Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Early June

In the Physical Realm budding flowers slipped between ethereal blue toes as the Diamair beheld their own death.

The Diamair sat curled, arms around shins, chin balanced on knees, soft clouds and warm sun offering little comfort on this quiet summer morning. In the Spiritual Realm, this grassy knoll of the Isle of the Blessed grew trading stalls, a wooden port where turquoise waters lapped against rowboats, and the happy chatter of hundreds. And alongside it grew armored men leaping to shore with spears and swords, bloodied bodies, the metallic scent of magic used for killing. Black streaks of devoured reality followed, and the Diamair hissed, turning its mind away. 

Too much darkness in the history of the Isle, they should not have come. 

Yet, what other place could they commune with the Goddess?

Through the self that existed eternally in the magical realm, another realm where time held no purview, the Diamair saw the thousand different ways these buds would bloom and fade and bloom again. The futures of these flowers glimmered as tiny facets in a crystalline wall of possibility, all which led to darkness. 

That smothering wave of ravenous darkness encroached in a steady inching, a mindless slither of sharp teeth and blind want never satisfied. This same darkness took the rest of their family. Finally, it had come for them.

Molding a piece of their magic, a tunnel of interlocking chains spread from their spine to the heart of the Isle. They leaned back and took comfort in the surrender of melting to fluid. The tunnel provided support as they flowed, guiding and ushering until the Diamair stepped into the central courtyard of the Isle’s castle.

Skeletal and disproportionate, the physical form of the Diamair cast strange shadows as they ducked beneath small human archways, feeling the other fae of this place shrink back into their caves and eaves. Overhead, the smaller of the wyvern flew off.

The sight of their three selves blurred stronger here, visions of the castle being built, gleaming, and ruined all overlapping with the budding, healthy, and burned Rowan Tree. The large stones of the human’s fae circle simultaneously formed the rigid twelve-point trap of thick rigid gold, and the half-hut with its jagged open doorway where stones had broken and fallen. 

The Diamair moved for the Rowan Tree, the once body of Mother, the blurring intensifying until history, present, and possibility blended to streaks of color and burning gold. Their creation– a siphoning of a large portion of the Goddess’ magic given independence. Their death–

The Diamair pressed hands to a pane of solid gold. Walls surrounded them and met at a point overhead. They crouched, their physical eyes seeing the circle just closed. No!

Magic blew from their Veil, crashing against perfectly interlocked walls that did not even shiver under the assault. They threw their physical body back and forth, screaming. No, no, no! Not this way! Not this fate!

Outside their prison a shadowed man grinned, arms held up as he held the circle steady. Sweat trickled from his forehead. 

Thick ropes of blackened magic connected this man to three others outside this room. The Diamair would be this man’s fourth, and the horror of that blasted another wave of magic against a prison that gave slightly… then reformed. 

He’d been distracted! Another man had approached from the Diamair’s rear, the two men snarling at each other. Fire blasted from the shadowed man.

Another lay curled on the floor, unmoving. 

Near that man a chest– unreality pulsing within.

The Diamair fell to their knees, head tilted back to view a churning magical storm above. Goddess, they will destroy me. 

When the darkness came, it came as a wave, spilling over itself to gain their soul, their magic, with teeth poised to rip across realms.

Mother, please. Help me. Kill me.

Their magic would be forever poisoned, each bite a further unmaking. Albion’s magic… could not handle another great loss. Could the Goddess herself?

Wriggling black masses caught in the walls of the fae circle, needle fangs gnashing, plopping free as another filled the hole they’d left. 

Mother?  

The darkness started with their ankles. 

The Diamair stumbled back from the Rowan Tree, long-fingered hands pressed to eyes, magic tunneling them back to the grassy knoll so the fates of budding yellow flowers ended crushed under their knees. Goddess? 

Fear shook the Diamair as they unleashed a low, wailing keen.

Goddess, why were you silent?

The early summer sun shone through Merlin’s threadbare blankets, turning his eyelids into red-hot lines and the crust of his eyes and mouth into a gross char. Wiping it away sounded tiring. Moving in general sounded terrible. 

The stairs creaked and Merlin listened to Gaius sighing as he climbed them. A pang of guilt swirled through him… or was that his stomach? Ugh. Too much mead.

The door swung open and Merlin’s blanket was yanked away. With a groan he threw an arm over his eyes.

"How much of this morning are you planning on wasting?"

Gaius’ voice sounded papery but annoyed, had he celebrated at all for Gwen’s coronation?

"I'm very busy hating Gwaine and sleeping."

"Did you forget you gathered ingredients for this?" Gaius waved a vial under Merlin's nostrils, which wrinkled.

"Is that a leech?"

"It's the nausea potion."

Merlin grasped it with eyes still closed and poured it down his throat. He could specifically remember the last time he'd put himself in this situation, and he'd promised to prevent it at all costs for the rest of his life. Alas, he'd failed.

"What was the plan if Morgana had attacked last night? Belch at her?”

"I'm up," Merlin retorted as he gagged around the taste in his mouth. He swept the blanket fully off his body and folded himself carefully into a sitting position. "Where's my tunic?" 

“I recommend you wash it first,” Gaius said, clomping back downstairs.

He had a clean tunic, right? The purple was on the floor somewhere, likely covered in last night’s revel. The red he was soaking, removing the soot and sweat from weeks rebuilding the city after Morgana and Helios’ attack. The blue had to be somewhere. 

He groaned. He would have to open his eyes.

The light of the mid-morning sun shone like too-bright glare on polished armor and started a pounding in his skull not unlike a hammer on anvil. 

The blue tunic was folded on the short stool near his bed. He tugged it over his head and in the blink he was safe from the sun he debated just curling back up and letting future-Merlin deal with the repercussions.

"Merlin!" Gaius called, sounding impatient. 

Curses . After finding the rest of a presentable outfit, he joined Gaius in the main room. 

The colors of the myriad dried and drying herbs and fruits seemed brighter than usual, and he tried not to notice the pile of empty glass beakers awaiting washing. Gaius was packing a cloth bag with small vials. 

Merlin tried to plaster on a smile when Gaius turned about. His voice came out croaky when he said, "How can I help?" 

Gaius eyed him, and in those long moments Merlin took in Gaius' health. He’d filled back out to his normal weight, finally. The starvation at Morgana’s hands seemed mostly outdone. Finally Gaius said, "Deliver these potions to your friends, then take the day off. I can manage."

Merlin wilted, relieved, "Thank you, Gaius. I'll make it up to you."

"Just get some rest," Gaius turned back to his mortar and pestle as Merlin felt at the small vials hidden in the cloth bag he'd been handed. 

He counted as he descended the stairs from the chambers to the castle's courtyard below. Five vials, was the fifth meant for Leon? Or Gwen? Knowing them, neither would need it. And Gwaine would want two.

As Merlin emerged fully into the bright morning his creaky, cold joints seemed to sigh at the welcome warmth. 

He stood, basking in it. The voices of servants and guards bustling around the open square, and the ever-present dull murmur of hundreds of voices in the lower town washed over him. One month ago, these people had just emerged from the oppression of Morgana and Helios’ forces. Blood and soot had stained these stones. Camelot should be proud at how far it’d thrown Morgana’s evil.

“Ah, Merlin,” a strong voice called to him, and Merlin’s eyes popped open. He’d suspected as much, but Leon’s tall frame strode his way, red cloak billowing behind. “Have you seen Arthur yet this morning?”

“Headed there soon,” he grinned sheepishly, “I slept in.”

“I recall a drunken command to let him alone this morning or he’d have you in the stocks until you grew radishes from your ears. I expect sleeping in worked to your benefit in more ways than one.”

Merlin grinned, he only vaguely remembered that, but it seemed like Leon was about to give him the perfect excuse to abruptly wake Arthur up. “Did you need me to pass a message along?”

“Tell him I’m sending squadrons out to sweep the woods. I read the report from our clerics who went through Agravaine’s things. It’s likely Morgana had a nearby base within a few hours ride. Those two had to communicate somehow .”

She did have a base nearby… the hovel in the woods. Merlin had been there when she’d put that mind control snake in him, and he’d tracked that place down under the guise of Emrys. He hadn’t had the time to search the place thoroughly then, but he really should now, before anyone else got in there to set off traps or move things around. 

Curse it, he really wished he could do that spell Morgana and Morgause had, the one that moved them from one location to another instantly. It had something to do with wind, he thought. It threw such great gusts of air about when they used it. Wind travel? That sounded like flying. Tornadoing?

He wished he could tornado to her hovel ahead of the guards.

Hmm… maybe not. He was going to have to work on the name. 

Leon shifted as a knight approached them, and Merlin shook himself awake. “I’ll pass that along.” Fortunately, Leon didn’t seem to have noticed how his mind had wandered. 

Merlin waved and moved off to the gateway leading out into the lower town. This was where Elyan would be staying in his father’s old blacksmith’s shop. 

Villagers and visitors in colorful clothes, still in town from yesterday’s coronation and festival, hurried about him on the main road. Some carried baskets from the– by this time– bustling market. If Morgana and Helios had succeeded in taking over Camelot, if Arthur and he had died, what would Camelot look like now? Like this? 

The Morgana he’d once known would have accepted these people, while inviting other Druids and magic users to the market and businesses in town. This Morgana… she’d have kept killing those that defied her until none were left. 

What had happened to her that she could perform such evil? How much worse would she get? How much more could he fight her while hidden, and was he even right to stay hidden any longer? His best friends were the king and queen of Camelot.

He rubbed at his head. He always got introspective like this when he drank. Maybe the mead was still swirling around up there.

The blacksmith’s cottage was in sight now, Gwen and Elyan’s father’s handmade sign swinging in the slight breeze. The fine lines and delicate whirls of iron were just further proof of the master their father had been.

In hindsight, it was a fine choice that it had been Gwen’s father who’d created the sword that had become the dragon-flame bathed Excalibur. Of all the lies he had to unpack, that was one he was excited to tell. He hoped, and expected, she'd be pleased.

Elyan’s shadow moved behind the smoke-stained windows, and Merlin knocked on the shutters. A moment later they swung to the side to reveal a squinting Elyan. Wordlessly, Merlin handed over a vial.

Elyan looked from it, to Merlin, then swallowed the vial in careful sips. His expression cleared in stages and he sighed, “You’re a lifesaver.”

“That’s me.”

He grumbled, “I don’t suppose you brought the well with you? I’d like to dunk my head in.”

“I tried to convince Percival but he said no. What are all those muscles good for then, I ask you?”

Elyan had always been slow to laugh, though the weeks since Morgana’s tortures had made him even more serious. Merlin marked it as a huge win that one of Elyan’s cheeks dimpled in the tiniest grin.  “How are you in such high form? No wonder Arthur can’t handle you in the mornings.”

He felt like mud on a wagon wheel after a ten-league slog in the rain. “Arthur’s grumpy face inspires my sunny disposition.” 

Elyan turned from the window and pushed things around on his worktable. Merlin assumed that was a clunky goodbye due to hangover-brain-Elyan but as he turned away, Elyan called for him to wait. 

He came back with a box which he thrust out the window to Merlin. Talking through the window was still sort of weird, but he could definitely blame that on hangover-brain.

“What is it?” Merlin asked. 

“A circlet for Gwen. Arthur wanted me to fix it up secretly, it was his mother’s.”

“When did he get so sweet?”

“You should have seen the look on his face when he came to tell me his intentions to marry her.”

“I’m sorry I missed it.” They shared a small grin, then Elyan cast his eye back into the workshop. Merlin left him to it.

He headed through the upper town– where Leon and many of the nobles lived– back into the shadows of the towering white peaks of the citadel. He expected Gwaine and Percival to still be sleeping in the knight’s barracks.

The main door was already wide open, and Merlin counted his way down the hallway until he came to the long rectangular room his friends shared with eight other knights. He peeked his head around the door. 

About half the men were still in bed, and Gwaine had his blanket pulled well over his head with his bare feet sticking out the bottom. Percival’s soft snores rumbled through the room. 

He left a vial on each of their small bedside tables, and the spare on Sir Caradoc’s. That man drank like a fish and was sure to need it.

He crept back out, fingering the last vial meant for Arthur. While Merlin liked to tease, he was also his best friend’s servant. After a night of drinking Arthur usually chugged a goblet of water, and poked at anything with too much flavor. Porridge, bread, and fruit would likely be best. What did Gwen like for breakfast? 

He surprised himself at not having an easy answer. 

Oatmeal, he remembered vaguely. She’d sometimes sat with him and Gaius in the Physician’s Chambers in those early days, commiserating about Arthur and Morgana, adding dried fruits or spare nuts to flavor her meal. She’d used honey on special occasions. 

The servant’s hallways were a maze of tiny corridors and narrow stairs to the untrained, and a chunk of his reputation as irreparably clumsy had come from those early days bumping into everyone and everything while lost and confused. Gwen had been the one to teach him these passageways. 

She was both incredibly sweet and took no nonsense. Camelot couldn’t have asked for a better queen. 

Maybe he should approach her first about magic? 

But no, it was so early into her reign, she deserved time to establish her rule. It wouldn’t be fair to overshadow this important time with his problems. 

Plus Morgana’s recent attack would have the majority believing Uther’s rhetoric again. All around it was bad timing. He’d wait a few more months and see how things stood then. 

Besides, a few months wasn’t much compared to a lifetime. 

A young serving maid bustled past him with a laden tray, and he dodged too slow. 

The tray bobbled. The pitcher atop it shivered, and in the condensation beading on its metal sides Merlin saw the blue of his own eyes reflected back at him as it toppled over. It hit the ground before either of them could catch it.

She cursed ferociously as water splattered everywhere, spilling into a large puddle on the floor. Merlin bent, apologizing, eyes flashing gold as he flash-summoned a ball of water back into the jug. 

He offered it to her, now three-quarters full. She heaved a sigh of relief and thanks, then hurried off.

He remained, looking at the puddle.

He hadn’t even tried to stop that pitcher from falling. She wouldn’t have noticed– a flash of magic and it would have steadied with none the wiser. He hadn’t forbade the instinct, but rather the instinct hadn’t been there. 

That unsettled him, deeply.

It could have just been the lingering hangover. He wanted to believe that.

The water soaked into the stones, and his stomach churned. 

What would it be like to be free? 

Would he be actually happy? All the time? Instead of… this?

One month ago

Merlin stood in the darkness of the Physician’s Chambers, dodging the pale glow of the night’s soft moonlight. They’d won back Camelot just hours ago, but his guilt hung heavy over the suffering it had cost. Gaius’s breath rattled, weak from hunger, and Elyan slept deeply now dosed with a sleeping aid– the only way he’d been able to escape the memories of pain.  

Isolde’s body wrapped in a sheet, Gwaine covered in cuts and bruises, and Arthur wounded by Helios. But his friends lived, and Arthur’s wounds had been bandaged. He needed to find Gwaine, and treat him too. 

But first, this lonely night gave him the opportunity to tie up loose ends. Only a night ago now he’d snuck through these hallways and left a poppet beneath Morgana’s bed, and he slunk through those same hallways now retracing his steps. 

The poppet had worked as designed, tying up her magic long enough to defeat her. Still, he’d hid in the shadows as Gwen had fought her, only hitting Morgana with a blast of magic when he was sure not to be noticed. Morgana had escaped soon after in a flash of magic. He kicked himself over that.

If he wasn’t so afraid of his friends finding out what he was, he could have fought Morgana in the open. He could have killed her as he’d killed Agravaine. Why had he hesitated? How bad would it be the next time she attacked? He hated his own cowardice.

He came upon the guest room Morgana had appropriated, kept locked in case she’d left traps. Unlocking the door with a silent spell, he entered sure he’d be safe. The only trap here was Merlin’s. 

On his knees he pulled out the poppet, still hung by its throat beneath the bed. It was a simple doll made of twisted straw stolen from his mother’s fields, burned with a curse he’d created in a moment of terrible clarity.

How to stop someone as powerful as Morgana? Someone who could match him, strength to strength? Someone who knew spells he did not, who he could not predict? 

It was her dabbling in dark magic which had made him think of it. Gaius’ lessons on the nature of dark magic, how it twisted and ate the magic which had borne it, had been the clue on how to make this curse work. 

How to beat someone who could match him, strength to strength? Remove that strength.

He'd invented a new kind of binding spell. One that did not just bind the poppet to the person while he held it, but drew from an outside source of magic as well. In this case, it drew from her. This poppet he'd cursed near to the point of being a dark spell. It used her own magic to maintain her connection to the poppet, and then the poppet had kept her asleep. In that endless loop her magic had been drained away.  

Temporarily , at least. That was the line into dark magic he’d not crossed.

With practiced fingers he undid the knots of straw until he held not a doll but a handful of cracked grasses. “ Forbaerne ,” he whispered.

Fire charred and disintegrated the dry grass and a physical recoil washed over his front as the curse dissipated. Despite himself, he shivered. 

He’d killed those who stood no chance against him, and used near to dark magic against those who did. Was this what Fate expected from him? 

Sickened with himself, alone, a coward? To create peace across Albion, must Arthur’s counterpart be a monster? 

Present Day

When Merlin walked through the servant’s door into the kitchens, a wooden spoon whacked him on the arm. He leveled a look of hurt surprise at Audrey who offered him pursed lips. 

“The queen came to fetch her own breakfast,” she hissed. 

“Audrey,” Gwen said sternly. “Really, I can fetch my own food. I made my own breakfasts until recently!” 

Gwen perched on a stool near the bread table. A heavy slab of wood covered in soft-milled flour made for a fresh canvas as she waited. Delicate patterns appearing at her fingertips, the picture of a classic Gwen clear but shorn in a hand-embroidered slip-over dress. 

“Don’t tell Gwen she can’t do something, Audrey, otherwise she’ll be here every morning. And I’ll be the one who has to deal with Arthur when he doesn’t get his extra sausage.” 

Merlin leaned on the counter next to Gwen, careful not to get any flour on his trousers. “So,” he said good-naturedly, “How was it?” 

Her brow furrowed with confusion. 

“I’ve been his servant for years, and haven’t seen him near a woman once. I can only hope he knew where to put things.”

A surprised bark of laughter escaped her, and she covered it immediately with a hand, embarrassed. She shoved him. 

“I’m just saying, if you need me to leave him some obvious hints….”

She settled herself, giving him an arching look. “If he needs hints, I’ll give them to him myself, thank you.”

He grinned, reminded again how happy he was to have her back. “So what’s the plan for today?" Merlin said, "I admit I was so focused on the coronation I didn’t even think about what came after.”

“Arthur said we should go by Geoffrey in the library and pen some letters to all the rulers of Albion. He also wants me to officially meet the King’s Council members in individual lunches and suppers, that sort of thing.” 

“Arthur once said, ‘If you can’t laugh with them, laugh at them.’ Good advice, I say.”

She gave him a wan smile, “Morgana used to say that.” 

He winced. “Well, don’t listen to me, what do I know?”

She chuckled lightly, no harm done, and reached out to tug one of his hands into hers. “Arthur and I will be tied at the hip this week. This would be a great opportunity for you to take time off.”

“What would I do for a whole week?”

She gave him the ‘I know you can be serious’ look– a slight dip of her chin and raise of her eyebrows. “When you found me in the woods, Merlin, and sent me on to your mother… you saved my life. Working with her on the farm reminded me I wasn’t a failure or selfish dolt. It helped me forgive myself– no, listen,” she cut him off as he tried to compliment her, “I owe her, and I owe you. Please let this be my actual first act as queen. She wants to see you, especially during a time when the sky isn’t falling around us.”

This would give him the perfect opportunity to go by Morgana’s hovel before Leon got there. But how could he leave for so long, abandoning Camelot to danger? He’d have to think of some way to know, some sort of warning system. 

“Merlin?” Gwen asked.

He grinned, “I think I don’t know how to act while free,” he swept into a bow, “my lady, I would be honored to take a break, as you suggest.”

A clatter sounded to his left, and he got an eyeful of Audrey’s unamused face at his antics. “You a courtier now or what?”

She’d put a large wooden platter down atop Gwen’s flour designs. The tray held what Merlin had planned– porridge, oatmeal, fruits, bread. It also held jam and three boiled eggs, one of which Gwen swept up immediately to nibble on. “Have you eaten yet, Merlin?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Merlin grabbed the tray before Gwen got any ideas about carrying it herself and said, “Shall we, my lady?”

She gave him an egg-laden curtsey, “Lets.”

Merlin entered the royal chambers with a flourish, Gwen edging past him with a small smile. As he swept into the room the door shut with a bang, and the platter of food rattled as he dropped it onto the serving table. He then swiftly poured water into Arthur’s favorite goblet while sneaking in the nausea potion and kicking yesterday's clothes into a neater pile. 

Arthur, sitting shirtless at his desk, seemed to judge him for being so energetic. He turned to Gwen, “I told you that he’d bring food.”

“That doesn’t make us incapable of fetching our own,” Gwen said archly. “Join me, Arthur. I have some news for you.”

Merlin went to the curtains, wrenching them further along their rods to let more light in. Arthur never did this right if left to his own devices. 

“I gave him the week off,” Gwen said.

“Oh?” Arthur tore a chunk of bread, “Then why is he here banging on things?”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t go,” Merlin said, “He’s forgotten how to dress himself again.”

“I rather like it,” Gwen replied. 

“If the two of you are going to chat like two maidens, you can leave.”

“But you’re on such good behavior this morning!” Merlin grinned.

“Do you really yell at him every morning, Arthur?”

“Hardly!” Arthur glared at Merlin, “Do the two of you get paid for harassing me?”

“Only I do, now, sire.”

Arthur closed his eyes, sighing out very slowly. Eyes still closed, almost meditative, he asked, “Can I fire him for the week instead? I feel like that would be very cathartic.”

“You could always try feeding the ducks,” Gwen laughed. 

Arthur’s eyes popped open as a loud, “Hah!” escaped him. Shaking his head he said, “Who knew Leon was such a softie.” 

Gwen’s voice fell to a whisper, “Who knew he could get drunk! ” 

They chuckled as they ate, and Merlin felt like he’d missed something here. Leon hadn’t been drunk during the coronation, he’d spent the whole day and night hyper-vigilant for a surprise attack. “When did this happen?”

“At the Head Knight’s dinner,” Arthur said, as if Merlin should know that. 

Almost affronted, Merlin said, “When was that?”

“A few days ago, do you have the memory of a dayfly?” Arthur turned around, bowl of porridge in one hand and spoon in the other. “Wait, you weren’t there. Where were you?”

“I guess… something for the coronation. Or helping Gaius with something.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Gwen said with apology in her voice, “just a requirement of the head knight’s family.”

“Leon’s siblings and their family’s came over from their country estates. Apparently Leon and his brother don't like each other much. You really didn’t know?” 

No.

But he was focusing too much on this, it just felt weird to miss something as monumental as a drunk Leon.

Besides, there were already plenty of things Gwen and Arthur shared between each other, this wasn’t new. That was the point of a relationship anyway!

He was supposed to be leaving for a week starting tomorrow as it was, and he hadn’t thought of a way to protect them while he was gone. “I’m going to lay out some clothes for you,” he said to Arthur, then quickly took the small spiral stair to the Solar. 

This far into spring, the large windows made the room stuffy rather than pleasantly warm. Merlin went through the row of windows, unlatching and opening them, and finished with the wide double doors that led to the balcony overlooking the training fields. A small ironwork table and chair set had been brought up, supposedly so the Queen could invite ladies over for tea. 

He walked further out, leaning his hands on the sun-warmed stone of the balcony rail, closing his eyes and feeling the wind in his hair. 

A beautiful day. 

A large part of him wanted to just enjoy the beauty of it, fall to the cheerfulness that came so easily to him, be the happy servant and dependable friend that made him feel so useful and wanted. He could follow Arthur and Gwen around and share snarky comments at the Council member’s expense to make Gwen smile. He could wash beakers, gather herbs, deliver potions and at the end of the day look at the long list of chores completed and feel accomplished.

But he knew that desire for what it was now– complacency, at its most insidious.  

He’d known of Agravaine’s alliance and had instead been subtle, letting Arthur’s verbal slap hold him back. He’d known Morgana’s danger, known where she’d hidden herself, and he’d done nothing. He gave himself excuses for why it was too difficult to proactively stop them, the largest being he had to keep an eye on Arthur’s safety, and it had nearly caused the deaths of Gwen, Elyan, Gwaine, and Gaius. 

It had caused the death of Isolde, and the pain in Tristan’s eyes as he’d held her had reminded Merlin of those horrible moments holding Freya as she bled out beneath him. In the way he blamed Uther for Freya’s death, it was his own complacency that had killed Isolde. 

He had to find Morgana before she raised a fresh army against them. Going through her hovel was the first step to that. He needed to learn how to travel instantly using magic, like she did. He had to get better at transforming his clothes. Having to grab a robe every time he turned into Emrys created too many problems. 

But most importantly he had to put that all-consuming excuse to rest– that he had to be at Arthurs side to keep him safe.

Squires and a large group of guards arrived at the training pitch. Their voices and bustle mingled into the sounds of the servants and nobles moving around the large grounds of the castle. 

Merlin returned inside, using a flash of magic to press the wrinkles out of a fresh doublet and lay it across a velvet reclining couch. 

Could he put a spell on Arthur’s chainmail? His cloak? It was something he and the knight’s wore every day. 

On a row of pegs on the far wall the long red cloak hung next to a nondescript dark cloak, and a few gifted cloaks for the new queen. Rubbing the fibers between his fingers, tough and slightly waxed to protect from brambles and rain, he tried to push a thread of magic into the weave. It seemed to take, so he pushed further, crafting the spell he’d created a few months ago after being hit with the mace. 

Magic tingled over his body like a second skin, and he stretched it taut over the cloak as well. This modified deflection spell had kept his blood in the right place, and he hoped he could get it to automatically release over Arthur if–

Merlin stepped back and instantly felt the cloak lose the spell. Curses, how was he going to get a spell like this to stay? He needed a source of magic for it to feed off of.

Like the sleeping spell tied to the poppet tied to Morgana, he needed this deflection spell tied to an inanimate object tied to a source of magic. But what source of magic was in Camelot besides Gaius?

Merlin turned, scanning the room. He had the Sidhe staff hidden in his own room, could he attach a spell to a source so far away? It’s too bad he couldn’t transform the Sidhe staff into a dagger or other weapon Arthur would normally–

He was an idiot. 

Excalibur, one month freshly pulled from a stone, leaned on a sword stand still attached to Arthur’s belt. He wore it every day. And it held a permanent spell crafted by Kilgharrah.

Arthur now had it sheathed in an ornate sheath of red and gold. The filigree had been designed to call to mind Camelot’s towers, and Merlin clicked Excalibur a few inches out of that sheath to feel at the magic of the blade. 

He felt it rolling and shifting, almost organic in its fluidity. What would adding his own rigid spell atop this do? 

But he could add the spell to the sheath, use the sword as the source. Oh, he had an even wilder idea. 

He dug in his pockets, finding what he was looking for on the second try. A full penny. 

After a quick glance to the spiral stair– he could still hear Arthur and Gwen chatting below– he closed his eyes and focused inward. 

The shield spell skimmed across his body, swirled into the crevices of the penny and over the scabbard. Slowly then, like poking a needle through skin, Merlin opened the spell to Excalibur. 

Kilgharrah’s magic latched on quickly, grabbing the edges of Merlin’s spell and pulling it away from him. It fought against him as if alive, adapting, moving quickly. 

Hurried now, Merlin used a flash of magic to split the penny into two jagged halves, and then with a final sucking feeling the spell pulled fully away from him. He was left feeling a little emptier while holding the weapon and broken penny. Had it worked?

He put one half-penny into his pocket, then tugged at the moldable gold filigree until he wedged the other half into the decoration. It blended well into the scabbard, unlikely to be found.

Debating only a moment, Merlin went to Arthur’s smelly boots with the hidden dagger slot, dragging that over to the sword. Then, scabbard in one hand, dagger in the other, and half-penny in his pocket, Merlin sliced a line onto the back of his arm. 

The shield snapped out of the scabbard, warm against his cut, and the half-penny in his pocket went ice cold. In the euphoria of the moment he cackled. He’d done it! A spell that would protect Arthur and tell him if Arthur were in danger. He even felt a sort of directional tugging as if the half-penny wished to complete itself. 

He felt a little silly, grinning ear to ear as he quickly laid out a presentable outfit for Arthur that didn’t include missing daggers, but he’d chosen this. This wasn’t a reaction to a murderous plot or a dying relative or an angry dragon, he’d taken a step forward in their shared destiny without anyone telling him how to do it. Such a stupid, tiny step but it felt so large.

Stepping back he surveyed his work, putting a hand in his pocket to run a thumb over the jagged edge of his half of the penny. It made him laugh again, but this time for a wholly different reason. 

Destiny was a funny thing.

Two sides of the same coin.

Juke Box Hero sung by Foreigner

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The Leshy

Early June

One month ago

Gwaine watched Percival carry Gaius’ half-starved body to a cot in the Physician’s Chambers. Merlin’s guilty expression felt like a slap in his own face, and so Gwaine fled. 

He was good at that, leaving when things got tough.

Miri, the tavern maid, he found cleaning the Rising Sun where empty mugs piled in the washing bin in the rear, and splintered wood and glass crunched underfoot. He saw no barrels of ale standing proudly behind the bartop. The Southron’s celebrating their temporary victory had ransacked this place. 

She leaned against the broom, giving him a long look. Maybe she saw the badly bandaged wounds from the days spent fighting for Morgana and Helios’ entertainment, the hollow eyes, the cracked lips. He was thirsty but fuck he needed to escape his feelings of uselessness more. 

“I could use a break too,” Miri said. She leaned the broom against the counter, flipping two stools from their position atop the bar back to the floor. She checked them for a wobble, then patted one seat. “Sit, Mr. Gren thinks all the wares are gone, but I found a bit more while cleaning.”

Gwaine sat heavily in the stool and put his head in his hands. He ached from his feet to his ears, and his pulse pounded hot along the cuts that scarred him. They were probably infected or close to it. He shouldn’t have run from Merlin. 

Miri, huffing and puffing, hefted a large barrel from the floor onto the counter. It sat on its curved side, and had a huge hole in the top. “Someone stepped in it. If you don’t mind the taste of a bit of mud and care to pick out splinters, there’s plenty of ale left.” 

She ventured into the back again, coming back with two freshly washed mugs and a tap. She poured two mugs for them both then gave him a half-hearted cheers. 

He let her talk while he drank, the flat taste of the ale dissipating the faster he put it down. He retained little of what she said, noticing instead the curve of her mouth as she spoke the words. Her brown skin looked warm in the torchlight and she wore her thick dark hair in a heavy braid over her shoulder. She had the look of an Amatan, were her folks from there? 

She was a bit young for him, but was full of youthful eagerness. And there he was thinking of giving her a lay, which brought the guilt back for a wholly new set of reasons. 

He already wasn’t making good conversation, and his body language must have changed enough for her to notice. When she finished her mug she went back to her broom, and Gwaine continued trying to drown himself.

Every few gulps he would think he’d had enough, but then a flash of Gaius starving or Elyan screaming came at him. After another mug it wasn’t their faces but the feeling of hopelessness, of failure that he couldn’t escape. And during the next it was his sister, so young and confused as he’d abandoned her. 

His hands were thick-fingered and clumsy as he worked to refill his mug, he felt warm all over, and had to lean heavily on the bartop for balance. He had the vague feeling of a presence to his left when Miri’s hands swum before him to take the mug and refill it. But she didn’t return the mug to him, instead pulling it out of his sight. 

He turned slowly, but didn’t see Miri. “Merlin,” the word came out garbled. 

Merlin sat on Miri’s stool, drinking from Gwaine’s mug. He’d swallowed about half of it, grimaced at the taste, then put it down to study the color of it in the sparse light. “Wanna talk about it?” He asked.

Talk about it? Gwaine thought, swaying slightly. No. “What bringsh you to my party?” 

Merlin titled his head, thinking with long slow blinks. He opened his mouth to speak, then smiled instead, “How much of this are you going to remember?”

Gwaine squinted, it was a little easier to see Merlin that way.

“Well, anyway, I suppose I feel like…” Merlin played with the mug, “Like I should have done more to prevent all of this.”

Gwaine snorted, “That’s shilly,” the irony of it got him and a burst of laughter escaped him, stopping only when he choked on his own spit. Shaking his head he repeated, “That’sh silly. Miri come tell him! I’m the knight here, I took those oaths for honor and noble. To be honorable and nobility. I took those, you know. Noble blood. I hate nobles.”

Merlin chuckled, “They’re not all bad. Almost all my friends are nobles.” He reached out and put a hand on Gwaine’s forearm. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

Gwaine frowned, “You get your secrets, I get my secrets.”

Merlin looked surprised at that, but he recovered quickly. “I actually came to thank you, Gwaine. Really, really , thank you. You saved Gaius’ life. I can’t really describe how much that means to me. I think I’d go mad without him.”  

