carelessly aside. He whispers a spell into them where it is caught like a firefly. Loose waves of glim shine through his fingers. They press down into the earth, the malaise recoiling and diminishing until nothing remains of it at all. The light above them flickers, sputtering, before fading away.

“It’s fine now,” Merlin says. “Dragon’s breath. Or close enough for counting, anyway.” In the dark, Arthur can hear his strained breathing. The harsh work of an inhale he tries to muffle.

“You need to rest,” he says, snatching up the ribbon before standing and offering a hand to pull Merlin to his feet. “You broke your rune, you came all the way here, you’ve cleansed whatever that was. Even you can get tired.”

“Tired,” Merlin argues around a poorly stifled yawn, “is a word I do not know the meaning of.”

“Then your education has really gone to the dogs since I left,” Arthur propels him forward with a teasing shove. “Should have cracked open a book or two, lazybones.”

“Ugh,” Merlin groans, “don’t even joke. Some days I look at myself in the mirror and I’m surprised that I haven’t turned into a book myself. Feels like all I do is study, study, study! Practice, practice, practice!”

“No fun at all?”

“None,” Merlin assures him. “In fact that might be another word I don’t know.”

“I’m sure Aithusa’s been loving that.”

“Oh, you can read on dragonback,” Merlin says brightly. “As long as she doesn’t run too quickly. Where are we, by the way?”

“Essetir, why?” They return to his little camp, only a stone’s throw away.

“Just wondering how the locals feel about dragons, that’s all - small ones, not big ones.”

“How small are we talking here?” Arthur asks as he gets the fire roaring higher. “Like, this big?” He pinches his fingers together, meeting Merlin’s eyes over the flames. They crinkle into happy crescents.

“Maybe a little bigger,” Merlin smiles. He pushes the toes of his boots into the forest floor, looking over his shoulder at Llamrei where she grazes. He turns back to Arthur and makes a considering face.

“No kidding?” Arthur marvels. It’s bittersweet to know that she has grown so well and so much. He can picture her haring around the tower, through the fields and the sky - driving Kilgharrah mad, of course.

“No kidding,” Merlin promises, “sometimes I really miss being able to carry her around the tower with me. Just let her nap the afternoon away in my hood, you know?”

“I know.” He’s thought much the same.

“It’s hard to feel too heartbroken about it though,” Merlin continues, the cadence of his voice as he rambles a familiar and welcome melody, “seeing as how much she loves being big. She’s a menace, really, but a very happy menace. Honestly it’s good luck that she won’t ever get as big as Kili. She’s just not built for it, but she’s already faster than him!”

Arthur finds success digging through his pack. “Here,” he goes over and holds out the preserves he’d been saving.

“You still have some?” Merlin doesn’t take them.

“You need the energy,” he pushes it forward again. “Take them, come on. They’re plum.”

“I know,” Merlin says, as Arthur wiggles the little clay pot more insistently, “plum is your favourite.” He finally takes it with a careful hand, weighing it. “Share?”

They do so, sitting side by side as the sun rises. The plum cuts the salt of the dried meat, and they polish off the last of his provisions. Merlin is so close that their elbows knock and their feet brush, but Arthur can’t bring himself to complain. Arthur had known he’d missed Merlin, of course, but to see him again…

It is no small thing.

“Aithusa’s getting close,” Merlin says eventually, head propped up with his folded arms, eyes heavy. “Why are you in Essetir, anyway?”

“There’s an abandoned Caer,” Arthur picks up a twig and draws the shape of the coast, as well as the borders of Camelot, Essetir, and then Mercia. “Here,” he marks it, “where I’ve heard word from a smuggler acquaintance that a slaver has taken residence. People are missing. Men, mostly, for work, or worse.”

“Worse?” Merlin shoots him an alarmed look.

“Cenred seems to care very little for this fort, so it’s possible he doesn’t know it’s been seized. It’s been abandoned for as long as your father took home in the Perilous Lands, so far as I know. So. Either it’s work. Hard labour, maybe, that this slaver needs strong men to sell for, or,” Arthur hesitates, tapping the stick on the border of Essetir and Camelot, “Cenred does know, and they are being taken to bolster his army.”

“Oh,” Merlin breathes in understanding. “Wasn’t Cenred the one who was friendly with Morgause?” he asks aloud, although they both know the answer.

“Yes, although I hope the timing is a coincidence. Or,” though he thinks it unlikely, “that that snake was not Morgause at all. It’s not like we’ve announced our plans. Or even really have plans just yet. We’ve no idea what to expect there, only that there’s something.”

“And who’s we, anyway?” Merlin elbows him.

“Lancelot and Elyan, you’ve met them, of course,” Arthur elbows him right back. The two of them had made more than one journey to and from the tower by now. “We’re to meet in two days time to scout. Well, tomorrow, now - ”

“Oh! She’s here,” Merlin’s head snaps up to the sky, heedless of interrupting, “get ready to be crushed.”

“Ah,” Arthur winces, gleeful in spite of what’s coming.

“Lovingly crushed,” Merlin reassures him as they both stand. “We’re working on it, she just grows so fast!”

The trees around them rustle and shake, leaves fluttering in that familiar push and pull of a dragon’s wings. If Arthur did not know her so well he might be terrified, he thinks, seeing her land. She has grown, and is a fair match in size to Llamrei - Merlin had not been wrong - and lithe. Longer and leaner than Kilgharrah, with a narrow face and two dangerous looking curving horns that serve as a crown. Whip-quick, she spots him, darting over with her teeth gleaming in a happy grin, fast as lightning, lifting him triumphantly up with her head. It’s not really big enough for purpose, and he holds on to her horns with both hands, scrambling. His legs kick out uselessly, half upside-down.

“Aithusa!” he wheezes from his perch, “I missed you too!”

“You’re not Kili,” Merlin chastises. He’s laughing though, so it doesn’t really stick. “You can’t have people sitting on your nose all day, set him down!”

She does not, instead taking him on a circuit, showing off her trophy while Llamreii nickers. He groans at every other step, jostled, but he can’t stop grinning, either.

“Let me see you, girl,” he begs at last. If he wants to keep any of his insides unbruised he has to get down eventually.

She sets him down with care, scent-marking him with her affectionate headbutts just like she used to. His hands still remember all her favourite places to be scratched, although her scales have much changed from his memory. Stronger, now, and shining. Iridescent as always, she catches the rays of the rising sun like light hitting a crystal.

“You’ve grown so well,” he praises her, setting his head down on hers. “Thank you for taking care of Merlin,” he whispers, “you were very brave.”

She croons at him, pressing in.

“I don’t suppose you can still turn into a dog?” he asks. She’s beautiful, but wandering with a dragon is a poor idea. Arthur has no reason to think Camelot knows of a second great dragon at all, and is not willing to tell them, no matter how wonderful it is to see her. Secrecy remains her best protection, as it is for Merlin.

“A very, very big dog,” Merlin shrugs one bony shoulder. “She can also look like a horse, but it’s just an illusion of the senses. So if she bites something it’s really creepy,” he offers, covering his smile with his hand.

Aithusa grins at him with several rows of teeth, and he can imagine.

When the light is fair they depart. They stock up in Brechfa, where Arthur had not intended to stop - but his own supplies were running low just for himself, and Merlin had barely stopped to put his boots on before breaking all laws of magic.

Arthur well remembers what Balinor had said about the magic of the tower - the age of it, the sheer power steeping and rooting deep over hundreds of years. The task he set for Merlin to break the runemark should have been an impossible one. Arthur cannot help but wonder when Balinor will catch up to them; he won’t rest easily with Merlin’s sudden disappearing act. Nimueh had told Arthur the cost of travelling in an instant, as well.

And yet.

One right after another, Merlin has done them. The largest side effect seemed to be yawns, at least so far. He’s atop Aithusa now, who prances merrily along as a truly stunning white mare.

Still tremendously eye-catching, but much less so than as a dragon, if that is the measure they shall judge by.

“Is that an oak tree?” Merlin asks, perking up in his seat.

“It is.”

“I think this is the first time I’ve seen one. I mean, other than in a book,” Merlin stares at it. “I’ve never seen a tree so big.” His neck cranes as they pass it, fascinated. “When you first came to the tower, you told me some of the trees get as big around as a house, do you remember? Is that really true?”

The tree that has caught Merlin’s attention is hardly house sized, but it’s easily bigger around than the two of them combined, and humbles any of the trees Merlin would have seen near the tower or the coast.

“They do, I wasn’t teasing!” Further in the old growth forests, away from the plains. Places sacred, he knows now. “Small houses,” he allows.

“I’d like to see one,” Merlin declares.

It seems such a simple wish, he doesn’t have the heart to say no. Camelot can’t be the only place with them, he thinks. It’s a tree , how few of them could there be?

“We’ll find one, then,” he says, hoping it to be the truth. “In the autumn they’re pretty. Red and gold. Alright, hold up. We’re near, I think.”

“To what?”

“There’s a marker cairn,” Arthur explains, “where we have set to meet. Listen for a reply, alright?”

He whistles sharply, mimicking a bird call, echoing and bouncing through the wood and up the low hill.

“Over there,” Merlin cocks his head along with Aithusa, although Arthur hadn’t heard anything.

“Good ears,” he says, which elicits rather more blushing than the compliment warrants. He raises his eyebrow; there is no point trying to make sense of Merlin, and instead turns Llamrei to the north, Aithusa high stepping alongside.

They do find Lancelot and Elyan, already waiting. The base of the cairn is pressed flat with the many feet of those who use it as a landmark, a more permanent set of stones made up into a wide firepit. Around them pines stretch up into the sky, their scent mingling with the woodsmoke and tickling his nose.

“That can’t be Merlin,” Lance exclaims, bounding over with a grin. “It’s been a while, not since - ”

“Last winter,” Merlin finishes for him, dismounting to take his hand with an enthusiastic shake, “with the lady you brought up from Amata, remember? And Elyan, you’re well?”

“As can be,” he answers, coming to give a warm grasp to Merlin’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you. Arthur,” he calls, “how has this come to be?”

“Hells if I know,” he says, dismounting and greeting them as well. They both seem healthy, from what Arthur can tell, if in need of a shave and a good wash.

“There was a thing,” Merlin waves his hands, “and here I am!”

“As good at telling tales as always,” Arthur slugs him on the shoulder, earning an affronted look that can’t quite douse his amusement, “come on, let’s get to it.”

“According to the locals the man’s name is Jarl,” Elyan offers first, “but other than the location of the fort no one seems to know much. Mostly they’ve been just staying in groups, sticking to their own villages. No going out alone, or at night; the precautions you’d expect.”

“So no one who has been taken has made it back?” he asks, after a moment’s thought. There had always been the hope.

“No,” Lancelot answers. His eyes are soft with sympathy. “A horrible fate.”

“One we mean to change.” Arthur gives a tight smile. “Has anyone seen them taken? How many men? Can we guess at their numbers?”

“One lass swore a half dozen, that her father sent her running home before he was taken, but that is all I’ve heard of it,” Elyan says. “For what it’s worth, I believe her, but she was little enough that counting might not be her strong suit.”

“And the panic,” Lancelot agrees, “might not be reliable. Have to assume they have many more guarding the rest, as well. We’ll need to scout the fort somehow.”

“Oh,” Merlin finally pipes up, “I can help with that!”

Arthur recalls the mage light flickering and going dark, mere hours ago. He bites his tongue, but only for a moment. He’d rather have Merlin irritated than harmed.

“Are you sure?” he leans in to ask, though this close between the four of them there are no secrets. Merlin blinks at him, colour rising on the back of his neck.

“Don’t baby me,” he says, eyes flinty.

“I’m not,” Arthur insists, “you’ve just done a lot of magic! If you need rest - ”

“It doesn’t really sound like all the enslaved men can afford for me to take a quick nap,” Merlin snaps.

“Better to wait a day and have everything go smoothly, rather than have you pass out in the middle of a spell and it’s all for naught,” Arthur counters, as Lancelot and Elyan trade looks between themselves. “I’d ask the same standard of anyone coming with, and you know it.”

“Fine,” Merlin says, although Arthur very much has the impression he is being humoured. “It’s not a hard spell, you’ll just have to watch my body for me.”

“And where will you be, if not in your body?” Lancelot asks, far more calmly than Arthur would have managed.

“In the air - I’ll borrow a bird’s eye. It’s simple, I promise, I just won’t be home,” he taps his head, “so you’ll have to make sure nothing happens to me.”

Undoubtedly this is the safest and most practical way forwards; Arthur just wishes there was a good meal and night of sleep in between now and then. The dark circles under Merlin’s eyes are especially stark on the pallor of his face - and not all of that is from spending his time reading books. His efforts have taken their toll.

Merlin is not fragile, Arthur knows. Nor is he invulnerable.

“You swear,” he demands, sticking an obnoxious finger right under Merlin’s face, “you swear.”

“I swear,” Merlin says, locking eyes with him, certain.

“I believe you then, fine.” Arthur wishes he could raise an objection, but he can only hope Merlin is right. “We’d best get started. There’s only so much light in the day.”

They tread silently through the wood - or as silently as four men, three armoured, and their mounts can tread, at least. Until the fort is close enough that it cannot be missed from the air, and no further.

“Alright,” Merlin says, eyes tracking across the sky as he finds a seat upon the ground. Arthur goes to his side, bracing him and fighting down his own nerves. They’ll do no one any good. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Just like that?” Elyan raises his eyebrows, looking to Arthur, who can only shrug. It’s been years since he’s seen Merlin do magic, and he’s never seen this.

But Merlin is already gone - his body stiff, and straining. His fingers flex. This is not what Arthur had thought. Somehow he had assumed it would be more sedate; like sleeping. He twitches, eyes going wide; not gold, but looking a mirror for a jackdaw’s, pale and bright. Arthur presses his hand more firmly against Merlin’s chest, holding him up, hoping this wasn’t a mistake. It is not hours that pass; it can’t be, but it feels so.

Then, with a great gasp of air, Merlin slumps, himself again.

“So,” he begins, catching his breath, “there are a lot of them - a lot. At least a good two dozen. Maybe three, if some are away. The men they’ve taken seem to all be kept together in the dungeons. Or what used to be the dungeons, I suppose. The fort is so dilapidated that it’s half crumbled to dust, and the dungeons are more of a deep pit. Roped off, and guarded, so they can’t leave, but not barred.”

“Two, three dozen,” Elyan whistles slowly. His brow furrows. “We’ll need a plan. Was there anywhere we could bottleneck them?”

“Not without getting trapped yourselves, I don’t think. Or having them turn on the men. It’s a rabbit’s warren.”

“With an open ceiling,” Lancelot says.

“Fancy yourself a mountain goat?” Arthur teases. “It’s not a bad idea to come from above, but I’m not sure how we’d manage it.”

“Aithusa can, though.” Merlin nods to her.

“Wait, Aithusa?” Lancelot whirls to have another look. She merely tosses her mane, unambiguously a horse. “Well, isn’t that something,” he praises.

“And a hell of a distraction,” Elyan says.

“What do you say, girl?” Merlin grins.

“And if rumours get out about a dragon this close to Camelot’s borders we’re causing more attention to turn towards the tower.” Arthur says. “I’m not saying no,” he says over Merlin before he can say whatever defensive nonsense is brewing in his head, “but we should take precautions. At night, when most are asleep and there is a lighter guard, for one. For another she’s bright white. Hell, she glows. Can you change your colour?” he asks her directly.

She only chuffs in reply, looking away from him.

“I’m sorry,” he rolls his eyes, “you’re very beautiful, but in this case you are too beautiful. Can we rub her down with soot?”

“Monster,” Merlin rocks into him with a laugh, finally rising away from Arthur’s arms. “How dare you. Soot.”

“It’ll wash off,” Arthur defends himself, rubbing at his chest in mock pain. “So how about it? Think of it like a disguise?”

Making it a game seems to turn the whole farce into something more palatable for her. As a hound her feet are soft padded, and covered in soot and ash she looks more like a black dog out of graveyard legends than anything approaching a dragon. It’ll have to do.

“Rest,” he insists quietly to Merlin, once the others have busied themselves making ready. “It’s hours until nightfall. You’re too exhausted to be stubborn.”

It’s undeniable. Hands shaking with minute tremors, not even Merlin can pretend otherwise.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Merlin teases, before the smile dims on his face. “Just don’t - ” he starts to say, stopping and fidgeting.

“What?” Arthur asks, stepping closer. Leaves rustle underfoot.

“Don’t leave without me.” Merlin opens and closes his mouth again, embarrassed, as Arthur stands there speechless like a fool. “Please.” With that, he turns before an answer can be given.

Arthur stares after him, wrongfooted and heartsore.

He drags his bedroll out of his pack, coming to join Merlin once more, laying it out on the flattest bit of forest he can find. Fussing with it and tugging the corners straight, as though that will make up for the years apart.

“I never… wanted to be away from you,” Arthur swears, quietly, after Merlin has laid himself down, curled on his side and facing away. Arthur watches the tip of his ear turn red.

“I’m not useless, and I’m not a child anymore - ” Merlin rolls over to look at him.

“You’re the farthest thing under the sun from useless. But you are weary. if Lance showed up with a broken leg I wouldn’t want to take him either.” Arthur pulls Merlin’s cloak more snugly around him in deference to the spring chill, not sure what else he can do. “I’m never not going to worry about you. It’s my job.” He hides his feelings poorly behind gruffness, Merlin seeing straight through him with a snort of weak laughter. “So get over it.”

“But you won’t leave me behind?” Merlin reaches out a pale hand, holding tight to Arthur’s wrist. His nails bite in, a small hurt.

All Arthur can do is lean down closely, and speak for just the two of them. “I will never leave you behind,” he swears. Arthur’s dearest friend, and one he carried in his heart, even when they were parted. Hoping that Merlin, who knows him better than anyone, knows.

Merlin does not let him go, not even when sleep claims him, and Arthur cannot bring himself to break the grip. He’s as ready as he needs to be. Aithusa joins them, her massive head resting on Arthur’s lap like a pup.

“I never meant for him to feel abandoned,” he whispers to her in confession.

She looks at him with one eye open, before huffing a doggy breath at him that smells of the air in a thunderstorm. With a flop and a wiggle her canine mouth opens to show many unnatural rows of shining teeth, tongue lolling, before she joins Merlin in his nap.

He should rest, as well, but he can’t manage it, too busy watching the shadows stretch, and idly scritching at Aithusa’s ears. Lancelot and Elyan give them all a wide berth, and he’s not sure if he should be thankful or embarrassed to be so obvious. He has missed Merlin terribly.

Some knight, he thinks.

He fishes the red scrap of fabric out of his pocket, the only bit of the bird that remains. With care not to wake either of them, he ties it round the strap of his quiver, as a token - and a reminder.

He must sleep, because it is dark the next time he opens his eyes. Merlin’s hand is still tight as a snare around his wrist, but Aithusa has left them, prowling and sniffing the air. She looks quite fun to ride like this, he thinks, sleep-slow. Even more than a horse. She does, though - like a wolf out of an old storybook.

Under the soot bits of her coat that they missed shine, looking, if one were to squint, like stars in the night sky.

“It’s nearing time,” Lancelot says.

“Merlin.” Arthur shakes him, watching him wake. “Come on, we’re moving out.”

“Alright,” Merlin mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. “Nimueh says to return to Brechfa once more when we’re done, and await her and Da there. Four days, and they’ll join us with some things. Da doesn’t want to fly near Camelot if he doesn’t have to right now, especially not if Morgause might be,” here, Merlin just waves a hand again, letting Arthur fill in his meaning. “So he’s leaving Kili to protect the tower.”

“Is your father angry?” Arthur has no desire to be the source of contention between two of his favourite people. He also spares a moment to be glad he can’t be yelled at in his sleep.

“I think he’s smart enough to know he can’t stop me.” Merlin wrinkles his nose, which is not an answer at all. “He’s not angry, ” he continues, as Arthur makes a face. “I think he’d put us both in a box on a shelf to gather dust if he could, but he knows he can’t. Besides, we’ll take care of each other, and he knows that, too.”

“Right,” Arthur swallows, unaccountably touched. “You remember the rules, yes?”

“No getting my head chopped off? Yes, I remember,” Merlin laughs. The wrinkled hood of his cloak is twisted from sleeping, and Arthur reaches out to straighten it, only stopping when he remembers belatedly they are not alone. It is remarkable how quickly his hands remember old habits.

“Let’s go then,” he stands at once, nodding to Elyan and Lancelot.

The night is a foggy one, the moon only shining brightly enough that they don’t toddle headlong into any trees. The fort sits atop a low hill - unfortunately for them - a defensible seat. There are a handful of men patrolling in circuits around the place, torches lit; and if there are others it is not clear enough to make them out through the mist.

“Ready?” Lancelot whispers.

“A moment,” Merlin says. With a stretched out hand, the fog around them roils and gathers like a wave cresting above their heads, surrounding them. “Aithusa, go in high enough that they won’t see you - one strike at first, then hide. We don’t know if they’ve archers, so be careful, girl.”

She headbutts him in reply, springing off of the ground and up through the trees with nary a sound.

They wait in uneasy impatience, and when the first splash of light rends across the sky, they move. Most of the torches turn back towards the fort, but they find one alone, peering out over the hill for intruders. Covered with fog as they are he is easy to sneak up on, and it is a quick, quiet blade that kills him.

Arthur snatches the torch up before it can hit the ground, and considers the man they’ve slain. This is no mercenary force - no uniform or standard, just a ratty cape and the usual leathers of a man of arms who couldn’t afford chainmail.

“Hold this,” he whispers, pushing the torch at Merlin and stripping the man of his cloak, throwing it over his own shoulders. “What do you think? Convincing?”

“Maybe if you drink a trough full of ale and sleep with the pigs for a week,” Merlin hisses, then hands him the torch back. “Are you just planning to walk on in?”

“Why should Aithusa be the only one to get a disguise?” He throws an unimpressed Merlin a grin. “If I can sneak up on a few of them it’s worth it. I’ll go first, it’ll be fun!”

“I forgot how annoying you are,” Merlin whispers.

“How?” Elyan asks, and Arthur has to bite down on a retort before they’re all caught out.

He does walk right in, in the end; in all the chaos one unfamiliar face isn’t noticed. He follows another pair of men right into the centre of the place, heart beating a fast staccato in his chest.

There are only a few gathered here; the rest having spread out to look for intruders, he assumes, or mayhaps even gone back to sleep, blaming a swift storm for the lightning strike. A stand against the far wall has a piddling armoury on it; a handful of swords and knives, whose purpose he does not know. Seems a foolish thing to leave them so close to your prisoners.

It is only then he notices the bloodstains on the ground, the trails and scuffs of fighting, and draws his own conclusions. He hopes he is wrong, but he suspects not. No tears will be shed for these men.

“What’s happened then?” he asks, just to be a shit.

“No idea,” one of them replies, “but Jarl’s on the prowl, make sure no one’s coming for the merchandise.”

“So he’s not here now?”

“Are you blind and deaf?” the other mocks, which is when Arthur, delighted with himself, disarms him and kicks him in the pit, near the edge where the loose rope does not meet in sloppy disrepair. “Catch!” he says, tossing the sword down to an empty bit of floor as the man groans in pain. Only for a moment, however, as the blade is picked up and put to swift use.

A rope mesh of jute seems to be the only cover - the walls are too bloody tall to climb, and there are round the hour guards, so there is no call for more. He ducks under the swipe of the other man, and kicks him into the pit after his friend, as it had seemed to work well before.

The men below are all too happy to turn on their slavers.

He slices at the rope as he goes, halfway, so that it falls and makes a ladder for them to free themselves.

“Arm yourselves!” he calls, gutting another of Jarl’s men, then another as he keeps the way to the weapons clear. Above him, the sky is bright as daylight, the crack of thunder so loud it shakes the very stones. He hears the rumble of collapsing walls in the distance.

More of the slavers pour into the room, some of them falling before they even set sights on their captives - Elyan and Lancelot chasing hot at their heels. They panic as they flee, making themselves easy prey.

“Where’s Merlin?” he yells over the din.

“Merlin?” Lancelot laughs, eyes wide. A slaver is picked up as if in a giant hand, flung up into the air like a rag doll, flailing as he falls and landing with a brutal crunch. Another tears past, patting at himself frantically to put out the flames. “Save your worry for someone who needs it!”

Yes, Arthur marvels, it would seem so.

“Jarl!” a shout raises up over the sounds of fighting. A dark haired man dispatches a slaver with a well trained hand; he’s a familiar look about him, Arthur swears he does. He pushes through the chaos and mess, towards a man that indeed must be Jarl - draped in a fur mantle and a bounty of chains. Rings shine on his fingers.

“Bastard,” the man shouts, barreling forwards like a bull, “son of a whore! How’s this for entertainment?!”

Arthur would be a liar if he claimed the fight was a good one - but it was a fast one. A spattering of quick, testing blows, before the familiar face brings his sword down, cleaving heavy into Jarl’s shoulder, and messily hacking up into his neck. One of his many chains snaps, clattering to the floor, links bouncing every which way.

A cheer starts up from somewhere, but the work is not yet done.

The fight has rather left the remainders, though, with their leader dead, and all promises of payment with him.

“Let none escape!” Arthur shouts. Even in Cenred’s kingdom, the penalty for unlawful slavery is death.

“Aye!”

Once it is done, down to the very last man, Arthur finally heaves off his cape, sweaty and filthy, head aching. He wishes to leave this place.

“Merlin?” he shouts.

“Here, I’m here,” comes the reply, as Merlin picks his way through the swarm and flings himself in front of Arthur, who catches him in reflex before he can brain himself on the floor. There’s already enough blood along the side of his head, that Arthur hopes is not his. “So what happens now?”

“Well,” he muses, clapping Merlin on the back, “I think the people here are entitled to his spoils, to take back to their villages.” Another cheer starts up. “In a fair and equitable manner,” he says, which is boring but liable to cut down on any in-fighting.

“Hear that, men? Three cheers for a fair and equitable manner!” the man Arthur swears that he knows laughs, only to start up another rousing chorus of ‘Aye!’

“I confess, I didn’t ever expect to see you two again,” he ambles up, dripping nonchalant ease, even half stripped in a slaver’s den - and it is then that it strikes Arthur. He might not have the patchy stubble any longer, or his suspiciously expensive sword, but Arthur does know this man. Last in Wenham - and in a shirt.

“Gwaine?” Merlin is quicker to catch on, beaming with delight.

“Hello, Merlin,” Gwaine sticks out his hand for an enthusiastic shake, “Arthur. Up to anything interesting lately? No, don’t tell me. Still rescuing damsels in distress?”

“You tell me,” Arthur grins, taking his hand.

Chapter Text

Stripping the old Caer and dividing her fortunes, such as they are, spends the remaining short hours of the night. The first rays of light are pouring through the open windows and holes in the battered walls by the time the captives break into groups to go home at last.

Earlier on had Gwaine finding the least offensive shirt he could manage, with only a spot or two of blood, and no extra holes. Following this he claims back his own sword, found stashed away in a chest - where his lock-picking skills are demonstrated once more - along with a handful of valuable coins. Arthur is not sure why he had been surprised by the way Gwaine gave each and every last shining silver away.

“I can make more,” he’d shrugged away the considering look he received. “Money comes and goes for men like me, but most of these fellows have families that’ll need looking after. And they’ve been away too long already.”

Lancelot, Elyan and Arthur stand around their mounts now, ready to depart - it’s a short journey to Brechfa, but the night had been a long one.

“Where will you go?” Merlin asks, following at Gwaine’s heels with what Arthur considers unearned fondness.

“Wherever the wind takes me,” he laughs. “But… before it does, I might inquire where the wind is taking you fine gentlemen?”

“Brechfa,” Merlin answers with no hesitation. It’s not that Arthur thinks Gwaine means anyone any harm, but still. Discretion .

“What a coincidence,” Gwaine exclaims with wide eyes, clasping a hand to his heart, “as I feel the wind pulling my sails in that direction as well.”

“Your sails are full of hot air.” Arthur sets his hands on his hips, although there seems to be little merit in arguing. Indeed, Gwaine merely laughs, following after them as they set to leave the fort without so much as a by-your-leave. He stops only to steal one of the slaver’s horses, a massive beast to which he proclaims love at first sight.

“Where’s Aithusa?” Arthur crowds Merlin to ask. They walk side by side, rather than double up on Llamrei and strain her with his armour and travel bags as well as two riders.

The morning is a fine enough one for some walking. The night’s fog has turned into a low mist that clings to the rolling hills and tree roots, faintly glowing with light as the sun crawls higher and higher into the sky. The crisp smell of the spring air and the crunch of leaves underfoot do much to soothe him.

“She’s rolling around in that creek we passed on the way here. I don’t think she much cares for being dirty.” He plucks at his filthy shirt - Arthur’s filthy shirt, he corrects himself. “I could use a wash, too.”

“That’s true,” Arthur agrees, laughing at Merlin’s look of mock affront.

“And that’s rich, coming from you. I think I could smell you from the tower.”

It’s not terribly long before she finds them; once again play-acting as a horse. Just a very wet one.

The route passes quickly enough once they all ride, although there is a stretch of road Arthur swears he sleeps through, grateful Llamrei doesn’t toss him to the ground. While Brechfa is no Camelot and no Wenham, it is big enough for a proper inn, and not just a public house - and he knows they’ll be springing for actual beds. Merlin needs the rest, he tells himself, but the truth is that the call of a pillow is irresistible. It’s been too long without.

“Will Aithusa be alright if she’s stabled with the other horses?” it occurs to Arthur to ask.

“I… don’t know,” Merlin admits, brow furrowing. “We usually share, but sometimes she has a sleepover with Kili. What do you think, girl? Just at night? I suppose horses don’t fit inside most inns.”

Arthur cannot bring himself to even begin to explain that that is not the issue.

Although it doesn’t seem to please her, she’s also clever enough to understand the necessity of the ruse. Exhaling with a great huff, she tosses her head.

“I promise I’ll come get you first thing in the morning,” Merlin strokes her mane.

“I’ve never met someone who asks the horse what they think about stables,” Gwaine says, all casual humour to hide his cleverness - Arthur had just known the man was trouble.

He shares a look with Merlin. ‘Well?’ he tries to say with his eyes alone. ‘You’re the one who let him tag along.’

‘You’re the one who likes keeping her a secret,’ Merlin’s judgmental eye roll says back.

The road bears them forwards, soon enough to the gates of the city proper.

Once the horses have been brushed down, and set to comfort, once the bags have been brought in, and the rooms bartered for, once a bath has been ordered, and dinner has been had, finally - finally, they can rest.

The meal had been rich; the inn catering to merchants and the occasional travelling lord. Balinor has ever made sure Arthur had coin if he had need of it, and he can think of no better purpose than this. A room for Lance and Elyan is the least they can do; they deserve the rest. Arthur is flat on his back on the plank wooden floor of their room - not willing to dirty the bed before he’s scrubbed between each and every finger and toe. Free of his armour at last he feels weightless, like he could float to the ceiling.

Merlin watches the bath get filled with a strange fascination, from the first bucket to the last, until the maids have all departed, taking their laundry with them.

“I don’t think I ever knew how much effort it was,” he says quietly. Outside of the window the city is noisy, and below them the tavern is raucous. The hour is still early, and celebrations from the fall of Jarl and the welcome of their townsfolk back are likely to press long into the night. The bath is tepid, but with the mere touch of a fingertip it is steaming. “Not really, I mean.”

“Mm,” Arthur agrees, eyes shut. He hadn’t either, not for a long time. One of many lessons he’s learned. The time for boiling water, the wood it costs, the manpower to haul it and the space in the kitchen, stolen from other vital tasks. A rustle of clothes, hesitant, and then he hears Merlin get into the water with a splash and a hiss. “Alright? How’s your head?”

“Hot, hot, hot! I am alarmed by the colour the water is turning,” Merlin says wryly, “I hadn’t known I had that many types of filth on me. Or perhaps that there were so many types of filth to begin with.”

The second hiss is one of pain, though, and Arthur hauls himself up. Merlin’s fingers tangle in his hair, the blood dried and tacky.

“Don’t look,” Merlin huddles down under the lip of the bath like a maiden.

“I’m not looking,” Arthur shoots back, turning away with a huff, “but you have to let me see your head if it hurts - you said it was nothing.”

“It is nothing,” Merlin insists, “it’s just a scratch. You know head wounds bleed a lot. I’m not dizzy or anything, it’s fine. Just - ouch - tangled. I should chop off all my hair like you.”

It’s Merlin’s hair to do with as he pleases, of course, but Arthur hopes he doesn’t. The silver he usually wears looks… pretty against the dark colour of it. He swallows, suddenly glad he’s turned away, and ashamed of it.

He empties his pack until he finds the wooden comb, offering it behind his back for Merlin to take. Their fingers brush, a droplet of water clinging as he takes his hand away - and Arthur is twice as glad his face is hidden, certain to be blushing a furious red. He watches the drop work its way through the road-dust and grime still clinging to his skin, making a path for itself.

He folds his arms closed, and - determined not to look - his ears work twice as hard. The water laps in little quiet waves, mocking him. A rowdy song with a familiar tune starts up below, and he keeps his gaze fixed on his bare feet, feeling too tight in his own skin and quite separate from the world. He can hear the rough snags of the comb plick-plicking as Merlin impatiently works through the knots.

His fingers itch.

“Just let me do it,” he says, before he can catch the words and pull them back. “You’re not doing it properly - you’re just going to make it worse if you keep going at it like that.”

There’s a long stretch where he keeps his teeth gritted against the noise of the street.

“Alright,” Merlin says, shuffling to give the comb over, leaving Arthur’s shoulder damp where his arm passes. He’s warm from the bath against the cool spring air. A shiver rolls over Arthur. “You’re so bossy,” comes the expected complaint. He waits a few breaths to allow Merlin time to settle back around - in deference to his girlish modesty, Arthur tells himself.

He turns. Merlin’s pale, thin shoulders stick up out of the bath, his hair dark and heavy with water. Knees pulled up high and tucked under his chin. Arthur picks up a messy lock of hair, working the tangles out from the bottom up, careful not to pull. The cut is small, Arthur is relieved to see, but a tender looking bruise has already started to bloom around the edges. He’ll have to see if he has any of Alice’s poultice left.

“So, what’s the story with your shoulder?” he asks, spying the barely-there speckles of healed scars, scattered like freckles.

“When I left, you know - ” Arthur knows, yes, “- and Aithusa had to drag me back home. Well, it was pretty literal. The dragging, that is.” Merlin splashes. “My whole side was a solid bruise for a month I think. Awful and purple. Aithusa felt terrible, but she saved me. Better purple then, well - ”

Dead, Arthur thinks, throat tight. He should have been there. Hang Morgause.

“Da was furious,” Merlin says, shy of it. “Or something. I don’t know, I’d never seen him like that.”

“He loves you,” Arthur says easily, knowing it for the truth. Merlin says nothing further, head lolling forwards. “Very much.”

It takes an age for him to get through all the tangles, until it is a smooth, dark river stark across Merlin’s fair skin.

“Thanks,” Merlin says, sinking down until the water bubbles as he speaks.

“Yeah,” Arthur sniffs, going back across the room and pretending to be busy with whatever crosses his path until Merlin’s finished.

“Your turn,” he says, dressed in some old things of the innkeeper’s son, borrowed until their wash is returned, bath sheet wrapped around him like a cocoon. Arthur suspects the kindness was done because of the tall tales already spreading about Jarl’s fortress by the returned men, yet neither can they look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Well, right then,” Arthur says nonsensically.

His bathing is more perfunctory - at least until Merlin sets the water steaming again, which a bit makes him want to never get out. Simply to melt into a puddle of wax and stay that way. He does climb out eventually, wrinkled fingers and drooping eyelids, past ready for a bed.

“Goodnight, Merlin,” he says, covers pulled up, head cradled on the pillow. It’s every bit as wonderful as he’d dared hope. Thin slats of moonlight shine through the shutters, and he can just make out the gleam of Merlin’s eyes across the room in his own bed.

“G‘night, Arthur,” his voice comes, soft. “Sweet dreams.”

***

If pressed, Arthur will admit that Gwaine is good company, even if he is overly familiar - especially with Merlin. All of them are good men; Lance and Elyan, too. Something which tugs at his heartstrings every time he sees Merlin sharing a laugh, or being included. It’s something he knows that has been longed for, finally realised.

Outside of the tower, Merlin is enamoured of every last thing, of each joyful opportunity to learn something new - and so the scant few days before Balinor and Nimueh have promised a visit pass quickly.

It all feels a bit remarkable - to look over and see Merlin again, like he used to every day. He has changed, of course, as has Arthur . Some things remain the same, though. All his optimism and good cheer, in bright, blinding person. Arthur’s grown used to chatting through the bird, it’s just… different.

It’s just different, is all that it is. Nice.

They sit now in the tavern below the inn, taking their evening meal and listening to Gwaine spin a story that is almost certainly fiction, but with enough of a sliver of truth to keep it interesting.

“It was then that I came to learn the truth,” he gestures grandly, “that my mysterious benefactor was not a comely widow at all -”

“I am not,” a bag thuds at Arthur’s feet, and his eyes snap up to blink at an amused Nimueh, “a donkey.”

“Nimueh!” He sets his ale down with a slosh, feeling more like a child caught out than a grown man. Pressed in at his side Merlin cackles. Ale shakes off his sticky fingers as he stands to greet her.

“My Lady. May I assure you that you look nothing like a donkey,” Gwaine tries his luck, leaning over the table and fluttering his eyelashes at her. Lancelot pulls him back down into his seat. Elyan merely hides his smile behind his mug.

Arthur admires his courage, if not his lines.

“Arthur,” she says, a soft smile curling across her lips; red as always. She’s dressed more humbly than he has ever seen, but Gwaine is not wrong to spot her as a Lady, not by a long shot. Still in red, rich and dark. “Merlin,” she accepts his hug with cool grace, as though it had been months since they’d last seen one another, not days.

“Where’s Da?” Merlin asks, when he steps back, looking about for his father.

“Visiting his favourite child, of course.”

“I’ll be right back,” he says, darting out to visit the stables, where Aithusa was resting after a full day of exploring. “Don’t say anything embarrassing!” he calls out over his shoulder as he goes.

“Do you think he means me, or you?” Arthur asks.

“Hm, I wonder,” Nimueh says, and begins to stride towards the stairs, waving him to follow. “Come, we must speak.”

The bag is picked up, and he grabs one last massive bite of the farl of bread that is all that remains of his meal, washing it down with ale.

“Good luck,” Elyan says, toasting him.

“Don’t let them give you too much trouble,” Lancelot says. His face is expressive and soft, an amused curl to his mouth. “I’ve not seen either of you smile so much in all our time together as I have these past few days.”

Mouth full, Arthur raises his hand in a salute, taking the stairs two at a time, refusing to reflect on the subject any further. He rolls his sleeves down and tries to straighten his hair before he opens the door - perhaps it is just silliness, but he does always wish Nimueh to think well of him. As she said all those years ago - he was almost hers. The closest to a mother he knows, although neither would claim such a thing.

An aunt, maybe. The sort who would strike at your enemies on your behalf but never pinch your cheeks or kiss your bruises.

She’s let herself into their room already - the lock wouldn’t have proved much of a barrier to a sorceress.

“You seem healthy,” she says, and Arthur has never known her to dither.

“What is it?” He moves to sit on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees.

“Morgause, of course. You must have already suspected she was behind the attempt. Balinor and I paid a visit to your camp before coming to find you here.” She comes to sit beside him. “Merlin succeeded in purifying the curse, but echoes of her work remain. I would know her anywhere.”

“Of course,” Arthur murmurs. It’s not a shock, but he wishes it were different. This is what he’s been away so long for, though. His heart sinks. “Will you take Merlin back? Is that why you’ve come?” Is that why she wished to speak to him first?

The sound of her laugh is the last thing he expects.

“I don’t believe that would go over so well, do you?” She smooths down the folds in her skirts, considering him with the air of a conspirator about her. “Let’s not even suggest such in front of Merlin. For all our sakes.”

He ducks his head, sighing away his sudden tension. There is a clatter downstairs of a tray dropped, and the roar of cheers and jeers that follow.

“No, I merely wished to give Balinor and Merlin a moment together, and see for myself that Morgause had failed. It was an astonishing piece of magic that shielded you. What a loss it is, though,” she muses, “that clever little bird. One of a kind, more’s the pity.”

Across the room his quiver leans against a squat table that holds an ewer, the red ribbon bright against the wood.

“A loss, yes,” Arthur quietly agrees.

“I’ve brought some of Merlin’s supplies to him, though - who knows what laws of magic he might next break.” Arthur is silent, caught swiftly in the tide of his own worries, merely nodding to her words. “Time will tell,” she says with a soft sigh. “Have a little faith.”

“Because of destiny?” he raises an eyebrow, facing the door as Merlin and Balinor let themselves in. Merlin gives him a wobbly smile, which Arthur tries his best to return. “One that still hasn’t been properly explained to me?”

“Destiny is not a book you can crack open and read,” she chides him, “or a tapestry you can unweave. If I could explain it to you, I would.”

“And I would not,” Balinor says. His face holds a weary smile, his copper and green travelling clothes dusty past the ankle. “Arthur,” he comes for an embrace that Arthur rises to meet, “it does me much good to see you.”

At a loss for words, Arthur just clings all the tighter.

“They deserve to know,” Nimueh says, after a long moment, “not to be fumbling about in the dark.”

Merlin catches his eyes over his father’s shoulder, face uncertain.

“Da,” Merlin starts, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. The room is not quite big enough for all of them along with the thick cloud of unease.

“I do not believe prophecy or destiny has ever once brought about a more favourable end for the one who hears it,” Balinor says. His face has aged, it seems, even in the year Arthur had not seen him, since the plague in Lothian. “The quicker you rush to find it the further it twists, until it is no longer what you chased at all. Run from it, and it will nip at your heels, taking its pound of flesh.”

“Do nothing,” Nimueh challenges, “and you shall find it standing in your doorway regardless. The half whispers they pick up from the druids will hardly sate their curiosity.”

“Loose lipped folk, druids,” Balinor complains, looking to the ceiling. “I hesitate,” he says, “due to bitter experience.” There is not enough room for pacing, but he makes an attempt of it anyway. “Sit,” he gestures to them, “it’s a long story, and not one I am convinced should be told.”

Merlin sits at once, dragging Arthur down with him by the wrist, eyes wide.

“You will know the story of your father’s accession to the throne of Camelot,” he gestures to Arthur.

“By conquest,” he answers by rote, having learned this before he could read the tapestries and histories for himself, “retaking it after it fell under his grandfather’s reign.” Merlin’s grasp tightens in reassurance.

“Indeed, under Ethyllt Pendragon, son of Cynan, Camelot was lost, and Uther aimed to have it back,” Balinor says, “he did so, with an army at his back that rallied for an end to the constant wars that had raged ever since. A noble goal - one I was happy to throw whatever might I could behind. Myself, and many others. All of my life - and all of my own father’s life - the land had been under the thumb of dozens of petty warlords vying for the crown, or territory, or legitimacy. Broken into pieces.”

He faces away from them, a heavy weight upon his shoulders.

“I didn’t know a single person who had not lost someone to violence, and Uther wished to unite us under one banner; to end it once and for all. I believed him.,” Balinor’s voice cracks, and when he turns back his eyes are wet. Arthur does not know what to do, miserable with shame, holding onto Merlin’s hand like a lifetime. “I did things under his name that I have come to regret, because I believed with everything that I was that there was only one path forward. One destiny.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, around the burning taking root in his throat.

“No,” Balinor comes to kneel in front of them, placing his hand atop their joined ones, “never be sorry for him. You are Arthur, and Arthur alone. His sins do not touch you.”

“The prophecy of the Once and Future King has existed since before we even had writings,” Nimueh draws them back to focus, though not unkindly. “We were told stories, passed down by our priestesses, of the unity that was promised.”

“The dragons, as well,” Balinor agrees, “and better seers of the ties of fate you will never find. But no one, man or dragon, can know. And this is why I hesitate. In my arrogance I was convinced that Uther was the Once and Future King, sent to us at last to bring an era of peace. That together we would nurture the land into somewhere magic would flourish once more. Emrys… not every sorcerer is a dragonlord, and not every dragonlord is a sorcerer. It was conceit and desperation, but I had strength not seen in our line for centuries. I thought it might have been me.”

He stands, seemingly unable to meet Merlin’s eyes. “And so what did any dark deeds matter, compared to what would come after? I cared very little as to how bloody our path was, as a young man.”

“Nor did any of us,” Nimueh shakes her head, reprimanding, “it is not only your past, you stubborn old goat. And it worked,” she slaps a hand down with a thud, “ at least for a time. We retook the city, the outlands. Camelot was never sizable, but it was rich. With history and magic both, the soil fecund, the water clean. We rebuilt, and like a breath of fresh air from the coast came a Cornish Princess,” she says, crossing her ankles, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “Ygraine was… proof of a better future. Untouched by wars, and untested by strife.”

But she was not enough, Arthur thinks dully. It might have been a better ending to this story if she had been. Merlin’s hand hasn’t let go of his for an instant. Pale, with rosy knuckles from the chill. A dodge of blue veins.

“And you think I’m this Once and Future King? Some great… leader of men?” he asks, the words taking shape before he knows he means to make them.

“I do,” Nimueh says, that familiar fever in her eyes. Arthur knows it for what it is, now - unfounded faith.

“Perhaps so,” Balinor says at the same time, glaring at the sorceress as she tilts her chin up in defiance, “but prophesy - ”

“I’m not,” Arthur says, a little fire fighting to life in his chest. An ugly worry births within him. Is this it, then? Why so many kindnesses had been spent on him? “He’s got Morgana, now, and I’ll never take the throne. You’ve wasted your time.”

“You don’t know that - ” Nimueh begins.

“I don’t want it!” Arthur shouts at her, holding onto Merlin with a bruising grip. “I’m glad Uther didn’t take me back! I like being a knight, being Merlin’s knight - ” and perhaps he will have the wherewithal to be embarrassed later, for still playing pretend at twenty, for indulging in the game of thinking Merlin needs anything of him at all. Merlin, who is Emrys, who must be, who will find his worthy king. And it will not be Arthur, a forgotten, cast off prince. “You’re wrong, about me, and about this destiny.”

“Arthur,” Balinor says, with his expressive, sad eyes, and now Arthur knows once and for all, doesn’t he? Where the sorrow came from. Birthed in Camelot, the best of men wasted in service to a rotten king and his crown of false promises of peace.

Peace.

If there were peace Arthur would not have spent the past two years as a knight errant fighting off bandits, putting out pyres and cutting down nooses. Uther extends protection to pockets of villages, the gift of safety only for those he chooses. Those who obey.

Uther’s Camelot is all muscles and sinew - but underneath it is built atop fragile, breaking bones.

Morgana can have it, he thinks, bowing his head. He wants none of it.

“You told me, back when I first came to the tower,” he says to Nimueh, “that I should be thankful on bent knee to be free of him - and I am both. I am thankful, and I am free.”

“You,” Nimueh sounds out carefully, like he is a wounded animal, “are so much more than you think you are. Uther has not done right by you. Perhaps none of us have.”

She stands, a calmness to her that reads false.

“But you should consider,” she suggests, stepping before them in the little room, lit from behind with the setting sun. She’s dressed like a merchant’s wife, but her bearing is every inch that of a High Priestess, “why Aithusa, the brightest light of hope any of us have seen for an age, only answered the call when it was the two of you, together.”

Merlin surges up, standing between them, until he is all Arthur can see. He touches Arthur’s cheek with a gentle hand, thumb wiping away a tear he had not realised he had shed.

“A moment, perhaps,” Balinor says, quiet as a man can be, ushering Nimueh out until it is just Arthur and Merlin left.

They hover there, the only sounds being those of Arthur catching his breath. It’s like he’s run the whole coast up to Northumbria, shaking and heaving. He wipes under his nose with his sleeve, hand trembling. Merlin keeps a steady touch on his shoulder with one hand, the other tangled gently in his hair, for once letting the silence stand.

Merlin could have prophecies written about him, Arthur muses. All the druids, near worshipful of him. All the magic that not even Nimueh or Balinor can equal. Even some of his childish wishes had come to life, like a fickle god.

Arthur is just a man.

Will they all be done with him, when he is never more than that?

“I’m happy to be your sword and your shield, ‘til the day I die,” Arthur swears. Stripped of all other certainties, that is still a truth he knows. Not for the magic, either - not for Emrys, but for Merlin. For the way he can look at the fragments of the world and craft something beautiful from them. Greater than the sum of its parts. Scraps of metal can become a guardian on swift wings. Bits of sweetgrass and air can become butterflies.

An abandoned, blood-stained boy far flung from home can rise to become a deserving knight.

Every wretched childhood insecurity he has worked to shake and leave behind seems to burrow under his skin at once, itching and crawling to escape. Of never being enough, falling short time after time. The druid camp. Who Arthur was - who he may yet be.

Uther threw him away in favour of his mad war, and Arthur is glad of it, he is.

He is.

If Merlin were ever to do the same, though? For Merlin, with his endless curiosity and wonder, to look upon Arthur and see nothing left worthy of salvage… that he could not endure.

“I’d rather have my friend,” Merlin says at last.

“Whatever they think I am, I’m not. I’m not a king of anything,” Arthur sniffs, “not a prince, either. You’re… special, Merlin. Good. You’ll see. Outside of the tower, you’ll learn for yourself.”

“You know,” Merlin says, pulling at Arthur until his head has raised, “you forever seemed about ten steps ahead of me. Stronger, and faster. Braver. But you always had time to make me laugh. I was lonely,” Merlin blinks away a tear of his own, “until you.”

Arthur was, too. He lets his head fall into Merlin’s palm, mourning something long gone.

“Sometimes, while you’ve been away,” Merlin goes on, “people would come to the tower, and they’d tell me stories. About you, I mean, and what you’d done for them, how you’d saved them. Even without a crown or an army behind you, or magic - when it’s just you out there against the world you still march forward, every day. Relentlessly good.”

“I still had you,” Arthur corrects him. Any good he’s managed has been built off of support that he fears is now lost when he is not what they’ve hoped for. “You and Balinor, and Nimueh, too. Then all the others - I was never alone, even when I was.”

Merlin shuffles his feet, unusually shy before committing in a rush of breath, like he’s shaking off something heavy. “Arthur, don’t you understand? That’s your strength! I - I’d follow you all the way across the earth, I think. Pauper or a king. Just Arthur,” he claims, unashamed. Arthur will never understand how he can be so fearless with his sentiment, so brave. “That’s all you ever have to be.”

“Promise?” Arthur begs, trying to summon up a smile, something to make it a joke. His heart won’t seem to allow it.

“I promise,” Merlin swears, tripping forward and throwing his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, sheltering him. He imagines he can feel it writ across the very marrow of his bones, a geas stronger than even Morgause’s could ever aspire to be.

He has to believe it.

Chapter Text

Enough time passes that he feels odd about finding Balinor and Nimueh to finish whatever else they had to say. Awkward and overly dramatic.

He’s all cried out, now, and grateful that if anyone had to see him weep like a child at least it was only Merlin.

They’re flopped onto one bed that’s not really big enough for two grown people to lie shoulder to shoulder as they do. It leaves Arthur scrunched up against the wall, but he doesn’t mind it. Everything is a bit distant, save for the line of Merlin’s arm against his. He blinks itchy eyes at the ceiling.

“Should probably go get them,” Arthur says. His voice is rough, and his thoughts are still darting about too fast and fragile for him to catch. “Hear the rest of it.”

“In a bit,” Merlin says, barely a whisper, and then not another word. A hairline crack splits across the ceiling, interweaving between the beams of dark wood, and Arthur traces the path of it until it disappears. He’s wrung clean through any thoughts deeper than that, at least for now.

“Wanna go for a walk?” Merlin asks. “Get out of here?”

All at once he finds the walls too tight, the ceiling too low. The creaks of the wood in the hallway as people pass by too loud, the boisterous crowd too merry. He chafes, and the thought of the sky above him sounds blissful.

He heaves himself up into sitting, letting out a great exhale before finding his feet. A quick scrub of his face in the cool water of the basin has him feeling more human. Vanity, maybe, or pride - he isn’t sure which - but he doesn’t want anyone to look at him and know he’s been crying.

Sometimes it strikes him, the remnants of his life in Camelot that still echo through his body, years later. Not just castle life, or the privileges of a prince, like not knowing how long it takes to fill a bath or do laundry - but hiding every weakness before it can get exploited. Like he’s a cat dragging himself to the back of the barn to die unharassed. It feels eminently foolish, and a resentful bubble builds under his breastbone.

“I’m sad,” he announces, which isn’t exactly groundbreaking news, but it’s still nice to say out loud. A piddling rebellion, at least on paper, but a monumental one to him.

“I know,” Merlin agrees, blinking huge blue eyes at him, “thank you for telling me.”

It’s earnest, but there’s something about the absurdity of it all that punches a laugh out of Arthur, uncontrolled.

“What?” Merlin huffs when Arthur carries on too long, embarrassed.

“Nothing,” he wipes a tear of mirth out of his eye, “‘thank you for telling me’,” he mimics, dodging out of the way of Merlin’s spell. It leaves a dash of green on the wall of the inn, which just makes him start up again. He goes to rub his thumb across it, but it doesn’t budge.

“Whoops,” Merlin covers his mouth with his hand to muffle his own guilty laughter.

“Come on,” Arthur manages, opening up the door and letting in more of the noise from below. The stairs are narrow and cramped, opening out into the warm tavern, Lancelot has eyes on them in an instant, half rising out of his seat until Arthur waves him back down.

It’s nice though, he allows, that Lance cares. A good man, and a good friend.

There’s no sight of Balinor or Nimueh, for now, and it’s a weight shed. A reprieve, just for now.

Maybe he needs to know more, but he’s not interested in hearing further of prophecy or destiny - not until he’s caught his breath at least.

They wander, under the purple sky.

Faceless in the thin crowds that are still about as dusk falls to true night. Windows are golden with firelight and candles, and a handful of stalls and vendors still bark out for their goods.

They climb the rough stones of the city wall. It’s not a high thing, sitting lower than some of the rooftops, and only just wide enough to lay on so long as you don’t mind your legs sticking over the edge - but the view out onto the valley and onto the river is a fine one. They’re near enough to the border of Nemeth that some of what they see is certainly Rodor’s territory. The Feorre mountains are just ahead, though the night is too dark to see them - and beyond that, Camelot.

“I wonder how Morgana’s doing,” Arthur says, kicking his feet. He worries about her; left alone with Uther. In his memory she is still a brash young girl, filled with conviction. It’s been over five years now, though, nearly six. What does he truly know of her now?

“Lancelot would go to the citadel for you,” Merlin says, perfectly confident to volunteer for the man in question. “Or Elyan, of course. You remember when you asked me to figure out a way to contact Tom’s daughter?”

“Oh, did you then? You never said.” Arthur turns to look.

“Well that’s because I didn’t.” Merlin makes a face, slouching back on his elbows. “Never really managed it. Tom still wrote her a letter, the same time as he did looking for Elyan, and I asked Lancelot to give it to her if he ever went back to Camelot, is all. No magic required.”

Arthur leans back as well, arms folded behind his head as he looks up at the sky. The stars are just starting to waken.

“Anyway,” Merlin rambles, “I think he’s sweet on her - the daughter, I mean - so I bet he’d go back and see if he can’t find out how Morgana’s doing.”

“People talk about Morgana,” Arthur says, “I hear rumours about her. I mean I wonder how she’s doing. Lance won’t know how she is just from looking - even if he manages to see her across the courtyard or during an audience. She’d appear just fine, even if the castle was falling down around her ears.”

Merlin looks over at him, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. “Do you not know? Tom’s daughter, Gwen - she’s Morgana’s maidservant.”

“Wait, what?” Arthur reaches up to shove him. “You’re not joking?”

“I’m not, I wouldn’t!” Merlin swears, shoving him back. “I can’t believe you didn’t know already.”

“I had no idea,” Arthur admits, blindsided. “Well then. Huh.”

He’s quiet for a beat, tossing the new information around in his head.

“I probably shouldn’t send a letter,” he thinks aloud, “if she was discovered with it, or even told Uther herself… I don’t think she would, but it’s been years. Or if she truly thought me a hostage she might feel she has no choice.”

“Lance or Elyan could still go, though,” Merlin insists, “and talk to Gwen, feel out how Morgana’s doing. Maybe if news of you comes from Gwen she’ll be able to believe it.”

“Maybe,” Arthur breathes out. It’s a daunting thought right now, overwhelmed as he already feels.

“I’m sure of it,” Merlin says, laying back down. “I bet she misses you, too.”

He looks at the moon instead of answering - this is too many emotions for any one night. The stones are cool beneath his back, through the thin wool of his tunic. The sleeves are a little shorter than he prefers, pulling tight when he tries to cover his fingers.

Merlin holds out a hand, cupping a little glowing firefly, pushing it at Arthur when he doesn’t take it on his own. It’s warm.

“Thanks,” he says, watching it fly in ponderous, bobbing paths between his fingers. Some drunks below start laughing over something or another, stumbling home. It’s a long while before he draws up the courage to ask.

“How come it never seems to bother you? The Emrys thing?” He lets the firefly blink on the tip of his nose as Merlin thinks.

“I don’t really know, I guess. The druids always called me that, so it just seemed normal. My Da always calls me Merlin, though.” He sighs, shifting and shuffling against the stone. “My Mam named me, did I ever tell you that?”

“No,” Arthur says, unsure. Merlin doesn’t talk about his mother much, either.

“She wanted me to be free - or that’s what my Da says about it.”

Arthur wonders how she would feel about her child’s life so far. How either of their mothers would feel. Balinor has not been wrong to hide Merlin. The state of treaties and warfare would change overnight if the other kingdoms knew of the birth of another great dragon - and another powerful dragonlord that would ride her.

None of them would have cared a whit that Merlin was a child, or that Aithusa was even younger than that. That he played the lyre poorly and made potions for the sheep when they were ill. They would all do their best to see him dead before he could take the field.

It just seems very unfair, is all. Bleak.

“Do you - ” he bites his tongue, not sure he wants to know.

“Do I what?”

“Do you think I’m the Once and Future King?” Arthur swallows, dearly wishing he’d kept his fat mouth shut, but unable to help it. He knows what Nimeuh thinks, and he knows what he thinks. Does Merlin find it as laughable as he does? Or - he closes his eyes. Or, or, or.

“Do you really want to know?” Merlin hedges, his voice small. “You won’t be angry with me?”

“I won’t be angry,” Arthur promises, eyes shut tight.

“I know you don’t want to be, or think you can’t be,” Merlin says, and Arthur can hear him shuffling again, nervous. “I don’t want it to be anyone else, though. I guess I wouldn’t mind having a destiny if it was with you,” he says.

It doesn’t sound half so heinous when Merlin puts it that way.

“I just don’t understand why it bothers you so much now - the druids talked about it, I know you heard them,” he says, and Arthur rolls his head to look over.

It’s just Merlin, of course. Familiar face, a bit confused, a bit wary, like Arthur might be angry even though he promised he wouldn’t.

“I didn’t believe them - I didn’t think it was real. I still don’t,” he huffs, “not about me, at least. But when your father and Nimueh were talking about it, and… it was real enough that people died over it. People went to war because they believed in this prophecy,” he makes himself take a breath, but it only seems to fan the flames of his discontent, “and look what happened!”

“They were already at war,” Merlin argues, “it was hope, that brought them together to try and stop the fighting - ”

“You heard your father, how he spoke about mine, what they did.” Arthur sits up. “I don’t want us to end up like that - to be something to look on with regret. Your path, of all peoples, shouldn’t be a bloody one!”

“You’re not your father,” Merlin snaps, “and I’m not mine. And my path is mine to choose, not yours. Do you think any king could tell me what to do? Truly?”

It kicks a laugh loose in his chest again, as Merlin usually manages to do, the ire sloughing off in quick waves.

“No one can tell you what to do,” Arthur says. That, at least, is something they can both agree on.

***

They stay on the wall for too long, until the cold drives them back towards the inn. Merlin catches his elbow as they pass the stables, gesturing inside. It smells of warm horses and hay, and not at all like an oncoming storm - you’d never know a dragon lay within.

‘My Da,’ he mouths, pointing.

The truth is Arthur doesn’t want to speak to Balinor again. Not yet. Afraid he’ll learn that all of his fatherly affection was a lie - or something that will be taken away when Arthur proves not up to standard. Just another Uther.

That whatever the dragonlord has to say will merely confirm every dark thought about himself he’d ever harboured. He will not rest easily until he does, though.

Arthur cannot be a coward.

If he quails facing Balinor how will he ever face Uther, or Morgause? A battlefield with a sword is preferable to one of words, but he does not have the luxury to choose.

He’s had enough of talking, but he waves to Merlin as he goes in anyway, shooing him back towards the inn as he tries to follow. The silent game of gestures goes on far too long, and finally ends with Merlin throwing up his arms in frustration and making a very rude hand sign with uncalled for vigour.

Arthur makes it back, and feels a little better for it.

At this hour it is empty other than Balinor and the horses - and one dragon, of course. Aithusa gives him away, perking up on sight.

“Arthur,” Balinor says, like he’s soothing one of the horses.

“Sir,” he says, coming up to pet Aithusa, letting her press her head against his in greeting.

“Hunith was always the wiser of us,” Balinor says after Aithusa has had her fill. “Better at this sort of thing. Talking,” he motions between them, as though Arthur had perhaps not noticed they were having a conversation.

He’s not sure how to ask what he wants to know - in this, at least, they are of one mind. United in their inability to express delicate things. Even if he wanted to, Arthur cannot just throw himself to the floor of the stable in a tantrum, demanding to know if he is loved.

“I just - ” Arthur begins, as Balinor begins to speak as well.

“I wanted - ”

They both wait for the other, and Arthur hasn’t had a discussion go so poorly from the start since that disastrous feast Uther sat him down next to Lady Emeline.

“Please,” Balinor says.

“I suppose,” Arthur says clumsily, more to Aithusa than anyone else, “I just wanted to know if you had… from the start, when you brought me home from the druid camp. Was that why? Did you think - ”

“No,” Balinor is fervent to interrupt, “no. Since fleeing Camelot, I tried not to think overly much on prophecy. I might not have always succeeded, but I tried. Even after Merlin was born, and with him the druids - even Kilgharrah - naming him Emrys, I was quite determined to never attempt to meddle with fate again.”

He strokes Aithusa on her muzzle, but his eyes are intent on Arthur.

“You see, I had learned my harsh lesson. I had believed myself to have some insight, when in truth I was stumbling along as blind as anyone. Blinder. I never wanted the same to come for Merlin, or for him to suffer through some whim of a higher power. I hoped whatever King there was, if there was… lived so far across the sea that he would be an old man before he set land on our shores.”

Balinor sighs, the grey in his hair seeming starker than it had when Arthur was fifteen, or even eighteen.

“No, when I saw you, I saw Ygraine, and thought that we might reach peace before more violence was done. And after I got to know you, when I saw first your grief, and then your persistent heart… After the darkest times you faced, you still picked up tools and helped those who had taken you from your rightful home. Brought in peat and did chores for Aoife when she needed aid. Ah, I remember how Merlin took after you like a little duck,” Balinor grins, cheeks wrinkling as he reminisces. “I suppose I started to believe once more, when I saw the two of you together.”

“Would you have left me behind, if you had then thought I was this king? Kept me away from Merlin?” Arthur asks, hands behind his back like he’s due for inspection. He’s not even sure what answer he wants to hear - any, so long as it is honest.

“Perhaps I would have then; I cannot know.” Balinor waits until Arthur meets his eyes. His smile is softer, but still real. “Now, though? Never. I could never regret you, or your friendship with Merlin. I am only sorry that you would ever have cause to doubt.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Arthur bites his lower lip worrying it until he tastes a drop of blood, throat tight. A king - even a prince - is supposed to be decisive. Strong. Arthur doesn’t think he’s any of those things. “I still think you’re wrong - I don’t feel anything like a king.”

“I do not presume to know for a fact you are,” Balinor says with a considering cast to his brow, “nor do I presume to know you are not. What I do know better than anyone, is that deciding for destiny will end in ruin.”

One of Balinor’s broad hands finds Arthur’s shoulder and gives a comforting squeeze.

“There is a sword,” Balinor says, an abrupt change of topic. As though the thought has struck him out of the blue. “There are precious few ways to prove fate, but there is a sword. One said to have been brought to this land by Brutus of Troy, a long distant ancestor of yours. A cousin to the founders of Rome, and a descendant of the goddess Aphrodite. Who carried with him a blade brought to life in the fires of Hephaestus’s forge,” he says with a small twitch of a smile. “If you believe that sort of thing.”

“A sword?” Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“That only the true king may lift. One that may slay any impure creature. We searched for it; chased that legend through all of Camelot, never to be found.” Balinor says, taking back his hand. His amusement falters.

“I hope you can forgive me. I… hope you are this king, in some ways. Because I know that you cherish Merlin as I do, and would never ask more than he could give. And I hope you are not, because the mere thought of it makes you so unhappy.”

“Perhaps you will not welcome to hear it, but I love you like my own son,” Balinor says, voice raspy. “I want you to choose your own destiny, which battles you will fight and which you will turn away from. I fear time has made me into a much older man, earlier than it should have. Now all I want out of this lifetime is for my children to know happiness in theirs. Do you understand me?”

Arthur knows his face is red and eyes are wet for the seemingly countless time this evening. He’s fed up with crying, so he just nods, a tight, short jerk of his head that is all he is able to give, wrung out clean into nothing.

Aithusa headbutts him with more force than she intends to - he hopes, anyway, because he doesn’t want to have words with anyone else, let alone her.

Possibly ever. Maybe you only get so many words in life, and he’s used them all up.

He scratches at her neck where she likes it best, right behind her ears, until her eyes droop and his arm aches with the strain of holding her up while she goes limp. Had she truly only heard her name when it was both Merlin and him calling out to her?

A question for another time, though, because if he has to talk to anyone ever again he’ll sail to the far side of the ocean and stay there.

***

Arthur lets himself back into their room, utterly drained. There is no candle lit or hovering magelight waiting for him; Merlin might be asleep already. It’s so blessedly quiet. He kicks off his boots and doesn’t bother to change before dropping onto his bed, where Merlin wakes with a shout, flailing and fighting.

“Hells,” Arthur swears up from the floor where he’s crashed, “what are you doing?” He clutches at his heart like a maiden.

“I just wanted to wait until you came back, but I fell asleep,” Merlin looks over the edge of the bed at him, trying dutifully not to smile or be too amused at Arthur’s misfortune. “You alright?”

“I think I can survive a short drop to the floor, much as I shouldn’t have to,” he complains, climbing back in and pushing Merlin over until he’s barely hanging on.

“That’s not what I meant,” Merlin grasps the covers to avoid his own fall.

“If you ask me how I’m feeling, so help me,” Arthur smashes the pillow down onto his face, a vengeful god.

“You were doing so well, before,” Merlin says - or at least that’s what it sounds like. Who can truly know, other than the pillow. “Talking about emotions, using your words!”

“Don’t get used to it,” Arthur finally relents, too tired to fight, even if Merlin really deserves it.

“Just one more thing is all,” Merlin begs.

“No.” Arthur snatches up the blankets, curling up facing the wall, wrapped up with no plans to come back out.

“You and my Da are alright, then? That’s it, I’ll leave you to sleep after, I promise,” Merlin shakes him. His hand is warm from being bundled up snugly inside with both their blankets while Arthur is chill from the crisp night air.

“We’re fine.” Arthur blushes.

“Good, then. Merlin subsides at last, but doesn’t retreat to his own bed. “You’ve got both the blankets,” he says eventually.

“Oh, do I?” Arthur holds on to them all the tighter. “Seems like someone donated an extra blanket to this bed,” he yawns, his itchy, overtired eyes unwilling to stay open even a minute longer. “How nice of them.”

He blinks and it is morning.

Merlin is plastered against his side like he had tended to do when he used to come sleep in Arthur’s room, driven by boredom or loneliness. Although he’s about twice as big now and the bed is about half the size, the habit remains.

It’s warm, if cramped.

Arthur will not pretend to be the most self-aware man in the world, but even he can admit it’s a better morning than most. Not to wake up alone, or shaken to take your turn at watch - simply to rise because the sun is shining in from the window.

Their room is a half-full glass, the sunrise lighting up the walls and chasing the shadows away. It would be beautiful, but he’d still prefer the inn had curtains, or the bed had hangings he could close. So he might burrow back under the blankets as though they are merely two rabbits hibernating for winter. With deliberate intent, he shuts his eyes once more, for all that it’s unlikely to work. Time seems to stretch as he skips like a stone across waking and sleeping.

The weight shifts as Merlin leaves, and Arthur lets out a tiny sound of annoyance in protest. When he peels an eye open to look, Merlin is washing his face at the basin, the back of his neck and tips of his ears red.

“Morning,” Arthur says, feeling sleepy and strange.

“Morning,” Merlin answers, going to inspect the bag that Nimueh had brought, not quite managing to meet Arthur’s eyes. “Oh,” he breathes, pulling out a book that Arthur had never once laid eyes on.

It is not bound with leather, but instead a slab of fine marble or crystal that Arthur does not know - so thin as to be like lifting a veil as Merlin opens it, half transparent, hazy and luminous.

“I can’t believe she’d send her own grimoire,” Merlin marvels, flipping through the pages with a careful hand.

Arthur spares a thought to hope she doesn’t take it back, now that he’s yelled at her.

“That’s generous of her,” he says slowly. He knows there is significance to the gesture, but not the intricacies behind it. It’s the ritual of giving gifts at court all over again.

“It is,” Merlin agrees with a vigorous nod, “Nimueh has been collecting her studies on the more… esoteric magics for a long time. I doubt there’s many people more learned then she is.”

In Arthur’s mind all magic is esoteric, but he makes an agreeable hum; Merlin certainly seems pleased, which is all he needs to know on the subject.

Merlin clearly disagrees, however.

“Some magic is more easily explained,” he lectures, eyes fixed on the book, “like,” he swirls a light into existence and snuffs it out, “or,” he wiggles his fingers, setting half the room to floating. “Anyone could explain it, that’s in any book. This is things like - ” Merlin whirls to look at him.

Still flopped in bed, Arthur blinks under his intense gaze.

“Where do souls come from, or where do they go? There are experiences beyond our waking world,” Merlin comes to show him the page, which is full of symbols he does not know and cannot begin to guess. “To pull back the veil between and have a look - it’s not something I can put into words.”

“Things like destiny? Prophecy?” Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow and rubbing at his cheek - he feels creases on his skin from the pillow. It’s too early to begin this again.

“Well,” Merlin hedges in a way that means absolutely yes.

“Then I don’t want to hear it, so save your breath.” He collapses back into bed, pulling the blankets over his head in a sulk. He’s had enough of this and it’s not even midmorning. All discussion of fate shall halt until they’ve broken fast, at minimum.

“Alright, alright,” Merlin says, and Arthur can hear the book shut with a soft thud. “It’s not just that, either, though. It’s a lifetime of study - and it’ll be a lifetime for me to understand it, too.”

“Seems a very generous gift,” he says, fishing for more sense of what it means.

Merlin is quiet. So quiet Arthur has to peel the covers back to have a look. Merlin is sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the book with concern.

“It is,” he says, after a time. “It means forever, basically. It’s something passed down in families, or lines of Priestesses. Tradition says she should have a daughter to give it to, or an apprentice - or Morgause, really, although that doesn’t seem very likely.”

“I should hope not,” Arthur says. Morgause was enough of a headache without giving her any realm-shattering secrets.

“I… probably shouldn’t have this,” Merlin worries at his lower lip.

“Why not?” Arthur prods, after much agonising silence. “Because of tradition?” It seems unlike Merlin, who cares little for anything of the sort.

“It’s not that. You heard what Da said - trying to know your own fate? I think maybe he was right. I trust him better than anyone, and he’s right about a lot of things.” Merlin’s fingers tap an anxious rhythm on the gilded edges of the book. He leans back against Arthur’s knees with a gusty sigh. “Do you think she’ll be mad if I refuse it?”

There are any number of times Arthur has seen a gift-giving gone wrong in court. A gift that was humiliating, or an obligation wrapped in a pretty ribbon. Where refusal was an insult worthy of feuding for generations.

Nimueh has a temper, but she loves Merlin - Arthur knows it.

“She’s always telling you to listen to your instincts, right? Let your magic guide you and all of that.” He waits for Merlin to acknowledge this as the truth it is. “She’ll understand, then. And maybe you’ll take it up later, if you ever want to. Or she’ll find someone to teach.”

Merlin’s face is set, taking the grimoire and packing it carefully away once more. After such is decided it seems as though they both breathe a little easier.

Arthur’s stomach growls.

“Food, then?” Merlin grins at him. Troubles - if not forgotten - set aside in favour of a full table.

They dress and depart, taking the bag with the book with them; Merlin is unwilling to leave it alone for even a moment. Downstairs they find Balinor and Nimueh at a long table already - Lancelot and Elyan with them. Even Gwaine, who thankfully has the good sense to keep his mouth shut this early in the day. Or he is hungover. Arthur is not sure he cares which, so long as he’s quiet.

It’s a pleasant enough distraction, although he knows that duty will make itself known soon enough. At his side, Merlin speaks in low words with his father.

“We will depart,” Nimueh tells him as they finish, her tone as it always is, giving him no clues if she harbours any anger towards him over his behaviour, “and I will begin my search for Morgause. It is possible she has turned towards her allies. Cenred, or even Caerleon. His wife, Annis, while more sensible than he, was both a good friend of Morgause’s father and holds no love for Uther.”

“Good hunting,” he wishes her, when he can summon up no words or wishes that she would like better. “You’ll tell me if I can help you?”

She surveys him with a half sort of smile, and he is left feeling wanting, be it her intent or not. Clad in his undershirt, he wonders if there are still creases from sleep across his cheek, but when he checks all that is under his fingertips is his scar.

“I do not begrudge you your disbelief,” she says mildly, “but I will caution you, and then speak no more on the matter.”

Arthur swallows, shifting in his seat. The floor is tacky with spilled ale underneath his boots, and suddenly seems ill suited for someone like Nimueh. She seems to see past him, through him.

He is more glad than ever that Merlin will turn down her grimoire.

“Destiny will not care if you believe in it or not,” she warns him, “and it approaches faster than any of us can know. Take care, Arthur.”

She reaches to grasp his hand over the table, holding on tightly, before letting him go.

Chapter Text

Lancelot and Elyan argue so long that they nearly decide to settle who should visit the mysterious Guinevere with a duel, before Merlin gets fed up and yells that they might just both go. Balinor and Nimueh have taken their leave, far too busy to join them in becoming wastrels wandering across the countryside.

Gwaine has said very little of substance, but also has not left. He seems a good man, but the lazy fashion with which he holds himself is a lie, and the way he has taken to staring at Arthur when he thinks no one is looking is setting Arthur’s teeth on edge.

The friction with Gwaine finally reaches a head when Merlin has diverted off the path for the eighth time that day to look at a herb he’s never before seen outside of a book.

“What?!” Arthur hisses, not amused in the slightest when Gwaine just grins at him.

“I’ve just been wondering,” he trails off leadingly, waggling his eyebrows as he slouches atop his monster of a horse. Then he does the worst thing he could possibly do - in the middle of the road, in front of gods and everyone, and possibly Merlin if he gets distracted by a butterfly and ambles back to them - he begins to hum a particular tavern song.

“Shut up!” Arthur waves his hand, turning Llamrei on a swivel. Panicked eyes make sure the coast is still clear. “Do you want him to hear you?”

“You are him then? The knight from the songs?” Gwaine barks a loud, delighted laugh. “So you really have been going around rescuing maidens!”

“Wait, songs?” Arthur must not have heard him correctly. “Songs? As in more than one?”

“Of course!” Gwaine beams, happy to be the one to deliver good news.

Arthur feels a chill tickle down his spine.

“Shut up,” he says again, with greater urgency, “Merlin cannot know. Do you understand me?”

“Oh why not?” Gwaine hasn’t lost a pinch of his happy mood, beaming joyfully. “I’m sure he’d be happy for you, if maybe a mite jealous.”

“He’d be thrilled,” Arthur agrees, “or amused. One of the two, but one thing is certain - I’d never know a single day of peace for the rest of my life. Morning, noon, and, night, it’ll be all I hear until I’m dead in the earth. Even then that might not be enough.”

Arthur turns to look once more, assuring himself Merlin hasn’t learned to be stealthy since dawn. He spares a moment to hope Balinor hadn’t packed his lyre.

“Jealous,” he scoffs at the ridiculous notion, “it’s embarrassing is what it is!”

“Dunno, I think I’d fancy some songs written about me,” Gwaine argues. “I don’t think it’s embarrassing at all. You know you’re a bit of a folk hero, don’t you? Did you really slay a nest of giant, man-eating serpents? Have you leapt into a flame to pull out an innocent maid from false accusations of witchcraft?”

“Lancelot,” Arthur chokes out, feeling the heat crawl up the back of his neck. “He did half the slaying, at least.”

He ignores the other bit, as the young lady in question was very much a witch.

“So what I’m hearing is that there is not one knight of lore, but many - and thus an opportunity of employment!” Gwaine exclaims, dropping into a mock bow. “For slaying of beasts and saving the besieged. I’d put forward my sword, good sir! I accept payment in songs celebrating my deeds.”

“Helping people is not a joke.” Arthur’s petty ire grows into something more real.

It’s rather cut off at the knees from the look of Gwaine’s face as he rises from his farcical bow. Solemn. Arthur remembers all at once that Gwaine is a tremendous liar, but one who gives away every coin that passes through his fingers. One who had wanted to help them free Freya, when there were no songs to be had - only a swift boot out of the city.

“No, it’s not,” Gwaine says.

They sit there, staring at one another. Llamrei shifts impatiently underneath him, disliking his tension.

“What are you two doing?” Merlin asks as he and Aithusa rejoin them, as unable or unwilling to read an atmosphere as always. “Are we to be friends?” Merlin adds, smiling at Arthur as though this was a forgone conclusion that he’d known all along - one Arthur has finally caught up with.

He always seems to make his most important decisions based on his gut though, and he makes another one now.

“I was just suggesting that Gwaine take the road to Camelot. Catch up with Lance and Elyan, so they can show him around, maybe introduce him to Leon.” Arthur looks at Gwaine steadily, until he is satisfied.

“Man can never have enough friends, that’s what I always say,” Gwaine claims, clapping his hands once and putting on a show of looking about. “Remind me, Camelot? Which direction?”

Arthur tilts his head north. If Gwaine rides well he’ll be caught up by the end of the day.

“And which way are you going?” Gwaine asks. “Other than Not Camelot? For undisclosed, mysterious reasons?”

Arthur tilts his head south, contemplating his choices. He… wants to visit Tintagel. They haven’t discussed it. Very little discussion on where to go has been had, just unvoiced hopes ever since Nimueh mentioned her. His mother. He was born in Tintagel; his mother was a girl there.

He’d like to see it, even just once.

“I had given thought to visiting Cornwall,” he says, trying to keep his nerves out of his voice. “See the coast in the summer. The stones of Mên-an-Tol.” Merlin looks at him with a canny understanding, but says nothing, for which Arthur is grateful.

“Perhaps I shall meet you again on the road, then,” Gwaine nods. “Before too long, I hope. If we’re to be friends.”

“Safe travels,” Merlin says, eyes crinkling into the sunlight. “We’ll see you again soon, I’m sure.”

Gwaine is off down the road, whistling loudly, the traitor.

“What song is that?” Merlin asks, “I hear it everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” Arthur tries to distract him instead. “How can you have heard it everywhere when you haven’t been anywhere?”

“Well they played it every night at the inn, and that lady on the street was singing it, you remember? It seems popular is all, so I want to know! Tell me,” Merlin demands, Aithusa coming up so they can crowd him. “Tell me!”

To not tell them would only invite further suspicion.

“It’s called Tyr’s Folly,” Arthur says as blithely as he can manage. “Come on, let’s go, we’re losing daylight.”

“It’s midmorning.” Merlin rolls his eyes, muttering complaints just loud enough to tickle Arthur’s ear.

It is both far different, to travel with Merlin and Aithusa rather than just himself, and not much different at all.

He spends less time on any number of chores, as Merlin can wave a hand and have them done - but rather a lot more time staring at trees, or birds. Colourful flowers and fat bumblebees. A deer once absorbed an entire afternoon. Arthur does not understand how Merlin can be so fascinated when he can make himself all the flowers and bees he likes, but it is so nevertheless.

They still camp far more than stay in any city, as Aithusa loses patience for stables with astonishing swiftness. If they all sleep in a barn that smells of animal - at best - in some small off the map village she is as jubilant as one can be. But the best nights are the ones where they are so far from any other souls that she can shed her illusions and just be herself.

She truly is something special, Arthur thinks, watching her roll about in the grass. Even for a dragon. Moonlight bounces off of her in scattering rainbows, caught up in her wings. Llamrei grazes next to Bluebell, a sedate old mare who does the carrying that Aithusa deems herself too good for. Merlin may ride her, but not luggage.

He sits at Arthur’s side, turning a speckled spar stone over and over in his hands like a worry token, whispering to it. Arthur has learned to ignore any unsettling sibilant nonsense that he overhears, his own hands busy with restringing his bow. Balinor had gifted him a very generous amount of linen strings, sitting in tidy loops in a box he must have carved himself. Made of beech wood, it was no longer than Arthur’s handspan, and shows a dragon in flight with two little figures riding atop, so small they are hard to discern. Arthur had found it at the bottom of the pack, along with the fat little dragon Balinor had carved for him that very first night - its happy grin no longer seeming mocking at all.

He did not cry, but he might have been able to if he’d let himself. He doesn’t know half as much on the blessings of the druids as he should, but even he’s heard the myth that no harm can befall a traveller who seeks shelter under the branches of a beech tree.

“Oh,” Merlin says, looking up, “a scale.”

Arthur is never entirely certain how Merlin knows, but he is also never wrong. Arthur goes, so Merlin need not stop his spellwork, sifting a hand through the cool long grass until he finds it. Undamaged and still overflowing with magic, like holding the heart of a flickering star. It is weightless, and he hefts it before offering it to Aithusa to investigate, her nose twitching as she sniffs it.

“That’s you,” he tells her, wondering what it must seem like through a dragon’s senses - if he can feel the magic…

“Are you still making your gloves?” Arthur asks, unsure. He doesn’t know what the state of Merlin’s armour is, having only read about it in letters. He assumes it’s being worn even now, hidden, or packed away on Bluebell.

“We finished the gloves ages ago, didn’t we?” Merlin asks Aithusa. “Now we’re working on the gorget.” He gestures around his collar with a slender hand, lifting his chin with a dimpled smile.

Arthur returns to his bow, feeling slightly warm under his own collar. He offers the scale in his open palm; and that same slender hand plucks it up with deft fingers. As clumsy as Merlin is on his feet he’s skillful with things that require a delicate touch.

The spar gets tossed into the fire, which flares up high against the dark of the night, sparks twisting up in the rush of updraft.

“Let the fire die on it, don’t feed it any further tonight,” Merlin instructs, standing and going to Bluebell, where he retrieves a long, flat leather-wrapped bundle, bringing it back over for Arthur to see. It is plain looking, with some embossed detailing hiding rune-marks - protection, he assumes, from theft, at the very least.

“I’ve not actually seen your armour yet.” Arthur watches with keen eyes as Merlin releases each bronze clasp one after another.

“Go on, then,” he pushes it towards Arthur to do the actual unveiling.

When the supple leather is pulled back there is another layer, a fine blue silk that must have come from a distance; by ship or dragon he does not know. It seems like something Balinor would have fetched himself, Arthur thinks, trailing it between his fingers and admiring the texture. At last the armour is revealed; plain leather, a dull and forgettable thing, that would go unremarked upon. As always, Arthur knows in his head it is far better for Merlin and Aithusa to hide, but he can’t help the melancholy that strikes through his heart.

One day, he hopes, they will be known, and able to cross any land fearlessly, and to be welcomed as they are.

“Here.” Merlin takes up the leather gorget, peeling the unstitched edging back to reveal the dragon scales in tidy layers beneath. Even in the dim light of the fire they glow, ethereal, so beautiful it makes his breath catch. Merlin places the newly fallen scale into place, sitting like a soldier in a row.

“You want to do the honours?” Merlin asks, head cocked, watching Arthur with a look he isn’t sure how to name. A flat box, ancient and worn, is taken up from under the silk - the dragonbone needles, the fine silver thread.

Balinor had taught him, of course, on his own armour. Shown him. Merlin’s though… it was different. Lighter, and delicate, built up on layers of wild silk instead of hide, quilted edges stuffed with eiderdown from the Farne Islands rather than fur.

“I’m not certain I should,” Arthur admits. His fingers feel clumsy at the very thought. “Next time,” he offers. “Let me watch, though?”

Merlin considers him, the warm light of the fire caressing the lines of his face.

“Alright,” he says at last, picking up the needle and setting to work.

Arthur sits and watches, bow long forgotten. He folds his arms over his knees, resting his chin, fascinated. It will be a long time before the armour is done, not until Aithusa is grown, in truth. Years away.

“How big will she get, do you think?”

“Well,” Merlin says, tongue peeking out as he concentrates, “she’ll carry both of us, we know that.”

Arthur is not certain who is the ‘we’ that knows that; he and Merlin or Merlin and Aithusa. Perhaps all of them, although lately Arthur feels he knows very little. He can’t imagine tearing through the sky even faster than Kilgharrah can. Yet when he closes his eyes to picture it the idea blossoms easily - high above the land, so much so that he can see the endless stretch of blue to the west, Merlin’s joyful face turned into the sun, clad in scale of his own. It feels right - an inevitability.

Perhaps he does know.

He watches Merlin work until his eyes grow tired, wondering when that day will come.

***

They pass carefully through Gawant, the kingdom being close enough allies with Camelot to have adopted many of their views on magic. It is not always an automatic sentence of death, but Arthur thinks if he were to witness anyone ever attempt to flog Merlin he might go to war over it - even if they’d never manage it.

Better the whole mess be avoided, in truth.

They follow the River Wye until it connects to Hafren, hugging it as they make their way towards Caerloyw and further. He does not relax, but it’s easier to breathe once they’ve left Gawant; Mercia is not much friendlier to magic that is not sworn in service to the crown, but King Bayard has very little love lost for Uther, and a healthy truce of non-aggression with Balinor.

Currently, however, such fears feel distant, as Merlin sits on his shoulders, gathering as many plums as he can carry. It’s a bit early in the season, but they ripen the rest of the way when Merlin asks them to, and Arthur is not above cheating nature if it means a refreshing bite of sun-warmed fruit.

“Left,” Merlin kicks him with his heel, as though Arthur is a horse. Worse, really, as he would never dare kick Aithusa or Bluebell.

“Manners,” Arthur pinches his thigh, which earns him nothing other than Merlin tightening his knees in reprimand; which does in turn make Arthur regret his pinch, though not perhaps in the manner Merlin had intended.

“Sounds like somebody doesn’t want any plums,” he laughs down from atop his perch.

“Sounds like somebody wants to get dunked into the river,” Arthur says direly, meaning every word.

“You wouldn’t.”

Arthur would. A screaming Merlin discovers exactly how truthful he is, flailing futilely as he splashes into the water. He barely spares a glance to make sure there are no witnesses before sending a wave taller than either of them to crash over Arthur in revenge.

The ensuing battle is not dignified, but it’s nice to lay barefoot by the riverside as they dry out afterwards, boots upside down and dripping, eating the few surviving plums and watching the occasional little boat travel along. Arthur lays his head back in the grass, taking a clean breath of the fresh air. Birds call and circle above, the sky blue and clear with small puffs of white clouds.

Merlin, as restless as always, has already resumed working on his newest project. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his thin wrists.

“What are you making, anyway?” Arthur asks, as Merlin has been rather closed lipped on it so far.

“Well,” Merlin hums, “I’m trying to do the thing with the cupboard again, but on purpose. Faster, though, and smaller - just for notes. I never managed it when I tried before, but then I made the bird, so I put it aside.” He holds the spar stone up to the sun, where it casts blues and purples bouncing all across his skin. “It’d be good to be able to write to the others though, wouldn’t it? Messenger birds only go so many places, and waiting for word out of Camelot, well - ”

It’s unreliable, and not always feasible, and there are a myriad of other problems. Arthur is well aware.

“It’s a good idea,” he agrees, stretching out like a cat under the sun until he can feel the grass between his toes. It’s lovely, but too lazy to allow himself while Merlin does actual work.

It’s with reluctance that he hauls himself up to run through some sword drills, but it feels good once he’s begun. Grounding. At least he can have something familiar in body while his mind has been adrift. By the time he has finished he’s debating dunking himself right back into the river, sweating and overheating under the afternoon summer sun with exertion.

It is not that he wishes for a fight, but there is a clarity that comes in the simplicity of one. Instead of battling his own tangled up thoughts to just face another sword - one is the easier of the two.

When he goes back to the riverbank Merlin’s fair skin is taking on a pink cast as well, and Arthur tosses his cloak over his head to shade him from the sun. They continue for a while, picking their way through the low, less taken paths, settling to rest at dusk, waking at dawn to begin again.

It is perhaps the longest period of peace Arthur has had since leaving the tower - all the way to Escewiche they encounter no bandits, no monsters. Merlin sets a young man’s ankle, they don’t return a selkie’s skin, as it turns out she’s very happy on land thank you, and Aithusa seems to sprout another handspan taller - but this is as much excitement as they see for weeks.

Trouble is brewing, he knows, and so he endeavours to enjoy this respite as best he’s able, before Morgause learns of her failure.

It’s a strange feeling that overtakes him, the closer to their destination they become. They stop in Trevena, the village that sits at the foot of Tintagel castle, and Arthur knows it is a foolish thing to realise, but it strikes him bluntly now that he knows no one. There is no one he can ask about his mother, no faces he might see and point to and see a familiarity other than one of his own imagination. Similar eyes, or a chin, and clearly call; ‘ah, this is my uncle, my nephew, or my cousin’.

If he has any he does not know them, and they will not know him. It feels silly now, to have come so far, but isn’t that the point? To learn?

“Shall we see if we can visit the castle?” Merlin asks him, so full of gentle understanding that it makes Arthur want to snap at him, irrational and cranky. “Or maybe we can find something to eat that neither of us cooked,” he says, craning his head around, reading Arthur’s mercurial mood.

He’s got a point. Between the two of them they could burn water.

They manage to find a public house where they buy some fresh bread along with cheese and a half decent potage, which is far better than anything they’ve had in weeks. A spot is found where they can view the castle where it sits, small and high on the headland, past a dangerously narrow isthmus. A drawbridge is raised above it, where one might cross and not risk death if the wind decided to be temperamental, and next to it a guardhouse.

“You know,” Arthur says around a bite of his luncheon, “when I was told about Tintagel, my preceptor told me that if you had three armoured men standing ready on the line that the castle could not fall even with an army on the other side laying siege. I think I understand, now.”

“No kidding.” Merlin whistles, staring. The castle is small, compared to the citadel of Camelot, and weatherworn. The sea is nearly green, it is so bright, and the cliffs are sharp and sheer. White rock and green grass; the call of gulls above. The smell of salt.

His eyes sting, and his throat works to swallow.

Below them he can hear the crashing of waves. The shadow of a cloud drifts across the sea, and he wonders if his mother ever sat here, looking upon her home. Did she miss it when she left to find a new one, as he still misses his some days?

Merlin’s head comes to rest against Arthur’s shoulder as he links their arms together, offering a quiet support.

“I’ve never seen water so rich in colour,” Merlin says. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Arthur rasps.

They sit together for a long while, just listening to the call of the birds and the crash of the waves below. When he closes his eyes he can still see the brightness of the sun, feel the wind on his face.

“Come on,” Arthur says, once he’s had enough of this. “Maybe we can find someone who worked at the castle when my mother was a girl.”

They wander and ask those they pass, trying not to seem suspicious as they pepper villagers with questions about the de Bois. What manner of lord is Agravaine? Has he ever been married or had children? Are there any who might recall Tristan, or Ygraine? In the manner of small towns it does not take long for them to be the ones being questioned instead.

Thankfully the people of Trevena seem to be a friendly enough sort of people, so they aren’t thrown out on their ears for being nosy.

“Nessa is who you’d want to talk to,” they are directed, after Arthur fumblingly admits he’s looking to learn about his family. If he implies his family used to work at the castle it’s not precisely a lie. Nessa had worked at the castle the whole of her life, with a finger in every pie - or so they are bemusedly told. Only retiring into the village when the stairs in the castle proper took too dear a toll on her from age.

One of her many grandchildren takes them to the farm on the outskirts of the village where she lives with what appears to be half the population. Arthur has never in his life seen a family so large or a home so crowded.

“Dama, someone wants to hear about the castle,” the child stands on the lowest bit of the fence and bellows to an elderly woman shelling peas. Nessa, Arthur assumes. Without so much as a good-bye they are tearing back off to the village, inexhaustible in the way only children seem to be.

“Well, come on,” says one of the women, “hope you’ve got time to have your ears talked off.”

“Bite your tongue,” Nessa chides without heat. “Questions about the castle, hm? Come here and let me look at you. Ah, and what a fine horse,” she admires Aithusa, who tosses her head, showing off.

“Ma’am,” Arthur says, wishing there were less of an audience already.

“Dama or Ness, none of that.” She waves them closer, squinting her pale eyes. “If I didn’t know better, well… I might make some assumptions.”

“You might,” Arthur hedges, stepping around a scuttling group of hens, Merlin trailing behind him and doing a spin as they come to cluster around his boots. “I was wondering if you would be able to tell me about my mother.”

“Well, these old bones could do with a little stretch,” she says, standing and setting her basket aside. “Perhaps a young man will offer this old woman his arm, so she could take in some air.”

“Yes, ma’am - Ness,” Arthur says, letting her direct their path, Merlin waving an awkward sort of wave after them, surrounded by children pulling at his hands and chickens pecking around his feet.

It’s an exceptionally lovely day. Or perhaps every day is such, here. He likes to think they are.

“You are Ygraine’s boy, aren’t you? Prince Arthur?” Nessa asks once they are a distance away from the farmhouse. “You have her look about you.”

“I always thought I took after my father,” Arthur admits, happy he does not have to be the one to say it, “but I’m pleased to know if I resemble her. Although I am not a prince any longer.”

“You are a prince, from both sides,” she corrects him calmly. “I see her in your hair,” Nessa continues when he is silent, patting his arm, “and your chin. I suspect that smile, too, should I ever see one.”

Arthur tries to summon one up for her, but even he can tell it is strained.

“I just don’t know much about her,” he confesses. “No one spoke of her in Camelot, and few after. Sometimes it’s like she never existed.”

“It’s a pitiful thing,” Nessa says, after a long look at him, “when grief can bury the memory of a person deeper than death can. She shouldn’t be a secret to you.” They walk for a bit, stopping to gaze over the sea to the west. “I’ll tell you what I can, though I was not her nursemaid.”

“Please,” Arthur begs. Sometimes it feels as though anything is more than he has.

“Let’s see,” Nessa begins. “I can still recall one of her birthdays. When she was barely more than knee-high. Her father - your grandfather, King Armael, gods bless him - fancied himself a merchant first, and a king second. He was a funny sort of man; would have rather been at sea than on a throne. Your mam,” she leans in, sharing a confidence, “she called him Captain. Well, one year he asked your mam was asked what it was that would best please her for her special day.”

Nessa took his hand in hers, fine wrinkles as dry as paper.

“I remember she said she wanted every child to have a cake, and your grandfather made it so. I don’t think there was a drip of honey left anywhere for miles around. There are many who could have grown up spoilt, what with the way her family carried on about her, but she was a generous spirit.”

“Kind, and generous,” Arthur says, rolling the words around the inside of his mind. “That’s all anyone I’ve met seems to say about her.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“I just…” Arthur catches himself before he can spend his frustration on one undeserving of it. “Sometimes it makes her seem even further away. Perfect. She must have felt something when she left her home. Was she excited, or frightened? Did she never lose her temper? What did she hate?”

Nessa’s gaze goes a little distant as she thinks.

It seems impossible that anyone, even a Princess, could live their days free of all strife. Yet it was all the stories he ever heard. Perfect and untouchable. What would she think of him? Far from perfect, certainly.

“Well now, let me think. She cut herself on some gorse, and I can still hear the wailing, all these years later. Tore up her favourite green dress. Oh, she couldn’t stand the stuff ever after. Never seen a cheel weep so at the touch of wet kelp, either, or at getting pricked by sea-buckthorn.”

Arthur huffs a little laugh.

“She would wear yellow flowers in her hair, when she was out playing. Birdsfoot.” Nessa raises a hand to point out to the meadow. “Common as anything, and you can see it there. Bright like an egg yolk. Her hair was almost white it was so fair, and they looked as fine as gold on her. She was a person, lad.”

“Thank you,” he says, watching the birdsfoot sway to and fro in the sea breeze.

“Now,” Nessa says, “how she felt about going off to get married I cannot tell you. But she would have missed her brothers. They were thick as thieves, the three of them. Prince Tristan took after King Armael; big, in both body and spirit. Always ready for an adventure. Prince Agravaine was a quieter soul, and clever. The jest when they were just wee boys used to be that if you added them up you’d get one good king.”

“Is - ” Arthur clicks his mouth shut, thinking. He’s not certain what he means to ask, what he wants to know. “How is King Agravaine? My uncle. Is he just? Fair?”

Would he want to know me? Or does he hate Uther more than he would love his sister’s child?

“He’s a reserved man, now,” Nessa says, considering him. “After Princess Ygraine passed, rest her soul, and then Tristan right after. Your grandparents were gone by then, and suddenly a throne that shouldn’t have been his was. The last man standing. Still clever, though. And fair enough.”

It was lukewarm praise, and there was something about the bland way she said it that set him on edge.

“I don’t suppose he’d be interested in a meeting,” Arthur says.

Nessa sighs, releasing his hand.

“I am quite certain I cannot speak for him. King Uther… you were never disinherited, were you? Even down here we’ve heard the gossip. Like something out of a fairy tale. Kidnapped by a dragon, goodness me.” She fans her face, making a sign against evil.

Arthur has to bite down on a smile. “I don’t believe I was ever disinherited, no. He just wouldn’t take any treaty for my return.”

“Aye, and you seem chained up in a draughty old tower right now, don’t you?” She narrows her eyes at him, a smile twitching at the edge of her mouth.

He laughs, unable to help himself. “I’m quite content where I am, actually.”

“Good then.” She grins in return. “In the case of your uncle,” she continues more seriously, “I’d take care. ‘Tis all I mean to say. He’d do anything to strike at Uther. Anything. Men like that are beyond the reach of reason. He’s fair enough to us, in Trevena, but if he thought setting the village alight would hurt his enemy he’d come bearing the torch himself. That’s what this old woman thinks, at least, for whatever little it is worth. Merely… take care.”

“It’s worth more than you think,” Arthur says. “I can’t imagine my mother would be happy about that.” He is sorrowful but not surprised.

“No,” Nessa says, quick and sharp. “She would not. The truth is his feud hasn’t been about her in a long, long time. King Agravaine got hurt and he never healed up right. Never took more family, and never sought another spec of joy. Rather wait and wait to lash out at a king who I’m sure hasn’t thought about him in years.”

“It’s hard to blame him,” Arthur muses.

“Oh, pish,” Nessa says, the fiercest he’s heard her. “Call me heartless if you like, but all it makes him is a fool.” She squints into the sunny horizon. “I know lots of folks who’ve lost everything, and with no castle to lay their head down in after. His tragedy doesn’t run any deeper just because his name is recorded in a book, now does it? ”

“No,” Arthur admits, taken aback, “although I don’t know how anyone goes on after losing everything, I suppose.”

“People do it all the time,” Nessa claims, beckoning him to walk with her once more. “You have, haven’t you? Resilient folks, people. Come now, and I’ll take you to see the gorse bush your mam fell into.”

Arthur has nothing smart to say to that, so he follows, listening to more stories as they make their way through the fields, meadow grass parting around their feet with the smell of springtime.

***

They stay for a few strange, beautiful days, before Arthur has seen enough - or before he decides to stay for good. He never does attempt to enter the castle, not ready for what he may - or may not - find. Only catching sight of his uncle once as he departed to places unknown. Perhaps one day Arthur will return.

Yet Morgause and the troubles she might yet cause summon them.

They finally are driven into a town to restore some of their stock, and on the road north once more this is where Gwaine finds them.

Bolting down the road as though the hounds of hell chase him, he bellows a greeting.

“Ho there,” he grins, flinging himself off of his mount and loping up the last distance between them, greeting them as though it’s been years and not weeks. “I feared I’d never catch up, not until you reached Land’s End and kept going! Lancelot and Elyan have taken the other roads looking for you.”

“Gwaine,” Merlin says cheerfully, hugging back with enthusiasm.

Arthur is not jealous, he just doesn’t understand why anyone should wish to hug a sweaty Gwaine with wind-tossed hair, that’s all. He unclenches his jaw with great effort, halfheartedly thwacking Gwaine on the back as he endures his own embrace.

“What news?” Arthur asks. “Or was Camelot simply too boring for you?”

“‘What news?’ he asks,” Gwaine complains to Merlin. “Without so much as a thought to how fast and far I’ve flown to give you said news, let alone poor Gringolet - ” he smacks a noisy kiss against his beast of a horse’s face.

“What’s the news?” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose as Merlin throws his head back in a laugh.

“Well,” Gwaine says grandly, “only that there shall be a tourney.”

Arthur pats Llamrei’s neck instead of wringing Gwaine’s, praying for patience. There’s a tourney every other season, somewhere or another.

“And?” he asks, when Gwaine merely smiles at them both, clearly waiting to be asked.

“And,” Gwaine goes on with glee, “it shall be hosted by King Godwyn of Gawant, in honour of his daughter, the Princess Elena, who is turning twenty - and,” Gwaine stops to gasp with great drama, “still unmarried. Presumably so the old bastard can auction her off.”

“That’s horrible,” Merlin says, aghast, face going from delighted to mortified the longer Gwaine carries on.

“It is, naturally,” he agrees easily, “but I have not yet reached the good bit. You might already know that Godwyn and Uther are cut from the same cloth?”

Arthur’s heart gives a great lurch inside his chest.

“Yes,” he says, “what of it?”

“Seeing as how close they are,” Gwaine goes on, “I’ve been told you’ll be very happy to learn the Princess Morgana will be in attendance. As will any poor sod hoping for a chance with either lady. We all three of us set out with plans to find you and then meet for the thing, assuming you wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Morgana, Arthur swallows.

His thoughts are a mess, hands tight on Llamrei’s reins. He wants to see her with his own eyes. Convinced that if only he could, he would know how she fares, and be granted some insight.

“You would win,” Merlin says with flattering confidence - and Arthur can feel the bad idea brewing from here, “should you enter any tourney.”

“I can’t enter, Merlin,” he scoffs.

“Why not, though?” Merlin blinks.

“You’ve got to be nobility, for one - ”

“You aren’t?” Gwaine looks sceptically between them. “You sure act like you are. I thought both of you were. Am I the only one who remembers how we met?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.” Arthur glares, as Merlin speaks over him.

“You are so.”

And while it is not a secret, as Lancelot and Elyan both know, Arthur is not certain that Gwaine is aware that Arthur is not some minor noble’s son sent to foster in a distant allied home. There is little point hiding it, however, if it is even a secret at all.

“And how shall I announce myself?” Arthur asks. “Arthur Pendragon of Camelot?”

“Ah.” Merlin’s mouth shuts with a snap, “hm.”

“Oh, so you’re that Arthur,” Gwaine whistles, wide-eyed and with a quick comprehension. “I admit I wasn’t sure I believed that particular rumour.”

“Even if I made up a name there are people there that would know my face - that I’ve sat across feasting tables with, or tilted against before. I’d already started attending tourneys before - ” He’s not sure how to finish. Before he was kidnapped? He doesn’t want to put it like that in front of Gwaine, not when he is so happy with the results. “ - we met,” he finishes weakly.

“We can hide you, with potions, or spells? Or at least still attend the tourney, to watch?” Merlin hesitantly suggests. “So that you might see her. Or Gwaine could fight?”

“Oi, I’m not nobility, either,” Gwaine says.

“You sure act like you are,” Arthur tosses back at him, feeling mean.

“Let’s not say things we can’t take back.” Gwaine smiles with all his teeth.

“That’s enough!” Merlin rolls his eyes, pushing between them. “We’ll sort it out - you want to go, don’t you?” He turns towards Arthur, seeing straight through him as he always does. Face earnest, as if Arthur were to just give it voice Merlin would see it done, and damn the rest of the world. “You want to see your sister?”

“I do,” he admits. He can never manage to lie to Merlin for long anyway, so there is little point in denial.

“Then we’ll see her. We’ll make it work, somehow. When is this tourney, anyway?” He turns towards Gwaine, and Arthur is grateful for the reprieve, unable to bear the weight of Merlin’s sincerity any longer.

“A month or so, after Midsummer.”

“So there’s some time to think of a plan,” Merlin says, biting at his lip until it is red, turning to look down the line of coast, then back to Arthur.

“You could fight masked,” Gwaine suggests, thankfully oblivious, “it would be suitably heroic.”

“You could fight masked,” Arthur cleverly counters, tearing his eyes away from Merlin’s flushed mouth, “so we don’t have to look at your face.”

They bicker for longer than the comment is worth, but it keeps him from thinking overly on the subject of Morgana, so there are worse fates.

And in the meanwhile, Arthur thinks.

Atop Aithusa, who looks more like a King’s mount than any Arthur has ever seen in his life, Merlin would pass as a noble with ease. He might not think it, and might hate to be told so, but Merlin can be terribly arrogant in his own way. A confidence and surety in his manner that goes hand in hand with his fearlessness. He is dressed more humbly for their travels, but in silver and fine silks he does not ever look uncomfortable or nervous of them.

A lord, even a minor one, might have a seat in Godwyn’s hall without having to fight at all. Especially if it’s true that he’s seeking out men of Princess Elena’s age.

Arthur can teach him to eat at a high table.

He then feels the worst sort of friend for thinking it - Godwyn would as soon have Merlin’s head served as a centrepiece.

“Thinking too much?” Merlin asks him, quiet enough that it’s just between the two of them. “By which I mean at all?”

“You know I never think,” Arthur lies.

“Good, we wouldn’t want you to strain yourself,” Merlin says, giving Arthur a soft, understanding smile that he does not deserve.

Chapter Text

Gwaine had taken the news of Aithusa being a dragon with remarkable fortitude, by which Arthur means there was only a very small measure of terror. She refused to not wear her own skin all day and night with no cause for it, however - and at such a point as they are, what is one secret less or more? If Gwaine is easily spooked for a few days, not even Arthur is able to make fun too terribly.

“So, not just a sorcerer, then?” Gwaine had asked, eyes flickering between Aithusa and Merlin. He must remember Balinor and Kilgharrah outside the gates of Wenham the day they met as well, for it does not take long at all for him to put the pieces together. Whatever else he is or is not, Gwaine is not a fool.

“No,” Merlin had hedged, shy of rejection.

Arthur had bit his tongue, merely sending Gwaine a glare he didn’t really need, judging by the quick way he came to drop all pretence and assure them both it changes nothing.

It is also Gwaine who proposes that Merlin attend the tourney, so Arthur continues to be of two minds about him. It is rich of Arthur to complain, when he had thought of it first - but he had also kept his fat mouth shut about it.

“It’s a good idea,” Merlin says, not caring a bit for the dark way Arthur scowls at him. They’re sat next to each other on a fallen log, Gwaine across the fire giving admirable effort to feigning interest in his dinner as he listens in on them like they’re a show on the street. “I certainly won’t have to fight, and you won’t have to fight. No one will recognise me because no one knows who I am - ”

“You’ll be caught and murdered,” Arthur counters, “when you do a spell because you don’t know how not to, and then I will be caught and murdered by your father. Is that what you want?”

“I do so know how to not use spells,” Merlin insists, the little liar. “There was a good month there where my magic was behaving very poorly and I had to do almost everything by hand.”

“A whole month?” Arthur gapes as obnoxiously as he can, to which Merlin tries his best to shove him off the log. “How did m’lord ever endure?”

“I can so, shut up,” Merlin claims boldly as he uses magic to make Arthur flip upside-down in the air when brute strength is not enough.

“Yes, I am getting that impression,” Arthur says, ignoring Gwaine and Aithusa snickering. “You can’t go as yourself, anyway - like you said, no one knows you exist. And I mean to keep it that way.”

“I wouldn’t go as myself, of course,” Merlin says, putting him back down at last. “I’d go as some distant someone, from Lothian or something! My Da’s friends with King Leudonus, and he’s got about a million nephews, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“And you’ll sit nicely and talk about how much you hate magic? And eat at a table instead of over a book? Call people by their titles? Dance?” Arthur challenges him, brushing the dirt and leaves off of him from his landing.

Merlin looks a bit ill at the mention of dancing.

“I’m sure Godwyn - King Godwyn,” Merlin corrects himself before Arthur can even smugly do it, “won’t want to talk to me much anyway. Elena will find some other lord who does, I don’t know, hunting and such. I’ll be bookish and boring, no one will notice me at all.”

As much as Arthur tries not to think about it, for his own sanity, Merlin has grown up well. His face is refined and noble looking, so long as you can’t see that he still hasn’t grown into his ears. His ears, which Arthur happens to find terrifically winsome, are usually mostly covered by his very healthy waves of hair anyway, just peeking out in a manner that someone, somewhere, maybe, might think cute. Thin, but not unhealthily so, Merlin has the look of a scholar, or an artist. He’s a charming smile, and is well read - prodigiously well read, as well as many other virtues that Arthur also tries not to think about for too long.

Princess Elena would be so lucky as to have a husband as fine as Merlin.

“You’re turning very red,” Merlin says, “did I drop you too hard?”

“It’s just a bad idea, that’s all. I’ll find some other way to see Morgana - one that doesn’t stick you right in the middle of a castle full of magic-hating lunatics.”

“Or,” Merlin smiles extra sweetly, which cannot be mistaken for anything other than a threat, “you can let me decide what I want to do for myself, and come along, because I’ve just now decided I’m going with or without you.”

Arthur gapes at him, turning to Aithusa.

“Can you believe him?” he asks her, appalled, and is gratified when she gives Merlin a doubtful look.

“I can so learn to do all the - the,” Merlin stumbles over his words, “courtly things. You can teach me how to eat so I don’t offend anyone, and to,” he turns red, and no one has even dropped him off of anything, “dance.”

“I can teach you how to dance,” Gwaine volunteers, and Arthur closes his eyes and vows to slaughter him in his sleep that very night.

“I can teach you,” Arthur says before he can think better of it, because he is an idiot.

“Well, as you like,” Gwaine says innocently, sticking his face back in his bowl as though he’d never said anything at all.

“You just want to wear a disguise and play pretend, you can’t fool me,” Arthur says, brushing dirt off of himself again even though it is long since gone, all so he doesn’t have to meet Merlin’s eyes.

“You caught me,” Merlin agrees, happy now that he’s won. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see, you worrywart.”

“You’re welcome,” Gwaine whispers later that night, and Arthur slugs him in the arm so hard his hand stings.

***

“This is stupid,” Merlin complains, as Arthur forces his shoulders straight for the tenth time.

“If you don’t want to,” Arthur trails off, opening his hands in supplication. He still thinks this is a terrible idea.

“I said it’s stupid, not that I wasn’t going to do it,” Merlin argues. “Since when has something being stupid ever stopped me from doing it?”

“That’s a good point,” Arthur allows. Never, is the obvious answer to that question. “You’ll have to stop slouching, then. It’s all that time hunching over your books, it’s not good for you.”

Merlin huffs and sighs, but straightens up. It’s easy to forget they are the same height sometimes, Arthur thinks, given that Merlin really does spend a good portion of his time curled up around an old tome or a project.

It’s finally midsummer, and the etiquette lessons have been going about as well as Arthur had expected. That is to say there is much sighing and eye-rolling, and many complaints about how silly and pointless it all is. It’s not that Arthur disagrees; yet there is always an element of fun in teasing Merlin, so he can’t agree too loudly, lest the game end early.

Many magical shortcuts have been taken, with either tricks of transformation or illusion, to ensure every inch of Merlin’s wardrobe and bearings seem undeniably that of a northern noble. Aithusa doesn’t mind wearing a saddle for the ruse, so long as it is spectacular - and that it comes off of her as soon as Merlin does.

Arthur will never admit, not even on pain of death, that it is a little bit fun to direct Merlin into crafting fine things for himself. Tunics, or mantles and cloaks in ‘his family’s’ colours, or to forge a brooch with ornate filigree and interlacing patterns. A circlet so thin it seems more the work of fairies than of human hands. Some things need no editing at all; gifts Balinor has given from distant trading ports that will do more to prove Merlin’s status than good posture ever could.

They suit him, is all, Arthur thinks.

Beautiful things.

At the tower Merlin would wear whatever he felt like, which sometimes was an old stained tunic with enough potion spills that the original colour was long lost to time, and then pin his hair with a gem that could buy a village.

One thing Arthur has come to understand as they travel together outside of the tower is that Merlin has no idea about money, or bartering - if he likes something, he likes it, and that is the end of it.

Court does not work as such, however, even if it is far simpler.

Besides, everyone should know at a glance how special Merlin is, that they might behave appropriately and as he deserves.

“Stop slouching,” Arthur orders, placing a hand between his shoulder blades until he can bully him into correct posture.

“Let’s have a break.” Merlin throws his head back with a groan of complaint. “Or I think I might scream.”

It has been a long morning. Even Gwaine has chosen to lay down flat on the forest floor with his arm flung over his eyes for a rest rather than listen to them any longer.

“Fine,” Arthur concedes. Truth be told Merlin has been a very good sport about it all - even if he thinks the trappings of nobility are foolish, he is giving all his efforts. It is for Arthur’s sake, he knows, so that he might see his sister and know she is well.

His heart thuds in his chest, and he shuffles his feet, restless with an urge to do something.

“Maybe,” he thinks aloud, “we could visit one of the smaller villages on the way to the tourney, for midsummer.”

Merlin turns hopeful eyes on him, and Gwaine sits up from his sprawl.

“I’m not a tyrant,” Arthur says, flushing red, “I just don’t want you to, you know, get your head cut off or anything. I’m not sorry, either - someone has to mind you!” He clears his throat, putting his hands on his hips in an effort to hide his awkwardness. It’s not that Arthur minds, doing the minding. It’s his duty, after all. “But you’ve never been to a midsummer bonfire though, have you? Well, neither have I. Might be fun.”

“Really?” Merlin beams at him, which is very unfair.

“Really,” Arthur could no sooner deny him than pluck the sun out of the sky with his bare hands. “We’ll bring a gift to add to a feast or something, I’m sure we can find somewhere to welcome us.”

Quite contrary to all of their work to this point, they redress Merlin in some of Arthur and Gwaine’s things, as to not be thought a noble at all. Loose-limbed and grinning, Arthur feels foolish anew; for Merlin is not any less beautiful like this.

Arthur needs to stop this, though, this new thinking of his. Before it spirals even more out of hand. At first he had thought he was just dumbstruck at how Merlin had grown, and that he would move past it.

He… hasn’t. Not so far.

And it is unfair of him to indulge in it, not when Merlin thinks of him as a friend, or maybe even a brother. A noble knight from a story - when Arthur is not feeling very noble at all, of late. Distinctly un -noble, some evenings, and he has no wish to lose Merlin’s good opinion.

Merlin has seen precious little of the world, and the last thing he deserves is someone he trusts panting after him when he’s only finally exploring it. Perhaps he will meet a kind, clever princess.

Or a king, his mind mercilessly supplies.

“I think there is a settlement northeast of here,” he says, rather than voice a single awful bit of his thoughts. “If we start heading there now we’ll make it with light to spare.”

The path is fair to them, and the village they stumble into at dusk is already well into their cups - and welcoming with open arms once they see that the new arrivals are not empty handed.

He and Gwaine have brought them some hares, hides and furs intact, and three pheasants - and in return all three of them get ale poured so high it rolls over the edge of the mug and down their fingers. The kindest thing that Merlin can contribute to a hunt is to be silent, but the villagers hardly need to know that.