Gwaine half-heartedly patted Merlin’s hand. 

“He could use some more help,” Merlin said softly.

It was Merlin who was going to heal Gaius back up, not him. His vision blurred as he turned too quickly, searching for Miri’s mug. Had she left it nearby? 

“Could you feed Gaius broth in the morning? I really need to search for a few herbs in the forest.”

Just yesterday Gwaine had used carefully placed fingers beneath Gaius' elbow to help the physician raise their only food to his mouth. The gaunt face, empty and confused, as Gaius tried to moisten and swallow bites of crusty bread had terrified him.  

Gwaine nodded, he could give Gaius broth. He wanted to help Gaius.

“Do you think we should head back to the castle?” Merlin coaxed.

Head back? Well it was probably late, and they’d have to be up early to make soup. “Yeah,” he managed.

“As much as I need this drink, you’re right. Besides, Miri deserves some sleep too.”

Gwaine turned his head, trying to catch sight of the maid. He didn’t see her close by. “She likes you,” he said while stumbling sideways into a table. He caught himself, blinking at the wavering floor and finding a new bearing. “Have you noticed? Hopeful smiles. Why don’t you ask to court her?”

“I’ll think about it,” Merlin answered, shoulder going underneath Gwaine’s armpit and holding him steady. 

“You should think about it,” Gwaine and Merlin entered a brisk night whose slap woke a kernel of sobriety in him. The chill felt wonderful on his overheated skin, and he reveled in it while trying to figure Merlin out. Miri was pretty, they came to the Rising Sun often enough. He must have noticed. Maybe he was in love with someone else already? Maybe he didn’t like girls? “Who broke your heart?”

They passed the Fat Chimera eatery and Seven Sisters inn before Merlin decided to answer. And when he did, his voice barely outdid the warble of toads and cicadas in Camelot’s deep-set night. “She didn’t break my heart; she died.”

Gwaine couldn’t pair that with the image of the happy-go-lucky Merlin he saw most every day. When had that happened? “I didn’t know,” he blurted, stupidly.

“Nobody does,” Merlin smiled, “It’s alright. You’re right, I should forgive myself and move on.”

“Yeah,” Gwaine said, “Me too.” Not that he’d be able to, not for leaving his sister behind. 

But still, having Merlin nearby helped. Merlin was a good friend to him, even if Gwaine didn’t always feel like a good friend to Merlin. 

The morning after, Gwaine drank a hangover cure and fed Gaius broth. Merlin gathered herbs. 

Together, they weaned Gaius and Elyan back to health. Gwaine's wounds healed, and they rebuilt Camelot. 

And he and Merlin never brought up that conversation again. 

Present day

Even with the afternoon sun blocked by the forest trees, the heat of encroaching summer pressed on him. But Merlin didn’t dare let go of the reins to roll up his sleeves, because this brown gelding hated him. Curse Arthur for always assigning him this horse out of sick glee. 

“Horse-teethed bugger,” he muttered to himself, testing new insults as he rode. 

From where the sun sat in the sky now, a little over two hours had passed since he'd left Camelot. At the rate the knights were searching the forest for Morgana's base, he likely still had time before they caught up. 

Also, fortunately the area was starting to look familiar. He was pretty sure this small dip in the landscape had been where he’d knocked Morgana out.

Glut, the horse, twisted for a flower. He snorted it up into his mouth happily, then snuffled around for more. Merlin tugged at the reins. “Come on.”

Unwilling to be meaner, he slouched in the saddle and sighed. Then he swung out to his own feet and tied the reins loosely to a branch. He did not trust this horse to self-stable itself no matter what Arthur said about the royal cavalry’s training. 

He knew it to be close by, anyway, hidden somewhere in these forest hills. 

As he walked he became more self-conscious of looking suspicious. What would he say if a knight had already traveled this far and saw him walking so confidently towards what they'd eventually discover to be Morgana's hovel? What if they found him inside ? He'd have to be really convincing about stumbling across it. 

These were the sort of situations he could avoid if he figured out how to transform his clothing alongside his age. No one would question Emrys, though they might question Merlin's horse stabled nearby. 

He sighed. How had he gotten away with anything, ever? He was so bad at planning ahead. 

He crested a small hill covered in mulched leaves and looked around. From where he stood multiple valleys dipped in between copses of trees, all littered in debris and looking little different from another nearby. This was going to be harder than he thought. 

He took a step forward into the valley before him and his foot hit wood. He tapped his foot, this was solid , flat wood-- and so he brushed leaves aside. Stairs. 

Pure luck. The Fates must be helping him. 

Twenty rickety steps dug into the dirt of the hillside led down to the small valley floor. On his right, built into a cleft borne from an eroded hill, someone had built a small wooden hut. The hill had packed around so only a bit of roof was visible above the door itself while the wood had stained so dark with dirt he'd been staring right at it and hadn't seen it.

He reached out to open the door then hesitated. Pulling the red neckerchief from his throat he wrapped his hand and tried the knob. 

No spells, no attacks. 

He broached the entrance, stepping into the small halo of light that seeped through the door. 

The place was much as he remembered. Emptier, but just as sad. 

The inner walls were also stained with dirt, and roots hung through holes in the roof like decorative pennants. The whole place smelled of damp earth. 

Wooden shelves lined the walls and a table with two bench seats took up a majority of the space. There was no room for a bed, perhaps only a bedroll. And a few steps forward an iron eyebolt was driven into the ceiling. That was where she'd tied him up. 

He thought of how he’d seen her then, so far removed from the false ward she’d been a year before– curly dark hair tangled and uncombed, black dress covered in torn lace, sunlessly pale skin and eyes full of cold calculation. 

Unrecognizable. Where had she gone this time?

He started on the left wall, using his neckerchief clad hand to study jars and boxes, most either empty or preserved food. He tapped shelves and walls, looking for hidden spaces, ran his hand along shadowed seams in case anything had been hidden within. Rounding the room he found nothing of interest, even the fire’s remnants held nothing but charcoal and ashes. 

After he’d knocked her out and snuck in here as Emrys, she must have spooked and cleared this place out. There would be nothing else. 

The table in the center of the room was empty, and nothing had been taped to the underside of it or its seats. Still, she’d likely sat there and did all of her work. 

He sat upon the seat that kept his face toward the door, then looked about the room. She’d seen this view for months. Was there a cranny that he could see from here, but that he’d missed while standing? Maybe the holes in the ceiling where vines had grown through, she’d wormed something up there? Even if she had, she’d likely remembered to take it with her.

He nearly stood up to check, but caught on what lay beneath his hands resting on the wooden table surface. In lines that barely stood out from the grain, were carvings. They looked like the doodles of someone lost in thought, but most he recognized as runes– the language of magic.

Were these spells? No, none that he recognized. There were just a handful of runes drawn in different variations, scattered here and there across the surface of the table. He recognized the flourishes she’d added as a ward in the flicks where she’d picked up the knife.  

He ran his finger over one she’d seemed to trace the most often. It mostly had the shape of a diamond. 

As he completed the shape, along his finger sparked static. 

He jerked back, quickly studying his finger and the table itself, cursing himself for being absentminded. Had that been normal static or a spell? 

He didn’t feel overly warm, dizzy, or different in any way. The shock had instantly faded like a prick on the finger. 

Minutes passed, and he reached out again, tracing the shape. Nothing happened. 

Dummy. You were probably scraping your boots around.

Still, Gaius had shown him a form of the Triskelion to help discover Lancelot was a Shade; these doodles could be part of a spell she was working on. He should commit them to memory.

From the neckerchief he pulled lines of long red thread, weaving the shape of her runes into the inside of his sleeve with a thread of magic.

A horse’s snort made him leap half to standing, banging his knee hard on the underside of the table. “ Owwww, ” he groaned as he stumbled quickly to peek around the front door. He saw no knight, but that didn’t mean one wasn’t close. 

He skidded into the afternoon light, shutting the doorway behind him and moving quickly for the hidden stairs. Knee aching he shuffled up in a hurry and at the top saw Glut, snorting through piles of leaves for clovers. 

This cursed horse, he groaned as he rubbed at his knee. Still, if the Fates had helped him find this place, maybe they were getting him out before someone saw him. 

With effort he tugged Glut away from his posey snack and pointed them back towards Ealdor.

Gwen’s first official day as queen involved a lunch with one Council member, afternoon tea with a second, a twilight horseback ride with a third, and dinner with a fourth. Standing now with her hand in the crook of Arthur’s elbow as he chattered with a passing knight, she hoped she could be forgiven for letting her mind drift. 

She’d spent many of the months while she and Arthur courted worried she’d say something silly. Because of it she’d cultivated a brand of someone kind, but unfriendly. Perhaps aloofness would be good for a queen?

Arthur finished his conversation, and they smiled and nodded their way back to their rooms. Arthur immediately went to the pitcher and poured a cup of water for them each, then unbuckled his belt and tossed it into a corner of the room. “I am stuffed, ” he said. 

She could not wait to be out of the corset, but these days unfortunately it lay under her dress and away from a quick unlacing. Still, she’d left herself some thick woolen socks near the doorway and she changed into those, massaging her toes. “Mmm,” she agreed.

He kicked his boots off under his desk, chugging some of the water. “Need help out of that dress?”

“Please,” she said, gathering the thick velvet skirts into her hands. She handed it to him as she put her arms in the air, and he tugged it up and over her. He worked at the knot in her corset for a few moments until she laughed and undid it herself. 

“I would have gotten it,” he pouted. 

“Any longer and the roast duck may have ended up on the floor.” 

Arthur made a face so cute she accepted him pulling her into a sound kiss. After as long a day as they’d had, being wrapped up in him felt warm and comforting and worth it. So worth it. 

Even though she was still a bit sore from the previous night, she enjoyed the attention somehow more this time through. Later, head on his chest and one of his legs between her knees, she felt safe enough to murmur, “What if I’m not good enough?”

His hand rubbed from her shoulder to elbow and back up again, “Of course you’re good enough.”

She swallowed, looking out into the darkness of the room that she still felt she should clean while no one was around to see her do it. “I’m going to make mistakes. What if they get people killed?”

Arthur didn’t answer immediately, but the slow movement of his hand told her he was thinking. She tried not to betray how scared she was of his response. 

When he did he spoke slowly, and his voice rumbled through her. “Guinevere,” he jostled her as he drew her closer, “maybe you’ll make mistakes and people will die. And we’ll do everything we can to prevent that and protect our people, but if or when that happens, what matters most is what we do after. If we double down on the mistake, then that is when we’ll truly have failed our people.”

She liked that he said 'we', that she'd have his experience and support. But she couldn't forever be his burden, she needed to become his partner. She didn't know how yet, but, "Thank you, Arthur."

She thought through her day, trying to catch any slights she may have given that she could correct tomorrow. And in that time Arthur had gone quiet and unmoving for so long that she assumed he'd fallen asleep. Though when she tilted up to look at his face, thinking to move herself onto her pillow, his eyes were wide open.

"Arthur?" She whispered. He blinked in surprise and she added, "What’s weighing on you?"

He gave a wry smile, "My own mistakes I suppose."

"Morgana's attack–"

"Not her, we're doing things now to prevent another attack, I know."

She stayed silent, knowing he’d come to the words eventually. 

"I’ve been ignoring a mistake because I don't know what to do about it."

Gwen twisted to prop herself on her elbows and get a better look at him. A small piece of her worried it was something to do with Lancelot and herself, though Arthur had many times said that was behind them. “Arthur,” she said, with more conviction. “Tell me.”

“Has Elyan told you about being possessed while you were away?” 

Her brother had mentioned that a shrine had been disturbed, and Arthur and the knights had needed to calm the angered spirits. She’d corner Elyan for more details now. To Arthur, at least, she nodded. 

“I made a promise." Quietly he murmured, "‘ I want you to bring me peace. You must right the wrong that was done to me.’”

Ah, she was starting to understand. “And why haven’t you righted the wrong yet?”

“Because the wrong is that I led a group of knights against that clan of Druids, and the battle got out of my control and quickly became a slaughter. I don’t see how I could correct that. It was years ago, I don’t even remember where I found them or what their clan name was.” 

Surely that wasn’t impossible to figure out, though. The other Druids must know, the ones that lived in the forest somewhere south of here. The servants had always whispered about it, when an adolescent suddenly disappeared. How to broach that with Arthur? “Is there no one you could ask?”

“Not in Camelot.”

“But there must be a Druid tribe somewhere nearby. Surely there is a way to find and approach them peacefully.”

Arthur frowned, thinking about it. “There are a lot of ways that could go wrong, but you’re right that it’s a step forward. I’ll speak with Leon about it in the morning.” He shifted up to give her a peck on the forehead, and she slid over to lie on her own pillow. “Would you like a nightgown? I could use some pants. I’d rather not be stark naked if a castle servant shows up tomorrow morning.”

“Please, ” she said. “Actually, could you hang the velvet dress while you’re up?” At his snort she added, “It’s very expensive, Arthur!”

Merlin woke with the first rays of sun, and spent most of dawn staring at the small runes stitched into his tunic. Had they meant something? Could he piece together a word or phrase from the letters? The one on the left, which looked a little like a trident, he picked at with this thumb. A prong had come partly undone in the night. 

He groped for his red kerchief, not finding it within the bedroll. Sitting up, he searched with half an eye on the outer pockets of the saddlebag, then with more attention through all of his things. 

No kerchief.

Where had he left the thing? When was the last time he’d seen it? After Morgana’s hovel, surely. He must have badly stuffed it into a pocket of the bag so that it fell out during the journey.  

Worry made him queasy. But it’d be silly to turn back now.

He forced himself into motion and forward into Essetir. For the rest of the morning, he and Glut picked their way through low grass and knotted roots. Glut enjoyed nibbling at the tiny yellow and periwinkle flowers, and Merlin steadily convinced himself he had nothing to worry about. It was just a red cloth. Regardless of where he’d dropped it, there were hundreds of them out there. It could be anyone’s. 

He didn’t see many out in the fields as he approached Ealdor, and as he tied Glut to a fencepost and called for his mother, he didn’t receive an answer. The kitchen looked like she’d left in the middle of a task, so he went wandering for the center of town.

The townsfolk in rugged farming clothes stood in a half ring before a group of clean, orange-cloaked knights. Merlin didn’t recognize the crest, but knew the color to be that of Essetir’s King Lot. Soldiers of a new warlord, perhaps? 

"—not the king's duty to inform outlying serfs of minor decrees," the head knight snarled. 

Belatedly Merlin spied the man bent at this knight’s feet– “Surely you understand how we must protect our grain against usurpers. Otherwise, our honest lords such as yourself would receive nothing in feorm.”

The knight— 'Lord' Merlin corrected himself—sneered. “I don’t like your insinuation."

“Well, us farm folk don’t much like you .”

Too far. Merlin skittered forward with hands up and body bowed, pulling attention with his stumbling as he rushed to beat what that snick of a sword loosening could soon mean. Peasant he knew how to play well, and he leaned into the act now– eyes aimed no higher than the lord’s chin.

When he was safely between his people and the man, he let loose his dopiest grin and asked, "My lord?"

"Insubordination, and now the village idiot," the man muttered.

“I usually gotta ask for someone to explain something for me twice. My da says don’t mind anyone who laughs. Plenty of people need to hear it again, they’re just too–”

“Just shut up,” the lord stomped to the side, raising his voice to address the crowd. “I am the new lord of these lands. Lord Urien. Remember it. And come feorm this harvest, if I have to hear complaints or excuses, I won’t dither with you. I’ll put a spear in your hand and you will learn to defend these lands against our enemies. Then, maybe, when there isn’t enough food to be had, you’ll learn a little humility.” 

Urien ended his prickish speech with a disdainful glare down his nose at Merlin. Merlin bowed and said, “We would never want to be a burden on our new lord."

“Good,” Urien waved for the knights to follow, cloak flaring as he strode away. As the group swung onto horses and galloped off, Merlin boiled. How dare they throw their power around? What small men they must be to threaten these villagers. 

He would never have attacked—this was certainly not the time for Ealdor's second cyclone—but his mother was suddenly at his side, tugging at his arm that he only then noticed ended in a clenched fist.

"Merlin, what a surprise! It's wonderful to see you again so soon." Hunith's normally kind features had morphed into a mixture of shock and trepidation. 

"What happened here? You've got a new lord?"

"Let's speak inside, Merlin."

He let himself be led away, and didn't speak until the door to their hut closed behind him. "Mother, I wasn't about to explode."

"It never hurts to be careful," she said, stern. She paused and then wrapped him in a tight hug. "Thank you for saving him, my dear."

“Of course.” His mother was a full head shorter than him now, but a hug from her still felt like love and safety. Gwen was right, it really had been far too long since he’d visited her outside of an emergency. Though, this Lord Urien counted as a new problem. "Just please explain what's going on."

Hunith led them to their wooden table where she sat, grasping his hand. "After Cenred’s attack on Camelot, and the death of his allies, there has been a shifting in power across the countryside. King Lot does not seem to be doing anything about it. I gather Urien has labeled himself the new lord of these lands." 

"How much is he taxing you?”

"They want twenty pounds of grain per acre," Hunith replied tiredly.

"That's robbery!" Merlin exclaimed, "I'll tell Arthur and the knights—"

She gave him a smack on the back of his hand, "You will not. These aren't bandits; they are our nobles."

He shook his head in anger. "They were going to kill that man for speaking out."

"I think they would have come to an understanding." Hunith sighed, "I'm sure Alane will have the wheat; I don't know what possessed him to fight."

The hut was small, and it only took two of his strides to reach his mother's barrel of flour. He removed the lid and sucked in a breath. His lungs felt tight in his chest.

"What will you all eat?"

"We'll be alright until we can travel down to Engerd and see what there is to trade."

"There will be nothing there either," Merlin said, still staring in horror at his mother's food stores. Was the whole village still recovering from Cenred’s rampage two years back?

"Then we will go to Upwood."

Merlin replaced the lid and turned slowly, painfully, back to her. "But what will you sell? What will you trade? What is there to give?”

“We’ve been through worse, this village. I’ll go back to the square to discuss with the others. Stay here, clean up, don’t do anything rash.”

Gwaine inspected the hound tugging him through the forest, questioning his younger self for wanting one so badly. “Does this thing ever slow down?”

Percival held out a hand to take the harness, but Gwaine refused. Stupid giant Percival with his huge strides and muscles. He didn’t even look out of breath.

“It found nothing yesterday, what is it even tracking? Because I don’t think it’s human smells.” Running them all around the forest, digging around in bushes. “I think it’s confused and looking for foxes. Or rabbits. When’s the last time Arthur used them to track down humans? Not since I’ve been here.”

“I had rabbits as a kid,” Percival said. At Gwaine’s glare he only smiled. Annoyingly pleasant bastard. “We also had a lot of rabbit stew.”

“Now that’s just sad,” a rough tug on the leather strap made him stumble. The hound strained forward and Gwaine dug in his heels. “Great brute,” he muttered. 

With a cute snapping sound, the harness gave up the goose and the hound began sprinting through the forest. Percival cursed, chasing after as Gwaine fell flat on his ass. 

“Just leave me here, I’m done,” Gwaine sighed as he rolled back to his feet and brushed leaves from his trousers. “Ugh.” 

It wasn’t necessarily that he caught up, he was no sprinter, but at some point Percival leapt, crushing the hound in a massive hug. He struggled, wrestling the hound until Gwaine arrived to tie the broken leather around the remaining harness. 

“Do you know any good knots?” Gwaine held up a hand, “And before you say anything, I said good knots. Knots that would hold back a dragon. Knots you’d use to tie Morgana up if we found her. Good knots. ” 

“The hound isn’t a fae,” Percival laughed, snagging the leash from Gwaine’s hand. Free again, the hound began sniffing around, trying to lead Percival off into the forest. 

“Great, all that for what exactly?”

Percival raised a brow, pointing down and to the left. 

A tiny dip in between hills. Great. What was it? A giant’s footprint?

Percival gestured harder, “Look between those two trees.”

What…? Oh. “Who puts a door in a hill?”

“Someone who’s hiding from the world?” The hound was tugging Percival in a different direction now so he said, “I’ll see where this guy is taking me and scope the perimeter. Go make sure there’s no one inside.”

Gwaine nodded, patting for his sword which was right where he’d left it, then shuffled down the hill. He was at the bottom of the incline when he noticed the stairs next to him and saw Percival shaking his head from the top of them. “They could have been trapped,” Gwaine shot. 

Creeping closer, he pressed an ear against the door. No sounds. He was no great hunter, but he also noticed no footprints or obvious signs of life. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he pushed.

Darkness, dampness. Nobody in the corners nor under the one table. He swung around the door, but no one hid behind it either. Alone, definitely. He leaned back out of the open doorway, giving Percival a thumb’s up. 

Percival nodded, heading off with the hound as Gwaine turned back to the abandoned room. What a dark, dank place to live. Also, definitely abandoned. No bed roll, no fresh food, no lingering warmth from a fire. 

Surely the once-princess Morgana hadn’t been living here, perhaps some other forest Druid had called it home. Or if it was as old as the Purge, maybe it has been a place for magic users escaping Camelot? Queen Annis’ lands, when he was growing up there at least, had been more tacitly welcoming of escapees. 

There were jars of preserved food on a shelf, the one at nose-level seemingly a pickled boiled egg. Or a creepy eyeball but he chose not to look too closely.

He looked at the sparse dust, then gave the jar a little shake.

The food didn’t seem like it was over twenty years old. Maybe Morgana had stayed here, maybe she’d heard about this hiding place. 

He looked over the room with a more critical eye. Did anything else look new? There was a rag on the center table, but not much else. 

A stark red, the rag stood out in the largely dreary room and looked like it had been left after a bout of cleaning. He rubbed at the rough fabric between his forefinger and thumb. Knight's cloaks in this color were finer and waxed against rainwater. This instead kind of reminded him of the kerchief Merlin had been wearing yesterday. Why Merlin wore rags around his throat, Gwaine would never understand. 

“Gwaine?” Percival called from outside. 

If someone had seen him, Gwaine could not have explained his next action. Pure instinct drove his hand. 

Percival rounded the doorway, and Gwaine hid the rag in his pocket.  

Merlin paced, scowling from thoughts on Lord Urien to King Lot to Cenred to Morgause and Morgana. She thought she was doing right by magic, but look at what she caused without knowing or caring. 

When he could pace in his tiny childhood home no longer, he jogged back to where he’d left Glut. The beast had enjoyed itself, nipping at flowers and clovers, and snorted heartily when Merlin untied him to lead back to his mother’s house. 

What was he going to do for his mother? His wages could cover her, but she’d just as quickly give away whatever spare she had to save someone else. And if Camelot was seen to be helping, it could be treated like aggression. 

He’d been ten when a fungus had begun spreading through the fields, but small, instinctive magic had come to him readily by then. He and Will had snuck around at night, using one of those instinctive spells, and trapped the rot. 

While walking back through the winding roads of Ealdor, he flipped through all the spells he’d come up with growing up. They’d all been short, temporary things. They’d dissipate into unhelpfulness when he returned to Camelot.

He spiraled in worried thoughts of how he wouldn’t be able to help his mother, after everything she’d done for him, until he arrived back to his front porch and saw her with her hand on her hips. 

“What did you do?” She asked sternly.

“Nothing!” While honest, he knew how guilty it made him sound for all the times he’d said it while lying. “I was fetching Glut and worrying.”

She shook her head, helping him lead Glut to an unused pen while he fetched a pail of rainwater from her barrel. “This is a beautiful horse. King Arthur gives you great gifts.”

“Glut hates me and Arthur knows it.” His mother only shook her head with greater disapproval, and to stop a potential lecture Merlin said, “What did you all decide to do?”

“We have till midseason before he comes again, if the quick crop isn’t doing well we can decide then.”

“Mother–” Merlin began, but she grabbed his arm and manhandled him inside, lecturing anyway.

“Hecane has an old donkey that could sell for meat or coin, and William is a good carpenter. There are many ways the village can work together to create and sell should we need it,” they reached the inside of their hut, and his mother bent halfway out of the window as she pretended to dust the shutters. This was her checking for nearby ears and Merlin’s clue she was going to talk about something magical.

He took the bench seat at their table, knowing that put him out of the eyesight of anyone enterprising enough to read his lips. “Stop dusting and tell me,” he said.

She turned her back on the window with a don’t talk to me that way look. Perhaps to spite him, she ladled out a bowl of boiled oats and set it before him with a large wooden spoon. “Eat. I know you spent the whole day with your head in the clouds.”

He had no counter argument there, so he started spooning in mouthfuls. Less access to ingredients, but his mother still found a way to put flavor into what, in Gaius’ pot, was tasteless gruel. “So, did you have some alternate plan? Something you didn’t want to tell everyone else?”

“I do, but I can handle it on my own. I need you to stay here while I handle it.”

“Are you kidding?” he grumbled, “You know I’m capable of helping–”

“Your magic can’t save you from everything–”

“I know far more than when I initially left–”

“I am not putting my son in danger for something as banal as this!”

“I am not a child!” 

Finishing her oats with the oversized spoon didn’t help his argument. “Mother. I am not going to sit here while you do what you’re about to do. Lucky for me, unlucky for you I showed up today.”

“You are all my white hairs, Merlin,” his mother said, combing her fingers through his own hair to fight how wild it generally sat. He doubted it fixed anything, but he let her fuss. 

“Please just tell me what you’re thinking.”

She sighed, leaning back. “Your father told me many stories in the time he lived here. We’ve been told to forget so many of them, but the fae are still here, still strong, still willing to work with us if only we’d meet them halfway.”

“There’s a fae of the fields?” He’d never met any growing up. 

“There’s a fae of the forest, called a Leshy. The nearest is likely across the river, in the forest of Ascetir.”

He’d just passed through there and hadn’t seen any trace of a fae, though it was a large forest. How was his mother planning on tracking it down? Perhaps she had no idea how difficult this was. And why had she thought it may be dangerous? “What are the stories of this Leshy like?”

“There aren’t any of this specific Leshy. Do you remember the story about the gold-weaver and child-stealer?”

Uh… vaguely.

“Or Grandmother tree?”

She’d given advice… right?

“My point is that in some stories the Leshy is helpful, and in others they are conniving. There are rules they have to follow, and the human meeting them should be sure to know them. Fortune favors the prepared and witty.”

“Well that definitely sounds more like a fae tale than real life.”

A window shutter shifted, swinging part way closed. He and his mother both looked up, worried, but it had only been a breeze. It shook his mother to standing, and she grabbed both shutters and latched them closed. “There isn’t much daylight left for me to get there and back, I’ve got to leave now.”

“We’ve got to leave now. And we should take Glut.”

“We will do exactly as I say, and we are not bringing a horse.” 

Merlin and his mother stood just inside the treeline when she stopped, and in a loud, clear voice spoke, “Leshy, King of the Forest, I’ve come for a trade.”

Wind rustled leaves, branches crackled, and peaceful silence met them. 

He hoped that she had more of a plan than this. 

Minutes passed, and Merlin started to shift and move forward, thinking to walk further in and possibly try again. 

“Wait,” she said. She placed her hand on a tree and spoke the request again. 

“I’m just going to walk around and look, I won’t go out of eyesight,” he said. 

“Wait,” she said again. 

“It won’t be far–” an acorn hit him in the face. 

“Leshy,” his mother said again, calmer and quieter, “I’ve come for a trade.”

“It’s here?” Merlin said as another acorn smacked his cheek. “Stop that!” 

This time, seeing where the acorn had come from, he caught sight of a small creature scurrying into the shadow of leaves. King of the forest, huh? It seemed more like a twig with legs, no larger than his palm. 

He stalked closer, trying to catch sight of it. “We won’t hurt you,” he said. 

“Stop talking,” his mother said. “Follow me.” 

She strode forward, brushing past Merlin and the tree the Leshy had disappeared into. He had to follow her eyeline to see her looking at a nearby branch from which the small, sticklike human waited, then leapt to a tree further in. 

They followed it from tree to tree, moving deeper into the forest. After at least an hour of walking the Leshy had grown to the length of Merlin’s arm, and its form had shifted from leafy twig to a thick, aged vine with wrinkled leaves for a beard.

It sat on a branch in front of them, and with a sharp look at his mother, pointed further into the forest. Then it leapt away, faster than Merlin could follow. 

Were they alone? “Why am I not allowed to speak?”

“Because I don’t know what you’re going to say, and we must keep the promises we make.”

“What exactly are we getting ourselves into?” Merlin looked at the path they’d taken to get here. “Maybe we should turn back, I could still think of a spell to help Ealdor.”

“Do you know a spell to keep the fields fertile? Even if you did, I would worry at the cost of something untested. At least this way, I pay my debt upfront.”

If he stopped her now, she would just go back without him after he had returned to Arthur. “Okay, but how about this? If you say Glut needs us I’ll start flinging spells to get us out of here.”

“Listen to me, Merlin. In the Leshy’s sanctum your magic holds less sway. Its power comes from the forest itself. Bar burning the forest down, we are at its mercy.” 

He’d still think of something if he needed to, hopefully something better than burning down a forest. At his mother’s stare, though, he said, “I listened.”

She looked like she wanted to repeat the advice she’d given all over again, but instead took the lead into the direction the Leshy had pointed. It was another hour’s worth of walking, and Merlin often worried they were getting nowhere. They didn’t keep a steadily straight path. Impassable collapsed trees, dense thorny brush, and steep hills turned them all about until he extremely doubted they were heading in the correct direction anymore. He so badly wanted to bring it up to his mother, but she took every diversion in stride. 

The sun had dipped lower, warming the tone of the trees to a yellow-orange. If they turned back now, they’d still return after sunset. Perhaps they should try this again tomorrow morning, and he could pack food, water, and bedrolls. 

They'd been dodging such a weird route through the trees, even if he were able to convince his mother to abandon this crazy idea, would be even be able to find his way back out before it grew too dark?

Looking back over his shoulder to judge, he stumbled, shocked. "Mother–" he stuttered.

Behind them wasn't the path they’d just spent walking. A clearing filled with green grass spread before their eyes, and at the center sat a giant.

It was an older face, with a long beard of moss and vines. Its skin grew pebbly and mottled like a scoop of dirt, and a whole hill of long grass and flowers spilled along its hunched back.

It smiled a toothy grin. "It took you long enough, oh great warlock."

Merlin choked on his spit; surely a reaction worthy of Emrys. 

His mother stepped forward, giving a short bow. “Great Leshy,” she said. “I want to trade for the fertility of my village’s fields. A Lord has come demanding more, and we’ll need to plant unsafely to meet his demands.”

When the giant moved, leaves and dirt and clouds of pollen seemed to fall off of its wrinkles. “I cannot control that which is outside my domain,” it said.

His mother sagged, “Is there some other blessing you could give me that yielded the same results?”

The giant smiled. Its teeth were made of old tree stumps. It snapped its fingers and leaves erupted from the ground before Merlin's feet. In the time it took him to study the burst of magic, the leaves had spun into thickened bark and begun to spread outward.

The magic felt different than most magic he'd come across in a long while. If he had to place it—he'd say it reminded him of the prickly, happy, hoppy magic of the goblin. It bubbled from the rapidly growing shrub, frolicking around his feet in little spheres of cherubic joy and mischief.

In a burst of color, the bush flowered into the white blooms of a dogwood shrub. 

“I have a question for you, Farmer. Where did this bush come from?”

His mother blinked at it, Merlin, then the Leshy. “From magic.”

“All is balance and energy,” the Leshy said, one of its limbs beginning a slow wither and decay. A joint became white ash and black mold, then bright red mushrooms like a pox. “Any growth is at the expense of something else. Perhaps I give you the power to create fertile soil in a place of your choice. What can you offer to feed that earth?”

“Would that fertile soil work for my entire village?”

The Leshy moved a gnarled hand in a slow curl, “For a high enough price.”

Hunith stood tall, “What interests you?”

The Leshy’s gaze studied Hunith from her eyes to her toes, then turned that study upon Merlin. It made his skin prickle and his mother shift uncomfortably. “Ah,” the Leshy said, creaking as it shifted about. “I care little for power. But the love of a mother for her son does interest me.”

His mother edged closer to him, blocking his body slightly with her own. “Imagine the love you have for the animals in your kingdom, the care for which you tend your trees. The fear that they will leave you, and the pride as you watch them grow. That is the love of a mother for her son.”

“Ah,” the Leshy tipped forward and river reeds sprouted along its spine. A cloud of mosquitoes rose from it and flew into the treeline. “But these creatures know not my mind, my care, my love. I give as their protector, but do not know what it is to receive.”

“But you speak again of a mother’s love,” his mother said, “of a crying babe who only knows it needs what we give. The sacrifice of self is a definition of a new mother, you know this well, Leshy.” She paused, hardly blinking as she kept the Leshy in her sights, and Merlin at her back. “Perhaps you wish not for the love that has entered your glade, but the love of companionship. One of a mind that knows yours, of mutual respect, of someone to protect you when you need protection.”