The bonfire is already roaring high. Tables are out and heaving with thick slices of bread covered with lashings of butter, cuts of meat, cheeses and fruit. Herbs and sweet smelling flowers are scattered across the ground for people to dance upon - Arthur has never seen a celebration of this sort, and he knows Merlin hasn’t either, though Gwaine dives in with no hesitation.

Games and contests of strength are played, with shocking aptitude considering the general drunkenness and light level, although Arthur vows not to go near the makeshift archery mark. There is bravery and there is idiocy, and a drunk twelve year old with a bow is not how Arthur wants to die. A song carries over the whole village, young and old singing alike.

Extroverted by nature but made shy of it with inexperience, Merlin hovers at his side, one foot in the revelry and one foot out of it, clutching his third ale like a shield.

“Go on, if you want to dance,” Arthur encourages him, swatting at his hip to shoo him forwards. Arthur’s strange moods shouldn’t dull his fun, and around the bonfire a circle of dancers with linked arms do simple steps.

“You still haven’t taught me,” Merlin says, and perhaps the drink has gone to his head already, pink-cheeked and swaying forwards, free hand fluttering up to rest on Arthur’s arm.

“What?” Arthur says, having quite lost the thread of conversation.

“Dancing,” Merlin says blinking rapidly, as though something is caught in his eye, “I don’t know how.”

“You move your feet,” Arthur explains, and maybe the drink has gone to his head; he swears he never used to say such absolutely, staggeringly mindless things. It’s his duty to teach Merlin though, of course, so he steels himself. “I think I might go to shoot,” is what comes out of his mouth instead, following it with a gulp of ale. It seems he would rather risk life and limb; for dancing with Merlin is the more dangerous thing. To his new resolution and sanity, at least.

“Oh,” Merlin says, leaning back and looking away, face shuttering.

“You could come watch me,” Arthur says, after nearly choking on his drink, in no more control of his speech now than he had been a moment ago.

“Oh?” Merlin queries, leaning back in.

Rather than confront any of his dizzy, drunken thoughts, one of which persists in noticing that Merlin seems very much to want to be kissed, Arthur strides away to the archery range. Such as it is. A mound of clay has been built up and wetted, with straw wreaths in ever smaller sizes making a target.

The nobler pursuit by far was jousting, and the melee, and so when Arthur had started participating in tournaments he had never competed in archery. Considering it a practicality of hunting more than an art, he only started to appreciate the nuance of the bow at the tower. Now, though, it exemplifies many of the things he likes best of combat - the skill, the patience. Waiting for just the right moment to earn a swift, uncompromising victory.

Not as noble or worthy of tales as armoured mounts clashing on a bloody field, but he has grown to love it.

Also it assures his shoulders are broader and nicer than Gwaine’s, and he is just drunk enough to admit he cares very deeply about the matter.

“Can I use my own bow?” he asks the man who is, in theory, in charge of this segment of chaos.

“Aye,” the man says merrily, “but you can’t win the prize.” He gestures to the table, where a crown of flowers and leaves sits as well as a small keg. “Mead, and the good stuff,” the man says, clapping a hand to the side of it.

“Come on,” Merlin goads him, laughing and chanting, “win, win, win - ”

“Alright, keep your skirts on.” Arthur caves immediately, not even attempting to fight his inborn nature to show off. “I’ll use your bow then. How many shots?”

“Three,” the fellow says, as the other village folk who have been shooting cheer, lining up to watch a newcomer. “Winner is whoever is closest to the centre when it’s too dark to shoot anymore.”

Arthur rolls up his sleeves, testing the draw of the bow and feeling the lines of it. Behind him good-natured jeering begins at his seriousness, led by Gwaine who has wandered up to watch as well, abandoning his crowd of admirers.

He takes his first shot, with it pulling to the right. The second is dead centre, to much hollering. A flower sails through the air to strike him in the face - Gwaine, when Arthur turns to glare. Merlin is grinning and clapping at his side, stomping his feet - and Arthur is filled with the daydream of competing in a real tourney, presenting the wreath to him at the end, bold and shameless in front of a crowd. Right after he promised himself not to think like that, too. A solid start.

And it is a silly daydream, he knows, even as he walks from the line in the dirt for shooting, farther and farther away, doubling the distance; intent on showboating for the last draw.

He waits for a breath, and the wind to settle - and maybe a little to build up tension. He knows plenty about performing for a rowdy crowd of tourney-goers, after all, even if this is not a tilt. It might be just as fun, though. The crowd is earnest even though he is a stranger to them. The weather is sweet, the breeze on his skin far more pleasant than boiling away in armour. There are no stately, bright banners or standards flapping in the wind, no hoofbeats of the horses or clattering of armour. Only the sounds of revelry and the riot of colours that fill the sky.

Yes, he thinks, catching sight of Merlin watching with a flattering anticipation mixed with admiration. Smile so wide his cheeks dimple. It’s all a bit perfect, actually. He lets the arrow soar free.

It strikes just next and down to his second shot; if not as centre, it is by far more impressive due to the distance. At least the crowd seems to agree, the noise rising even higher.

In a sea of faces Arthur can only seem to focus on Merlin’s; glowing like the sun or the moon and stars, or some equally maudlin nonsense. He considers that it might be far, far too late to stop thinking like a madman, and decides to get roaringly drunk instead.

It is something he usually avoids, not liking how it feels and not liking the drunks he meets very much, even the very happy ones. Lately, however, he feels as if he is trying to run from something that lies in his own bones, that he cannot escape.

Prophecy, destiny, fate; and now his own heart. All of which he must carry with him wherever he goes.

So when another drink is poured in his hands, and another, it is nice to feel looser and more at ease. Warmed from the inside out, fingers tingling. The air smells of ale and farmland, the cracking woodsmoke, the flowers beneath their boots. When it is dark enough that the games have been abandoned, a crown is shoved on his head and a kiss pressed to his cheek by the lass who has delivered it.

It seems quite a sensible thing to take Merlin’s hand and swing him around a few turns about the bonfire, laughing together until he’s dizzy. It’s not courtly dances, but it’s much more fun.

“Arthur, Arthur,” Merlin says into his ear, too loudly, “the village girls, they told me to do something before midnight, I’ll be right back!”

Arthur is not jealous of any number of things Merlin might do with a village girl, and decides to find Aithusa, who must be bored and lonely by now. It’s one of many unfair things, that she cannot participate in all the midsummer festivities, but can only observe them.

Although it seems a poor idea to get a dragon drunk, so maybe it is for the best.

He ambles back down the dark trail near the edge of the village, where they had left their horses, Aithusa standing as a lazy sort of guard. He finds her there, lying on the ground, in her dragon form. Anyone who came would be so drunk no one would believe it anyway, he rationalises, coming to rest against her side with a sigh.

“I wish you’d been able to come with,” he says to her, taking off his crown to set aside, only just now remembering it. “It’s not very fair, is it? That you should be so big, and that people should be so stupid.”

She curls her head to press against him, and he breathes out in one long gust up into the night sky, throwing his arms around her.

“Is there any dragon magic that can make you small again?” he wonders. “Or that Merlin might do? So we can take you with us everywhere. I’d like to show you stained glass, my favourite girl,” he rambles, overwrought with his plentiful feelings. Above him the lush leaves spin and blend into the sky. He should not have had that last drink.

Footsteps crunch clumsily on the path; Merlin, of course.

“Here you are,” he says, arms loaded down with two clay vases, and handfuls of flowers. He bends to kiss Aithusa on her head, so close that Arthur can feel the heat of the bonfire clinging on his clothes. Arthur’s clothes. The tunic is too large, showing the pale skin dipping into the hollow of Merlin’s neck. “So,” he begins, sounding nervous, “the girls, they were all saying if you put flowers in, upright at night, and think the name of your love - well,” he rambles, “if they fall to the east in the morning your love is a hopeful one. If it’s to the west you’d best give up.”

When Arthur is quiet, he fusses with arranging the vases just so, even though the ground is the same, either way.

Arthur had not even known Merlin had a love.

“Do you want to try?” Merlin asks, not looking at him properly. “Is, that is, I mean - is there anyone you… love?”

“Of course there is,” Arthur says, drunk and hurt, even though he has no business being so. He hopes Merlin’s love is worthy - and not Gwaine, who he had seen going into a cottage with a very happy looking couple merely an hour ago. Maybe it’s Freya. Pretty, and brave, and there when Arthur had not been.

An ugly jealousy churns within him.

“Ah,” Merlin says, shaken, face ashen in the dark. “I didn’t know. Oh.”

They sit there, on the bare cusp of all of the overflowing joy from the village that had been washing over them just a moment ago, now separate and quiet. Arthur cannot help but feel he ruined the most wonderful night of his life with all of his unwelcome feelings, and so takes up a flower, resigning himself to knowing the truth come the morning. Then, at least, there will be relief that his longing will be cut down before it can bring more unhappiness to either of them.

“East, you said?” Arthur asks, scooting forwards to sit by Merlin’s knee, looking down at the two empty vases, picking a long stemmed rampion flower up between two fingers. “And to think their name?”

“Mhm,” Merlin agrees, a quiet thing.

And so, feeling like he quite deserves the punishment of it, Arthur allows himself to think entirely of his love, without denial, just for now. To feel it through him without hiding or pretending. Of his love’s humour and wit, and optimism and ferocity, kindness and generosity.

Merlin, he thinks, admitting it fully to himself at last.

He drops the flower straight down the vase, swallowing harshly, like he’s cast dice on which his future depends. The flower crown he had won is picked up and set on Merlin’s head, for want of anything better to do.

“Right,” Merlin sniffs, closing his eyes. “Right,” he says again, fingers twisting together until the knuckles are white. “Until dawn,” he tells the flower, before picking it up and dropping it down.

They sit side by side against each other, neither of them having what they wish.

“I still don’t know how to dance, you know,” Merlin complains with a weary exhale, leaning back against Aithusa. “Won’t you teach me before morning, ser knight?”

Arthur can refuse him nothing.

“As you wish, m’lord,” he agrees with a wobbly smile, hoping he doesn’t give himself away entirely. Only until morning, he tells himself. His body remembers how to bow, even years since it’s mattered, even drunk and upset. One hand is outstretched, to help Merlin to his feet, and once he has risen, the other finds home on his narrow waist. “Follow me,” he pleads into the thin strip of distance between them.

The world seems very far away, just now, the moment stretching like honey, and Arthur hopes fruitlessly that the sun takes its time dreaming tonight and stays asleep a little longer.

He wakes up to Llamrei lipping at his hair, Aithusa and Merlin dead asleep on either side of him. His entire left arm is tingling horribly, buried under a dragonlord who weighs more than one would expect upon looking at him.

“No,” he croaks. Pointlessly, as the sun does not trace its path back under the horizon at his request. If he were a grand king of legend he bets the sun would obey him, he thinks.

Instead his head aches like he’s taken a beating, and his mouth tastes like he’d landed face down in the dirt when he’d taken it. He doesn’t even remember lying down, so perhaps he had.

They’ll have to rout Gwaine from wherever he found a bed. Get moving. He sits up, then lies back down.

No, absolutely not.

He clutches at the ground, which spins, and squints up at the sky and the burst of colours as the sun rises in the east - east - his fool brain remembers, blaring like a battle horn. It would be less shocking to be doused with a cold bucket of water. Arthur thinks it might be smarter not to look, just like with prophecies, but he can’t seem to help himself.

He finds them, one faithfully reaching out to the rising sun as though it might catch and hold it safe in it’s frail petals, sending a jolt of traitorous hope straight to Arthur’s heart like a bolt of lightning - and the other being eaten by a fucking horse.

“Bluebell,” Arthur groans, slamming his eyes shut once more, having never hated any living creature so much in all of his days. And that is really saying something, he thinks, mind a mess of white noise and hysteria.

Which flower was which?!

“What?” Merlin un-shrivels from his tight ball he’d somehow managed to sleep in, “oh, my head,” he says weakly, reaching a shaking hand up to touch with a hiss.

“I’m going to kill your horse,” Arthur swears, mouth tasting like rot.

“Not if I kill her first,” Merlin says, looking over at the last of the flower disappearing into those carelessly chomping teeth with wide, horrified eyes. Arthur is not sure if it is the flower or the hangover that drives Merlin to do so, but he curls back up like a little bug, hiding his face in Aithusa’s side for a good candlemark of time before coming back out.

“I’ll never drink again,” he vows, on reappearance. His hair is a mad nest, and his eyes are bloodshot set in his pallid face.

“Let’s see how well that holds up at a tourney,” Arthur says, feeling mean when Merlin slides back down with a whine.

***

After convincing the man who has come to fetch them that Aithusa isn’t a dragon, but in fact a horse, and that he is just still very drunk, they go to find Gwaine. He’s got the keg of mead Arthur had won under one arm, and the other clutches his stomach, or is possibly holding up his trousers. Arthur is not sure, and does not care to check more thoroughly.

His usually lovely hair is in dire need of a wash, plastered to his face by something sticky, and so they all agree to silently bathe in a stream; none of them looking at one another in a mutual sense of misery and regret.

It is a slow, plodding, tortuous journey north.

They plan to circle higher than they need and then turn south in Mercia before passing into Gawant, on the chance that any of Godwyn’s men out to escort attendees or patrol the roads might see them coming and raise questions.

Near the border they do run into some ambitious bandits, hoping for some easy marks and riches for those who travel far for a grand tourney such as one held for an eligible Princess’s birthday.

After what feels like a solid week of feeling hungover and sorry for himself, Arthur is glad of the exertion, and cheerfully dives into the fray. He does feel a bit better after thumping some heads.

Merlin has been stuffed back into his finery, and has been practising keeping his thin veneer of civility on. Arthur has been put under a series of charms and potions that have turned his hair long and red, had him grow three inches and gain a cleft chin, given him freckles and green eyes, and also, inexplicably, blue toes.

They don’t hurt, he clarifies to an alarmed Merlin and a laughing Gwaine, they are merely a shocking blue.

All of these cautions turn out to be for the best, as the patrol they do run into, after dealing with the bandits, insist on personally escorting them to Godwyn’s castle in thanks and apology.

Lord Myrddin, as Merlin shall be called, gratefully accepts. He also gives them the mead, which endears everyone to him instantly, and Arthur cannot mind, as the thought of drinking still turns his gut over.

Arthur does not enjoy the thoroughness in which they commit to their roles as they continue with company; namely that Merlin watches Gwaine and Arthur do all of the camp chores, all while sending them beseeching, apologetic looks for not doing his fair share. He ‘brushes down’ Aithusa, who would bite the hand off of anyone else who tried to touch her save Arthur, and reads them excerpts from books as they work, otherwise fidgeting and sitting on his hands looking guilty.

He’ll get made in an instant, Arthur thinks; far, far too nice.

Miraculously, they arrive at the outskirts of the city undiscovered, and then through the gates. Past the grand portcullis, all the way through the streets, and up to the castle proper.

Arthur pinches himself under his cloak.

Thankfully it is not King Godwyn himself that greets Arthur, who has taken the point of contact, since a lord should not need introduce himself, but a stern man who names himself as the castle seneschal, and thanks them profusely for their aid all while politely inquiring who exactly Lord Myrddin is.

It’s quickly established, upon looking at Merlin, in all of his rich trappings and on top of a horse that many a king would trade their only daughters for, that Lord Myrddin is someone with gold.

Rooms are shuffled, the seneschal blames someone else for their incompetence, and assumes that since Lord Myrddin is not participating in the tourney, but merely spectating, that he was lost in the shuffle.

Arthur offers that they stay at an inn in the city, but is rebuffed, as he knew he would be.

All the while Merlin pretends to not be listening, hanging on their every word.

“Nobility are all insane,” Merlin hisses quietly as soon as the door is shut in their new room. Arthur and Gwaine have little pallets in the annex, separated by a curtain, while Merlin has a four poster bed with long, soft drapings of a rich ochre.

“That’s true,” Gwaine says cheerfully, “but you’ll be eating well for a few days. Try not to worry too much!”

“I can’t believe you let me do this,” Merlin stifles a laugh, sitting on the edge of his bed with a look of disbelief. As if Arthur could have stopped him. “They’ll all know just from looking at me, what was I thinking?”

“It’s a little late now,” Arthur snorts, “and if they were going to know just from looking you wouldn’t have been given such a nice room. We should have made you a poorer lord,” he thinks aloud. “King Godwyn will be throwing Princess Elena at you at dinner, mark my words.”

“No,” Merlin breathes, a hand coming up to cover his horrified gasp.

“Oh yes,” Arthur says smugly, “so have fun with that, Lord ‘I’m going with or without you’.”

Gwaine thinks it’s funny at least, taking an apple up from a bowl of fruit and tossing it into the air a few times before biting in, still grinning.

“Don’t worry so much,” he says around his mouthful, “now that you’re in there’s not much you can do to be out. If you’re a rich noble, people will fall over themselves to make excuses for you. You’ll be ‘eccentric’, or people will say they do things differently in Lothian - you’ll see.”

“Really?” Merlin begs, looking between them.

“Really,” Arthur agrees. They clam up as servants arrive with a bath so that Lord Myrddin may be clean of his travels.

“I’m going to go nose around the tourney grounds,” Gwaine excuses himself, after everyone has cleared out, “see if I can’t make heads or tails of who’s who in this mess. Maybe our other friends have already arrived.”

When it is only Merlin and Arthur, an awkwardness that is not their usual ease descends. He curses Bluebell.

“Do you think Aithusa is alright?” Merlin asks, after a while, fidgeting and fidgeting more with the broach on his cloak, steadfastly remaining dressed rather than climb in the steaming bath. “I feel I’ve been asking too much of her lately. I don’t like being apart from her like this for so long.” He takes a sharp breath before admitting more truthfully; “I hate it. I hate hiding her.”

“Is there no way to make her smaller?” Arthur asks, as he’d been wondering since drunkenly thinking of it.

“I’ve tried before,” Merlin says, taking the cloak off at last and taking an age to lay it flat on the bedspread, patting down each corner, “but she likes being big, so it’s against her nature and I don’t want to force her. She shouldn’t have to be something she’s not.”

“Well,” Arthur swallows, feeling quite the same about the whole sorry lot of them, “maybe that’s true at the tower, but she might prefer being small and inside with us, here, instead of keeping Llamrei company.”

He does not mention Bluebell, who he has still not forgiven, and never will so long as he draws breath.

“I’ll talk to her about it,” Merlin promises, pale fingers hovering at the ties of his tunic, picking at the knots but not undoing them.

“Maybe I’ll get a little rest,” Arthur says in a rush, looking away, “before dinner, I mean.” He’ll be attending as Merlin’s servant, not as a guest, of course. Unobtrusive and quiet, neither seen nor heard, as a proper servant should be.

“You can rest on the bed, you know you don’t have to sleep on that little cot,” Merlin says, as Arthur stares resolutely out the window, not moving towards the annex at all. “Or, you could help me comb my hair again,” he suggests boldly, after Arthur remains silent.

“Look,” Arthur says, intent. Out the window and in the courtyard, a whole ensemble of people has begun to arrive, bearing the banners of Camelot. A good half dozen knights, servants on foot, a carriage and a wagon of trunks and frippery, and there, in the middle of it all, is Morgana.

His ears ring a bit, and he is unashamed that his eyes sting.

She’s so distant that he can only tell it is her from the dark crown of her hair and all of the people running pell-mell to assure her arrival is a safe one. Only the best, he thinks numbly, for a Princess.

“Is that her?” Merlin asks at his side, a careful hand coming to take Arthur’s, gently squeezing.

Arthur can only grip back twice as tight, stealing all the strength from it that he can, terribly grateful that Merlin is here with him.

Morgana. At last.

Chapter Text

Merlin being seated only a few heads down from Princess Elena rapidly becomes less of a joke to both of them, now that Morgana will be sharing the table tonight.

Teasing and humour are set aside, at least for the most part - neither of them can quite be rid of it entirely - as they make Merlin as ready as he ever can be.

“Now,” Arthur says again, pointlessly smoothing down the already smooth, rich fabric that cuts across Merlin’s shoulders, “you don’t actually want to marry Elena, do you?”

“No,” Merlin hurries to say. Ah, yes, Arthur thinks - Freya. Probably. He hasn’t asked and he’s not about to, safe and snug in his house built of denial, where he’s bricked the door shut behind himself.

“So you’ll be?”

“Non-committal, and unremarkable,” Merlin answers smartly. “I won’t talk about magic at all, or anything fun, or nice. Perfect dullness. I will be oatmeal. Porridge. I can’t think of anything duller than that. Oh, maybe I’m just hungry. Dust! Dull as dust!”

Arthur is not confident that such a feat can be managed.

“I don’t want you to not be yourself,” Arthur says, slightly tormented on the subject. Having freshly admitted and then denied his feelings several times in a row over the course of many days - like a coin flipping over and over - is currently on the side of the coin that thinks Merlin should always be himself, and everyone should be so lucky as to speak with him. Yet here, that might get him killed. A dilemma. And he wants Morgana to like Merlin, for whatever little that is worth.

“But not myself enough to get my head chopped off?” Merlin’s smile is teasing, but yes, Arthur thinks, precisely so.

“Morgana will like you,” he says, picking at Merlin’s elaborate collar and not meeting his eyes. It’s silver and bronze on blue, with threads of green interwoven. If it doesn’t impress, nothing will. Behind them the door opens without so much as a knock, and Arthur whirls, hand going to his sword.

“Aw,” Gwaine laughs, “I was hoping to catch someone in a compromising position. Didn’t mind much who. Alas, maybe next time!”

“It’s time to go,” Arthur says, in no mood.

“Just very quickly,” Gwaine holds up his open hands in entreaty, “the Princess Elena has a reputation.”

“A reputation?” Merlin blinks. “For what?”

“Uh,” Gwaine makes a considering face, hands falling to his hips, “general unladylike behaviour I suppose. This isn’t the first time Godwyn’s tried to arrange a marriage for her, just the most elaborate. She keeps scaring them off, I guess.”

“Oh,” Merlin sighs, relieved, “that’s fine then. She can scare me off, I won’t be bothered. Alright, now am I ready?”

He straightens up. His dark hair is as tidy as it can be, half pulled back around his circlet and half in soft waves. Fair skin is slightly flush pink with nerves, and his eyes are made somehow even more blue against his rich clothes.

Arthur can’t seem to get his mouth to work, but is nevertheless annoyed greatly by Gwaine’s sharp, admiring whistle.

“You might have to get married anyway,” Gwaine cheers with a wink, “looking like that. If Elena won’t have you, I sure will.”

He bends double when Arthur elbows him.

They depart, Gwaine breaking off again to fend for himself with no cause to be in the great hall - and no desire, as he loudly proclaims.

Arthur has to remind himself he does not look a thing like himself at least a dozen times, just waiting to be caught out. A small mercy is that it is an easy thing to find the hall, the crowd already gathering, mingling and merrymaking.

“You can do this,” Arthur whispers into Merlin’s ear before they enter, which earns him a sweet smile in return.

“Would your father have had you marry Elena, do you think?” Merlin then asks, leaning close like he’s begging the answer to a secret. As handsome a figure as he cuts, attention turns to them before long, and Arthur doesn’t have the chance to conjure up a clever reply.

Enough heed is paid to make sure things are going well, but he cannot help but skim the room for Morgana, breath catching when he finds her with a crowd of ladies in a half circle, practically holding a court of her own.

She looks weary, despite her smile - tired and bruised under the eyes. Wan and waxy rather than only pale. Perhaps her travels were fraught?

Her hair is studded with pearls, woven into an intricate set of braids and then veiled so gossamer thinly she might as well not have one at all. A splendid gown is worn, in Camelot red, embroidered with gold from her shoulders to the tips of her slippers like raindrops.

“Shall I try and introduce myself so we might get close?” Merlin asks, having freed himself from his own little crowd. “Do you know which one Elena is?”

A belch sounds from one of the ladies, audible even where they stand, and Arthur has his suspicions.

“Well,” he murmurs, “if that’s not her, it is a strange trend. But no, don’t go over.” As much as it pains him, if they rush and ruin things it’s all for naught. “Wait to be introduced to Elena, you don’t want to seem like a grasper.”

Merlin walks about, if not remarkably at ease, then not so nervous that it wouldn’t be explained away by being at a grand court for the first time, and forgivable considering his age. Arthur trails him at a distance, pretending he knows what he’s doing, and occasionally trying to mimic the other servants. They’d spent so much time on Merlin they’d neglected Arthur’s false new duties entirely.

His ear catches Tyr’s braying laugh from halfway down the hall - another complication. In that he was a cruel idiot with a crown, not that he was clever.

Thankfully it does not take long for the castle seneschal to take notice of Lord Myrddin, who is both rich and, more importantly, eligible, and they are herded like sheep to be put on display before the ladies of the court prior to the meal beginning. Well, Merlin is put on display, Arthur hovers near the maidservants, and tries not to make any blunders too obvious.

“Princess Elena,” Merlin greets her with a bow, just as they’d practised.

“Oh,” she says, wiping her hands down the front of her golden gown, “uhm, hello.” She’s pretty, is the thing, Arthur thinks, merely tremendously awkward. Her hair is a tangled, wind-blown mess, her dress twisted, but none of that will matter a lick to Merlin - he won’t even notice it. And indeed, he can see the instant she is relieved, as Merlin just grins at her instead of manfully overcoming her appearance and mannerisms in order to have a chance at a crown.

“Hello,” Merlin repeats, with a laugh that is not a single bit mocking, “I’m Myrddin.”

She reaches to shake his hand, like a man might, which doesn’t phase him either, of course, nor when she trips and they both crash to the ground. There are some titters, but Godwyn’s court must be used to such a thing, because not many look twice once they see it is the Princess Elena.

“I’m so sorry!” she says, tripping over her hem again when she tries to rise.

“Nothing to apologise over,” Merlin insists, helping her up. “If I had to apologise every time I tripped over something I would have never made it to your castle. I’d still be in Mercia somewhere I think, saying sorry to my own feet.”

“And wouldn’t that be a shame,” Morgana says smoothly, taking Elena’s other hand and holding her steady. “Please, I don’t believe we’ve met. Lord Myrddin, was it? You must call me Morgana.” She waits with practised grace as Merlin bows once more. Arthur’s heart aches to yell out to her. Does she remember at all how they used to spar with wooden swords?

She’d broken his nose, once upon a time.

“Will you be competing in the tourney?”

“Now I know for certain we have never met,” Merlin laughs, “or you would know that for the jest it is. No, an observer only, I’m afraid.”

“Is that your lord?” one of the maidservants leans in to ask him, stealing Arthur’s attention. She’s pretty as well; it seems the hall is full of pretty women this evening. In a lilac dress just a pinch above what her station might call for, with dark, tightly curling hair.

“Yes,” he whispers back, alarmed and feeling rather hunted as several of them set their sights on him at once.

“He seems kind,” the girl continues, unsubtle in her fishing.

“He is?” Arthur says, backing up a step. Is this how a stalked deer feels?

“I’ve never seen him at a feast before,” she says, blunt in a way that whatever lady she’ll be reporting back to would be unable to be herself.

“We hail from Lothian,” Arthur says, sticking to the story they’ve concocted, “and my lord was too ill for travel, as a child.”

“I’m Guinevere, but everyone calls me Gwen,” she says, and Arthur has barely a moment to think ‘that Gwen?’ before the feast begins in truth, people ushering to their seats. How many Guineveres can there be? He thinks, maybe, that he recognises her. Or it may just be wishful hopes, or seeing a shade of Elyan in her face. Morgana had certainly been old enough to have a maidservant of her own instead of the ancient nursemaid. He can’t remember - he hadn’t much cared, at the time.

It always seems foolish, now, what he hadn’t cared about.

“I’m called Thura,” he says, following her to stand against the wall, and mimicking her posture. “And your lady,” he asks, calming his heartbeat, “are you happy, in her service?”

“I would serve no other.” Gwen dimples at him, which is both an answer and not.

Ahead of them sits the highest table, with King Godwyn standing and welcoming his guests, giving a short speech in tribute to the Princess, who sits at his left. Morgana and Tyr have seats of honour as well of course; and so, it seems, does Merlin.

He’s being kept close enough for conversation, at least - someone in this household has pinned a sliver of hope on this far-away lord.

And not for nothing. Merlin has half the table charmed by the second course, and the other half by the time the pigeon pie is out. Elena knocks over a wine glass onto him, and somehow it’s turned into a moment for all of the ladies to sigh over. It’s a mass of fluttering eyelashes all the way to the sprawling double doors. He feels a muscle in his jaw clench.

When Arthur comes forward to refill his goblet, Merlin is reciting poetry . Bookish, he had said, and boring. Oatmeal, porridge - dust. Arthur might be developing a twitch. Even Morgana’s eyes are twinkling.

He sighs. He just knew they should have made Merlin less appealing.

“Perhaps you might have interest in the gardens,” Morgana suggests between courses, clearly matchmaking on Elena’s behalf. She dips her fingers daintily in a water bowl dappled with tiny, pale flower petals, brought to her by Gwen, and Arthur tries poorly to copy the maid. “We could all go, before the joust.”

“I love gardens,” Merlin agrees, as two seats over Tyr loudly invites himself along as well, the prick. Still chasing Morgana’s skirts, clearly.

Arthur shares a desperate glance with Merlin over the bowl.

“You’re not very good at this,” Gwen says to him, when he returns, easing the blow with her sunny disposition.

“I’m more of a guard, usually,” Arthur makes up on the spot - the best lies have some truth in them, after all. “My lord’s father still worries for him, so far from home. I was a condition of attendance.”

“Ah,” Gwen sighs in a soft understanding, still smiling at him, “well then, just follow after me. We’ll make a manservant out of you yet!”

She makes her movements more obvious, and corrects him subtly when he makes an error, kindly enough that even his pride can’t be stung. It soothes his heart by some small measure to know that someone who is this good natured has been at Morgana’s side all this time.

Somehow they fumble through the evening, although Arthur is not sure how.

They retrace their steps back to their rooms, Merlin a serene figure, seeming untroubled by the feast entirely.

At least until the door is shut.

“Unbearable,” Merlin complains, flinging himself face-first onto the bed. “Agony!”

The relief that takes over Arthur is so strong that it nearly bowls him over. A feather could finish the job. They’ve made it - and Merlin hasn’t fallen in love with a princess and decided to run away and join court life, either. On reflection, it does seem an unlikely outcome.

If anything were to do it though, Arthur considers, it would be the food.

He reaches to take Merlin’s boots, pulling them off first and then the socks, letting his bony feet dangle in the air, utterly charmed, because Arthur is an idiot.

“Oh,” Merlin says, remembering something, digging in his pocket. He reveals a soft spiced cake, sticky and a bit smashed from where it had been wrapped in a napkin for the last bit of the night. “You like these ones, right?”

“Little thief, I didn’t even see you nick it.” Arthur can’t help his amusement, taking it and settling on the bed after kicking off his own boots, wiggling his blue toes.

“Food tastes better when it’s stolen,” Merlin says wisely. “Was it nice to see her?” he asks, still laying on his front, twisting to look up at Arthur. His face is open, tentatively hopeful. The silver circlet is twisted to the side, and Arthur slides a curl of his hair off of his cheek before he even notices he’s moved to do so.

“It was,” he says, swallowing thickly around the sticky cake. “Strange, though, too. She was acting the perfect lady - I hope it was an act, anyway. It was so… normal? Morgana was always filled with fire.”

It is not as though the subject of magic, or missing half-brothers is one that would come up naturally, of course, but it rankles that he still doesn’t know how she feels about it all. Is she safe to approach, or has she come to reflect Uther’s beliefs, beaten down into shape under the hammer of his rule? Is she as defiant and righteous as she is in his memory? What would she say, if he were able to speak to her once more?

“I’m pretty sure I saw her picking up the cutlery to stab Tyr the third time he insulted Elena, if that helps,” Merlin says. “I might like to stab him, too, and I don’t consider myself prone to stabbing first, as a general rule. I see why he’s got that song now.”

“That does sound more like her,” Arthur agrees, pointedly ignoring the rest.

It does help.

***

Tyr hates Merlin.

Arthur tries not to feel any way about that at all; not even that he wishes he had killed Tyr when he had the chance. Although he does. Or smug about the fact that of course he hates Merlin, as further proof that Tyr has no taste, and also is beholden of a sour, pustulant heart.

Arthur has not had a single chance to get either Morgana or Gwen alone to speak to yet this morning. Too occupied by the spectacle that is Merlin and Elena - who get along like a house on fire.

Hence the hatred. Tyr is not objectively hideous. He’s an average height, and an average face and his father’s average nose; brown hair kept around his chin, which has an unfairly healthy beard. It is only his personality that makes him so odious and ensures no woman other than a social climber will look at him. And then it is then his thin pride that lifts himself so high that any social climber is not good enough for him - and so he has no one. And so long as Merlin is there, drawing attention of all of the ladies - who follow with great, nosy, interest - not a single bit of it falls on Tyr, who maintains no company other than his own lackey knights. A crowd of men who encourage his worst behaviours, beginning the cycle over again and again.

Part of Arthur’s hatred may stem from how easily that could have been him.

Although Arthur would have still been more handsome, of course.

Gwaine’s skulking about has unearthed not only Lancelot and Elyan, but also where Tyr and his cronies retire after festivities in the castle. If a wary eye is kept on him then so be it. Arthur already knows Tyr is prone to challenging for duels over imagined slights.

Alright, not that imagined, but Arthur was right.

The ladies make their way through the gardens like a flock of colourful birds, Merlin seeming to never run out of things to say about flowers and their meanings, or history and philosophy. The real connection with Princess Elena is over riding, however.

“I love flying,” Merlin proclaims, when asked, and Arthur sucks in air through his teeth. “I mean, riding,” he laughs the mistake away, only the red on the back of his neck giving up the game. “Sometimes it feels as though I’m flying, is what I mean to say.”

“Oh, yes,” Elena agrees, starry-eyed, “I feel the same! I’ll have to introduce you to some of my horses!”

Morgana watches them like they are a particularly sweet play unfolding, and Arthur watches her, attempting not to seem a lurking, suspicious sort of person. Gwen watches him , though, so it might not be working.

If only he could have a moment alone - with either of them, with which to explain himself. Yet all day through the crowds press in at all sides, the castle full to bursting.

The tourney plays out, and Arthur will never not enjoy a good joust, so he is distracted from his troubles, at least for a time. Merlin is placed to the envy of every other young man; between Elena and Morgana, who both have linked their arms through his, with not a single one of whom watches Tyr’s tilt, too busy amusing each other.

Arthur is waiting for the inevitable fallout when Tyr’s fragile pride can take no more blows, and hopes he gets a chance to punch the lout in the face again. Knock out a tooth this time, maybe.

Leon has accompanied Morgana to represent Camelot, as well as Geraint, who had been tall before Arthur had been taken, and now towers over all the other competitors. If he’s kept even half his speed he might just stand to win in the melee.

If Arthur cheers a bit louder for them, that’s his business.

“I think I’ll beg off the rest of this. Tell everyone I’ve died. From boredom, maybe, or the pox,” Merlin complains at the end of the day, when they’ve eked out a tiny portion of privacy in a poorly lit alcove, “I never thought I’d run out of things to talk about, but we’re only two days in and I think I’m clean out of unobjectionable topics. I keep almost yelling out a swear word, or a spell, just because I know I can’t. I nearly bit my tongue off trying to stop myself.” At this he rudely shows Arthur his tongue, which seems fine.

“Put that back,” Arthur tells him.

“At least Princess Elena is nice, even if I don’t wish to marry her. I don’t know how people do this all the time.”

“Well they don’t, mostly, even kings. This tourney is… a lot.” He observes Merlin, who does not look well in the slightest. Limp, and dramatically wilting against a window frame that looks out onto the field. Nearly true night, there isn’t much to see. “Only three days left,” Arthur says, aiming for soothing.

Merlin’s eyes close, and he whimpers.

“Isn’t there anything fun about it?”

“No,” Merlin stubbornly denies, even though Arthur had personally witnessed him eat approximately a battalion’s worth of roast not even an hour ago, as well as cheer himself hoarse with Morgana and Elena even earlier.

“Buck up.” A shove to the arm merely rolls Merlin further away down the wall. “Shall we go visit Aithusa?” Arthur suggests, unable to endure such an onslaught of self-pity.

“Oh, do you think we can?” Merlin springs up as if he’s never been tired, spinning on a swivel at the thought.

“I’m sure we can manage, it’s not like you’ve been imprisoned,” Arthur rolls his eyes. Honestly. “Half the nobility are asleep in their beds, yes, but the other half are still celebrating, and far too drunk to care if we go for a night walk to refresh His Highness.”

“Stop,” Merlin complains with a groan, covering his grin with one hand, rings sparkling in the torchlight.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it is my mistake,” Arthur bows, holding out his elbow for Merlin to take, “Your Radiance.”

“What’s something appropriately courtly to insult you with?” Merlin asks matter of factly, looping their arms together.

“Knave,” Arthur suggests, as they walk, “or you might call me a churl. A Hedge-born raggabrash?”

“Dollophead - ”

“Sot,” he interrupts, not letting Merlin get a word in edgewise.

“Bone idle toad! Prat!” Merlin exclaims over him anyway.

“Are we still making suggestions or are you just telling me what I am?” Arthur asks, enjoying the cool air as they step out into the courtyard. Even at this late hour the castle staff is busy, but it is quieter now than it has been all day.

“If I were telling you what you were, I would call you a prat, I suppose,” Merlin considers, humming thoughtfully. “Maybe even a royal one. But I’m not sure that captures the ‘Arthur’ of it all. There’s an insult out there made especially for you, I just know it.”

“I think your courtly flattery needs some work. You’ll never nab a princess this way,” Arthur chides him, and ignores the fluttering of his nerves when Merlin just squeezes his arm in return.

“Not terribly bothered about princesses, as it turns out,” Merlin says, kicking a pebble down the stone walkway and ducking his head.

Freya is not a princess, reminds the rational bit of Arthur’s brain, such little of it that remains. Neither are you, says the rest of him. One of the flowers had reached for the east, after all.

Curse hope, anyway, for being such a ravenous, unkillable thing.

“Wait.” Merlin tugs on his arm, stopping them dead in place, voice dropping into an urgent, low whisper. “Look! Is that Morgana? Why would she be sneaking out by herself?”

The giddiness flees Arthur in a rush as he looks - across the courtyard, hugging the wall of the inner ward, a woman walks. He’s got no idea how one might see her as Morgana. Merely a silhouette bundled in a plain, dark cloak with the hood raised, but he knows well enough to trust Merlin’s instincts; his magic another sense entirely that Arthur lacks.

“I don’t know,” he says, dragging them both forwards and into the lower town as she turns around a corner.

“Fresh air?” Merlin suggests hopefully, not sounding for an instant like he believes it himself, and which Arthur does not bother to acknowledge. Even if it is just a walk for evening air, which he doubts, it still remains the only time he’s seen her unattended since she’s arrived. An opportunity.

“I don’t suppose you’ve learned to become invisible since the last time we tried to sneak after someone, have you?” he asks, recalling Wenham with clarity.

“Well, actually - ” Merlin starts.

“Have you?” Arthur spares a moment to marvel at him. “Really? That’s amazing.”

“Well, no. Not really.” Merlin blushes. “It’s like how I change Aithusa. It’s a trick of the senses, we don’t actually disappear,” he rambles, trotting to keep up with Arthur’s quickening pace. “And it’s hard to do for long, harder than just changing someone’s appearance, because it’s to do with light, and not seeing. It’s all fiddly backwardsness - ”

Arthur looks about, shoving them in an alley when not a soul is paying attention, clapping a hand over Merlin’s mouth.

“You can do it, though?”

“For a bit,” Merlin says, muffled breath warm on Arthur’s palm, “and only if we don’t move too fast. Practically still, really. And if we’re quiet. Practically silent, and - ”

“Do it then,” Arthur brusquely demands. Whatever is happening here does not sit well with him, fraying his temper - he’ll feel sorry for ordering Merlin about later, after they’ve caught up with Morgana.

“When we’re closer,” Merlin says, taking Arthur’s hand away and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It won’t do us any good if we’re arrested for using magic before we’ve even caught up, and someone would notice. Trust me. Please.”

Arthur does, of course - more than anything.

“Alright,” he says, after he takes a harsh breath, forcing himself to step back. Tension wants to lock him in place, to demand Merlin does his magic anyway, consequences be damned. “Let’s go, then, or we’ll lose her.”

Merlin will never be subtle, but he does his best. The streets are not empty, but were it not a time of celebration they might be. The only people they see out are revellers not paying much attention to anything other than making sure cups are filled, which works to their favour.

“Hells,” Arthur groans, catching sight of Tyr and his cronies outside a tavern, drunk and spilling out into the street. Loitering against the backdrop is Gwaine, of course, with a nose for trouble sharper than any hound. Lancelot and Elyan look up from their drinks with twin faces of startlement, Gwen of all people sitting smashed between them on a crowded bench.

At least that explains how Morgana snuck out.

“Ignore them,” Merlin says, snapping him back to focus, “they’re not important right now.”

Unless they are seen, Arthur thinks, keeping his head down and hoping for the best; that’s the last thing they need right now - to themselves be followed by a pack of petty men itching for a fight. Tyr is a shitheel, but he is also a prince. His word will count heavily, when the inevitable snapping point is reached.

Indeed, Tyr squints sloppily at them through the dark, perhaps recognizing Merlin’s striking clothing. Or beginning to; before Gwaine sees them as well, and at a frantic look from Arthur trips Tyr right where he stands, diving to help him up in a grand production of apologies, only to take both of them down again. Lancelot and Elyan rush to help, hindering them all further.

Arthur resolves to stop plotting Gwaine’s murder every time he says something outrageous.

“Hurry up,” he hisses to Merlin, seeing the hem of Morgana’s cloak vanish around a corner. The only building still lit on the crooked side street is an inn; the door swinging telling a plain story of her passing. A splash of light pours out onto the cobblestones with each sway of the door, smaller and narrower, until finally it creaks to a stop.

“Could she be visiting someone?” Merlin asks, as Arthur stares after her, hesitating. If they dash in after her she’ll be furious at being followed - or, seeing as how he wears a stranger’s face - make even worse assumptions. And they will not learn what drove her here in the middle of the night.

Could she be visiting someone? Morgana remains unmarried; is there a suitor that Uther would not approve of? There is little point speculating, but all his instincts scream to him that there is more to this night. He’s learned to listen to them.

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” Arthur says, mind made up and feet carrying him forwards. They must go regardless.

“What will you say if she sees us?” Merlin scrambles to follow.

“We’ve got just as much right to be at an inn as she does,” Arthur says, pulling the door open, only for the drama of it all to fall flat - Morgana is nowhere in sight. “Excuse me,” Arthur tries, speaking to the proprietress. “I believe a young woman just came through here - ”

“Not your business, is it?” she says, looking him up and down and finding him lacking.

“We were, ah, hoping to get a room,” Merlin says, catching up and elbowing Arthur into silence.

“I don’t care what you’re up to, if it’s avoiding a wife or trying to catch her - whatever have you. There’s no disturbances tolerated, not even for your lordship,” she says, no nonsense.

“Of course,” Arthur agrees, digging for his coin pouch and exchanging an exorbitant amount for a key.

“Tourney keeping the city full,” she smiles at him at last once she accepts the coin, and he doesn’t leap over her bar to hurry her up even a little, no matter how he wishes to, “you know how dear a bed is.”

He’s up the stairs as soon as the key hits Merlin’s palm.

“My, my, he’s an eager one, isn’t he,” he hears her tease, and can’t even bring himself feel embarrassed. All that lies ahead of him is a narrow hallway with a half dozen doors and a window so spotty nearly no light comes in at all. A flickering of candlelight comes from underneath one of the doors. Yellow light casts patterns along the whorls of wood, dust spinning as it floats, recently disturbed. He’s standing in front of it, hand raised before he even realises he's doing it. Mind half a dozen steps behind his body.

Merlin lopes up the stairs, a shadow in the dark, and quirks his eyebrows in judgement.

Arthur drops his hand, straining to listen, instead.

“Not like that,” Merlin whispers, tugging him along and letting them into the room next door. It’s bare bones; not as nice as their room in the castle, of course, but not even as fine as the one in Brechfa. A rickety straw-stuffed bed, a small chest, an empty window frame letting in the summer-night air and not much more. Merlin carefully and quietly shuts the door, locking it behind him with a click that sounds deafening in the stillness.

Arthur listens at the wall, but it’s too muffled to hear a word.

Merlin steps to his side, holding a finger to his lips for silence as the other hand reaches for a thin silver knife from his belt. He nicks a sharp pattern on the wall in quick dashes, and from his pocket he draws a three-sided pane of clear glass, or crystal, Arthur does not know which. The edges are cased in waves of silver and it dangles from a thin, shining chain. Merlin lifts it between them, hanging loosely, before flicking it - a spark like catching flint alights the room for a burst, and then it spins, reflecting the moonlight, over and over as it turns. After it has stopped Merlin presses it to his rune; light and colour unfurl like a flower opening, slowly forming a vision of what lies on the other side of the wall.

Even knowing it shows Morgana it is hard to look away from Merlin; his face steady and determined as he works.

‘Thank you,’ Arthur mouths at him, not daring to speak.

The strange porthole is blurry, blending shades and shapes akin to having your eyes open too long under water. A pale face with dark hair must be Morgana, though; the hood of her cloak drawn down, and another woman. Slight, with fair hair, it is impossible to discern more.

“You encountered no trouble?” asks the other woman, the noise sharpening and clearing as the image solidifies.

“None,” Morgana answers, her tone giddy, even through the warping effect of the spell, “I can’t believe we can finally meet. At long last.”

“Yes,” comes the answer, softer and affectionate, “Uther’s Camelot is not safe for me, or I would have come to you sooner. I have been unwell, as you can see,” she gestures to her face, although it is nothing more than a smudge of colour to him. Not safe? A sorceress?

“You’re beautiful,” Morgana protests, stepping forwards to join their hands. She stares for a moment, silent and transfixed. “Do you… can you tell me? Do you take after our mother? Do I?”

Arthur feels a bit like he’s been kicked in the chest. Not a secret affair at all then. He looks to Merlin, who stares back with wide eyes, mouth parting to speak before thinking better of it. Huddled against the wall as they are, it’s a small thing for him to reach out and take Arthur’s hand instead, gripping tightly in a strange mirror of Morgana and her sister. Her sister.

How many more secrets of his family are there left to discover? Certainly the well must run dry at some point.

“I have my father’s hair, and my mother’s eyes,” the woman says, voice growing clearer. “You have her hair, you know. Her beauty. She was a striking woman.”

“And Uther’s eyes,” Morgana says, bitterly. “You must resent me.” she lets go in order to pace in the little room, back and forth. “I did not choose to be his daughter - ”

“I do not resent you,” her sister goes to her side and offers the comfort that Arthur may not. “How could I?”

He tightens his grip on Merlin’s hand, drawing strength. He half wishes Morgana had been running off to meet some low-born suiter; it would be far, far simpler, even if he is an ass for thinking it.

“Indeed, I am glad to know that Uther’s throne will go to one so unlike him,” she says.

In that, she and Arthur are of one mind.

Her head cocks, then, and she turns. For a moment Arthur is certain she is staring right at them, and a sharp stab of awareness pierces his heart. The certainty that someone has just walked over his grave.

All at once, Merlin lunges forwards, ripping the crystal away, and dragging his hand against the wall. It is left clean under his touch, the rune-cuts wiped away like they had never been, merely fog on a glass window.

“Move,” he whispers, herding Arthur into the corner of the room, as footsteps approach in the hallway. “Be still.”

They huddle, smashed in between the small chest and the lopsided wall, Merlin flinging one hand over Arthur’s mouth to shush him, and using the other to conjure a bird, flapping on the open windowsill. His eyes burn molten, and Arthur begins to understand his meaning, earlier, when he had said that his invisibility spell was one of fiddly backwardsness; the air distorts around them, their faces so close Arthur can feel every frantic breath ghost in the space between. He pushes Merlin’s head down against his shoulder, covering him; driven by some animal fear to hide. His own heart beats a rapid percussion, caught in his throat.

The lock clicks over.

Morgana’s sister enters, hand raised out - and on her wrist gleams a familiar bracelet. A horrible thought stabs through him like a knife. The shock is enough that had Merlin not been holding him still he might have given them away.

How can it be? Of all people - Morgause? It must be a lie, or a mistake.

But no. Laying sight on her face at last douses his disbelief in icy water, for as she steps into the room it is undeniable. Half burned even now, looking vicious and painful - never to recover from Kilgharrah’s dragonfire, she is still someone unmistakable. Her hair is golden and shining, if short on one side, braided down the other; and her one remaining eye is sharp like a hawk’s, scanning the room as she walks the short perimeter.

Her boot steps a handspan away from them, and Arthur moves to grip the hilt of his sword with agonising slowness. A sword blow would never kill her where dragonfire and Nimueh failed, but it’s all he has.

“A bird,” she says over her shoulder to Morgana, who hovers in the doorway, unsure, as Merlin’s conjured distraction flaps away into the night. “Nothing more.”

The door shuts behind her, and still they dare not move an inch.

His other hand is white knuckled where he grips Merlin close, stiff in shock.

“Morgause,” Arthur whispers hollowly, once all is clear.

Chapter Text

Arthur lets his head fall back against the wall, taking a bracing breath in and finally loosening his grip on Merlin with great effort. His fingers feel stiff. Brittle. The rustle of their clothing seems unnaturally loud, every shuffle as they untangle themselves to stand making discovery a fear once again.

“We need to leave,” he says in a barely-there whisper, “she can’t find us here.”

“Because she might try and kill you?” Merlin hisses back, an unhinged glint in his eyes, shining a feverish blue as the gold bleeds away. “I - what? How is she here?”

“I don’t know! You’re not even in your armour - no. We’ll talk about this later,” Arthur shushes him, fighting down his own turmoil, “we can’t stay. We can’t. But it’s Morgana, Merlin. She’s my sister. We have to go, we have to think - ”

“Yes,” Merlin agrees, cutting his rambling off before he can get them caught, “yes, of course.”

The hallway is empty, and they tiptoe away like children playing hide and seek. He ignores the proprietress’s crack about them being quick, feeling a million leagues away.

“Your key,” Merlin gives it back to her, eyes flickering gold as she takes it, her expression going distant and dull with disinterest as she ignores them rather than continuing to mock.

Arthur holds the door open for him, watching warily.

“You did something to her. What?” he asks, once they are back on the street, walking briskly away.

“I only made us forgettable,” Merlin says, craning his head to look back at the inn, “I wouldn’t, usually, but Morgause? I don’t think we can take any chances. If the proprietress is asked anything, we were different men and she won’t think it’s a lie, that’s all. I promise.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees shortly, “that’s good. Sensible. It makes sense, I mean,” he rambles. “I can’t believe - I mean, do you think it’s true?”

“I - ”

“Do you think Morgana is safe? We should go back.” Arthur turns on his heel with a swivel, Merlin snagging him by the elbow and swinging him around with a great heave of effort.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, touching a careful hand to the scar that sits ever on Arthur’s cheek, “Whatever Morgause is doing tonight I don’t think that she has any plans to hurt Morgana. Running back in right now with nothing won’t help anyone. Not you, and not her.”

Arthur bites down poorly on his temper; Merlin hardly deserves it.

“Please,” he implores Arthur when he stands there, silent. His eyes wide and dark. Desperate.

Merlin is right, of course. Oh, how it stings though. A furious sort of ugliness crawls through him. Cowardice. Yet to go back unprepared, only to soothe his own feelings, is only likely to get either of them - or both - killed. Now is not the time to test if Morgause’s oath still holds true. Leon’s unfocused gaze and broken body return to his memory easily, as he fears they always will. It is too easy to picture Merlin in his place.

Nimueh’s warning echoes in his ears; it is not that Morgause can’t hurt him, it is only that there is a cost to be paid.

“Why couldn’t she have been sneaking out to see some farmhand or something?” Arthur asks without humour, staring fixedly at nothing.

They turn back towards the castle proper, silent. The streets are the same, and it doesn’t feel right, that so much has changed and the world does not reflect it. Yet barely any time has passed since they left the castle.

It’s a warm night, and windows open out onto the street, the occasional laugh or conversation floating out of them, but he struggles to focus, mind spinning. Over and over, trying to glean anything further from what they’d overheard.

“I want to check on Aithusa,” Merlin says, as they near the stables. He wrings his hands, stepping straight in a puddle with a grimace in his inattentiveness. Arthur catches him on reflex before his face can find it, too. “I know we need to talk about everything, but I don’t feel right leaving her, especially now. Morgause is no friend of the dragonlords.”

“No,” Arthur agrees, jaw tight as he imagines what she might do should she learn of the young dragon, “she is not.”

The stables themselves abut a segment of Godwyn’s training fields, where a quintain has been set up. Ambitious squires would have been practising until sundown while their knights are all celebrating, Arthur is sure; it’s always the way, after a raucous showing like today. The one remaining stableboy is all too happy to clear out from underfoot and take some time for himself.

Arthur lets out a great gust of a sigh as Aithusa rears up to see them, overjoyed. Merlin runs the last paces to her, throwing his arms around her with a desperation that he cannot hide.

“I was worried, my girl,” he says into her neck. He inhales her as though she is a fine perfume of flowers, and that they are not in a stable that mostly smells of warm horse. “Aithusa, Arthur thought we might try and make you small again, so you don’t have to stay in the stables by yourself.”

There can be no question of her answer, such is her enthusiasm. Arthur busies himself making sure Llamrei is being well taken care of, to give them a moment. He pointedly does not look at Bluebell other than to make sure she still has all of her appendages.

Standing guard so Merlin has some time to work is easy, loitering by the door and leaning against the wooden frame, head tilted back to watch the sky. A moment, in which to catch his breath.

Morgause.

One he’d been expecting to encounter; just not like this. All this time, thinking she might be around any corner. Just not this one. Not tied up tightly with Morgana of all people.

“It’s strange,” Merlin ponders aloud, drawing Arthur back over at the sound, “to wrap my head around it, even though other transformations are easy. Making her smaller, I mean. Aithusa is as she is.”

“She’ll still be herself,” he offers, hesitating, although of course Merlin knows that better than anyone. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees, wrinkling his nose and looking away. “I just… It’s funny is all. I spent so much time studying, and sometimes it feels like I’ve gotten worse at magic instead of better. I’ve got more control - I don’t summon rain clouds on accident anymore, but my head feels stuffed full of the things that books say you can’t do. And when I, well, when I left the tower. Aithusa protected me - I wonder, sometimes, if that’s why she wants to stay this way. That she feels she must be strong.” He pauses. “If it’s my fault.” A sigh, as Merlin hesitates before stealing a look, then turning away once more. Fidgeting and ashamed.

Arthur is the last person in the world who has any wisdom to offer on the subject of magic, but he does know a bit about living too wretchedly in your own mind. Merlin had never known fear, Arthur thinks, which is a lesson every young knight hopeful learns early. To be knocked down, to be afraid; and to get back up. Was his misadventure outside of the tower truly the first knock Merlin had ever taken?

“You were amazing,” he manages to say eventually, meaning it with everything he is. “Tonight. With Morgause.” The night was an overwhelming one, but Merlin had been so quick. Clever, and as much as Arthur teases him about it, he had grown into someone capable of being subtle. If Merlin hadn’t been there Arthur would just as likely be bleeding out in that inn right now - and maybe if he were lucky Morgause would be right next to him in the same state.

Merlin just strokes a hand down Aithusa’s side, unconvinced.

“Well.” Arthur turns to her, understanding her utterly, and hoping she understands him, “I’m here now.” You don’t have to do all the worrying alone anymore, he doesn’t say. Especially after tonight, which proves definitively that Merlin can do his own protecting. Arthur clears his throat, embarrassed, and speaks to Merlin. “Remember the butterflies you made on your birthday? That first one I was there for, right before Aithusa?”

“Of course,” Merlin looks over to him - looks up, since Arthur is taller for a change, from the potion.

“Kilgharrah was always after you about the rules this the rules that - that life can’t come from nothing, and you said - ”

“It’s not from nothing,” Merlin finishes for him, ducking his head back down shyly, “it’s from magic.”

“You’ve never needed the rules,” Arthur reminds him, helpless against his own need to try and fix things, “just try and remember how you felt, right there and then. Not afraid, I don’t think.”

“I was happy,” Merlin admits, easy as anything, a smile finding home on his face at last, in spite of the strange hour. In the low light of the stables his expression looks soft, overflowing with love and memory, and Arthur struggles to find something to compare him to. Alabaster, or diamonds, or a sunrise - anything. There is nothing though, just the unyielding, merciless reality that Merlin has somehow become the most incomparable beauty in the world to him.

Arthur wonders when this will stop shocking him. Not yet, at least.

“Can I?” Merlin asks, holding out one hand, the other resting on Aithusa’s head. Arthur is not sure what he means, but there’s really only one answer. He offers his hand as well, letting it sit in Merlin’s palm to do with as he wishes.

There is a tug - not on his hand at all, but as something else within him, sparkling and fizzing from the tips of his toes and up, up, up.

“Try and think about Aithusa when she’d just been born,” Merlin requests, a familiar golden glow suffusing his eyes like dawn.

He can remember her, of course, the day she had heard her name - heard them both, or so claims Nimueh. New to the world, a long awaited hope to everyone in the tower. Her scales had been so small, as had her little claws scrabbling against his hand to play and climb. He’d been able to hold her under one arm like a particularly bitey loaf of bread. The rush of joy that fills him at the memory seems impossible to contain, Morgause be damned.

Imagination blurs with reality, and Arthur cannot tell which is which for a blink, so rapidly does Aithusa change, covered in a veil of light that floods the stables. The horses around her nicker and fuss away from her in alarm - suddenly not a horse at all, but a dragon.

Just a very small one.

She flings herself into them with abandon, wiggling and nipping gleefully.

“See,” Arthur exhales in shaky relief, stroking down the little spines on her neck, “I knew you could do it. All that commotion, and for what?”

“It’s because you’re here with us,” Merlin says, cradling her to his chest with one hand, the other still tangled with Arthur’s. “She hears better when we’re together. I’m sorry, though,” he says, letting go in a rush, “you’ve had enough to worry about today, and I’m just adding to it.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Arthur kicks mildly at his ankle. Honestly.

The trek back to the castle feels ten times as ridiculous when Merlin is hiding a tiny dragon under his cloak, where she clings like a bat. One worry less. It does not do to dwell on what Morgause might have done should Aithusa have been revealed.

Which is not even so far-fetched as he’d like. She’s already turned back into a dragon near a village once without them. It must not be forgotten that she is both young and has a mind of her own.

He can’t hold any ire over it, or worry for something that did not come to be; not while watching Merlin squirm, trying desperately not to give the game away. Face a rictus mask, trying not to laugh or yelp as Aithusa assuredly crawls all over him with her needle claws.

Tension rolls out of his shoulders once they are back in their rooms, the door shut, latched, and locked. Some of it, anyway. Gwaine is still out, and Arthur has a moment of worry; but Gwaine is wily, and Tyr, for all his many faults, isn’t a monster. Just one more problem to heap onto the pile.

“So,” Merlin says, letting Aithusa down to scurry about and stick her nose in every corner, “Morgause.”

“Morgause,” Arthur agrees, worrying at the inside of his cheek and pulling a face.

“Right?!” Merlin exclaims, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. “Are you certain? I mean, that it was her?”

“She’s hard to forget.” Arthur rubs at his tired eyes with the heels of his palms. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m just not sure what to do about it. Is this why she was so interested in Morgana when we were travelling together?” He begins to pace, dodging Aithusa as she darts under the bed.

“She was, you know?” he keeps on. “Interested in Morgana, that is. I thought it was odd at the time, but Morgana was Princess - in theory she or whatever husband she wound up with would be taking the throne after Uther, so Morgause would want to know of her. I certainly didn’t guess sisters.”

“Well, who would?” Merlin watches him pace, head swivelling back and forth.

“And what do we do about it? Morgause is up to no good; she can’t be. Can she? I don’t want Uther as king either, but I hardly think barely escaping death and recovering for over two years has made her consider any of us friends,” Arthur rants.

“Right.” Merlin nods.

“Or has she changed?” He ignores Merlin’s derisive scoff, spinning on his heel. “Or her methods, at least. If she’s been weakened, she might be trying a new approach. Someone loyal to her on the throne?”

“That makes sense,” Merlin says, picking up Aithusa and setting her atop a fringed pillow. “If Morgana really is her sister it puts her adjacent to all that power without the bloodshed. Although I got the impression from everything I’d heard that she was looking forward to the bloodshed bit.”

“And then Kilgharrah set her on fire.” Arthur makes a face. It looked like it hurt.

“And good riddance,” Merlin says, crossing his arms across his chest, chin up, eyes furious.

Arthur cannot help but stop his endless loop of their room, a little amused.

“When did you get so bloodthirsty?”

“She nearly killed your friend Leon. Would have if it weren’t for the Water of Life! She dragged you all through Camelot, and cursed those druids, and she struck you, and scarred you, and sent a curse that would have killed you!” Merlin is not amused in the slightest, face pale but with high spots of furious colour on his cheeks, lit with righteous rage. “You would have been dead, alone and rotting in some gods forsaken forest in Essetir!”

Aithusa straightens up on her pillow, looking between them in alarm, and Arthur goes to disentangle her claws from the loops of golden fringe she’s knotted them in. Sitting alongside Merlin, the bed dipping with his weight he feels sorry for making fun. He’s just more used to the Merlin who cries over especially pretty flowers.

No one is only one thing, though.

“I hate her,” Merlin says, his voice a choked rasp that Arthur has never heard before. He runs a trembling hand down his face, washed pale in the blue moonlight.

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees with a sigh, lifting Aithusa onto his lap, finally free, “me too. If she changes her ways to appease Morgana though… that’s better, isn’t it?”

“Do you really think that’s possible?” Merlin asks, considering him, mouth pursed in an unhappy frown.

Arthur considers this for a moment before answering.

“When we were travelling she asked why your father didn’t seize the citadel. I said because so many would die - he’d never hold it without razing half of Camelot to the ground. She said the people were cattle,” Arthur says, letting his shoulder rock gently against Merlin’s, “and that they would all fall in line eventually. So, no, not really.”

He has never forgotten it.

“I think her geas is still on you, though. And that she doesn’t know about it, seeing as how she tried to kill you. So that’s something,” Merlin says, leaning in. “It’s how she sensed us, I think; sympathetic magic. Her own reflection,” he waves a weary hand.

“If… she had managed to kill me, with the adder,” Arthur wonders aloud, “would it have killed her, too?”

“Probably,” Merlin says, miserable, “but please don’t try to find out.”

“Well, no,” Arthur is quick to agree, sorry for bringing it up. “Yet it does make me wonder what can kill her when dragonfire failed.”

“Not much.” Merlin sniffs, flopping to lay flat on the bed, staring up at the canopy. “Sacred weapons; ones that don’t cut the flesh, but the spirit. Nimueh could, maybe, if Morgause didn’t get her first. Kili’s fire should have done it, but - ”

“The bracelet.” Arthur finishes for him, laying down as well, with Aithusa clamouring over his shoulder to rest between them. A powerful artefact, still worn. “Of course, or it could have been done already.”

A sword, Arthur thinks. That only the true king may lift. One that may slay any impure creature. He’ll bring it up, he tells himself, just - later. It won’t help them now, anyway, with no sword to be found in their chambers. His chest aches with guilt nevertheless. He dislikes hiding anything from Merlin. Yet Arthur is not ready to consider it fully.

Not yet.

It still seems too distant, too unreal a prospect.

“The real question,” Merlin begins, hesitating once more, “is what will you do about Morgana.”

“I have to talk to her,” Arthur says. It’s at least one unequivocal truth in a night of uncertainties. “I might have been trying to feel her out or be careful about it up until now, in case she tattled on me to our father, but I don’t think that’s really relevant any more, do you?”

“Well, no,” Merlin says, wetting his lips, “but what if she tells Morgause?”

“Let her know, then.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on.

“But what if - ”

“I’m not going to leave Morgana alone with that woman as her only counsel! If Morgause learns I’m still alive - if she even thinks me dead now at all - so be it. It’s not a trade I’m willing to make.”

Merlin’s eyes are wet, and Arthur feels a lick of shame for his temper, but no. This is not something he can compromise on. To gamble his safety against Morgana’s.

“I suppose not,” Merlin blinks, looking away. “Sometimes I wish you were a little bit more awful,” he says, scooping up Aithusa for a cuddle just like he always used to when he was feeling sore.

“No, you don’t,” Arthur calls him out, wiggling a finger for her to chomp on. Delighted, she does, even though she doesn’t have the excuse of teething any longer.

“No,” Merlin agrees, sighing, “I don’t.”

***

Arthur doesn’t know when Gwaine came in last night, but he must have, seeing as how he is snoring away in the antechamber when Arthur wakes. Merlin is still laid out flat on top of the velvet coverings of the bed next to him, Aithusa curled up between them, eyes open and peeking at him.

“Good morning,” he greets her, earning him a chirp so high pitched he hasn’t heard one like it since she was just a baby. “Wonderful,” he praises her vaguely, not quite awake just yet, but euphoric hearing it nevertheless.

Arthur is up and has come back with breakfast before anyone else stirs, because even he knows he is a bear in the morning until he eats. At the sound of the door Gwaine stumbles out and makes enough noise to finally rouse Merlin.

“What happened to your face?” Merlin hisses in sympathy, wincing as Gwaine shows off his wretched black eye.

“Something I think I deserve a heart-felt thank you for,” he says, making it the entire three strides over to the small table to sit, stealing bites of breakfast from Arthur’s tray as he goes. “Maybe a reward as well. I’ll think of a suggestion, don’t worry.” He throws his feet up on the table, only for Arthur to shove them off.

“Make room,” he says, setting the loaded tray down. “What’s happened now?”

“Bloody Tyr is what happened,” Gwaine complains. “Man does not like getting humiliated, is what. He was dead sure he saw you, by the way, so I’m not sure I got him off your back so much as delayed him.”

“For what? It’s not like we can’t be out of the castle,” Arthur scoffs, snapping up a roll of bread for himself before Gwaine can touch everything. “It’s a tourney, not a prison.”

“I think he’ll just invent something,” Gwaine says, wincing as Merlin pokes at his black eye. “Some way to make our dear Lord Myrddin unsuitable for the Princess; some vice or deviancy. Gambling or whores or - ouch!”

“Baby,” Merlin taunts him, turning his head this way and that. “I can heal it, but…”

“Nah,” Gwaine agrees, “if Tyr sees I’ve got no mark it’ll be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Well, it’s not like Myrddin really exists, or that ‘he’ wants to marry Elena. Hard to worry too much about his reputation if that’s all Tyr’s aim is.” Merlin moves away to pick halfheartedly at the shallow bowl of berries, nose wrinkling. “We’ve got bigger issues now.”

“Yes,” Gwaine pleads dramatically, rolling his neck now that he’s free of Merlin’s tender care, “tell me what made all my suffering worth it. Better be good!”

Arthur can’t help the face he pulls. Good?

“Well,” he drawls, amused as Aithusa frees herself from the bed coverings and scares Gwaine shitless, “Morgana left the castle last night, alone and unchaperoned. We thought it might be a good chance to catch her and speak without half the castle eavesdropping.”

“And we’re nosy,” Merlin adds, lifting Aithusa above his head with an innocent air about him, her wings spreading in a stretch that catches the soft morning light. This, Arthur cannot deny.

“And we’re nosy,” he agrees, unable to help his own smile just from looking upon them, despite everything. “She was meeting someone, though. Did Leon tell you about Morgause by any chance, when you met?”

“No,” Gwaine thinks back, watching Aithusa with fascination, “I’d remember the name.”

The whole affair is dragged out once more, with no fresh new insights for having slept on it. Secret half siblings, and magic, threat of death and all. Mercifully, it seems a little less insurmountable in the daylight.

“One thing is clear,” Arthur says. “I must speak to Morgana, alone. Soon, before the tourney ends. I saw Leon at the joust, I’ll just have to track him down, or - ”

Gwaine interrupts with a loud cough, shrugging when Arthur glares at him.

“Well, I’m not sure if you saw, but Elyan got to meet up with his sister yesterday, the lovely Guinevere. Now, since none of us were certain what your intent was you didn’t come up by name,” Gwaine says, “but she agreed to meet Elyan and Lancelot again after the feast tonight, assuming it is alright with her Lady, which it will be, and I’m sure you could tag along. Better than nothing.”

Arthur sighs, at least one weight off his shoulders. Better than nothing, indeed.

“I’ll have to thank them, after all of this,” he says. “Are they well? We’ve been so busy at the castle, I haven’t even seen them.” The obligations to the Princess and the tourney were controlling Lord Myrddin’s time to the minutia.

“I’m sure if you buy a round of drinks after this tourney farce all will be forgiven,” Gwaine winks.

“No ulterior motives there, I’m sure,” Merlin quips to Aithusa, frantically putting out the fire she starts when she throws her head back in a smoking hiss of laughter. The canopy of the bed is repaired with magic over the sound of Gwaine cackling, and the morning rolls on.

A ride with Elena follows breakfast, which is actually quite exhilarating. It seems to Arthur that every bit of her grace has been saved for horseback, outrunning every single drop of clumsiness and leaving it scattered on the ground in her wake as soon as she is in a saddle. Her hair is mussed from the speed, her skirts ruined from refusing to sit like a lady. Indeed it feels as though every mystery is solved.

Aithusa tears after her, competitive to a fault, Merlin clinging to her with a laugh that carries back on the wind. Llamrei bounds as well, leaping over and through the underbrush like she’s invincible. It doesn’t take long for them to outpace the rest of their party.

Elena pulls to an easy stop to let her horse rest and drink near a stream, beaming at both of them, chest heaving. Her eyes sparkle with life, and Arthur feels quite sorry for finding her so awkward before - out here she is the furthest thing from it.

“I should have been born a second son,” she jests, as though she has read his thoughts. “Or a third.”

“All of the fun, none of the responsibility,” Arthur jokes back before remembering he is a servant, who should be seen and not heard. Elena grins at him anyway as Merlin laughs, nodding in agreement.

“Exactly so,” she claims. In the light of the sun streaming through the thin green leaves her hair is illuminated, her smile blinding as she turns to Merlin. “She’s beautiful, your mare. What is she called?”

“She is,” he agrees easily, proud and unashamed, “and she answers to Aithusa.” She prances smugly to the water’s edge, and Arthur is a poor actor; he couldn’t keep the soppy smile off of his face for all the gold in Albion, merely happy to see her thriving.

“You don’t want to marry me, do you?” Elena asks Merlin after a while, looking cannily between them with a twisty sort of smile. Neither sad nor happy, or even rueful.

“I’d quite like to be friends,” Merlin answers kindly, stroking a hand down Aithusa’s mane and having the decency to look Elena in the face as he denies her, “but I don’t think we could make each other happy as a husband and wife should.”

She gazes back at him with a sigh. A tiny exhale that loosens her shoulders, her eyes going a little misty for what might have been. Arthur wishes he could sympathise a little less, finding a swell of pity for her. She’ll never find another like Merlin, for there simply are none. He is simultaneously guilty in the relief he feels and also awkward, intruding on the edges of something not for him.

In truth it is a blessing when the rest of their party catches up at last, ushering them forwards. He consoles himself with the fact that Elena’s smile is not dim for long. A true friend is not a terrible consolation prize, not even for a Princess.

The afternoon proceeds, with a fine spread of luncheon that Arthur steals quick bites of, ducking behind Gwen’s back to hide it and letting her do the same to him, followed by the start of the melee.

Geraint and Leon both make showings to be proud of, although Arthur spends more of his attention keeping a wary eye on the crowds. He does not see hide nor hair of Morgause; not that he would know, he considers, as any face could be hers. It’s rich of him to be unnerved perhaps, as he eyes the fall of his own red hair out of the corner of his vision, and yet he is. He pokes at the still unfamiliar cleft of his chin, and wiggles his blue toes in his boots.

The difference, he supposes, is that he doesn’t plan on killing anyone he doesn’t absolutely have to. The feast cannot begin soon enough.

The feast cannot be over soon enough, he thinks, once it has begun.

Tyr is drunk, and loud, and spitting pointed remarks at Merlin all evening, which makes him the natural enemy of every lady within earshot. Were glares daggers, he would be felled already. To Arthur, it seems that no one is as surprised as Tyr is when the gauntlet is thrown - even though Tyr is the one who threw it.

On the table it sits, half shining and half covered in sauce, which has splattered onto Morgana, who pins Tyr in place with her sharp stare alone. The jovial din of the feast fades into unnatural quiet, even King Godwyn taken aback, stunned in his high seat which oversees the whole affair.

“What?” Merlin asks with a startled blink, reaching for it.

Heart in his throat, Arthur leaps forward and snatches it up before Merlin can so much as lay a fingertip on it. His reasons are twofold. One is merely that Merlin should never have to fight in an armed duel, and it is Arthur’s duty to do so in his stead. The other is a selfish one, in that it will be an honest privilege to lay Tyr flat on his miserable face once more.

Morgana, in the silence, dabbing sauce off of her serene face with a napkin, hums the melody for Tyr’s Folly just loud enough to carry, which only serves to pour oil on a lit fire.

“You,” Tyr spits, red-faced and furious, “I challenge you - ”

“I accept on his behalf,” Arthur says loudly, while Merlin is still too stunned to find any words of his own and make it even worse. “Now?” They can certainly have this over by the time Gwen is to meet with her brother, which is still Arthur’s shining opportunity.

“Well?” asks King Godwyn, when Tyr does not reply. His usually friendly face is set in the manor of someone who has just watched a dog soil the carpet. At his side Princess Elena watches with wide eyes over the leg of chicken she has been eating, seemingly too taken aback to even put it down. It is so quiet one could hear a pin drop in Nemeth.

“To first blood?” Arthur asks, when Tyr doesn’t answer.

“To the death,” Tyr challenges, and Arthur might be doing a fine job of making things worse all on his own, because he cannot hold back his bark of disbelieving laughter. If Tyr had not already thrown a gauntlet he would have thrown another now, Arthur thinks, watching him turn a blotchy sort of red in his rage. This is not about anything Merlin has done; it is only the product of outraged pride, stoked and prodded until the flame is burning over-hot, mocked for nearing two years now. Tyr’s Folly.

“It seems excessive,” Arthur says, calming himself with no small effort, “for a father to lose a son when no insult has been offered.”

“A folly indeed,” Morgana says demurely to Elena, just loud enough to be overheard, and Arthur tries to hide his sigh. It’s not her that will be doing the fighting to the death, so she shouldn’t be doing the goading, either.

“You accept, on behalf of your Lord?” King Godwyn waves a hand for silence over the raised voices that follow Morgana’s words, clearly wanting the whole affair done with.

“I do,” Arthur says quickly, ignoring Merlin’s increasingly frantic pulls on his arm for his attention.

“No, he doesn’t.” Merlin shouts, trying and failing to push his way in front of Arthur. “That’s mad. This whole thing is mad! What on earth have I even done?”

“You insult the Princess Elena,” Tyr claims, and Merlin sends him a look of such scathing disregard that Arthur is a little surprised Tyr doesn’t just ignite on the spot, leaving only a smear of oil behind.

“I have not,” Merlin says, as Elena chimes in; “He has not.”

“The challenge has been issued, and accepted,” King Godwyn pinches the bridge of his nose, waving away a servant who approaches with a fresh goblet of wine, “even if it is a foolish one. Unless you wish to retract?”

“No,” Tyr insists, having neither the brains or grace to accept the out he has been given; instead glaring daggers past Arthur to Merlin, which only serves to stoke Arthur’s temper.

“To the field, then?” he asks, baring his teeth.

“Is there not enough space here?” Tyr asks, drawing his sword and gesturing to the void between the long tables, filled with musicians who scatter like pigeons at the showing of a naked blade. King Godwyn does not look impressed, but half the court is waiting with baited breath, enjoying the spectacle like a fine show.

“Are you insane?” Merlin hisses in his ear as Arthur goes forwards. “You won’t actually kill him over this stupidity, will you?”

“No,” Arthur admits, which mollifies Merlin somewhat, “but I might punch his face in.” It is flattering, at the very least, to know Merlin has such faith in his skills as to not consider any other outcome.

“Well, that’s fine then,” Merlin says with a considering tilt of his head, letting go of his grip on Arthur’s arm, “seeing as he sorely deserves it. Be careful, though.”

“Always,” Arthur agrees, drawing his own sword with a flourish and a spin, just for fun - and for the way Merlin rolls his eyes at him, reluctantly amused.

Merlin, however, is not the only one watching.

Even drunk, Tyr seems to recognize the manoeuvre, his gaze growing sharper. There is no way for him to see through the illusions, Arthur knows, but he recalls taunting Tyr with it during their last duel - the one that has clearly haunted him ever since. Arthur should not have done it now. It has put the other man on his guard, knowing Arthur for who he actually is or not.

Tyr opens with the same lunge he had last time, testing the waters. Arthur parries, letting the pace set itself, wary of how closely the duel at the folly is mirrored. Step for step, created out of memory like it was yesterday. How many times had this been relived in Tyr’s mind? Haunted him? He pivots and strikes forward in a brutal lunge, at last breaking the pattern, and Arthur steps back to avoid it, flicking the flat of his blade against Tyr’s wrist as he does.

He does not lose his grip, but he darts out of range in response. Arthur lets him. Watching. Wary. Tyr honestly means to maim him.

“Are…are you Arthur?” Tyr asks while catching his breath, which earns many confused faces from the bit of crowd close enough to hear him ask it.

“You’re drunk,” Arthur says, jaw clenched tight and heart thudding more from those words than from the duel. Tyr is, despite everything, a half decent swordsman. It’s not impossible that he’d know Arthur by his form alone, not when the seed had already been planted by his foolhardy showing off, before.

There is no proof whatsoever, he reminds himself; hoping even so that the high table had not heard the question. There is nothing to be heard here at all other than the ramblings of a drunk with a chip on his shoulder the size of Odin’s kingdom.

The next time Tyr attacks, Arthur’s patience is a river run thoroughly dry. He disarms the sot with a cruel wrench that will have him in a sling for a month, kicking his legs out from under him in the doing of it, then letting the tip of Arthur’s sword rest under his chin when he lands on his backside.

“You are drunk,” Arthur reiterates, enunciating each word with sharp clarity. He keeps his voice between the two of them in hopes that if Tyr’s pride is not stung too dearly that he will stay down. “Go dry out before you embarrass yourself further.” He carefully draws his sword away, stepping back, eyes fixed on Tyr as he does. “I think that’s enough,” he says more loudly, towards some of Tyr’s attendants, who rush forward to help their prince to his feet. “Let’s not let our youthful tempers go any further on a day of celebration.”

“Well said,” King Godwyn raises a glass, and gestures for the musicians to reclaim their space. It wasn’t particularly well said, Arthur thinks, striding back to his place behind Merlin’s seat as the noise picks back up, but what it is now is over, which is probably all Godwyn wants. It seems that every face in the hall watches him go. Morgana appraises him with cool measure, and Gwen gives him a nervous wave as he approaches.

Merlin sends him a look over his shoulder, eyes wide. Impressed and annoyed in equal measure, if Arthur were to take a guess; which is fair. That’s how Arthur feels about Merlin a lot of the time, too.

Chapter Text

“Well that was all a bit much,” Merlin complains, fidgeting.

“A bit,” Arthur agrees, rolling his shoulder out and not quite meeting Merlin’s gaze. He’s not injured, but he feels off balance nonetheless. His own name was the last thing he expected to come out of Tyr’s mouth.

They’ve left the hall, and wait now to meet with Elyan and the others, to hopefully speak with Gwen with some small semblance of privacy. Quick words behind a hall full of nosy nobility was not the place to discuss anything of import, but if this attempt doesn’t work he might be driven to it anyways. Loitering near one of the servants’ exits, with Merlin’s general clothing and lordly bearing leading all of said servants to give them both a wide berth was not making Arthur any calmer. At least if people are avoiding them no one is listening in. The last thing they need now is to make more fodder for gossip.

“Little bit exciting though,” Merlin admits, biting at his lip and failing to suppress a smile. “Although you shouldn’t get in the habit of it. Probably. Maybe if it’s people like Tyr it’s not so bad.”

“Glad you approve.” Arthur cocks his eyebrow.

It’s a mark of how weary Merlin is as well that all Arthur gets in return is a pulled face rather than a clever retort. Both of their nerves are frayed.

Soon, he reassures himself.

There are too many moving pieces tonight for his heart to settle. Tyr is a complication, but at least he is a mundane one. Morgause, Morgana, and even Gwen will require a more delicate approach.

A breeze tugs at them, and on the edge of his awareness he recognizes the smell of rain coming. Outside of the great hall it is still the happy atmosphere of a tourney, with bustling crowds and joyful, excited faces.

“It seemed personal,” Merlin prods, spinning a ring upon one slim finger. “He was angry. I don’t think entirely about me, either.”

There isn’t really much use hiding it now, Arthur thinks, resigning himself to his fate.

“It’s possible,” he begins, trying to find a way to phrase it, “that Tyr’s duel at the folly - ”

“The one the song is about?” Merlin interrupts, interest piqued.

“The very same,” Arthur admits. “Well, it’s possible that I was the one who duelled him. And there might be some residual hurt feelings on the matter. He doesn’t know I’m me.” Arthur hopes at least, gesturing at his disguised face, “but Morgana taunting him about the whole affair every other second certainly didn’t help.”

Merlin gapes at him, mouth dropping open. Arthur braces himself, taking a deep breath and crossing his arms. Waiting for it. Merlin shuts his mouth with a click, his face moving through expressions so quickly it seems like even he’s not sure what he’s feeling. Aithusa sticks her head out of his cloak where she’s been hiding.

Then the tittering starts.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Merlin lies. “Wait, wait, wait,” he laughs, lunging at Arthur before he can abandon the conversation and start a new life in Lothian. “Why are you embarrassed? It’s a very popular song!” He scrunches his nose up, considering. “I suppose that’s why Tyr hates it so much.”

“You suppose?” Arthur rolls his eyes. “I didn’t think much of it at the time, but clearly Tyr’s been thinking about it ever since.”

“When? How?” Merlin urges him, hands still holding onto Arthur’s arms, a warm touch even in the summer heat.

“It was while I was away - after the plague but before Aoife passed,” Arthur says, matter of fact. “He was being a prick, causing trouble, like he always does.” If the disdain can’t be kept out of his voice it’s hardly Arthur’s fault. “Anyway, things might have gotten a little heated, and I might have challenged him. There was a folly, on the edges of a forest, where he’d cornered some maid. Well, you can guess what followed.”

Merlin gives a nod, his hands a comforting weight where they still sit.

“I don’t know if anything would have actually happened or not,” Arthur confesses. “I’ve never liked him, and neither has Morgana. He was forever pestering after her, assuming her interest. That if he said they should be married that they would. My judgement may have been coloured. Hasty. He didn’t commit any crime.”

Merlin’s face is no longer amused. Arthur feels rotten for having forgotten about Freya, and her painful life before the tower for a moment, while relaying the tale.

“And he didn’t have a chance, thanks to you. Well then,” Merlin says icily, “it seems like Tyr got off easy.”

“I don’t know who spread the story, or who started the song nonsense,” Arthur continues. “I’m not sorry for telling him off, or for duelling him then.”

“Of course not,” Merlin scoffs.

“I am sorry if it causes more trouble now, though,” Arthur goes on as if Merlin had not spoken at all.

“I’m not,” Merlin says with easy certainty. “We’ll deal with it. People like him shouldn’t be allowed to do whatever pleases them.”

“No,” Arthur agrees, swallowing thickly.

Merlin’s hands fall away, trailing down Arthur’s arms and brushing over his hands as if to hold them. For all that they are surrounded by castle bustle, milling servants and chatter, for a moment it feels as if they are the only two souls in existence.

“I should thank you, too,” Merlin says, suddenly shy instead of bold. A smile twitches to life at the corner of his mouth. “‘Knight of Drake’s Spire.’ I should have known it was you. The Perilous Land’s reputation is better; people are less and less afraid of us every season. You know, when the Fisher King ruled, it was called Rheged? I actually heard someone call it that instead of ‘The Perilous Lands’, can you believe it?” Merlin rambles happily, ignoring Arthur’s battle between pride and embarrassment. “Da doesn’t have to fly so far for trade, more people come all of the time now. Lance and Elyan aren’t the only people helping guide through the defences - some of the druids do, and even the Catha and Bendrui, when they can be spared. There are so many people it’s almost like a real city.”

“I haven’t done all of that,” Arthur protests, burning hot with mortification as embarrassment wins the bout. “The songs, I mean! Some were Lancelot, or Elyan - other people, as well. Whole villages, sometimes!”

“Oh, brave knight,” Merlin teases, delighted and beaming, “won’t you accept - ”

“Shut up, you menace!” Arthur cries, looking up to the sky for salvation.

“I’ve not touched my lyre for years I think,” Merlin says, smile bright and wide, dimpling his cheeks, “but I’ll learn! I’ll learn every song there is!”

“Or,” Arthur suggests, “you could forget I ever told you.” It’s a futile hope.

“Not a chance,” Merlin swears, crossing a hand over his heart in an oath. Over Aithusa, really, who is nestled there, hidden again in his tunic. She squirms, little legs kicking - poorly hidden. “Valiant knight, how could I ever forget?”

“Mercy, Merlin,” Arthur begs, feeling ever hotter under his collar. For all of his teasing, Merlin looks sincere in a way that strikes Arthur a fast blow right to his heart. His silly daydreams of winning a tournament come screeching back in insulting colour; that old desire to peacock that he can never quite shake all the way off. To impress.

There, shunted off to the side of a servant’s doorway in Gawant, Arthur very nearly starts making grand declarations; he shuts his mouth just quick enough to stop them from escaping. Arthur might swear to complete any dangerous quest, find any treasure - to topple any kingdom, if only Merlin would ask.

“Oh, there,” Merlin says, springing to attention as he catches a glance of something in the distance. He grabs Arthur’s sleeve, tugging him forwards and towards their friends.

“Here you are!” Lance greets them with a grin.

“About time,” Arthur says rudely, hustling past them as Merlin cackles, “let’s go!”

He strides forward as though he has any idea where they are going. Gravel crunches beneath his heels, and he’s thankful temperatures are cooling as dusk rolls over the castle. His skin tingles with residual heat that has nothing to do with the sun. Behind him, he can hear Gwaine’s perpetually taunting voice asking what’s gotten into him.

Arthur chances a look back over his shoulder, certain that Merlin will start the ribbing all over again; yet all he finds looking back at him is a vision of such naked adoration that he stumbles over his own two feet when he catches Merlin’s eye, barely righting himself before his face meets the gravel instead.

Arthur endures the ensuing mocking with as much grace as he ever does.

***

“You don’t look like Arthur Pendragon,” Gwen says, glaring as fiercely at him as he’s ever seen her glare at anything. Her soft curls of hair are frazzled from running around all day in the summer heat, bright flowers tucked behind her ear. The bridge of her nose is tinted with sunburn. “I have seen him, you know. I worked at the castle while he was there. And it’s a poor lie if you’re trying to fool anyone with that head of hair,” she nods at his currently red hair.

“It’s a disguise,” he says, sending a desperate look to Elyan for backup.

“It really is,” he agrees gamely, sipping at his ale. He holds it steady as Gwen shoves at him, already braced for it.

“I don’t think this is a funny thing to joke about,” she reprimands her brother, and turns to Lancelot. “Do you have anything to say about this?”

“My lady,” Lance says earnestly, “it is true.”

She blinks at him, then Elyan, then Arthur - and then another round for good measure. Nervously, she looks to Merlin, who has been covered in a plain cloak as a last minute half-measure to stand out less. From Gwen’s discomfort, sitting across from someone she thinks of as a Lord, it’s not entirely working.

Gwaine returns from the bar, setting down a slew of fresh mugs and ignoring the atmosphere with a relentless determination Arthur can almost admire.

“Drink up!” he says into the stifling air around the awkward table, winking at Arthur when he glares.

“We first came into acquaintance when I tried to hunt the griffon and met Ser Leon,” Lancelot explains over them. “I was wounded - ”

“I know the story,” Gwen says, shaking her head, “or at least that much of it. The person who led you and my father to escape - that was you?” She whirls to stare at Arthur once more.

“Leon helped your father escape the dungeons,” Arthur says plainly, “and then Lancelot took him the rest of the way; I just showed them the path.”

“So you’re not,” she whispers, leaning forwards across the sticky table, “kidnapped?”

“No,” Arthur sighs, already dreading explaining this all over again for Morgana. “Nor am I dead, or tortured, or eaten by a dragon. I was not mistreated, or mind controlled, or - ”

“Wait, do people think you were being tortured all this time?” Merlin asks, aghast.

“There are a lot of different rumours.” Arthur rubs at his forehead, feeling a headache brewing. “Or there used to be, at least. Almost none of which are true. I don’t spend a lot of time in cities, honestly, so I hardly know them all. Is that what people say in Camelot?” Not even Arthur's pride can keep him from admitting he is dying to know.

Gwen sits up straight, becoming less the friendly ladies maid who has been helping him these past days, and more distant. He supposes he can’t blame her, although it does sting.

“There are plenty of rumours,” she begins, hesitating over her words. “It was a substantial blow, when you were taken. All sorts of things were being said. Gruesome things.”

Merlin fidgets.

“Well, I’m glad they aren’t true,” Gwen says, fidgeting plenty herself. “Now, though, people don’t talk about you at all. Openly, anyway. King Uther won’t have it.” She leans back in, quiet. “Since the rumours now are all about you saving witches and what have you, as a knight errant. He insists it’s all lies, made up to - ” She waves her hands about. “ - discredit him, I suppose. That you might have been freed, and still not come home.”

“I am free,” Arthur shrugs, aching to actually feel as nonchalant about it all as he tries to, “and I have not come home. Not that Camelot has been home for a long time.”

“And the world is all the better for it,” Gwaine snuffs out the cloud of unease with a raised glass; one that Arthur is the first to meet. He certainly agrees. They give cheers of varying enthusiasm, and drink.

“I’m fine,” he assures Gwen, after his bracing quaff of ale. “No torture at all, actually, and very few dragon bites.” He shows her a tiny scar on his forearm from when Aithusa was just a baby; no bigger than you might get from a kitten. “From a real threatening, terrifying sort of dragon.”

Merlin chokes on his sip and Arthur can’t bite down on his laugh fast enough. His cheeks strain with it.

“Dragons… well, it turns out they aren’t so bad, actually,” he promises a confused Gwen who is half hidden behind her mug. She’s still wary, of course; Arthur can only imagine what she must have heard. What she must think. “I do want to make one thing clear,” he says. “King Balinor only ever intended to barter for peace. No one ever laid a hand on me. The Perilous Lands - Rheged,” Arthur corrects himself, darting a quick look to Merlin, who is still sputtering and coughing, “would have given anything to end the persecution of magical people. It is all they’ve sought, all this time.”

Balinor lifted Arthur up out of a bloody slaughter, looked upon him, and saw a future in which they might find peace. He hopes Gwen - and Morgana - can come to understand.

Gwen’s face softens, and her shoulders relax, just a bit.

“And how did you come to travel with a Lothian lord? If m’lord will pardon me for asking?”

Her eyes dart towards Merlin - Lord Myrddin, so far as Gwen knows.

Merlin throws his hands up in defence.

“Oh, I’m not really anyone!” he claims, and Arthur snorts. Merlin is far more than any mere spoiled, third-son lord, of course. Elyan raises his eyebrows, and even Lancelot can’t keep an entirely straight face - to say nothing of Gwaine’s bark of laughter. “I’m Arthur’s friend, Merlin. I don’t even know the King of Lothian!”

“Ah,” Gwen can’t entirely smother her amused huff of laughter, either. “You should do plays, in that case, because you certainly had me fooled! It’s nice to meet you, Merlin.” She shakes her head, setting her drink down on the off-kilter wooden table. Around them people buzz about, busy as bees. “I assume, since you’re telling me all of this, that you seek an audience with my lady?”

For no real reason at all it makes him feel somewhat pinned in place, to be asked so directly.

“Yes,” he manages. She’s his sister. Complicated or not, that still means something to him. Some ache for family that still hopes to be soothed, even after all this time.

“I understand,” Gwen says kindly, before digging her knuckles harshly into Elyan’s side, “siblings should see one another.” She punctuates each word with a twist of her fist.

“I would like to see Morgana.” Arthur doesn’t even pretend to hide his laughter this time, bubbly with relief.

“You think she’s nice,” Elyan complains to them all, failing to escape, “but you’re all fools. Fools of the highest order - ouch! Quit it!”

“Never!” Gwen pays lie to the claim almost immediately, however, settling back down and smoothing her hands over her skirts. Or perhaps not - Arthur feels the playful kick of her foot across from him under the table before he hears Elyan’s yelp. “Of course I will take you to her,” she says over his moaning.

“Thank you.” Arthur tilts his mug at her in sincere salute, and they both share a heartfelt drink.

It settles him, to know Gwen believes them - that she’ll help them. She is both as kind as Lancelot says and as headstrong as Elyan gripes, in what Arthur assumes is the way of all older brothers.

His head is fairly spinning, and considering how weak the drink is, that is not the cause. Soon he’ll see his sister. Older sister, though. He can’t really imagine Morgana sitting outdoors in a busy, dusty street with a drink teasing him. He can quite easily imagine the teasing, of course, but in his mind it’s usually after a fierce bout at the fields or across a long feasting table.

Nor can he imagine himself pestering her in the way of all the younger brothers that he has met. If he ever so much as tugged at one of Morgana’s braids she’d throw him in the first available moat; and should none be available, she’d set him to digging one.

Then again, Arthur is not six, so perhaps it will not come up.

“Excited?” Merlin rocks into him, and Arthur can hear Aithusa hissing.

“I am.” He pushes back into Merlin, unable to think of more to say, merely savouring the evening air. The hope that they’ve found, even in a place like Gawant. Aithusa hisses again, more insistently, leaving Merlin to work quickly to wrap his cloak around himself to hide her sudden fussing from everyone who doesn’t know he’s smuggling a dragon.

It is the way of things, Arthur thinks wryly, still pressed elbow to shoulder against Merlin, that if everything seems to be going well that something must secretly be building up to going spectacularly poorly instead, just out of sight. The hair on the back of his neck stands up before he notices why - in the distance, on the edge of hearing, the alarm bells of the castle have begun to sound. He twists round in his seat to have a look, seeing nothing.

“You hear that?” Elyan asks, cocking his head to the side.

“Aye,” answers Gwaine, swiftly bolting the last of his drink down. “What?” he scoffs, as Lancelot gives him the side-eye. “You can’t blame a man for bracing himself, can you? Trouble’s brewing.”

Gwaine’s insight for disorder must not be understated, Arthur knows; and his own gut is telling him their ease and fun is over.

The rest of the table notices as well, with Gwen rising out of her seat to peer over the crowd on her tiptoes.

“What’s all this about?” she asks the world in general.

“I don’t know,” Lancelot mutters, sending a quick look to Merlin, who is trying desperately to appear normal and is all the more suspect for it. His wide, nervous eyes betray him.

The main road leads up towards the castle, which perches on the top of the hill on which it was built. Like a trickle that predicts a flood, the dark red of the guard’s uniforms start to descend; just a handful, spreading out through the crowds.

“I need to go,” Gwen says, skirts flouncing as she swings her leg over the bench. “I must return to Morgana.”

Arthur rises as well, good humour forgotten entirely. Merlin and the rest are quick to follow.

At the heels of the guards Princess Elena’s bright hair shines like a beacon, her arm raised as she spots them over the flock of people.

“Lord Myrddin,” she calls out, only barely avoiding a tumble onto the street; a well-practised guard all that keeps her standing. “There you are!” A horrible look of anguish is on her face, and Arthur’s chest seizes tight, worry settling over him like a shroud.

“Elena!” Merlin exclaims, trotting forwards to meet her. “What’s happened, are you alright?”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, taking Merlin’s hands in hers and blinking up at him with wet eyes. “I was at the stables… I fear something terrible has happened.”

Words seem to abandon her, completely overcome.

Gwen hovers at the corner of Arthur’s vision, clearly desperate to leave and find her Lady and also unwilling to leave them.

“Go,” Merlin urges them, over his shoulder, “I’m sure it will work out, whatever it is. You can tell me,” he promises Elena.

“It’s Aithusa,” Elena admits, squeezing Merlin’s hands tight between them. “I went to visit the horses, and I wanted to make certain all was well with her accommodations. That she was comfortable. And perhaps give her a pat and say hello, since she’s so lovely, but, you see - Myrddin… I’m so, so sorry, but she’s missing.”

Merlin freezes.

Aithusa, still hidden under his robes like an illicit kitten that a child is trying to sneak into the house, also freezes.

“Price Tyr cannot be found either, and I fear that he might have taken his loss poorly,” Elena theorises wildly, yet still somehow less illegal than the reality, “and that perhaps he aims to hurt you this way, or to have her for his own! She’s worth a ransom of course,” Elena rambles, “but there was no note or demands. She’s just gone.”

“Ah,” Merlin says weakly. He coughs, red-faced, and Elena must take his tremendous awkwardness for distress, for she pulls him into an embrace, patting at his back to try and offer comfort.

“We’ll find her,” Elena swears kindly, “even if we have to turn the whole city upside-down. No stone will be left unturned.”

“I’m quite sure it won’t come to that,” Merlin says into Elena’s cloud of wheat-blonde hair. He holds himself stiffly, caught in a vice grip. “Go on,” he says again, turning enough to look at Arthur and catch his eye, “I’ll stay with Elena and talk through, uhm… things.” His hands flutter, unsure of where to settle. “You follow Gwen and find Morgana.”

“If you’re sure,” Arthur asks, stepping on Gwaine’s foot to stop him from laughing. Aithusa has stuck just the tiny white tip of her nose up out of Merlin’s collar in the back in her efforts to evade Elena’s well-intentioned patting. In a slither she darts up, out, and into Merlin’s hood, fast as quicksilver, vanishing out of sight once more.

“I’m sure,” Merlin insists.

Gwen gives a cursory curtsy, already stepping double time up the hill, Arthur following after her with Lance and Elyan in her wake. He sends more than one look back at Merlin, not enjoying being parted, but liking the idea of missing his chance to see Morgana even less. Merlin will be safe enough with Elena, and Aithusa could not be in less danger if she tried. Merlin just makes a shooing gesture at him, knowing it all without either of them needing to speak a word.

Arthur lopes to catch up, through the streets, the gates, and into the castle proper.

Only for Gwen to cruelly abandon them.

Or at least that’s how it feels. Arthur hovers outside the corridor to the ladies’ wing with Lance and Elyan, arms stuck fast to his sides as maids and ladies both stick their heads out to have a look at them. There is entirely too much giggling to endure.

“She’s not here,” Gwen says, returning to them after what feels like an eternity. Her fists are clenched in her skirts, tugging nervously at the fabric. “I don’t know where she would have gone!”

Arthur cannot be entirely certain what confidences Morgana shares with her maid - does Guinevere know of Morgause?

“Might she have been meeting someone?” he suggests, testing the waters.

“She… exchanges letters, sometimes. She would have told me though, if she was leaving,” Gwen swears, face open and honest. She comes in close to whisper. “You don’t think something’s happened, do you?”

Arthur thinks the far more likely explanation is that Morgana has gone to see her sister unchaperoned, but the thought of Tyr clings on in his mind like a burr he cannot shake.

“I don’t know,” he admits, gnawing at the inside of his cheek as he thinks.

“Split up?” Elyan suggests. “Look for her? Lots of people out tonight, maybe she wanted to enjoy the city?”

“Alone?” Lancelot hesitates. “Perhaps Leon has seen her, or escorts her. I’ll find some of the Camelot lads, to ask.”

“I’ll take the parapets, get a view,” Elyan volunteers.

“The other maids might have seen her. I’ll ask about,” Gwen adds, a determined tilt to her chin now that she has a place to start. “And she doesn’t sleep well; she might have gone to the physician for a draught.”

If she were lost in the woods Arthur could track her through blackest night. In a city? He’s not even sure where to begin. It strikes him, suddenly. Offensively obvious. The inn where she had met with Morgause before. Arthur is a dolt.

“I’ll head back into the city,” he says, already turning to make his way.

“Meet at the gates before nightfall?” Lance shouts after him, to which Arthur hastily agrees.

For the second time this evening he takes the path and towards the lower town. He catches a guard moving around now and again, and although Arthur has nothing to fear from them it still puts him on edge. He is more aware of his disguise than ever, red hair and cleft chin suddenly itching now that he’s trying to ignore them.

A crooked little alley cuts closer to the inn, and he takes it, trying to imagine what he would do, were he Morgana and trying to stay out of sight. Had she panicked, once the bells sounded?

Gone a different route, rather than risk exposing Morgause? Sorcery is strictly banned in Gawant, even if not as harshly enforced as Camelot.

Footprints dot the dust and mud of the alley, but far too many to pick out a single set or be of any use. Heavy traffic ensures no clues of that sort remain, although he looks carefully nevertheless. It is then that he sees it. Only a small thing, nearly lost in the mire. Glinting dully in the setting sun - a pearl. Like the ones Morgana had woven into her hair.

He picks it up with careful fingers, settling it in a pocket.

The course he takes through the lower town streets is one decided at least half on instinct. Methodical even so, sticking his nose down every narrow street. There is no trail to follow, no disturbed underbrush or tracks, but he feels guided forward nevertheless.

Nimueh had always impressed upon both Arthur and Merlin to follow their instincts; had marvelled more than once over how well Arthur took magic. Both a weakness and a strength.

It is the only thing that explains how he is led precisely forward, to this exact spot, at this exact moment. 

Fate, or something like it.

Frozen in time, he looks on as Morgana and Tyr brawl like ruffians, unaware of the stunned audience they have gained. His hand finds the hilt of his sword by muscle memory alone as Morgana’s fist finds Tyr’s face with a snap Arthur has heard enough times to know it at once as a broken nose.

“Get off of me,” Morgana shouts, her hood torn down off of her head, dark hair half unbound in their struggle. Even in the dark of the rolling dusk her face is pale, stark and incandescent with rage. Her ever-present dark circles give her the look of a ghost.

“Fuck,” Tyr sputters, slurring. He dribbles out a mouthful of blood. “The alarm bells are going off, just fucking come on,” he says, wiping at his chin.

“With you?” Morgana laughs, a cruel sound. “After you stalked me here? Vile man.” She twists her arm out of his grip and tries to step away.

“What’s so wrong with me, then?” Tyr crowds her towards the rough stone wall, aiming to frighten - yet Morgana has never been easy to intimidate. She merely juts her jaw forward, teeth bared. “You’ll listen to me,” Tyr insists, growing ever more frenzied with temper the more and more unimpressed Morgana became. “You’re to be my wife, and you’ll be lucky for it, miserable hag, since no one else will have you!”

“I’ll kill you should you ever try,” she swears, looking him from head to toe in a sneer. She means it, Arthur knows, and he steps forward - even if she will not thank him for interfering this has gone far enough.

“Frigid bitch,” Tyr spits a mouthful of blood at her feet. It strikes the hem of her dress, fouling it. For a moment it is not clear who is more shocked, Tyr or Morgana. 

He shifts his heel back just as Morgana lunges at him, and he pushes her back on reflex. It happens in an instant. Morgana stumbles backwards, her head cracking harshly against the stone. Tyr flounders before moving, feet shuffling and hands shaking, face a rictus mask of shock. Perhaps to press his advantage over her, or perhaps to aid her. Arthur’s sword is drawn, already dashing before any of them can find out which. It is then that Tyr lifts off of the ground entirely, floating as though suspended in water for one slow, blinking moment, before lashing backwards onto the far side of the alley.

Morgana sits slumped against the wall where she has fallen, eyes a narrow gleam of gold, face twisted up into a harsh grimace as she clutches at her head. A whimper sounds, and he can see the tips of her fingers come away bloodied.

“You’re hurt,” Arthur says into the quiet, heart in his throat.

She whips to look at him with a wince, all of her anger transforming into terror.

“You,” she says, seemingly unable to follow it up with anything else. Her eyes are that familiar green once again, now shining wet with unshed tears and wide with fear. Arthur had not thought she could grow any paler.

“Witch, you’re a witch,” Tyr croaks dizzily, trying and failing to rise to his knees. If Morgana had cracked her head on the stone, Tyr had been shattered. He cannot keep his balance, not even to find his footing. Still, he saw.

Without allowing himself to think too deeply on the subject, overwhelmed by sheer, blind panic, Arthur takes the pommel of his sword up, and bashes it swiftly against the side of Tyr’s head. 

Chapter Text

Tyr crumples at Arthur’s feet like a heap of rags.

There is little in the way of noise, other than the usual city sounds, dull and muffled off the main street as they are. If they are fortunate no one has seen - and no guards come marching. What he would not give for Merlin’s invisibility spell now, he thinks dizzily. Hells.

Morgana is speechless, silent and still across the way. The quick glance she sends his drawn sword followed by the mouth of the alley tells him she’s debating her chances. He puts his blade away, ignoring the minute tremors in his hand that begin as soon as his grip is released.

Magic. He wants to laugh, bubbling up from somewhere deep inside of him in a hysteria. What a pair of children Uther has gotten himself.

“It’s not illegal everywhere,” Arthur says, aiming for casualness. Soothing, or something approaching it - without crossing that always nebulous boundary that might wound her pride. “It’s permitted in Lothian.”

“Self defence?” Morgana asks shakily, as though she cannot fathom what else he might mean. Arthur shrugs one shoulder, not contesting her over the matter. They both know what she did and what he saw. “Is he dead?” She gathers herself enough to wave an imperious hand at Tyr.

Arthur kneels, turning him over with a wince. “He lives,” Arthur tells her, hearing the short, whistling breaths, seeing the minute rise and fall of his chest. Already a purpling, bloodied bruise spreads across his face, accompanied by two black eyes. Most alarmingly, a pink froth drips from his lips. He lives, but maybe not for long. If Arthur were a betting man, a rib has pierced the lung from when he was thrown.

“Pity,” she says mercilessly, “it would have been simpler had he died.” There is little in her now that resembles the friendly, smiling woman who led Elena around by the hand and charmed the court just these past days.

“Probably,” Arthur agrees, although it stings to admit such a thing. “And so he still might.” Even with the finest healing there might be no recovery from this.

“You will not think me unladylike if I say ‘good’, will you?” Morgana sniffs, struggling to stand on her own. She does not take his hand when he offers it, preferring to haul herself up on the side of a crate, leaning away from him. “I’ll be glad to be shot of him. If you’ve half a brain in your head you’ve seen how he is. It doesn’t improve when the crowds are thinner and the drinks deeper.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” he says, holding up his hands and stepping away to offer breathing room instead.

“Well then, we agree,” Morgana says, waiting for something. “Go on,” she pushes, when Arthur can’t puzzle out her meaning. “Finish the job.”

It takes a moment for him to catch on, despite her clarifying. “I’m not killing an unconscious, wounded man,” Arthur baulks at her, hands still upraised. “Even if he is a shitheel who has it coming.”

“You heard what he said.” She glares fiercely. “An accusation, even one, might well ruin me. It would follow me for life, cast every word I say and every action I take into doubt forever after.”

“He has no proof - but what he does have is a gaping head wound,” Arthur reasons. He would not weep for Tyr’s passing, but he is thoroughly subdued - should he live at all. “If he even remembers no one will believe him - he’s a laughingstock and has been for years. You defended yourself.” He speaks only the truth, although it does not seem to matter much to Morgana, who remains impassive. “I swear to you on my honour that I will support your account and anything he speaks will amount to nothing.”

A clattering of passersby stops their argument before it can grow too heated, both of them on the same page for this much at least. A lantern light passes by, and Arthur realises how dark it has become - both from the late hour and the heavy clouds. The rain he had smelled earlier this evening approaches in earnest. The time for meeting at the gates is long past.

More footsteps come, sounding off quickly. A silhouette appears like a spectre at the entrance to their crime scene; but in even the blackest night Arthur would recognize Merlin anywhere, Gwaine and Elena close at his heels.

“Oh,” Arthur exhales in relief, “Mer - Myrddin, it’s you.”

“And it’s you,” Merlin says, eyeing Tyr with a lack of surprise that Arthur is not entirely certain how to feel about. “You know there are guards out absolutely everywhere? You couldn’t have picked a better night to kill him?”

“He’s not dead,” Arthur says with a frown.

“Morgana!” Elena cries out over them, darting forwards and passing by without so much as a glance, eyes only for her friend. “Are you alright? You’re bleeding!”

“Will you be sorrowful for his passing?” Morgana hisses at him, fists clenched, ignoring Elena entirely. “Would you mourn the loss of a good man, a brother in arms?”

Arthur does not know how things have gone so wrongly so quickly.

“I disdain him, but how I feel about him should be irrelevant.” He flounders to explain himself. Morgana has always had a knack for putting him on the back foot. “He must be punished. Let the guards have him hauled to the dungeons, let his words be the ones in doubt, not yours!”

Elena bobs her head in a frantic nod that sets her wispy bun in motion.

“How blessed you must be,” Morgana venomously replies, “to live in a world where words are all treated with equal weight . King Leudonus must be an uncommonly good man, to inspire such loyalty.”

“You’re a princess,” he grits out before he can stop himself. A defence of Balinor jumps freely to Arthur’s lips to chase after it. Or to furiously mention any of the thousand times where he himself has gone against the law, to do what is right. That it is not the courts that Arthur has faith in, nor kings. That for years now it has only been him and what little sense of right and wrong he could cobble together.

Were this a village outpost, Arthur would haul Tyr in front of the headsman and the people there to rule for themselves - not decide his fate with a knife in the dark. For just a heartbeat he had forgotten the ugly politics of it all. This is not a backwater village all but abandoned save for tax season - this is a kingdom, ruled by a king. That for all Morgana knows he is Thura of Lothian, a guard to a minor Lord of the far away north who would have little care or loyalty for her. That Tyr’s words will have more weight, as a prince. Worthy or not. In this, Morgana speaks truly.

He looks to Merlin, who watches their tableau with a wretched expression of worry on his face. Arthur wants to send him away, to spare him this. Merlin would never stand for it, of course.

“I do follow a good man,” he says at last, for at least this much is fact.

“How fortunate for you.” Morgana’s voice is cold, her eyes sharp - and still wet with the tears she had shed. It cuts him more ruthlessly than any knife.

She, it goes without saying, has no such luxury.

None of this has gone as he’d hoped.

“Well,” Gwaine interrupts, “while you debate the ideal versus the practical ethics of it all, I’ll just get moving on the body, shall I?” He swaggers over to Tyr, looking down at him with little sympathy. “Where are we taking him?”

“Morgana,” Elena tries again, reaching a hand out to carefully pat a lacy handkerchief against the blood upon her cheek. “What’s happened?”

“He called me a witch,” Morgana says wetly despite the secrecy she wishes for so desperately, and Elena startles so badly that she drops her handkerchief. She whips around to stare at Merlin, who raises a hand in a timid wave.

A foolish, impossible thought comes to Arthur then; certainly Merlin had not admitted his sorcery to Princess Elena of Gawant.

He tries to send this ridiculous idea to Merlin telepathically, although Arthur has no power of magic on his own. He hopes that the sheer judgement of his thoughts crosses the distance for him. Merlin fidgets horribly under Arthur’s deadpan stare, so it might very well be working.

Merlin clears his throat, but says nothing, finding the laundry hanging above them bewitching as it pulls to and fro in the growing winds. A storm is building.

“Well,” Elena says, twisting back around, “maybe that’s not actually all bad, now is it? Besides, even should he try and say so no one will believe him. He’s odious. Father’s been aching to send him packing back to Odin. He’ll be gone by this time tomorrow, tail between his legs, you’ll see.”

“Yes, the Princess of Camelot, a witch?” Morgana says, making a poor attempt at teasing, face softening as she gets fussed over. “What a ludicrous notion.”

“So,” Gwaine interrupts again with more insistence as fat drops of rain begin to spatter. He looks to Arthur for an answer that he does not have. “Clinic or shallow grave? Hands up for a vote?”

“Ah, clinic?” Elena tentatively raises a hand. “King Odin might - ” she trails off, mumbling, as no one else so much as budges.

Arthur has been gone too long from Camelot to know.

“Have things in Camelot truly soured so far that one accusation from a man like him is enough to ruin you?” Arthur asks, ignoring Gwaine and Elena both.

As much as he loathes his father, it is impossible to imagine Uther turning against Morgana for anything. Let alone on the word of a toad like Tyr. Isn’t it? Or is it merely awful to think that it might be so? In Arthur’s memory she had always been the favoured one. Indulged and given smiles and leniency where Arthur had none. Loved.

If Morgana is suspected of witchcraft though?

Suspicion distils into poison.

And Arthur knows exactly how much their father hates magic.

“What would you know of Camelot?” Morgana stares him down with a scowl that does not befit her.

“Nothing, my lady,” he says, voice catching in his throat. “Nothing.” He looks between them all. Gwaine, standing ready to do whatever he must, shows no shade of judgement on his face. Morgana and Elena, holding one another.

Merlin.

With his kind, clever eyes.

Arthur wants so desperately to be a good man.

“I only hesitate,” he sounds out, under the unbearable uncertainty of his own heart, “to kill a man in cold blood for what he might do. Even a man I hate.”

“A sentiment that only soothes your own conscience. He is a prince. Right and wrong will not matter,” she challenges, rightly.

“It should not be that way.” His eyes sting. An utterly useless sentiment. What a child he feels, right now. Whinging that it is not fair.

“‘Should not’ has nothing to do with reality,” she says, though not without pity. “Were this world ruled fairly… alas. It is not. You need not do the deed yourself,” she swears, “just promise me your silence and I’ll see to it myself.”

He cannot make this choice for her, although it sits bitterly that she needs make it at all. “As you say. The risk is… too steep.” A weight releases off of her at the words and into the night, a short breath of relief all that gives her away. She leans at last into Elena’s embrace, shaking.

Merlin, who has stayed uncharacteristically closed-mouthed this entire ordeal, merely continues to watch with a wary eye flitting between Arthur and Morgana, brow furrowed. Arthur wishes he would look away. Shame curdles in his gut, even as he steels himself to do the deed. He can’t have Morgana do it, though.

“Standing aside is the same as wielding the blade myself,” he says. “No. I’ll do it. None of you need stay and be party to this.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gwaine says as though the mere suggestion is an absurdity, turning towards the mouth of the alley as lookout for any poorly-timed guards.

Elena twists her hands in Morgana’s cloak, appearing very much as though she’d like to be anywhere else than to watch this. “My father would never believe him,” she says quietly, one last entreaty. “No one would.”

Morgana stares, even as Arthur kneels next to Tyr, although she no longer seems afraid. At least there is that, he reassures himself.

“Wait,” she cries out, once his blade is raised. “No, you needn’t.”

“What?” Arthur asks, feeling as though he’s been yanked back on a taught chain.

“Elena is right; King Godwyn will believe me,” she says, an abrupt about face from before. Arthur is left dizzy with how quickly the adrenaline leaves him. He doubts he will ever understand her. “It would be more suspicious by far to show up with a dead body,” she reasons, “and I doubt he will even live through the night. Let your conscience be clean for another day.”

“Are you not afraid of his accusations, should he wake?” Arthur demands. What else have they been arguing about all this time?!

“You will defend me?” Morgana says; barely a question. A statement. She seems to believe it, now, at least.

“I will.”

“You will not betray me?” she insists, more firmly.

“Never,” he swears. She inclines her chin to him, something in her gaze he does not recognize. “I… that is, ah. I should probably tell you something. Later.” Morgana spares him another bit of attention in acknowledgment, albeit tinged with impatience.

“Later, then. We have dallied enough,” she says. “A storm comes, and it is only good fortune that has kept the guards away.”

“Alright.” Gwaine slaps his hands together, only to get sharply hushed in reprimand. “I’ll grab the feet.”

“What shall we say?” Elena frets as Arthur grabs Tyr under the arms, feeling numb and out of sorts. “He fell down some stairs?”

“He stole Aithusa and she threw him?” Merlin suggests, finding his voice at last. His hood gives a tiny, dragony chirp of laughter.