“Hmm,” the Leshy said, tilting forward its massive head, “I think you should not speak for my mind.”

Merlin gulped, trying to grasp a spell he could fling that would get them out of here. Fire seemed the most likely choice, time bubbles never worked against highly magical creatures or people. Perhaps a floating wall of fire between them and the Leshy?

His mother waited, tense, as the Leshy stared at them both. It moved slowly, perhaps thinking deeply. Finally it said, “Though I find myself interested in the love from an equal, a Leshy cannot know an equal. We are singular fae grown of our forest, weak and simple-minded at our borders. What would it be to know the Forest of Brecffa’s Leshy, to the South? Or Queen Mab in the forests to the North? I wonder.”

“The love of an equal is something I can offer,” his mother said. When Merlin made a sound, she gave him a sharp glare. What was she doing? Maybe he could figure out a way for the Leshy’s of the other forests to speak to each other. A spell of some sort? Scrying was possible over long distances, wasn’t it? Would it work in this glade?

The Leshy rumbled in thought, raking fingers gnarled like an oak’s twisted roots through its beard of moss and brambles. As it did so, dew gathered along its fingers, glittering with golden shimmers. “The bargain is struck,” it said. 

“Wait,” Merlin gasped as his mother stepped forward. One of the Leshy’s large palms curled around her body, hiding her from waist to head. 

The Leshy hummed in enjoyment, seeming to soak something up from his mother as gold swirled beneath her skin. “Balinor,” the Leshy said, “I met him once. We did not come to an agreement.” Its eyes closed. “You loved him deeply, and he left you.”

Fingers uncurled from his mother, and as she slumped Merlin ran to her. She sagged, dazed, and Merlin turned from worrying over her to glare at the Leshy. “What have you done?” 

“Fertile soil for her memories of companionship. The bargain is done.” As the Leshy spoke, thorny vines crawled along the ground before them. Trees shifted, bunching closer around the Leshy and seeming to draw it further away from Merlin. The forest stretched, the vines grew taller, and Merlin held his mother tighter. 

In seconds it was over, and they stood alone in a random wooded area as the sun cast long shadows. 

His mother ran a thumb along his cheek, then along his browline and into his wild hair. “You remind me of someone… I can’t remember who.”

How much had she given away? “Do you remember the past few minutes, meeting the Leshy?”

“Yes, of course,” she drew away from him, looking at her hands as if they were foreign to her. 

Fear started to worm its way louder, “You do remember me, though, right?”

She turned sharply, eyes softening. “My son, of course I remember you.” She pulled him into a tight hug, tucking her chin over his shoulder. “You are something I would never sacrifice, you are my everything.”

“And you remember yourself?”

“Yes, Merlin, yes. The gift the Leshy gave feels strange is all. I can tell what I need to do to bestow it on the fields of Ealdor.”

“But you gave away… Balinor? My father?”

She was silent, pulling away to fuss over the way his shirt sat on his shoulders. “Correct I… I do not remember him.  I recall knowing he was long gone, and while memories of joy for me, they were in the past. I could give them to save the present.”

Who would he be without the memories of his mother, Gaius, Freya, Arthur… anyone that he loved? Who was his mother now? Would this change her? “I’ll find a way to return those memories to you, I promise.” 

“Oh Merlin, it’s hard to miss something I don’t remember. Come,” she looked for the direction of the shadows, at the setting of the sun. “Let’s get out of this wood and back home so I can lay this blessing.” 

He let her draw him back into a fast pace, but as they strode he drew the few days worth of memories of Balinor close to his heart. They’d been so sparse, and he’d never shared them with her. He should now, when they had space to talk in her hut. He should have asked her more about him, should have visited her more. 

She shouldn’t have had to sell her love for money. 

The sun sunk in the sky, and with every pace he repeated the same line, solidifying it in his heart. 

I will get her those memories back. 

The Yawning Grave sung by Lord Huron

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 - Tesseract

Mid June

Three nights into his five day stay in Ealdor, Merlin stared at the cross beams of his childhood ceiling until he’d confirmed beyond doubt that his mother breathed in the even, slow breaths of deep sleep. 

Then, as he’d done every night, he snuck back to the forest and yelled into the void about a new trade, any trade, to help his mother. And like those other nights, his voice went hoarse and he tore his clothes on brambles and he ended huddled in failure. What was the point of all this power and destiny if he couldn’t help his own mother?

“At least talk to me,” he muttered into night-drenched forest.

As he and his mother had exited the forest that first night, stumbling in a similar darkness, they’d diverted from the trail here. “This way, Merlin,” she’d said, urging him towards her neighbor’s fields. 

“You’re… going to lay it now?” Merlin whispered. “Maybe hold on to it for a day. Maybe I can find a way to replicate it, and you can return the boon in exchange for your memories.”

She shook her head, picking out a route through young wheat stalks. “This spell wants to get out.” Again looking at her hands, “It’s… thick. Like it’s living underneath my skin and the rest of me isn’t there. And it pushes like… a wheel spinning forward in my stomach.” 

She glanced at him, a question in her eyes, but his spells didn’t really feel like that. 

He wanted to ask Gaius, or call Kilgharrah. The latter would be too dangerous to risk bringing here, but Gaius… he could try scrying. Gaius had taught him how after Morgana and Morgause’s first takeover attempt, when the Fisher King’s vial of magiked water had first connected him to Freya. What were the chances a patient was staying overnight in a cot? Low, but could he risk it?

They crossed into a valley between short hills, a little scoop out of the earth with a view only of stars. Here, his mother fell to her knees, driving her hands up to her elbows in the dirt. “Live,” she urged. 

A wave pulsed and filled him with warm sunlight close to bursting. It glowed behind his eyes and the hills seemed to brighten into spun gold. Magic rippled from his mother, her face slack in wonder. “I can feel the soil,” she whispered.

He saw a glow on the horizon, like a sun rising in reverse. The warm light within him began to throb. When he coughed, a faint cloud of pollen puffed out. “Mother, stop.”

“I can feel the roots. The bugs. The… smaller things.”

He pushed to his knees next to his mother, wrapping her in a fierce hug. She was hot to the touch, trembling. “Let go.” 

In him were roots spiraling out to the hills, the village, the animals, and his mother. He heard the echo of her thoughts as if he were a child hearing her call across the fields to bring him home. He felt her awe, her bewilderment, and the intoxicating flint of magic sparking through her. He could almost feel the form of the spell, see it with his own eyes. 

He felt her notice him, protectiveness surging. Back she leaned, teeth grit, and with a vicious slash of her arms shattered the enchantment’s surface. Magic flew like droplets, seeds, out into the farmland. Then she caught him as he sagged, golden light fading to the night’s normal hues. 

He’d learned later she hadn’t seen the light the way he had, nor had any of the villagers. But at the time, he’d spent the rest of the night begging her to flee before the witch burnings came for them. Bitterly, he spat at the roots of a nearby tree, hoping the Leshy would somehow absorb that anger. 

A little, green acorn landed on the back of his head. He lurched up, “Where are you?”, didn’t wait for an answer and stumbled deeper into the forest. “I don’t see you, can’t see you, but you are going to meet with me tonight. You will–”

He tripped and fell, something sharp scraping along the back of his arm until he landed hard on his elbow. On his shoulder, what felt like a spider landed and skittered along his face. He jerked, and it wiggled for his ear.

“Emrys,” the Leshy’s voice crackled, whispery soft. Merlin’s fingers dug at his face as he fought revulsion. “Freya’s love is a lesser trade. The King however….”

Merlin’s breath caught, and the Leshy wheezed something gleeful. “I have another idea. You want true companionship, right?” Merlin spoke in a rush, “You should be meeting the Leshy of the other forests, and talking with them. I could teach you to scry in pools of water. You could stay in the power of your inner glade and search the other Leshy out. Befriend them.”

Long silken strands drug along his inner ear. “Trade sure memories for a chance of others is not equal.”

“It could be.”

“It is not.” His ear popped as the thing began to crawl out.

“Wait,” he begged.

“You wish to visit me at will. Offer more trades, yes?” The feet on his face multiplied and a handful of fat glowflies lifted to hover before him. In their buzz he heard, “I will trade you scry for easy passage. Entrance to my glade without invitation. But you must make the walk again once more.”

“Yes,” not what he wanted but a step forward, at least he’d no longer waste nights yelling into a void. “I accept.”

He slunk away that night and huddled at his mother's feet, skin-crawling cold prickling until a weak dawn embarrassed him into action. He spent the early morning teaching the mountainous Leshy how to push magic into a pool of water.

In return, he gained a faint gold light that would shine his way back. 

Merlin had sliced his thumb chopping apples once. Blood had poured out of him, surprising at first but then sharp and hot. He’d wrapped it up and held it tight, tried to be tough and work the fields. Every time it throbbed and stung, he’d pretend harder. 

As he spent the next day and a half pruning and watering with the villagers, he’d often watch his mother smiling, knowingly, to herself. And every time he caught her he burned in the same way.

But soon he had to journey back to Camelot, and along the way he swore again to discover a worthy trade. Yet, he still pushed Glut hard so their first camp was well outside the Forest of Ascetir.

Later that same night Glut stomped his hooves, waking Merlin.

Grumbling, he cracked his eyes open to the deep grey of very early dawn, and the fire long burned down to powdery ash. 

The forest seemed quiet except for Glut, who pawed at the ground and swung his head in jerky motions. Was he trying to toss the sleep mask off? At this rate the horse would hurt himself. Merlin sighed, “Hold on, I’m coming.”

Merlin slipped out of his blankets to a blast of cool air, and crossing over leaves and twigs on socked feet, loosened Glut’s mask by feel. As he unbelted the fabric and slid it down Glut’s nose, he caught Glut’s nostrils flaring. 

Merlin turned a critical eye at his surroundings, but could see nothing in the dim lighting. He heard no footfalls or voices. If there was a person here, they were watching him. The only kind of person who would do that would be a bandit, or group of bandits, and they may as well know his magic. He’d need it to stop them. 

He clenched a fist at his side, feeling magic grow warm in his palm. He took one last long, slow breath, listening for anything, then sprung five glowing balls of light into the trees. 

The forest lit in soft blue fifty feet in all directions, and Merlin turned to look all about them. Nothing and no one. Proof, then, that some animal passing by had spooked Glut. Dumb horse. 

Merlin sighed, rubbing at his arms before digging in the pack for his jacket. May as well get on the road now. He tied up his bedroll and kicked dirt over the remnants of his fire, spying the large rune he’d sketched with a stick while waiting for his evening meal to cook. He’d been toying with Morgana’s runes, trying to turn them into words with some semblance of meaning. He’d doodled a few warped Triskelions too, he saw. He wiped at them with his boot, clearing all traces of his illegal train of thought away. 

These runes felt like a dead end. At most they were doodles, and Morgana was long gone with some far more complex plan that didn’t involve an alphabet. He’d have to think of some other method to track her down. 

Which led him back to something else that had been cycling in his mind. As he finished settling the pack on Glut’s back and swung into the saddle, he tested the aging spell. He’d figured this out well enough awhile back. He could shift into the old form of Emrys and hold it at will, though it was tiring. Now, he tried to focus on the way the magic felt as it itched over his skin. The aging felt like rolling forward, like tipping over the edge of a short stool. When he’d done it to his clothes, though, they’d begun to fray and tear. That wasn’t that surprising. 

He called a thick branch into his hand and drew his magic lights into its end. One last spell created a little bit of fire to obscure the lights, making for a reasonable looking torch that beamed light far further forward than any normal firelight. 

Hours out of Camelot and secluded, he figured if there were any chance to figure this out, this was it. He kicked Glut forward and started off. 

Perhaps he should start simpler? Rather than trying to change his shirt into a full red robe, he could focus on just the color, or just the length.

How to change the color of something normally? Find something with a strong hue, like a root, mash and strain it, then mix it with water and fabric. Could he somehow put the tunic in a magical dye-bath? That sounded preposterous. 

The sun and moon change colors depending where they are in the sky. When nearer the horizon they seemed larger and nearer to red. Could the angle you looked at something matter? Could he somehow twist his magic to act like a mirror, reflecting the light so blue looked instead red? 

He imagined tiny disks surrounding him, twinkling and shivering. His magic moved in a cloud to fill that image, connecting to his skin in the tiniest sparks of static. It felt a little like moving through a cloud of gnats. Then, carefully, he tried to twist them. 

He felt the magic moving, but the brown of his jacket didn’t change color. He twisted further, then shook his head as his vision doubled. 

Then he balked.

His eyes hadn’t crossed… his arm was disappearing. In amazement he shifted the mirrors again. He went ghostly, like a spirit. 

Huh.

That was weird. Could definitely come in handy though. 

He soaked the mirrors back into his well of magic, trying a different tack. How about sewing? He could sew in magical threads to the end of his tunic. He’d just need a way to solidify that magic into something visible….

Gwen stood in her shift, searching about in her wardrobe for her yellow robe. She liked the simple daffodil brightness it brought to mind, and it felt smooth as butter. She only saw a red one of similar style and it made her wonder who was going through her clothes thinking she needed to represent Camelot at all hours of the day. 

Well, that was something she shouldn’t let draw her mood. She grabbed the red and returned to Arthur at his desk. “Can we commission a larger desk so I can sit next to you?” Gwen asked. “Better than leaning over your shoulder.”

“Remind me to tell Merlin that,” Arthur said, nose deep in a letter from Gawant. 

Gwen picked up the one she’d read earlier– a short but polite letter from Queen Annis of Caerleon congratulating her on her queenship, but that the royal house would not be attending the Tournament of Camelot this year. She’d left the invitation open to her noble houses however. 

It was as much as they could expect after Arthur had chopped her husband’s head off last year. Actually better than they should expect. Perhaps she could approach Queen Annis, woman-to-woman about advice on leading a kingdom. A dialog could help mend relations between the two countries. 

She set the letter to the upper right corner of the desk, which she was starting to consider her corner. She shifted through the other items she’d begun to accumulate, thinking. 

The far northern kingdoms never came to Camelot due to the distance, but it seemed many noble houses from around the country would be attending. As for royal houses, though, only Mithian and King Rodor from Nemeth would return. Gwen didn’t know what to think about that; she’d heard rumors Arthur had nearly married the woman last year. 

The door creaked as Merlin entered butt-first, carrying a heavy tray. Sharp, surprised joy flooded her. “You’re back!” She moved quickly, waiting eagerly for him to set the tray down so she could hug him tight. 

“I was only gone for a few days!” 

Oh, but she’d missed his friendship. “How was Hunith?” she asked. 

Merlin harrumphed, breaking her hold and patting at his head. “All she could talk about was how I needed a haircut, and that you’d agree. If that was your plan all along, I don’t deserve a week of Glut as punishment over a hairstyle.”

Gwen studied his hair, shorter in the back. Well, he had needed that trim. “It looks nice, and you have nothing to complain about.”

“I’m on to you,” Merlin said. He grabbed a strawberry from their tray, popping it into his mouth as he moved to pick up Arthur’s constant tossing about of his used clothes.

“I hear you eating my fruit, Merlin,” Arthur said with a warning tone. 

“You’re awake?” Merlin leaned over the desk, inspecting the fresh letter in Arthur’s hand. “And you’re working!” Merlin used his fingers to hold back Arthur's eyelids and peer into his eyes, feigning a Gaius inspection.

“Get away from me,” Arthur batted at Merlin’s hands. 

“It is Arthur, isn’t it? Not a troll impersonating our usually lazy king?” Merlin leaned forward, sniffing Arthur, “Hmm, it’s hard to tell.” 

Arthur made a grab for Merlin who dodged out of the way, only barely. 

As she smiled at their antics, Gwen grabbed a slice of bread and cheese from the tray. These were thick, fresh slices of bread with a decadent amount of butter spread atop, another normalized indulgence of queendom she was supposed to ignore. 

Merlin moved over to the bed, pulling back the sheets and tossing them into the laundry bin alongside Arthur’s clothes. 

“Oh, I’ll do that,” she said, “come sit and tell me about Ealdor.” 

Merlin rolled his eyes, “You do realize you’re the queen , right? The staff and I will do the sheets.” 

Gwen sighed, watching Merlin fluff the feathered mattress. For that moment, she hated this change. 

The easy camaraderie and shared smirks were fading, would fade, and her life was different and growing more so by the day. Viewing the past as greener pastures was foolish, she knew, because that past also held pining for control and purpose in her life. 

And what did she do now she had it? Live in a state of fear of who she was becoming, of feeling wrong and other in all the simple, small, detailed parts of her life. A morning meal had become a fresh pitcher of watered down wine, strawberries, jams, sausage, breads and cheeses. This was a feast platter, not breakfast. 

There was a scroll rolled up in the center of the tray, sealed but not with wax. She suspected a quick note from Leon to Arthur, but she reached over and grabbed it anyway. It could be a letter from the kitchen staff to her, just saying good morning. 

Nibbling on her bread she broke the sticky section of the scroll, spreading it out upon her lap. As she read, her eyebrows inched higher, and higher.

“Merlin,” she said, “where did you get this scroll?”

“A messenger handed it to me, for you and Arthur. Why?”

“It’s from Iseldir of the druids.”

The feather mattress smacked Merlin in the face as it snapped back against him, and Arthur turned about in his chair, mouth open. 

“We found them?” Arthur said.

“You’re looking for them?” Merlin said, sounding flustered. He patted at the mattress.

“What does it say, Guinevere?”

She went back to the words, scanning over the introductions. “He says his people were understandably nervous when two knights showed up at their camp, but that he believes change is coming, and that I’m proof of that.” 

Arthur had a surprised look on his face. “Because you were a servant? Percival, Gwaine, and Elyan were made nobles via knighthood before you.”

“Being a queen is quite different from knighthood,” Gwen said tersely.

Arthur thought about it. “You’re right, of course. Did he say anything else?”

“Yes, ah,” Gwen went back to find the exact words. “Your request to right the wrongs of the past fills him with hope, and he would like to meet in person.”

“That’s perfect! More than I expected, faster than I expected,” Arthur looked eager, but she hadn’t forgotten his worry only a few nights ago. She’d have to temper his expectations to something realistic. “Where and when?”

“He doesn’t say,” she said. “Perhaps we could negotiate some neutral ground.”

“No, we should show him the same dignity we would show any other visiting noble. We could offer him accommodations, good meals, a prominent seat at the upcoming Tournament if he wants it. Does he say how to reply back?”

“No,” Gwen said, “but I expect through the knights who found his camp in the first place.”

“Good,” Arthur said. “Merlin, tell Leon the details for me, will you?”

Merlin had silently fluffed their pillows, listening. He was always quite uncomfortable around anything involving druids or magic. “Merlin,” she said in an attempt to prompt his opinion, “What do you think about this?”

“I don’t know the druids,” Merlin said at first, quickly, “but it sounds like he’s being honest about meeting you without any sort of hidden aggression. Why did you want to meet him?” 

“I made some promises, and I think he can help me,” Arthur said, perhaps a touch evasively. 

Merlin shifted, turning his back as he flapped at their drapes to remove accumulating dust. “It definitely sounds interesting. I’d like to be there when you meet him, if I can.”

“Since when do you ask,?” Arthur muttered. “So you’ll tell Leon for me? Invite Iseldir here?” 

Merlin nodded, and Gwen, slightly worried, pushed the letter out onto an empty area of the tabletop. Did Merlin hate the druids? It was hard to tell, but he seemed so suspicious. She’d only ever heard tall tales via the other servants, and so druids seemed more like childhood stories than real people who would pen letters. 

That was another silly thought, and learning more of history through Geoffrey the Librarian should be higher on her order of tasks. 

She shook herself, following instead the what-ifs should the druids come to the Tournament. Did the other nobles delivering their attendance letters support or despise that? Should she warn Nemeth? Warn the druids? Arthur’s plan seemed more problematic than conducive to a good conversation, but he had greater experience with all of this than she. 

Merlin, basket of laundry now propped on his hip, grabbed Iseldir’s letter and swiftly rolled and thrust it into his pocket. “Invite them to Camelot for the Tournament, that’s what you’re asking for, right? Anything else I should know?”

“Maybe I should handle this,” Arthur said.

“I’ve got it,” Merlin said as he strode for the door. “I’ll tell you how it goes!”

Bent over in a stairwell with a borrowed ink bottle, servants clattering around him, Merlin wrote Iseldir back using his thigh as a desk.

It had to be him, and it had to be done, before Arthur changed his mind. 

As the minutes ticked past when he was due for his next duties, he lined in subtleties he hoped wouldn’t be noticed by Leon and the knights. He wanted the druids to know Arthur was seemingly approaching them with honest intentions, but the Tournament was a bad place to have that meeting. He signed it from Arthur, but added “penned by Merlin, the King’s Manservant”. That would have to be enough.

He handed the letter to Leon himself, running then for the tournament grounds. George gave him a hard look when he showed up over half an hour late, then pointed at the large field. A bag waited for him. 

He groaned. 

Weeding.

With the Tournament of Camelot only a month or so away, Camelot’s castle servants were sprucing up the tournament grounds in half-day rotations, and this surely was the job no one else wanted. 

Hours passed on his knees in the dirt, and on such a cloudless day he sweated like a stuck pig. Salt stung his eyes and after failing to wipe them clean on his shoulders, he leaned back on his heels.

Wiping dirt-crusted hands on his trousers, then untying his kerchief from around his forehead,  he wiped at his face. The red was practically brown from the dirt and sweat. 

However his socks peaked a vivid red from within his boots, and the sight made him smile. Despite all of today’s distractions, the transformation spell still burned! 

Tying the rag back on his brow, he went in search of a cup of water. 

Servants patched and sealed the wood ringing the arena as others tarred the noble’s roof against rainfall, and a youthful crew swept up a winter’s worth of dirt and debris. There were maybe twenty to thirty servants bustling around him. 

A barrel was propped on a short wall near what would be the horse pens, and two other servants stood sipping from their own cups. One was Abita, a dark-skinned girl with hair like a dandelion, and the second was George, nose ever in the air. 

“Merlin,” Abita said with a smile, “I’m just telling George I’m going to try for knighthood this tourney.”

“Knighthood?” Merlin accepted the cup Abita offered him with a thankful smile, “I can’t imagine George breaking the rules and accepting a fake writ of nobility, first off.”

“You haven’t heard? That’s surprising,” George said. “The Queen is holding a commoner’s circuit as well. The top three in each weapon’s category can participate in training with the other squires till Harvest.”

“Everyone’s saying if they stand out, a knight will pick them up as an official squire! Can you imagine? Anyone can be nobility now!” Abita grinned. 

“As long as you’re a good fighter, can convince a knight to give you a chance over other nobles they’ve been training for years, and are a man ,” George said stiffly. 

“I could be the first female knight, I bet the Queen would let me,” Abita stuck her tongue out. “I heard she fought Morgana with a sword.”

“Women are not allowed in the tournament! Her rules expressly say all eligible men.” 

There were plenty of weapons categories Abita had a fair chance of beating someone else in. Daggers, for sure. She could flip cutlery between her fingers, why not a knife? 

As he finished his water in a long gulp, someone yelled his name. 

Elyan, Percival, and Gwaine lolled over the wall separating the commonor’s standing grounds from the pitch itself, and they seemed to be ribbing each other. They beckoned him over.

“Merlin,” Elyan said, when Merlin was within earshot. “Which of us should represent Camelot this year?”

“Oh, I am not getting involved with this,” Merlin said. “Ask Arthur.”

“Clearly Merlin would pick me,” Gwaine said. “I’m the best swordsman and his best friend.”

“Who told you that?” Merlin joked.

“You are trash at lancework,” Percival countered. 

“You know, everything in knighthood isn’t all smash and grab,” Gwaine snorted. He turned to Merlin, his glance lingering on the kerchief tied to Merlin’s forehead. His lips tugged in a small smile.

Assuming a joke was incoming, Merlin said, “Why don’t you all represent Camelot? Plenty of nobles are participating, right?”

“Right, but not all are representing the crown,” Elyan said. 

“Well clearly it should be Elyan, then,” Merlin replied. “He’s Gwen’s brother.”

“Hah!” Elyan said, pointing animatedly at both other knights. “I told you it should be me.”

“Nepotism!” Gwaine cried. 

Percival rubbed his chin in thought. “I wonder who would be Elyan’s backup should something unfortunate happen, like, say, itching powder coating the inside of his armor.”

Elyan squawked, and as he did so, his shirt burst from brown into a bright red. 

For one frozen moment, they each blinked in shock. 

Then Gwaine swiveled to cover the other knights’ backs, Percival turned a critical eye back down the road they’d come from, and Elyan ripped the shirt over his head. 

It fell in a limp heap at their feet, unassuming and guileless. 

Merlin, meanwhile, panicked. 

Did I do that? Did the transforming spell leap from my socks to his shirt? He wanted to check within his boots but that would be too suspicious. I didn’t even notice my magic shift .

That was really the most insidious fear about seeing that red shirt lying on the ground like lost laundry. He’d fought plenty of magical threats, but his own magic had never worked against him. Had he broken something within himself while experimenting? Could the runes have done this? Had they been a trap all along? A curse for Emrys who was sure to return to the hovel at least once more? 

“It seems… normal,” Percival said. 

“I don’t see anyone advancing,” Gwaine said. 

“I feel fine,” Elyan added. 

At least this wouldn’t result in a pyre for someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Have I been standing still for too long? I should say something right? Nothing came to mind; they were going to notice he was being weird. Just undo the spell before something worse happens. Merlin leapt over the railing separating himself from the knights. Ducking beneath their line of sight, he crouched over the red shirt, picking at the folds of fabric. 

Knowing they couldn’t see his face, he let his eyes bleed gold as he probed for his spell. And strangely enough, he didn’t find it. Clearly, something had used magic here but… it wasn’t his magic. That didn’t make any sense. Who would turn a shirt red as a prank? A fae? 

Regardless, he wouldn’t be able to undo it easilynow.

Focusing like he’d practiced, he imagined the cloth built of magic. Then he twisted it, a little like he’d learned to treat the ghostly invisibility spell. Down and up warped, and vertigo threatened to knock him over. He’d really needed more practice before going on stage with his new act, but since when had he ever not performed while inches from the fire?

As he twisted the color shifted. Red, to burgundy, to brown. He pulled back and it bled into the tan color of Elyan’s original shirt. 

Swallowing the passing nausea, trying to feign surprise, he noticed a few of the other servants had come closer to see what was going on. Some wore a very forward smile directed at Elyan. Elyan, abashed, leaned down to poke at the shirt with Merlin. “Does it seem okay now?” He whispered. 

“Seems so,” Merlin murmured back. “Maybe a stray spell? A small, mindless fae playing a trick?”

He snuck a glance at Percival and Gwaine and then winced internally at how eager it made him look, at how hopeful that they’d believe the bait he’d dangled. 

Percival and Gwaine shared a glance, shrugging their shoulders at each other. 

Elyan pulled the shirt back over his head, but seemed a little skittish in the way he shifted from foot to foot. Merlin wished he could just tell him it truly was a harmless spell, then wished again that Lancelot hadn’t died. Instead he said, “Gaius could take a look?”

“I may just go change. Even though it’s probably nothing,” Elyan said, starting to walk back towards the lower town where the blacksmith’s shop resided. 

Percival and Gwaine still seemed troubled. How was he going to change the subject to get their minds off this? He needed time to figure out what was going on. 

He searched his repertoire of dopey lies that only ever worked on Arthur and sometimes Leon, discarding stupid jokes and worse puns in increasing speed. Why was his brain like this in emergency situations?

“Want to get lunch?” Gwaine asked, seemingly oblivious to Merlin’s tension. “We were headed to one of the pubs.”

“He’s working,” Percival argued. 

“Want to skive off work?” Gwaine repeated.

And they gave it to him on a platter. He either was the luckiest dolt in Camelot or Destiny was working to help him.  "Can't do that so soon after getting back," Merlin said. "What about a drink after Arthur’s supper?"

"Fat Chimera?" Gwaine loved the meat pies there. 

Merlin smiled, Gwaine took that as enough of a yes, and so he and Percival left with a wave. Merlin watched them go with a bone weary sigh. 

He waited an appropriate amount of time, pretending to stretch, and let the curious servants disperse. 

Then he checked his socks. 

Still red. 

The spell felt normal too, still completely his own magic. 

Okay… now he was very sure he hadn't accidentally transformed Elyan's shirt. He'd have to get his hands on it again. When would Elyan be away with other duties? 

George called his name, and Merlin turned to see him pointing at Merlin's abandoned bag of mulch. 

Right. But first– weeding. 

Merlin finished his shift without any other magical surprises, and the calm made him bold. 

Arthur and Gwen didn’t need him after lunch, so he left the tournament grounds for Elyan’s hut. The fastest route took him on the broad road outside the castle’s walls, dipping into the thoroughfare before market street. He had to skirt around both nobles and commoners headed from their lunches, and promised his stomach he’d eat just after grabbing Elyan’s shirt. 

The inviting blacksmith’s hut looked empty as he approached– door closed and no firelight gleaming off of the bottled glass windows. In the busy street he saw no hint of Elyan or other knights who might question what he was doing. 

Merlin’s eyes flashed gold as he unlocked the front door, stepping into the dim interior with haste. With his magic, he probed outward for his own spell. Near the fireplace? 

Had Elyan burned it? 

He approached, crouching down. No, Elyan hadn’t. He’d folded it quite close to the embers as if in case he’d needed to kick it in. 

Checking the door– definitely closed– Merlin pulled the shirt through his hands, letting his magic meld again with the spell he’d woven through it already. It felt a bit like sinking into a bath. 

Once the spell enveloped him, he dissipated what he’d done with the color. Then, holding each thread as if they were instead brocaded with magic itself, he unraveled. Like a reverse weaving the shirt came apart, cloth disappearing into a realm he could not see. He unraveled until he held a fresh red neckerchief. 

He flipped it in his palm a few times, looking at each thread. They were all surely red. The other magic, the other spell, whatever was doing this– that was still active. 

Elyan’s hut wasn’t the place to dig into this, so he slipped back out into the street. As a servant, no one gave him a second glance. Magic locked the door behind him and he stuffed the rag into his pocket. 

Now, where would Gaius be at this hour? Doing rounds, likely. 

Merlin took off down the street, away from the castle, looking back and forth for Gaius’ white hair. While he walked, he probed at the magic in his pocket. 

Admittedly he didn’t have much experience reading other people’s magic. He’d snooped around people with magic, of course, but he’d never had time to sit around and try to feel out how they’d cast spells. As was the case with this rag, he wasn’t even sure if he could? That seemed wrong though. The magic was there, he just wasn’t in tune with it or something. 

Gaius would know what to do. Surely Gaius had figured out how to tune into others’ magic back when he’d mentored magic users. 

Merlin hit the end of the street, passing a soap and lye-maker who eyed Merlin’s dirty clothes with a salesperson’s eagerness. On a whim he chose to head left, moving closer to the sprawl of two story pub and family home combinations. The Fat Chimera was in the mix here, generally not opened until the evening rush, and fortune would have it but Gaius was out front talking to Uni, its owner.  

Uni was a large man with slanted eyes and white flour up to his elbows. He had his thick fingered hands propped loosely on his apron-covered hips as he listened to Gaius instruct him. Uni’s daughter had a lingering spring-fever, and Merlin could hear her coughing from the upstairs window. 

Merlin stood to the side, waiting for Gaius to finish, wondering if Gwaine and the knights had already left for this afternoon’s training sessions. And had there always been this many red pennants hanging from the eaves? 

Wait… he squinted. Far up the road people shifted, leaving large gaps in the crowd. Gwen and Arthur? What were they doing here? 

He shoved the false rag deeper into his pocket. Why was she carrying such a large bag? 

When close Gwen sidled up to him, smiling. The nearby villagers pulled Arthur aside once they noticed he was waiting on Gaius. 

And while Gaius could ramble once he’d started getting into technicalities, Uni caught the clues. He gave a short bow to them all and returned to his daughter and meat pies with a new batch of potions from Gaius. 

Gaius, a little surprised to see them all, thankfully turned to Arthur first. Merlin wasn’t sure what lie would have come from his mouth if he’d had to explain his own presence. 

Arthur walked close, causing a tighter circle of the four of them as he leaned in close. “Gaius,” he said in a low voice, “all of the banners are red.”

Merlin’s heart sunk. 

Gwen whispered over Gaius’ confused stare, “Even the golden lions, Gaius. Someone dyed all of the banners red, and,” she gestured at her skirts, “all of my clothes.” 

Dressed in that voluminous dress, with that red, she was in an outfit very similar to Dragoon's robe. He'd spent the dawn turning his tunic to and from that exact outfit.

Was all of Camelot doomed to walk around dressed as Dragoon– Oh, no. 

Please, no. 

In front of them all, the skirt began to shorten. It was 'reverting' into one of his tunics, unraveling like it was back on a loom and fading into another realm. Merlin grabbed the bag of banners from Gwen’s arm. Stuck his face in. Hoped that was a believable enough way to pretend he was distracted by the red lions and threw a spell at Gwen. 

With his face in banners he couldn’t see what he fought, he just imagined woven threads on woven threads and hoped desperately that he hadn’t inadvertently caused Gwen to be standing in her shift, or worse, during her first week as queen. 

He also caught that the lions were red, and could not read if it had been done with magic or dye. He was inclined to believe magic. 

Concerned noises came from the crowd, and almost shivering with nerves Merlin looked back to Gwen. Her skirt now hung off of her like a child wearing her mother’s clothes, and a breath of relief escaped him. Gaius gave him a knowing look. 

“Something strange is going on,” Arthur said. “And it’s very soon after I reached out to…” he whispered while barely moving his lips, “Iseldir. Can you undo all of this?” 

“I’ll look into it, sire,” Gaius said. “Can you leave the pennants with Merlin and myself?”

“How could this be the druids?” Merlin whispered. “It’s a strange prank to send inside of a letter.”

“I don’t pretend to know the mind of magic-users, Merlin.” 

Frustration and fear grew within him. Arthur had been so close, and Merlin had been the one to ruin it. Was it already too late? 

Gaius put a hand on Merlin’s shoulder then said, “Has anyone been injured?” At Arthur’s no Gaius continued, “the only effect has been on cloth? Ah, then perhaps the queen could do with a suit of armor until this is dealt with.”

“Thank you, Gaius,” Gwen giggled, looking down at her overly long skirts. She hesitated, trying to figure out how to bunch them up into her hands in a way that didn’t look ridiculous. 

“Merlin, hold the back of Guinevere's dress off the ground,” Arthur ordered. “We’re going back to our chambers for a change of clothes.” 

Merlin shared a look with Gaius, both realizing they were about to be split from the one person they needed to talk to. “Merlin, come fetch the rest of my potions to give amongst the villagers after attending to Gwen. I’ll be in my chambers.” 

Merlin nodded, relieved, then bundled up the drapery he’d clothed Gwen in and followed after she and Arthur. 

“Does it seem to you that more people than usual are wearing red?” Gwen asked as they walked. Yes, it did. There were also many in long robes, like that he wore as Emrys, but not in red. Was that an offshoot of the spell as well? Or were they just cold?

Near the walls of the castle, Merlin heard the clopping of hooves before Leon pulled up aboard his black-speckled horse, two knights flanking him. “”Sire,” Leon took in Gwen’s skirts without a blink and extended a fresh scroll towards Arthur. “A response to your letter this morning.” 

Merlin’s gaze immediately went to Arthur’s face. His friend's eyes narrowed and he stood stiffly. This was his battle-ready stance. Oh no. No, no, no. 

Arthur seized the letter, then hesitated. “There could be another spell trapped in this one,” he whispered. “A worse one.” 

Leon quirked a brow. “I saw him pen the letter myself. I did not see any magical ritual performed over the ink.” 

Merlin’s eyes flicked back to Arthur, whose mouth twisted as he thought. He looked to Gwen who gestured for him to open it. “Alright, but if things get worse then these talks are done.” He broke the sap seal and unfurled the short letter, at the end, he snorted. 

“What does it say?” Merlin asked. 

“They asked for just myself, and a servant if I needed, to visit them at their camp instead.” Arthur handed the letter back to Leon. “Burn the letter just in case, and tell him I’ll be bringing a hand of knights.”

“To fight, sire?” Leon’s voice came out plain and unreadable.

“No, for safety. You never know what could happen. And tell them that for every day I spend in their camp, Iseldir should spend the same time in Camelot.” 

Leon nodded, then maneuvered his reins and rode off, the two knights following him. 

“And Merlin,” Arthur continued, clearly in a bad mood, “Aren’t you due for updating the maps in the library? I’ll need those new Nemeth borders before the Tournament.” 

“Shouldn’t I get Gwen to the rooms first? And I need to help Gaius with the potions–” 

“Oh, I can carry these from here, Merlin,” Gwen chimed.

Arthur gestured at a passing servant. “Come here.” They held a tray carrying a kettle and teacups. “Who is that tea for?”

“Geoffrey, sire.” 

“Perfect. Merlin, you take that. You, go to Gaius in his chambers and deliver the potions he needs handed out to the other villagers.” 

The servant executed a perfect bow despite the tray, which they then shoved into Merlin’s chest before walking away. They all walked away while Merlin remained, clutching warm metal and cursing his luck.

Heavy warmth hung between the tall shelves of Camelot’s library, weighing down the sounds of the castle hallways. Normally he found this peace comforting, but today– still sweaty from weeding, a magic item burning a hole in his pocket, and a rogue spell on the loose– he found the place stifling. 

Geoffrey, blanket about his shoulders and sipping from a steaming teacup, poked through the shelves with Merlin in tow as he doddered towards a particular scout’s map. Along the way Merlin forcibly unclenched his fists and let out a slow breath. 

He couldn’t make Geoffrey go faster, and no one was in danger. Gaius was already looking into the matter. Everything would be fine until supper. For now, Camelot was in the hands of the very capable Fates. 

“Ah,” Geoffrey said, “This is the place.” The elderly man sat his teacup on a nearby shelf, then bent to dig around a basket of rolled parchment. The wood of this shelf was a freshly varnished mahogany, and Merlin scraped his fingernail across slivers of dust caught underneath the new coat. 

Was the rogue spell something like that? Magic particles floating around and falling back into place in the shape of Merlin’s spells? 

Had Geoffrey read every book that had come through this library? Had he read even the spellbooks and fae guides? Would he perhaps have a clue what was causing this? 

How to ask, without being too awkward or suspicious? 

Well, it was probably okay to be truthful to some extent. 

“Geoffrey,” Merlin broached just as a scroll was thrust in his direction. “Have you heard about what’s been happening in Camelot today?”

“Yes, these are the most recent maps,” Geoffrey said. “The exact northern border of Gedref was a tricky thing to nail down, but I told those scouts about the dried up river and that fixed things right up….”

“Ah,” Merlin said, “I was actually wondering about–”

“Actually, open that scroll up,” Geoffrey retrieved his tea with a pleased smile. “Did you know when I was an apprentice, Amata didn’t exist? The land was ruled by another king and called Kent. The fighting Kenters!” 

Geoffrey chortled as Merlin sighed. Better to just wait out this tangent. 

The scroll revealed a detailed southern border of Albion, from left to right stood Cornwall, Deorham, Nemeth, and Amata. Gedref and Nemeth had emphasis and blown out details scattered around the scroll. This was going to take a while to trace into the larger map Arthur wanted. 

Geoffrey continued, “I wonder who will represent Cornwall in this year’s tournament, with King Odin’s son dead.” 

“No one from Cornwall has come since Arthur accidentally killed their prince,” Merlin said. 

Geoffrey hummed, drooping into his desk with a slope of sadness. “Of course, that’s understandable. It is unfortunate. Odin was one of Uther’s closer allies. As was Alined of Deorham and the Sarrum of Amata. Are either of them coming to the tournament?”

“I’m not sure,” Merlin said, “actually, something strange happened with the Camelot pennants for the tournament. Have you ever heard of a fae that could change the color of fabric? Copy spells, maybe?”

Geoffrey blinked, looking up at Merlin with his full focus. Trying to act nonchalant, Merlin slipped into a tiny guest desk, spreading out the new scroll before him. He used candles to hold the corners. 

“You should not ask questions of that sort,” Geoffrey said. 

“Arthur was wondering,” Merlin explained, “He thought the druids may have cast a spell on Camelot before the tournament. I was thinking it was a fae.”

“A fae that changes the colors of fabric? Perhaps a goblin,” Geoffrey shrugged. “Leave that to Arthur. He knows best.”

“...Right.” Well, that got him nowhere. 

“You could sprinkle a circle of rock salt around your chair. That wards them off.”

“Wards what off?”

“Goblins, of course.” Geoffrey shook his head. “And it has to be rock salt, not finely ground salt. I remember that specifically.” The elder man adjusted his spectacles to bracket his nostrils and bent nose-deep into a manuscript he’d been translating. 

Conversation was over, and somehow, Merlin felt worse off for it.

Ugh. Maybe he could make an excuse to go into the back, and set a spell to start copying this map over. Though with his luck, the copycat magic would start carving maps into the cobblestones of Camelot. 

Oh, that reminded him. 

Geoffrey was well enough distracted, so Merlin ducked his head and released the spell on his socks. That should at least stop things from turning red all around Camelot. With nothing to copy, surely the copycat magic would stop. 

An hour or two later, while using a white cheesecloth to rub away faint, sketchy charcoal lines on his big, official map of Camelot, Merlin discovered how wrong he was. 

In his hands, the cheesecloth bled to red, then began to lengthen. 

When he dropped the rag in alarm, the map itself began to sprout red threads. 

He stood, chair bursting back. Even the rug beneath him was changing. The change started from his boots . He was causing this. Or, it was following him. 

Taking a few strides away from the desk, he saw the spread of red slow and stop.

“Do you need something?” Geoffrey asked.

The red spot of the rug shivered, the coarse fibers standing on end and waving like the spines on a porcupine. 

“I-have-to-go,” Merlin said, backpedaling further. The spines followed him.

He closed the doors to the library behind him, standing in a halo of stone in a castle hallway. Would he be safe here? Or would he just not know it was nearby? 

Whatever it was. 

He strode down the hallway, pausing at the first intersection. It took a minute or so, but on queue the tips of his boots began to redden. 

He continued in this way, leading the spell– the fae– into more secluded areas of the castle. Together they went deeper, winding into catacombs that were a maze to anyone who hadn’t had Kilgharrah’s voice guide them into a particular cavernous prison.

Once he’d cornered it, or once it had cornered him… then what? 

Kilgharrah’s prison he hadn’t entered since he’d freed the great dragon, but the damp darkness was familiar to him. Some sunlight poked out of openings to the cave system far above, and a thin underground river echoed far below. The great, iron manacles that had held Kilgharahh lay cracked and forgotten, still attached to a natural rock pillar. 

There wasn’t much space for himself to stand. The ledge dropped off quickly. But, there was a long sloped hallway that led to this cave, and it gave him the perfect warning to the thing’s approach. 

He’d need a carpet. 

His blue shirt he removed, laying at his feet. Pushing outward with his magic he spun it wider until a long scroll of blue covered the ledge and spilled over the cliff in an undulating waterfall. It grew up along the hallway, twisting with a tad of levitation magic so it warped around the walls and ceiling. 

The mouth of the hallway bled red. What kind of plan had this been? A total lack of plan, is what it was. He should have run straight to Gaius. 

The hallway filled with fabric, blocking his only exit, and Merlin imagined his future as a large bundle of fabric. “What do you want?”

His boots began to change. Could this thing be reasoned with? Could he create a box like they’d trapped the goblin in awhile back? Create his own Stones of Nemeton? 

His trousers grew baggy and spilled in folds across his ankles. 

I have to get it away from me, swallowing the twinge of fear he built a knot of magic within him. It rumbled warm and chaotic in his chest. Aiming at his legs, magic burst outward in a cascade of wind that ruffled his hair and rippled cloth. 

Merlin held his breath, waiting. His trousers had stopped growing. Magic had worked to corral it! But where had he blown it?

Delving deep into the piles of red cloth around him, he seized the thousands of threads and twisted. Covering the fae’s spell blue bloomed around him, rushing outward as he seized more and more threads in a wider and wider ring– until he hit a wall of resistance and he knew .

On instinct he blew out another burst of magic, imagining it wrapping into a cone and driving into the cavern wall. Had he captured the fae?

The spell wavered beneath his grip, and Merlin grit his teeth as the spell fought to dissipate, as these bursts of magic usually did. His hands cramped as if he were wrangling a gale. 

No fabric grew or shifted to red around him. He did have the fae… probably. 

Stepping out of his much too long trousers, he approached the invisible cone of magic as it vibrated beneath his palms. This type of spell was not meant to be restrained. Inside, at first, he saw nothing. 

Then, a wisp of steam. 

In charcoal black a swirl of soot burned itself onto the cavern wall, followed by two other dense yet perfectly formed swirls. They moved smooth like a pen on paper until with a final twist the three swirls merged. A Triskelion, the symbol of the druids and the Triple Goddess. 

In the tiny triangle of space between the swirls he saw gold. Brilliant gold. An eye, looking back at him?

The gold seeped outward, staining the world around him. His cone of wind grew golden threads like spun honey but patterned with sharp jagged lines like lightning. And between those threads a sphere surrounded by rose-like thorns brightened into clarity. 

The sphere moved, floating until it aligned with the center of the Triskelion. Its spines shifted until they pinched together, like fingers squishing through a tight bracelet, and began to push into the center of the Triskelion. 

This was the fae– he had never, in no book, ever heard of a fae like this. 

He took a blink to look over his shoulder, eyeing how the gold had spread throughout the cavern. It shone brightest in the folds of extended fabric, new threads woven like a fine silk in the exact way he’d imagined. 

This was magic. He was seeing magic.  

That had to mean this Triskelion– he turned to see the fae almost completely swallowed within the small, golden window– was a tear in the Veil to the magic realm.  

Of course this is what Morgana had been experimenting with. She and Morgause had ripped a hole in the Veil to the Spirit Realm, and it had taken Lancelot’s death to plug it. If Morgana ripped into a magical realm, what would it take to seal that? 

The creature disappeared fully. Golden light bled away from the further reaches of the cavern, the structure of the spells fading back to invisibility. When, finally, all went dark, Merlin dropped his hands.

The Triskelion remained etched in the cavern wall, returned to a deep charcoal black. He ran a finger over the symbol. No tingle of magic came to him, and he saw no glimpse of gold. It seemed like any other cave drawing. 

That had been… wild. He didn’t know what to think.

It was good they’d likely be seeing Iseldir soon. If the druids were branding the symbol on their body, they must have known its power. Or, more of its capabilities.

His hand dropped, and he swiveled to behold the mess he’d left himself. He stood naked except for his undershorts and the kerchief he’d tied on his brow this morning. The rest of his clothes had become… a mountain. 

Well, he couldn’t stand here reeling all evening. Arthur expected supper. 

Cracking his knuckles, he strode first for his trousers, fresh and determined. 

In the hours between when the Fat Chimera ran out of meat pies and clientele migrated to taverns like the Rising Sun, Uni’s partner laid out today’s pastries for an eighth-pence each.

Gwaine savored his second of the night, licking crumbs off the corners of his lips, a little wistful for the fall when spiced fruit and jams would be more readily available. 

He heard someone clear his throat, and recognized Merlin’s voice as his friend said, “Is that my pastry you’re eating?”

Gwaine grinned, Merlin could be sneaky when he tried. Though, the room was half-filled and still boisterous with patrons. It would be easy to miss a new face in the jumble. “I figured you weren’t coming.”

“You wouldn’t believe the night I’ve had. Is there any ale left?”

“Should be,” Gwaine heard Merlin move off for the counter, and considered saving an unbitten piece of the dessert for Merlin. But he’d been saving the best bite for last, and it was really delicious. Merlin tended not to like sweets anyway, having not grown up around them. 

He popped the last of the treat in his mouth, deciding that if Merlin was hungry he’d help him sneak into the castle’s kitchen. As he chewed, a tankard of ale plopped in front of him, and Merlin rounded the table for the opposing bench seat. “I put it on your tab,” Merlin said. 

Words died in Gwaine’s throat. 

“What?” Merlin said, “Something on my face?” 

Merlin looked down at his shirt nervously, but Gwaine’s thoughts were wrapped in the dirt-stained purple kerchief tied to Merlin’s brow. He’d been wearing the red one earlier, the one that matched the copy Gwaine had found in Morgana’s hovel. “You never wear the purple one with your blue shirt,” he blurted. 

Confused, Merlin tugged off the kerchief and frowned at the dirt-stained one in his hands. “Huh,” he said. “I must have left it in Ealdor.”

Merlin stuffed it into his pocket, changing the subject into something about Geoffrey, and maps, and tournament rules, and commoners participating this year. And Gwaine tried really hard to listen.

He tried really, really hard to believe him.

Velvet Noose sung by Thunderpussy

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: The Hall of Brecffa

Late June

Merlin had snuck into Iseldir’s camp a few times already, so entering it on horseback behind Arthur and the knights was a decidedly weird experience. 

Iseldir’s clan of druids hid deep in the Forest of Brecffa south of Camelot, and no cleared trails, boisterous ceremonies, or playing children had existed to offer a clue to their location. 

Yet, now, after only a few days of messages sent back and forth between the campsite and Camelot, a horse trail had begun to take shape. Leaves were mashed flat before them, and scraggly branches had been snapped away. If things went sour, Iseldir was in terrible danger. Had he already found a second campsite to escape to, if needed? 

He cast his mind out, looking for Iseldir’s. This was an exercise of probing with his own senses for a mind that could accept his probe, and then on top of that, a mind that was familiar. He caught instead Gwaine watching him. “What?” Merlin asked.

“Nothing,” Gwaine answered. Gwaine slowed his horse a half step so he and Merlin were aligned on the trail, and Gwaine could lean over in a half whisper. “So does Princess still think Iseldir is responsible for that color-changing spell?”

“I don’t think so,” Merlin thumbed at his blue neckerchief, sparing a spike of worry for where he’d left the red one. When the fae had gone around turning things red, Merlin had thought he’d found his red kerchief only to discover he’d been wearing a color-changed one. It hadn’t been in the hovel on his way back from Ealdor. Had someone found it, or had he dropped it somewhere else? 

“What was it then?”

“Gaius says it was a rare, harmless fae and that he chased it off.” Of course he’d had to tell Gaius it was a fae, but he wasn’t going to tell Gwaine that. 

“Weird. Still seems sort of coincidental, you think?”

“Maybe,” Merlin ducked under a low hanging branch, “seems a dumb way to attack us though.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. What do you think the druids will demand for reparations? That clan Arthur destroyed is long gone."

He’d met all manner of druid before, but Iseldir seemed a peaceful type. He nearly opened his mouth to say just that before realizing he wasn’t meant to have that much experience. “If you were them, what would you ask for?”

Percival had overheard them and piped in, “I’d tell Arthur to dance naked.”

“Do you want to start another Purge,” Gwaine made a face, “a memory purge where we all gouge out our eyeballs?”

Merlin laughed, “I’d bury him up to his chin and force him to eat his vegetables.”

“I already eat my vegetables!” Arthur called from the front of the line. 

Giggling, Merlin leaned sideways in his saddle to catch sight of Arthur. Instead he saw Leon put his hand up, stopping their procession. A blonde-haired woman stood in the path before them, arms crossed. “Took you long enough, Sir Leon,” she said. 

He couldn’t hear Leon’s response, but the knight dismounted to walk next to her. Arthur followed his lead, and so Merlin leapt onto the ground, using the moment to cast his mind out for Iseldir again. 

“ Emrys,” came the reply, soft and unhurried. Around the thought Merlin could feel Iseldir’s slight distraction. 

“ Is this a good time?”

“When would be better?” Iseldir sounded amused. 

“Is there anything I can help explain before we get there?”

Iseldir hummed, and Merlin felt the subtle shifts in thought as Iseldir directed druids about the village. He tried to draw back from that level of connection but could not see how. Talking through minds had never been this deep, before. 

“What are the king’s feelings for the druids and magic, currently?”

Ahead of them, tents in greens and browns began to peak through openings in the trees, so Merlin thought quickly. “ He says he promised a young druid boy to heal the things he’d broken, and he’s coming to you to determine how to do that. He is still very suspicious of magic and magic-users.” 

They entered the druid campsite, and Iseldir’s attention faded from their conversation. There was no clear meeting area, and the ramshackle tents filled pockets of space between existing trees in an uneven, scattered sort of way.

“A stiff wind could blow this place over,” Gwaine muttered. 

The blonde woman led them to Iseldir. He waited with a cluster of other druids, some children peeking from between robes. “Welcome, King Arthur,” Iseldir said with a smile.

“Thank you for offering us your home,” Arthur replied, too stiff. “I’ve come to discuss some history between the druids and Camelot.”

“And I am eager to have that conversation with you these next few days,” Iseldir ruffled the hair of a nearby child, smiling down at the young face. “But first, rest. Meet my people, share our bread, hear our stories. We’d like to give you a short tour of the camp.”

Merlin watched Arthur as he took in the unassuming druids. Did his eyes linger on the children? 

Arthur’s glance flicked back to Merlin and the knights. Merlin gave a short nod, and Arthur turned back to Iseldir with a polite smile. “I accept your offer. Where should we put our things?”

Merlin gathered packs and horses, following the same blonde woman, Forridel, to a spot Iseldir designated. Wearing a quality leather apron and a faded red dress, she seemed familiar, but he couldn’t pinpoint how. She studied him too– gray eyes narrowed so subtle crows feet belied the onset of wrinkles. She must be nearer Leon’s age, which was what, late thirties? He couldn’t think where he would have met her.

Regardless, she moved off, and he left the thought for another time.

Rolling his sleeves, he returned to the horses. Arthur and the others were out of sight on their tour, and in their wake other druids had come out to peek at him while he worked. Some nodded in a way that felt too akin to a respectful bow, while others seemed only curious. 

When he’d finished brushing the horses and began feeding snacks to Arthur’s stallion, a young girl, maybe twelve or thirteen summers, joined him with a bundle of sticks in her arms. 

“Um, hello,” he started.

“They tell me you’re supposedly the great Emrys,” she said with a bitterness that surprised him.

He looked around, Arthur definitely wasn’t around. “I guess so. Druids call me that. They can usually tell on sight though…?” He left the question open ended. Couldn’t she tell just by looking? Mordred and the others had seemed able to.

“I don’t have magic,” she said. 

Hmm, he hadn’t known that was a requirement until now, but it made sense.

“And I’m glad I don’t. It’s blinding them to reality.”

He raised his eyebrows. “What’s reality?”

She looked with disdain from him, to the horses, to the saddlebags he’d arranged a short distance away where he’d planned to dig a small firepit. She tossed her sticks in that general direction.

“Reality is that you are a servant with no power in Camelot,” she hissed, “that you have left us to our fate over and over again, and you would rather hide in the shadows than stand up for what’s right.”

He rocked back on his heels. That stung. She could have pulled that straight from his own late night self-hatred sessions. 

“Because of you, I lost my best friend. I don’t know where he is now. We were children. You should have helped us. Instead you let Arthur kill everyone I loved.”

He winced. “I’m sorry.” 

He didn’t know how to be Emrys and he knew he was failing at it but how does one bring magic back to the land exactly? 

“I’m deeply sorry. I was young and stupid, fearful in Uther’s Camelot. You deserved someone better than me to protect you, but I promise I’m doing everything I can to fix things now.” 

Her eyes began to shine despite the anger mottling her face. She swiveled then, stomping away. 

Had he lied to her? He might have. He should be doing more. 

He pulled at his hair, aggravated with himself. 

Why wasn’t he doing more? 

Arthur had met Isedir before. Once– Merlin had been there, and Gwaine. 

Now, Gwaine and the other knights were fanned out behind him.  Merlin sat nearer, propped slightly forward with a quill and paper for notetaking. Iseldir, a thin man with medium-length hair prematurely gray, smiled warmly as he settled down cross-legged before Arthur.

It hadn’t been here in the Forest of Brecffa, but rather in the Forest of Gedref. His father had wanted him to kill these druids and seize the Cup of Life before it could fall into enemy hands. Instead, Iseldir had given him the Cup, and he’d promptly lost it to Cenred’s men. Should he bring that up, offer to accept repercussions for failing to keep it protected? It was gone now. They’d never found it after Morgause and Morgana had fled. It’d be the right thing to do.

He hadn’t really put it all together, that the Iseldir from the recent letters was the same man they’d met in the forest years back. This group of druids didn’t seem much larger than they had then, and were still worn, jumpy people.  The round-faced man who’d stood near to Iseldir then had grown more bald, and settled near him now. Iseldir’s partner, as Arthur understood it. Bleise. 

These men had seen Leon dying, and saved his life. Why? Leon had clearly been a knight of Camelot. The Cup had clearly been magical. They must have known things wouldn’t turn out well for them.

He wanted to ask. He wanted someone to tell him how to look these men in the eye– and ask their forgiveness for killing children. 

“Well, King Arthur,” Iseldir said after both groups had settled, and Arthur had stared for a hair too long. “What do you think of the village?”

Village? With the tents and grab-and-go bundles it seemed more like a camp caught mid-journey. Though he’d seen teachers, children, and tradespeople in the small twenty-to-thirty person clan, all gawking at the knights before returning to their work, wary. He needed to prove he wanted peace. “You seem like a close-knit community who balance each other’s strengths well. Thank you for your trust.”

“We were very nervous when your friend Leon first came to us, but we are more intrigued at what peace between our peoples may look like.” 

“I also wish to come to an agreement,” the core of which would come down to magic. But he’d need smaller, easier wins first. “There has been much death and terror over the course of my life. Sorcerers have killed citizens, and knights have killed druids. But I no longer believe every druid is a sorcerer bent on harming Camelot. There are… children here.”

Iseldir had a slouch to his posture, and wore ragged clothes and weary wrinkles. But he did not fidget or let his gaze drift. A calm surety glowed from him, nearly intimidating but for his kind eyes. “May I give you a brief description of our beliefs?”

“Please.”

“The core value of the druid peoples is balance. We choose to see Albion and its creatures as partners we live beside, borrow from, and give back to. We strive for harmony between the individual and the tribe, the tribe and the land, and the land and the… well.” Iseldir paused. “Some clans considered the magic and fae of this world an element worthy of harmony, but that gained us a reputation of mysticism.”

For the ways Iseldir exuded warmth, Bleise was sharp. “Which became reputations as enclaves of sorcerers, and soon, power-seeking manipulators.”

Iseldir put a hand on Bleise’s knee. “Perhaps it was true for some. But for this clan, for the druids that remain, we seek only harmony.”

Harmony. Arthur bowed his head to think, listening to leaves rustling and feeling for the comfort the knights behind him gave. They were his Round Table, those whose opinions he valued and wanted to live in harmony with. Harmony, he understood. “I wish for harmony with Camelot’s citizens. I strive to offer protection from hunger, crime, and…” enemy sorcerers, countries, fae… “those who may wish to harm Camelot as a whole.”

Leon spoke up, “In return citizens seek to follow our laws and pay yearly taxes.”

“And in the case of the merchants guild, represent themselves in the king’s council.”

So, would that be enough? The laws meant no magic. Citizenry meant druids could travel freely, trade in Camelot’s markets, and seek the crown’s protection. 

Bleise and Iseldir exchanged a long look.

Safety, security, and the chance to build a life he’d stolen from that shrine-soaked druid boy. 

Knowing it paltry he offered it now, in exchange for his crimes.

Over the long hours of the afternoon he, Leon, Bleise, and Iseldir discussed the finer points of citizenry, taxes, land ownership, and guilds. He’d heard Gwaine snoring at least twice.

Arthur would have liked to come up with some small agreements at least, but attempts ended with a drawn out exhaustion. Iseldir spoke obliquely, trying to lead Arthur to a decision that completely mystified him. Bleise wanted some sort of independence or power for the druids. But both men were eager for acceptance and peace, and that had kept the four of them going in circles. 

After dinner Arthur had made excuses to curl up in his bedroll, but as the night lengthened his thoughts buzzing kept him awake long after the others began to snore. Eventually, he gave up and went for a walk.

He thought he’d head for the nearby stream and splash some water on his face, but as he approached he heard two voices murmuring. The male voice he quickly recognized as Bleise, but the second was a younger, feminine pitch. Arthur had to edge closer, guilty, to overhear clearly.

"I thought you were like me; I thought he had not brainwashed you yet with his golden prophecies," the girl snarled.

Bleise responded firmly, "I still have many questions, but I will make no assumptions until I have proof."

"I know what you will do. You will eat at their fancy table and accept their silken gifts paid for by our blood!" 

“Iseldir and my way has always been for education. Say a tapestry depicting our–”

"You will be taken in, you will be a slave to false hope, and he will kill us all."

"Child,” Bleise sighed, “that is only one future out of many, and I do not put much stock in prophecy."

"Iseldir is blinded by it," she hissed. "But their hounds will come, as they always have."

“Being able to represent ourselves will prevent that.”

“You’ll be the first killed.” She huffed. “Mordred told me where he and Alvarr are camping. I’ll go to them if you fall for this farce. Watch me.”

“It’s not safe, Kara.”

“Safer than here, with Camelot breathing down our necks.”

The girl stomped toward Arthur, faltering when she saw him. She was young, pale-skinned with deep brown hair. She’d mentioned Mordred and looked a little like him– could it be a sister? She recovered quickly, nose in the air, brushing past him. 

About twenty paces away Bleise stood by the stream’s bank, a silhouette in the dark. Bleise and he listened to Kara stomp off through the trees while the pall of an awkward silence held them. 

Should he assure Bleise this wasn’t some ploy? He wasn’t altogether sure he wouldn’t ever come down on druids. Today they’d only edged around the laws against magic and the druids association with it. It had been implied they wouldn’t touch it, but if that changed…. 

Arthur winced, deciding an apology, at least, was necessary. “Sorry for eavesdropping. I hadn’t meant–”

“You don’t trust us.”

That was a reasonable conclusion after catching Arthur sneaking up on him, one Arthur would have difficulty refuting. 

“Have many magic users shown you false-faces?”

Dragoon came to mind first– the old man who’d claimed he’d save Uther only to kill him. And Morgause who’d shown him a false version of Ygraine, his mother. Morgause, who’d stolen Morgana. And Morgana. But there had also been Gaius, who’d put magic aside for good. He trusted Gaius. 

“And fae have only shown you years of danger.”

“Not quite.” 

Bleise appeared to study him, then he stepped through the stream. “Follow me.”

Arthur paused, noting that Bleise headed further away from the camp. Should he leave a clue for the others, if something happened? He decided to err with trust.

Moonlight bouncing through tree leaves gave the forest a diffuse glow, the brown of Bleise’s cloak rippling between thick trunks and verdant foliage as Arthur splashed after. The man avoided crunching footfalls, so Arthur slowed to match his care. Arthur wanted to ask where they were going. He didn’t.

And so eventually Bleise spoke his mind. “Fae have shown you kindness?”

Fae like the troll and the goblin had been selfish and short-sighted, and there had been those that attacked to kill like the dragon or bastet. But it had been Anhora, early on, that had convinced him of kindness. “I killed a unicorn once.”

Bleise stiffened, but didn’t jab.

“I’d done it thinking I’d prevent whatever danger it represented to Camelot. Instead, a curse fell on us where people starved, water turned to sand… we were nearly destroyed.”

"And this changed your mind on fae?”

“A fae gave me a chance to prove my regret, and make things right.”

Ahead of them moonlight appeared to condense, the silvery glow backlighting trees. “I admit,” Bleise said, “your train of thought has confused me.”

“They could have destroyed Camelot at any time. Or, they could have used my mistake to destroy Camelot. But they didn’t.” They’d given him a chance, and it was proof. Not all fae were working with sorcereress’ like Morgause. 

“They gave you a chance to prove your regret,” Bleise repeated as he mulled, “would it not be safer to kill the one who lay the curse?”

In the moment it always seemed safer– but that was why he’d killed the unicorn, and beheaded the King of Caerleon. Both had caused more danger and he hoped not to make that mistake a third time. “That fae wanted to be left alone, same as I want Camelot left alone.”

“Hm,” Bleise tugged at Arthur’s sleeve to slow them further. They practically crept now for the glow through the trees. What was it, a pond? “Iseldir and I, the clan we’ve gathered, are not new. We’ve wandered Albion for your entire life. We don’t seek to harm anyone.”

“You want to be left alone?” That would explain the hesitance for the citizenship Arthur had offered. 

Bleise shook his head no . “We want to be trusted. That’s why– look.”

A hundred moon-white flowers glimmered in a softly-shaped circle, waving as if caught in a tempest. As Bleise and he paused at their edge, the nearest of them swiveled, corkscrewing, while deepening to night-violet. In its center a bulbous eye glowed with a gold pit for a pupil. 

Arthur suppressed a shiver.

“These fae have traversed these forests longer than you’ve walked these paths. They live and die like any other animal of the wood. They do not seek to harm you.”

Petals rippled wildly, and a fae uprooted with a quiet pop. Caught on that otherworldly breeze it drifted, floating up and up, merging into a sky of twinkling stars. As Arthur gazed, throat exposed, more followed to float near his head. Dozens of little golden eyes stared at him.

This time, he could not suppress his flinch.

They caught an updraft, floating back towards their clearing to swirl in a slow-moving cyclone. Arthur caught Bleise watching him and felt immediately guilty. 

“I did not expect you to trust them entirely. How could you? The only method I have to prove they don’t carry poison is to ask you to look closely.”

Their beauty was unmistakable, and they had seemed delicate as a dandelion. “They do seem harmless.”