“I still want him to suffer,” Morgana speaks over them all, every inch a princess. “He put his hands on me, and I defended myself, that’s all there is to it.”

“How about he followed you and then you pushed him off a horse,” Gwaine submits with an entirely inappropriate snicker, “and then down some stairs for good measure. Or maybe a horse pushed him down some stairs? Could happen to anyone, really.”

Arthur is quiet, Merlin sticking close to his side. Nervous jesting bandies about around them in a pale imitation of normality.

His mind spins in pointless circles.

Balinor’s words from the inn crawl in his ear, unwilling to be forgotten. The morals he had compromised, the dark deeds they had done; assured in their necessity. Arthur does not know if it would be better to have slit Tyr’s throat then and there. He is no prophet to see the future. He still believes Morgana had not been wrong, despite her sudden change.

It is his own morals he questions.

“You alright?” Merlin whispers.

“I’ll be fine,” Arthur says, hoping it for the truth. “Elena, hm?” he asks. “Sure that’s a good idea?”

“She’s kind.” Merlin has not lost his contemplative furrow. “And I won’t hide from everyone. Not forever.”

***

Tyr does not wake in the night.

Nor does he die.

Arthur selfishly wishes that he would make up his mind.

Gwen maintains her position as the kindest, most quietly capable person Arthur has ever met. Morgana is not expected to attend the events of the day, deemed entirely too delicate of constitution to be moved. Rest is ordered by the strict old physician, a man who reminds Arthur so strongly of Gaius that he does a doubletake. Perhaps all physicians are as such, he thinks. Born old, with white hair and a manner of distinct disapproval.

Yet somehow Merlin is invited to lunch with her, with Arthur tagging along like an over-eager young page; Gwen working her own magic, he knows.

Morgana sits behind a small table that is practically buckling under the weight of the lunch spread, dotted with a dozen dishes and then a few more for good measure. King Godwyn must feel guilty, for all of this to happen under his roof. People will speak of this tourney for years to come, although not in the way he might have hoped.

Morgana herself is overwhelmed with a thick dressing gown as well as a blanket draped across her lap despite the warm summer weather. Her hair is loose and unadorned in deference to the bruise that is certain to be tender from her injury.

“So,” Morgana drawls sweetly from behind the armour of a fine silver goblet, “I hear you are my long lost brother.”

Arthur, who has been building his courage all the sleepless night through to confess, ready for much denial and perhaps being shouted out of the castle, or maybe Gawant entirely, freezes in place.

“I’m sorry!” Gwen cries from her place hovering behind Morgana. She wrings her hands and fairly drips with guilt. “It was only that you’d already met, and I wasn’t sure if you told, and I’m awful at keeping secrets from Morgana!”

“It’s alright,” Arthur chokes out. Morgana doesn’t look upset.

“Gwen wouldn’t lie to me,” she says, “but I’m not so certain you wouldn’t lie to her. I’m sure you will not begrudge me some measure of proof? A shared memory, perhaps?”

“Of course,” he agrees immediately, only for his mind to blank of everything he has ever known. Merlin could take the enchantments off of him, of course, leaving him Arthur Pendragon once more - stuck in a castle full to the brim of people who would know him on sight. Something only the two of them would know?

“Ah,” he hums.

“Oh, take your time.” Morgana sips at her drink, smiling meanly. “It’s not like it’s anything important, after all.”

“You’re always like this,” Arthur bursts out, happy to not have to hold back for a change. Honesty at last feels like a balm. “You’ve always thought the worst of me - ”

“Well that’s hardly a secret,” she says sweetly. “Anyone could have told you that.”

It’s hard to remember what he considered a secret, back then. It feels a lifetime ago.“You were taller than me until I was fifteen, and I hated it.”

“If you thought that was a secret you’re a fool, it was very obvious how jealous he was of me.”

“I was jealous,” Arthur admits with a snort of unamused laughter, “for more than that, too. You were clever, and bold, and Uther - father,” he mangles the delivery, having very complicated feelings on the matter, “let you get away with anything!”

Morgana sets her goblet down with a thud that rattles the silverware.

“Please,” she says, “the real Arthur would never admit to jealousy.”

“It’s been over six years, Morgana,” he says, teeth gritted, “and not everywhere on earth punishes you for having a feeling.”

“He only let me ‘get away with anything’ because nothing I did mattered!” she stands, blanket falling to the floor carelessly, meeting him halfway across the room to shout into his face. “I was a pretty little decoration to show how dutiful he was in caring for his poor old friend’s orphaned daughter! What a neat jest that turned out to be.”

“You think I had it better?!” Arthur shouts right back, ignoring Merlin and Gwen who look on as awkward bystanders to a brewing family drama. “Nothing I did could please him! Nothing was ever enough!”

“All he ever does is compare me to you!” she howls, poking a sharp finger at his breastbone like a knife. “Arthur would have done this, Arthur would understand duty, Arthur would never disappoint me like this! You are a standard that can never be met, since it’s held by a ghost!”

“If I am a ghost,” Arthur rails, furious, pulse pounding in his ears, “it is because he killed me! He could have had me back, but he didn’t want me! I was not worth the cost; but go on, tell me how cherished I am, how dearly I am missed.”

“It seems - ” Merlin pipes up from his place by Gwen, eyeing the door nervously where Leon stands guard on the other side.

“Be silent,” Morgana whirls on him, “this has nothing to do with you.”

“You don’t speak to him like that,” Arthur starts, advancing another step into Morgana’s space.

“It seems,” Merlin keeps steadily on, ignoring the both of them, “like you are both blaming each other for something neither of you did to one another.” The only sound in the room is their sharp breathing.

“And who are you?” Morgana asks. “Not a lord at all, are you?”

“No,” Merlin admits easily, “but I am Arthur’s friend, and yours as well if you would have me.”

“A friend?” She raises an eyebrow.

“It’s one talent of mine, yes,” Merlin says, leaning to pick up the blanket. “I also play the lyre.”

Arthur huffs an unwilling laugh.

“Gwen,” Morgana asks, far more gently, “I’m sorry, but might we have the room? I’d like to speak to my brother alone.”

“Of course,” Gwen says, sparing them all an understanding grimace of a smile.

It is awkward, untold ages before the door shuts with a click. Merlin does not budge an inch from where he is tucked up against Arthur’s side like an especially loyal hound. Perhaps even Morgana can smell that losing battle, as she doesn’t suggest it. Arthur would not wish to bet on which of them is the more stubborn.

“So you do believe it,” he asks, looking for something to salvage. “That I am your brother.”

“I knew before Gwen told me,” she says, surveying him. “You could never resist showing off.” She glides back to the table, picking up a fork and spinning it between her fingers in a mirror of his foolhardy manoeuvre from the duel. “You’re lucky no one else heard Tyr ask after you - or believe him, if they did. To be honest I was surprised you didn’t take the easy opportunity to be rid of him.”

Arthur can neither move nor speak.

“Wait,” Merlin seethes, bristling. Arthur imagines he can feel the electricity rolling off of him. “So what was all of that with Tyr - and this, now? Are you tormenting him on purpose, demanding proof? Is this some game to you?”

“I am not cruel just for the sake of it! He is a stranger to me.” She does not back down; because it’s Morgana, and she is incapable of it. She is lit by a righteous fury, unashamed. “I haven’t known him for six years!” She turns, frantic, to Arthur. “Do your memories and time apart make you a friend or an enemy? Would you choose me, if a choice had to be made, or would you leave me to the wolves? How could I know? Your thoughts on magic, our father, ruling Camelot - ” She counts off on her fingers, growing manic., “ - any of which could get me in irons, or banished, or killed. How could I know?”

“Oh, goodness, I’ll give it a think,” Merlin says dryly, and Arthur is glad for him, for he has no words yet at all. “You could ask?” Merlin crosses his arms across his chest, ears bright red, braced for a fight. “Instead of whatever that awful farce was! Were you ever even frightened of Tyr, or did you just want to put Arthur on the spot?”

“I can handle Tyr,” she nearly spits. “Not even Uther would be so careless with his last remaining child to believe a worm like him, don’t be stupid. But people lie. How could I ever just take his word for it?” She waves a hand at Arthur, still standing vapidly where his feet and his heart have both sunk into the depths below. Through the fine, soft rug, the stone floor, the servant’s quarters, the dungeons, the earth, and then whatever lays below that. “I didn’t set out to have Tyr follow me, and I wish he had died; but it was an opportunity to learn the truth, and so I took it! I have learned to survive with the tools that I have.”

“Arthur doesn’t lie,” Merlin says, something approaching pity entering his tone and walking hand in hand with the anger. “He’s a good man. The best man. The times he’s told me about how clever and daring you are, how he’s worried about you all this while - ”

“What good does worry do me?” Morgana asks, voice cracking. “I was alone! I spoke nothing but the truth; Uther would trade me away in an instant if he could have his darling son back.”

“I would never turn you in for magic,” Arthur interrupts dully, “and I have no desire for a crown. Be content with that much, at least.”

The wind goes out of her sails in an instant, face crumpling. He doesn’t think it is an act, but what does he know?

Nothing, clearly.

He remembers when she first came to the citadel, missing her father, missing her home, her things; how much she hated to be caught crying. Finding some nook or cupboard to hide away in with the old doll she used to keep. She has always had a very unflattering crying face; none of the single tear sort of ladylike weeping in stories. Red, and blotchy, and quick to get snotty - as she does now, wiping surreptitiously at her face with the back of a sleeve.

“Oh, come on,” he chides her, pushing a handkerchief at her, “you know poor Gwen will just have to wash that out.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, a small, miserable thing. She takes the cloth with a wretched sniff, face screwing up with poorly suppressed tears. “I… had to know what you would do. I have magic, Arthur.”

Merlin sucks in a breath of air between his teeth.

“Lady Miss,” Arthur remembers at once. She looks as though she’s afraid he has lost his mind. “Your doll,” he explains. “Your proof. You were embarrassed of her, for being childish, but you kept her because your father gave her to you before he went away. I found you crying with her, a month after you were brought to Camelot. You were so furious when I saw you with her, and so you threw her - ”

“At your head,” she fills in.

“Gave me a bruise,” he remembers, touching his brow. “Which of course I was then too embarrassed to be honest about, so I told everyone it was a training accident.”

“Swordsmaster Ewen thought you were using swords unsupervised and you got in such trouble.” She hiccups an unladylike laugh.

“See?” he says, forcing down his rotten feelings to dwell on later. “We can keep each other's secrets, can’t we?”

He waits for her to agree, a wobbly smile with her nod.

“Has Morgause been telling tales?” he asks, not feeling particularly guilty when she startles. It’s long past her turn to have a shock, he thinks. “Is that why you were so afraid of what I might do?”

“How do you - ?”

“Nevermind ‘how I’,” Arthur says, shrugging her query away. Morgana stares at him, handkerchief clenched in one delicate hand, the other still gripping the fork like a sword. Despite himself he feels a frisson of amusement over it.

“She said you had crossed paths. That you were sympathetic to Uther,” Morgana says slowly. “That perhaps, with time, and seeing more of the world you could understand he was not a good man.”

“Well. As you said. People lie,” Arthur says. As unsurprising to hear as it is, it is still a disappointment.

“She wouldn’t lie to me,” Morgana says, shooting Merlin an irritated look at his scoff of disbelief. “She wouldn’t,” she insists.

“She’s tried to kill Arthur, you know,” Merlin says ruthlessly. “She has cursed people who have done nothing to deserve it. She may be your sister, and she may love you but she is not a good person.”

“You do not know her,” Morgana says, mouth set in a grim line.

“You aren’t the only one with magic - I have felt her darkness myself,” Merlin says, unbending even as Morgana flinches in shock, “and the wounds that she leaves on the earth like poison. Do not take her for a benevolent saviour. She has her own motivations - ”

Morgana opens her mouth to undoubtedly begin the arguing fresh again, and Arthur is fed up with it.

“You know,” he speaks, before she is able to. “Perhaps I am as simple as you’ve always said. You’ve certainly always been able to talk circles around me.” He holds his head up high, unembarrassed of it now. He’s not fifteen any longer. “But that doesn’t make you right.” He truly does not blame Morgana for the ruthlessness she has learned to protect herself. There was always a thread of that in her, now woven into something more substantial. Armour of its own kind. A different face for every person she meets, every occasion - it is a surefire way to lose yourself.

He fears for her.

“You want the truth? Morgause has her own plans. We disagreed, that’s true enough - not on the subject of Uther, though, on the subject of war. On Camelot’s citizens. The ones you have sworn to protect. You spoke for them, against Uther, once upon a time. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you - the halls are probably still echoing with all the shouting.”

Indeed, Arthur is very sure that she can still remember the rows with their father on the matter. She pulls her dressing gown around her more snugly, listening well. Merlin, a stalwart warmth at Arthur’s side gives him strength. An assurance that he’s felt sorely lacking of late. It makes an obvious sort of sense to him, all at once, the way such monumental things sometimes do.

Impractical and foolish or not, Arthur had known it wrong to kill a defenceless man; even one who may have deserved it, because he had not wanted Merlin to see him do it.

His heart says this much clearly. This is why Arthur should not be a king, he thinks, but it is a thought clean of torment.

“I’ve abandoned my right to the throne, and I don’t care to have it back. But I would know you haven’t forgotten your duty to your people. I want you to swear to me,” he says, trying desperately to impress upon her how serious he is, “that you will not grow as cold as you pretend to be. Do not heed Morgause’s advice over your own heart. Do not let Uther and his paranoia change you, for he is not worth it. Do you understand me?”

She inclines her chin.

“I’ve been away. I cannot know how it has been. I’m sorry that you have felt alone, but you aren’t any longer. If you wish to go from Camelot, I will take you to Rheged.” Her eyes go wide in her pale face. “If you wish to usurp Uther I am no threat to your claim on the crown. Have it.”

“Arthur,” she says, a tremulous sound.

“But only so long as you are the compassionate woman I know you can be,” he finishes. Meaning it utterly. There is precious, precious little that would make him stand against Morgana, or take back a crown he truly has let go of; but should Morgause worm her way into the heart of Camelot?

Arthur has doubted his conscience plenty over these past days, mired in court politics that he has no use for. This, though, is simple.

Like him, he thinks, amused.

“So rule to your standards or have you come back swinging?” she sniffs, trying and failing to seem unaffected. They both know he could; he has not been disowned. He is the only legitimate son of the king and his queen. It is Arthur’s lack of desire alone that keeps him at bay.

“No,” he disagrees, shaking his head, “you misunderstand me. Rule to your standards, Morgana. I know you have them.”

“Ugh,” Merlin says, which startles Arthur, which in turn shocks an undignified snort out of Morgana. “I don’t like you,” Merlin goes on, glaring at Morgana with a resigned sort of air about him. “Arthur does, though. For some reason.”

She raises an eyebrow, but allows his ranting with uncommon grace. Perhaps she is ashamed, Arthur thinks, for all of her tests and prodding, like Arthur is an experiment in Gaius’s labs. At least a bit.

“But here,” Merlin continues, fishing in his pocket for something. He pulls out the blue speckled spar he has been working with on the road, for their messages. Despite it being a stone, a crystal as thick as two fingers, it snaps when Merlin puts pressure on it; splitting into two even, pretty pieces. “If you want to talk ,” he says, sending Arthur a look that clearly states; ‘see what I do for you?’, “well, you can.”

He pushes one piece out towards Morgana with a glower.

“Arthur is the best man I know,” he says. Heat spreads up the back of Arthur’s neck like wildfire. A far cry, he cannot help but think, from being the worst boy Merlin had ever met. Morgana, sensing blood in the water, has a smile settle upon her lips that curls like a fern. “He doesn’t deserve your doubt. And Elena,” he continues in a rush. “She’s your friend. I told her about my magic and I’m not in irons yet, now am I?”

“Well,” Morgana says, taking the crystal with delicate care, “perhaps you can tell me all about it. We’ve been apart a very long time.” She steps away, her brittle edges a little softer as she considers the two of them. “And I do want to know. All of it,” she says, pulling out a chair at the table, then another, and finally a third. “What you’ve done. Where you’ve been. What you’ve seen.” A tiny, hesitant bit of her old mischief alights in her eye. “Are dragons as large as they say, or is that just a tale?”

“Bigger,” Arthur says, remembering his first time meeting Kilgharrah. A looming shadow that towered above him with breath like hellfire itself. Arthur has taken a nap in the shade he casts now, with not a single wisp of fear to be found. “Much bigger than a donkey,” he says, which earns him a reluctant laugh from Merlin, who is still trying to appear stern, and a great deal of confusion from Morgana, who does not like to be left out of a joke.

“I’ll tell you,” he swears, “and you’ll tell me, too.”

She folds her hands gracefully over her lap as she settles in. The very picture of a proper lady, save for the eager way her foot taps an impatient melody. “Yes,” she agrees, “there is… much to tell.”

Chapter Text

Elena twitches her hand at Merlin in goodbye, trying adamantly to be a refined and dignified young lady, before deciding enough is enough. She stands on her tiptoes, leaning alarmingly close to toppling down the marble stairs from where she watches, yellow-clad arm raised high in a wave.

“Goodbye!” she bellows. Several birds startle into the air.

Next to her on one side, King Godwyn is as calm as he always seems to be. If he wishes his daughter to be different he has never shown it that Arthur has seen. Not once. If it were not for his stance on magic, Arthur might actually quite like the man.

Morgana, on the other side, raises her hand as well, a small smile on her face. A real one, Arthur dares to think. They will see each other once more. She had kissed his cheek, when they had said their own goodbyes, and shown him the spar crystal where it sat nestled safely with her other treasures. Proof, he supposes, that it is not truly a goodbye.

Leon, who had only briefly been made aware of Arthur at all, had given him a backslapping sort of hug, swearing up and down to see to Morgana’s safety.

“Until next time!” Merlin bellows right back, his grin stretching ear to ear.

Tyr will be leaving shortly as well, although his departure will not be so well-attended. Not like he’s awake to see it, anyway. Still stubbornly alive, still stubbornly unconscious. He’s been loaded up into a carriage, despite the aged physician’s vocal protests. Its huge iron-bound wheels are likely to rattle any brain that he still has out of his skull entirely. Arthur thinks he cannot afford to lose any more, and whispers as much to Merlin, who laughs harder than the joke deserves.

Yet word had been sent to Odin with a messenger bird of his only son’s fate, and by dawn the next day the king had demanded his return. Godwyn certainly doesn’t care enough about Tyr to put up a fight, although as a kindness he sends a handful of his own knights to escort them, as well as the old physician who has been attending Tyr. It gives him more chance than none, but not by much.

The pouring rain had given Morgana a light case of the sniffles, due to her fragile health.

Tyr, with a punctured lung, is only biding his time by anyone’s measure.

Inconveniencing everyone in death as much as he ever has in life, Arthur thinks, leaning forward to pat Llamrei’s mane. Perhaps the stableboys had felt poorly for ‘losing’ Aithusa, because Llamrei is speckled with braids and flowers, her chestnut coat brushed so finely glimmers in the sun. Bluebell, Arthur notices with a sigh, has also survived their ordeal.

It’s a crush to leave the city, even staggering the departures. Their small group circles around the worst of it; all together they include Gwaine, Lancelot, and Elyan - only five and their six horses, which is nothing compared to some of the caravans they pass. The path beyond the city gates is still saturated from the downpour, and the many feet that trod it now churn it into a muddy mass. It is a slog, even mounted. The closer they get to the open plains and farmland the more Arthur aches to urge Llamrei into a gallop. His hair itches, somehow. Aithusa has had the right of it all along - he longs to be himself again. To stop being taken by surprise every time he caught a glimpse of someone else in a shining windowpane.

The world sits before them, possibilities too vast to name. It is strange; there is no doubt in his mind that Morgause is chasing war, but Morgana will not betray her sister’s confidence; not yet, at least. What he feels now is not what anyone would call a truce, for he would not hesitate to strike at her should the need arise - and on top of that it seems too audacious to hope her heart will change, so he does not bother. But also he has no way to track her. Not even Merlin had found a way; she is too well hidden.

The crowd is thick, and spreading to all corners of the land as they make their ways home. Any face could be hers, but it cannot bother him. He’s free of her, at least for the morning. The sun is too bright, and the world too beautiful. It has just started that slow, inexorable summer slide into autumn, and the smell on the air outside of the city is still fresh and green. The wind carries the forest to him, and with it the urge to race. He would feel the sting of speed on his cheeks, feel his pulse quicken under his skin as the world parts around him.

“Come on,” he whispers to Llamrei, her ear flicking back. She breaks happily into a canter, brushing past Aithusa. Merlin beams at him, clearly just as pleased to be leaving the city. “Happy to be going? Won’t you miss the castle larders?” Arthur teases as Aithusa puts on speed to stay shoulder to shoulder with them. “I’m sure they won’t miss you.”

“I’ll be thinking about those little ginger things for the rest of my life,” Merlin sighs, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, hands clasped over his heart. “I’ll miss those most of all! Or maybe the markets. I swear I’ve never seen some of those colours before,” he rambles, content. “Elena is wonderful, of course, and Gwen - ” Arthur hides his smile at Morgana’s conspicuous absence upon Merlin’s list. “ - and the tourney was fairly fun, wasn’t it? Even if it is really just a bunch of men hitting each other.”

“It’s not,” Arthur starts, before catching the sly look being sent his way. “I won’t be baited,” he claims instead. A lie through and through, he realises quickly though, as he begins to lecture loudly on the virtues of the joust, with the rest of them joining in for the sole purpose of tormenting Merlin, who looks entirely too pleased with himself.

The day passes remarkably quickly, with nothing claiming their attention other than the vague notion that they shall go west and see what they find. Odin’s kingdom to the east seems like more trouble than it is worth, and they must ride through nearly the whole of Mercia to reach magic friendly territory if they break towards the north. King Olaf of Glywysing, however, is a strong force on his own, with little care for what his neighbours think. They pass a caravan that has pulled to a stop at the edge of the road as dusk settles, selling wine and cheese out of the back of one of their carts, along with fat cuts of bread that they have hauled out from the city and baskets of fruits. A fire is being fed behind them, a makeshift camp being set up for safety in numbers. It’s mostly adults, but half a dozen children chase each other in a game that is run herd on by a pair of scraggly, long limbed dogs.

Bandits, as they have all learned from recent experience, will linger around the borders, hoping to catch a lone and unaware traveller or two. Merlin, still dressed finely, will be a tempting target, and Arthur reminds himself that they should un-do some of the enchantments before they draw more trouble than they’d like.

“Shall we stop?” Arthur asks, not sparing any mind for Gwaine, who has already hopped off of Gringolet. Be it the cheese or the wine that has lured him, Arthur does not know.

“I think that answers that question,” Elyan agrees with a snort.

It rather does, Arthur thinks.

Later, fed and watered, they linger around the fire. Merlin scoffs down his second slice of bread, toasted until the edges sizzle and dripping with a surprisingly nice cheese. Once he had proven to not be a difficult sort of noble, the camp that they have intruded on mostly just seem thrilled to have jovial company with coin to spend.

Arthur’s head lolls, overwhelmingly tired even though he hadn’t done much. Emotions, he thinks, are exhausting. Worry and fear racing to catch up with you only once you think you’re finally free of them. He’d brushed down Llamrei and even Bluebell; as much as he will wallow in bitter resentment of her for the rest of his life, he is not a monster. Set up a tent and then proceeded to stuff himself silly on food still blisteringly hot from the fire. Far nicer than stealing bites between chores, even if it had been a bit fun to take turns being sneaky with Gwen on how much they could get away with.

Lancelot, Arthur has found, is not prone to whinging, but he is prone to bouts of romantic melancholy. The sighs reach Arthur’s ears now and again from across the fire, Lance’s eyes going all dewy and soft as his imagination carries him off and away again towards his beloved Guinevere.

Guinevere, as Arthur has come to know over the past days, is a wonderful woman, and Lancelot could find no one finer if he spent his whole life in pursuit of it. She is also far more practical than he, and likely wishes he would get a move on.

Someone should tell him. Perhaps it will even be Arthur.

Not tonight, though. Tonight the only thing he wants to speak to is a bedroll.

Gwaine and Elyan play a game of dice with some of the traders, one of the dogs following Gwaine around with adoring eyes ever since getting a scrap of cheese from him. A soft touch. Arthur should have suspected. They’ll keep watch, he thinks - or at least the dog will.

“I’m for bed,” he says around a yawn, leaning his shoulder into Merlin’s.

“I’ll come with you,” he says, ungracefully shoving his last oversized bite into his mouth, cheek bulging.

“Manners,” Arthur teases, only to laugh and wrinkle his nose as Merlin chews even more obnoxiously in retaliation.

“I’ll never have manners again,” he claims around his mouthful. “Tried it, didn’t like it.”

“What if you get invited back to court?” Arthur asks as he rises, waving goodnight to Lancelot. He sits at the edge of their tent, distant enough that only the smallest slivers of firelight pour through the grass, and pulls off his boots. His toes are still blue. Would any of the trading caravan notice if he had his own face tomorrow? “Maybe for Elena’s next birthday?”

“Elena wouldn’t mind,” Merlin points out, so completely right that Arthur can’t think of anything smart to say about it. He flops back onto his bedroll with his eyes already half closed, listening to the rustles of Merlin taking off his own boots.

“Oh,” he remembers suddenly, digging into his pocket. “I forgot to give it back,” he says, holding the little pearl he’d found in the alley between two fingers. “It’s nothing really, I’m sure she’s got dozens.”

“Next time,” Merlin says kindly. “You’ll see her again.” He dilly dallies over his bedroll, uncertain and hesitant. “Although I don’t understand how quickly you forgave her. I don’t like how harsh she was to you.”

“You’ve always had magic,” Arthur says, thoughts dragged unwillingly away and towards darker memories, “and you’ve always had a father who loves you. Her sort of fear… I’d give anything to spare you from it. I’m so glad you’ve never known it.”

Merlin doesn’t have much to say to that, his face twisting up in that way it does when he’s trying not to fuss, knowing it would be poorly received right now.

“Maybe,” he allows, eventually.

“Do you think you could take off some of the enchantments now?” Arthur asks, deliberately light, tucking the pearl away safely and settling back down. His eyes are tired.

“Oh, probably,” Merlin muses, his blurry silhouette starting to work on the tedious process of taking down his ornate hair bits and bobs. “If anyone asks I’ll just pretend I have no idea what they mean. ‘Wasn’t this fella’ a redhead yesterday?’” he says, an octave lower than usual in a poor imitation of one of the traders. “‘No,’” he continues, as himself, “‘what are you talking about? He’s always been like this! Now don’t worry, I know it’s horrible to look upon, but you get used to his face in time.’”

“Hah,” Arthur’s chest flutters with fondness, smiling up at Merlin as he scoots over to loom over Arthur, inspecting him like a puzzle he has yet to piece together.

“Hm, let’s see,” Merlin mumbles to himself, poking at Arthur’s cheek with one pointy, prodding finger. “Close your eyes?”

“Alright.” He does so, thinking he might just drop straight to sleep then and there. Wake up as himself, all the tricky work done.

“Alright, now hold your breath,” Merlin instructs him.

“I don’t remember this being part of it,” Arthur grumbles, but once again does as he is bid.

“Now touch your nose, stick up one leg, and say ‘Jousting is boring’ ten times,” Merlin commands cheerfully.

“Shut up,” Arthur rolls over with a battle cry and a laugh, knocking Merlin clear over. The side of the tent billows dangerously. He lets out a woosh of air, smashed under Arthur’s greater weight as he does his level best to rustle Merlin’s hair so badly it will never dare dream of lying flat ever again.

It’s impossible to tell if Merlin calls for mercy or not over the sounds of his breathless laughter.

“You’re crushing me!” he wheezes, smacking Arthur on any bit he can reach.

“Say ‘I’m Merlin, and I - ouch,” Arthur complains, as he gets an elbow to his ribs. “Say ‘I’m Merlin and I’ve got no taste’. Say it!”

“I have got no taste,” Merlin agrees, colour high and red on his cheeks from laughing - or lack of air, either way. “Oh, I’m a complete idiot.”

“So glad we agree. Now,” Arthur continues, always endlessly gracious in victory, “undo the enchantment.”

“Come here then,” Merlin orders, although Arthur could not come any nearer even if he were to try. Two pale hands wiggle free and up to hold either side of his face, the touch of Merlin’s fingers a little chill despite the fire. Their eyes meet, and Arthur can see the gold swim up from the depths of blue, sparking in the dark like stars. “There you are,” Merlin says, barely louder than a whisper, tilting his chin back as he looks over his work, grinning. He presses his palms into Arthur’s cheeks, turning his face this way and that.

“How is it?” Arthur asks, trying hard to be a little less captivated. No wonder Lancelot spends so much time looking at the horizon and sighing. “Did you do it right?”

“Nah. I liked you better before,” Merlin blatantly lies, smiling all the while. “Maybe I’ll change you back.”

His hands are soft.

“Your threats mean nothing to me,” Arthur blusters, overcome with a warm sort of happiness. He should get up. “Still haven’t changed me into a toad, either. I’m starting to think you’re all talk.”

“You know what they eat, don’t you?” Merlin wrinkles his nose, hair a messy halo. The blankets and bedrolls have twisted underneath him in their tussle, little bent blades of grass and clover peeking through.

“I want to spend a whole day doing nothing,” Arthur sighs dreamily, suddenly remembering how tired he is. Weary, and heavy like he’s made of stone. “I could bask on a lily pad all day,” he says. Because he is the biggest idiot of all, taking Merlin’s title with ruthless efficiency, he does not roll away to sleep at this thought, but merely drops his head down for a moment. Just one moment, he swears to himself. It’s selfish, but he feels restored by the feeling of their hearts beating against one another, keeping steady pace. His nose pushes against Merlin’s neck. It stings for some reason, like he might cry, even though all is well. Thin arms come to settle slowly around Arthur’s shoulders, like feathers falling.

It’s quiet. A bit of distant camp noise. Laughter. He can smell the earth below them and the little clinging trace of campfire smoke that lingers on their clothes. The familiar herbal scent that always holds to Merlin, whether he has been brewing potions or not.

“Get some rest then,” Merlin says, even though he can’t be comfortable, bearing up all of Arthur’s weight.

“Just for a bit,” Arthur promises, swallowing down a flood of words that want to come pouring out after like white water rapids. It would be easier if he didn’t have to talk at all; if he could just kiss every last bit of love out and open against Merlin’s skin, to be known without words. Even in his own head he is unable to name them all, to put them together into some semblance of sense. Instead he is the rock at the bottom of the river rush, shaped as it rolls over him. Or something like that, he thinks, eyelids growing heavier and heavier.

“Is it midnight, do you think?” Merlin whispers.

“Hm?” Arthur shifts to the side, budging over.

“No - not that,” Merlin chides him, fingers clenching once in Arthur’s tunic before letting go. “I just wanted to be the first one to say happy birthday, that’s all. Shush. Go back to sleep.”

“‘right,” Arthur agrees, already hastening to do so.

***

Arthur wakes up to a bundle of arrows sitting in front of him, tied up like a bouquet of flowers - shining ribbon and everything. It’s a lush ruby red, and lopsided.

“What’sit?” he says, coherently.

An oatcake appears like magic before his eyes, but it’s just Merlin - and not magic at all, he corrects himself, just hands. And feet, probably, to go outside to fetch the oatcake. It looks dry and crumbly, but there are slices of a small, tart apple and berries to go along with it, and Arthur’s stomach growls.

“Happy birthday!” Merlin says, Aithusa chirping a greeting from her place on his lap. Arthur decides not to worry if anyone saw her go from giant white horse to tiny white dragon, too groggy and content. “You know, it’s the first birthday I’ve spent with you for ages. I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I made you arrows. I would have asked,” Merlin rabbits on as Arthur starts devouring his breakfast, berries first, “but it was so busy. And I thought maybe you forgot it was your birthday, so that maybe it would be a nice surprise. Speaking of surprises, I don’t know what all of these do, I don’t think. Mostly I do, you can see here - ” Merlin hefts the bundle of arrows up to show Arthur the different fletching and minuscule little runes. “ - they’re marked. I’ll teach you the runes, so you don’t mix them up. I guess they shouldn’t go in with your normal arrows, though, not unless you want to turn dinner into a pin-cushion.”

“Good morning,” Arthur says, amused. He sits up enough to take the oatcake, leaning back on his other elbow, feeling beautifully lazy.

“Good morning!” Merlin answers back by rote, depositing Aithusa onto Arthur and letting her free to wander. She scurries about, entirely too awake. Merlin himself is entirely too awake as well; up and dressed, all finery and jewellery abandoned. His hair is a mess of cowlicks and curls corralled into a loose braid. Arthur’s fingers twitch, reaching to tuck a lock of hair back in place.

He changes direction and takes a bite of oatcake instead.

“Thank you for my arrows,” Arthur says around a mouthful. He’s made a terrible mistake. It’s somehow even dryer than it looks. “Did you make this?”

“I did! Lance showed me how. Is it alright?” Merlin’s look of joyful anticipation would take a stouter heart than Arthur’s to crush. Perhaps on any other day he might be able to make fun, but there is something in the soft light of the morning that will not allow it.

“It’s good,” he lies, quickly stuffing another bite in his mouth as to avoid any further questions. “So what does this one do?” He picks up an arrow, twisting it between his fingers.

“That one?” Merlin squints at it, trying to look at the rune as Arthur twirls it faster and faster, strictly to be obnoxious. “Oh, it’s the socks one!”

“The socks one?” Arthur laughs. “You’ve finally weaponized your socks? I mean, it makes sense - a deadlier thing I cannot imagine.”

“Have you confused me for you somehow?” Merlin grins, open and unoffended. “No, it’s like the socks - they can find each other. If you fire one of these - ” he picks up another arrow, “ - and then another one, the second one will find the first one. Or should do, anyway. Have to test them.”

“I see,” Arthur hums in understanding. “So for my birthday you decided to put me to work, is that it?”

“Please.” Merlin rolls his eyes, swiping an apple slice for himself. “Like you’d miss out on magical arrow testing. If anything, that’s your real present.”

It’s hardly the first time Arthur has put Merlin’s magical ideas through their paces; it won’t be the last. Besides, it is fun.

“Maybe,” Arthur admits, feeling in great charity with the world. Dots of sunlight pepper through the tent, the grass is soft; even the dire oatcake can’t sour his mood.

“You should practise from on Aithusa,” Merlin suggests, watching her poke her nose into every corner. “When she’s big, I mean. Maybe when we get somewhere friendly where she can be a dragon. I told you she’s faster even than Kilgharrah, didn’t I? Well, she’ll only get faster. She’s still growing so quickly.”

“She’s that quick?” Arthur hums, not really expecting an answer. Hearing them gossip about her sends her scuttling up his legs to perch atop his knees, proud as anything. Her wings flap, still light as a dragonfly’s, stirring up a tiny breeze.

“Quicker,” Merlin says easily. “Like lightning.”

“To Nemeth, then? We’re heading that direction anyway. Maybe your father and Kilgharrah could meet us. If they’ve the time.”

The nearest parcel of land with happy relations to Balinor, who would greet any sighting of a dragon as a strong ally. Arthur would prefer no one see her at all, still deadly afraid for her - but Merlin had been right. They can’t hide from everyone; not forever.

“I’ll send a note,” Merlin agrees eagerly, already fumbling to find the magic satchel and a scrap of paper.

Aithusa keeps growing in leaps and bounds. Arthur wonders, eyeing her wings.

“Do you think she could fly with you now? She’s gotten even bigger over the past few months,” Arthur muses, sitting forwards so he might stroke a finger down her back in between the junction of her wings, where she cannot reach. She strains to push into it, back curving like a bow. Her little scales, he marvels, feeling like a soppy old fool. “Growing like a weed.”

“Maybe,” Merlin says, giving it some thought, quill in hand. He sets his parchment scrap against Arthur’s back as a flat surface and starts scribbling. “Not like there’s been a place to try. Well? Want to, girl?” Merlin asks, reaching his hand over Arthur’s shoulder for Aithusa to butt her head against. She lets out a warbling shriek of agreement.

“Come on,” Arthur says, shoving the last bite of oatcake in his mouth while Merlin finishes his note. It hasn’t gotten any better, which shouldn’t surprise him, but somehow does. It takes far too long to chew, and has him digging out his waterskin with a cough before he can speak again. “Let’s get moving. The sooner we’re on the road the sooner we’re out of Gawant.”

Under the cover of the tent Merlin cheats and magics all of their things back into their bags, clean and tidy with just a snap of his fingers, note sent. Arthur justifies this laziness on his part as permitted, since it is his birthday. He helps dismantle the tent, though, as letting Merlin do that without magic is just begging for disaster.

“Hello, stranger,” Gwaine greets Arthur with a cheerful wink, taking in his face once again. “Although I think I liked you better the other way.”

“Too late.” Arthur tosses him a pack, diverting towards Llamrei while Merlin trots up to speak with Lancelot and Elyan. ‘I tried,’ Lancelot mouths in apology for the breakfast. Arthur nods in solemn understanding. It would take more than Lancelot and one morning to make a cook out of Merlin. “Merlin already made that joke.”

“Now I don’t believe that for a minute,” Gwaine says, striding to catch up.

“He did,” Arthur says. “Believe it or not you are neither so clever nor so original - ”

“Oh, no,” Gwaine clarifies, feigning innocence, “you misunderstand me. I meant that of course Merlin prefers to see this face, naturally - ”

He shuts up quick when Arthur lobs another heavy bag into his arms, scrambling to not drop the lot. Readying Llamrei for travel can only distract Arthur so much, however. Last night he’d nearly confessed every last inopportune feeling. He can feel the back of his neck heat.

Well.

He hadn’t, and that’s the important thing.

“Fine,” Gwaine sets the packs down between their horses, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. “I know when my input isn’t necessary. It pains me, though, to see two young souls let love slip through their oblivious, foolish, terribly, terribly foolish fingers. Did I mention the foolishness? Because I can again, if you didn’t hear me the first time.”

“Young souls. We’re the same age, you buffoon,” Arthur scoffs.

Gwaine doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Probably. Unusually canny, though, Arthur considers. Sometimes.

“Wait,” Gwaine mutters to himself, flipping his scabbard the other way round, from where he had attached it backwards.

Only sometimes, though, Arthur snorts.

“It’s at least a few days until we reach Nemeth,” he says, politely ignoring everything that comes out of Gwaine’s mouth, “and that’s assuming the weather favours us and we don’t run into any trouble.”

“The traders might want to keep our company, for a while at least,” Gwaine says, looking back over the camp. “Was speaking to some of them last night. They might try and bribe us with some better rations, but it’d slow us down.”

A couple of dozen people had settled at the makeshift camp, all told; families mostly. Some strong men between them, but not a weapon or a guard in sight. Not trading anything of value then; no jewels or silks that might have hired extra hands.

“We’re not aiming to be there for a certain date,” Arthur says. If Balinor finds their message immediately that’s one week accounted for, but an extra day or two would make no difference. Not with how quickly a dragon flies, and the magic that would be used to seek them. Arthur doesn’t know if it’s dragonlord magic or merely that of father and son, but Merlin or Balinor can always be relied upon to find the other. “Check with Merlin,” he concludes. “If they ask it of us, he’s the one who would have to keep his magic under wraps a bit longer.”

“Well, maybe,” Gwaine says, helping Arthur settle Llameri’s saddle over her, “maybe not. They’re only from Glywysing; it’s not banned there.”

“Not that friendly, though, either,” Arthur counters. King Olaf has sorcerers, yes. Ones kept strictly in service of the crown, or so the law would claim. Such a thing is impossible to achieve in truth, of course. Arthur remembers Uther’s feelings on Olaf and the lectures on the immorality of the subject perfectly well. He also remembers his own fresh commitment to respecting Merlin’s opinion on the subject of hiding. So with a great well of maturity, despite all of his natural instincts screaming for the contrary, Arthur insists; “It’s his magic, it’s his choice. Ask him.”

Besides, if anyone gets shirty about it, that’s what Arthur is here for.

And so, because Merlin is asked, and because Merlin is both kind and excitable in equal measure, this means that they travel as escorts. Things move slightly slower and slightly louder. The dogs don’t seem to know what to make of Aithusa, and the children don’t seem to know what to make of Merlin, who does not make a production of his magic - but once they have passed through the border of Gawant and into Glywysing, no longer hides it, either.

It’s little things, harmless things.

Heating water, or flicking Arthur’s cloak over his head when they tease each other. Which they probably shouldn’t do in front of the children, either, he thinks - it’s something past undignified and into humiliating to overhear a lecture from a well-meaning mother about name-calling and how it can lead to hurt feelings.

Merlin’s feelings are not hurt though, Arthur knows, watching him smother his bubbling laughter with shaking shoulders, eyes bright and shining with mirth. He looks over to Arthur as though the two of them are the only people on earth, sharing a grand joke.

He also overhears that same mother haltingly explaining to her child that having magic doesn’t make you good or bad; no more than having brown hair makes you good or bad. Such information is accepted easily, in the way of young children learning something new.

Nervous glances and wary, wide berths stop almost entirely after Merlin keeps proving himself a harmless sort of sorcerer as the day rolls on. The sort that conjures flowers for his pretty horse and helps with tedious chores, and not much else. Nothing could be further from the truth of course - perhaps especially the horse part - but Arthur won’t be the one to say otherwise.

***

Days later, having bid goodbye to their temporary company, the only news they hear in Glywysing is about the Princess Vivian and her refusal of the invitation to Elena’s tourney.

There appear to be two sides to this inane controversy. The half that believe Princess Vivian was doing the poor, unmarried Princess Elena a favour, as no one would be able to look upon anyone else, too captivated by Princess Vivian’s beauty. Which is, of course, only rivalled by her unparalleled benevolence.

And the half that believe Princess Vivian is a spoiled, selfish brat who has been overly indulged by her doting father.

“You know,” Arthur says to Merlin, as they shamelessly eavesdrop to people arguing over the matter in a tavern, “I think I’m more glad than ever to have been kidnapped.” It would be more difficult not to eavesdrop, the volume of the voices around them climbing higher and higher.

“Oh?” Merlin asks, raising an eyebrow. They wait for their drinks, leaning against the bar. The wood is honey-hued and well kept. Banners hanging from every corner sweep across the ceiling in Olaf’s colours of blue and green. Snarling black bears are carved into the beams that cross overhead, telling a story of a hunt.

“I’m beginning to suspect that growing up as royalty in general is bad for a child’s disposition,” Arthur theorises, looking at the carving of a bear bringing down a dragon, which seems a touch hyperbolic. “Elena is wonderful of course, but even you must admit she is a little odd. Morgana is - ” Arthur pauses so Merlin can make a face. And waits some more. “Are you finished?

“Oh I have more,” Merlin says sweetly, “but you go ahead.”

“ - troubled,” Arthur finishes. “Tyr is a prick, this Vivian sounds like she’s a real - ”

“You mind your mouth,” a large, rather burly sort of man cautions him before he can say exactly what Vivian sounds like. He stands half head taller than either of them, hugely barrel chested with a beard that still almost manages to hide it. “Take care what you say about our Princess. You’ve never seen such beauty! Her hair is like the rays of dawn upon the snow!”

Merlin watches, delighted, as Arthur appraises this new arrival.

“Have you ever set eyes upon her?” he asks, cheeks ruddy with drink.

“I confess I have not,” Arthur says carefully. Gwaine would never forgive him if he got them all chucked out before they’ve had so much as a drop. It’s been a long day of riding under a bright sun now that they set their own pace.

“Ach, then you don’t know. Most beautiful face in the world.”

Arthur is waved off, forgiven due to his ignorance, he supposes. Which is somewhat better than getting into a brawl. He’s quite sure he’s seen greater beauties than Vivian, however. Whatever she looks like, no matter how fine or lovely - she could hardly compare. Perhaps something of this scepticism is written on his face, for Vivian’s admirer scowls darkly at him.

“Name one greater beauty,” he demands. He holds up a finger, pointing perilously close to Arthur’s face as he steps forwards, looming. His voice is so deep Arthur swears he feels his teeth rattling in his skull. “One.”

Merlin turns to look upon Arthur once more, naked interest written plainly across every inch of him. Him and his stupid, beautiful face that shames the rays of dawn upon the snow or whatever it is Vivian is supposed to look like. There’s not a lick of concern to be found, only untethered curiosity. His fingers tap an impish, eager song against the lip of the bar, and Arthur futilely wishes he’d fallen in love with someone who was a little less of a tit.

“Don’t all wise men think the one they love is the fairest beauty?” Arthur tries, also futilely wishing the barmaid were just a little faster.

The man blinks, mulling this answer over, before his face breaks into a grin.

“You’re alright,” he cheers, slapping Arthur’s arm with so much force that he rocks into the bar with a wheeze. “Mathilda, a drink on me for the man in love!” The barmaid, Mathilda, presumably, comes back with their mugs, a dry look on her face. Her cheeks are flushed from the fires in the kitchen, roast spits turning despite the warmth of the day.

“Bors is a nice enough fellow, but he’s not actually going to pay for that,” she says, as the man wanders back off, blissfully happy once more. “Just so you know.”

“I figured,” Arthur snorts, handing over enough coin for the lot. His stomach growls. “Might I trouble you for some plates for my friends and I as well? Five again?”

“Go on,” she says, shooing them back towards their end of the long table they’ve claimed.

“So,” Merlin says, winding up for an interrogation. He doesn’t even pretend to be subtle about it.

“Oh, I think I hear Lancelot,” Arthur lies, turning away with four of the mugs, leaving only Merlin his own to worry over. This, as Arthur knew it would be, is the right decision.

“Oh come on!” he hears behind him, turning to see Merlin shaking mead off of his fingers where it’s sloshed over in his rush to follow.

“Why the solemn faces?” Arthur asks, setting their drinks down.

Gwaine flicks his eyes towards the people huddled together nearby, whispering amongst each other. A different tone entirely to the rest of the tavern, serious faces on each and every last one of them.

“Not certain,” Elyan is the one to say, arms folded across his chest. “A messenger with the king’s banner passed through here on the way to the castle with news.”

“What?” Merlin asks, having come up to join them. “What news?”

“Dunno,” Gwaine says, clicking his tongue and dragging his mug closer, head cocked as he listens in. “Don’t think anyone does. Just that he was in a real rush.”

“Might be nothing,” Lancelot says optimistically. He doesn’t look like he believes it himself.

“I’ll drink to that,” Gwaine lifts his mug for a toast.

Arthur doesn’t believe it either, but he still puts his own mug in. There’s always hope, after all.

Chapter Text

Aithusa twitches underneath Arthur, sand and rock scattering as her tail lashes back and forth. Her wings stretch to either side of them like sails, catching the sun. It’s bright out on the beach - far away from any civilization at all who might see her. And see her they would; she shines in the full light of day like a beacon.

The crook of land they’ve found is the tail end of Olaf’s territory, but not pressed by Cenred - and why would he? The furthest tip of Gŵyr’s shoreline is unforgiving. Pressing out into the sea like the neck of a dragon at rest, beautiful and harsh in equal measure. It had taken the better part of two days to detour so far off any path, through scrub and ancient ash trees. Rocky crags and stone ruins long abandoned. Older than any of them, than even any of their grandfathers. The salty wind tears through him despite the sun. Out across the sea waves churn, showing off their white caps.

Arthur swears he can hear them calling his name.

He fumbles off his cloak, lobbing it to Merlin, laughing along with Aithusa as it collapses over his head - and the ensuing struggle to get it off. Arthur wears no chain at all, for her comfort, only his gambeson. One of the ties is fraying awfully, he notices. Faded from its original bright red into something paler and softer. It’s grown long in the tooth and tight in the shoulders. Might be time for a new one.

“Funny,” Merlin says, spitting hair out of his mouth as he pulls it away. “It’s not like riding a horse,” he lectures to Arthur, who rolls his eyes.

“I’ve ridden a dragon before,” he’s quick to remind Merlin, in case he has forgotten.

“Not like her.” Hands planted on his hips, chin up high in a challenge - how could Arthur ever refuse to answer it?

“Ah, we’ll be fine! Won’t we, my girl?” He leans forwards to scratch behind the long curves of her horns. She has grown, he thinks - he has to put his whole strength into it as she greedily pushes in.

“Dump him in the ocean for me, instead,” Merlin encourages her.

“Come on!” Gwaine jeers from his seat on the rocky coast. “Or shall Gringolet and I show you how it’s done?” Gringolet, who has proven to be almost as much of a hothead as Gwaine is, merely nibbles on a green shoot of grass, unbothered.

“Alright, alright,” Merlin shouts back. “Well,” he says, turning back to Aithusa, “show them what you can do!”

She tears off with a jolt that nearly sends Arthur flying - his only immediate thought is that Merlin had been right, damn him. This is nothing like riding Kilgharrah. The Great Dragon is massive, and faster than anything else Arthur has ever known - until now, of course. The wind and the salt air sting as they lash him. She wears no harness, so there is nothing to hold, and the seat is entirely different to a horse. The earth behind them kicks up as she leaps over a jagged cluster of rock and Arthur has a moment that drags on for a terrifying beat where he’s suspended in the air, not touching her at all. Aithusa is the wind itself, and then her wings flap, sending him crashing back into her, clumsy.

“Lean forwards!” Merlin shouts with a laugh, sprinting after them but swiftly outpaced. If he says anything else it is stolen by the wind.

Arthur presses down, careful of her wings which are once more tucked in tightly against her sides. It helps, but he’d never be able to fire an arrow like this. Or do anything else, he thinks, wondering if Merlin had been bluffing when he said you could read a book on dragonback.

He also refuses to lose.

There is no grip to be had other than his own knees and a prayer. They barrel down the straight shot of the shore, and he lifts his hands in order to find balance, picturing the weight of his bow. This, of course, is when he nearly goes flying again - snagged out of a broken arm or worse only by virtue of a magic pair of hands catching him midair before the rocks do. Merlin is only a tiny dot in the distance, and Arthur lifts his arm in a wave as he floats there in order to say all is well, before he’s set down on the ground with a gentle whump.

Aithusa does a loop, coming to his side and nosing at him where he sprawls.

‘Why have you stopped?’ her eyes seem to beg. Her tail hasn’t stopped moving for even an instant.

He hauls himself up, halfheartedly dusting some sand off of his trousers, but there won’t be much point - he’s beginning to get the idea it won’t be the only spill he takes.

“Right. Let’s try again,” he says, chest heaving with his breaths.

It does not grow easier - or less exhilarating. At least Merlin only has to catch him from a nasty spill twice more, or Arthur would never live it down.

It’s ages later when he flops on his back on the shore, unable to find much care as tiny waves start to lick at his shoulders. Salt and sand itch, but the water is cool against his stinging skin. Merlin comes to look over him, a smug shadow that blocks out the setting sun.

“You know,” Arthur gasps with a grin, clutching at the stitch in his side, “I don’t think you can read a book on her.”

“I really can,” Merlin says, grinning right back.

“Sounds like a challenge,” Elyan goads. The others sit cosily by the fire they’ve built up, cookpot steaming.

Arthur’s stomach growls loudly enough to startle him. He’s ravenous. Merlin only laughs at him, reaching down to help haul Arthur to his feet.

“Aithusa, want to really show them?”

It’s started to grow dim, they’ve been at it so long, but Aithusa hasn’t grown any wearier at all, romping all the while like she’s been waiting to do this for the whole of her life. She responds to Merlin’s question by quickly settling low enough for him to swing a leg over her, practically vibrating.

“Ahem. Excuse me, Your Highness,” Arthur chides, stepping boldly in front of Aithusa with a bow before they can be away, “but I don’t see a book.” He straightens, looking up at Merlin with a dare written plainly across his face as he waits.

Gwaine and the others turn to watch, placing bets and putting on a production like it’s a proper tourney.

“If that’s how it is,” Merlin shrugs one shoulder, deliberately casual as he gazes back, eyes twinkling. His ears and cheeks are stained pink from standing in the wind all day, the colour of seashells.

Arthur manages at last to lope over to fetch one, digging through Bluebell’s saddlebags until he finds the fattest, most unwieldy book that he can manage. Merlin waits, supremely confident, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth as Arthur passes it over.

“Get going then,” he says, letting his fingers catch against Merlin’s, “if you think you can.”

Merlin only throws his head back in a laugh, staying seated with insulting ease even as Aithusa does a tight spin in her excitement. Balinor, Arthur has seen, can walk across the span of Kilgharrah’s back even as they soar through the air at heights untold. Merlin probably can too - but Arthur wants to see it.

Merlin doesn’t break eye contact even as he cracks the book open, only finally looking away to read aloud. It’s a dry tome, and an even drier lecture on the properties of ground beetle shells begins.

Aithusa has had enough of them, clearly, lunging forward like she can’t go quickly enough. Merlin does not so much as flinch, his braid waving behind him like a banner, face serene as he flips a page. He has to hold the parchment down as it flaps wildly, but he certainly looks to be reading.

When Aithusa makes a tight, dangerous looking turn, legs bunching as she leaps, Merlin sways with her like still water.

" - primarily feeds upon water-mint,” his serene voice comes, teasing as Aithusa loops around the fire, appearing for all intents to be trying to playfully buck him off. “While frequently confused with other leaf beetles, the pitting and lateral margin on the elytra - ”

Arthur’s side hurts from trying not to laugh.

“Enough,” he cries, beaming, “enough!”

Merlin hops from her back with ease, flipping the old tome shut to much applause from the gallery.

“Dragonlord magic,” Arthur accuses, catching the book with a quick hand as Merlin tosses it to him, well pleased with himself. “Not sure that should count.”

“You’ll be able to do it too.” Merlin shrugs the issue away. “Well, with Aithusa anyway. You know how you are with magic.”

Arthur’s odd sensitivity to it, yes, but -

“I can’t actually use any magic though,” he protests, “I’ve none of my own.”

“Well, no,” Merlin agrees, “but she’s different. The two of you, and me, I mean.” His cheeks and ears are red from the wind, Arthur cannot help but notice. “She’ll help you, if you let her, that’s all. Like how my Da will never fall off of Kili, or need air - it’s their magic, together.”

“And Aithusa and I will be able to do that?” Arthur asks sceptically. It’s the first he’s heard of it.

“I… think so,” Merlin says, biting his lip. “Just with her, I mean, not just any dragon. She knows you, and she loves you - she hears you, even if you don’t have magic. And I think you hear her, too. She’s growing powerful, and has magic of her own - enough for both of you.”

Arthur watches her as she ambles down the beach, her long face tilted up to the darkening sky. A new moon, tonight.

“That’d be…” he trails off. “That’d really be something,” he settles on, overcome.

“Yes,” Merlin says. Understanding Arthur without demanding more.

They gather with their friends around the fire, Merlin accepting his praise with good grace. Arthur feels like a giant bruise after a day of less successful attempts, but he wouldn’t wish to change a thing.

Long after the tents have been set, and the embers of the fire put out with sand, he lays on the beach, watching the small shape of Aithusa twist through the sky above them. A distant and lonely sort of dance.

She must have ached to fly, he thinks.

The sky is black as pitch, Aithusa among a field of stars carving away a path of brightness in her wake like ripples. She’s beautiful.

There is something, he thinks, to what Merlin had said. Arthur has never felt closer to magic than watching her now. The way she splits the world to let the light shine in. His heart feels fit to burst.

Merlin comes up slowly, like he might not be welcome, settling gently in the sand at Arthur’s side and politely ignoring his wet eyes. Merlin doesn’t say a word, just tilts his face up to the sky, watching.

***

They pass quietly through Cenred’s territory.

Or they try to, anyway.

The peace of the day is broken by a trail of smoke on the horizon, reaching up into the sky like twisting fingers. Too plentiful; dark and wide.

“That is no bonfire,” Lancelot says, coming to a stop at the fork in their path.

“No,” Elyan agrees, casting a look to the rest of them. “Nor a forge.”

They break away from the main road and up the narrower trail that leads towards the smoke, beginning to hear the screams in the distance the closer they come.

“Go,” Arthur shouts, urging Llamrei into a gallop and drawing his bow. He tastes the soot in the air. Over the crest of the hill it is madness. Chaos. Half the village is alight, fire pouring out of doorways and windows, thatch roofs blazing like torches. It’s walking into hell to push forwards, the air thick with smoke. Men in no kingdom’s colours run through with weapons drawn - only plain armour of leather and chain. Yet these are no bandits. His gut sinks in horror, reflex alone having him let loose an arrow before a man has a chance to cut down an old woman armed only with a pitchfork.

“Down the hill, towards the coast and safety,” Arthur bellows at her, nocking another arrow. “Merlin!” he cries, letting it fly, “the fires!”

This is not a raid of thieves, but a slaughter.

He hears Gwaine shout behind him, orders for more of the villagers to retreat, Lance and Elyan moving forward, their swords drawn.

Arthur fires again and again, steady as Llamrei bounds through the little village, around the fire and debris with light, fearless steps. He hears the thunder before he sees the clouds, the smoke so thick they mingle as one - before the rain starts pouring.

Absolute buckets of it, in sheets and waves as though that same white-capped ocean has climbed the hill to do battle for them. A crack of lightning is nearly blinding, lifting three of their attackers clear off of their feet as they are flung. A fierce wind stirs, stealing the smoke away and clearing the air.

His cloak tugs upwards in the wind, even weighted heavy with water.

“Sorcerer!” one of them cries out in warning over the storm. Arthur fells him with an arrow, but it is too late. The rest, a solid dozen, maybe more, surge towards the greater threat.

Arthur does not hesitate to slaughter the two nearest that turn their backs to him, a blistering sort of rage simmering within him. He catches one man in the leg, but another three charge past. The only thought in his head is a grim determination that they must not reach Merlin.

He draws one of his new arrows; a familiar one, made to copy that long ago gift that felled the griffon. It is away before he can even blink; a bolt that blackens the earth, leaving three corpses behind - and making him the greater threat.

Good, he thinks, thrilled as half of them turn towards him, unsure who to face now. Their comrades lay dead at their feet. Were they normal bandits, they would flee. He draws his sword, Llamrei taking him forward with more courage than any score of knights. He leads her around to blockade the path towards Merlin, dismounting to throw himself into the fray.