“A wary trust is understandable.” Bleise’s gaze sharpened. “But you are the king, so that should be enough. Will you take them with you back to market?”

“What?”

“Will you plant them in your flowerboxes, ask your villagers to walk by them daily, and expect the same wary trust from them?”

Arthur stared, flummoxed. 

Bleise wanted him to capture these, take them back…? No, that didn’t make any sense. “You’re saying… the fae currently hold trust made from you’ve-told-me-so and they-haven’t-harmed-me-yet. That may be enough for now but if I took them back to Camelot… I see. My wary trust isn’t enough to keep druids safe. A modified law isn’t enough to keep druids safe.”

Left alone, someone’s distrust– maybe even the compounding of his own alongside others leading Camelot– could cause the druid’s destruction. Unless… 

Bleise moved so he stood between Arthur and the flowers, angling into a defensive posture.

…Unless someone like Bleise was there to protect them. 

The druids didn’t need citizenry, market stalls, or a village. They needed a voice.

Dawn woke Merlin, and as he sat up to stretch stiff joints, he noticed he wasn’t the first one up.

Arthur sat cross-legged before the ashy remains of their fire, blonde hair whispering softly in the still air. Their eyes connected, and Merlin slipped out of bed to join him. 

“What’s bothering you?” he asked as he folded into a sitting position. 

Arthur glanced around the sleeping camp. “A lot of things. Some embarrassing things.”

Their voices hushed and Merlin joked, “We both know I’m well past pretending I won’t judge you; you may as well say it.”

Arthur gave him a sour look. “Did you expect this? A camp like this?”

Merlin answered carefully, “Haven’t you seen more druid camps than I have?”

“I meant,” he frowned, “a normal camp?” Arthur flushed after some expression appeared on Merlin’s face. Merlin worked quickly to hide whatever he’d shown. 

“Normal like… no magic?”

“I guess. I expected to see more obvious signs of people hiding it. I expected… I don’t know. Not people just doing normal chores like normal villagers. More obvious warriors and threats, maybe. Most people aren’t… they aren’t much older than us.”

Yes, well, druids hadn’t sprouted from the ground fully formed while Uther held his weekly burnings. 

He blinked, surprised at himself. Reeled a little, trying to find something he’d normally say.

“I sound foolish, I know,” Arthur continued, “I killed many. Though most were militant or had gone against Camelot in some way….” 

Arthur trailed off, hunching over on himself. Merlin doubted many had been that militant, but he also understood Arthur needed to believe that. 

Still unsure what to say, he put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. He should focus on turning Arthur’s mind to trust. “Iseldir’s clan doesn’t seem militant.”

“Merlin,” Arthur whispered, quieter than before, “do you remember when I led men against that druid clan that kidnapped Morgana?”

How could he forget? It had been his fault that Morgana had known where to find them, and his fault when she wouldn’t return, and his fault Mordred had gotten away and Morgana had begun to hate Camelot even more. “Yes, of course,” he said. 

“She yelled at me after, when no one else was around. Told me how they’d been kind people and I’d been wrong to do it. That I was the worst of my father. She said a lot of hateful things. I was so stupid, Merlin. I didn’t listen to her.” 

“You’re a good man, Arthur–”

“I mean, ” Arthur emphasized, “I treated her like the typical stubborn Morgana after a hopeless cause, thinking she would get over it eventually as long as I told her so snidely enough. I was so sure I was right. Maybe she’d just needed to feel heard, a little….”

Did Arthur… blame himself?

“It’s not your fault,” Merlin said. Fates, if anything it was his own fault. “She turned against Camelot on her own. You couldn’t have prevented it.”

Arthur gave him a half-hearted smile, mostly forced and wry, and removed Merlin’s hand from his shoulder. He turned his gaze about the camp, voice strengthening, “Well, I shouldn’t be trusted for the thoughts I fall into before I’m fully awake. I did have something more practical I needed to speak to you of.”

Merlin straightened, “Yes?”

“You’re awkward around the druids, and they’re awkward around you. For one thing, don’t ruin this for us.”

Uh, what? 

“For two, I don’t think they like the idea of servants. They don’t seem to have any. I need you to stop messing around with the chores today and mingle around the camp. Find out what you can about them.”

How could Arthur be so insightful and oblivious in such short order? “Finally you’re giving me worthy tasks at least partially equivalent to my talents.”

Arthur groaned. “Please try to avoid tripping over yourself.”

Merlin, nose in his etched notes, choked about five sentences into Arthur’s opening speech. 

Yesterday’s crowd had regrouped for today’s discussions, and Merlin watched eyebrows raise all throughout the other knights. Leon recovered first, whispering in Arthur’s ear as Arthur nodded thoughtfully. 

“A seat on the king’s council,” Arthur repeated, “for one of you. If peace between our peoples goes well for at least one year, we can discuss taking it further. For example, this village could become your estate.”

“You could become the noble family presiding over a section of forest and any who live there,” Leon explained.

Bleise and Iseldir accepted, discussing further. At least, Merlin assumed that happened. He spent swaths of conversation wondering what he'd missed in the week he'd been in Ealdor, or if Arthur had begun sharing his deepest thoughts with Guinevere instead of him for longer than he'd assumed. That was, of course, fine. Expected, even. Better, actually, considering all of this was happening only a few weeks after her crowning.

Iseldir smiling at him, amused, as the majority of the group broke apart snapped Merlin back into focus. Far over Iseldir’s shoulder Arthur made a gesture meaning don’t be weird! before returning to a private discussion with Leon. Prat.

“Should I call you Sir Iseldir?”

Iseldir's smile twitched. “Perhaps not. Bleise and I will speak on it, but I will push him to take the position instead of I. I’m old. This is my forest, and these are my people. I don’t want to be in court. Bleise has got the mind for it.”

Merlin grinned up at the sky. “A druid on the king’s council. I never thought I’d see it.”

“I would have hoped you’d have believed, if no one else, Emrys.”

Merlin cringed– r ight, prophecy. Still, Arthur seemed to be taking the right steps without his pushing. “That name– Emrys,” how did one say they weren’t sure how to complete their own destiny? “I’ve heard it means I’m meant to bring magic back to Camelot. But how did you know, for sure, I was Emrys?”

“Hm,” Iseldir mused. “I suppose I didn’t.”

Merlin frowned. Iseldir wasn’t the first to use the title with him. Other druids had, and Kilgharrah. “A girl insinuated it had to do with having magic?”

“To us with magic your power is obvious, and you’re a clear positive influence on a king. That’s all I’d be able to get Bleise to admit to,” Iseldir chuckled into a thoughtful pause, running a hand over his forearm. “Though sometimes I almost feel like….” 

Merlin waited, confused, as Iseldir moved his sleeve back to reveal a tattooed Triskelion. He pressed fingers to it, frowning. “What?” Merlin said.

Iseldir shook his head, then laughed. “Bleise would call me a fool, but I believe She’s calling you. I believe that's why you deserve the title. I feel She speaks to me.”

“She?”

“The Goddess.”

Merlin stared at the Triskelion on Iseldir’s arm as the man covered it again. Confused, wary, he chose to disregard the idea a Goddess was out there trying to speak to anyone. He thought instead about the strange fae, and the doorway into a realm of magic through the eye of a Triskelion. 

He tried to explain that to Iseldir, the way he’d seen magic briefly as patterns made of gold. Iseldir’s eyebrows had inched upwards, which made Merlin’s heart sink. Merlin ended, embarrassed, with: “Morgana ripped through a Veil into the Spirit Realm, and Lancelot had to pass through to close it. I thought it may have been something similar.”

“I would guess the same,” Iseldir said. “While I’ve never laid eyes on it myself, or the Spirit Realm for that matter, there are many reasons to believe both exist. The Cup of Life is said to have a direct connection to the Triple Goddess, but perhaps more realistically that means a connection to a magic realm.”

“Does it have a Triskelion on it?” 

“No,” Iseldir said, patting the ground at his side. “No runes at all in fact, and you should know that we’ve buried it six feet beneath us.” 

They’d buried the Cup of Life? Merlin swallowed. Well, when he’d secreted it back to Iseldir for safekeeping he should have expected safekeeping. He had a flash of some future version of himself digging it up in the dark of night surrounded by dead bodies, and tried to shake off the disquieting thought. “Have you heard stories of any other runes acting strange?”

Merlin frowned down at his sleeve, Morgana’s runes long since memorized and removed. Had it been chance that these runes and his own mindlessly drawn Triskelion had spurred that fae to appear? 

Oh… no that was preposterous. Or could it be…? 

What if she'd been sucked into the Magic Realm? 

That would explain why she'd seemed to disappear.

No, that was silly. She was probably with a false ally- Odin felt likely. Though where were the rumors that would follow the hem of a powerful sorceress of royal blood? Her sneakiness worried him.

"Emrys, is something else bothering you?"

Merlin jerked upwards, "I don't suppose you've heard rumor of Morgana?"

"Ah, I can't say that I have," Iseldir stood. “I also haven’t heard of other runes ‘acting strange’, but perhaps we can take a look at the Cup, and it will provide you a clue.”

Iseldir led Merlin through patchwork campsites until they approached a medium-sized tent made of heavy cloth and a few sturdy walking sticks. As Merlin passed through the entrance sound damped in a flip so quick his ears popped. “A spell?”

“For silence,” Iseldir explained. Ooh, that could be useful.

A bed had been rolled to the side, and sets of clothes for both he and Bleise sat folded in the corners. So they’d buried the Cup here, somewhere? Did he have some sort of digging spell? Iseldir crawled for the back of the tent, moving aside a large cooking stone to reveal a man-sized hole. 

Oh.

“Follow me,” Iseldir said. 

A wooden ladder led into the dark, and they climbed through a coffin-like tunnel of dirt for a full body-length before coming out into damp air. The eyes of a dozen druids, mostly children, stared back at him.

"Hello," Merlin ventured.

“If talks were to go badly, I have arranged for a sister tribe in Essetir to accept them.”

In this underground world further tents had been built, and abandoned upon the ground were many stone pickaxes and shovels. The people, who must have been digging before the arrival of Arthur and his knights, sat patiently on the ground in deadly silence.

He had to stoop to prevent his head from brushing the dirt ceiling. Piles of dirt and stone had been spaced evenly in the squat cave, and the flicker of magic lights danced from a few lone sconces.

“The Cup of Life is hidden here,” Iseldir caught the eye of a young boy. “Would you dig it out for us please? And if you remember the spell for lifting, this is a good chance to practice.”

"You are all incredible." They'd probably been digging like mad if they'd only started since Leon came by with Arthur's first entreaty. 

A young girl pointed at the dirt wall, “I’ve been turning it to rock!” 

“Oh?” He could see rough handprints of stone scattered on the nearby packed soil. “I used to do something similar, but in reverse, when tilling the fields in Ealdor. How do you do it?”

She grinned, eager, explaining how she coated her hands in magic and imagined herself making snowballs. 

He chuckled with her, “Brilliant! When I’m trying out a new spell, I have to imagine how it works too.” The girl beamed from him back to a parent, and Merlin caught Iseldir’s eye. “Would you mind if I tried to help?”

“Please,” Isedir said. 

“Remember,” the girl said, scrunching her hands, “like a snowball!”

Merlin closed his eyes, the warmth of his magic taking his full focus. He pushed, imagining it coating his entire body, then, experimenting, pushed again. Careful, feeling ripples as the magic passed over people, he fed the spell until it coated the walls and draped over the gathered piles of dirt and stone. 

He plucked with his fingers, and dirt compacted under his touch. 

He couldn’t help the grin that blew across face. That had been almost easy. He’d never been allowed to use his magic in this way in Ealdor, and certainly not in Camelot, but he’d wondered how far he could have gone given the chance. Why not take this chance?

Druids didn’t deserve to hide in dank caves, they deserved seats on the king’s council. They deserved sculpted architecture and shimmering alcoves patterned with leaves lit in an autumn glow. They deserved pillars not piles of dirt, pillars that twisted like ivy towards a ceiling of sweeping arches.

They deserved castles! And freedom! And… beads of magic that twinkled like starlight and a floor etched with the swirls of a river in motion–

Sense memories overwhelmed him– the heady scent of a pollinating flower, the rustling breeze over stalks of wheat—and as he drifted his magic bled shifting, shaping the earth. In those moments he understood his mother whispering I can feel the roots, the bugs, the... smaller things.

Slowly, he came back. 

And his eyes opened to a cathedral of stone.

The men and women of that hidden chamber brushed their hands over carved whorls. At the far end a boy held the golden Cup of Life before a statuesque pedestal, mouth agape. And at Merlin’s side the young girl oohed, “ Mama, look .”

She pressed her palms to where the wall had grown around her little handprints. 

Iseldir spoke in a voice full of awe and reverence, a sentiment Merlin was wholly unprepared for. "You are a wonder, Emrys."

So it was in that way, quite without realizing, Merlin turned a modest tunnel into the Hall of Brecffa.

Arthur felt the second day of talks went very well, especially as compared to the first. 

Druids could travel freely throughout Camelot, but build settlements only in land owned only by the crown and with the crowns permission. Druids could trade in Camelot’s markets, but trade in magical objects would remain expressly forbidden. There was more besides, but Bleise planned to come to Camelot during the Tournament to discuss further.

As they all stood around shaking hands, Iseldir’s grip lingered. “Would you join me in some communal storytelling shortly?”

Storytelling? He’d never done much of that, but he’d given plenty of speeches.

“I’d be honored,” he said to Iseldir’s answering smile. When Iseldir moved off, Arthur caught Merlin grinning at him. “What?”

“I’m proud of you.”

“What are you, my mother?” Proud of me, Arthur shook his head.

“You kept your promise to that shrine boy. I’m glad.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, there’s lots more to be done.”

Arthur stumbled under Gwaine’s sudden weight, as his arms swung around both he and Merlin’s shoulders. “First round is on me!”

“Round, what round? Do you see a tavern around here?” Arthur snapped.

“I’m thinking of opening one. I’ll call it,” Gwaine made a banner with his hands. “Treehaven!”

“You can do better,” Merlin remarked.

“Druid Brewed? Dru Brews?”

“Get off of me,” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Gwaine glomped back towards Percival. “Arthur agrees, druids can read minds!”

Arthur sighed, "He's on training duty for the squires when we get back, mark that, Merlin."

"Evil," Merlin looped closer, linking an arm with his like a schoolchild. "I've got a bowl of stew waiting for you."

"Iseldir wants me to tell a story."

"Chew and swallow before speaking, then."

"That depends on how bad your food is, doesn’t it?” Getting a chuckle out of Merlin he went on, "I meant, what do you think that's about? What story should I tell?"

“I tend to enjoy the troll one most.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, letting Merlin lead him to a stew pot where they filled bowls and continued trying to one-up each other. He let Merlin win, of course, like he usually did.

Eventually wrangling the knights they went as a group to join Iseldir and Bleise’s firepit. 

While the rest of the druid clan trickled over Iseldir leaned over to explain, “On special occasions, this clan shares in a time we call Memorate. We share stories of our history so that it lives on in future generations.”

Arthur nodded, wondering just what he’d possibly be able to tell about druid history that wouldn’t be condemning.

“Bleise, would you like to pick tonight’s theme?”

Bleise looked about, reading the faces of the druids that joined them. “A topic on everyone’s minds is prophecy. Legend.” 

“Ah,” Iseldir mused, folding his hands together and tapping his knuckles. Behind him, druids trickled closer, leaning in. Their small fire crackled and spit sparks. “Perhaps a story on Emrys?” 

Merlin slunk away from the fire, folding himself in the far back.

“With our king here perhaps a royal story is more on theme. We have not heard the prophecy of the Once and Future King in a long while. Where shall I begin?” Iseldir looked to the few children in the audience but met silence. “A strange beginning then. My beginning.

“I was born to a woman in a wooden house in a clan at peace," Iseldir began. He had a slow way of speaking, as if tasting each sentence as he revealed them. "We lived off of the land and offered our bounties to the fae of the forest, and I was far too old to be ignorant to the wider world when the wider world came knocking. 

“In those days of fear, days we now call the Purge, our clan split in half, as many others did. Some joined the war, others fled. In that time when bonds were broken and brother abandoned brother, whispers began again of the Once and Future King. They are a story generations old with no true origin, but in our darkest years whispers reverberated. Why wouldn’t they? They tell the story of a savior.

“I’ve been partial to the one I heard as a child– friends had whispered about the dead body of an old, blind woman that sat upon her pyre and mouthed the words: 

There will come a time, the legend goes, where all seems lost. 

Born, our leader is, from darkness.

In red they soak as justice they reap.

On bones they build an age of gold! 

And sleep becomes their end, to rise again when they are needed once more.”

Iseldir leaned back with a half smile curled at Arthur. What a dark story, a ghost king would lead an army through a bloody war? 

“There are many interpretations of that legend,” Bleise said. “For one thing, there’s no clear proof the ages of loss and gold are meant to be against and for the druids. Also, is gold meant to be literal– coinage and riches?”

“And whose ‘bones’ are those?” Kara said from the back. Her bright blue eyes glared at Arthur. “Perhaps the leader is meant to strike down Camelot.”

An awkward pall came over the crowd, and Bleise turned and firmly said, “Kara, not tonight.”

The girl stood up with a huff, walking away.

“Forgive her,” Iseldir said, unruffled and quiet. "Her family is dead."

Arthur adjusted how he sat, moving awkwardly. “I’m sorry.” 

“What does that legend mean to you, King Arthur?” Iseldir asked, pushing to change the subject. 

He didn’t want to mention his first theory. “Well, I hope war isn’t inevitable. Maybe the bones could mean… the bones of who came before? Like how we ‘stand on the shoulders’ of our predecessors?”

“I very much like that interpretation,” Iseldir said.

“How do you interpret it?” Merlin asked, hesitant.

Iseldir leaned forward, “I believe the leader has risen, and I choose to believe true justice is freedom, and peace, for all the peoples of Albion! I say we should all strive to be that leader. Perhaps a little of that leader is in you, King Arthur.” Iseldir’s eyes glanced down to the sword Arthur carried at his hip, the sheath of which was digging into the dirt. “It is a new sword, I hear. One wreathed in legend?”

"Ah, yes," Arthur puzzled at the interpretation Iseldir had offered him. He wore Camelot red. He stood in the ashes of druids he’d burned, was prince over their bones, and he’d come here, trying to bring justice to the druid peoples. 

Arthur let himself be dragged into his own story from a few months back, the one Merlin had shared about an original king, a stone, and a sword left waiting.

And while he spoke, he wondered. 

Say he was partly that leader of prophecy... what was the age of gold he worked towards?

Superhero sung by Johnny Hollow

Chapter Text

Ch. 5 Madame Tussaud's Creatures and Curses

Late June

"Beautiful day for a menagerie," Gaius said to Merlin, who hummed in delight. In Merlin's mind, these were the sorts of days that shouldn't be wasted indoors. There was a perfect balance of warmth of the sun and coolness on the breeze, and a bright blue sky with fluffy clouds. 

"I hope Arthur decides to spend the whole day here," Merlin replied. 

Gaius and Merlin waited on the royal couple a short walk out of the castle’s walls, where a crowd gathered for entrance into the menagerie hidden somewhere in the woods. A wooden sign marked where to wait, and periodically a crew member came out to gather a group before leading them further in.

It lent an air of mystery and wonder which peaked Merlin's interest and clearly had the villagers excited. "What do you think they have to show?" 

"I've heard rumor they have fae," Gaius said, "I worry how Arthur will react to magic within his borders."

"He already knows! It’s a test, he said, to get the main town ready for druids showing up to market. And it’ll be a good learning opportunity for crowds attending the Tournament next week."

He and Gaius stepped out of the way of a group of merchant families, kids racing each other to the menagerie entrance. They exchanged some smiles in greeting.

"That's optimistic," Gaius said once they were alone again, "I haven't seen this hope from you in a long while."

"A year under Agravaine threw me off," Merlin said with a tinge of bitterness. He shook it off with intention. Today was a beautiful day and he wasn't going to let thoughts of Agravaine ruin it. "Bleise showed Arthur fae, and Arthur still brokered a treaty with the druids. Plus I have a clue to where Morgana might be. Things are looking up."

"I haven't seen any druids around," Gaius said. "Did Arthur say when it would go into effect?"

Merlin had gone through the same feelings, expecting the sun to fail to rise or riots in the streets. So far, nothing had changed. "Iseldir's clan is likely just being careful. Things will pick up after the Tournament, probably." 

"Scared, Merlin?" Gwaine's voice called from a distance away, and he and Gaius turned to see Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan approaching in plainclothes. 

"Terrified," Merlin said with a grin, "will you protect me, big, strong knight?"

"I'm not a knight today, and don't let Leon know it," Gwaine joked. 

Percival and Elyan moved on to the wooden sign, and Gwaine ran a hand through his shiny hair while looking about at the growing crowd. Word had clearly gotten around. "If you stand much longer there'll be a line."

"I was just heading out," Gaius said. "Just keeping Merlin company."

Huh, he'd expected Gaius to want to see what Arthur's reaction was like, and to help offer explanations on the fae. "You don't want to see the menagerie?"

"Later," Gaius said. "I need to rest my knees for a spell."

Gaius moved off, and Gwaine drew Merlin to the entrance. "Maybe we should have brought our swords," Elyan was saying. 

"It's a little late for practice now, Champion," Percival needled. 

"I'll take up the duty if you're getting cold feet," Gwaine deadpanned. 

Elyan groaned, "When are you two going to let this go?"

"Never," Percival said. 

Poor Elyan. It really was the right choice for the new queen to pick her brother to represent Camelot, since Arthur wasn't competing for once. "You'll do great." Merlin gave him two big thumbs up and a cheesy grin. 

"Thanks, Merlin," Elyan smiled. 

Gwaine whistled lowly, and Merlin tracked his eyes to a brown-skinned man and woman heading towards them out of the woods. "I found who I'd rather be swordfighting."

"That is the worst euphemism I've ever heard," Percival said. 

The two Amatans approached, both tall, lean, and with gracefully sharp bone structures. Thick dark eyelashes framed almond shaped eyes, and both braided long hair so it tied tightly at the base of their head in a long tail. Most notably they both wore a mix of dark leather and fitted cloth trousers- the attire of the menagerie guides. 

"Gorgeous," Gwaine said, flashing his most flirtatious smile. "When is your shift over? It'd be my honor to give you a tour of Camelot this evening."

"That's my twin sister you're talking to," the man said. 

"Offer stands for you too," Gwaine said, smiling wider.

"And that's my twin brother you're talking to," the woman crossed her arms and smirked. 

Percival chortled, "Zero for two," to which Gwaine only shrugged and laughed. 

"I'm just waiting on the king and queen," Merlin said, "but you can take these three on if you want."

The man gave a performer's bow. "You will accompany me then, men. I am Zuhair and will be your guide through the fantastic mysteries we have brought you today. I ask only two things from you. One, what you see today must remain secret. We don't want to ruin the surprise for others, now do we?"

Zuhair and the knights faded into the forest, and Merlin peaked after them. From the wooden sign he stood at a trail of yellow ribbons hung between tree trunks. They marked a circuitous path, and he couldn’t see what lay beyond the first bend.

From further in he heard a soft oooh from a crowd.

How many fae were there? He heard birds chirping, and saw multiple squirrels skitter by. Insects buzzed, and to Merlin the forest felt more alive than ever. Was it the fae’s influence? 

Had they opened a clearing up further in, or was the tour through a winding maze in the woods? Guides came back up along this path, but no Camelotians. Did that mean an exit further in, or time to mill about on your own? 

How had they transported fae and skirted the often deadly laws against magic? The woman, Zara, only looked at him amused when he asked.

More groups of citizens came and went with fresh guides as Merlin waited, and Merlin was nearly hopping with impatience when Arthur and Gwen finally appeared. Gwen was dressed elegantly in dark green and sturdy boots, a wire-thin crown threaded into her short hair. Arthur looked his usual prattish and chainmail-laden self. 

Zara bowed, less performative than her brother, and provided them one rule: don't touch the cages. 

"I admit, I'm excited," Gwen whispered. 

Sun hung through the leaves, dappling the ground at their feet as they wove through the ribboned pathways. For being only a random chunk of forest, the ground looked already well traveled from visitors. 

"In our travels we have met many who had come upon mysterious objects and legends,” Zara began as she steered them, “and for the safety of all we traded for these items and tracked down those legends," Zara stopped at a bend in the path, gesturing at an opening up ahead. "You may see things that shock you, but you will be perfectly safe as long as you follow my direction. Come."

The tightly snaking path opened in front of them, filled with people bent around glass boxes. He could see Gwaine and the others not too far off.

"These are magic items," Arthur said, partly in realization. Merlin thought Arthur was hiding either a disdain or protectiveness in an effort to be polite. He had drawn Gwen a half step closer. 

"Camelot and its allies famously keep magical items and fae carefully under lock and key," Zara said. "I hope you agree we have taken similar measures."

Merlin couldn't read her. Was she for or against that practice? 

They approached the first box, nearly four feet wide and twice as tall. Thick glass panels soldered with a silvery metal held a slippery snakeskin scarf draped over dead branches planted to look like a tree. A layer of dirt and weeds covered its base, and it had a lid at its top, padlocked. "If this is the proper way to seal up magical items, we may need to upgrade the vault," Arthur whispered to Gwen.

Merlin sighed as Zara flourished a hand toward the scarf. "What begets a curse?"

"Magic," Arthur said, while Gwen guessed, "Dark magic."

A curse was an inverse of magic, something endlessly hungry. It didn't take any special kind of magic to create, just vicious intent. The poppet he'd placed under Morgana's bed still made his stomach churn. 

He stretched his magic out, and when it touched the scarf the thing jolted, ripping his spell away from him. He rocked back on his heels, a touch disoriented. 

Zara had been waiting for him to guess, he realized. "Dark magic," he parroted. 

"I've always believed it takes a strong emotion as well. This scarf was once a gift, poisoned with jealousy, bitterness, and rage over a cheating husband and faithless friend." Zara walked behind the box where a small step stool had hidden. As she climbed the scarf began to twitch, one of its ends twisting slightly to follow her body. "It knows only one thing– how to wring the life out of its victims."

In a swift movement she released the lid and plunged her arm within. The scarf snapped upwards– a lunging snake– coiling tightly around her arm and beginning to squeeze. 

"Oh!" Gwen yelped. 

"Its original targets are dead, but the scarf lives on. I find that an interesting comment on revenge and the satisfaction it lacks." 

Her other hand worked at something on her purpling forearm, and a leather cuff she'd been wearing snapped open. The scarf stretched and with a practiced flick, she flung the cursed object away and resealed the lid. 

Zara folded her arms lazily over the top of the box as beneath her the scarf returned to its perch on the branch. "The curse of the snakeskin scarf. How do you fare? It is only the first of many." 

"I think I should be careful of what sort of gifts I receive!" Gwen laughed. "My goodness, that was terrifying. Is your arm alright?"

Zara half-shrugged. “Like a massage,” she climbed back to ground level while Gwen asked how they’d deal with an emergency– if one of their cursed objects got loose. “Destroying the object always breaks the curse. I hear Camelot favored fire for the task.”

He really could not read her. She sent a look towards Arthur that either could have been a respectful deferment to his expertise, or a challenge to his practices. Should he be worried for Arthur’s safety?

"This next object caused terror through the countryside," Zara continued, leading them on. “Seven foot tall and frozen in time, this wheat filled scarecrow was not always dead-eyed….”

Gwaine followed Zuhair away from the cursed objects, chafing at somehow losing the game of chicken over touching the cursed coin. Stupid Percival. 

“Were any of you here when the golden dragon razed Camelot?” Zuhair asked, walking backwards. 

“Missed it, but heard all the tales,” Gwaine said, “fifty foot long, teeth made of iron, and breath hot as a forge.” 

“I heard arrows bounced off of its flesh like arrows on stone,” Elyan said. “I can’t believe Leon and Arthur fought the thing.”

“Why do you ask?” Percival quirked a brow. 

“I hear it flew away after being injured,” Zuhair shrugged, flipping back to face forward as he led them through their second winding path through the forest. 

“It never came back,” Gwaine said. “It likely died from its injuries. Were you looking to track it down?”

Zuhair paused, then said dramatically, “Most have never seen a dragon. Imagine the showpiece even just its scales could be.”

Meow.

Gwaine blinked, looking down at a cat made of black ink. Light sunk into its voidlike fur and it ‘looked’ at him with a dark eyeless mass for a face. Alarmed, he reached for a sword he hadn’t brought. 

“Kludde!” Zuhair said fiercely, and the cat winked away. Gwaine jerked, startled. A little creature appeared on Zuhair’s shoulder, hopping closer to his neck to hide most of its face in his hair. The thing was so black Gwaine's eyes couldn’t catch the rise and fall of its shape– it seemed to soak in light. 

A fae, here, so blatantly! 

Zuhair reached up with a hand, and the fuzzy creature became a bird that hopped onto his forefinger. “Shoo, Kludde. Back to the wagons.” The bird chirped, disappearing. “Well, the surprise is ruined. Or perhaps your appetite has been whet– because Kludde is only the first of the wondrous creatures that await you– here!”

They turned a corner and Gwaine gaped. He’d heard rumors but hadn’t imagined…. He shared a glance with Percival and Elyan, then looked back over his shoulder where he'd last seen Arthur. How would Arthur react?

To his left a glass tank held a whole ecosystem of animals and plants, and as he watched, the water rose into bubbles that formed chirping crickets or croaking frogs. A village of mushrooms sung in harmony as a young boy rained water down on their cage, and a multi-headed snake reared up and hissed at those that passed it. And that was only the cages just in front of them. 

“Whoa,” Elyan said, just as Gwaine heard Arthur’s voice say, “What are these?”

Arthur, Gwen and Merlin had caught up, and Arthur was pointing at a cage of flowers. “Young adults,” the woman said. “Just about ready to take advantage of spring.”

Gwaine wandered over, while Zuhair launched into a story about one of the fae that Percival and Elyan stayed to hear. “I should have known you’d be drawn to the flowers, princess.” 

Zara looked at him with shock, and Gwaine realized he’d likely just blown his cover as a regular ol’ peasant from the village. Oh well. 

Arthur looked at him with exasperation. “I saw these with Bleise, but they flew.”

Gwaine looked closer at the white buds, noting that each of the petals seemed to flap in a non-existent breeze, and as they opened and closed he spied small eyes in their centers. Urgh. Creepy. 

“When they are ready to germinate, they break away from their stems and fly,” Zara said. “A rare sight in this age, you are lucky.”

“What is that?” Merlin whispered. 

Gwaine looked to Merlin, followed his gaze to a cage further on. 

“You have an eye for the strange ones,” Zara said. “That is an Eancanah. Has anyone heard the name?”

They all shook their heads, and Zara continued, “It was a creature commonly used in the war. Through a mouth filled with hundreds of teeth it latches onto the faces of its prey and sucks the magic from their being.”

Long, amorphous, and eyeless, a black slug awaited them mouth flaring to reveal thin, needle teeth. Creepy little thing, although– 

In the space between blinks it threw itself at the glass, rattling its prison. 

Gwaine widened his stance before Gwen, instinctively playing off of Arthur’s twist into a more balanced position. The slug flung itself again and again, and a cold spike of alarm pierced Gwaine’s stomach when he heard a loud pop from the cage. 

Zara moved between them and the creature, placing a hand on one of the corners. “Some of the solder snapped, but it will hold. We should go before we agitate it further.”

“Right,” Merlin agreed, voice shaky. 

And at first, Gwaine’s focus on keeping the king and queen safe distracted him from that note. 

As a group they moved on, joining Percival and Elyan and making their way through the other fae. 

He didn’t consider himself much of a deep thinker when surrounded by other people, that was Percival’s game, but the mystery behind the kerchief made thoughts on Merlin seem to wiggle in his brain longer. 

They were nearly through with the exhibit when the strangeness of the encounter finally shaped into words.

He’d never before seen Merlin so afraid. 

Merlin had seen maybe two of these fae before, and he shifted between awe and shame as their group moved through the cages. 

Was it Emrys' job to protect the magical creatures of Albion? Perhaps not. But he had the strength to break every cage here yet turned a blind eye. Was that not wrong? Did these animal-like fae notice their captivity, or did he tell himself that in order to walk away easier?

Willowy fae with little golden flowers for faces slept in one of the greenhouse-style cages, blinking open green eyes and shaking off droplets when watered. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" Gwen asked. 

Merlin nodded. He'd seen a sketch of these in the one book on magical creatures he and Gaius referenced in emergencies, but it was a pale comparison to the delicate prettiness of the real thing. "Do you think they used to be all over, wild and underfoot? Or always rare?"

Had he sounded too wistful? 

Gwen hummed, glancing around the cages. "They could probably be found with the same level of rarity as any other creature or flower in these woods. Not easy, but not improbable either."

"Would it be so bad if we let them back?" 

He immediately regretted saying it. Gwen the maidservant he could have said that too, maybe. But it had been years since they'd been close enough for such dangerous thoughts to be in the open. 

"I have a feeling there's more to it than us stomping on them, which we don't do. In a garden there are butterflies that pollinate the vegetables and worms that break debris into soil. But there will also be hornets and fire ants. Get rid of one and perhaps they all leave. And is a pretty flower worth having a hornet's nest over your door?"

It was a response perfect for a queen. He put on his best smile, "That makes sense."

"Zuhair is explaining the mirrors, let's catch up."

Right. 

She'd rejected him so rationally. It surprised him how much worse that felt compared to Arthur's bias or Uther's hatred. 

Merlin trailed after her to hear the last speech. Wooden posts with cloth stretched between them formed walls, mirrors glinting further in at the bends of the maze. It wasn’t a large thing– he could see where people chattered as they excited, making their way back to Camelot. 

"Cursed mirrors?" Arthur asked, and Merlin's attention snapped back. 

"Relics, more like," Zuhair said. "They can show your face if you'd been born a woman, or what you'd look like as an Amatan or an old man."

"The mirrors can see the future?" Elyan asked.

"I don't claim to understand Fate," Zuhair bowed dramatically and bade them enter, "and I doubt the mirrors are so powerful. Consider it chances of what could be, or could have been."

The group entered before Merlin, pointing out features and laughing. Arthur stood a little awkwardly, but grinned at the others' expense. Merlin let them make their way further in before stepping after, wary. The mirror on his right showed an old hag. Huge nose, wart, long gray hair. Truly an unfortunate sight. 

To the left he was a young, beautiful woman. She looked out of place in his baggy tunic. Then out of the corner of his eye–

Emrys.

Emrys with his long white beard and hair, wearing his clothes. Merlin leapt out of the maze furious at himself, heart beating out of his chest. Had anyone seen?

Gwen turned back with a question in her eye. "Coming, Merlin?"

"I… I think I saw Gaius." It wasn't much of an excuse, but she bought it. Their group moved off and Merlin slunk to the side, trying to calm himself. 

Maybe… maybe he should just tell them. His two best friends were the king and queen of Camelot. They wouldn't put him on a pyre. 

His heart began to race again. His chest felt tight. His breath fell to shallow gasps and he found a tree to press his back against to keep from swaying. 

They might not kill him, but everything would change. They'd never forgive him. He'd lose everyone he loved. 

The forest began to spin. His skin felt both clammy and tingly and when he bent over with hands on his knees, he was trembling. Get a grip, he begged.

A flower appeared at his feet, black as the darkest shadow. It blinked into an amorphous cloud, trundling closer to rest on his foot, then sharpening into a cat. Its long tail curled around his ankle, and the creature stretched out, rubbing its face against his boot. 

It was as light as air, but warm. And sort of cute. 

The chills broke into a prickly sweat, then faint itching, before calming into a normal sheen that felt cool under the soft breezes. He came back to himself quickly then, hyper-aware of the people around him and whether they had noticed anything off. 

He crouched, petting the top of the fae's head as it purred and he waited for his heart to slow to normal. "Thank you," he whispered. 

"You are so gullible," a man joked as he passed by Merlin, walking alongside another man as their children scattered before them. 

"Why would someone make up a story about this troupe having a caged dragon?"

"Did you buy them a refill of their ale for the story?"

"Oh," their voices trailed off, and the shadow fae popped into a tiny dragon. It flew about Merlin, no larger than a butterfly, then disappeared with another pop. 

He hadn't seen this fae in the cages. Could it be that this troupe had other fae, trapped but not on display? Was there another dragon out there, or even just a dragon egg? 

His will resolved, and the common, criminal to-do list he was so familiar with calmed him further. 

Track down their wagons. Sneak past the guards late tonight, disguise himself with magic and sneak into the troupe's camp. Check each cage. 

Yes, this was more important than nebulous what-ifs. This, he could do. 

The moon hit its zenith and the soft sounds of carousing at Camelot's taverns carried on the breeze. Beyond that, Camelot was dark, silent, and boring. 

Gwaine's jaw ached as he yawned, and he drew his cloak tighter about his arms to fight the night's chill. Curse Arthur and his rules. Why had Gwaine agreed to be a knight again?

The other guard posted at the front gates of Camelot leaned back on the stone wall and began to snore softly. 

Gwaine snorted, and then out of the corner of his eye spied Merlin in the shadows. "Merlin?" he barked in surprise.

"Gwaine?" Merlin echoed back, eyes wide, eyebrows up. "What'd you do to deserve the late shift?"

"Skipped squire training this morning," Gwaine grumbled. "What are you doing up?"

"Looking for you."

"But you were surprised to see me?"

“Uh…” Merlin chuckled. "Surprised to see you actually taking the job seriously. Do you want to go on another secret adventure to save Arthur's butt that no one can know about?"

"Please, " Gwaine untied his cloak and let it fall into a heap at his feet. He wiggled out of his chainmail next, cinching his sword belt tighter once he was down to his tunic. "I'm always ready for sneaking."

Merlin grinned, leading him out into the road away from Camelot. There was only one likely place they were going. "What did princess get himself into this time?" 

"Gaius heard there was a dangerous fae and wanted us to look into it." 

So Arthur didn't know they were doing this. That thought troubled him, surprisingly. 

They walked mostly in necessary silence, but being alone with Merlin made his recent confusions start to come back to the surface, feeling a bit like nausea. It just wasn't in him to keep secret suspicions about his friends. 

He turned enough to put the profile of Merlin's face under his full attention. "Did you ever go to Morgana's forest hovel?" 

Merlin's face went blank and he missed a step, stumbling. "What?" 

"You remember that hut we found in the forest about a half-days walk from here? I found one of your kerchiefs there," Gwaine grinned. Surely there was an easy explanation.

Merlin blinked like a deer staring down a crossbow, then realization dawned on his face. Almost instantly after, he picked up the pace of their walk and his face turned to study the woods near them. "Merlin?"

An easy laugh came from his friend. "So, this is sort of embarrassing. Only Gwen and Gaius knew. But last year Morgana captured me."

The worst passed through Gwaine's mind, but Merlin filled the story in quickly.

"She put a Fomorrah in my neck– the multi-headed snake, you probably saw one in the tour today– and it tried to control me into killing Arthur. Apparently I'm terrible at it. Gwen and Gaius noticed and got it out quickly enough." Merlin chuckled again. "Morgana really overestimated my ability to use any sort of physical weapon."

Gwaine laughed, more in relief than the story. He'd really blown this out of proportion. 

Only a few minutes later Merlin drew them to a halt. "There it is," he whispered. 

Lights danced between leaves and the hum of overlapping voices drifted around them. Crouching, Gwaine waded into the woods, Merlin moving silently at his side. 

Large wagons with domed, colorful cloth for roofs made up the camp. Most had parked in a half-moon cupping the bustle of the troupe, and Gwaine led them that way. The wall provided good cover.

The hum of voices held a sense of urgency. Intensely curious now, Gwaine spread out on his belly and wiggled under one of the carts. Merlin followed, and together they peaked through the spokes of a wheel. 

About the length of the training pitch away, Zuhair, Zara and many of their troupe clustered around one of the glass cages. Zara was up to her armpits in the cage, struggling with something. 

"Get the iron manacles," Zuhair was ordering, pointing at a wagon. "There! There, hurry!"

A kid ran off while Zara began cursing under her breath. Sparks of lightning began twinkling around the cage and Gwaine gasped. A witch?

No– there were tiny fae, no higher than mid-shin, chattering near her, hands in the air. They were dressed in little brown outfits with little brown caps. Almost adorable, but still worrisome. A tiny blue fae swept around them, chattering in Zara's ear. 

The kid came back, tossing a set of thick manacles to Zuhair, who dived into the cage with his sister. A few tense seconds later, the sibling's shoulders came down in relief, and they removed themselves from the cage. Backing away. 

“Is one set enough?” Zara asked. 

“The majority of its magic should be suppressed,” Zuhair said. “Its teeth and nails are our biggest issue now.”

What was in there? He couldn't see. 

He turned to Merlin to ask, and found Merlin watching him more than the scene playing out through the wagon wheels. 

"Do you… see what's in the cage?" Gwaine asked. Merlin shook his head. 

And then a cat hissed. 

Gwaine's head banged against the underside of the wagon, and the shadow-fae, Kludde, resolved into the space outside their wagon– back arced, hair on end. It yowled again. 

Gwaine's eyes connected with Zuhair's, and the little fae surrounding the Amatan winked away. 

"Fie," Gwaine cursed. 

Mind whirling, Merlin stayed quiet as the troupe dragged him and Gwaine into the moonlight. How was he going to talk his way out of this one? He should have abandoned this idea as soon as Gwaine caught him– convinced Gwaine he’d wanted to go to the tavern, or something. 

“What are we going to do?” Zuhair hissed at his sister. “I knew we should have gone straight to Caerleon. Camelot is too risky.”

“These men are both friends of the king,” Zara said. She crossed her arms, blocking the cage with her body, but something was hissing and spitting in there. A savage bite in her hand dripped blood onto the ground. 

“If they leave here alive, they could bring the knights of Camelot down on us.”

If it came down to a fight, it was more likely Gwaine and Merlin got out alive and a lot of this menagerie came out dead or chased out of Camelot by Arthur and the knights. The last thing Merlin wanted was for this slightly positive and accepted look into magic and its creatures to be turned into another proof for the merits of the ban. 

“I’m the physician’s apprentice,” Merlin said. “Do you want me to look at that?” 

She frowned at him in clear suspicion, and Merlin decided to make a dangerous gamble. They hadn’t caged the intelligent fae. He inched backwards, out of Gwaine’s eyeline, and let his eyes flash gold. 

Zara’s eyes widened but she gave no other clue she’d noticed. Zuhair’s jaw sagged as if he were about to gape, and he covered it with a cough.

“I’ve been thinking of running away from Camelot,” Gwaine lied. “Your troupe seems the most fun way to do it.”

Eyes not leaving Merlin’s, Zara said, “We could use a physician. Zuhair, why don’t you see if pretty-boy here has any useful skills?” She jerked her head towards a wagon. “We’ve got some bandages over there. Let’s see how you do, physician apprentice. Merlin.” She said his name suddenly, likely finally recalling it from earlier that day. 

She moved away from the cage, and Merlin finally saw what lay within. Not a dragon, thankfully. 

A creature no taller than his forearm snarled within. A stark red cap hooded coal-black pits for eyes, a bulbous nose, and a mouth filled with bloody fangs. It grinned at him, iron manacles hanging from its wrists. 

"What is it?" Merlin whispered when they were out of Gwaine's earshot. 

“My hand first,” she said. 

Gwaine’s back was to him, occupied by the creature and Zuhair, and so Merlin focused on Zara’s hand. The wound was pulpy, teeth had dug deep and shredded as it struggled in its cage. Blood oozed with each heartbeat. 

Ironically, he wasn’t great at healing spells. Still, he knew the basics. 

He pushed his magic into her hand, gaining a faint impression of the torn muscle, skin, and veins. He shaped his spell into a sort of casing, shaping where each body part should have been, and then filling each with his energy. 

Zara winced as her wound realigned itself– all the pieces remaining returning to their healthy positions, even if they ended in rips. The casing would hold the blood in, and let her heal correctly too. He’d used something similar when he’d been hit by the mace last year, barely keeping himself conscious only to be kidnapped by Morgana. And in hindsight, thank the Fates for that. Gwaine had almost found him out. “Where are the wrappings? This is the best I can do.”

“It’s still appreciated,” she replied. She looked down at one of the little brown-clothed fae that had appeared at their feet, who was holding a bundle of white cloth. “Thank you, sweet thing,” she cooed. She began winding the bandages around her hand. 

The little man garbled out, “harbluh blah,” then looked at Merlin hopefully. 

“What is it?” 

"A brownie," she said, though Merlin didn't know what that was, either. "They feed on magic and are obsessively neat. They're very helpful to have around.”

Merlin let a few bubbles of magic light escape his pant leg, and the brownie grasped at one of the blue motes, giggling to itself. Other brownies appeared, grasping at the others. 

Adorable, he thought, then with a spike of alarm looked towards Gwaine. Preoccupied, thank Fate. “And what is the thing in the cage?”

“It was a brownie,” she said, voice going pensive. “It fed on a cursed object we recently acquired and transformed into that.” She began muttering to herself, “Maybe we leave it in its cage and make it a part of the tour. Or feed it to the Eancanah.”

The brownies made a sound of protest, disappearing with little pops. Ugh, what was that spell for transportation called? He needed to remember to ask Gaius. “What if I gave it my magic to feed on?” 

Zara dismissed it immediately. “It was a very cursed object.”

Considering how well his poppet had worked against Morgana who matched his strength, he wasn't immune to a similarly dangerous situation. He'd need to stall until he thought of something else. But first– “I don’t suppose you have a dragon in one of these cages?”

“What? No. Why?”

“They have a lot of magic, I hear.”

“They’re extinct,” she snorted. “Besides I wouldn’t want any living thing giving its magic to a beast like that. I need time to think. And to be honest, I don’t want you or your friend around while I do it.” 

Zuhair twisted a hand into Gwaine’s tunic, shoving him away from the monster and towards a patchwork wagon at the far end of the camp. A lavender stretch of cloth had been unfurled from the wagon’s peak, creating a tent-like structure on its side. 

“Sehab,” Zuhair barked when they'd reached it. Gwaine heard a cackle in response, and Zuhair shoved aside the tent flap and tossed Gwaine within. 

He tripped, but still, mostly gracefully, landed in a pile of cushions.

A few moments later Merlin walked in, sitting cross-legged nearby and sharing a look of mostly wary confusion with Gwaine. Then they turned to the old woman across from them.

She sat at a low wooden table, decorated with a few heavy candles dripping wax onto its surface and a little painted bowl of fragrant ash.

The woman herself looked older than death itself. Practically a ball of wrinkles with telescopes for glasses, smoking and smiling without any reaction to the two of them now sitting across from her, Gwaine began to wonder if she were deaf, blind, or both. 

“Sehab?” Merlin asked. 

“Have you come… to have your fortune told?” Her voice creaked out of her, warbling and raspy. 

“I think we’ve come to prove we’re trustworthy,” Merlin answered. 

The woman began to pat at her voluminous robes, pulling out a metal tin. She popped the lid open and pinched a handful of dried herb into her pipe, smoking gently and filling the tent with a perfumed haze. “A fortune then.”

She produced a misshapen deck of stained cards from a mystery pocket, shuffling them between her hand and the table. Three spilled out of her decrepit fingers to land haphazardly before Gwaine, and she leaned over, inspecting them. 

She pointed at the first– a hairy beast standing by a radiant woman. “Strength,” she creaked. “Of spirit, or arm.” The second was a tower struck by lightning, people falling from its windows. “Chaos and destruction. Upheaval and revelation.” The third was a skull. “Death.”

Gwaine could have predicted that future on his own. Morgana was likely to attack again and kill a lot of people. More importantly, did that mean he could be trusted by this troupe, and not be killed and buried in a shallow grave?

Sehab turned to Merlin and drew three cards at random. She took a long pause, then leaned over to look at them closely. 

Gwaine leaned over too. A young maiden with horns, an old woman with a cane, and a middle-aged woman drinking from a goblet. Looked boring. 

“These aren’t my cards,” Sehab said. 

Zuhair ducked his head into the tent flap. “So?”

The old woman tilted her face up to Zuhair, and Gwaine wondered just how far she was gone mentally and why of all people the troupe entrusted this decision to her. She pointed her pipe at Gwaine and said, “Tower.”

Zuhair’s eyes narrowed. Gwaine tensed.

At Merlin, she shrugged. 

“Camelot’s vaults have a lot of stolen magical artifacts,” Merlin interjected. “We could steal one for the monster. Maybe eating it could return it to its former, peaceful state?”

Gwaine held his breath, waiting in the charged silence. They hadn’t stripped him of his sword yet, and he shifted his weight just slightly onto the sides of his feet, and let his hands rest lightly on his knees. Like this, he could be standing with sword drawn in a breath. 

Zuhair heaved a sigh, “The swordman stays until you return.” Then he stepped back and held the tent flap open. 

Merlin let out a slow breath, bobbed a short bow to Sehab, then crawled out.

Gwaine stuck his tongue out at the old woman, and followed. 

Merlin was forced to leave Gwaine pouting in the dirt as he snuck back into Camelot. He’d really turned this into a total mess. Though, Zara clearly treated fae with kindness and wouldn’t have held a dragon against their will. He supposed one could have been hiding, or flying nearby, but she’d seemed genuine when she’d called them extinct. 

It was too bad. He’d have liked for Aithusa to have another friend.

The guard he’d put to sleep still snored, though he tossed another sleep spell at him for good measure. 

He could sneak in and out of the vaults without trouble. Although, with the way this night was going he’d probably find Arthur counting the items there– and he didn’t know enough about the contents to find something quickly. Yes, the Crystal of Neahtid had been in there, but so had an iron pan that had fallen off a peg and hit someone in the head. Only a witch could have done that! Burn the cursed object! We can’t, it’s made of cast iron!

He imagined asking Gaius what to do. 

I could spend an hour or two searching the vaults. Find something suitably magical.

My boy, Arthur keeps a list of all of the items in the vault. There are guards and inventory keepers. He takes that vault seriously. 

Maybe I’ll convince him a goblin came in and stole it. 

Gaius was sighing. This plan wasn’t working. 

Also, he’d walked himself to the Physician’s Chambers instead of the castle vaults, hand hovering over the doorknob, wanting to disturb Gaius’ sleep with his problems. But this was his mess, and he should fix it. 

I could just bewitch any object with my own magic! 

Gaius would like that plan, except would add, do you have enough magic to change the monster back?

Probably? How much magic does it take to convert a fiend into a fae? 

Imaginary Gaius didn’t know the answer, because Merlin himself didn’t know the answer. 

He closed the door quietly, feeling the soft click at his back. Gaius slept in his cot, every fifth breath gurgling with a muted snore. 

He did have a powerful magical object that had lain under his bed for a few years, gathering dust. 

Merlin crept up the short staircase to the loft that had become his home. His cot took up the near wall, and when he rolled onto his stomach to look underneath the bed, his boots brushed the back wall. 

There it was.

He reached, pulling out the long wooden staff. He’d tied an old shirt to the end and stuffed it with old rags. It looked the way any peasant would carry baggage when traveling, but– and he felt the stone already reacting to his magic– underneath those rags was the heart of a Sidhe. The heart of Sophia the Sidhe, to be specific. 

Running his hands over the smooth wood he felt his will resolve. Murder (albeit necessary) had provided him with the Sidhe staff, and he’d only ever used it as a weapon. Now it would save a life. 

It was a far more fitting legacy for the heart of a girl who’d only ever wanted to go home. 

Gwaine waited, surrounded by people who ignored his questions, and tried to guess what Merlin was doing.

Had he woken the castle staff, Arthur and the knights? Were they mounting horses and wearing chainmail and coming to run the Amatans off? Or had Merlin been captured and thrown in the cells? 

Or– and as Merlin resolved into the firelight with a walking stick over his shoulder– had he snuck into the vaults, stolen a highly magical item, and snuck back in the time it took to walk to and from Camelot? Gwaine felt both relieved and impressed.

The wariness came a minute after, when Merlin unwrapped the end of the walking stick and revealed a glowing blue stone. 

His friend had just clearly broken laws that Gwaine had sworn on the Knight’s Code to protect. Arthur at least would want to know. Should he… say something… later? 

Eh…. 

“I found it fallen behind a shelf. There’s a good chance no one knows it exists,” Merlin explained. 

Zuhair covered his mouth, looking saddened. “There are so few Sidhe.”

“And this one likely died in the war,” Zara said, “it is a forgotten relic and exactly what we need.” For all the practicality in her voice, still she did not reach out and take the stick. Or… staff. It was probably a staff. 

Guilt flashed on Merlin’s face, “It’ll help that creature, won’t it?”

The siblings exchanged looks, and as they did the blue light in the stone shone brighter, flickering like lightning in the rain. Gwaine had to squint against it.

Whatever silent conversation the three of them had after that, Gwaine missed it on account of the squinting. It resulted in Merlin approaching the monster. 

Gwaine stood up. He wasn’t letting his friend face that thing alone. 

“Hey, sit down,” Zuhair said. 

“It’s okay, Gwaine,” Merlin waved him back.

So everyone else was going to blatantly break the law, and he was supposed to sit on the ground like a good little boy? Fuck that.

He unsheathed his sword, pointing it at the red capped terror dripping saliva. Its mouth grinned impossibly wide as Merlin approached. Zuhair grabbed at Gwaine’s tunic, holding him back.

Zara opened the cage’s lid, and Merlin moved quick. The glowing stone streaked like a falling star, crashing into the monster’s gaping mouth with a crack. Its nails scratched along the wood, peeling shavings that reminded Gwaine of Elyan’s tiny carvings. Its beady eyes widened in hungry glee. 

The light grew impossibly bright, then brighter still. It burned behind Gwaine’s closed eyelids, and he heard Merlin grunt. 

Gwaine shifted the sword to a left-handed grip just as a loud pop buffeted them. The light winked out, and the sudden darkness made him blind. 

He heard the staff clatter and Merlin stumble. Zuhair lost his grip.

His first blinks were red hot afterimages, then gray static and shadowy shapes. He groped for Merlin amidst the blindness, finding Merlin’s shoulder and then swinging in front of him, sword held out. 

“Watch where you point that,” Zara grumbled. 

The cage still stood open, but within was no longer the monster. One of the little brown-clothed men slept within it, stomach comically extended, and the little creature snored with a happily sated smile on its face. 

Merlin looked safe though a little pale, and was rubbing at his face. 

Gwaine sheathed his sword. “I think we’ve proven ourselves useful. What do you say to my offer of joining the menagerie now?”

“You’re bad luck,” Zuhair snorted as he reached into the cage, gingerly extracting the little creature and unlocking the iron manacles around its wrists. 

“Fine. We’re leaving then. You good, Merlin?” At Merlin’s nod, Gwaine stomped away. The menagerie let them go without much trouble. 

It wasn’t until they were back to the main road that Gwaine ceased his stomping with a relieved sigh. “I didn’t expect reverse psychology to work so well. Saying we wanted to be there tricked them into letting us go!” 

Merlin chuckled, “Good thinking, Gwaine.”

Back at the gate, Gwaine reattached his chainmail and cloak as his partner guard snored away. When everything was cinched in place, he shook the guard’s shoulder. He woke mid-snore with a garbled word of alarm, blinking with bewilderment. “Out of the goodness of my heart I've let you sleep, but instead of owing me a favor how about we do an even trade right now? You cover the rest of the shift alone, and I don’t tell Leon you slept on the job.”

The bewilderment hadn’t abated, “I don’t even remember feeling tired.”

“That’s the worst kind of tired,” Gwaine commiserated. “Come on, Merlin.”

“Where are we going?” his friend said. 

“Tavern. I need a drink after the night we’ve had.” Judging by the moon, the only ones open this late would be the seedier taverns, of which The Rising Sun was his favorite. 

The crowd within wasn’t large, but the dimly lit space was the smoky sort of humid that reminded Gwaine of pleasant buzzes and cold ale. There were people seated at nearly every table, so he and Merlin slid into the open seats at the bar, waiting for Miri to free up enough to pour them a round. 

Feeling fully comfortable and safe and like the whole scenario was behind them and getting further, Gwaine twisted in his seat to face Merlin with a grin. “You almost started a national incident.”

“Me?” Merlin was affronted. 

“Sneaking over there in the middle of the night to track down a dangerous magical creature on Gaius’ orders, and getting captured! We were lucky that didn’t turn into a bloodbath.”

Merlin grumbled, “Trust me, I know that.” 

“How did you sneak into the vaults? What route did you take in and out of the castle? I’ll look really good in front of the others if I tell them about some of our blind spots.”

“Never took you for a suck up,” Merlin deflected, grinning. His eyes flicked to the side, and after a beat held up two fingers. 

Excellent, ales were on the way. “We aren’t telling the others about this, are we?”

“If you want them to know how easily we got captured, that’s your prerogative.”

Gwaine’s eyes narrowed, mostly in humor, but also in growing curiosity. “How many of these secret quests have you been on?”

“This is the first,” Merlin said, without missing a beat. Miri placed two ales before them with a wink and a Hi, Merlin.  

Merlin was taking his first gulp when Gwaine corrected, “And that Fisher King Golden Trident adventure that Arthur supposedly did alone and unaided while we helped.”

“Maybe this was the second,” Merlin smiled. 

“And you trying to kill Arthur with a Fomorroh in your neck?”

“Was that really a quest though?”

“It was a secret,” Gwaine shook his head mockingly. “Are there any other secret missions you’d like to share tonight?”

Merlin laughed. “What sort of terrible things do you think I’ve done?”

Terrible Things sung by April Smith and the Great Picture Show

Chapter Text

Ch. 6 The Tournament

Early July

“Excuse me!” Merlin called through the crowded streets of Camelot, “Move aside please! Participants coming through!”

He stopped at an intersection, planting the wooden pole he’d been lugging for hours and waving the red flag at its tip back and forth. His pack of thirty squeezed through the crowd- who spilled from inns, pubs, and even tent-towns that had sprung up outside the city’s walls. This wasn’t the first Tournament of Camelot Merlin had served through, but none of the previous had approached this insanity. The citizens clearly loved Gwen’s idea for a commoner's circuit.

Most of his thirty had appeared so he turned and raised the pole again. The flag he pointed to the right down this split of road. “Nearly there!” 

He struggled down the final stretch of dirt path, arms sagging under the load and sweat trickling down his abdomen, dodging people trying to get into the tournament grounds before the opening ceremonies this morning. Ugh, he was so behind!

“Here!” At the training pitch typically used by squires and knights, Merlin shoved the pole into a stand meant for swords, whipping a scroll from his pocket with his list of names. “Line up!” 

He ticked names off quickly- all thirty had made it- then shoved the list into Sir Caradoc’s hands. He then stumbled over to Percival and leaned on a fence post dramatically. “Help,” he moaned.

Percival offered a water skin which Merlin was quick to gulp. “How many more rounds of registrants, you think?” Percival said.

“At least five. How’s the narrowing down to a decent group going?”

Percival nodded towards Gwaine who yelled something about footwork then put his head in his hands. A registrant tripped onto his face. Merlin winced. “Better than it looks, actually,” Percival chuckled. “We’ve got a good seventy on the roster already. We’ll likely have first round fights running past sundown.” He quirked a smile at Merlin, “Do you think Gwaine or I could have won, if this is how we’d tried to join Camelot's ranks?”

Merlin looked from the size of Percival to normal people and wondered how it was even a question worth asking. 

Someone tapped him on the shoulder and Merlin tilted back to spy, upside-down, the face of a pale man with a short brown beard. “There you are, Merlin,” the man grinned. 

Straightening, he studied the thick brow and hooded eyes until Gilli appeared– a little stockier, a little older. “Gilli!” They shook hands with a sudden fierce joy, and Merlin spied Gilli’s father’s magic ring still gleaming from a finger. “It’s been years!”

He exited the training grounds to meet Gilli further away from the fenceline and Percival, faking that he had to gather the pole and get back to the registrant tables. The last he’d seen Gilli had been during Uther’s rule, where Gilli had used the ring to get far enough through a tournament to nearly fulfill his revenge fantasy against the crown. 

Gilli gave Merlin a heavy clap on the back as they rejoined. “The lines at the front are wild! I hoped you’d be able to vouch for me and get me through.”

“Cheating already?”

Gilli scoffed, affronted, “I’ve come to enter under sword or knives. You know I’m good enough.”

Still, Gilli had been the first true stranger he’d ever told of his magic, and Gilli hadn’t betrayed that trust. He’d accepted Merlin’s belief against using magic for personal gain, even if he’d never understood Merlin’s protection of Uther’s Camelot. “You are. It wasn’t all that ring that got you to the final bout. What have you been up to? Where are you staying? You could stay with Gaius and I if all the inns are full.”

They threaded through the bustle, feeding each other sentences between passing bodies. “No need. Vina and I’ve got a tent outside,” Gilli said.

“Vina?” Merlin smirked, “Sounds serious.”

Gilli preened, “It is.”

Merlin propped his chin on a fist like a young girl, and trilled in a high pitched voice, “Well, how’d you meet?”

Cold pierced his heel.

What did I just …? Merlin looked around near his feet expecting some strange piece of metal. He shook his right foot, wondering if it had pierced through the sole of his boot—Again, a frigid cold stung the arch of his skin, and with a jolt he realized it wasn't some nail on the ground but the halfpenny he'd bound to Arthur—

His magic burst to the forefront of his senses, and his subconscious had captured the tendril-like tunnel running from his foot through the huts before Merlin had turned his mind to the problem.

“I have to go,” Merlin said in a rush, shoving the pole into Gilli’s hands. “Can you take this back for me? Tell them I sent you.”

“Yeah, but what’s wrong? Can I help?”

“I’ll explain later!” Merlin centered himself on the tunnel, and took off after it. “Thank you!”

Gwen edged back from the window of the Solar, pressing a hand to the nervous flutter in her stomach. Through the past day and this morning she’d seen hundreds of hopefuls in the training pitch just below trying for entry into the commoner's circuit, and hundreds turned away. 

They hadn’t been nearly prepared for this many applicants…. She’d disappointed so many hopefuls…. 

Turning, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror– second-largest crown perched on her curls– and told herself, “You’re a queen. You’re tough. You can do this.” Then held that like a secret truth in her heart as she hurried to the tournament pitch. 

A little ways from the castle a large field held a wooden oval ring. One half of that ring was a plain fence that commoners stood behind, children on shoulders, all vying for a view of the pitch. The other half rose in a wave of wooden stands, and the many nobles of Camelot perched there with parasols and fans and servants fluttering. Arthur sat near the top, three ornately carved wooden thrones sitting empty near him. Two would be for King Rodor and Princess Mithian from Nemeth, their guests of honor. 

Her stomach churned, should she offer her seat to Bleise- the new druid King’s Council member? He was probably here, somewhere. She hadn’t met him yet but should make a good impression.

Some of the regular folk noticed her standing to the side, alone, and began to point. A cheer rose up, sudden, loud, and raucous. 

She put on a smile and waved back, realized she wasn’t nearly ready to ascend the steps and open the tournament, and instead flipped back for the prep tents scattered about the grounds. Nobles claimed the space, of course, but Elyan would be set up here in the royal’s tent of luscious red and decadent gold. 

When she’d flipped through the heavy curtains and came upon Elyan strapping on greaves alone, she just about buckled. 

He didn’t speak, first blinking at her, then wrapping her in a hug, warm and slow and unembarrassed. He gave fantastic hugs.

Into his chest she muttered, “These next few days will mark the next few years of my reign.”

“Is this supposed to be a pep talk?”

“I’ve made such a mess of it already. So many people are going to leave feeling slighted.”

“Make a little speech like Arthur does,” Elyan squeezed her so her shoulder blades ached, then shook her a bit because he was Elyan. “Promise them more next year. They like you. They’ll believe it and we’ll have plenty of time to prepare.”

“I can’t make inspiring speeches.”

“Hmm, yeah, you’re right. Arthur gets away with it ‘cause he’s such an idealist. You’re too practical.” He moved back to grin at her, showing off the same mischievous smile as their father.

She frowned, then covered her face with her hands. “I am too practical!”

Elyan started pulling at her earlobes and tugging her hair. She twisted and swat. He easily foibled her hands and slipped past her defenses to tug hard at her cheeks. “Elyan!”

He laughed, starting to shove her towards the curtain. “Stop freaking out! You’re doing fine!”

“Wait!” She checked the placement of her crown just as she stumbled slightly into the open. She tried to straighten herself, look regal. 

A moment later the curtain twitched and Elyan stuck his head out. “You didn’t even offer me a hanky for luck. I’m disappointed in you.”

She bared her teeth and he retreated, laughing. 

Throwing her expression into a rigid focus she strode back to the stands, a part of her thankful despite herself that the anger beat back the nerves, but the other part just angry . Why was it so wrong to just want to vent her emotions a bit?

She loved them all, truly, deeply, but she needed more than a king husband, knight brother, and endlessly busy manservant. She wanted … her heart tore at the thought. She missed Morgana. Or, what they’d had. 

At the back of the stands a hidden stairwell led to the royal’s level, and a set of guards nodded as she passed. Excessive skirts in her hands she climbed, reminding herself she’d feel better as soon as she saw Arthur. Though, it was Merlin’s teasing she heard first.

“Of course it took Gwen for you to finally start thinking of others.”

“Remind me not to pay you this week,” Arthur said over Merlin’s squawk. “All you have to do is stand nearby with a sweltering pitcher of diluted wine. It’s practically a vacation. Instead, you aggravate me.”

“Arthur,” she chided.