Gwaine comes to them from the side, piercing a foe in the thigh, and engaging another before he can make an inroad to Merlin, still casting his spell. Lancelot is quick to follow, Elyan at his heels, surrounding them.

They fight. It drags on, longer than it should, even with disparate numbers. These men are trained though. A mercenary troupe, were he to catch his breath long enough to guess. A villager built like a bull wields a woodsman’s axe with enough skill that Arthur cannot urge him to flee, even as others take their chance to run.

Around them the fires are out at last, the ground is saturated with water - and with it, Merlin’s attention is free to return to the fight. Ice webs across the wet ground, even in the summer heat. Creaking and cracking, it pulls their last few remaining enemies down into the slurry of muddy water, freezing fast around them before they can strain free.

Arthur exhales, his breath fogging in the cold.

“Who has sent you?” he demands of one of them. He’s wide-eyed with terror, unable to move, sinking inexorably down. “Speak, and this will end.”

Merlin comes to his side, dark hair plastered down with water against his pale skin, but Arthur sees no blood, no bruises. They exchange a quick nod; an ‘I’m alright,’ when there is no time to speak. It feels that his heart only starts beating again at the sight of it.

“Check them,” he asks of their friends, moving forwards to do the same. “Marks, or orders. Insignia - anything.”

“There is no need,” the woodsman says. His voice is quieter than Arthur would expect from a man of his size, his face downcast. “Cenred sent them. Didn’t he?” he asks, although there is no hint of a question in it.

“Do you know these men?” Merlin asks, when not a single one of the mercenaries replies.

“Not these men.” He shakes his head, fingers clenched tight around his axe. “Messenger came by. A fortnight ago. Demanding men for the army. We said we couldn’t spare any.” He does not lift his head. “King Cenred does not like being told no.”

“Cenred does have many dealings with mercenaries,” Elyan agrees softly. He winces and rolls out his shoulder. He’s sporting a gash that might need stitches. “And I’m sure I need not remind any of you about the old Caer.”

“Come now,” Arthur goads one of the mercenaries. “Certainly Cenred doesn’t pay so much that you would die to keep his secrets?”

He grins, a resignation to his countenance that sits poorly with Arthur to see. 

“Doesn’t like failure, either. I die now or I die later.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to flee?” Arthur asks. “Start a new life where you don’t kill old women for sport, maybe?”

“He’s got a witch,” the man says. “Ain’t no running, no stopping; not anymore.” He sticks his tongue out, flat, for Arthur to see the rune-mark branded into it. He recoils; it is wretched even to look upon, sore and putrid. “No spilling secrets, neither. Figure you might kill me clean.” He shrugs as much as he’s able, shivering and trapped in the ice. Arthur has no sympathy in him for a man who had just culled an innocent village, but there is something terrible in watching him now. There is no struggle left, only a fearful resignation. “She won’t.”

“Then it seems there is nothing more to discuss,” Arthur says, his mind racing. There is no question as to who this witch is. None at all.

The mercenary drops like a stone, eyes rolling back in their sockets.

“They’re asleep,” Merlin says quickly, swallowing. His hands tremble, Arthur sees, before he can hide it. “I can’t keep them in the ice, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s good,” Arthur tells him. “This… cannot be reported back to Morgause.”

He will never enjoy killing a disarmed man.

A murderer, though - and one who would only be rewarded for it, should he be handed over to his king? Painless is the most merciful thing to be offered, now. Let them sleep.

“You should see to Elyan’s shoulder,” he says to Merlin, trying not to sound too much like he’s trying to soothe a spooked horse. “I’m certain the villagers need help, as well. There are bound to be injuries.”

“Yes,” Merlin agrees, nodding, slightly manic, “yes, right.”

“Perhaps, ah,” Arthur looks to the villager who has stayed.

“Percival,” he says, unblinking as he gazes down upon the mercenaries.

“Perhaps Percival could take you to them - ”

“No,” Percival says, shaking his head, “I’ll be seeing this through.”

Arthur is wise enough to tell when a man will not be moved, and doesn’t try again. He’s grateful when Elyan steps to the side, peeling back the ragged edges of his tunic to show where he’s been struck.

Merlin, for all that he is powerful, and not a child any longer, is also still unused to bloodshed.

And this is not the way to learn.

At least it is swift.

It is a heinous business, going between each cottage, gathering the dead. If Arthur felt any lingering guilt for killing the bound mercenaries, it is lost the more he sees. Some of the survivors return, to find their missing friends and family, or to salvage what they can, a numb sort of veil settling over the entire cursed place.

They do this ugly work until nightfall, making a camp a ways away. Merlin tends unceasingly to any wounded who will let him help them, but even he grows weary. Percival is a looming, silent shadow, only coming forwards once they’ve settled. Gwaine lays on his back by the fire, his arm slung over his eyes. Elyan sleeps, given a potion after his shoulder was stitched and wrapped. Lancelot exchanges quiet words with the woman that Merlin is treating for her burns.

“Are you enemies of Cenred?” Percival asks, settling down near enough to Arthur to speak quietly. “You knew who that man spoke of. The witch.”

“I’m certainly not his friend,” Arthur says, unsure how much to share. “If I am right…this ally of his is a High Priestess; one I have met before. I would call her an enemy, yes.”

“Let me come with you,” Percival says. His voice is even and certain. “I’m not trained, not like your company - but I’m strong.”

It’s not funny, but Arthur snorts a weak laugh. Yes, he’s seen how strong Percival is.

“I will not be a burden to you.”

“I do not doubt you.”

He looks over the bones of the village- half dead. It would have been all, if not for chance. He is not sure how much he believes in chance, lately. His instincts say that Percival is a good man.

“Your family?” Arthur asks gently, although he suspects he knows the answer.

“We lived on the outskirts, near the woods,” Percival says. He does not shed a tear, but his eyes are distant. They will come, Arthur knows. “We were the first.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says, although there are no words adequate.

“They won’t rest any easier for me standing over a burial mound, waiting to see them again,” Percival insists.

“And I don’t want to lead you to your death, if that’s what you’re after,” Arthur says, feeling heartless for it. It is nothing more or less than the truth, though. He seems a good man, and Arthur has no desire to see him wasted, shepherded into an early grave. 

“I’m hard to kill,” Percival counters, unmoved.

“Oh, let him come with,” Gwaine chimes in, a rasp in his voice, his arm still slung over his eyes. “Whatever he’s looking for, he’s not going to find it here.”

“And you’d know?” Arthur asks, too weary and sorrowful to put up a fight. Sweaty and grimy from the smoke, he runs his hands down his face.

“Maybe I would,” Gwaine snaps swiftly.

***

Percival is quiet, which is only to be expected.

Lancelot and he make fast friends even so - it is hard for anyone to dislike Lancelot. His core of kindness is too earnest to rebuff.

It’s Gwaine who makes Percy crack a smile for the first time, though.

Gwaine can be irreverent, but never callous. Arthur likes to think that by now he knows the man well enough not to be surprised by it. Whatever in his past had hounded him the night of the village…well, Arthur can only hope to be worthy of that trust, should Gwaine ever have need of it.

***

The path down to the shore is steep, with sheer drops of dark stone to either side of them, enshrouded in moss. The sand below is nearly golden in the sun, with the sea a calm stretch of unbroken blue. Waves roll forwards and back in a smooth rhythm in a peaceful sound.

The sky, however, is empty.

“Hm,” Merlin hums, hands on his hips as he squints into the bright sunshine. “Soon, though. It’s not like Da to run late.”

“He’s not hurt, is he?” Arthur asks. It seems impossible to consider - that there was anything in the world that could manage it.

“No,” Merlin says quickly, which eases the sharp spike of fear. “No point twiddling our thumbs waiting around though.”

Arthur spends the next hour or so getting egged on as he and Aithusa attempt to practise once more. When she’s not running full tilt it’s not so bad, he thinks, idly aiming an arrow at a target that Merlin has conjured to dart about. A plain arrow, thank you very much. Arthur is being tremendously precious with his other magic ones, having seen what they can do.

Near the shade of the cliffs at his back the others show Percy some footwork while Merlin watches on. Half an eye on them, half on the sky.

He tries to let Aithusa’s magic do some of the work, but it goes against each and every instinct he has. That he should do less. Trust, he thinks, is a funny thing. He trusts her implicitly, after all - shouldn’t this be easy?

Thankfully Balinor and Kilgharrah arrive before he has to spend much effort on self-reflection; a thing he is in no mood to do.

In the bright daylight Kilgharrah shines like burnished bronze and gold - and such a size that his shadow covers the beach. Percy and Gwaine, neither who would have had occasion to see the older Great Dragon, both go a shade paler. Arthur does not laugh, but it’s a struggle. They’ll get used to him.

“Da!” Merlin and Aithusa dart forth - which means Arthur does as well, along for the ride.

“Boys,” Balinor says, voice warm. He descends with a smooth step, sweeping Merlin up into an embrace. “Little bird, I’ve missed you,” he says, so quietly the sea breeze nearly steals it away. “Arthur,” he calls, louder, “won’t you greet an old man?”

“If I see one, I shall,” Arthur promises, leaving Aithusa’s back for a hug of his own.

“You’re late,” Merlin says. Despite his grin there is a thread of worry in his voice. “Is everything fine?”

Balinor looks hale, at least - if a little more grey at the temples and in his short beard, as it ever seems to be. Dressed for flight he is far too well-covered to know if he carries any injury. Though what could possibly piece his dragon scale armour Arthur still does not know.

“Yes,” Balinor says, letting Arthur go with a smile of his own, “and no. All will be well. Come though, it is nothing that will not wait. Tell me of your own travels. And I’ll meet your new friends before I trouble you.”

Elyan and Lance are greeted cordially as they deserve - it is Gwaine and Percival who are tense like statues as they are introduced, even though Kilgharrah is too busy being bothered by a tag-team of Merlin and Aithusa to even pretend to threaten them.

Once this is done the rest comes pouring forth. The tourney, and Morgana - her magic, and Morgause. Tyr, all of it. The unhappy tale of Percival’s village comes to light, including the revelation of what can only be Morgause and Cenred’s alliance.

“I am sad to say it does not surprise me,” Balinor admits. “They have been thick as thieves for years. Any discord now only serves her. She knows full well I will not turn Kilgharrah towards war so long as I can help it. The Isle is closed to her, the stone sundered. Nimueh possesses the Cup. Her only avenue forward that remains is with mortal armies.”

He closes his eyes, looking as though every year weighs on him at once.

“You said she still had not healed?” he asks them both. “When you saw her?”

“No,” he answers as Merlin shakes his head, recalling, “she wore the bracelet even then, but she was badly burned.”

“A Dragon’s fire is not easily put out,” Balinor says. “If it still has not healed, then it will likely burn for the rest of her life - or Kilgharrah’s. The bracelet is uniquely powerful, but now she must never part from it, lest the fire light once more.”

That is… tremendous. A weakness - at last. Arthur’s heart gives a great leap within his chest, giddy. Finding her and making her vulnerable enough to strike  is still something else, but this is more of a gift than he can say.

He catches Merlin’s eye, seeing the same understanding there, the same relief.

“I fear I do bear other news as well,” Balinor continues. “Prince Tyr’s entourage was found slaughtered to the last man on the border.”

“What?” Merlin gasps.

“Godwyn sent a half dozen armoured knights,” Arthur says, a sinking feeling of guilt rushing to overcome the relief like a douse of cold water. This must have been the message that had been carried to Olaf with such haste days back in Glywysing. “A physician was with them, just an old man! Or the servants? Not them all, surely?”

Balinor only offers him a solemn nod.

“But why?” Merlin asks, stunned and looking to his father for some guidance that will make sense of it. Though there is none to be had. “I don’t understand what she would gain.”

“Godwyn is an ally of Uther,” Balinor theorises, “and if Morgause wishes to press for war it would serve her well to have Odin be an enemy of her enemy, perhaps. Or it is more simple; an act of vengeance, for her sister.”

“That same physician that she killed had just treated Morgana the night before, given her aid,” Arthur says furiously. “Even if she wished to string up Tyr, there were good men who were slaughtered with him.”

“I do not agree with it,” Balinor holds up his hands, palms open in peace.

“I should have killed him when I had the chance,” Arthur barrels on, ignoring Balinor, overcome with it. Consumed by the thought. He feels ill all anew. That his preciousness and hesitance over his own conscience had led to this. All those lives might have been spared. “It would have never happened - ”

“Or,” Balinor says firmly, cutting him off with a sharper tone than he ever has, “Odin would have declared war the very day his son left Godwyn’s care in a coffin. There is not a soul alive who believes Godwyn played a part in the slaughter. Odin is furious, but there is still peace despite it all. What if the mercy you spared that day now spares two entire kingdoms from outright war?”

Arthur looks at him, trying to piece together if he is sincere or only attempting to placate with false words of hope.

“We cannot know,” Balinor persists. “It is a difficult thing, to ask a man to trust his own heart, but I ask it of you nonetheless. If your great fault is that you are too merciful there is enough cruelty in the world to make up the difference. We do not need more heartless men.”

Arthur bites his tongue, not able to argue but not fully believing it, either.

“There might come war,” he says, just to be contrary. Upset, and powerless to do anything about it. Yet. Merlin, at his side, takes his hand and gives a squeeze. Arthur squeezes back, anchored in place. 

“I am not as toothless as Morgause would believe,” Balinor says. “If war comes we will end it as cleanly and as swiftly as we can. I have seen enough of it, after all - you will forgive me if I wish to see no more.”

“Yes, sir,” Arthur says. It’s nothing at all like when Uther used to take him to task, but he’s ashamed all the same. “What - ” he swallows, wishing desperately that his poor temper hadn’t been witnessed, “you said you had your own troubles.”

“Ah,” Balinor says with a sigh, graciously allowing the change of subject. “I do not wish to worry you, but I do carry a request. Merlin,” he looks towards his son, who jumps in place like a startled rabbit. His hand clenches tight around Arthur’s, but does not let go. “There is something you might do for me. Or for our druid friends, that is.”

“Anything,” he agrees instantly.

A warm smile sweeps over Balinor’s face. “What do you remember about unicorns?”

Chapter Text

The snow is crisp underfoot. Smooth and clean like fresh linens thrown over a bed. The druid soothsayer had been right when they went to Balinor and requested aid; this early winter has come both swift and strong.

Nothing wilts, though; not with Merlin here.

It gives everything a strange sort of quality, just unreal enough that it takes a while to get used to. Two seasons mixed together into one. The flowers and grass that poke through the snow fresh as the day they had sprouted, or the berries sitting pretty as jewels no matter how harsh the frost comes each morning.

Were it not for the unicorn, he would never have such a heavy, intervening hand. And Arthur knows the leader of the camp, Aglain, nor the other druids would not ask it; for they value the natural balance too highly. Needs must, however, as the death of a unicorn would bring dark tidings to the farthest reaches of Albion. So with bleary eyes and sleeping more than Arthur has ever seen, Merlin feeds the earth. A wellspring that lets the druids linger long enough for the injured unicorn that had brought them here to heal, unpressed by predators and men alike.

More time than Arthur has stayed anywhere for a long, long time. Instead of a fortnight or two, it has stretched to months. A peaceful season for whatever time winter chooses to take - and it will not be rushed.

He cannot help but savour it, even though it is only afforded to him at the misfortune of the unicorn.

The blow the poor thing had taken to the leg would have led to death were it merely a horse, even if it were a particularly beloved one. Simply too long and difficult of a recovery. Yet it is not merely anything, and so a wound that would take a year to heal should be done in a season - if only that season were not overlapping with winter, and with it all of the hardships that such entails. Autumn, and Merlin’s birthday with it, have come and gone. Pressed for sanctuary along the contested border of the green Gedref between Nemeth and Camelot, it is only the bloodless nature of the feud that gives them the confidence to stay.

King Rodor has sworn to Balinor that the druids will be safe from him - in exchange for what, or if it is merely the goodness of his heart, Arthur does not know. He can still recall Nimueh advising him that long-ago day at the tower. That a cleverer boy than him would make friends. There is a ruthless truth to it.

A Dragonlord is not a bad friend to have.

Rodor might ask for nothing, now; counting on Balior’s memory to do the work for him in the future.

As for his father - well, Uther cannot spare the men on a border that is peaceful, not when Caerleon presses his luck to the north. Nimueh may or may not have earned the ear of Queen Annis, Arthur cannot know; but her husband proves to be a poor listener. Greedy for land or merely for the thrill of conquering. The result is the same. Tensions are high and rising higher; and such Gedref falls forgotten to the wayside.

So here they have come to be. Merlin tending the grove, bartering with the earth itself to gain them this precious extra time to heal the unicorn before hunger and nature demand that the druid camp move on - and Arthur trailing after him like a useless puppy, feeling more obvious than ever.

Someone needs to look after him, though.

Merlin barely eats and sleeps half the day away. He has never taken ill, not so long as Arthur has known him, but it’s hard not to worry. He’s as pallid as Morgana had been when he saw her last, colourless. Leeched pale as the snow.

Kilgharrah would draw too much attention to linger on the border, but before he had departed back to Rehged Balinor had brought gifts for them, as he tends to do. Books and games, treats for people stuck to idling all winter.

Merlin’s lyre is passed over on special request, summoned by the note he had sent to Balinor, scrawled on Arthur’s own very back. To his great grief. Somehow it feels like he should have known. It seems too ghoulish to learn the melody to Tyr’s Folly, but that has not stopped Merlin from learning any of the other deeply misleading songs about Arthur.

Their friends patrol, or train, when they aren’t egging Merlin on and joining in the singing. Lancelot helps with anything, never ceasing. Percy is a prodigy with anything heavy that needs swinging, but dedicates nearly as much time to following the unicorn around like a quiet, giant duckling. He’s found some measure of peace with the druids, they are all happy to see. Aglain carries a gentle wisdom that is more valuable than gold. Elyan has taken the long stay to visit his sister with no pressing duties upon them, and has yet to return. An ear in Camelot can only do them all some good, but Arthur mostly hopes he and Gwen get to spend some time together. All the game boards that have made over the years see more use than they ever have, and Gwaine seems to make up new rules each time.

One gift had been a bear-fur mantle for Arthur’s birthday. Perhaps a little joke towards his namesake, but it’s Merlin who hasn’t been without it for a week straight now. Going so far as to sleep under the thing, snugged down tightly between Arthur and Aithusa each night. Aithusa, who keeps pace with him wherever he wanders, never out of reach - radiating warmth like a fire. Arthur’s taken to keeping a little bag full of honeyed ginger with him, one of the only things Merlin will reliably eat.

“Stop fussing,” Merlin chides him, as Arthur, admittedly, fusses.

There is a little gap, though, where the heavy mantle does not close fully, exposing a thin strip of skin to the cold. Arthur yanks it back into place, even as Merlin rolls his eyes.

He’s a bit pleased though, Arthur can tell. Merlin is too prideful to enjoy being catered to for long, but a little bit here and there seems to put him in the mood of a spoiled cat.

“You might read to me, though,” Merlin suggests, kicking his legs back and forth. Right until Aithusa ambles up and cosies against them to pin them in place, curled up snugly. She might be as overprotective as Arthur. Between the two of them, Merlin doesn’t stand a chance.

They sit overlooking the copse of trees where the unicorn rests, tucked into a little nook that blocks the worst of the elements. It lays within the base of a grand oak tree, as big around as a house; just as Arthur had promised. Leaves still hang on, rich yellows and oranges like fire peeking through the white of the frost. It’s an ancient growth, with moss draped like a shroud throughout its branches, tall as a tower. Up and out towards the blue sky they reach, rustling in the mild wind. The unicorn itself is a pretty thing, too. Well, mostly. Pure white like the moon, with a silky mane - it also has the beard and cloven hooves of a goat and the tail of a lion, and is prone to nibbling on anything that comes into reach.

“Oh, might I?” Arthur scoffs, but he’s already reaching for a book. Among the other gifts, some had been tomes that Merlin had eagerly accepted- sending some of his back to the tower in return. “Flowers?” He thumbs through the spines. “History?”

“I want to hear a story, not a textbook,” Merlin sighs, “something nice. Can’t you tell me something about Camelot? From when you were small?”

“I think I’ve already told you every story from Camelot,” Arthur only half-jokes. Merlin could talk someone’s ear off, and tended to get Arthur to nattering as well in a sort of never ending loop.

“Certainly not every story,” Merlin says.

“Most,” Arthur argues, wracking his brain for something that might win him a smile. “Did I ever tell you about Lady Sybil’s dog?”

“Oh, with the stubby nose?”

“No, Lady Crescentia had the stubby nose - ”

“I meant the dog,” Merlin laughs, as Arthur had hoped. A little thrill always accompanies the sound now, their slow, lazier days not dulling any of his feelings. Of all the things Merlin is, boring is never one of them.

“Ah, my mistake. Well, Lady Sybil’s dog was far more courageous than it really deserved. It only came up to my knee, and this was when I was a very small boy.” Arthur boxes a rough size in the air with his hands. “Aithusa’s size, when she’s little, maybe. She let it anywhere, though.”

Merlin hums, eyes shut and listening.

“So the dog terrorises the servants, because she never taught it any better, but it’s so tiny it’s just a nuisance. It would sit on her lap during feasts and eat off of her plate, and not the scraps or anything. No, the dog got first choice. Favoured pickled herring,” Arthur watches the way Merlin’s smile twitches, amused. “Anyway, the dog goes wherever it likes, and one day of celebration - and this is before my father had arrived to the hall, and before the feast had begun. Picture it. A bevy of nobility dressed in their finest, all the banners up, tables packed. Are you picturing it?” Arthur checks that Merlin has not fallen asleep.

“I’m picturing it.” Merlin says, tilting his head back to rest upon the oak tree.

“Alright. So the dog hops up onto the table from Lady Sybil’s lap. Servants are trying to get her to take it down, but she insists the thing would never harm a fly, and cause no trouble. Well, obviously that was a lie.” Arthur pauses to listen to Merlin’s little chuff of laughter. “It tears off, stepping in everything on the way, and sets in on the swan - the grandest dish of the night. Of course.”

“Of course,” Merlin agrees, turning his head to look over at Arthur.

“So down the hallway comes a warning that the king is coming, and Lady Sybil is not helping at all, so one of the servants, completely frantic, and hating this little beast, just slams cloche back over the swan, dog and all. My father comes in, everyone pretends nothing unusual has happened - even Lady Sybil. He gives his speech, and sits, and they eat. To this very day I can’t recall being in a tenser room.”

The memory is flowing more easily to him now, vibrant in clarity.

“I remember watching the covered plate with the swan, just waiting. It was perfectly still. You’d never know there was a dog under there at all. I was short enough that I was sitting on a block and a cushion to even be at the table. I wasn’t supposed to speak, but I wanted,” Arthur chokes on his own laughter, biting his lip, “I really wanted to see what happened. So I stood on my seat and tried to reach to lift the cloche. I couldn’t, of course. My father waves someone over to do it. They don’t want to, but they don’t have a choice.”

“What happened?” Merlin prods, eyes twinkling.

“The servant pretends everything is normal, takes the cover - and underneath is the dog, and probably about half a swan is all that’s left somehow, even though there’s not space enough in the dog to eat that much. It’s the fattest, happiest dog in the world, though, tongue lolling, tail wagging. ‘Very good, sire,’ the servant says, dry as you please, and goes back to the wall, not saying a single word about the dog. Nobody does. It’s dead silent, and then the dog gets up and toddles back to Lady Sybil, and starts lapping up her wine. Well that she takes away from it, and just drinks the whole goblet down herself in one great go.” He mimes chugging a full goblet as Merlin snickers.

“What happened to the dog?” he asks, looking a bit guilty under the smile, as though he shouldn’t be laughing at the horrible little beast. “Or Lady Sybil?”

“Oh, I think it died of old age,” Arthur reassures him, “very happy and content and making everyone else very miserable. Lady Sybil wasn’t seated at the high table any longer after that, but she was tremendously old and wealthy, with no heir. So everything was set to go back to the crown and even Uther couldn’t do much about her. As far as I know she’s also still very happy and content and making everyone else very miserable. There was a reason that the two of them got on so well, you know.”

“A fine pair,” Merlin nods in understanding, eyes crinkling as he smiles.

“Mhm,” Arthur agrees. He takes out a candied ginger and offers it, hoping to use Merlin’s fair mood to coax him to eat a bit more. “I don’t have any swan,” he teases.

Merlin’s nose wrinkles, and he takes it with reluctance.

“Ugh,” he complains. He’s quiet, other than the crunching of the cold sweet. “Thank you,” he says, closing his eyes once more. “For the story. Was nice.”

“Do you want to go back for a rest?” Arthur asks, already starting to sort their things back together.

“No!” Merlin says, grabbing Arthur’s wrist and tugging him back down. He lets go like he’s burnt them both. “Sorry, I’m just - ” he cuts himself off, frustrated. He can’t kick his feet, swaddled by Aithusa, and he can’t twist his hands, back to holding onto the little metal hand warmer he’s been bullied into carrying, spelled each morning by one of the druids to not need a coal.

“It’s alright if you’re tired,” Arthur tries. “We can go back.”

“I’m not tired,” Merlin lies. Arthur merely raises an eyebrow until Merlin relents. “Fine, I’m tired,” he says, “but not so tired I can’t do anything. We’ve barely left the grove, and I don’t want to go back yet. I’m just cooped up, that’s all. Stuck in the snow, just like at the tower again.” He huffs, a cloud of steam rising like a dragon’s breath. “I just… I thought more would be different by now. There is something I thought I would have managed to do, but I still haven’t done it. Odd thoughts today, that’s all.”

Arthur knows what he means, he thinks.

“I’m stuck in my head, is where I’m stuck,” Merlin says quietly. “This should be easier, but I’m all,” he waves around a hand in sweeping circles. “You know?”

“Mm,” Arthur agrees softly. Personally, he thinks Merlin is in dire need of a good hot meal and a nap to sort himself out, but Arthur also knows better than to say as much. He’d certainly never enjoyed being told so when he was sick and crabby. He might also think that it’s rather impressive to sustain a whole forest just by wishing it so, actually, and that Merlin should be a little kinder to himself.

Arthur knows better than to say that, too.

Merlin’s magic is so easily tangled up in how he feels.

“How do you like life out of the tower, anyway?” Arthur asks, instead. Poking in the only way he knows how to, to try and suss out what the root cause is. Perhaps Merlin misses home, as much as he’d longed to leave it, or Freya. There have been good things along with the bad, of course, but have there been enough of them? Merlin deserves every good thing. “Everything you hoped for?”

He looks over to Arthur, and even the little sliver of his face that can be seen under all the furs seems crinkled with laughter.

“How do you think?” Merlin teases.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Arthur teases right back, pressing his shoulder into the soft give of the bear-fur mantle and happy to see a smile again, “you met a princess. Made some friends. Went to a festival.”

“Festival was pretty fun,” Merlin concedes, a hint of colour finding its way to his cheeks.

“Good,” Arthur says plainly, unable to summon up any more words. He wonders if Merlin still thinks about that morning after the celebration of midsummer. The flowers. Or their dance the night before. Arthur certainly does. An uncommon silence settles between them, awkward. He busies himself pretending to choose a book again, but the titles all seem to run together into nonsense.

“I - ” Merlin stutters, blushing something awful. “Well. Alright, here goes. There’s something. That is. The thing I haven’t done, that I mentioned before- it might be to, ah. To talk about something? With you.”

Arthur watches him, suddenly wishing he hadn’t brought it up. Hope and fear spark up hot within him out of the blue until he can’t tell which is which. He entirely forgets why he thought Gwaine had the wrong of it, or why Merlin should see more of the world before giving his heart away - instead very preoccupied by the notion that maybe, maybe, maybe. It thunders in his ears.

“The thing is,” Merlin rambles, picking up speed as he goes, words tumbling together, “I keep trying to say something, and then something else will happen, and I’ll think ‘oh, not now, later will be better,’, but later never seems to get here. Or it does, but there is still always something happening during the later, too, and I’m starting to think there will always be something, right? So I should just say it, right?”

“Right?” Arthur guesses, trying to sort through all the ranting. Probably.

“Right!” Merlin says, sitting up so his back is straight. He turns the hand warmer in little nervous circles, over and over. “Right,” he says again, more quietly.

Aithusa rises with a stretch, turning to press her head against them each in turn before wandering away to keep the unicorn company instead. Abandoning them to their own devices for the first time all winter. The snow crunches as she goes, revealing the green grass that still thrives underneath.

Arthur is not sure if this is easier or harder without her there as a buffer.

“I love you,” Merlin says softly, long heartbeats after she has gone, face bright as a cranberry, staring down at his own hands. “And sometimes I think you look at me, and… maybe you love me, too. You’re brave, though, so maybe you’d have said if you did, and I’m just imagining - ” he trails off, snapping his mouth closed and turning away. Braced for the worst.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, speechless. His hands are shaking.

“Oh, don’t,” Merlin complains. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t stick; instead he wipes a hand over his cheek so Arthur doesn’t see the wetness there. And it’s awful to think. That he should be the cause of any of Merlin’s tears, any of his doubt. “Don’t ‘Merlin’ me with that voice. If you don’t love me back it’s fine, but don’t - ”

“You wanted to experience the world so badly you ran away to do it,” Arthur says, feeling feverish and frantic, and so selfish, “and you’ve only just started - ”

“I ran away from the tower to you, you ass! Of course I want to see the world - I just want to see it with you!” Merlin declares with a crack in his voice, whirling where he sits to face Arthur fully when he tries to speak again, charging onwards now that it’s been said. No matter what Merlin thinks, he is far, far braver than Arthur. “I might not know much of the world, yes. I don’t know how to farm without magic, or what royal crest belongs to who or how to sail a ship or about taxes. I don’t know what a lot of things are like outside of books - but I do know my own heart! And no matter what else you still don’t get to decide for me what I feel!”

“I’m not trying to decide what you feel,” Arthur protests, ears still ten paces behind and ringing like bells with the ‘I love you,’. All the rest of the words seem to float away, inconsequential. Merlin surges up from his seat to flee before Arthur can say anything else, embarrassed and upset, so unhappy - and Arthur can’t stand it. It can’t be borne.

He reaches out and catches Merlin by the wrist before he can take more than a step. A tiny sliver of their skin touches under all the furs, the handwarmer dropping to the ground at their feet, snow scattering and steaming in its wake.

Merlin, even wrapped up in thick furs, is barely a wisp of a thing, too thin by half. Easily caught and held. It helps, Arthur thinks, that he wants to be caught - if he didn’t Arthur would probably be incinerated to nothing more than soot on the spot. Or at least this is how he reassures himself, a bout of nerves finding him far too late to be of any use. He’s got butterflies swarming in his stomach. A drum sounding in his head. One hand wrapped around the span of Merlin’s wrist, the other tangled in the fabric of his tunic at the small of his back.

It’s almost like when Arthur had tried to teach him to dance - almost. There is no cover of darkness to hide his blush under this time, no drink to loosen his tongue. Merlin has already been so brave, it’s long past Arthur’s turn. Brave, and beautiful. And a headache, he thinks, watching Merlin raise a challenging eyebrow the longer Arthur holds him in this warm limbo, pressed against one another. ‘And?’, he seems to say, ‘what will you do now?’. At least the sadness has gone, chased away and replaced with a spark of something bright. A challenge. Hope maybe, or mischief.

All three, knowing Merlin.

Arthur can’t help smiling at the sight of it. Too joyful, even as he finally dips forwards that final whisper of space to steal a kiss. His heart feels too big to contain, and any problems that might come tomorrow are too petty to give thought to. It’s familiar and foreign all at once. Merlin, but one he’s yet to know. He smells of herbs and parchment - tastes of ginger, and honey, and all of the world seems a little sweeter for it. It is chaste, and earnest, and heartfelt, and not nearly enough.

He pulls away, only so far as to see the way Merlin’s eyelashes fan across his cheeks where they’ve fallen closed, to take a shaking breath. He feels as though if the wanting hasn’t killed him that perhaps the having will. He kisses Merlin again anyway, desperate and starving, and then another three more for good measure, and another still. Until his lungs ache. Until he’s dizzy. This time when he pulls away Merlin stares at him, wide-eyed and flushed pink, livelier than he’s looked in weeks, and Arthur is stunned absolutely senseless. His hair is as soft as it looks, Arthur thinks, head clamouring in as noisy a roar as any tourney crowd.

“Of course I love you, don’t be stupid,” Arthur says breathlessly, heart caught up and bound tightly somewhere in his throat. Which is not at all what he had meant to say. In precisely none of his daydreams did he ever call Merlin stupid while confessing his feelings. His cheeks are so hot he’s surprised he hasn’t melted all the snow from here to the druid camp. The woods are still and bright around them. “How could I not?”

“You didn’t say anything,” Merlin says, staring somewhat vaguely at Arthur’s lips. Which, if they are anything like Merlin’s, are kiss stung and fascinating. Arthur quite understands the appeal.

“I thought you and Freya?” he asks, like some strange peace offering.

“No,” Merlin exclaims, startling the unicorn. Arthur has just enough presence of mind to wish the thing would have the decency to leave. “I mean, no, not - Freya, it’s. It’s always been you. Always.”

“Ah,” Arthur stammers, utterly overcome. “Yes. That is - me too. But you, I mean. It’s always been you.”

“Well,” Merlin says, fidgeting. An unsure, cautious sort of smile starts to spread across his face, until it is blinding. He’s glowing. “Well then. Isn’t that something.”

“You’re glowing,” Arthur says. Feeling rather vapid for it, but giddy to the core of him, so much so that he cannot care how foolish he sounds. Up until a crash of snow breaks wetly on his head down from a tree limb, startling him so badly they both slip to the ground in a mess of limbs. He feels a twisting root of the oak tree digging into his back as he blinks spots from his eyes; everything’s sodden. His hair and his shoulders are wet like someone’s dumped a bucket of water on him, teeth starting to chatter as he gasps.

“Whoops,” Merlin says, seemingly in no hurry to get up from where he’s landed on top of Arthur. All around them the snow has turned to icy puddles, even now quickly seeping away. A riot of flowers cover the ground as far as Arthur’s eyes can see. The unicorn nibbles on a handful, but it’s hard to mind this time. At least some of these must face the east. He can’t quite bring himself to look away and count.

“You’re glowing,” Arthur says once more, gazing up at Merlin, who is indeed radiating light like he’s swallowed a star.

“You’re beautiful,” Merlin says in reply, before surging forwards for another kiss that rocks Arthur back into the oak tree with a thud.

It is very flattering, but not at all what Arthur had meant. And yet, anyone would be a fool to deny Merlin whatever he pleases. Even so, after several long minutes of sitting in a freezing puddle he feels the need to clarify. “Merlin,” he says, between one feverish kiss and another, “you’re melting all the snow.”

“Why didn’t you say anything, it’s been ages,” Merlin complains, his warm breath a caress against Arthur’s cold neck, seemingly not having heard him at all.

“About the snow?”

“About Freya? Why didn’t you just ask?”

“Why didn’t you?” Arthur counters cleverly, trying simultaneously not to freeze and also sneak his cold hands into the warm mantle. Merlin’s waist seems impossibly narrow under his palms.

“I thought you’d met someone else and fallen in love,” Merlin admits. “Someone wonderful and interesting.”

“I do love someone wonderful and interesting,” Arthur allows, feeling well rewarded when Merlin ducks his head down for another kiss, shy and pleased. At least his teeth have stopped chattering. It’s actually growing a bit warm, under all their layers. “I just thought you would find - ”

Arthur cuts himself off, wishing he’d said nothing at all, as though speaking it will manifest his fears into being.

“What?” Merlin asks, close enough that their noses brush. “What?”

“You’ll find someone worthy of you,” Arthur confesses. He is just a man. Merlin is so much more. “You’ll outgrow me.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Merlin says tenderly, which startles a rough laugh out of Arthur before he can swallow it down. If he puts his foot in his mouth, at least he is in good company. “You’re forever for me.”

Even within his own mind Arthur is still not comfortable admitting how much he fears being let go of again. He aches with it, a wound that never healed up right. Struck hard and still tender.

But it is always so much easier to trust Merlin than himself.

And it feels so impossibly, immeasurably blissful. To revel in believing it. His eyes well up quite on their own accord, stinging even as his cheeks hurt from how he smiles. It seems unreal that anyone should be so lucky. That fortune might visit all her blessings onto one man.

Around them the snow steams up in curls, pushed out and away like Arthur is holding summer on his lap instead of Merlin. He pulls down until they are slotted together like puzzle pieces, burying his face into Merlin’s neck, the bear-fur mantle tickling his nose until he cries of it.

“I wish you loved yourself even half so much as I do,” Merlin says. His voice is barely more than a whisper against Arthur’s ear, sending a shiver all down his spine.

“I’d be pretty insufferable,” Arthur admits, basking in the truth of it. The air smells of snow, stinging his nose as he sniffs. “Since you love me quite a bit.”

“More,” Merlin insists, “and then more than that.”

“And I love you. Forever,” Arthur agrees, unable to think of a world where that would not be the truth. The two of them, together. Forever, and then ever after.

Chapter Text

Winter meanders slowly into spring, and the unicorn thrives.

Under the boughs of the same oak where Merlin and he first shared their feelings, now they watch as she takes a loop, cantering through the fresh grass. Healthy at last, it’s like looking at moonlight that has descended to earth and decided to take the shape of a horse and all the manners of a newborn goat.

“I’ll miss her,” Merlin admits, wistful.

“She is lovely,” Arthur agrees, carefully not thinking of the increasingly energetic nips she tends to give as she feels better. Or as Arthur’s thoughts become less and less virginal - it’s certain to be one of the two. He’s not entirely sure how it works. Can she hear his thoughts?

She looks over to him, big placid eyes blinking, and he thinks determinedly of what he’d like to eat for lunch and the colours of the fresh grown flowers in the meadow. How clear the sky is and how soft the birdsong - and nothing remotely salacious whatsoever.

Even though Merlin does look lovely today, healthy and happy, eyes blue like spring rivers-

No, he clamps down on the thought.

Just in case.

“Oi,” Gwaine calls out from the direction of the camp, interrupting the peace and stomping through the brush that has grown over the path, “lovebirds. You’ll never guess who’s finally returned!”

“Elyan?” Merlin asks.

“Well fair play, you’ve guessed it,” Gwaine acquiesces with easy humour.

Arthur rises, brushing the grass off of his cloak before reaching a hand to help Merlin to his feet. He hardly needs it, now, hale and well on the mend, it’s just polite. Or at least this is what Arthur tells himself. He ignores the blush he can feel as neither of them let go once Merlin has risen - Gwaine hasn’t stopped teasing them for an instant, but it’s hard to be angry when he’s so clearly delighted by the match.

Perhaps one day he might even stop rubbing Arthur’s face in the fact that he had been right all along. Although it hardly seems likely.

“Any news?” Arthur asks. He casts an eye back to the unicorn, who disappears into the woods like a ghost.

“News, news, news,” Gwaine gripes to Merlin as they turn back towards the encampment; half disassembled as it is. The druids plan to move on now that they are able, the milder cold of spring having arrived at last. “Always the same with this one. Can’t spare a moment to ask how Elyan’s travels were? Haven’t you ever heard of small talk? Try it with me now. How’s the weather?”

“How’s the weather, Gwaine?” Arthur asks, letting a branch swing back to hit the other man in the face.

“Ugh,” Gwaine sputters, spitting out a mouthful of leaves and his own hair. “And this is the man you’ve chosen to love?” he asks Merlin, pulling a judgmental face.

“It seems so,” Merlin agrees with a laugh, swinging their joined hands between them.

“No accounting for taste,” Gwaine sighs.

The walk is a short one, and they are greeted by a bustling camp at the end of it. The marks of their passing are slowly being erased before the departure tomorrow. The forest floor has long been trod flat, but stones gathered for fire pits are being returned, tents are coming down, provisions loaded into wagons and packs. And at one end of it are Elyan and Lancelot, chatting as they catch up, Percival loitering quietly on the edges.

“About time,” Elyan greets them with a bright smile upon their arrival, coming forward to give them both quick back slapping embraces in turn. He’s bundled against the chill, but his shoulder moves with ease, Arthur is relieved to see. “I was afraid I’d pass of old age before you came to your senses.”

“No, just before Lancelot does,” Arthur deflects, ignoring the ensuing complaints of betrayal that it earns from the man in question. “How is the fair Guinevere? Have you had a good visit?”

“Ah,” Elyan hedges, stepping back and looking about the camp before answering, “yes. Mostly. Gwen is doing well, thank you. She sends her best wishes to you. I’ve a letter, actually. I’ll have to dig for it.”

“And Morgana?” Arthur asks, even if it is rude. Elyan’s demeanour worries him, though - it’s been a long winter, and her health has been so strained.

“She is well,” Elyan answers, frowning. “Or well enough. Gwen says she’s sleeping more poorly than ever, and the demands of her position are high. Not a lot of time for rest, I think, and when she gets it it’s no good. I… am to tell you she is being sent out to treat with the kingdom of Gwynedd, though.”

“Morgana is?” Arthur blinks, surprised. “Not Uther? Does he mean to insult Caerleon by not going himself? What of the raids?”

“I don’t think Uther finds much bite in him. Only barking,” Elyan says, carefully weighing his words. “Or at least that’s the feeling I got, filtered down through Gwen. I can’t know his intentions, but I do know Leon will be with her,” he says, which gives Arthur a fleeting reassurance. “Here, I’ll find the letters, read for yourself.”

“Thank you,” Arthur finally remembers to say. He absolutely refuses to acknowledge that Gwaine might have a second valid point about him. One is plenty. “And I’m glad you got to spend some real time with Gwen.”

“Not just Gwen,” Elyan waves his thanks away with a smile. “I was gone for a whole season and then some, you’ll remember. I managed to pay a visit to the tower as well, to see my father and bring him word from Gwen, and she word from him. Alice has sent nearly a barrel full of potions along with me, I think, and Alator wants me to make sure you’ve kept up with your training.”

He says it with a very mean sort of grin.

At his side Merlin stifles a smile, biting at his lip not to laugh.

“I have so,” Arthur protests. It’s… somewhat the truth. Although perhaps not as much training was done as he would have otherwise, had he not been so distracted. So really, if anyone is to blame it’s Merlin.

Who is very distracting.

“Well, comfort yourself that at least Alice will be pleased that you make such a fine nursemaid,” Merlin teases, “even if next time you see Alator he absolutely wallops you. At least you’ll be able to tend to your own injuries.”

“Funny,” Arthur huffs.

“Here,” Elyan passes over a fat stack of letters, wrapped with twine. At the bottom is a heft of weight that Arthur puzzles over. It’s thin, and encased with leather, about as wide as his palm. “From everyone of your acquaintance, I think.”

“Aren’t you a proper messenger?” Gwaine says, whistling at the sight of them and then the second batch coming in their wake for Lancelot. From Gwen, Arthur presumes, seeing the way he lights up. “You should charge. Where are my love letters?”

“Please,” Elyan scoffs, descending into the easy bickering as though he’d never left. “As if anyone would have you twice after they smelled your feet.”

Arthur takes them eagerly, ignoring Gwaine’s protests and flipping through the stack as Merlin looks over his shoulder, curious. Morgana, Gwen, two from Balinor; one for each of them, Alator, Finna - the names do go on. Even Tristan and Isolde, the smugglers who gave him word of the Caer where they found Gwaine once again, have sent a scrap of a note. Freya, it seems, has sent a letter to the both of them, little paintings of green ferns on the corners of her name.

“Oh,” Merlin says, touched, “I told her I didn’t want my paints to go to waste.”

This time Arthur feels only fondness at the thought of her, free of jealousy now that he knows the truth of things. Arthur keeps only half an ear out as he opens the first one, barely making a pretence at politeness.

Morgana’s letter dishearteningly begins like one written for statecraft over familiarity. Filled with well wishes and queries about his continued health. It is not until over halfway through when she addresses how it strained her to write letters mourning the deaths of the knights of Gawant to Elena. That she had counted a rare friend among them that she rode with. Or of the physician who had tended to her scrapes ever since she was an infant.

Arthur does not know if Morgana is aware of Morgause’s guilt in the matter, but the slaughter has not pleased her. Guiltily he realises he had been worried that it would.

She writes of the growing attacks on outlying villages, the picking at territory like a hungry hen at a feast. How Caerleon finds Camelot’s position weak, casting both lineage and honour under question. He seizes the growing disquiet with Uther’s rule to strengthen his own lands.

She writes that she will be sent with a strong company to convince this to end; one way or another.

He folds the letter back in half with a careful crease, tapping the rough edges of the parchment with pensive fingers.

Little good can come of this. Caerleon is not wrong in that Uther’s reputation sinks as Rheged’s rises. That in itself has little bearing on the unmatched quality of Camelot’s army, however. It will be a bloodbath if Caerleon and his men cannot be convinced to cease - one Morgana would be the tip of the spear for.

At least, he reassures himself, Nimueh is there, for a cooler head he has never known. Gwynedd must not join with Morgause. It is too late for Cenred, his loyalty is doubtful to ever be swayed, but should another kingdom join them? Nemeth has no love for Uther, and the peace between Camelot and Mercia is fresh and fragile. Gawant may stay with Camelot out of friendship, but King Godwyn might deem it too costly should there be more players. A cautious, sensible man. King Olaf cares for his daughter, land, legacy and glory alone. Skirmishes already plague so many, and this could so easily tip the scales into an outright war between all kingdoms, fighting for the scraps of Camelot’s carcass.

His father. Uther himself might very well deserve such a thing.

Arthur cannot deny it.

But the innocent people of Camelot do not, and he loves them still. Uther will be the last one to pay the price, when death and war come collecting.

“Hey,” Merlin says in a whisper, “alright?” He leans against Arthur’s arm, a comforting press of weight, solid and real. “Aithusa’s coming back from her flight soon,” he continues when Arthur leans back in. Knowing what Arthur needs without having to be told. Merlin nods his head up towards the sky, where Aithusa has gone to stretch her wings over the Great Seas of Meredor to the west. “She’s grown so much this winter. I was hoping to see if we could fly together before we move on, maybe you want to watch? You can read the rest of your letters.”

“You’re feeling well enough?” Arthur cannot help but ask, even as it earns him an elbow to his side. He puts the other pages away for now, and the little package.

“Yes you great nanny goat,” Merlin groans with a gusty sigh, “as I have been for ages.”

Arthur snorts. The way Merlin goes on about it mere hours must drag on to be ages.

“Come on then, let’s go,” he agrees, offering their goodbyes before they depart towards the coast. As the bustle grows quieter behind them, and they are alone upon the path, Arthur brings their joined hands up to kiss the back of Merlin’s fingers, one by one.

“What’s that for, then?” Merlin asks, a sweet smile blooming like a flower.

“For being you,” Arthur says against their hands, pressing another kiss against the soft skin there before lowering them as they continue. Merlin ducks his head, still beaming as he examines the forest floor, the trees - anything that is not Arthur. For having been so bold in confessing his feelings, Arthur has found him to be strangely embarrassed by the smallest things.

Which only makes Arthur do them more, of course.

The trail leads them to the cobbled beach of Meredor, where the jagged white cliffs shine bright in the sun - and where Aithusa tears down through the sky like a falcon after a mouse at the sight of them. She greets them with as much unquenchable energy as ever, even more so when the idea that she and Merlin will finally try and fly together is proposed.

The delay over the winter had been impossible to avoid, but it was one that frustrated them both.

Arthur makes himself at home on a driftwood log as they ready, bleached pale and dove grey under the sun. He kicks his legs out and crosses his ankles, squinting into the horizon. Merlin had said he might read his letters, but Arthur would sooner cut off his own arm than miss this - it feels as though he’s been waiting as much as either of them, which can’t possibly be true.

Merlin trots over to him, leaving Aithusa behind.

“A kiss for luck,” he demands, pointing to his own face.

“Ah,” Arthur laughs and tugs and tugs him down to do so, all too happy to oblige. He tucks a lock of hair behind one of Merlin’s ears as he draws away, tracing the line of a silver pin in the swooping shape of a heron. It sparkles, but not so much as Merlin’s eyes. “You’ll be brilliant, both of you.”

“Pah, what do you know?” Merlin teases, cheeks dimpling. “You can’t even stay on her on land.”

“Oh, well isn’t that nice,” Arthur huffs, crossing his arms across his chest. “Maybe I’ll just head back then, make sure Aglain and the others don’t need any help with breaking down the camp.” He pretends to stand as if he might actually do so, yielding immediately as Merlin pushes him back down.

“No, no,” Merlin says, “I take it all back, ser.” But still he does not return to Aithusa, looking down at Arthur with a soft expression.

“You aren’t nervous, are you?”

“No,” Merlin says, “not really. We’re both past ready. I’m just… having a look at you.”

“Well, look from the sky,” Arthur protests, feeling his own traitorous embarrassment rise up in answer.

“Fine, I’m going, I’m going,” Merlin calls over his shoulder as he does. Aithusa awaits him, looking as eager and alert as any creature in the world can. She has grown. All winter she’s grown. Shedding scales and standing taller by far than even the largest draft horse and growing still - and yet impossibly Arthur keeps being surprised by it. In his mind and in his memory she will always be something he can hold with his own two arms.

It seems a curious wonder to look upon the white and blue of the shore and the sea once more, and to smell the air brought in on the tide. So different to all of the thick moss and greens of the forest that have overtaken the snow, the verdant smell of the earth. It is different again to Tintagel, but his mind carries him there nevertheless.

Perhaps they might return there. It would be something truly splendid to see that from above - the water so rich of a cerulean that he’s never since it’s equal, before or since, like a copper patina spilling across the sea.

Arthur is dragged back to the present as Merlin throws a leg over Aithusa, who doesn’t hesitate to leap forwards in a bound that takes them skyward, wings giving a great push. They glide forwards with a wobble that sets his heart up in his throat, only relaxing as he hears Merlin’s whoop of laughter carried over to him by the wind. And then they are up, simple as that.

Past ready, Merlin had said.

It must be the truth, for there they go, without a single care for Arthur’s already overwhelmed feelings, soaring through the clear sky as if they had been made from birth to do just that. At last, is all he can think, rising from his seat and sprinting along the shore as they sail across the air.

He doesn’t stop until he feels the shock of cold water splash into his boots - filling them like buckets. It knocks a laugh out of him, still giddy and breathless watching them go.

They skim low along the waves, sending a spray in their wake before Aithusa takes them up again, playfully skipping like a stone across the sea. He loses sight of them as she ascends into the blinding sun, and he’s left there on the beach, grinning like a loon. Gulls call, alarmed at all the fuss. Arthur could never muster a shred of jealousy for their flight, but he can’t wait for the day he and Aithusa can fly together too. Or better yet the three of them, all of the world open in front of them. A promise finally fulfilled.

He heads back to the log after enough time passes staring at an empty sky that his curiosity about the rest of the letters gets the best of him, yanking off his boots and shaking out the water, eyes still tracing the horizon. His feet are freezing.

At least he has the bear-fur mantle returned to him, now that Merlin has finally relinquished it.

He starts in reading. Balinor makes for a stoic, dry sort of writer, but that is nothing Arthur did not already know from previous exchanges. A distant fear occurs to him, however, upon reading the letter - the sudden, bone-chilling knowledge that someone will have to be the one to inform Balinor that Arthur and Merlin are now, well, Arthur and Merlin.

Maybe Merlin will do it, Arthur tells himself, bolstering his nerves back up.

Balinor writes that Nimueh has returned to the tower for winter, which is exactly the opposite of what Arthur wishes to read. That she feels while Queen Annis is not a warmonger that her husband is opportunistic and overconfident, and will not be swayed. Despite her efforts, he seems to have not taken Nimueh’s warnings of Morgause with any seriousness. And Arthur was wrong, before - that is the exact opposite of what he wishes to read.

Yet wishing it so will not make it so.

The next letter reveals Tristan and Isolde write warning him that the Castle of Fyrien has become overrun with Caerleon’s men.

Hells, he thinks, a grim sort of dread coming over him. Bad tidings become worse tidings. The tunnels that web underneath the castle have long been abandoned; making them perfect for smuggling. Weapons, certainly, but also heavily taxed things such as spices and dyes. Goods of all sorts.

Even people.

Leon and Gaius have aided more than a few sorcerers in their escape out of Camelot through those tunnels. And now the way is shut. The exit being sat upon by the very man with whom Morgana seeks to treat.

The other letters are less dire, at least. Finna writes of the expansion of the no longer quite so little village that grows around the great stone tower. Alator is hopeful as well, in his way. That there is a place for magical peoples to go, to sleep safely in their own beds.

Rheged grows, and thrives.

As frightened as he is for Morgana and Leon, there is hope to be found as well.

The leather wrapped parcel comes out next, tied snugly enough that it takes a frustrating minute of fumbling to get it open. A little note sits atop whatever it is, wrapped again in a plain cloth.

Arthur, the note reads in Morgana’s elegant script, I thought you would like to have this back. I hope Elyan can be trusted to deliver it to you safely, as Gwen assures me, and that you agree it was worth the risk. Be well.

Anticipation flutters through him as he pulls the cloth to the side, motionless as marble as he stares in disbelief at his mother’s sigil. A shining silver, the lines are familiar to him even after all these years - the sun cross, and a softer version of her family crest, a bird in flight. He had held this so many times as a boy, looking at it as though it might spill some secret of hers to him in her stead.

He thought he would never see it again.

Long since lost to him in his chambers in Camelot, left behind without a care or a thought that he may never return to it. It is a kindness he had never even thought to ask for, yet Morgana has returned to him something precious beyond measure.

More than the emotional, as well - it is proof of his line. It marks him as the son of the Queen of Camelot and Princess of Tintagel. The only heir of her house, for so long as his uncle has no children. He has to close his eyes for a moment, suddenly finding them stinging. The sigil is still a heavy weight in his hand, still there when he opens his eyes once more.

Above him he hears the flapping of wings and a note of laughter that is stolen away by the wind and distance. Aithusa’s shadow spins around him in a circle as she lowers to land, clumsy like she hasn’t been since she was a baby. Merlin’s face is lit up with his joy, and Arthur cannot help but to mirror it.

“Fun?” he asks, still cradling the sigil.

“Nah, didn’t really fancy it,” Merlin lies, beaming as he hops off of Aithusa, peppering enthusiastic kisses to her long snout that she returns. He wheels about to come pepper enthusiastic kisses on Arthur’s cheeks, nose shockingly cold from the flight. “What’s happened to your boots?”

“I don’t suppose you might dry them? I might have run into the sea.” Arthur scrunches his nose up, lifting one up and tipping out another few drops of saltwater. “Turns out I can’t run as fast as a dragon.”

“Well that’s weird,” Merlin says, drying the boots out in a blink. “I suppose that’s what you get for slacking in training. What’s that you’ve got? It’s beautiful.”

Arthur hefts the sigil up, offering it to his curious audience of two.

“My mother’s sigil,” he says, turning it so the sun drips along the fine carvings in the silver, gleaming. Aithusa gives it a sniff. “Morgana sent it.”

Merlin is quiet as he looks it over, as attentive and curious as he always is.

“It is beautiful. That was kind of her,” he says, voice a careful neutral tone.

“It was,” Arthur agrees. “More than you know, maybe.” The intricacies of royal linage and inheritance are something Merlin would have little reason to know, after all. Little care, too. “It’s,” he stumbles over his words. How to explain it, what it means. “It’s trust.”

Merlin looks up from the sigil, meeting Arthur’s eyes. The look about his face grows softer.

“Then I’m glad.” He comes to sit at Arthur’s side, Aithusa squirming like a cat on the sun warmed cobbles, panting and exhausted. So even she can get tired, he thinks. “You want to go to her, don’t you?”

Arthur snaps his head up, feeling caught out.

“She’s nearby, right?” Merlin continues, not a trace of judgement in his bearing. “I know she’s important to you, I just wish - ” he sighs, stopping himself from saying something harsh.

“I know you met her under circumstances that - ”

“She hurt you - ”

“She’s my sister - ”

“That doesn’t excuse it!” Merlin says, reaching to take Arthur’s free hand with a startling gentleness considering the snap in his words. “Just because she’s your family doesn’t give her the right to hurt you.”

“She thought she had to,” Arthur says, realising how awful it sounds even as he does. “She thought she had to protect herself,” he corrects quickly, watching Merlin purse his mouth. “Look at her actions now, instead - even if you dislike her, or can’t trust her words.” Arthur places the sigil between them for Merlin to see once more. “This is more than a lump of silver, or what it means to me personally. It is power - over her, easily. Proof of blood, of an inheritance that would be impossible to deny. She trusts me not to use it to hurt her. And she has been hurt, she has been afraid. It’s as close to admitting she was wrong as Morgana ever gets.”

Merlin sighs, deeply put upon, which means Arthur has made his point, even though this is one subject they may never agree upon.

“I do want to go to her,” he admits. “Do you remember the smuggler acquaintances I spoke of once before?”

“The ones who tipped you off about Jarl.” Merlin recalls.

“The very same,” Arthur says, flipping through the letters before finding the note once more, passing it over. “The tunnels under Fyrien are from before my time, but I learned of them from my father. The castle was built by an old merchant - a cheap, tax dodging kind, who used them to bypass checkpoints. Kept classified, and sealed after he defeated Caerleon at the Battle of Denaria.” Arthur leans in as though he is sharing a secret, though the only ones who might overhear are the seagulls. “Not that sealed, though. I might have told Leon where one of the entrances is. It’s been in use since, to move magic users out of Camelot.”

Merlin’s eyes go wide.

“In exchange for use of the tunnels Tristan and Isolde - those are the smugglers - they’ll escort people out of Fyrien and up along the coast to safety on the water, to Rheged, mostly,” Arthur explains. “It’s mutually beneficial, but now Caerleon has gone back to the castle, which means - ”

“It’s no good,” Merlin fills in with quick understanding. “Well, shit.”

“Quite,” Arthur agrees.

“So we go to Fyrien,” Merlin says, squeezing their hands together, reassuring, “and do what? Oust Caerleon?”

“If I knew,” Arthur sighs, “I would tell you.” He wonders what Balinor would have them do. “Caerleon can’t keep doing what he’s doing, but I don’t know if there is anything that will make him stop save war; and now he’s set up shop inside Camelot’s borders, even if the castle is abandoned. Morgana is to treat with him, but it doesn’t seem hopeful.”