“Guinevere! Oh good, you’re here.” His face broke into a relieved, happy smile and he stood to unnecessarily help her to her seat. “Please help explain to my idiot manservant how important building alliances are.”

“What did I say that even remotely–”

“With my father dead at Dragoon’s hand, Agravaine a traitor, and coming off of losing the castle to Morgana’s forces, Guinevere and I have to provide a strong and controlled front to best protect Camelot.”

“Everybody loves my humor except for you–”

“ Nobody showed up to help two months ago. We. Don’t. Have. Allies.”

“You being dramatic isn’t going to help!”

Arthur turned to her, fake annoyance clear all over him. “I’ll kill him, Guinevere.”

“What did he do that was so terrible?”

“Am I to be double-teamed the rest of my life?” He turned back to Merlin. “Will you just go find Leon?”

“If you learn some manners, your lordliness.”

“Please find Leon, or I will do something I regret.”

“Good enough for me,” Merlin fell into a deep bow. “Your highnesses,” he chirped in goodbye, before faffing down the back stairs.

Gwen found that by then all of her anger and even the remnant nerves had leaked out of her and left only an amused fondness. Her two dorks were wonderful friends. 

Arthur reached out with a similarly fond smile, squeezing her hand where it rested on her wooden throne. Then, winced.

“What is it?” she asked. 

“Stabbed myself in the arse with my own knife,” he said. "Yes, it’s embarrassing. No, I don’t want to talk about it."

Arthur had said Leon had been pulled away due to an issue with a druid thief in the staging area, so Merlin diverted back to the fields around the tournament itself, following rumors. 

Popup tents where nobles had their armor fitted on and went through their silly rituals filled the area around the fighting pit itself. From here, people looking over shoulders at a distant crowd was readily apparent. He followed the glances to the sound of voices, then to Leon’s curly blonde hair sticking up over the crowd. 

Forridel, the blonde woman from Iseldir’s druids clan, stood cross-armed and wide-stanced before Leon. A gangly preteen boy stood tucked at her side.

“It would be just like the knights of Camelot to assume–” she was saying.

“I haven’t leapt to any conclusions yet, I just wanted to know–” Leon said alongside her, hands up placatingly. 

Merlin’s eyes bounced between them as the odd argument happened in front of both him and the surrounding nobles who’d come to gawk. Where was the usual overly stern Leon? Not here, it seemed. 

His eyes connected with Gwaine, standing a little aside and clearly trying to look more like the crowd than someone meant to do something here. At Merlin’s raised eyebrows Gwaine shrugged. 

That was definitely like Gwaine to be more interested in watching drama play out. 

Merlin skirted around the ring of the crowd until he approached Forridel’s flank. He caught the attention of the druid boy and gestured him over. He had to crouch down, but not by much. This kid would be tall.

“I’m Merlin. You must be with Iseldir’s camp, I was out there visiting with King Arthur just a few weeks ago, maybe you remember me. What’s your name?”

“Jaon,” the boy said. A few facts aligned and Merlin placed the dark-skinned face and newly sheared hair. This kid had sat next to Elyan at the firepits. 

“You cut your hair,” he smiled. “Big change. How do you like it?”

“It’s actually sweatier,” Jaon perked up, “I have to tell Elyan that he should try growing it out like me instead.”

Even more facts fell into place. “Were you looking for Elyan in these tents?”

Jaon’s excitement faded, clearly chagrined. “I thought he’d be here. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“Don’t worry,” Merlin looked to Leon and Forridel. “I don’t know what this is, but I don’t think it’s trouble. Stay here, I’ll help you find Elyan. He’ll be happy to see you.”

Forridel was questioning Leon about what was wrong about druid children watching the Tournament of Camelot freely for the first time in their young lives while Leon looked on flabbergasted, when Merlin stepped between them. 

He chose to speak loudly, for the crowd to accidentally-on-purpose overhear him. "This lad is actually Elyan's special guest for today's fights. He just got a little lost. Permission to take the lad to Elyan's staging grounds, Sir Leon?"

Someone from the crowd called, "Don't you think you should check his pockets?"

"What pockets?" Gwaine said, gesturing at the plain burlap clothes underneath Jaon's druidic cloak. 

"Thank you, Merlin," Leon said. "Please go ahead and take the young man." When Forridel started striding away, obviously furious, his relief transformed into alarm. "Forridel, what is wrong?" 

Leon went after her, leaving Merlin, Jaon and Gwaine with the encircling crowd. Wow, Leon was really off his game today. 

Gwaine sidled closer to Merlin and whispered. "I'll handle the nobles, just one of my many skills. Don't abandon me to them though."

"I'll be back after dropping him off," Merlin whispered back before gesturing for Jaon to join him. 

They worked through a slightly hostile but mostly curious crowd, intent on staring at the lone druid boy walking freely through Camelot. Merlin nearly gave him the advice of removing his cloak, then realized he couldn't fault the druids for being braver than he. 

"So how did you and Elyan get so close?" Merlin asked, to distract them both. 

"He makes carvings like me," Jaon said, standing straighter. "I showed him a trick to get the eyes looking better." 

"Elyan's been carving since he was your age, did he tell you his father was a blacksmith? He started by making molds for the metal to be poured in." 

They exited the mess of tents and moved onto the wider paths around the tournament pit itself. It would be hard to find Elyan now, but he had a better idea of what to do with Jaon anyways. 

"Is Elyan still a blacksmith?" Jaon asked. 

"He's mostly a knight, but on his days off he still is a blacksmith, yes."

"Maybe he'll take me as his apprentice."

"Maybe he will! But if you're already giving him tips on carvings, you could probably start selling your carvings in the market in a few weeks!" Merlin's grin grew at the wide smile on Jaon's face. 

The kid was seriously Elyan's number-one fan, and it made a soft, squishy part of his heart squishier. He appreciated Elyan for being kind to this druid boy after being possessed by a vengeful druid child only months ago. Maybe it was why Elyan was kinder. Maybe he understood Jaon's fear more than the others. 

Merlin led Jaon round the back of the pit to the stair that led to the royal's landing, listening as criers began to march out that morning's contenders to the crowd's cheers and jeers. It was only when they reached the top and looked out over that crowd that Jaon hesitated, "Should we be up here?"

Gwen stood a little ways forward in the box, greeting the contenders with regal waves. In a few minutes it'd be her job to announce the tournament begun. Arthur turned at Jaon's voice. 

Arthur's eyes darted from Jaon's cloak to Merlin's face, reading the calm smile and relaxing incrementally. "Who's my guest, Merlin?"

"Elyan's friend," Merlin replied. "Can he watch Elyan's match from here and go with you to congratulate him after?" 

Arthur looked at the empty thrones next to him, then hesitated. "Do you mind sitting on the ground, Elyan's friend?"

"This is the best view!" Jaon said excitedly, sliding into a cross legged position at Arthur's feet. 

Merlin didn't miss the fond smile Arthur wore while he looked down at the eager boy. 

Arthur would make a good father. His kindness would go far better than Uther's cold rigidity. 

Arthur caught Merlin's expression and his face dragged before scowling dramatically. 

"I promised I'd help Gwaine with the loose ends," Merlin said. Couldn't Arthur just accept he was adorable sometimes? "Planning on stabbing yourself again?" 

Arthur snorted, "I can handle myself, thank you." 

Gwen cheered as Elyan won his first round fight, shoving his sword in the air to the roar of the crowd. Jaon imitated him with a fist and a boyish yell. 

Watching him gave Gwen such a precious joy. She held herself back from reaching out and squeezing him in a hug, but did high-five him in excitement when the boy turned back to grin at her. 

“I want to tell him that he needs better defense!” Jaon crowed. “Better defense makes good offense!”

Gwen laughed, “Yes, let’s tell him!”

Arthur stood and turned to face the back stairwell. An older man closer to Gaius’ age, perhaps late-sixties, approached with a wry smile. He shook Arthur’s hand firmly. “Rodor, it’s good to see you,” Arthur said. “Meet my wife, please.”

Rodor greeted her warmly before settling into his throne. “Sorry for my tardiness,” he gestured at the empty seat where Mithian would sit. “Sometimes she gets an idea in her head and, well, I’m too proud of her to get in her way.”

“I admired that about her,” Arthur said, “she’s tough.”

Gwen, not wanting to leave with Rodor so newly arrived, patted Jaon’s head, “Let’s watch the next match while Elyan gets out of his armor, we’ll visit him after.”

“Did you miss me?” The crier came out with a yell, the crowd stomping in response. He launched into a speech about how they’d only seen the opening salvo. This next match– oh this next match! “Lord Urien of Essetir, and Lord Mery of Nemeth! Till first blood!”

Lord Urien swept out in full armor painted in the burnt orange of Essetir. He unbuckled his cape– throwing it out to the commoners where some lifted it up, laughing gaily and cheering anew. He held a broadsword two-handed. 

Lord Mery came next with a violet shield in one hand and longsword in the right. Also in full armor, he started with a bang of sword on shield to get another half of the crowd cheering to his beat. 

Rodor leaned forward, palms together and lips pressed to his fingers-  the posture a mix of studious and prayerful. Arthur glanced at her and the obvious question passed between them. Surely not, Gwen thought. “Our guest is from Nemeth,” Gwen told Jaon, “but Merlin is from Essetir. Who shall we root for?”

“Whoever’s better!” 

Mery began, shield up and half-crouched, making testing thrusts with the longsword. Urien dodged the first few, then, broadsword clenched, smashed into the last-- Mery’s sword swinging wide. 

A follow-up smash landed on Mery’s shield but his stance took the hit well. In answer Mery slashed for Urien’s feet.

Both had swords that complimented their fighting styles, from Gwen’s estimation. Broadswords had strength behind them, and longswords had versatility and reach. Gwen preferred longswords though they’d always been a bit too heavy for her. A counterweight or brace attached to her shoulders or hips would help, but how to design one that wouldn’t limit her motion still evaded her.

Urien won out of the first flurry of attacks, flinging Mery’s shield to the side. Rodor flinched.

A follow up blow landed hard on Mery’s wrist, sending the shield skittering, and a hard kick in the chest from Urien put Mery stumbling backwards, limbs pinwheeling. With every blow Rodor grew more tense, more pale, and Gwen went from surely not to good for her.  

Mithian- could it truly be? She moved with the solidness of a man- knocked Urien’s finishing blow aside, then fell back to a practiced stance. Her longsword shifted to a two-handed grip, the longsword’s versatility at its best. 

In a normal battle, a longsword could hold against a broadsword’s heavy blows, but that then fell to the knight’s individual strength. Mithian wouldn’t have that boon over Urien.

In a sudden leap and thrust, Mithian ducked low and swung for Urien’s armpit. Urien adjusted to shove the blow aside, but stumbled. Mithian reacted, shoving point first in one- two- three quick strikes. She fought smart, and Gwen found herself catching Rodor's tension. Her own swordhand she'd fisted tight around an imagined sword.

As Urien landed on his back, half the crowd screamed in wild bloodthirst. 

Mithians’ sword caught the underside of Urien’s helmet and flung it aside. The man’s sweaty brown hair flopped onto the ground. 

Mithian flung for his throat to force a surrender, and with a snarl, Urien blocked. Body twisting, Urien shoved Mithian’s sword so far over that Mithan’s flank was exposed. Urien took advantage with a crash– shoulder smashing into Mithian’s side. 

Turn, Mithian, Gwen urged, you can catch him!  

Mithian stumbled though, and Urien, quick to his feet, followed through on terrible broadsword blows into Mithian’s side. Amour bent deep, deeper, and Mithian fell to the ground, sword scattering. One hand going to the dented side in clear pain, she waved her other in surrender. 

“Lord Urien, of Essetir!” The crier screamed to the crowd’s answering cheers and boos. 

Rodor leaned back with a tired sigh. Then in a guilty moment, he shot a look at both Arthur and Gwen.

“Woo-hoo!” Jaon cheered. “Elyan’s better than Lord Urien, don’t you think, Queen Gwen?”

Her gaze flicked from Rodor’s wary one to Jaon’s eager, “Yes! Though Mery did well, didn’t she?” 

Gwen winced simultaneously to Arthur, then stood quickly. “Let’s go tell Elyan what we’ve learned about his next opponent. And check on Mery! Did you know I used to help Camelot’s physician?”

Without excusing herself properly Gwen hurried off, Jaon chasing her. 

Jaon ran ahead to each intersection guessing which direction Gwen would point him. When they spied the red pennants of the royal tent Gwen hung back as Jaon flung himself for the curtained doorway. She waited long enough to hear Elyan’s cheerful bark of surprise, then turned her focus for where Mithian would go. Had she set up a staging tent? Would she have attendants?

If I'd snuck into a tournament, what would I have done? The only tents she’d feel comfortable stealing would be old, forgotten royal tents. Mithian had likely done the same– so Gwen, eyes sharp, began her hunt for weathered purple fabric.

Gwaine joked and cajoled as Merlin returned to help flap away the crowd with some generic nothing-sentences supposedly from the king himself . Together, they placated the worst of the ‘violated’. 

“Nobles,” Gwaine snorted as they watched the last of them dissipate. “They’re so afraid of losing what junk they have.”

“I’m glad I grew up a farmer,” Merlin said, “and that so many of Arthur's Round Table were peasants.”

“Good times. No titles to live up to.” 

“Yeah,” Merlin sighed. “No fancy destiny’s to worry about.”

Or family names to protect. Great, now he was depressed. “Want to grab a bite?”

“Can’t. The royals are having lunch. I need to get the Solar setup.”

“Lame,” but he also had an actual job to do. If Leon got out of Forridel’s knickers he’d be looking for Gwaine. 

Merlin left with a wave after a few promises to catch a drink later, and Gwaine frowned to himself. Which direction had Leon gone? Or should he just head back to the training pitch? Caradoc would have new orders for him.

Choosing the sure bet, Gwaine threaded through patches of trampled grass, passing contenders' tents with crests waving on snapping banners. While pausing for a sprinting green-capped messenger, one of those contenders nearly bowled him over while tossing a helmet to an attendant. Gwaine heard him bark, “What’s this about a boy in my tent?”

Gwaine’s face twitched. Let this one go , he thought, it’s over.

But Leon had given them a really, really long speech about minimal drama with the druids. 

Gwaine sighed, twisting about to try and catch sight of the contender. Warm summer sun glinted off of hundreds of pieces of armor and weaponry, and the brief glimpse of brown hair wasn’t enough to place the man easily in the crowd. 

He trailed haltingly along the line he’d seen the man walking, assuming he’d lost him, but then, there he was.

Holding a fistful of Merlin’s shirt.

Gwaine’s heart seized tight, blood rushing in his ears. In that red silence the man hissed at a glaring Merlin, then shoved. They both disappeared into a dark orange tent.

Eyes fixed on that tent Gwaine hurried forward, colliding with a servant who turned a corner too fast. Chainmail scattered and sent both of them stumbling. “Watch it!” The servant yelled.

Gwaine ignored him, catching his stride and hurtling over the debris. The arse’s attendant stood up ahead, still holding the helmet and shifting awkwardly. “Who is that man?” Gwaine yelled.

“Lord Urien,” the attendant squeaked.

How dare he attack Merlin. How dare he. 

Grabbing waxy linen Gwaine flung with enough force to rock the entire tent. 

In almost slow motion he watched a backhand strike whip Merlin’s head to the side. Merlin stumbled, jaw clenching.

I’ll kill him.

Then Merlin’s eyes snapped open, Gwaine’s intense anger finding a mirror dark with savage violence.

That black gaze shifted to Gwaine- recognized him. 

“What is this?” Urien said. “Who are you?” 

Gwaine found himself shaking, fury spiked with… fear?

“That is a knight of Camelot,” Merlin said, voice neutral, expression so placid you’d never have known–

“This is one of my subjects, knight,” Urien said. “You have no authority here.”

Gwaine hissed, “As that is King Arthur’s manservant, I absolutely do. I’ll hang you for this.”

“Let it go, Gwaine,” Merlin slipped past Urien, grabbing Gwaine’s forearm and trying to haul him out. 

Urien narrowed his eyes. “Then tell him not to masquerade in my villages or hang around my tent.”

Merlin yanked, “Come on, Gwaine.”

As Gwaine let himself get dragged away, Urien sneered.

Bastard. Smug– entitled– ugly weevil. That disgusting slime condensed the worst of nobility. Gwaine had stared into the eyes of what he’d rightfully forsaken and hated it afresh.

When they could no longer see the tent, Gwaine turned on a sullen Merlin. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter; let’s move on.”

“What did he say? Did something happen in Ealdor?”

Merlin shrugged him off.

“Damnit, Merlin, tell me!”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Merlin snapped. “There’s too much to explain. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway.”

That blow took him back, leaving him stinging. “We snuck into the menagerie and fixed that mad fae together only the other day, what do you mean there’s nothing I can do about it? You can trust me.” 

“I just–” Merlin turned away, frustrated. “It’s my problem. Don’t ask me. I can’t answer you.”

“We’re friends,” Gwaine said in a way that sounded pitiful out loud. “You’d want to help me if our roles were reversed.”

Merlin sighed, “I’m sorry. Look, I really don’t want to cause an international incident over some new lord in Ealdor. He’s just the typical sort of brute. It’s nothing. I’m really sorry.”

“Okay,” Gwaine said, quietly. Fine. “I won’t say anything.” 

He doesn’t have to tell me. It’s not like I tell him everything, either.

Gwen paused, studying the purple tent before her. No attendants guarded its moth holes or grass stains. Ironic how Mithian had wanted to go unnoticed, but a bannerless, largely unattended tent draped in ruined opulence had its own aura. 

Poking her head in she spied who she assumed was Mithian, helmet removed and dark hair piled in a bun atop her head. She fumbled at the ties of the breastplate.

“I’ve done my fair share of untying armor,” Gwen said as she slipped into the dim interior, “let me help.”

Mithian’s eyes dodged between Gwen’s crown and her nice clothes and stuttered, “Your majesty.” She stood to attention, blanched, then looked at her body still in heavy metal. “I’d curtsey, but….”

“Just put your arms out so I can get that dented armor off, it can’t be comfortable.” 

Mithian, flushing with embarrassment, obeyed. Up close, Gwen could see why the breastplate had deformed so easily. This was a simple guard’s breastplate with the other hodgepodge armor pieces she wore. It slipped on overhead, large slits up the sides, and tied at the bottom. As Urien had struck, the thin sides had bent easily. 

Gwen worked at the knots. “I used to make the occasional armor plating. Why not commission some that fits you properly?”

“I think my father worries it’d entice me further.”

“My father used to do the same with the tools in the forge,” finishing the knots she lifted the plate armor up and over Mithian’s head. Together they stripped off her limbs. “He kept them in a chest under lock and key until I’d broken in enough times that he gave up and taught me his trade.”

Mithian laughed, then winced badly, hand going to her side. “I do think I’m wearing him down,” she wheezed.

“I’d also help out our physician during busy times,” Gwen put her hands on the hem of Mithian’s shirt. “May I?”

As Mithian agreed Gwen revealed a plane of lily white skin mottled with blue, green, and red spots. She’d already begun to swell. Mithian craned her neck for a view, "You were a blacksmith and a physician’s apprentice?"

"I dabbled, mostly I was a maidservant," she nudged at one or two ribs, following their line to make sure they were whole. “Morgana had special armor. She was always fighting to be included in the training sessions and treated like an equal," Gwen looked up. “Feel any sharp pains?”

Mithian shook her head, and seemed unsure how to respond to Gwen’s mention of Morgana.

“Why do you want this so badly?” Gwen gestured at the old tent and scattered armor. 

Mithian smiled wryly, eyeing her dress folded neatly in the corner. “It feels right,” she whispered. 

Mithian had a bone structure of sharp angles, and painted it probably gave her an elegant cast. But here, as she stared with intensity, Gwen could see the battle commander aching to escape.

Turning to Gwen so her shirt fell back over bruised ribs Mithian said, “Do you ever get tired of being treated like wall art?”

“Oh, yes. ” Gwen threw her hands up, “I’m not allowed to do anything! I can’t pour my own water without assistance.”

Mithian grinned, “It’s worse because they’re so nice about it.”

Gwen agreed, “And while it’s not all of them or all of the time, there’s this way the men offer advice….”

“Almost like they’re placating a young child?”

A gust of a sigh left Gwen. “Yes. That’s it.”

“Want a sword? It’s very cathartic.”

Chuckling, Gwen went instead for Mithian’s dress. Talk of the sword had reminded her, “Your ribs are bruised. I’d bet we can steal you a cold pack from the ice house if we titter loud enough about needing a break from the sun.”

Mithian started working off her men’s clothes. “I do a good titter.”

Merlin leaned on the Solar’s wrought iron doors, staring down at the training pitch as Gwaine received orders from Caradoc. Seemingly ignorant to Merlin just above, Merlin took the blow for what it was– a clearly intentional cold shoulder.

He shouldn’t have snapped at him, or left on bad terms. It’s not Gwaine’s fault that Urien’s taxes cost my mother her memories. It’s not his fault I can’t tell him why– it’s mine.

Gwaine left, and a once-over of the Solar showed no embarrassing items on display and a lunch setting ready to go. A glance in a mirror showed his cheek swelling around a small ring-shaped welt. 

Gaius knew a potion for this sort of thing, but Merlin did not have the patience for brewing. Or the mind for ingredient memorization. More honestly, all he had were bad excuses for his lack of desire to do much of anything. 

Deciding forget it , Merlin pawned serving onto an older woman who’d do his job with all the grace and custom necessary, and disappeared into the crowd watching the commoner’s circuit. 

The afternoon held many short fights- from small team battles, to trick-shot archery, knife fighting, and finally sword fights. He pushed for the front of the crowd when Gilli appeared, watching his sort-of-friend hold his own against a larger man.

Gilli was good, dodging nimbly and patient with his strikes. These were dulled blades, and the winner was either a forced surrender, or the man who hit more often in the allotted time. Gilli seemed to have the fight well in hand before he caught a bad blow along the back of his shoulder. 

Gilli’s sword dropped, but he rolled underneath the next blow, picking the weapon back up in his left hand. With a lunge he pressed the tip to the man’s chin.

“The win is Gilli’s!” 

Panting and grinning, Gilli scanned the crowd for Vina, likely, but caught sight of Merlin instead. Merlin waved, meeting Gilli outside the grounds a few minutes later.

“When’s your next match?” Merlin asked. 

“Had to pull out,” Gilli shrugged. “Shoulder’s hurting pretty bad. Don’t think I could lift a sword for long.”

“We could have tried to heal it.”

“Wouldn’t that be cheating?” Gilli smirked. “Besides, you don’t look like you know much healing,” he flicked at Merlin’s face. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Merlin said as he dodged. “I could talk to Leon, see if he could still get you into the guard program.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Gilli massaged at his upper arm as he led Merlin into town. “Vina’s uncle works as a guard in the Sarrum’s castle. She said he could get me in. And then she’s near family, y’know?”

“That's thoughtful.”

“Want to meet her?” Gilli grinned. “Lucky Pot? I like the stew there.”

Merlin shrugged, entering the boisterous hall behind Gilli. Long, banquet-style tables ran from the front doors to the bartop in the rear where a plump, red-faced woman ladled soup into bowls. She hawked coins while her mute partner stirred a second cauldron over a firepit in the corner. “What’s the missus got cooking?” Gilli yelled over the din.

“Cat, same as always,” the plump woman laughed. 

“There’s Vina,” Gilli pointed at a waifish girl pinching her chin and narrowing her eyes at a dart board. “Say hi. I’ll grab food.”

Vina wore multi-colored skirt scraps that fluttered when she moved, and a patchwork button down coat sliced at the elbows. Her face was all angles– high cheekbones, sharp nose, pointed chin– and her dark curly hair ended at the nape of her neck. “The issue with these darts,” she said to the two men who’d been playing, “is the balance is all off. Gimme.” 

She beckoned for one of the wood pieces, rolling it in her fingers, then tossing it at the board. It hit along the right edge. 

“See now, it has a bend in it.” She swiveled on the two men with a wicked grin, unbuttoning her coat. One of them whistled. Flinging it open with a shimmy she revealed rows and rows of little metal and wooden trinkets sewn into place. A flourish pulled a dart of light wood from the trove. “Now this beauty was carved by the blind tinker of Cornwall. I could tell you stories of how he’s been seen to weigh coins with only his hands or stack card houses to twice the height of any man, but this dart will speak for itself.” 

She flung, the little dart nailing the center of the board. “He leant it to me for a kiss, but I see you blokes could use it more than I. I could part with it for a full penny. Half each?” 

The men applauded, laughing gaily, but didn’t take her deal. One did haggle over a needle hanging from a thread necklace, eventually tying it around his own throat and using it as a toothpick. 

“That was well done,” Merlin complimented, introducing himself as Gilli’s friend. 

“Been a trader for years, it’s how Gilli and I met!” They chose to save some seats, and she ran him through her catalog of wares. “He was looking for a poison.”

He hadn’t seen any poisons on her. And what was Gilli doing looking for poison? 

“She keeps them in vials in the layers of her skirts,” Gilli smirked as he arrived bearing three bowls. 

“That was less my question,” Merlin said, “Poison, Gilli?”

“It’s a living,” Gilli said, chin out. “In the south there are job-houses for people with our sort of skills,” he tapped at the ring. “All outside the law of course. So jobs are shadier.”

Vina leaned forward, “Gilli told me about you. If you ever have to run you should know where some are. We’ll tell you.”

He hadn’t expected so many people like he and Gilli- magic users who hadn’t gone to the druids. 

Gilli leaned forward, whispering, “That Dragoon fellow, who killed Uther? I heard he frequents the job-house in Deorham. I’ve gone a few times but never met him, though.”

Merlin winced, deciding the circumstances of Uther’s death would be far too much to explain in such a crowded hall. Vina and Gilli spent the rest of their bowls sketching out some locations for these magical job-houses, the two telling stories off each other like long-time partners. It left him a little wistful, longing for someone with whom he could be that open.

Eventually Vina left for a round of ale, Merlin promising to get the second round. 

“She’s great right?” With a dreamy smile Gilli added, “Once we get settled in Amata I’m going to marry her.”

“What makes you think she’ll take you?” Merlin teased.

“I want to give her a gift when I ask,” Gilli wilted, “but she’s got everything. If I save up money as a guard and get us a hut, maybe I could use that.”

“I don’t know if it has to be such a grand gesture. She already likes you for you. I was only teasing.”

All of his experience with romance came from a small rose born in his hand, and the soft smile of treasured surprise on Freya’s face. That still hurt . How could that still hurt after so many years?

He reached out for Gilli’s ring, silently asking to borrow it. Gilli slipped the gold signet off, and Merlin tucked his eyes behind a cupped palm. People streamed by, and he let his magic blend with Gilli’s father’s. 

Many spells wrapped around this ring, bound to it and feeding off of Gilli’s magic. Like sieves, the spells applied a pattern to whatever uncontrolled magic Gilli threw at it. Merlin followed the guidance of the father, adding another layer for the small rose. With this, a nearby posy could be spun into something similar. He hoped Vina would love it in the way Freya had. 

He handed the ring back to Gilli, “A rose would be a nice gift.”

Gilli fitted the ring back into place with a grin, “That is bloody brilliant.”

Merlin shoved aside the what-ifs of Freya, an exercise he was familiar with, and slapped a smile back on his own face. “I’m really happy for both of you.”

On the third and last day of the tournament, Arthur pickled in his long-sleeved tunic and Guinevere glared up at the sun which had long since burned every cloud from the sky. She leaned over to say something to Mithian, who sat at her left, and both women laughed. At Arthur’s right Rodor swaddled in his violet cloak smiled pleasantly at the fight, seemingly lost in a memory.

The last sword battle of the commonor’s circuit took place below, the crowd roaring wildly at each swing, and Arthur found himself sweating for a wholly different reason as his time with Rodor ticked to a close. After this would only be one more bout- that of Elyan and Urien to decide the overall winner- and he’d only edged around ideas of an alliance. 

When Rodor had first approached him with ideas of marriage to Mithian, combining Nemeth and Camelot had been in the cards. The man was advanced in age, having had Mithian later in life, and may still like the idea of the larger, stronger country of Camelot looking out for the affluent but smaller Nemeth. And Guinevere and Mithian appeared to be getting along well.

Below the fighters broke apart, breathing heavily and wiping brows. Friends in the crowd raised water-skins, waving them as both men tested whether the other would attack if they paused for a drink. Arthur drank nervously from his own goblet.

Keeping his voice passive and his eyes on the fighters Arthur broached, “Has the succession of Gedref been to your liking?”

Rodor paused, and Arthur lost to the urge to look at the king’s face. He was a hard man to read, “You have held to your word.”

“I hope to build on that goodwill. I see no reason to continue onward in neutrality when we can both gain from friendship.”

Rodor hummed as the battle ensued again below. In a flurry of clashes the shorter of the men tripped the larger, planting a boot on his back and raising his sword in the air in victory. The ensuing cheers were deafening. “Nemeth stayed neutral when the Sarrum took Amata, and neutral again when your father, the Sarrum, and Alined allied in the Purge. We are a smaller country than Camelot, and our past grievances are done. What do you gain from an alliance?”

“Having our shared border be a protected trade route instead of a military zone would surely benefit us both.”

“I could come around to supporting a trade alliance. However when does Camelot begin asking after criminal runaways that we must deliver, as Uther did during his Purge? When must we supply troops to a Camelot war effort? Lot in Essetir, a country we both share borders with, has gone strangely silent and his nobles have begun to stir in an eagerness for that throne. And, I assume, the Lady Morgana is not far from your mind.”

It wasn’t his intention to ask for military aid, but he did desperately need borders he could trust. “Protection is what Camelot provides,” he hoped Rodor wouldn’t mention how often Arthur had lost the castle to Morgana, “I fear we’ll have more applicants this year than we’ll know what to do with, thanks to Guinevere’s commoner's circuit.” He reached out to hold Guinevere’s hand, hoping to look united and confident, “I agree that the sorceress is a problem, but we’re looking for her. We’ll find her before she brings another army here.”

Rodor’s eyes went from Guinevere with Jaon at her feet, to the commoner’s circuit winner being carried off by a cheering crowd, the runner up laughing as friends patted them on the back and buoyed them from the grounds. Both men would be in the guard training in a few days anyway, and likely be squires before the year was out. They’d both won. 

“Suffice it to say I’m interested to see how things continue to change in your second year. Perhaps we return to this conversation in the months to come.” He tilted his goblet Arthur’s way, alluding to a toast. 

Arthur did the same with own, and both men sipped the diluted wine after. A small promise. Arthur couldn’t blame Rodor for the decision, and in some ways felt relieved that he hadn’t been outright rejected. There was hope here.

Once the crowd had returned to the viewing areas, the crier returned to remind everyone of the best moments of Elyan and Urien’s fights, two actors replaying the scenes in slow motion. He then split the crowd, urging opposing cheers until the stands vibrated with their excitement. To that Elyan and Urien finally entered, swords flashing. 

They’d agreed to half-armor for this final bout, Elyan comfortable in his typical attire of chainmail and trousers. As the crier announced, “Till surrender!” Elyan leapt first. 

He struck at Urien’s sides, testing defenses. Largely Urien dodged with footwork and glancing blows of his sword. Elyan would be watching for tendencies. Though far too high up to see anything, Arthur could imagine it- the way Urien’s eyes may flicker to where he’d strike, or how he may favor stepping forward with his right foot. 

Elyan noticed something, finally coming in with a real strike and causing Urien to dance to the side, swinging his broadsword wide to create space, then lunging in as the real fight begun.

They traded blows in a flurry, Guinevere’s hand squeezing tight around his own as their skills proved even. Then in a surprise move, Elyan lunged in close, boot on Urien’s toes, ducking under a now off-balance strike. Elyan landed a good blow in Urien’s side as Urien’s elbow went for his face, ending with both men stumbling apart. Elyan wiped blood from his nose as Urien shuffled, winded.

Then, as Elyan lunged again, Urien planted his sword in the ground and surrendered.  

“What?” Guinevere said as Arthur leaned forward. Had he seen that right? 

Elyan backed off, dumbfounded, as Urien waved his surrender more clearly. He bowed deeply, first to Elyan then to the royals, saying something to Elyan as he walked off. 

“Why surrender?” Mithian said. “He was fine.”

“He chose not to defeat the queen’s champion,” Rodor murmured thoughtfully as Jaon caught up to the fact Elyan had won and began cheering. 

“Elyan was outmaneuvering him, Urien would have lost,” Arthur said. 

“Politically he won,” Guinevere frowned, and she was right. Urien had insulted Elyan in such a respectful way he’d made himself out to be the better. 

On the field Elyan sheathed his sword, irritated, but allowed the crier to raise his hand and build up a wave of cheers. 

Arthur sighed, “I suppose we should be watching out for his name after Lot dies.”

The morning after the tournament’s end, Merlin stood in attendance as Arthur and Gwen saw off the Nemeth royals. The other knights stood by stoic, bored likely, as Mithian made Gwen promise to write her. 