“That doesn’t mean we don’t try,” Merlin says, cutting straight to the quick of it.

“No, of course it doesn’t,” Arthur says, weaving their fingers together. “We’ll go. It might be dangerous. If the others want to part ways - ”

“I doubt it,” Merlin says, a smile beginning to take shape, “and I’m not sure I’d suggest it, but on your head be it!” He leans in to rest his temple against Arthur’s shoulder with a sigh. His hair, already a mess from flying, fluffs out and touches Arthur’s cheek in the breeze, a gentle tickle. “You remember what my Da said, before we came here?”

“About what?”

“About you, and Tyr I suppose,” Merlin looks down at their joined hands. “About how the world needs more heart in it, not less.” Thankfully he doesn’t seem to be waiting for an answer, as Arthur has none. “Listen. I trust you to know when to fight, and when to show mercy. You’ll know what is right when you get to see things with your own eyes.”

Arthur hopes he is right.

He watches Aithusa, dead asleep to the world. It has been a hard adjustment to the thought of Merlin and Aithusa no longer hiding. If it comes down to a fight he has no right to stop them - it just turns his stomach to think of them in danger.

“If I go - if we go,” he corrects himself, “any last pretence of anonymity will be lost. Even if we never so much as set eyes on Caerleon, even if Morgana or Leon never speaks of it, she will be attended. I’ll be known to them. You’ll become known to them. Knights I have trained with, maids - ”

“It’s alright,” Merlin soothes him.

The rolling of the waves and the sound of them breaking on the shore is the only noise in the world for a long moment. It’s been peaceful, this long winter. He looks down at their joined hands, the red of Merlin’s chill fingers. He drags Merlin closer, flinging his own cloak over both of them like a blanket, the heavy mantle keeping out the wind, bundled up in their own little world.

“Course it is,” Arthur says, voice a bit more gruff than he might have meant it. “I know you don’t want to hide forever. I do know. And I won’t ask it of you. You’ll be careful, though?”

“I will,” Merlin promises. For once he doesn’t make a joke of it. No eye rolling, no jesting. Sincere in a way that settles Arthur’s worries better than anything else ever could.

“I’ll protect you,” he says, ignoring the embarrassed sort of squirming feeling it produces within him, still unused to such naked adoration. Yet Merlin’s honesty deserves nothing less than Arthur’s. “I know you don’t need it, but - ”

“I do so need it,” Merlin scoffs, despite clearly being thrilled to pieces. “You’re my knight, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Arthur says hoarsely. He thinks of the little scrap of red fabric that remains tied to his bow, a favour salvaged from the little silver bird. He wonders if Merlin might give him another. Clears his throat and tries again. “Yes.” Then, unable to withstand the longing in his heart, he teases, as they are both wont to do. “Your Majesty.”

Merlin laughs, and everything is right in the world.

***

Merlin had been right. No one wishes to part ways, even though it does mean a different sort of danger than the usual. None of them are a stranger to risk, but it still moves Arthur beyond measure to feel united in purpose with such men.

And so comes their last night of sleep among the druids, Merlin’s cold toes wedged between Arthur’s legs and all, and then the dawn; and with it they bid their last goodbyes. The unicorn had nipped at Merlin’s hair, and nearly gored Arthur with an affectionate headbutt when they paid their last visit.

Now Merlin waggles his fingers at some of the younger ones who haven’t quite gotten over their awe at meeting Emrys from their stories, despite seeing his hair in the morning. Arthur tries and fails not to find it utterly charming, before recalling that he is free to find it however charming he likes. If he had ever thought saying he was in love would cure him of his foolishness, he’s learning better. He’s twice as foolish now, easily. More. He spins his mother’s ring on his finger, feeling a soppy smile start up.

“I’m sorry, what?” Arthur asks, schooling his face as he turns to Aglain once more, remembering where they are.

“Merely wishing you safe travels,” he answers, an inscrutable, otherworldly amusement on his face. Arthur wonders if it is something they teach all druids, or merely most of them. “It has been a very enlightening winter.” He turns to Merlin - who is making faces at the children now - bowing his head with solemnity. “Emrys. You will always be welcome among the druids. I must thank you. You have our eternal gratitude - ”

“Please, no,” Merlin holds up his hands in protest, waving madly as the druid children laugh and scatter away. “It was my pleasure! Who doesn’t love a unicorn, right?”

“Yes,” Aglain says mildly, somehow far more damning than if he had just called them both idiots, as he must be thinking, “as you say.”

“Well,” Merlin says, brimming over with awkwardness, looking desperately to Arthur.

He clears his throat, sketching a short bow to Aglain. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he says, to which Merlin nods frantically. His pins click and clack in his hair as he does. “It was our honour to have the chance to get to know you and your people.”

Merlin copies his bow, even though he need not bow to anyone, and Aglain has mercy and leaves them be.

“I never know what to say,” Merlin complains quietly, straightening his sleeves. As promised, he is being careful - under his dull leathers hides the dragonscale armour, growing as quickly as Aithusa does.

“Try not to worry so much,” Arthur says, which is rich of him, as it seems all he does is worry. “They love you.”

“They love you,” Merlin rebuts, nonsensically.

Arthur rolls his eyes, triple checking Llamrei and running a fond hand down her velvety muzzle. Even Bluebell gets a few pats, as he finds his heart much softer towards her now that she’s no longer the same harbinger of evil that she once was. In an effort to not borrow more trouble sooner than they need to, Aithusa is masquerading as a horse once again, as splendid and spoiled of one as ever.

Still less eye catching than a dragon, if only by a little.

The castle of Fyrien is less than a days ride away, but Arthur feels as though they are preparing for a siege as he adjusts his quiver. It is unclear what they will find, but better to be over prepared than under.

All he sees of the unicorn is a fleeting wisp of white through the treeline. He raises his hand to her, for all that she will never see or know his meaning. He owes her much, though, and will never forget it.

The druid party head away, towards the east, vanishing in the forest with the ease of long practice.

“To Fyrien,” he says at last, once every one of them has gone, mounting Llamrei.

To the northwest, along the cliffs, that is where their destination lies. The weather beaten castle, abandoned for over twenty years, ever since Gwynedd’s last occupation. Caerleon was surprised by the tunnels once before - even if he never intends to take them into the heart of Camelot he will still be wary of an ambush. If the entrances to the tunnels aren’t barricaded already Arthur will eat his hat.

They ride cautiously, but what little trail there is is overgrown and unused. They halt to rest the horses and themselves alike, a quiet atmosphere upon them. Elyan and Lancelot take up guard positions without needing to be asked, and Merlin sits himself down, waving Arthur to his side.

“I’ll look from above, now that we’re closer,” he says. “The castle is by the sea, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Arthur says, sitting behind Merlin to hold fast once he begins his strange eye-trade ritual once more. “On the water itself, you can’t miss it.”

“I’ll find a tern or something,” Merlin says, leaning back against Arthur’s chest with a deep breath and a bright smile. “What birds stay for the winter, anyway? Dunlins? Plovers? No matter, I’ll find someone!”

Without waiting for a reply, Merlin is gone. It’s no less alarming the second time, even knowing what’s coming. Tense and twitching, he falls back against Arthur, who can only hold him up. His eyes go the jet black of any number of sea-birds, like wet spilled ink. Each breath comes in a small little hitch, his heartbeat galloping under Arthur’s palm.

Gwaine is uncommonly quiet, and has been all morning. Meanwhile Percival watches over Merlin with a wary eye.

“He’s alright?” he asks, thankfully only sounding concerned for Merlin, not wary of the magic itself.

“He’s fine,” Arthur assures them both, “just scouting for us. A lot of coast to cover, and the knights could be anywhere. Winter’s only just broken,” he says more optimistically, “odds are good we catch them before they reach Caerleon.”

What happens after, Arthur only wishes he knew. Gwaine gives a short nod in reply, twisting a bit of grass between his fingers over and over.

Merlin had been right, though - it doesn’t mean they won’t try.

After a tense quarter hour he is still in Arthur’s arms, finally growing limp as he comes back to himself. He blinks, rubbing his eyes until they are the familiar rich blue.

“I’ve found them,” he exclaims, pointing vaguely east, “to the north of us.”

“You’re certain?” Arthur asks, manhandling Merlin until he’s actually pointing to the north and waiting until he gets a sheepish, red-cheeked nod. He gets up and helps Merlin to stand, even as Gwaine and Percy start readying to go once more.

“Unless there are a lot of different troupes of knights wearing red capes wandering around the countryside,” Merlin trails off dryly, spreading his hands open.

“Mm,” Arthur hums, amused despite everything. “Well then. Let’s go find them.”

Chapter Text

For all that Arthur has given his best efforts to mentally prepare, there is nothing that can be done to steel himself against the look on Geraint’s face when he sees that it is Arthur at the other end of his sword.

It is raised defensively, in the only sensible answer to a group of armed strangers approaching their caravan in a territory overrun with mercenaries and raiders.

“Hello, Geraint,” Arthur says evenly, holding up his empty hands, “I’d like to speak to Morgana or Leon, if that’s alright.”

“What?” comes the knight’s reply, his eyes flickering up and down Arthur like he’s a figment, then over to Merlin and the rest of their party.

Arthur wonders how he must have changed in the other man’s eyes. Last they had known each other properly was in Camelot, when Arthur was fifteen and Geraint still a squire. An exceptionally tall one, but a squire nonetheless. As Arthur had seen at Elena’s tourney, Geraint is half a head taller now, but his red hair is the same, shorn close to his head with a tiny bit of bright orange scruff about his face in want of a shave, dressed in the chain mail and red cape of a full fledged knight.

Arthur has finally replaced his worn out gambeson for a better-fitting green one over the winter, courtesy of the druids; a gift he felt unworthy of but did not dare refuse. His own chain mail is still of Camelot make, as there is none finer - or there was not. Tom has left, and Arthur certainly can’t name who has replaced him. It’s been kept immaculate all these years, though, patched and mended. Now covered with his embroidered cloak with its many protections as well as the bear-fur mantle. Head to toe, he must look like a proper deserter.

He remembers what people used to say about the druids, back in Camelot. Anything from death-worshipers to bound servants of dragons. One is rather more true than the other, though neither gets it right.

There are worse things in life to be, Arthur supposes, all things considered.

“My lord?” Geraint says, the tip of his sword wavering in his hold. His eyes are wide and his voice is choked. “Prince Arthur?”

“None of that,” Arthur sighs, his body suddenly feeling heavy with an ache that isn’t sorrow but is a close companion, “but it is good to see you well. Morgana?” he asks again. “Or Leon, if you prefer it.” He carefully does not give the option of fetching neither of them - as he hardly has plans to leave without speaking to at least one.

“Yes, my lord,” Geraint says, stunned so deeply he drops into old habits. “Leon!” he bellows, not letting Arthur out of his sight for a moment. His sword is lowered, but not sheathed. A fine knight, in truth, although Arthur wishes things were different. “I know you,” Geraint says ponderously, looking over Merlin with suspicion. “I recognize your face.”

“Hello.” Merlin gives a short wave and an awkward smile. He appears quite different to the finely presented Lord Myrddin had in Gawant, but perhaps not different enough. He’d certainly kept enough company with Elena and Morgana that his face would be a familiar one. Aithusa tosses her head, more recognizable than either of them, by far.

Thankfully it does not take long for the woods to sound out with the rustle of running feet, Leon coming forth, sword in hand, along with Owain hot on his heels.

Arthur sighs again, unable to help himself.

“Leon,” he says, mustering up a smile, and wondering how many times he will have to go through this same routine, like some sort of dancing bear, “Owain.”

“Arthur?” Leon gapes, his mouth agog.

“My lord?” Owain asks, in no better state, “you’re here, you’re alive!”

“Oh good gods,” Arthur mutters, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as they all stand around staring at one another like ninnies. Gwaine and the others stay silent behind him, waiting it all out. “Leon,” he tries again, louder, “Owain. It does me much good to see you both. I’d like to speak to you,” he meets Leon’s eyes, trying to convey without words that he means no harm. “Alone?”

“Of course,” Leon agrees, sheathing his sword and standing at attention.

“No,” says Geraint immediately, “I’ll not be leaving, you’ll just get kidnapped again.”

Arthur remembers quite liking Geraint, which he reminds himself of as he feels his jaw clench.

“I’m not in any danger, for god’s sake,” Arthur protests, letting his hands fall down to his sides. “I just need to talk to you about Caerleon.”

“Have you heard already, then?” Leon asks, his face growing grim. “How?”

Arthur’s stomach sinks like a stone in cold water.

“Heard what?” he hears Gwaine ask behind him, uncommonly serious.

“He’s dead,” Leon says plainly, motioning for Geraint and Owain to sheathe their swords, “as of this morning.” His throat bobs as he swallows, betraying his nerves.

“This morning?” Arthur repeats dumbly, completely unprepared. “This morning?” It doesn’t sound any cleverer the second time. He exchanges a baffled look with Merlin, who shrugs and shakes his head, eyes wide. Somehow it feels as though one of them should have known about it, although it makes no earthly sense as to how they would.

“Perhaps I should escort you to Morgana,” Leon suggests.

“That seems a very good idea,” Arthur agrees, hoping that will shed even an iota of light on what has happened. It’s not as though he’ll mourn the man, but Caerleon’s men won’t take this easily. What has happened?

It is at first a strange amusement to trample through the thin forest surrounded by friends and friends who have become strangers. He hopes it will not stay as such, but he does not dare depend on it. He must not forget what knights of Camelot are instructed to do with sorcerers - and there are none in the world more sorcererous than Merlin.

The oddity becomes less charming.

The wood only grows thinner the closer to the coast they come, the brush turning into scrubby, dry grasses. The camp that they reach is precisely nothing like what they have left behind at the druids, or the sort that a group of six might make for themselves. The smells of horse and wood smoke fill the air; whatever manages to linger through the clean wind from the sea, barely a stone’s throw away. Well fortified, with orderly tents that might sleep three or four set in tight lines, a larger pavilion with Camelot red banners in the centre as well as a fire pit, barrels of drink and dried foods brought on wagons. Arthur tries to do a quick bit of maths to estimate the forces that have been spared for this. Two dozen knights, easily, and then maybe ten fighting men under each of them, not to mention the camphands and labourers. Well organised.

No small scouting party, not at all.

When Arthur had decided to drag them here he had thought twenty men meeting for a treaty, a ceasefire. Has a siege been planned from the very start? What of Camelot’s borders toward Cenred? This is no small portion of their army, is the south undefended? He casts a wary look to the sea of red, knights and soldiers alike. It is far too late to turn back now, but he can only pray none try and take him back to Camelot by force.

Not a one of them would enjoy that.

A portable war table of thin wood stands in the shade of the central pavilion, draped in maps and iron markers; and overseeing it all stands Morgana, regal as any queen.

Her back is to them, perfectly disciplined, her dark hair bound in a strict braid that hangs straight down the line of her spine. It is so black as to look like pitch against the bright silver of her fine chain, splitting her in two.

“My lady,” Leon says, and when she turns, her face is practically in two as well. Most of it remains the familiar pale, not a hint of colour to be found upon her lips nor one cheek - it is the other that is black and blue with wretched bruising, a split in her skin still slowly bleeding perilously close to her eye, which is swollen halfway shut.

“Morgana!” he cries in dismay, which only draws the attention of the rest of the camp, because Arthur is an idiot.

“Let me see,” Merlin orders at once, pushing past him - who is of course the only person in this forest who is a bigger idiot than Arthur. “I’m trained,” he says, unimpressed when two knights move to intercept him, “and that needs treatment, so let me through.”

Morgana waves the knights aside, wincing as she does. Her fingertips are ice-white and shaking. She puts him in mind of the snow laden branches of this past harsh winter, weighted and weighted, while all below wonder which snowflake will cause the break.

“Arthur?” she says, faint with disbelief. “How are you here? Am I dreaming?”

There is a weariness to her that is leagues worse than when he had last left her in Gawant at the end of summer. What might have been a common expression of incredulity he thinks she truly means. That he might merely be a spun dream of her waking mind. Her eyes are looking to something distant, something far past him in the here and now. She is afraid, he thinks, although she hides it, as she always has. A lesson harshly learned at Uther’s side.

Arthur remembers it well.

Their crowd of tense watchers do neither of them any favours, standing about like particularly useless statues. Moss could grow over them and make no difference.

“You should let Merlin see your wound,” he says, stepping forwards with his hands open once more, “and I’ll explain how we’ve come to be here, I swear it to you.” Their eyes meet, and she takes a shuddering inhale. His heart aches. They can fix this. Together, the three of them, whatever it is. They must. “Morgana, please.”

At her nod, Merlin strides boldly through the men who have gathered to protect their princess, not a care in the world for their blades. Behind him, Aithusa begins to make a dangerous noise, a clicking underneath it all that makes the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up.

“We’ll need hot water,” Merlin says, inspecting the bruise with a pinched frown, “I’ve herbs for the swelling - oh, I nearly forgot! Fetch one of the poultices from Alice, won’t one of you?” He turns to look expectantly at them, and Arthur rouses himself enough to be useful, fetching a bottle from Bluebell’s pack. “Is there somewhere quiet we might go?”

“My tent will be suitable,” Morgana says, catching on quickly to his meaning. “Leon will attend us, and Gwen is there. Arthur, this way.”

She ignores the cries of the knights that come up in protest, merely gesturing towards the largest tent, a massive square towards the centre of the camp.

“We’ll just wait here then, won’t we?” Gwaine quips, crossing his arms as he looks down his nose at Bedivere, who has moved to watch over the newcomers. Arthur is not sure what six men might do against the two hundred and then some armed soldiers, but he continues to be torn between gladness that his former knights have not softened in their training and weariness that such suspicion is turned on his friends.

“We’ll be brief,” Arthur promises, already striding after the quickly departing Morgana. “Be safe,” he thinks to add, “no fighting! Any of you!”

He barks the order as though anyone of Camelot has duty to heed him - but they still snap to attention. If it is confusion of his standing or merely habit he cares not. Hopefully speaking with Morgana will be quick enough that no one has time to figure it out.

The mutterings and gossiping begins even as he passes through the camp, Merlin stepping double to catch up to him. Voices upon voices speculating until their words blur into a heap of nothing.

“It’ll all be fine,” Merlin says quietly once he’s reached Arthur’s side, “nothing will happen. I won’t let anything happen.”

“That’s kind of what I’m afraid of,” he admits in return, feeling an unwilling tug at the corner of his mouth in spite of the situation. Then he thinks of what a fight between Merlin and a camp full of soldiers might look like. “Let’s just hope we don’t have to test it.”

The thin barrier of Morgana’s tent doesn’t do much to muffle the noise, but it’s something. The light is dimmer, spears of sunshine moving across the ground as the flap falls closed behind them. Gwen stands to the side in a state of shock, her arms laden with rolls of parchment and bandages, herbs and an empty bowl half falling out of her slack fingers. He darts forwards to catch it before it can drop.

“A hero, as always,” Morgana teases him, though it falls dark and flat upon his ears.

“What’s happened?” Arthur asks, letting Gwen take the bowl with a flustered nod of greeting.

“What are you doing here, Arthur?” Morgana asks. She sits heavily in her chair, closing her eyes with a wince. Despite the cold spring air she has a sheen of sweat upon her temples, curling in the wisps of hair there that have escaped her braid.

“You should really let me look at that before anything else,” Merlin says when she does not offer an answer, coming forwards on quiet feet, his eyes glowing in the half-light.

“And have everyone know it was magically healed?” Morgana doesn’t so much as flinch even as Leon starts in place, hovering near the entrance of the tent, unsure of his welcome.

“The bone is fractured,” Merlin says, crossing his arms across his chest. “I don’t have to get rid of the bruising if it will cause you problems with your men, but a skull fracture is serious. It will take months to heal if you don’t let me, let alone if there’s a bleed.”

Morgana inhales, watching through slit eyes as Gwen sets her things down to come to kneel at the side of the low chair, taking one of Morgan’s hands in hers.

“My lady,” she entreats, “no one here will betray any secrets.”

“On my honour,” Leon swears.

Morgana nods, a miserable, painful looking thing. She slumps forwards in her seat, tilting her face so it may be tended to.

“Here,” Merlin comes closer to her side, “it will pinch. Nothing to be done about that.”

She grips Gwen’s hand so tightly that she leaves little crescent moons in her wake, but does not shed a tear as Merlin works.

“You have that poultice?”

It takes Arthur a heartbeat to realise Merlin is asking him. He brings it forth, passing it over and watching as the paste is carefully applied, the astringent smell flooding the tent.

“If you keep the poultice on and a bandage no one has to know I gave you a head start on healing,” Merlin says, voice even and low, dabbing it carefully across the wound.

“Why are you doing this?” Morgana asks him. Quiet enough that Arthur nearly misses it, even as he stands close over her shoulder watching the healing. He catches Merlin’s eyes.

“You know why,” Merlin says, offering Arthur a soft look before refocusing on his work.

“I suppose I do. Why are you here, Arthur?” Morgana asks once more. “I thought you wanted to stay out of Camelot’s business. Don’t tell me I’ve displeased you so badly that you’ve come to depose me already.”

Pinned in place as she is, she cannot look at him, which somehow makes it easier to speak.

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “Tell me, how much were you told about the Castle of Fyrien?”

“I know of the tunnels, if that’s what you mean. Uther’s great victory.” She says it with enough humour in her voice that he thinks Merlin’s healing is helping already. “Caerleon hasn’t used them though, if that’s what you’re dancing around. Not even he was foolish enough to try and assault the citadel directly.”

Arthur hesitates. Has Leon spoken to Morgana about his actions? Has she confided in him?

Gods, but he is sick to death of secrets.

“They are in use,” is all he says, “or they were. By those who might have good cause to escape Camelot for the safety of Rheged.”

Morgana looks up at him as Merlin finally steps back. The poultice sits tacky upon her skin, a greenish paste that is preferable to the wretched bruising.

“So,” Arthur continues, once he’s certain she’s understood it’s not at all whatever fears she’s been harbouring, “you can see why I am interested in the fate of the castle.”

“And he was worried about you,” Merlin volunteers in Arthur’s stead, taking a cloth that Gwen offers him to clean his fingers of the tacky salve.

“And I was worried about you,” Arthur admits with a tick in his jaw. It’s not like he’s wrong to worry, she looks as though she has met with death. “Caerleon is not a merciful man.”

“Wasn’t,” Morgana corrects him, matter of fact. “Wasn’t a merciful man.”

“How did he die?” Arthur finally asks what he’s been aching to, stepping forwards in the small space. Underneath his feet spreads a soft, red rug, hauled all this way. “I had been told this was to be a meeting to discuss a treaty, but you’ve got half an army with you.”

“A treaty,” Morgana snorts a dismissive laugh. “I doubt Uther or Caerleon ever truly thought much of that idea. He took Everwick and Stonedown over the winter, did you know that?” At Arthur’s terse shake of his head she continues. “The worst winter we’ve seen in years, and he pillaged them of their winter stores and sent the villagers who lived on their way to the city proper. They had to take refuge in the lower town and rely upon the citadel’s generosity to not starve. You can imagine how Uther took that. Poor Gwen gave up her home to a pair of families that barely fit and had to stay in my antechamber.”

“And I’ve never had such a warm winter,” Gwen says smartly, “so I’ll thank you not to start feeling sorry for me.”

“Gwen is always too kind,” Morgana confides to the room at large. “When I wrote to you it was over a month ago, and we had yet to learn about the losses. It became a condition of the ceasefire to return the territory, one thing Uther would not budge on.”

“He knew Caerleon would never agree,” Arthur fills in, understanding.

“Of course,” Morgana sighs, “and so he sent a force to intimidate. Rather than lose face in front of his men, Caerleon attacked.” She picks at a thin, barely healing scab on her hand. “I did try,” she says. A small sound in the empty air. “I subdued him myself. He would not agree. What else was I to do?”

Once again she speaks as though the outcome has been foretold from the start, that her hands were always tied - but he thinks she means it. Would love an answer that could have tied a neat bow on the problem. He has none. It has been done, and all that is left is to try and salvage what they can. A king is dead. Annis is more reasonable, but has just lost her husband and king - will she negotiate? Will she turn to Morgause when her army is not enough against Camelot?

“And your wound?” Arthur asks, mind whirling.

“A shield blow.” No more explanation is given, even as Arthur sputters.

“And where exactly were you during this debacle?” He turns to glare at Leon, who has done nothing to deserve it.

The taller man jerks like he’s been struck where he stands, still at guard on the entrance, eyes wide.

“I can’t believe you,” Morgana snaps, “Leon can’t be everywhere at once! Not a single one of them would respect me if I didn’t take the field,” she stabs a pointed finger out towards the unseen army on the other side of the linen as she rises from her seat to get in Arthur’s face. “Not one.”

“You’ve clearly been unwell,” he rants, “but you’re taking to the front lines like you’re invincible?”

“As if you would do any different,” she sneers.

“She has a point,” Merlin says, putting on an innocent face when Arthur whirls to him in betrayal. “You would! Besides, it’s all a bit pointless to argue about now, isn’t it? Might we instead focus on what we can still do something about?”

“Are you still not sleeping?” Arthur asks instead of something useful, like troop movements. “Nightmares?”

Morgana stiffens like he’s walked over her grave.

“You can tell me,” Arthur urges her. “I… I got the sigil, Morgana. Thank you. You can trust me, too. I mean no harm.”

“I might as well have given it to you myself, for all the difference it makes. If I had any idea you’d show up.” She purses her mouth, and Arthur is all too aware of their audience. Gwen sends them both a pleading look, and Leon takes one long stride towards them.

“You could have used the crystal to talk to Arthur. The one I gave you,” Merlin says smartly before Leon can so much as open his mouth, “if you remember it.”

“Oh, yes,” Morgana shoots back, “everyone in Camelot simply loves it when their princess spends her time talking to a glowing rock that talks back. If I get caught with that I’m as good as dead!”

“I have been working with Arthur to help the unjustly persecuted out of Camelot,” Leon confesses in a rush. “Magical peoples.”

Morgana had not known, Arthur sees, as her shock is made plain.

“Leon?” she asks, straightening her shoulders.

“I did not dare speak of it, not to anyone. To implicate you would be unthinkable,” he says, mindful of the thin material of the tent which is all that keeps them apart from the main camp. He looks upon Morgana with the sort of besotted eyes that Arthur is more used to seeing on Lancelot. Oh gods, he thinks, not another one. “But I cannot in good conciseness remain silent, my lady. Know that if you are troubled I will keep your secrets.”

“My lady,” Gwen says, laying a soft hand on Morgana’s gauntlet, “what did I say before? Need I repeat it? You’re among friends, it’s alright.”

“Who would I tell?” Merlin teases, when Morgana casts him a dry look on anyone assuming they might be called friends. “Listen. If you need help,” he says, more seriously, “I will try and help you. Not all illnesses can be treated with magic, but - ”

“I don’t think it’s an illness,” Morgana interrupts before he can finish. She takes Gwen’s hand in her own and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “I think they are visions.” Her chin is tilted high and unafraid, but it is just another artifice. “Part of my magic.”

And Leon had not known either, given his furious blinking as he tries not to make so much as a peep.

“Ah,” Merlin hums, unmoved and unsurprised. “Shame Nimueh isn’t here, she’s the one to talk to about things like that. “I get feelings sometimes,” he says, wiggling his fingers, “but not proper visions, so I’m not sure what to do about the source. There are sleeping draughts - ”

“They just make it worse, so that I cannot wake from them,” Morgana waves him away. “I think I’ve tried everything Gaius has ever put together.”

“But not everything Alice has put together,” Merlin persists undaunted, “or Finna. Or Nimueh, for that matter. Magic can’t always solve magic problems, but ‘not always’ isn’t ‘never’. I’ll ask my Da. He wouldn’t turn you away just because you’re from Camelot.”

“Pardon,” Leon says, swallowing roughly,” but we were never introduced. Lord Myrddin? And your father…?”

Arthur casts his mind back - and it’s the truth, isn’t it? He himself had barely had time for a quick word with Leon, let alone explaining that Lord Myrddin was an invention to get close to Morgana.

“Oh,” he stutters, “no, this is Merlin, my…” Arthur trails off, “my Merlin.”

Merlin covers his mouth with his hand, muffling his laughter by poorly pretending to have a cough. Gwen titters and even Morgana hums in amusement.

“I told you about him,” Arthur trudges onwards despite the cruelty and blows of his fellows, “the arrow, remember?” He makes an exploding gesture. “My friend. King Balinor’s son.”

Arthur begins to feel a swell of pity for Leon, who has been dealt several bursts of unfathomable new information all in a row.

“Oh, what did he say about me?” Merlin grins, charming and irritating in equal measure. Leon looks upon him with new eyes, and back to Arthur. If he is a bit paler, none of them are cruel enough to mention it.

“Your Highness. I believe I said I owed you my life,” he says with a nervous sort of bobbing bow, “which I will thank you for. And that you were a good friend - the best. Smart, and funny, and kind. I was relieved, for I had worried that Arthur had spent those years alone, or hurt and unhappy. But he assured me he had been happier than ever before.”

“Oh,” Merlin sighs, overcome and clutching a hand over his heart.

“But please, I must beg even more favours from you,” Leon says. “If you can help - ”

“Of course I will help, if I can,” Merlin says, surreptitiously wiping a happy tear from the corner of his eye, “there’s no need to ask.”

“We should figure out what comes next,” Arthur reminds them, even though it was he who usurped the conversation. “Have you sent Caerleon’s body back with his men? What have you said to Annis - or what will you say?” He shifts on his feet, looking at the dark circle under the unbandaged eye of Morgana’s that he can still see. “Have your visions told you anything? You seemed confused, when you saw me.”

Confused is the kindest way to put it, but Morgana bristles even so.

“Of course I was confused,” she says, defensive enough that Arthur knows he has struck true, “who would not be?” She stands brusquely. “Now, as for Queen Annis. I have sent her husband’s body to her, so she may mourn him as she sees fit. If that includes war, we will answer. Camelot will not lose territory under my watch, not so long as I have breath in my body. Do you understand me?”

Arthur understands her perfectly.

Camelot must not be weak. Uther must not be weak, and his choice to raise Morgana instead of treating for Arthur must remain the only right choice, the only strong choice. He has walked this path too far to divert off of it now, regardless of the cost.

“But if she can be reasoned with, if she can see pressing this will only spend innocent lives?” Arthur presses her. “You will try?”

“I did try,” Morgana reminds him with a weary sigh, which he is sorry for. There is no time now for the rest she needs. “But know I will try again, if it pleases you to hear.”

“It does,” Arthur says. He does not raise the issue of the castle tunnels again, nor the urgency of clearing them - and does not dare mention Morgause, not now. This must be solved in a way that does not turn Annis towards dark magic out of desperation. Merlin being here as a representative of Rheged might work in their favour, despite Arthur’s reservations. “I hope you’ll allow us to stay, in whatever way might help. When we came… I did not anticipate so many. I can only promise you it was not our intention to sow discord - ”

“I believe you,” Morgana says, which unburdens him to hear. “You cannot act as their commander, though.” This she will brook no argument on, he can read it plainly on her face. “If they look to you first, when my authority is already something many would contest - ”

“I won’t,” Arthur swears, offering her his hand to shake. “We’re here on behalf of Rheged.”

She takes it firmly, a small smile curling at the corner of her mouth. Bemused.

“I’m not sure that’s as much of a help as you hope,” she says, “considering King Uther’s position on Rheged. He’ll have us all drawn and quartered once he learns you were here and I didn’t drag you back home.”

Arthur’s heart beats double time in his chest - he foolishly hadn’t considered that Uther’s ire would fall on Morgana. Only him.

“Well, he’s not here, now is he?” Merlin says, tapping his fingers along the back of the empty chair, his hip cocked as he surveys her. “You are.”

“Don’t worry,” Morgana says airily, “I’ve lost my taste for pleasing Uther. You’ll remain free men.”

“Good,” Merlin says with a nod. “Last time someone tried to bully Arthur Da came in on dragonback - just so no one gets any funny ideas.”

“Merlin!” Arthur doesn’t yelp - but it’s close.

Morgana only laughs.

He might prefer it when they hate one another.

***

“They live,” Gwaine says grandly when they finally rejoin the camp. His voice is as lackadaisical as ever, but his eyes are tight with stress.

He is sat along with Lancelot and Elyan in a row, all gathered around the fire being fed the same rations as the knights, which is better than Arthur dared hope for after the arduous discussion with Morgana. Geraint hovers behind them, only stopping his pacing once Arthur appears before them.

“You’re alright?” Arthur asks, looking them over. Lancelot and Elyan are much the same as ever - unflappable. Percy seems unperturbed for the most part, setting in on his second bowl while he’s got the chance for a hot meal. It’s Gwaine who’s been acting strangely of late.

“Nothing a drink and some friendly faces won’t heal,” Gwaine claims. “None of these fellows are much for games, though. Not very fun, your friends.”

“My lord,” Geraint interrupts, “is it true?”

“I can hardly begin to guess,” Arthur says, letting out a tired sigh. “Is what true? That you’re not much for games?”

“That you’ve defected to the Perilous Lands,” Geraint clarifies, coming close enough that Arthur can feel Merlin tense at his side.

“I’d hesitate to call it defecting,” Arthur snipes, “when we could have had peace, and our people be as one, and it would have been no matter of divided loyalties at all.” He is well aware of curious ears that listen, and cannot afford to dance around the subject any longer. “But yes, for all intents. My love for Camelot has not wavered, and it will not. King Balinor has never once asked me to betray that. Now I come here as a friend and ally, if you will have me, but know that I feel the same love towards Rheged.”

“And magic?”

Ah, the question that Arthur will face today and every day hereafter, for so long as Camelot is under Uther’s rule.

“Despite what I was taught as a boy, I have learned better as a man. It is merely a force like any other. Used for good or used for evil, that is only the purview of the wielder,” Arthur says, making sure his conviction rings loud and clear on this. “Much as the sword can be a tool of greatness in the hand of an honourable knight, or one of ugly deeds in the hand of a villain. You trust your brother’s in arms, having known and fought together, for sharing ideals and a code of chivalry. I can say the same for those I have lived with and come to know within Rheged. They are people as any other. In a better, kinder world,” Arthur says, recalling those long ago words Balinor had spoken that first night, when it seemed that peace was a futile, distant dream, “you would have sworn the same oaths to them as your own people. And so I have done so.”

Geraint is not the only one who needs to hear this.

“I ask that you trust me,” Arthur pleads, offering his open hand to shake. “Believe me when I say that the tenants of knighthood - to protect the innocent, to behave with honour - those are still things I believe in with all that I am. I always will.”

“Well,” Geraint answers with an unwavering voice, “suppose that’s good enough for me.” He reaches out and grips Arthur’s hand so hard it aches. All at once he can remember why he liked Geraint so well, before. A straightforward man of loud ideals, but ones that ring of sincerity. It will not be so for every person here, but this is at least one man who will cause them no grief.

Arthur looks around the crowd that has gathered to overhear, seeing enough faces in agreement that a measure of weight drops from him. Not all. Never all. Some are not pleased, but even so a cautious joy builds within him.

Merlin beams at him, the apples of his cheeks a fetching pink. It feels real. Peace between Rheged and Camelot is within their grasp; that first, most difficult step has been taken. He can feel it in his bones. The relief of speaking honestly, the sweet clarity of it. All winter - longer - he has felt the sting of worry, present even through all of the blessings that have fallen on him, all of the good. For the first time in an age he feels lighter than air as his fears dissipate like mist under the summer sun.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Morgana, a bittersweet smile settled upon her lips. His own grin falters. What comradeship Arthur has always been freely given has been every inch hard fought and won by her. Has he undone all his reassurances already? Will there come a time they might be at ease with one another ever again?

“Morgana,” he speaks without knowing fully what he intends to say. She comes forwards with her head held high, for all appearances untroubled.

“Brother,” she says, gesturing to the camp, smile fixed. “Make yourself at home.”

“At your command,” he replies, watching the tension leech from her bit by bit. Arthur lets his hand entangle with Merlin’s, taking every scrap of the comfort that is on offer. Annis might want war over her dead husband, Morgana might not be able to broker peace - but for now, Arthur lets himself hope. “Thank you for trusting us. You won’t regret it.”

Chapter Text

Queen Annis is a stately woman.

Her hair must have been red as fire as a girl, now a dark auburn kept loose and long about her face which is set in a grim frown. Her circlet is fine and thin, her dress of heavy furs over a mourning black, and her eyes are cold as chips of ice. She carries no sword, and stands half a head below even the shortest man in her company, who crowd behind her like a pack of hungry wolves.

Whatever other flaws Caerleon held, Arthur thinks, he cannot have been too poor of a husband.

The woman who stands before them is freshly grieving, and furious with it.

“Morgana Pendragon,” Annis says, “did my husband do that to you?” She raises one eyebrow and nods in gesture to the bandages that swaddle Morgana’s injury.

“No.” Is the simple answer.

“A pity,” Annis says, raising her chin. “I would have rested better to know he’d done you a portion of the hurt you have inflicted upon Gwynedd before you slit his throat like a coward.” She looks over Morgana from head to toe with disdain. The shining armour, the wound, the sword at her side. “The injury that killed my husband was not done in a battle. Tell me. Did you wait like a carrion eater for him to fall, or did you merely have one of your men do the deed?”

Arthur can hear the rustling of discontent in the line of soldiers around him. Volatile. It may have been true that Morgana has had to fight for every scrap of respect, but the knights of Camelot are hers now. Arthur stands among them in the low valley near the sea where they have gathered, observing. Waiting and biting his tongue.

For all that he eschews kingship, there is something to be said for being heard. To Annis, he is no one. One more face in a crowd of enemies.

Were he to step forward and demand a ceasefire he’d be laughed out of Albion.

He feels out of place in his green and blue amongst the wave of red on all sides. At his right Merlin watches with wide, nervous eyes, Aithusa curled up and hidden under the drape of his cloak. She had refused entirely the idea of being left behind. Gwaine is a solid block of tension to Arthur’s left, whatever that has been troubling him only worsening on being confronted with the mass of Annis’s army.

“I know my own deeds,” Morgana claims, her voice clear and cool. “But now you tell me. What gives you the audacity to speak to me of honour?” A tight smile curls around her lips even as she speaks venom. “Shall we ask the people of Stonedown their opinion? Everwick? Those who still live, that is.”

“Everwick was Gwynedd’s for generations before it was Uther’s. Combat decided their fate once, and so it has again. You complain only now that you dislike the outcome. Did my husband slay them after the battle was done?” Annis asks. Her hands betray her as they clench at her sides, reaching for a weapon that is not there. “Did he subdue them and kill them once they had been disarmed? Do not speak to me as though your crimes are his.”

“Ah, yes,” Morgana says, “raiding a village of farmers. People who have never seen battle. Because if a man dies with a pitchfork in his hand against a warrior it is somehow a more noble death - ”

“Have you only summoned me to offer insult?” Annis interrupts. Her soldiers mill as though they might lunge forwards at any instant. Arthur scans the crowd, hand hovering over the pommel of his sword, wary. One man stands nearly a head above his fellows, taller and wider than even Percival, a production being put on as the crowd around him holds him back. Another figure stands nearby, dark hood raised, that no one dares touch, far more dangerous. Shorter, with their face covered. A suspicion builds in Arthur that he does not yet give voice to. He hopes he is wrong. “I have answered your call because I would look you in the eye before I send your corpse back home to your tyrant father.”

Morgana takes a breath in. Even with several bodies of distance between them Arthur can see the tendons in her neck work and the unnatural straightness she forces in the set of her shoulders. The cloaked figure strides forwards, the men scattering around her like frightened hens.

“I have come,” Morgana says, “that we might make peace. No further bloodshed needs be done. Return Stonedown. Return Everwick. Let no more men die - ”

Annis laughs. A harsh, humourless sort of sound.

“You jest.”

“Enough suffering has been had already,” Morgana says.

“That is one thing we can agree on,” Annis huffs, considering Morgana. Her hair dances about her face in the cold wind of the coast. “And yet,” she sighs, turning her face away. “You would have me go home with my tail tucked between my legs, with no territory won and no husband, no king to return to. You could not even spare him the dignity of a death with his sword in his hand. No. I will not endure such humiliation. I will fight until I see either the end of Uther’s rule or it ends me.” She shakes her head, resolve clear. “And the world will be better for it.”

Arthur hisses a breath in between his teeth. Even if it had been overly idealistic, he had hoped.

Queen Annis’s face is set in stone as she looks upon Camelot’s army. She must know it for a fool’s gambit. Even if she takes a victory here Uther will never allow it to hold - so many will die and it will all be for naught.

“I do propose a solution,” Morgana calls out to Annis’s back. “Single combat.”

“What does that mean?” Merlin hisses in Arthur’s ear, tugging at his sleeve with an anxious hand. “What’s she doing?”

Arthur feels his heart skip a beat.

“It’s a good idea,” he whispers back. “Honourable. Two people duel, champions of their causes - better than hundreds of men. Better than war.”

Annis has frozen in place, the sun shining behind her head, crowning her in fire. Pouring through the fine strands of her hair, bright as a ruby. The cloaked figure has reached her side, whispering into her ear. Arthur strains to try and see a hint of gold hair or burned skin. A bracelet upon her wrist - anything.

Is it her? For all that the fate of Camelot is dangled before him on a string all he can think of is Morgause.

“Why?” Annis asks, looking over her shoulder to Morgana once more.

“I meant what I said,” Morgana says in return. “There has been enough suffering. We have the chance now to end it before there is even more.”

“You’ve made your desires clear enough for your own victory,” Annis muses. “And if my champion proves the stronger?” She turns fully now, retaking those last few steps. “What then?”

“I don’t plan on losing,” Morgana claims. Arthur closes his eyes. Of course Morgana would intend to fight herself. Injured, and haunted by poor sleep that has chased her for months - years. Visions and nightmares, confusing the waking world. Foolish, prideful Morgana. “Stonedown and Everwick will remain yours, uncontested. The lives of your men will be your reward.”

“No.” Annis narrows her pale eyes. “This is not enough, not when the villages are already taken.”

“The castle,” Morgana offers, jaw clenched tight. Perhaps it is a habit passed through their bloodline, because he does the same. The castle. “Fyrien has a good position for trade, and I know it is one Gwynedd has coveted. It is surely worth more than a handful of cottages and some farmland.”

Arthur watches, breath caught in his chest. Even if Annis agrees -

“As you say,” Annis says, raising her hand to silence her men. A long moment of quiet stretches between them where all Arthur can hear is his own heartbeat thudding in his ears. “Tomorrow, then. After the dawn.” She does not offer a hand to shake, or a smile, but her words ring true. “one way or another, it will be done.”

“After the dawn,” Morgana agrees, a spark of something like victory in her eyes that suits her well. If only she had not bartered with Fyrien, of all places. If only she had not planned to fight herself -

“Arthur?” Merlin says, tugging at his arm again as the men around them disperse. Back to camp, as Annis’s men do. A bloodless parting, for now. Arthur watches the dark figure linger long enough that their steps must be quick to catch back up to Annis. “Is this a good thing?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits, tearing his gaze away at last, finding Merlin’s concerned face looking over at him. “I wish I knew. Morgana can’t fight herself though, not as she is now.”

“No, she can’t,” Merlin agrees, biting at his lip. “I’m not a healer by nature. I did my best, but head injuries are dangerous. She can’t get struck again. She just can’t. It might kill her. She won’t say it but she’s got to be dizzy, and nauseous.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen her eat much,” Arthur worries aloud as they walk. “Maybe she takes her meals later, with Gwen?”

“You could always ask her,” Gwaine noses in. “When you ask her who’ll be champion, hm? Since you’ve decided she can’t.”

“She really can’t though,” Merlin speaks before Arthur can so much as open his mouth. “I’m not joking, she was very hurt! And did you see the size of that man? He’s certain to be Annis’s champion and he was half again as tall as she is.”

The reach on him, Arthur thinks. Not a challenge many would be suited for. Morgana is skillful, but small. Small and already dearly injured. Her balance will be off, her dizziness will slow her. Arthur keeps being surprised she’s getting up and wearing her armour every day, unyielding and unforgiving of her own body.

“Hells,” Arthur complains. “I’m really not looking forward to this fight.”

“With the champion?” Gwaine asks, his scruffy face scrunched in confusion. “Someone’s confident.”

“With Morgana,” Arthur snorts.

“Oh,” Gwaine hums, “that. Don’t envy you, mate.”

***

“I know,” Morgana says.

She sits in her tent, attended only by Arthur and Gwen, who is busy with chores and not even bothering to pretend that she is not listening in. Morgana’s back is hunched, her head bowed low. Her nose is red, and her unbandaged eye is wet with a sheen of restrained tears.

“I’m not a fool,” she says, “no matter what else you think of me.”

“You said - ” Arthur protests, clapping his mouth shut when she glares at him.

“I know what I said. I was angry, and - ” she looks to the ceiling of the tent, blinking. Composing herself. “I am sick to death of all of this. If I do not fight I am a coward. If I do fight I am prideful, and it is all of Camelot who loses when a man twice my size cuts off my head. If I use magic I don’t even understand to try and win I am put to the pyre! And what man do I send to fight in my stead? To risk death on a gamble of my own making?”

“I think any man here would fight for you should you ask. Your ‘gamble’ is the best chance we have at avoiding outright war.” As much as Arthur feels as though he could shout Morgana’s ears clean off over Fyrien, he understands it. He wishes he didn’t, perhaps.

A bitter trade, with Camelot on one side of the scale and the safety of magical people on the other. It is one he cannot contemplate.

There is no choice but to win.

“I’ll fight,” he says, standing at attention even though Morgana could not care less. “I can best any man here. Allow me this, and I will win for you.”

“Of all people it cannot be you,” Morgana laughs wildly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Imagine it! Arthur Pendragon, sweeping in to clean up his sister’s mess. Proving once and for all what a mistake she is.”

“It’s not your mess,” Arthur snaps. “It’s Uther’s, and it’s Caerleon’s - ”

“And mine,” she says, closing her eyes once again after she’s had her fill of glaring at him. “I am not a child in need of your protection - you do neither of us any favours with that.” She thuds a hand against her breastbone. “It was I made the demands, I who held him down, and I who slit his throat. Unarmed, in front of his men. I did that, alone.”

Gwen is still as a statue, not making so much as a peep. She bites her lip in anguish, but dares not speak. At Morgana’s wave, she departs, one last lingering looking back between them.

“You wouldn’t have,” Morgana says eventually, after they are alone. Quietly. Defeated.

“I very well might have,” Arthur says ruefully. If he thought it the only way to stop an invading army. If he had someone whispering demands in his ear as she does with Uther. Balinor has encouraged mercy at almost every turn, but such a thing could never be said of their father. “You think me kinder than I am.”

Arthur would have been a very different man, had all the pieces of his world been defined by Uther and his spite. His fear. Instead Arthur had the gift of Balinor, and then Merlin, who had been childish but good, and free with his heart in a way that still humbles Arthur. Nimueh and Alator, all the others. It is all too easy to picture his life in Camelot, with Morgana still kept a rotten secret in the dark. A ward but never a daughter, never a sister.

“You didn’t, though.” Her throat clicks as she swallows. “Back in the city, with Tyr. He was down, he was out.” She mimics lifting a sword, mouth twisting. “You took your blade away. Mercy. Will you think less of me if I admit it frightened me? I don’t know if I have much mercy left in me. I’m so angry. All the time.”

“Morgana,” Arthur says, coming forwards the scant distance between them. “I didn’t have a kingdom hanging in the balance, and if I truly had to kill Tyr to protect you and you alone, I still would have.”

“It must be easier,” she contemplates, looking up at him, “to be beholden to no one but yourself. Freedom. I envy you that.”

It would be a lie to say that Arthur has not thought as such himself. Spent hours alone in the wilderness ruminating on duty. Morality. Knighthood. The oaths he had sworn, and what they meant after he was cast aside. What he and Leon had spoken of, long ago now. What one owed. To one’s king. To one’s people.

To oneself.

To owe no one anything… it is not the whole picture, and it is no way to live. This much he has learned through hard lessons in the wider world. Outside of cities, when the only thing guiding his arm is himself, with no king or father to look too for wisdom.

“I… in some ways,” he says. “I’ve certainly thought so. At times.” He sighs, seating himself in the second chair, happy it is just the two of them. “The truth is, though, that none of us are beholden only to ourselves. Not so long as there is a single good thing worth fighting for.”

Morgana rolls her eyes, but she relaxes as she does, fighting down a smile, her mood mercurial. Conversing with her feels a bit like walking the edge of a brittle knife.

For a flicker of a moment she reminds him of Uther so poignantly he is speechless. He does not dare mention his suspicions that he had seen Morgause at the field. He has no proof to offer, and it makes him chary of what might be said. What might not be.

“Ridiculous,” she accuses him. “Who speaks such?” She swings a leg out to kick at his ankle. “I am your sister, and so you must tell me. Your Merlin, is he your good thing?”

“Yes,” Arthur says. This much is painless to admit. There can be no embarrassment in saying so. Not about Merlin, not to Morgana. The outside of the tent echoes with lively noises, work being done. The world rolls on.

“You love him,” she says, a thread of wonder weaving through her words. “I admit, I don’t know that I ever pictured that. Arthur Pendragon, in love with a sorcerer.”

“And a dragonlord, if the sorcerer bit wasn’t already enough,” Arthur volunteers with huff of laughter. “He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known. I don’t have the words for it.”

He only has how he feels. Love, love, love.

“And he loves you?”

“Yes,” Arthur says again. Secure in it in a way that still astounds him if he lets himself think on it too long. “He does.”

“I suppose miracles do happen. I am sorry,” she says, meeting his eyes, “that I offered the castle. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Because you, your highness,” Arthur says, trying to summon up a smile to soften the blow, “are beholden to the people of Camelot. I understand why you did it.”

“And I’m still sorry,” she says.

“Well, then I’ll just have to win,” Arthur says boldly, leaning back in his seat.

“Gods, but you are still the worst listener I have ever met. Stubborn as a mule! I cannot have you fight in my place - ”

“Maybe instead of thinking of it as you are, you think of it as showing that even your brother - who of all people has something to gain by your failure - is so assured of you as princess that he counts himself your staunchest ally. That he’d do battle in your name.”

She is considering it, he can tell. Under her disaffected slouch her gaze is keen.

“You think the men don’t respect you, but I think you give yourself too little credit. I’ll fight under your banner. I’ll win against whatever champion Annis sends. For Camelot and Rheged alike.”

“Confident,” she chides him. “You seem very certain that none of my knights could best you.”

“Well,” Arthur drawls, “if anyone should want to try…”

Morgana stares at him, tapping her fingers. Her uncovered eye shines in the shadowed light of the tent. There is still much daylight to pass before nightfall, but he doesn’t think it will take much further convincing.

“Alright,” she says at last. “Alright,” she repeats herself, louder and more sure. “But you have to deal with Leon.”

Arthur is up out of his seat before she’s even finished speaking. At last some good news.

“Leon,” he bellows, pushing back the flap of the tent. Faces turn towards him, but he pays them little mind as he makes his way over to Leon, who is speaking to Elyan, Gwen, and Lancelot. They gather near the well trodden field that serves as a ramshackle training ground for the knights to stay in fighting form as they wait. Across the way Merlin is methodically treating anyone brave enough to come to him with an injury.

He is relieved to see Percival and Gwaine acting as guards - merely knowing that Merlin is from Rheged seems to have the people of Camelot giving him a wide berth, even though no sorcery is being done out of deference to the law of the land.

Well, no more sorcery than is inherent in being a born sorcerer and a dragonlord, that is. And keeping Aithusa looking like a horse. And maybe cleaning their clothes, once the tent flap is closed, because both of them can be a bit fussy about it after years of being spoiled. And possibly making sure the drinking water is safe, and Arthur might bring out the magic ring so that there is a light to read by at night - but that is it.

It’s positively restrained, really.

Arthur continues to be grateful no swords are drawn.

“My lord?” Leon asks. “Arthur,” he corrects himself, as a mighty sigh is sounded at the title, “how may I help?”

“Morgana has named me her champion,” Arthur says, loudly enough that his words carry. The ire that floods Leon’s face is swift and fierce. Merlin sends them a dry look, tying off a bandage with a brusque hand.

His bedside manner, Arthur is amused to note, is only growing worse with time.

“Forgive me,” Leon says, “but I cannot allow this. It is my sworn duty - ”

“Oh,” Gwen says, “I’m so glad!” She baulks, hearing her own words. “Well, not glad, you know.” A quick hand flaps through the air between them, gesturing like a sword swing. “To know you’ll be fighting. I’m sure you’ll win, though! Of course you will. I only meant that I am happy that you and Morgana worked it out.” She fidgets as Merlin makes his way over to them, Gwaine and Percy on his heels. “My lord.”

“Arthur, sire - ” Leon tries again.

“What’s this then?” Merlin says.

“I’ll be fighting for Camelot in Morgana’s stead,” Arthur says again, making sure to enjoy the way Merlin rolls his eyes.

“Oh, goodness, that’s so surprising,” comes the expected jab, “I’ve never known you to like a duel.”

“Better than Morgana doing it,” Arthur counters, “as you full well know. Who was it going on about her head injury?”

“My lord!” Leon shouts. Even Merlin goes quiet, blinking in the sudden silence. “I respectfully ask that you reconsider. I would consider it an honour to act as the Lady Morgana’s champion, as is my duty.”

And as much as Arthur had known this would be the result from the very start, he’s still a little smug with himself.

“Do you intend to challenge me for the title?” he asks, hand falling naturally to the pommel of his sword. The words strike true as an arrow.

“Yes,” Leon proclaims, as steadfast as ever.

“Alright,” Gwaine says, rubbing his hands together and eyeing the crowd that has begun to brew. “I’ll start taking bets.”

“May any of us attempt?” It is Lancelot of all people to ask. Arthur does not fully know why he is surprised; the man’s quietness is always merely a banked fire.

“Well, we have until dawn,” Arthur thinks aloud, squinting into the climb of the sun.

“Absolutely not.” Merlin has his hands on his hips, looking at the whole lot of them as though each and every last one of them is a madman. “You - whoever - shall be doing the fighting will sleep the night through if I have to knock you out myself.”

“So we have until nightfall,” Arthur capitulates immediately, knowing this is one battle that is lost already. “Dusk?” he tries again, upon seeing Merlin’s set face, and then the reluctant amusement that follows. “Dusk.”

The call to challenge is ferried down the crowd, some of the more ambitious knights coming forwards at once. Too many, in truth; they’ll never get through them all if he faces them one on one.

“Stagger in brackets, like a tourney,” he suggests. “Draw lots, break yourselves up; I don’t care how, but sort it out.” Arthur waits as Merlin steps forwards, only watching with half an eye as the others break off into pairs.

“You seem pleased with yourself,” Merlin says.

“It’s not the worst idea,” Arthur defends himself. “No one here will fight to injure, and sitting around worrying won’t help anyone. Besides, if someone can beat me they should be the champion. We need to win.”

Merlin gives a serious nod; he understands the urgency better than anyone. Even so a teasing smile begins to find its way to his lips.

“You don’t think someone will beat you, though,” he says.

“Well, no,” Arthur admits. Arrogance is something he tries not to indulge in as much as he had as a youth, but his pride in his martial abilities is one thing he can never shed entirely. It’s something he’s earned with his own hands and his own labour. A thought occurs to him. “Although a little luck never hurt anyone,” he hints, a thrill of hope stirring within him. He’s wanted a favour, after all; now is as good an occasion as any, and if he doesn’t ask he’ll never know.

Merlin laughs, a bright sound as he reaches to cup Arthur’s face in his palms, kissing his cheek. Its a mere brush of lips, but the happy giddiness that follows in their wake leaves him lighter than air.

“I meant a favour,” Arthur crows, delighted at the blush that stains Merlin’s face, “but I won’t complain.”

Merlin touches the back of his head where his hair is tied, then his wrists, patting himself down to find something to use, although nothing produces itself. He leans instead to pluck a long blade of grass from the ground.

“Hey, you lot,” Merlin calls out to their friends, his head ducked. It can’t hide the red the has overtaken his ears, however. “Can I borrow you?”

He arranges their curious friends as a wall to hide behind, eyes glowing as he coaxes the grass to become a length of soft, luxurious green silk, a ridiculous pair of little pearlescent dragons swooping in animated flight along the edges. It is unmistakable in it’s magic, but for once his worry is nowhere to be found, for he is simply too pleased. Merlin always has a harder time controlling his magic when he’s feeling something deeply. If that feeling should be for Arthur it is all the better.

“Aw,” he hears Gwen sigh as Merlin ties the ribbon around Arthur’s arm with a great deal more tender care than he had with the bandages.

“Where’s my favour?” Gwaine complains.

“How can you fight if you’re taking bets?” Elyan is quick to call out.

“Well I didn’t know we could all fight when I said that, now did I?”

“You’d rather do the fighting than the betting? Who are you, and what have you done with Gwaine?”

The bickering passes over them, but Arthur only has any attention to spare for Merlin. The sweep of his eyelashes and the little sparkle of gold that could be explained away by the sunlight in a way dancing dragons never could. Arthur reaches out to catch Merlin’s wrist as he draws it away in a gentle clasp, not ready to let the moment end. Underneath his fingertips he imagines he can feel the flutter of a rapid heartbeat.

“I think it’s nice,” Percival defends them.

“And I think we’re wasting daylight,” Elyan says, though his smile belays his harsh words. “Come on, let us leave the lovebirds and find some Camelot knights to trounce.”

“Good luck,” Merlin says, darting in for one last kiss before breaking away to watch from the sidelines, nearly tripping twice as he looks over his shoulder and back to Arthur.

“Aw,” Gwen sighs again, hands clasped over her heart.

Arthur beams at her, twisting his arm so that she may properly admire his new favour as it deserves. It feels a bit like whiplash to look over her head and see Leon waiting with poor patience, face like a thundercloud.

“Excuse me, my lady,” Arthur bows to Gwen just to make her laugh.

“I assume my lord remembers the rules,” Leon says as Arthur retrieves a shield and gets into position.

“I haven’t fought with any rules in a while,” he admits, digging his heels into the ground, testing the grip of the dewy grass. “But I’m sure it will come back to me.”

Leon is the taller of them, his reach longer.

He wants to win.

But then again, so does Arthur.

At the edge of his vision Merlin and Gwen stand together watching the bouts, Percy along with them. At the sight of them, that familiar inborn urge to show off that Arthur has had for as long as memory allows him to recall ignites. Perhaps some things are born, unavoidable. He gives his sword that same flourish that has gotten him into trouble months ago before raising it up, keeping his eyes on Leon over the lip of his shield.

Leon has always been a cautious opponent, and Arthur thinks this is at least one thing that has not changed over the years apart, settled into his foundations as much as Arthur's prideful nature is in him. They circle, testing the distance one step at a time.

Breaking forwards with a lunge, Arthur bashes the edge of his shield against Leon’s, pushing for an opening in his guard that never comes. Leon steps backwards like a dance, allowing the movement and following, trying to lure Arthur into overextending. Instead he hops back, striking low at Leon’s legs to gain distance as he does so.

A series of light, testing strikes are exchanged as they get a feel for one another once more, familiar patterns dusted off and brought down from the shelf of history. Underneath his chain and gambeson he has begun to sweat. Around them the other bouts continue, a clash and clambour of noise that has drawn nearly the whole of the camp to observe. Roars of cheers and riotous jeering sound out, which is all the indication that he needs to know all around them matches are being won and lost as they carry on.

Leon is one of Camelot’s best, of course; several of the other fights have already ended by the time Arthur sees an opening.

There.

Arthur jabs his shield in towards Leon’s side and up into his armpit in a harsh lash on one side, sword coming down towards the juncture of his neck and shoulder on the other. The path is halted before the strike can make true, but they both know what the outcome would be should it land.

They stand in limbo for a moment, before Leon closes his eyes with a sigh, stepping back.

“The loss is mine,” he says, catching his breath.

It is to his credit that he is never a poor loser, nor prone to excuses or complaining. Yet his disappointment is obvious.

“Well fought,” Arthur says, offering his hand. There is no small measure of relief in him when it is taken without hesitation. “Morgana is lucky to have you in her service.” He thinks of her again, as he often does, and more of late. “I’m worried for her,” he shares like a secret, even though it feels like a betrayal. An admittance of weakness that she would not appreciate. “Less so, knowing she has you and Gwen to look out for her. Well, as much as she lets you.”

“Which is not much, my lord,” Leon says, flustered, “but I -we - do our best.”

“Can anyone join in here, or…?” Gwaine hollers from the sidelines, putting himself forwards. “Because I’ve beaten two of these louts already, and I’d rather have a real challenge.”

“Come on then,” Arthurs says, giving Leon a clap on the shoulder.

Gwaine strides into place to much shouting and noise making - he’s made himself popular, Arthur thinks with a snort. Enemies and friends alike, wherever the man goes. His usual smile is plastered across his face, tossing a wink over to a cheering Merlin as he draws his sword.

“Is it insulting if I say I’m still surprised you’d rather try your hand at being champion than have a sackful of coin?” Arthur asks, eyeing him. Whatever has gotten into Gwaine of late, he’s clearly not going to talk about it on his own.

“What can I say?” Gwaine shrugs his shoulders, slouching into a deliberately arrogant pose. Some days it seems that half of his fighting style is making people angry enough to make mistakes. The most infuriating thing of all is that it usually works.

“Here’s a bet for you. How about when I win,” Arthur taunts him, “you tell me what’s been wrong with you lately.”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Gwaine bluffs, his smile dimming just a shade.

Arthur raises an eyebrow, looking over the other man from head to toe, before lazily bringing his shield up once more.

“We’ll see.”

They’ve both been fighting already; it will only grow more tiresome as the day goes on, all freshness lost. It will be endurance that decides the winner, and Arthur intends to endure.

Impatience is what causes Gwaine to move first, a hothead through and through. But a quick hothead. Arthur’s arm begins to strain as he blocks again and again. From above, the side, darting in to attempt a barely-parried strike at Arthur’s flank that sends a gasp and a cheer up from their audience. Gwaine is a whirlwind, intending to overwhelm.

He’ll tire himself out before all the bouts are done at this rate.

There is a fervency to him, though. For all they may mock one another all the day long, he knows that Arthur is the one to beat if he wishes to face Annis’s champion tomorrow.

Whatever it is that troubles Gwaine, it is more than simple pride.

Arthur presses back as the onslaught of strikes finally begin to slow, Gwaine flagging at last, a sheen of sweat across his brow that has caught some of his silly, swooshy hair.

It feels monstrous even as he does it, but when Gwaine makes to attempt his favourite disarm, Arthur allows it, already striking at his exposed side with his shield. The sword is never caught, hovering in the air for what feels like an eternity as Gwaine’s feet are kicked straight out from under him while he’s trapped, wincing back from the blow.

He lays flat on the ground, stunned. The wind knocked clear out from his lungs, red faced and furious.

“Your temper will get you killed someday,” Arthur says, his own chest heaving with effort. He shucks off his shield for a moment, rolling his shoulder out before offering a hand up. He feels like he’s gone a round of bareknuckles with Percy. Gwaine is strong. Skilled. Fast. More than that, he’s clever, when he gives himself the grace to think before he acts. Everything he needs - other than a cool head.

With great reluctance and a countenance like a storm, Gwaine lets himself be hauled to his feet.

“I thought I had you there,” he says, wiping his hair off of his face with a grimace.

“Almost,” Arthur says, not sure himself if it is a lie or the truth. Until he learns better, Gwaine will always fall into the same trap. “We can work on your tells, if you want,” he continues. A peace offering.

“Later,” Gwaine agrees, sizing him up. “After I’ve spilled all my secrets, hm? Didn’t realise you had such a keen eye. I did know you were nosy though.”

“Please don’t tell me all of them,” Arthur cracks a joke, relieved when Gwaine laughs, face clearing.

“Wouldn’t want to make you an accessory, I suppose. Still, you’ll get to know a few after Lancelot has his go.” A lazy hand is raised to point to Lance, who awaits nearby with picture perfect posture, looking fresh as a daisy other than the smear of blood high on one cheek.

“Who thought this was a good idea?” Arthur groans, stretching.

“An idiot,” Gwaine cheerfully accuses. He gathers his things, giving Arthur a brutal slug on the shoulder before he goes. “Softened him up for you!” He calls out to Lance as they pass.

Merlin darts past on long legs, congratulating Gwaine on a good showing as he does. He bears a waterskin that looks more inviting and precious than all the gems and gold in Albion.

“Oh, it’s good to see you,” Arthur says to the waterskin, taking it with greedy hands.

“Yes, thank you, I am also here,” Merlin laughs, leaning in and tugging playfully on the corner of his favour. “You’re amazing, ser knight,” he gushes, and Arthur nearly chokes on his drink, sputtering. “At fighting,” Merlin continues, tone completely unchanged, “drinking you could still use some practice on.”

Chapter Text

Lancelot is less temperamental than Gwaine, less reserved than Leon. Less prideful than Arthur, and less flighty than Merlin.

Perhaps these are the only things one might accuse Lancelot of being ‘less’ than in any measure. Arthur has thought before that he could work miracles if he had ten of the man, and it is as true now as it was when the thought first struck him years ago.

He ducks under a snapping sweep of Lancelot’s sword, striking out with his shield towards the elbow. He’s not fresh, having just had draining bouts with Leon and Gwaine; sweaty and panting with effort. His pulse thuds in a quick rhythm - parry, thrust, block. Like music. A frantic sort of drum in his ear. It’s almost too easy to get lost in familiar patterns. For a time - before Elyan but after the griffon - Arthur had only had Lancelot to spar with, and Lancelot only had him.

It took months to build his strength back up after his injury, and to unlearn the habits he had made as a boy. Lancelot had not learned from a master; only from half-caught and half-taught manoeuvres from whatever swordsman would give an overeager boy the time of day.

Arthur knows the eagerness well, but only that. He had tutors, and preceptors, and swordmasters, then came Alator, then the Blood Guard.

Lancelot had spoken to Arthur about his childhood home once; by all accounts it seems to have been a joyful one. Working with his family in the day, and practising battling imaginary evil-doers by night. The light of the moon on the lake by the mill, Lancelot had claimed, was more than enough to see by. And a stick, well chosen, was almost as good as a sword.

It’s astonishing he didn’t get killed in his first real fight.

What’s more astonishing still is how he’s persisted, and improved, and doggedly kept trudging forward, more stubborn than any mule. Now he’s one of the best swordsmen Arthur has ever had the privilege to fight alongside.

It makes him want to win all the more.

There is one thing, and one thing alone, that Lancelot is still lacking in with his swordplay.

Chivalry.

Not too little of it - quite the opposite. Too much of it. Too unwilling to finish a fight, too unwilling to press where it hurts. It is something Alator had beaten out of Arthur as soon as he was given to the Catha for training - a man who would let something like manners kill their long-awaited Emrys was not one who would remain in his service.

A gasp sounds out from the crowd as Arthur forces Lance’s own shield ridge into his face, bloodying his nose. A groan of sympathy follows as Arthur rather ruthlessly shoulders him in the gut, dropping him to the ground in a crash. A swift twist has his sword away and his arms pinned.

“Do you yield?” Arthur demands. It’s quiet now, other than his own heaving breaths, as the answer is awaited. Lancelot is coiled tight like a spring underneath him, a reedy whistle sounding with each exhale through his broken nose.

“I yield,” Lancelot says, wincing as Arthur lets him up. “You haven’t broken my nose in over a year,” he complains, “I thought we had something good going.”

“Well,” Arthur huffs as he wipes his own face down with a cloth, “if you weren’t so difficult to beat I wouldn’t have had to, now would I?”

“So,” Lance says as he prods delicately at his upper lip, inspecting his fingertips that come away bloody, then digging out a handkerchief, “that means you have to break my nose?”

“Seems like it,” Arthur agrees with a grin. “Fret not, I suspect Gwen can kiss it better.”

“I’d rather ask Merlin,” Lance says, letting the blood drip into his handkerchief with a frown. “To heal it!” he sputters with a desperate shout, upon seeing Arthur’s surly face. “Not kiss - ”

“I know.” Arthur lets him off the hook. He’s already broken the poor man’s nose, no need to torture him any further. “Go, get seen to,” he urges Lance. Maybe it’s all in his head but he swears he can smell that familiar copper tang of blood even at a distance. Too many broken noses and punches taken to not feel sympathy when he does the same.

“You’d better win the rest,” Lancelot instructs as he carefully inspects his sword, sheathing it with a smooth click.

“What?”

The only answer he gets is a tilt of Lancelot’s head, indicating the rest of the line. Geraint and Owain have both pushed their way forwards, Arthur sees.

“Oh for the love of…” he finds his hands set on his hips like an angry fishwife. “Keep fighting amongst yourselves, we only have until dusk. What did I tell you? Draw lots!”

“You’re flattered,” Lancelot accuses with insulting confidence. “Don’t think I can’t tell.”

Arthur looks over at him. Aside from the blood down the front of his tunic he’s hale, dark brown hair pushed back from his handsome face, a little amused smile hiding behind the handkerchief. Arthur raises one hand and pinches his fingers together, leaving just a whisper of space between them.

“But don’t tell anyone,” he orders.

Lance doesn’t say another word, merely crosses his fingers over his heart in a promise.

***

Arthur considers sticking his whole head into the water barrel.

It’s cold. Enough to sting against his overheated skin when it splashes, looking practically bottomless in the low light of dusk. His reflection stares back up at him, distorted in the ripples. His knuckles are ruddy and aching as he flexes the stiffness out of his hands.

It’s been a long time since he’s been pushed so hard.

Owain had improved since Arthur had seen him last - he’d been one of the youngest squires back then, now a knight. He’d earned it, too, but it still hadn’t been enough to take victory.

Morgana had liked him, Arthur remembers as he idles, enjoying the moment of quiet and feeling the wind catch in his hair. Something about him being the smallest man on the field had endeared him to her. Working twice as hard to get half as far.

Geraint must be putting Leon through his paces all the time, as well, what with the way the man was nipping at Arthur’s heels their whole bout.

Yet in the end the victory is his.

He’s bone tired, but it’s a wonderful, floating sort of feeling. He can hear the siren call of his bedroll from all the way across camp. His hand finds the favour Merlin had given him all on its own, raising to make certain it is still there without any conscious thought. It’s unbearably soft under the whorls of his fingertips.

He dodges questions and congratulations, well wishes and ribbing; both good natured and not-so-good-natured, seeking the solace of a quiet rest. He’ll lay his head down and unspool like a ribbon across Merlin’s lap, loose-limbed and useless til morning.

Morning.

He’ll fight, and he’ll win. Whatever or whoever comes.

The tent he and Merlin have shared these few nights since they have arrived is larger than the one they usually carry - courtesy of Morgana, and the wagons that had hauled it all the way from Camelot. The red and gold banners colours feel both new and familiar in the exact same way that everything else in camp does.

Alas, his rest is not meant to be.

Gwaine sits across from Merlin inside the tent, a warm, steady light coming from the magic ring that lies between them, causing Arthur to drop the flap closed behind him quickly. It’s already the worst kept secret that there is, he supposes.

“What’s with that face?” Gwaine complains on sight of him. “I thought you wanted to talk to me!”

“I don’t remember that,” Arthur denies, flopping down next to Merlin and picking at the buckles of his bracers. “No,” he hums, wrinkling his nose, “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to talk to you.”

Merlin huffs a laugh even as Gwaine gasps in affront. Gentle fingers take over Arthur’s task, unfastening his armour - which is good, as his shoulders feel like mush. He closes his eyes, listening to the soft clicks and rustles, inhaling the smell of oil and sweat.

“Go on then,” he orders, when Gwaine is quiet.

“Do you want me to go?” Merlin asks, his voice calm as still water, clear of judgement.

“What would be the point?” Arthur thinks he hears Gwaine give a shrug. “Way I figure is if one of you knows the other is bound to within about, oh, half a candlemark anyway.”

Neither Arthur nor Merlin bother to deny such a thing.

“So,” Gwaine drawls, “once upon a time - ”

“Gwaine,” Arthur groans.

“I’m getting there!” A blanket hits Arthur in the face, which he merely tucks behind his head, sprawling out as best he’s able in the crowded space. “Once upon a time there was a noble family,” Gwaine continues, like he’s spinning a yarn in a tavern. “A father, a mother, a sister, and a son. The father served a king and served him well. Dutifully. He was loyal and upstanding, and never faltered. He would be gone from his family - for months at a time some years, but he always returned.”

Arthur peels his eyes open to have a look. Gwaine’s gaze is misty and distant, for all that the crooked smile stays fixed on his face.

“One day, when the son was still very young, his father was called to war. As is the way of war, he did not return, but this time he did not come back after months passed. The household began to falter, in a way that the father never did. The staff left, the land fallowed and was left unattended because there was no one left to care for it.” Gwaine shifts in place, tugging at his shirtsleeves as a shadow of someone passing by silences him for a moment. “Months went by, and the word finally came. Alas, the father was felled in glorious battle. Honourable and good.”

He scoffs, offering a false sort of smile.

“Gwaine,” Merlin says, voice catching softly.

“S’alright,” Gwaine insists. “Been ages. Anyway, the story’s not done! The mother,” he continues, clapping his hands on his knees, “goes to the king, and begs for help. She has to carry her son the last bit, because he was too small to walk the whole way, but they make it all that long and lonely distance to the castle, and then, in front of her king, dusty from the road with her two children in tow, she kneels. ‘My husband was dutiful,’ she says, ‘he was loyal!’. But the king didn’t care. ‘He left two children behind,’ the mother begged, ‘I need help, or they will starve.’. But,” Gwaine says, practically spitting, “the king didn’t care! He didn’t care at all - the father was gone, and thus his use had ended. His land would be bought for coppers and given to some other poor sod who was too stupid to see his own death coming, some other family that was too blind to see the writing on the wall. Kings,” Gwaine says, the word loaded with ugly meaning.

“Caerleon?” Arthur asks, in the tense silence that follows.

“‘Course,” Gwaine says, “who else? So we left, just taking what we could carry. And eventually I left. I’m not sure who I was trying to make things easier for, honestly. Myself? My mother? One less stomach to worry about. She was… never the same, after.” He exhales, rubbing his hands down his face. “What kills me is that I can’t even tell if I’m happy the bastard is dead. I wanted to look him in the face, you know? All these years later and I still want to scream at him. Does he even remember my father’s name?”

“You could tell us, if you want,” Merlin offers with excruciating softness. He’s long since finished with Arthur’s bracers and set them to the side, sitting with his legs folded up under his chin, arms wrapped around them. “Just… if you wanted,” he says, biting at his lower lip.

Gwaine swallows roughly, before his face splits in a more sincere smile than Arthur has seen in a week.

“He was called Gwyar,” Gwaine says, lifting his chin up in pride, “and he was strong as a bear and big as an ox. Bigger heart, though. Truth is,” he clicks his tongue, looking for the words with a hum, “that’s why I wanted to follow you madmen.”

Arthur must make a noise of surprise, because a laugh startles out of Gwaine.

“It’s the truth,” he insists. “I’d met nobles, you see? Kings. What good have most of them done? Gods I hated them all. Quite fairly, mind you! But… when I left home - what good did I put into the world? I floated along, like I was just a boat on the water. An empty boat. And also maybe the water was ale." He gives a wry grin, something sincere managing to show in it nevertheless. "Then there was the pair of you, just… doing good. For the sake of it, and then again I see you two, years later, still going when precious few would ever thank you for it. Idiots or kings, I couldn’t tell, but,” he lifts an invisible mug in a toast, eyes shining, “either which one didn’t sound too bad.”

“Not a king,” Arthur croaks, overwhelmed and too wrung out to put together a coherent answer that Gwaine deserves. “Probably just an idiot.”

“Nah,” Gwaine denies with a casual air, leaning back until he’s propped up on his elbows, feet kicked lazily out in front of him, shoving his dirty boots in Arthur’s face, “you are if I say you are.”

“This is what I mean,” Arthur clears his throat and sniffs, hoping he sounds less moved than he is as he shoves the boots away, “when I say you behave like a noble! I knew from the start!”

Merlin buries his face in his knees, trying in vain to hide his shrill hiccups of laughter. Gwaine only beams at them, lighter now that his burden is shared.

“Ah, but what am I doing? My lords need their rest before the dawn,” he teases, standing. He brushes non-existent dirt off of his trousers, awkward in a way Gwaine rarely is. The heart, Arthur continues to think, is the most difficult organ to train. Possessing a different sort of strength than any other. It demands vulnerability, courage and softness all tangled up a messy rhythm. A song that, if you are lucky, someone else will hear.

He stands as well, only lagging a second behind Merlin, who has already moved forwards to gather Gwaine up into a hug. None of the performance to it that knights so often seem to do, with the rough slapping of backs and quick shoves. Arthur catches Gwaine’s eye over Merlin’s shoulder, and doesn’t say a word about the shine he sees, merely trading spots with Merlin for an embrace of his own.

“Ser Gwaine, son of Gwyar,” Arthur says, cupping the back of Gwaine’s head for a moment before giving him a gentle shake.

Without a word, Gwaine gives them both a silly little bow; but the core of it is real, just as it had been in Wenham all those years ago. And then he is gone, escaping to less emotional waters - calling out loudly to Percy as he goes, demanding attention in a voice that must reach the other side of camp.

“Poor Gwaine,” Merlin says, looking at his feet. They’re bare but for his socks, toes curling, and Arthur is once more enchanted, as he seems sure to be with every last thing Merlin does. “He was right though, you need to rest. Healing,” he insists, counting off his orders one by one, “and to be fed, and watered - ”

“I’m not a pet,” Arthur interrupts, amused.

“ - and put to bed.”

“If you insist,” Arthur capitulates, instead.

***

After Merlin has kindly conjured an outrageously hot bath and soothed each and every aching muscle, Arthur is in much better spirits with the world. He feels as though his skin must still be steaming as he lays flat, stretching out his fingers and toes one by one, all in a row. He’s drifting, his damp head cradled on Merlin’s lap as he reads. Aithusa has joined them, and is curled up like a hot stone on Arthur’s belly, snoring away.

“Borage? And feverfew?” Merlin is mumbling to himself, barely audible over the turning of the pages or the scratch of his quill. Outside the camp noises have dwindled to almost nothing other than the occasional patrol, all who are able resting early for the coming morn.

Eventually the light from the ring is hidden once more; kept under a blanket which is spun roughly enough that a little shine still glows, so that it is not black as pitch. Merlin has to try three times to bully Arthur into laying his head down on a pillow instead of his lap, to much grumbling and protests, only finally being placated after they are pressed together side by side. He buries his nose into the hair at the back of Merlin’s neck with a sigh, dropping back down to sleep immediately.

It is the deep, easy sleep of the utterly exhausted, wrung clean. He is dreamless, and liquid - and awake.

It is sudden, that he blinks up at the peak of their tent. Merlin hovers above him, sitting up; one hand over Arthur’s mouth to shush him, the other clenched tight over the glowing ring to hide the light. There is only a shred of it that lims him, the edge of his frown just visible in the dark. Aithusa makes not even a peep, lying in wait like the predator he forgets she is.

Arthur reaches up a slow, silent hand, taking Merlin’s wrist in his grip to signal he’s awake.

“Shh,” Merlin says, moving his hand away. “The ring,” he whispers frantically, “it became bright as anything, before going dim again. Someone’s done something,” he huffs, full mouth pursed tight in displeasure.

Arthur recalls with great guilt his suspicions that he had not shared - that perhaps Morgause was closer than they had known.

Before he can so much as open his mouth to confess as much, a shadow forms at the thin linen boundary, a creeping step of feet sounding.

Arthur rolls up, dragging his sword out from under his pillow and unsheathing it as quietly as he is able. Merlin’s eyes shine like a cat’s in the dark, a golden sheen of fire banking, ready.

But the only face that appears is Leon’s, eyes growing wide when he is met with the edge of a blade. Arthur takes it down, heart thudding a loud beat in his ears as he tugs Leon forwards and out of sight.

“What’s going on?”

“Owain has been found dead,” Leon says lowly, and Arthur’s stomach sinks, souring with dread. “He took one of the patrols last night, and did not return. I sent scouts when he failed to report - ”

“When - how?” Arthur asks, rubbing a hand down his face, the fear doing more to rouse him than anything else. He begins gathering his armour, trying to muffle the sounds. “Why have you not sounded the alarm? Is everyone else safe?”

“He was found only just now,” Leon explains, holding up his open hands, “and I came to you because I fear that it was magic. I first went to see to my lady’s safety, but - ”

“Spit it out,” Arthur demands, furtively dressing and arming himself as Leon falters in his words. Aithusa scampers to hide herself in Merlin’s cloak as he throws it around his shoulders over his own armour, pulled over his head with haste, messy over his twisted sleeping shirt. 

“It’s been years,” Leon says, “since I have laid eyes on the woman you warned me of, but in Morgana’s tent, when I heard voices, I hid myself instead of entering. When I looked - ”

“Morgause?” Merlin asks, voice cold as ice. His hands still where they have begun buckling Arthur’s gauntlet. In fairness, Arthur has frozen as well.

He had been so busy prancing around about trying to spare Morgana’s strained feelings - all for this to be the result. A dead knight, who had been earnest and just. Does Morgana know? She had liked Owain, his mind uselessly supplies. They’d been friends, of a sort, in the way that a lady might have a favourite knight where all parties knew nothing would come of it.

An innocent sort of affection usually snuffed out by time, not death.

“I do not know, not for certain,” Leon says, hedging his words. “She is much changed, if so.”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” Arthur says, nauseous with guilt. Secrets had facilitated this, and ones he had not even meant to keep. Fear and love tangling up into one mass of useless silence. When he should have spoken his fears, should have pressed. 

Owain might still live, had Arthur issued a warning. Even if he had no proof, the guards could have been doubled, the fires built higher. Merlin could have done something, Arthur is certain, because Merlin can do anything.

They depart, Geraint and Percival already waiting outside for them.

“My lord,” Geraint greets him, face grim and unmoving as stone, falling into line as they make their way towards Morgana’s tent. It is not yet dawn, but the bare hint of the sun has begun to make itself known in a bruise of purple. Under his feet the grass is soft and wet with morning dew, the fog low and thick.

Outside of Morgana’s pavilion he gestures for everyone to hold, leaning in to listen. 

Nothing.

Not a sound.

Merlin steps forwards around him, eyes going molten as he focuses a spell, tracing a sigil in the air. It hums for a moment, glistening gold, before fading away. Geraint takes a sharp breath in but doesn’t raise a fuss.

“No one,” Merlin mouths, shaking his head, “just Morgana and Gwen.”

“I know what I heard, and what I saw,” Leon whispers back, crowding in closely. “I’ve known Gwen since we were children, it was not her.”

“I believe you,” Merlin shushes him, “but if it was Morgause she’s already gone.”

Arthur is already pushing his way inside before anyone can get a hand on him to stop him.

“Stand guard,” he orders over his shoulder, not surprised in the least when Merlin follows him in anyway.

Morgana is leaning against the edge of her table, her dark hair a loose mess of tangles, wrapped up in layers of thick nighthings in deference to the chill. Her head snaps up with a wrench and a gasp as he barges in, standing and reaching for her sword before she sees who exactly has come to disturb her.

“What is the meaning of this?” A pale hand has come up to clench at her chest instead of the pommel of her blade. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, you brute!”

“Owain is dead,” Arthur announces, taking a wary look at Gwen, who slumbers on peacefully.

“What?” Morgana asks, sliding to sit back down, knocking a handful of scrolls to the ground as she does. They tumble without a care, her face open in shock, her dark circles as purple as the sky outside. It seems sincere, to him, but he’s always been a fool for Morgana, he knows.

“Was Morgause here?” Arthur asks, stepping further into the pavilion, until he can see the green in Morgana’s eyes. Her lip quivers, too startled to think of a quick lie. “Don’t lie to me,” he demands, unflinching as she stares.

“She only wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be fighting as champion, that’s all she came for,” Morgana insists after Arthur does not bend, her head held high. “She’s my sister, she was worried - ”

“Owain is dead!” Arthur does not shout, although he would very much like to. “You liked him, didn’t you? Am I remembering that right? He was sweet on you - ”

“That’s enough,” Morgana says, pulling her robe tight in defence. “I don’t believe you! Why would you say such a thing?” She begins to pace, and even now as her voice grows louder Gwen does not stir. “Even if Owain is dead, there is nothing to say it was Morgause who did it! Annis is right at our doorstep, who is to say she did not send an assassin to see there is no hope of peace after all?”  

“Why won’t Gwen wake?” Arthur asks, furious as Morgana flinches in guilt. Merlin takes the two long steps over to her to check her pulse, kneeling at her side.

“She’ll wake in the morning,” is the only defence that Morgana offers. She wrings her hands, faltering. Unsure. Her words pour forwards like a flood. “Morgause promised it was fine - I would never let any harm fall on Gwen, not on my life! But she wouldn’t have understood - ”

“Well, that’s fair,” Arthur agrees with a nasty scowl that he can feel pulling at his face, “seeing as how I don’t understand, either.” 

“It’s safer for her to not know - ”

“How convenient,” Merlin says, looking up from Gwen’s even breaths and towards Morgana. “You do know that if Morgause was really acting in you and your people’s best interest she wouldn’t ask you to skulk about like a criminal, don’t you?”

“I am a criminal,” Morgana hisses, “what about that can’t you seem to grasp? How many more times must you be told?! Of course Morgause must remain a secret! It doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me!” Her voice cracks, and even as furious as he is Arthur can feel a seed of pity. Living as a sorceress under Uther’s rule - what justifies secrecy more than that?

How alone, how desperate she has been.

Yet he thought by now she had understood that Morgause was not the only person in the world she could rely on. That she knew it does not have to be her and her sister alone against the world - in fact the only ones who would make it so remain Uther and Morgause. That ugly commonality they share.

It strikes him then, that of course Morgana would believe lies spun in the only language she speaks over words of truth that she cannot understand.

“Will Gwen wake?” Arthur asks, ignoring all else. “Is that much true, at least?”

“She’ll arise with the dawn,” Merlin nods, coming to his feet once more with a grimace.

“See?” Morgana entreats them, coming forwards with wild eyes that don’t seem to see them at all, her feet bare and pale on the blood red rug. “Don’t you see? Whatever you think Morgause is, she isn’t. She’s not a monster, and she wouldn’t hurt people for no reason - ”

She’s mad, Arthur thinks with a seeping horror. Mad or still dreaming.

“She slaughtered Elena’s men,” Merlin says, coming close to Arthur’s side. He considers Morgana, his eyes narrowing, a piercing blue and blue alone. “Owain, now, this very night. She’s working with Cenred - against Camelot. Not Uther - Camelot. All who do not obey. She’s branding people. You do know that, don’t you?”

Morgana jerks back away from them as though she’s touched an open flame.

“No." She shakes her head, once, twice. "No, you’re wrong. What proof do you have? None! And with Tyr - she only did that because she loves me,” she says again. A meagre, horrifying defence. Her fingers are bone white, twisted up like knots in her red gown. “She loves me.”

Arthur would swear to every god that there is that he can feel his heart shattering inside his chest.

“That’s not love, Morgana,” he says, biting at the inside of his cheek in sharp misery.

She does not budge, though, and neither will he.

“I should have said,” Arthur confesses, wishing bitterly that he’d done things differently. “I was too afraid of ruining things between us to be honest with you. To bring up Morgause without proof - I thought that you wouldn’t believe me, or that I’d just drive you further to her. And I never, ever wanted you to feel alone. So I just let it lie.” And what a mistake that has turned out to be. “I should have been braver. I’ve done all of us a disservice. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Morgana.”

“You're wrong. She’s not a monster,” Morgana says again, and this time Arthur hears what she’s really saying: ‘I am not a monster’.

“And” he continues, his voice stuck in his throat like sticky sap, “I wanted her to be changed, for you. To be a good sister.” He wonders if he really means he wishes Morgana would change, for him - to be his good sister. 

Even he does not know.

“She’ll show her true colours,” Arthur promises, knowing it for the rotten truth. All of them will show their colours in the end. “You’ll see her for who she is.”

“And then what?” Morgana challenges him, face waxy and wan in the brightening dawn. It’s nearing time to go. “You’ll laugh?”

“Never,” he swears, reaching out and pulling her into an embrace when she does not turn away from him.  Slowly, like she’s a skittish animal. She is a tense, miserable statue - and he wonders if this is the first hug she’s had since her father died. Her real one. He can’t bring himself to ask, but he hopes not. Even through the layers of her sleeping gowns he can feel the sharp jut of her shoulder blades, cold as the grave. Not a shred of warmth to be found. She is not well, he knows, but she seems impossibly fragile now, more glass than girl.

“And today?” Her voice is small, and more timid than he has ever heard it. “What will you do?”

There is only ever the one thing Arthur can do, after all.

“I’ll fight,” he says, stepping back enough to look upon her. He catches her hands in his own, giving them a squeeze before he lets her go. “But I’d like to know if I’ll be fighting Morgause.”

“No,” Morgana exclaims, wiping under her eyes with a sniff, “I swear it. She told me. It's a man called Derian, that is who will fight. Morgause won't have lied. You’re wrong about her, you’ll see,” she says again, more to herself than to Arthur.

Merlin is a shadow of blue and green at his side, soothing like a deep sea. Arthur catches his eye to share a look - in this, Morgana is right. 

They will see, one way or another.

Chapter Text

Merlin sets Arthur’s armour to rights with clever hands.

It had been put on in the dark, of course. Over his sleeping shirt, half twisted round; and if he is to go to combat the last thing he needs is to be improperly kitted out.

“Is it too tight?” Merlin asks, his quiet voice startling Arthur nevertheless.

He takes a deep breath in, but the only restriction to his air is his own foolish upset.

“It’s good,” he says, turning to repeat the ritual with Merlin. If Morgause will be there, the dragonscale armour is the least of the precautions Arthur would demand. Somehow he thinks Merlin would not tolerate any of the other ideas he’s had since. Going back to the tower, for one, or flying so high above on Aithusa that Morgause will never so much as set an eye on him.

“Do you believe her?” Merlin asks.

He’s facing away, as Arthur methodically goes over the fastenings along his back.

“Morgana?” A little hum answers him, not half as judgmental as it might have been. It’s not like Arthur hasn’t earned worse. “I think… she thinks Morgause speaks the truth.” And isn’t that the crux of it? It leaves him numb in a way that only portends death in a fight - a fight that cannot be avoided. He is not entirely certain who he hopes is Annis’s champion there; that giant of a man, or Morgause herself.

“It might be a good opportunity,” he says, more to himself than Merlin.

“What might?”

“If Morgause was lying about being champion, I mean. It is not mad to think she has promised Annis a victory and land in return for her army,” Arthur speculates, “perhaps she came only to make sure Morgana would not try to volunteer herself, so that they would not be against one another in battle - ”

“You cannot mean you would face her yourself? Now?!”

Merlin spins on the spot, face appalled. The last fastening of his armour swings, undone.

“If I can strike at the bracelet,” Arthur says, reaching for it, “surprise her - ”

“No,” Merlin says, shaking his head and batting away Arthur’s hand, “no,” he repeats again, louder. “If Morgause awaits Camelot’s champion there, even if Morgana has never said a word to her about you - which we do not know, I will remind you - there is no such thing as an element of surprise.” He steps closer, though there is no space for it. His eyes are only blue, but blazing with fire even so. “She would be a High Priestess, on an open plain, anticipating a fight - and on top of that you’ve got no weapon that can hurt her! It would be suicide!”

Ah, Arthur thinks wearily. The sword. Another thing that fear and denial has driven him to silence upon. Balinor had told Arthur of its existence months ago now, and yet it always seemed a better time would come to speak on it. He still doesn’t know how to find it, nor even where to start looking - but Merlin has avenues to travel that Arthur doesn’t.

If he had the courage to speak perhaps it would be found already; from wherever it is mystical sacred swords hide themselves.

“She’s still under the geas,” Arthur reminds him, which only makes Merlin more outraged, “she can’t hurt me without hurting herself, either. It’s better odds than any other man would get.” The sword. He must steel himself. “Listen - ”

“Ah, yes,” Merlin says smartly, “and won’t that console me, when you’re both dead!”

The sun is rising, the light flooding in under the linen of the tent in a bright, undeniable line, chasing away the shadows like sand in an hourglass. Arthur reaches out to do up the last buckle, arms going around Merlin’s middle in an embrace to find it, bowing his head into the curve of neck that is already covered by gorget. He places a kiss on it, thankful it exists while hoping it will never be needed. One man is already dead this day. Owain will be missed, but there simply must not be another.

“I cannot run from this, be it Derian or Morgause who is waiting,” Arthur says. A curl of Merlin’s hair tickles his nose, making his eyes itch. “There would be war, Merlin. I’ve a duty. But there is - ”

“And I won’t let you die,” Merlin cuts him off, throat bobbing. “Not at any cost. If Morgause is there you’re not fighting. I - I forbid it. I forbid you.”

“I will not forfeit,” Arthur steps back far enough to meet Merlin’s eyes again. A beautiful, steady blue, certain and set, as if there is only one possible outcome. Merlin always does get what he wants, Arthur thinks, terribly fond.

“If it’s Morgause, I’ll be the one to fight,” Merlin challenges, determination writ across every inch of him. “See how she likes a second dose of dragonfire.”

Without waiting for the protest that is already springing to Arthur’s lips, Merlin turns on his heel to depart, the drama of his exit only slightly muddled by getting tangled up in the flap of the tent closure.

Arthur sighs, suddenly feeling every press of his armour, the weight crushing. The walls tight, the air thick, each breath like drinking dread.

Then he goes, for it is dawn.

The burst of sunlight on his face is like a slap. Llamrei is already saddled and in fine barding, Morgana on her mount next to her, clad in gleaming chain. She dares a look over at him out of the corner of her eye, Merlin a silent warden on Llamrei’s other side - a spot of blue in a sea of red. He sits not atop Aithusa, but Bluebell, and there is no dragon to be seen. A little pale snout sticks up out of his hood, darting back down when she catches sight of Arthur.

“I wasn’t sure you would come,” Morgana says, testing a smile on him. It is a weak attempt at one, her hands folded to hide their shaking. The cracks in her veneer become more obvious, now that he has seen them once.

“I keep my word,” Arthur reminds her, swinging up into the saddle. He had not meant it as a blow, but it is taken as one, her smile frozen fast upon her face. “I have no more wish for war than I did yesterday.”

“No,” she says, taking up her reins, “nor do I.”

It is not a long march out, the tents of Annis’s troops visible in the distance over the crest of the first hill. The wind sweeps down the valley, swinging the grass this way and that like waves of green and gold. On and on they roll, with no care to the army that crosses them.

“Did you see Owain?” Arthur asks, caught up in that awkward space in between the great love of his life and the sister that he cannot seem to understand or hold on to. She had sent him his mother’s sigil, his mind insists; something he cannot fathom benefiting Morgause no matter how he tries to reframe the gesture. There can be no plot driving that deed. Only compassion. “I do not ask to be cruel, only to know if you believe now that he is dead?”

“I did,” comes Morgana’s answer. She sits straight backed, her voice quiet, but steady, “and I do.”

“Was it a blade that killed him?” Truth be told Arthur does not know, and Morgause is as deadly with a sword as any knight Arthur has ever met, so it doesn’t much matter. But he trusts Leon, and what he saw. Merlin looks over for the answer, a strange look upon his face.

“Yes, as a matter of fact it was,” says Morgana, her voice firm on this point, her bright eyes fixed forwards as she spurs her horse faster. “Annis will answer for his death.”

Merlin leans in more closely, his words for Arthur alone.

“The ring, remember?”

“It glowed - it woke you, of course I remember,” Arthur replies, unsure where this is leading. The camp approaches rapidly, and with it their meeting. “Morgause used magic nearby, to enchant Gwen - ”

“That ring always glows, because it’s always magic. Something as simple as a mild sleeping enchantment wouldn’t have set it off,” Merlin says furrowing his brow. “If she killed Owain with a sword, not magic - ”

“You think that is not all she did,” Arthur realises, heart heavy.

Merlin shrugs one shoulder, lost in busy thought.

Arthur does not truly think that Annis would have sent an assassin. Or at the very least not one who would slay a single knight on patrol and flee when no alarm was even raised. But then what is Morgause’s game?

Cenred and his army of conscripts and mercenaries alone would not be enough to challenge Camelot’s army. She needs Annis’s men, so she needs Arthur to lose. Doesn’t she? Did she leave Owain to be found to sabotage the single combat? His mind spins aimlessly, only returning when Merlin speaks once more.

“It lit the night she sent the adder to you - the curse. Didn’t it?”

“Bright as the sun,” Arthur agrees, even though they both know it’s the case. He can make out the red of Queen Annis’s hair, the massive shape of who must only be Derian standing at one side, a full head taller than any other of their company. On her other is that cloaked figure who must only be Morgause, hood raised, casting a shadow over her face.

“But Gwen wasn’t cursed, was she? You checked her over, you said - ”

“No,” Merlin interrupts, his eyes going wide and furtively flicking over to Morgana, riding up ahead, “not Gwen.”

Arthur urges Llamrei faster, retaking the distance Morgana has gained, stomach doing flips all the while.

“Morgana,” he calls to her, pushing Llamrei close, “Morgana! Wait, just wait. Did Morgause do anything else when she visited you? Give you something, or a spell, magic, or something to you?”

“No!” Morgana snaps at him. “Why can’t you accept you might be wrong about her? Why must Owain have been killed by her and not Annis, who has far more to gain?”

Their meeting place rapidly approaches.

“Please,” he begs, voice low as they ride on, “don’t accuse Annis, not yet. If I have no proof you must admit neither do you! Think, why would she agree to the combat if she had no intentions of allowing it? You share a common goal of avoiding war, do not forget it!”

Morgana closes her eyes, inhaling a great breath of air as she mutters prayers for patience.

“Or some other agent was attempting to derail the possibility of peace,” Arthur presses, desperate for her to consider it. Tempers are too high, and Morgana’s temper has always bitten harshly. “Even if not Morgause.”

The impatient look she sends him reads loud and clear that she doesn’t believe him for a moment. Which is fair - he does think it was Morgause.

Regardless, there is no time to discuss it further, or indeed anything.

They have arrived, and it is time.

Annis is as stately in black as she had been the day before, her face still a pale mask, her hair still rich and red. Morgause pushes the hood of her cloak back with the hint of a smile. The soft light of the dawn does nothing to gentle the mottled burn that trails down her face, her eye socket sunken and burned shut evermore. One side of her mouth tugs permanently down following the wounds, but the other remains curled into that barely there sort of smile. Smug, Arthur thinks, grim. Her hair is still golden and glittering, braided away from her face and uneven with growth.

Kilgharrah has taken much from her.

Morgana goes forward, head held high. The weary, manic woman she had been before dawn is replaced by a queen.

“Your Majesty,” she greets, a thin smile upon her face.

“I see little call for pleasantries,” Annis replies, “when there is only one reason we have come.”

Cradled in the low valley, the grass around them is fresh and new with spring, mottled with golden-brown brush that leads down to the shore, all the world new. Her hand is small. Wrinkled and white, with rings gleaming in the early sun as she raises it to summon forwards her champion.

Derian steps forwards into the empty circle of space.

“Derian will stand as the champion for Gwynedd,” Annis proclaims.

Arthur is not certain if it is relief or fury that surges through him, leaving his hands clenching tight around Llamrei’s reins and his heart thudding. He does not understand what it is Morgause has done or what she wishes to achieve any more now than he had an hour ago, or two. Not weeks or months past. But he must fight regardless and so fight he shall.

Merlin is practically seething as Arthur dismounts and takes up his shield, not budging his glare away from Morgause for all the gold in Albion.

“Arthur Pendragon, on behalf of Camelot,” Morgana calls to him. He takes his position and waits with bated breath, but nothing more is said. She has chosen to hold her accusations, at least for now.

Well, he thinks dryly, at least that’s something.

“Ah,” Annis says, canny as she surveys him. “Arthur Pendragon. Now this is interesting.”

“Not particularly,” Arthur denies, drawing his sword with a crisp bow. “Your Majesty.”

Queen Annis laughs, seeming as startled by it as anyone. Smile lines form around her mouth, the crow’s feet of her eyes. It stirs something in him to know she’s led her own long life - one filled with laughter as well as sorrows. Something he’s lost sight of, consumed with his own selfish worries. All of the people of Gwynedd deserve their own freedoms as much as those from Camleot, and Morgause’s yoke would strangle the life from them as soon as she has finished with Uther.

He forces himself to take in a breath of air, releasing it slowly, counting down until his heartbeat slows.

For the sake of every soul on these fields he must win, whatever trickery lies in store.

“Begin!”

The call rings clear as a bell across the valley. There is a roar out of both armies, urging them on - and Derian grins to match their furor, lifting his sword aloft as though he has already seized victory. The two handed greatsword is held high to the sky in salute with only one arm, moving as easily as if he were merely holding a willow branch; so on this occasion Arthur can understand his arrogance.

He’s not the size of a dragon though. Nor a griffon.

He’s just a man.

Arthur lunges forwards, pressing into Derian’s guard as much as he can, darting quick strikes on either side that the man must work twice as hard to block with his greatsword. It’s just like practising against Alator and his stave, Arthur tells himself, ducking under a sweep that would have had his head cleaved clean off.

His skin sizzles, buzzing and strange.

It takes a moment to recognize it. Everything he is armoured with is layered with spellwork of protection, as it always is, but it is a rare day indeed where someone actually tries to enchant him. With no hold to grasp the magic sloughs off of him like it never was.

It’s a giddy feeling, and he wishes he could chance a look upon Morgause’s face. Perhaps it is petty, but he would enjoy seeing her realisation. The sting of failure.

It is with a lighter heart that he goes forwards again, and again, striking low, then high, aiming to tire. No matter the size of the arm, the greatsword that is wielded will weigh heavy as the bout goes on.

The drumbeat of a fight is always easy to find, like a dance you can never seem to forget the rhythm to. Their music is the screaming of the crowd, sounding fainter and fainter in the distance as his blood rushes in his ears. He is lost in it - one mistake would be deadly, now. On and on it seems to go, the grass beneath them trampled flat, speckled with blood.

A thousand little cuts, and still Derian does not fall.

Brute strength will not be enough forever, though. A fast strike to Derian’s ankle connects, earning an agonised shout that cuts at last through Arthur’s mad, consuming focus, dragging him back to reality.

His lungs ache with effort, but he gives one last heave, felling Derian to the ground, where he lies, gasping. Arthur drives his sword into the ground by his head, the blade resting against the thin skin of his throat, pulse rapidly fluttering.

“Yield,” he orders, panting. “Yield!”

Arthur takes up the greatsword from where it is still held in one limp hand, his arm straining to toss it away and out of reach.

“Enough,” Annis calls. She looks over them for a long moment, her champion sprawled at Arthur’s feet, undeniable in his victory. The riot of noise her men have been making has dulled, and goes into even deeper quiet as their queen speaks with a sigh. “That is enough.”

“No,” Morgause insists, mouth pulled into a smile as sharp as a knife, “it is not nearly enough. I promised you a victory this day, and it has only begun.”

His skin feels like it’s sparking into flame under his armour, so wildly churning is the magic in the air. His vision swims. His eyes grow heavy and tired even as he turns back to look towards Merlin and Morgana, sudden fear in his heart. He can hear Annis’s sharp voice raising in question, the rustling and shifting of her men, but he can pay them no mind.

Morgana watches on with horror writ across her face as her men drop like stones around her where they stand, lunging off of her horse to catch Leon as he tilts. They go down together in a tangle. Like chaff, the red banners of Camelot fall, one by one, until only Morgana remains. Terrified and alone, save Merlin, who seems to stay standing out of magic and sheer, uncompromising stubbornness.

“What is this?” He hears Morgana ask, shaking Leon to no avail. “No, no, Leon, you must wake!” But no matter how she shouts none of them stir. “Are you doing this?” Morgana calls down the valley to Morgause, Leon limp and lifeless across her lap. “Tell me you are not!”

“Are you not pleased?” Morgause asks, grinning down at Arthur with bliss. “Never before has there been such a bloodless victory. My Lady,” she turns towards Annis, “Camelot lies before you, ripe for the taking.”

Yet Annis is unmoving, a furrow across her brow.

It is more effort than he can name, just to keep his eyes open. The sharp horror of helplessness cuts more deeply than any blade. Morgause’s spell was no mere trickery, then, he thinks. Whatever magic she had cast in the fight was nothing. He is certain she would have liked to watch him be butchered in front of a cheering crowd, but this was always to be the outcome, win or lose.

“Arthur.” Between one long, slow blink and another Merlin has come to his side, Morgana at his heels, his magic a soothing balm as he lifts Arthur back to his feet. He hadn’t even realised he’d fallen. Derian has rolled himself to his back, clutching at his wound, wide eyes watching. All of the army of Gwynedd stands gathered before them. It would be a slaughter - yet not one moves. “The curse - ”

“I figured,” Arthur slurs, feeling the dark embrace of sleep curling around the edges of his vision even with the aid of Merlin’s magic. “But what do we do about it?”

“There’s no ending a spell like this - we need to stop the source! It will only die when it is no longer fed,” he says, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. His hood hisses in indignant rage.

Aithusa, he distantly remembers. Flee, he tries to tell her, but all that will come out of him is a yawn.

“The source?” Morgana asks, her own blade in hand as though she would fight all of Annis’s men to the last herself before letting a single one pass. She, Arthur notices, is not weary at all. No call of slumber sings in her ears. It does make a wretched sense, he thinks.

“Oh,” he says, “Morgana.”

She turns to him with a dull sort of betrayal, her mouth twisting in a grimace as she at last understands the nature of her sister.

“My Lady,” Morgause urges, the impatience in her voice unmistakable.

“This,” Annis says, her voice a note that seems to swim in Arthur’s ears as he sinks ever further down, “is not what I was promised. Dark magic - ”

“Morgause!” Morgana interrupts with a broken shout. “Sister!”

“What are you waiting for!” Morgause bellows to Annis, her open hand stretched out towards Derian, his greatsword tugged on puppets strings towards them and up into his bloody hand. “Kill him. Win!”

“Drop your sword,” Annis orders, words quick as a whip.

At his queen’s word, the sword drops.

Morgause stares at Annis for a long, furious moment, stunned.

“Hold,” Annis says, staying her army with one raised hand.

“Fool. Fine,” Morgause answers through clenched teeth, “I’ll see it done myself.” Arthur watches her boots strike the grass as she dismounts, unable to lift his head. He’s still not let go of his sword though - not even in death will he be parted from it. The bracelet, he thinks. His arm feels heavy as an anvil, twitching at his side.

“Release this curse,” Morgana commands, dipping her shoulder under his to help keep him on his feet. “Now!”

The sky above them opens. Unfurling flames bloom like a red flower above the knights of Camelot, lashes of fire woven out of the air.

“Stand aside, sister,” Morgause orders, drawing her sword with one hand as the other pulls the fire down, radiating heat. “I will not hurt you!”

A great chill sweeps through the grass in answer, fog spreading and rolling at their feet, freezing the dewdrops. A spattering of rain begins, sizzling against the fire as Merlin turns his face upwards, blinking furiously to stay awake. Whatever protection his magic offers against this, it is not enough to counter Morgause’s curse forever.

“Ah!” Morgause scoffs as she closes the last distance, raising her sword up high. She brings it down, paying no mind even as Morgana parries it, shoving herself bodily in front of Arthur. “One of Balinor’s pet sorcerers? Cease this foolishness, and join your brothers and sisters where you belong. You need never kneel again!”

“Except to you?” Merlin snorts, ever smartmouthed.

Morgause lifts Morgana away from the fight with magic, her armour dragging through the mud as she spits furious curses, then swats Arthur down into the wet earth with a negligent motion. An afterthought. It knocks the breath out of him, his vision going spotty with bursts of lurid colours dancing behind his eyes. Merlin holds on, falling onto Arthur’s side with a dizzy shout. Above them, his rain pours on relentless and unbroken. In warping sheets it weaves a shield from the flames that blankets the army, stretching from one end of the valley to another.

Against the mottled grey and hellish red of the sky, the fire and the blistering steam, he sees Morgause’s silhouette bring her sword to bear once more. It takes everything he has to bring up his own - and perhaps he is selfish. A greedy, shameless man, made self-serving by love.

For instead of attempting a strike at the bracelet, gleaming proudly on Morgause’s wrist, he covers Merlin’s head. His sword braces in the earth and he holds with all the strength that he can muster, Morgana’s screaming echoing in his ears as blow after blow falls against them, blind and careless with rage.

A furious, miserable wailing comes from Merlin’s hood as Aithusa thrashes to free herself, a clean burst of white on the muddy field. Their brave girl, he thinks, letting his head fall down against Merlin’s. To rest. Just for a moment.

Merlin’s eyes are barely open, unfocused and burning with flickering gold. A shadow falls over them - and all at once Aithusa is no longer their small stowaway. Her wings span as she crouches over them protectively, a guttural snarl building deep within her, chest lighting up from within with lightning. Men scramble back screaming as she sounds out a piercing roar that stirs every last prey instinct, lighting cracking across the sky, clouds swirling, black as pitch. The wind sends a red banner whipping through the sky and to the sea, lost.

Morgause hits the ground, crawling backwards.

“You!” She seethes, furious and frightened. “Emrys!”

Merlin heaves himself up to sitting, clinging to Aithusa for support.

“My mother,” he gasps, wrenching that last bit of effort out to stand on legs weak as a newborn fawn, “named me Merlin!”

The lightning licks along the ground at her feet but Morgause does not retreat this time, or release her spell. She considers them with narrowed eyes, chest heaving, hands clutched tight in the grass where she’s sat.

“My death will not release the spell,” she swears.

“But mine will,” Morgana laughs, humourless and bitter. Sodden and filthy she comes to stand fearless before her sister, holding her own naked blade to her neck. “Will it not?” she asks, quirking one dark brow up in question. “Sister.”

What little colour is left on Morgause’s face drains.

It is silent save the lashings of rain. Annis’s army holding their line and their lady’s word.

Morgana moves as Morgause does, a thin line of blood welling under her hand, unflinching.

“I don’t think you are swift enough to stop me,” Morgana taunts. Arthur blinks, dragging himself forwards. Aithusa doesn’t so much as budge, bullying him to safety behind her scales, her wings shrouding them. “Was any of it real? Any of it?”

“I will give you Camelot,” Morgause swears fervently, “my sister. Such a queen as you will be has never been seen. Magic, at last when it belongs. You will be glorious, and our people will be free! You will wash the earth clean all of Uther’s sins.” She claps a hand to her heart, the bracelet ringing against her chain mail. “This is my love!”

“Wash it clean in the blood of my men?” Morgana asks, steady. “They are loyal. Any man here was willing to fight for me, to die for me!”

“Then let them,” Morgause spits. She doesn’t understand at all, Arthur thinks. Too far gone, down her dark, lonely path.

“They would die for me,” Morgana repeats, bracing herself with an an acceptance that curdles in Arthur’s stomach. A peace that sends shivers down his spine, even as the air burns hotter and hotter as Merlin grows weaker and wearier. He cannot watch his sister die, wretched and powerless in the dirt. His hands slip underneath him, his legs will not answer his call. “I can give them no less.”

With a short, sharp inhale of fear, she moves.

“No!” Arthur shouts, broken, mingling with Morgause’s cries of the same.

“I will release it,” Morgause says, halting Morgana in her tracks. Her voice cracks, begging. “I will release it, lower your blade.”

“Stop the spell first,” Morgana demands in turn, as cold and unmoving as ice as she stares. “I think we have both learned what your word is worth."

Chapter Text

The curse lifting feels like a fog is clearing from his eyes and his ears, even his skin. The heavy press of gravity is less oppressive, the impossible pull of sleep begins to slowly dissolve away.

Arthur watches Merlin’s eyes flutter open and find focus. A spatter-speckle of blood decorates his fine-boned cheek and his hair is plastered down, inky-black with water - Arthur has never seen someone so beautiful in his life.

The relief is dizzying. Intoxicating. 

Morgana stands between the men of Camelot and Morgause, though from under the shelter of Aithusa he can only see so much of her. He cranes his neck to note if the army yet stirs, but he can make out nothing. They need to get up, they need to help, to do something. His hand is so tight around the pommel of his sword that it spasms with nothing to fight against any longer. Arthur looks back to Merlin, at last letting go so can trace a careful thumb across the blood, caressing it away with a drop of rainwater. Just this, he thinks, just for a moment.

“I love you,” he says, the words demanding to be known. For there exists more presently than ever the possibility of death, and some world out there where he never had the chance to say it again. “I love you,” it pours out of him, heart wrenching in his chest with the sudden burst of joy, that the both of them are still here.

Merlin’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, damp with tears, his hand shaking as he raises it to touch Arthur’s where it still rests upon his cheek.

“And I love you,” he says, more of a sigh than fully formed words, “although we might work on your timing for romantic confessions,” he continues in a whisper.

“Right,” Arthur agrees, groaning as he forces himself up; Aithusa trying her best to herd them back down like a mother duck, grumbling all the while. “But you did find it romantic.”

Merlin raises a hand and wobbles it back and forth, weighing it. The softness of his gaze tells the truth.

“We can work on it,” he says, taking Arthur’s offered hand and stumbling to his feet, wobbling. “Later, though, I think.”

“Later,” Arthur agrees, solemnly surveying the frigid stand off between Morgause and Morgana, who still holds her sword up against her own neck. Her sharp chin lifted high, rain pouring down her face, ringing and tinkling as it strikes her armour. It is only as the army begins to wake, groggy and weak-limbed, that she lowers it. With the clouds above, low and heavy with rain, it is as dark as night instead of dawn. Morgana lights up in sharp relief as lighting streaks across the sky, chased by the roll of thunder.

Aithusa slips forwards to bully her way forwards once more, standing guard and drawing both of their attention. Morgause is caught fast between the teeth of vengeance and self-preservation. Arthur can almost see her mind spinning as she does the calculations. Self preservation must win the day, because she makes no move to attack, only rises to her feet, hands raised as she steps backwards in retreat.

The wind stirs.

Arthur had not seen it last time, when Morgause split the world to flee from Kilgharrah’s fire. He knows it is a difficult magic, but it still surprises him how difficult it is to so much as look upon, as well. A splitting headache stabs behind his eyes as space rends around her, folding close and spreading all at once. Something not entirely of this world. He remembers Merlin’s words, when he had held Nimueh’s grimoire - about the veil between.

Perhaps he’s caught a glimpse of it, he thinks; a fleeting one out of the corner of his eye.

It matters little, however, for Morgause is gone. All that remain are her footprints in the mud, filling up with rain.

Morgana’s shoulders slump, but do not shake. If she has tears to spend, they will be spent later it seems, as she merely straightens, turning to march towards them. She does not so much as falter in front of Aithusa, who lets her pass with a judgmental sniff.

The clouds lighten and the rain slows as both Merlin and Aithusa’s tempers abate; somewhat mollified now that Morgause has fled.

“What now?” Merlin whispers, tugging at Arthur’s hand that he still holds fast to.

“Come on,” Morgana says to Arthur, making a fair showing of being unaffected, “you’re still champion, aren’t you? Annis awaits. Will you…” she trails off, words stuck fast in her mouth as she faces Merlin. Merlin, who seems to like her less and less each time they meet. She has the courage to ask anyway. “Will you stand with us?”

“Of course I will, don’t be ridiculous,” he says, giving Arthur’s hand a tight squeeze. “I mean, if you think it will help,” he continues dryly, upon seeing the naked fear that has swept over most of Annis’s army.

“Nonsense, it’ll be fine,” Morgana says, heading their little troupe as they go forth - which is overly optimistic, if one were to ask Arthur about it. He shares a sceptical glance with Aithusa - who at full size has come to tower above him - who seems to be of the same opinion.

Queen Annis is apparently unbothered by such earthly things as fear, for she urges her mount to meet them, a pair of guards breaking line to follow her. She looks them over from head to toe, taking them in.

The clouds have begun to part in earnest, little bursts of sunshine spearing their way through. Arthur pushes his wet fringe away from his face with a grimace, hoping the fighting will not begin anew. Whatever the nature of the curse, that tallied up with the duelling has left him feeling like a wrung out cloth - one straining at the seams, with nothing left to give.