Here in the courtyard of the castle the council stood by as well, observing, the newly minted Bleise in their ranks. They were likely eager to dive into details about trade through Nemeth, housing and financing the new guards and potential squires of the commonor’s circuit, and writing out all of the new laws accepting druids into common society. Arthur had called a Round Table meeting for that evening, where he was likely to summarize all of that and ask their opinions. Merlin assumed by then his own brain would be leaking out of his ears.

Lost in those thoughts, he didn’t notice the goodbye party breaking up until Gwaine had tapped him on the shoulder. An awkward guilt rushed through Merlin; he hadn’t ever properly apologized. 

“Leon gave us three the day off,” Gwaine said, referring to Percival and Elyan. “We’re going to do another tour of the menagerie before they head north. Do you want to join us?”

Gwaine hadn’t smiled as he said it, but Merlin could see the peace offering for what it was. “I’d like to. I need to find someone to cover me, but if I do I’ll meet you there.”

“I’ll wait here for you,” Gwaine said.

After a bit of running around, one of the council member’s servants trading him for an upcoming manor-house party that they were sick of catering to, Merlin met Gwaine on the steps of the castle. 

He’d had enough time these past few days to think this through, so almost as soon as he’d arrived Merlin let the apology gush out of him. 

“It’s really fine,” Gwaine said in quick response. “I don’t go around telling everyone my business either. I shouldn’t have forced you.”

“No, I do trust you. I do. I’ve just got my own mental issues which are another long story.” Merlin flushed, switching back to the apology he’d planned. “Urien increased taxes in Ealdor, and because of it my mother got hurt. In sort of a long-term way. It wasn’t directly Urien’s fault. I just… feel guilty. I blamed him.”

Clearly surprised to have it launched at him like that, Gwaine ran his hands through his hair a few times as he parsed Merlin’s words. “She’s still hurt?”

“Sort of; she wouldn’t say she is. But obviously… I still want to fix it.”

Gwaine held Merlin’s arm, his gaze earnest and intense. “Are you sure there isn’t something I can do?”

“Yes,” but it felt really, really nice that he was so willing. After the Leshy, the druids, and being reminded of Freya he’d really wanted to just lean on someone.  He tried to get that across in the sort-of choked up thank you he squeezed out. 

Gwaine patted him between the shoulder blades, ignoring that Merlin turned his face to hide the emotion. “If you change your mind, mate, I’m here.”

Merlin nodded tightly. “Let’s go. The other’s must be wondering what’s keeping you.”

Gwaine, graciously, picked up instantly into a lament on Elyan’s behalf, bleeding that into long-winded complaints about all the training duty he’d been assigned. By the time they’d reached the menagerie Merlin had completely relaxed into Gwaine’s animated storytelling, laughing with Percival and Elyan. 

The silent stressors of the Leshy, Emrys, and Morgana would weigh him down, and the stresses of the last few days hadn’t helped, but for now, for a few hours, he let himself forget all he needed to be. And he let who he currently was recover.

Family sung by Mother Mother

Chapter Text

Early July

“I should be celebrating,” Merlin whispered at the empty Round Table. 

After an evening spent listening to how the laws would change, he’d waved the others off with the promise to catch up. Instead he’d swept and polished the table’s already shiny wood. Was this feeling roiling in his chest celebration? Joy? He snorted.

“Iseldir’s druids don’t practice magic,” Arthur had said, “and they’ll prosper from this arrangement. As other druids join them–”

Sentiment had slipped between Arthur’s words, a method to his phrasing that held a note of hope that shifted just out of phase of Merlin’s. Merlin hoped Arthur had been learning to see the beauty in fae, and trust those like him.

But Arthur dreamed of druids who learned the benefit of suppressing their magic in the name of peace . 

He could see Arthur accepting this new status quo and this stagnation labeled druid acceptance lasting for years. The thought made his breath short, made his heart squeeze. 

How long into Arthur’s reign would he withhold the truth? How long was too long?

Should he have done more to support the druids? Was he wrong for skipping the council meeting this afternoon? Was he missing the chance at his destiny at this very moment? It felt like he was. Everything suddenly felt so wrong. 

His feet itched, legs antsy with the desire to run. Maybe he’d sprint for the clearing behind the castle and call Kilgharrah. Kilgharrah could wax on about destiny and let him know where he’d gone wrong so he could get to work fixing it tomorrow. 

The sun was still up, and if the knights caught him outside they’d drag him to a tavern. And Kilgharrah never had clear answers unless it were to kill the witch or kill the boy.

And Bleise was here– posted in a guest room until he finished adjusting laws with Geoffrey. All of Merlin’s interactions had been through Iseldir rather than Bleise, but Bleise had seemed practical. He hadn’t bowed once to Merlin in a way that left him feeling uncomfortable in his skin. 

So Merlin wound servant’s passageways he’d walked a hundred times when Arthur had been only prince, exiting from a narrow stairwell to an upper hallway hung with the tapestry of Ygraine. Counting doors he walked till he stood before Bleise’s room, closed. Should he knock?

“ Emrys ,” Bleise spoke into his mind, and Merlin’s step stuttered. 

The door swung open with a pull of Bleise’s magic, the bald man cross-legged on an animal pelt before a lit hearth. He seemed to be meditating. “Oh,” Merlin said, dumbly. 

“Did you want to come in?”

Guest rooms of a decent size, as this one, held a long window to shed light into a small sitting area, and a folding screen to hide a pleasant four-post bed. Decorations were sparse, though rich. An old copper shield, round and beaten, hung on the wall to Merlin's left underneath two crossed swords. It seemed in bad taste, suddenly.

“A little,” he admitted, shutting the door behind himself and standing awkwardly in the foyer. “What are you doing? Not waiting on me I hope.” The half jest fell on unhumourous ears, and Merlin swallowed his smile. "Could we speak about the prophecies? I have some concerns."

Bleise hesitated, and the words came out stretched. “We could. What do you want to know?”

Launching into his fears about not knowing what he was meant to do, or that Arthur would never accept magic seemed a bad idea. Better to start by gathering facts. "I was told Emrys would bring magic back to Camelot. And that Arthur was the Once and Future King. But you made good points against that, and I wondered if you knew any other variations to those prophecies.”

Bleise’s eyebrows inched upwards. "You believe you aren't Emrys?"

Merlin flushed. He hadn’t said exactly that, but, what gave him the right to claim the title? Kilgharrah’s ravings? “You’re closer to freeing magic than I am.” What if he were just one of many options in a fate ready to accept any as its enacter? 

“Am I?” Bleise mused. “Negotiating trade is a far cry from magic itself.”

“The council meetings are still something. If you work with Arthur to weaken laws against magic items or magic users carefully over years, would that not make you the other half of his coin? The other half of the legend?”

“Perhaps. Prophecy is a vague thing. And in my opinion, wrong often.”

Sparks burst as a chunk of log crumbled to charcoal. “You believe that despite Iseldir’s… intensity?”

“Iseldir does vex me, but his defense of his beliefs are why I came to respect him.” 

Merlin rocked back on his heels. The setting sun lit the lower village in a molten glow. "So Emrys and the Once and Future King are just stories."

"At its worst, they are hope given form, yes, which altogether is forgivable. People wish for a hero, or meaning in all this loss. Can we fault them?”

He’d latched onto Kilgharrah’s, and many of the druid’s, beliefs in destiny for the same reason. He wanted to believe Arthur would change the world. He wanted to be free. Had he been only a naive farmboy fooled into being a figurehead? 

A mixture of relief and sadness swirled within him, and the last rays of sun disappeared over the horizon. “Thank you for your perspective.”

“Of course.”

Merlin left Bleise to his meditation, hearing the door latch magically behind him. He slipped through the halls, leaving from a servant’s stairwell and sneaking around the perimeter of town for the front gates. 

Bleise believes these prophecies are twisted out of campfire tales. Iseldir believes I’m some honorable, destined hero. He and other druid leaders have spread that rumor. Kilgharrah is a seer, and he’s seen a future where I help Arthur restore magic. He hasn’t said it precisely. He’s also never called me Emrys. 

Merlin stopped in the shadow of Camelot’s walls, rubbing at his temples. Morgana believes Dragoon is Emrys. She’s terrified of him. Why? What story has she heard? Or had she Seen something? 

Bleise’s interpretation feels reasonable, but he doesn’t know Morgana and Kilgharrah are both seers. They’ve both Seen things about me. That has to mean there’s a destiny out there, doesn’t it?

Merlin used a few sleep spells to briefly knock out a few guards, then slipped into the treeline to think. He could follow this path to the clearing and call Kilgharrah, yet he’d spoken to Kilgharrah often enough to know what he’d hear. 

He wanted a different opinion. But who could possibly offer that?

He wanted to lean on someone who understood him entirely– not someone who saw him only as a hero, ward, friend, or warlock. But who could share his burdens? 

Lancelot and Freya were long dead, their bodies burned and bloated beneath the waters of Avalon. 

But Freya had lived for Excalibur. Could she come to him now? It was wishful thinking, another bit of hope for the naive farmboy in him to latch onto.

Still, he followed the walls north until memory led him through forests to the Lake of Avalon.

A bank of mud and grass squished underfoot so his every footfall released the musty smell of fresh algae. Merlin had walked this path before, alone and with the dead, and followed his past self until his boots toed thin waves splashing soft out of an inky black lake shimmering with starlight. The mountains, and before them the rising shadow of the castle at the heart of the Isle of the Blessed, formed cutouts of darkness against the deep purple sky. 

"Freya," he started tentatively, his voice warbling in the silence. “Are you here?”

He may have to give something magical to the lake to see her-- the first he’d thrown in Excalibur, and the second the waters of the Fisher King had opened a connection. What did he have on him to give? Arthur’s halfpenny was off limits, but other than that he had socks, boots, his clothing…? The blue neckerchief he wore could go.

He rolled his magic into the fabric so threads wound into a thornless stem and corners swirled into the petals of a delicate blue rose. He swiveled the flower between two fingers and watched the petals flutter. He’d come a long way with his magic since he’d first tried conjuring a strawberry. He had to give himself credit for that, at least. 

Crouching, he placed the flower the furthest out his reach would allow. It shifted in the sloshing waves, water bleeding the petals a midnight blue until they eventually tipped and sunk. 

Then, from the deeper waters, Merlin saw a figure rise.

Water streamed from Freya’s brown hair, dripping from her nose and cascading down her shoulders as she glided forward. In her hand she held the blue rose, which she pressed to her heart. “Merlin,” she whispered with a smile. She stopped moving a little ways out, appearing to be waist-deep in the lake. Ripples drifted from her form. “It’s good to see you.”

Merlin blinked away stinging tears. “I wasn’t sure that would work.”

“Whenever I can come for you, Merlin, I will. How can I help you?”

“How have you been?”

Her giggle bled to the sound of rain on water. “It is a strange in-between life I live. I can walk the changing grasses of the Spirit Realm, or speak with passing souls and other fae. It’s better than the life I lived while alive. How are you?”

“I’m struggling.” He felt guilty for bringing her here just to complain. He could have planned better, brought her more things or planned some magic spells to show her. 

“Tell me,” she said. “I want to help you.”

“Do you think I have a destiny?” He winced at how self-absorbed that sounded. “Arthur and I are supposed to unite Albion, why is it I'm always siding with magic or with Arthur, never both? Sometimes it feels like I’ll struggle for years only to have Mordred slip a blade between Arthur’s ribs anyway.”

Freya pressed the rose to her cheek as she thought. “I asked Cathbhadh something similar when I died. If I hadn’t killed that man whose mother cursed me, would I have lived a normal beautiful life? Would I have met someone who loved me? Or was I always destined to kill?”

“What did they say?”

“The King doesn’t really answer questions,” the pattering of rain on water echoed over him. “The Spirit Realm is an interesting place. It is a place out of time. Sometimes I can see myself as I am now, as I once was, and as I could be. I’ve pieced a few things together.”

A mischievous grin stole across her face, and she stretched her free hand out, beckoning him. 

“You want me to come in?”

“Everyone has a destiny, Merlin. We all affect the world in our own way. You just have the power to make a bigger difference.”

He looked from the shoreline to where she floated in the water. “Are you taking me to the Spirit Realm?”

“I can show you a vision of what our lives would have been had we escaped Camelot. I won’t pull you over to the other side.” She sunk so her hair fanned out in the currents around her. “I think this will help you see there are many fates.”

He questioned his own wariness. Multiple fates made sense. Whatever Kilgharrah claimed it couldn’t be inevitable that Mordred and Morgana killed Arthur. He could find the fate that gave him the opportunity to stop them. 

Steadily he worked the boots from his feet, then removed his tunic and trousers and waded into the waters. A shiver wound its way up his spine. When he was waist deep Freya sunk entirely, ripples spreading from her last position. Merlin took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and ducked himself after her.

Dark waters cocooned him, slimy plant life underfoot. His raven hair wove before him in the current. Freya had disappeared.

So, he stood, and found himself standing in the doorway of Camelot’s catacombs. Daylight gleamed off of white stone, and his lips tingled with Freya’s kiss. 

And then, like falling asleep, he forgot the life that had brought him to the lake. He became the Merlin of the dream. 

Giddy, he thought, I bet one of Morgana’s gowns would fit her.

Last day of chores for royals, ever , behind him- Merlin practically skipped from Arthur’s chambers. In a small rucksack he’d hid Morgana’s custom gown, a loaf of bread, three apples and a rind of cheese. That would be plenty to get he and Freya to Ealdor where they could plan their next move. 

He waved gaily at servants he passed, pausing at the threshold to the catacombs where Freya waited. Should he make a quick stop at Kilgharrah’s? He’d promised to free the dragon- and if he did it now, it would provide a good cover to his escape. 

Or, it would put the city on high alert and make it harder to leave. Better to just go. Kilgharrah he’d find a way to keep his promise to, later. 

His footsteps echoed loudly off narrow walls as he rushed for Freya, imagining her delight as he revealed his gifts. He’d never get tired at watching her joy, at watching her learn to love her own life and the magic they held. 

As Merlin skid around the last corner, he came upon an empty alcove. He spun on his heel. Where was she? “Freya?”

His own voice echoed back at him. Had the witch-finder tracked her down? Surely he’d have heard through his attending Arthur if the druid girl had been recaptured. 

The peals of bells clanging shook the catacombs. Warning bells.

They’d found her. He went boneless, the rucksack nearly falling from limp fingers. They’d been so close.

No, she wasn’t captured yet. Warning bells meant she was fighting. He’d help her. 

He flung the rucksack on his back and took off in a sprint.

Servants flattened themselves against walls as he flew past, guards and knights his arrow through the halls until he burst into the front courtyard. An elder knight was corralling a group of ten men while pointing to Merlin’s right. He couldn’t hear the orders, but followed the finger. Below the belltower.

“Stay back, boy!” One of the knights yelled as he barreled past. “It’s a beast!”

A beast? She was far better with magic than she’d implied. 

“Careful, men!” Arthur’s voice! “It’s got wings. Don’t give it enough room to take off. Harry it!”

He was a handful of seconds away at a dead sprint, which required weaving through a few buildings.

“Tighten the ring, tighten! I’ve got an opening!”

A guttural growl drowned out Arthur, and Merlin’s heart sunk. He wouldn’t make it in time. 

In time for what, though? Who was he trying to save? 

His eyes flicked for the eaves of the castle where long-weathered stone gargoyles stood sentry. One watched him now with a snarling grin. 

He’d leave it to chance. 

Eyes flashing gold he pushed a skewer from his chest out and forward. It struck like a joust, launching him back so he coughed and rubbed at a breastbone suddenly sore. The gargoyle fell. 

He limped into a forward pace, pushing past a wheeze. Arthur and Freya would dodge the gargoyle, surely. It’d buy him a few more seconds. 

He rounded the last corner.

A doglike beast with short, black fur towered over Arthur and a contingent of knights. Wings tucked protectively against the beast’s side. The witch-finder lay dead at its feet.  Merlin’s gaze dodged between the players in this scene then struck for the shadows. The beast had been conjured through Freya, surely? She’d be hiding nearby? 

But the deep brown eyes of the beast sought him out, and he felt its sorrow in his soul. 

Arthur found an opening, launching a death blow. 

And Merlin screamed at him to stop. 

Arthur’s step stuttered, and Freya took the opportunity to knock him aside. She leapt into the air, wings buffeting winds great enough to make the knights squint, launching for the opposite end of the plaza where she’d seen Merlin. Her eyes seemed to express her anguish. 

“I don’t blame you,” Merlin gushed, turning from her to Arthur, who was getting to his feet. 

“Merlin?”

Arthur looked… confused. Trusting and confused. 

As Merlin’s fingers curled into Freya’s fur, he choked, “I’m sorry.”

Then he leapt onto Freya’s back, whispered forest in her ear, and looked down at Arthur’s form as it dwindled beneath him. His friend would be okay. He was a good man. And Morgana and Gaius had magic, they’d be able to protect him against any magical threats. 

There was no coming back from this. Stretching an arm out, Merlin summoned the small blue magical light Arthur had once followed through danger to save his life. Arthur would recognize it, and he’d know.

They’d risen too far to see any individual expression, but he could see the shape of Arthur’s posture. He could see the sword lower, the face tilt up. Merlin recognized it as a posture of defeat.

On the face he couldn’t read, Merlin imagined forgiveness.

Years passed. 

For the first handful Merlin and Freya lived in Ealdor. He built them a house and taught her to farm land. She taught him how to pronounce every rune. She met his mother. 

And every night they’d take a walk past the river to the forest, where he’d bind her with magic as she transformed into the bastet. They’d come to learn that the longer she did not kill, the more mindless she became. 

Small animals worked past the curse, though, and Merlin had taken to breeding rabbits. In those days, they ate a lot of rabbit stew. They still ate a lot of rabbit stew, but not for the same reasons. 

On the shores of lake Avalon, Merlin sat on a treestump and sipped at rabbit broth. Freya had discovered a way to steam in a strong taste of rosemary without the bitter leaves speckling the soup, and he savored each spoonful with a curious wonder.

Before him, a clear, cloudless day of summer lit the mountains in a haze of purple, blue, and green and left the lake shimmering. At his back, he could hear Freya moving about their log cabin. Moving here had been good for both of them. At first their visits had been because of the lake’s similarity to Freya’s childhood village, but then the waters themselves had held back her curse. And that had been enough reason to set roots.

But those roots, for Merlin, latched deeply here. Being in Camelot felt right. Really, the only sore spot of this life was the crumbling Isle swarmed by screeching wyverns hidden in the misty center of this lake.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

He blinked up at Freya, her hair loose and skin glowing. “Just wondering at how I earned your favor,” he grinned. 

She rolled her eyes, moving between his knees to block the view of the mountains. He spread them wider for her and enjoyed the wry expression she gave him in response.

“You’re staring at the Isle in the way you do sometimes. Are you working your way to believing me- that the wyverns listen to you?”

He settled his bowl on the ground, tucking her small waist closer to him. “I’m fully focused on your skill with rosemary.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He drew her into a kiss that left her humming softly, finger brushing along his jaw. 

“I hope you keep it,” she grinned against his mouth, combing through his new beard. “It makes you look distinguished.” 

Merlin had grown it solely because it made him look different. The thought sobered him, only for a moment, but Freya noticed. 

She turned to sit on his thigh, head tucked into the crook of his neck and arm flung around him. “We can go back to Ealdor, if you want. I trust you to stop me.”

She’d turned her face so he couldn’t read her sacrifice, so he squeezed her tightly against him. “I don’t want to go back.” It was just… sometimes that view of the Isle wriggled in the back of his mind. 

“Being back in Camelot, going into town for supplies… it just reminds me how I never went back for Kilgharrah.”

“And the wyverns remind you of him?” 

“Yes.” Morgause had freed Kilgharrah in her takeover, as rumor told. But that dragon had believed Merlin worthy of greatness. And day-to-day he stared out at that Isle crumbling to ruin. For the sake of the dragon, could he at least save that holy land of the high priestesses? “I can’t think of how to drive out those wyverns,” he nodded at the Isle, “but we’d have plenty of water and arid land there. It’d be safer, considering nobles come to these shores occasionally to burn their dead.”

“The castle itself is unstable,” she said, “I see its stones crumbling often. We’d have to shore it up with magic.”

“Couldn’t we do that?”

“Could we?”

Merlin dug into the pool of magic that swirled within him. Currently it burned strong and hearty in his soul, but he knew should he use it– days could pass before that same energy refilled him. He wasn’t quite sure if it were age or atrophy that made it harder to retrieve his magic now.

Regardless, it meant any dream to take the Isle would need to be carefully planned. A good first step would be building a boat and oar. That would be a good project to while away summer. 

Freya gave him a squeeze. “Don’t let how big the challenge is get you down. You saved me. I bet we can save the Isle. But first,” she pressed a kiss to his forehead and slipped away. “Get to work hauling that water. Our vegetables aren’t going to water themselves.”

Another summer day years later caught Merlin in a similar mixture of guilt and what-if, though the view was very different. Camelot’s market, or what he should now call Amata’s market, buzzed around him and a large wanted poster of Morgana.

The artist had made her look insane- hair curly and wild about sunken eyes, and lips pulled back over teeth open in a snarl. He doubted she’d really fallen so far; he’d heard she’d been captured when Amata seized Camelot awhile back, but surely at worst she’d been a trophy for the Sarrum. 

Witch-finders always exaggerated their prey. And being the primary enemy of Amata wouldn’t earn her any favors. 

More importantly, this poster meant she’d escaped. I’m rooting for you, Morgana. Even if you did support Morgause's takeover. Even if Arthur and everyone else are dead because of you.

His own beard brushed his chest, and he hid his profile under a cloak’s hood. He doubted any would recognize him. There may be a servant or two around from the old days, but it’d been so long he must have escaped their memories. Still, he felt safer with a disguise.

A tanned-skin man pulled up by him, gaze catching on Merlin’s obsessive staring. It was another peasant, two buckets held by a rope looped over his shoulders. “That reward’s enough to kill over, ain’t it?” 

An incredible amount of gold for a hint that led to her capture- he imagined people were seeing Morgana in shadows just for a chance at that money. To the man, Merlin gave a noncommittal grunt.

“Don’t bother coming up with some lie. I see people do it every day. Besides, I hear she’s in Deorham.”

“Deorham?” The king had been an ally of Uther’s. 

“Rumor has it the king over there’s pissed about how Camelot’s territory was divvied up. Methinks he’s harboring that druid clan too.” The man looked around before jutting his chin at a different wall with another painted poster. On it a man with shoulder-length hair and strong cheekbones stared out. Alvarr, still about and fighting it seemed. 

"You think another war's coming?" 

"Nah, no one's dumb enough to go up against the Sarrum," the man shrugged. "Besides, taxes are low. Anyway, see you."

Merlin watched the unconcerned man trundle away with his buckets, then turned his back on the snarling Morgana. The man was right, as much as Merlin wished he weren't. When the Sarrum seized Camelot he'd handily outmaneuvered the most powerful groups of magic users in Albion, as well as the great dragon Kilgharrah. That lopsided death toll had been as good as hanging heads on spikes. No burgeoning ally of magic had the hubris to assume they could outthink the Sarrum now. 

His bundle of carefully traded goods- imperishable foods difficult to grow by the cabin and complex objects that had become increasingly difficult to conjure- he tucked more securely into his armpit. Then he wove his final way through the market, the overlapping community of voices and colorful people a view achingly familiar but for the brown banners hanging overhead. 

He pushed past his melancholy, ticking booths off of a mental checklist until he were sure Freya would have nothing to call him airheaded over. Then he stood outside the walls flagging down cart drivers until one agreed to let Merlin hitch a ride north for an eighth pence. 

Soon, his feet hung between wheels grinding through weeds and the white walls of Camelot dwindled behind treetops. For all of Camelot’s faults, he’d learned so much about the world while he’d called it home. Arthur, Gwen, Gaius, and Morgana had been good people, good friends for the short time he'd known them, and they hadn't deserved their fates.  He liked to think, if his magic hadn't gotten so weak, he could have saved them. More likely, he would have died with them.

When the castle had fully disappeared Merlin closed his eyes. He’d made the right choice, even if sometimes it hurt. 

He’d have to watch for when he’d need to split from the wagon and head for the cabin on foot, but likely had another hour or two before he’d have to pay close attention. So, bundle of goods securely folded in his arms, he settled in for a short rest. 

Merlin died an old man, Freya’s withered hand in his own. 

And then he woke floating in the lake, blinking up at a dark sky as stars came dizzily into focus.

He squelched his feet into the muddy floor and found Freya swimming a few arm lengths away. She smiled full of sorrow and apology. "I love you," she whispered.

She was so young . And was this how much magic he’d once had at his fingertips? He felt like he could call lightning down from the sky!

“The memories should feel more dreamlike soon,” Freya said. 

Little balls of blue light popped out of his hands by the dozen, and he grinned at the little energetic shock each pulled from him. He’d be sure to savor every day with this power before it left him again. “Did Morgause do something to magic when she took over?”

“I don’t know. But she’s long dead, so does it matter?”

Oh, right. Morgause hadn’t taken over. Arthur was alive. His magic hadn’t weakened, and it probably wouldn’t ever weaken. He blinked at Freya, strangely pale and sodden out beyond his reach. “Arthur didn’t kill you. I dropped the statue earlier. I distracted him.”

“Yes.”

“Such a small change.”

She hummed, and Merlin dropped his hands. The now hundreds of balls of light lit them in a Sidhe-like blue glow, surrounding them like stars brought to ground. 

“Were those my only choices? Arthur, or you? Camelot or you? How is that fair? What kind of fates make it so someone always has to die?”

“That’s life, Merlin. It’s compromise and sacrifice, but no one is out there stitching together our fates or our rewards.”

“That’s what you believe, that there’s no such thing as destiny?”

“I see a lot of histories and destinies in the Spirit Realm. It’s strange here. Anything seems possible.”

“Then I should have been able to save you, and Arthur should have lived, and magic shouldn’t have disappeared.” 

“You did save me.”

“You’re dead, Freya!” He stabbed a hand at her drifting in the currents. “You’re dead. You didn’t get to live any of that.”

“You don’t get to decide if you saved me or not, Merlin. That’s my choice. Respect my choices.”

She glared at him and jolted a now dreamlike experience of how she’d perfected the expression as an old woman. It was both the thousandth time he’d raised her ire, and the first. The duality was weird enough to stun him. “Sorry,” he grinned sheepishly. 

“Learning to apologize when you’re wrong isn’t what I expected you to learn from my gift, but I’ll take it,” she grinned back. “So, have I helped?”

“I’m not sure,” but he felt better, strangely. The joy of having his magic back may be coloring his thoughts. “I guess this means there are plenty of ways the destiny I want could veer off track. But losing track of it could be as easy as dropping a statue a bit earlier. I’ll just have to do what I think is right. What other option is there?”

She smiled. “Imagine what you will do for Albion and its peoples if you love them the way you loved me.” 

A sparking lightning static flickered against his torso, and he flinched back. The surface of the water showed no creature or magic. Was this some sort of after-effect of the dream?

Then it came again, frost spider-webbing over his skin. “Are you doing this?” 

The lake water churned against him, swirling in an eddy that crawled up his chest, spiraling tighter and deeper and infinite. He looked for Freya, questioning, but saw the Isle surrounded by lush green in golden daylight– castle towers standing proud. 

Then came again the shadowed, crumbled shape of broken towers, and a glass pendant thunked over his heart. It hung from a peasant’s twine thin, delicate, but didn’t fracture under the press of his fingernail. Three tight spirals formed a Triskelion rune. 

"Now that would have been handy in the dream," Freya said.

"You really didn't do this?"

"I could never leave the lake even then. Not overnight. Otherwise the curse took hold."

The Triskelion pendant didn't feel magical, and would pass as mundane at a glance. Only on close inspection did finely crafted swirls in clearest glass feel otherworldly. "Was I cursed?" He probed at his own magic but didn't know what to look for. "I don't feel different."

"Maybe you'll find someone else who needs it."

Just when he'd started to believe there were no such thing as destiny or fate or prophecy, magic did something like this. Was this supposed to be some sort of clue?

"I think our time is up," Freya murmured.

Merlin snapped his head back, measuring time by the stars. He'd barely make it back to Camelot before dawn. "Fie!" He splashed out of the water, trying to shake droplets off as he tugged his trousers on. "I'm sorry for having to run. Will gifts like the rose always work? Will I see you again?"

"Probably," she'd begun to sink he finally noticed, water already at her throat.

"I'll come back," he pulled his tunic on, and in the blink she was out of sight she'd sunk to her nose. 

"Goodbye," he shouted to her wave before she disappeared completely beneath the surface.

Suddenly alone but for ripples, and the memories of a life entirely lived fading to a few impressionable moments, he could nearly have believed this were all a dream. But the glass pendant pressed cold against his chest, and he felt more sure of himself than ever. 

"I'm going to trust myself," he promised, echoing what he'd said to Freya, "I'll find what the right decision is for the situation, and stop beating myself up for not being omnipotent!"

Yeah! That felt good. Now, why had the lake of Avalon made him a curse-breaker and how was he going to make it back to Camelot before breakfast?!

Everybody Knows by Wild Fire

Chapter Text

Mid July

After leaving Freya at the Lake of Avalon, Merlin arrived back to Camelot before anyone other than Gaius had noticed him missing. On those first few days reality blended with the dream, a part of him instinctively worrying over chores he was forgetting, before realizing those chores were watering a garden and preparing dinner with Fr eya in a timeline that didn't actually exist.

As the feeling faded, the distraction of finalizing the wording in the new druid laws took more of his attention. Change came fitfully, but it came. 

Then, the morning Arthur signed the last of the new druid laws into place, Merlin was made to run around with a shield while Arthur pelted him with throwing axes. In one of the most rigorous practices in ages, Arthur left multiple knights groaning on the ground and the rest matted with sweat. The ache in Merlin's shoulders left him unable to scratch his own stomach. So when he trudged into the royal chambers with the last warmed bucket for Arthur’s bath, a flash of magic notched the water temperature a few painful degrees higher.

Arthur, perching shirtless on a stool near the filled tub, scrubbed at his face and hair. When Merlin dumped the hot water it splashed back up onto Arthur who leaned back with a scowl. “Careful.”

Well that hadn't been as cathartic as he'd hoped.

Merlin put his hands on his hips, looking sillier for the bucket still gripped in one hand. “What’s bothering you today, Arthur? Use your words.”

“This is my resting face,” Arthur snapped. 

Merlin glowered, unimpressed. “Why is your resting face the same as your upset face?”

“I’m not upset.”

“Sometimes I think you’re wise, and then you say things like that.”

“You insult me while I'm stripping, why exactly? You think that protects you?"

Merlin turned around, because apparently Arthur wanted privacy today. “It's how I typically check what’s crawled up your arse."

There was splashing and grumbling as Arthur entered the bath, then he barked, “I didn’t mean for you to check for woodworm in the door. Isn’t there something for you to do? ”

Merlin closed his eyes, reminding himself that both of Arthur’s parents had been killed by magic, his half-sister and uncle had turned traitor over a desire for power through magic, and his literal birth had resulted in the Purge across Albion. The fact that he was allowing the druids a peaceful stay within Camelot’s borders and rights to trade in the citadel was actually stunning. 

“You and I both know,” Merlin said, the internal rant not helping much, “that my real job is to get your prattishness out so no one else has to deal with it.”

“I’m just worried,” Arthur said, irritation still laced in his voice, “I’m worried, alright? Happy?”

Merlin sighed, “I’m always happy.”

Arthur made some sullen splashing sounds. 

“Can I turn around now?”

“I didn’t tell you to face the door.”

Merlin turned in time to watch Arthur thunking his head against the tub wall.

“Will I cause more death? Are druids from other areas of Albion going to flood Camelot? Am I giving Morgana another avenue back onto the throne?” Arthur gave a great sigh and submerged into the tub, water sloshing.

Finally, they were getting to the crux of it, and only a few knights and his own failing muscles were sacrificed. He went and sat on the lip of the tub near Arthur’s head, the cold press of the triskelion pendant under his tunic underpinning the advice he could lend. 

Arthur reemerged and groused, “I really don’t want your arse so near my face."

Merlin rolled his eyes. “The times you’ve followed the goodness in you– marrying Gwen, knighting Percival, Gwaine, and Elyan– have you come to regret it?”

“No–”

“Of course not. Does this decision feel like the right thing to do, to you? Does it feel right?”

“Yes, but–”

“Then it’ll work out, Arthur. Remember to trust yourself.”

Arthur sighed, sinking deeper into the bath. “I wish I had the faith in myself that you have… and the simpleness of mind. You must live a very peaceful life."

Merlin put his hand atop Arthur’s head and pushed, trying to drown him. Arthur smacked the hand away, laughing. 

“So,” Arthur said once he’d grabbed the soap and knocked at least a bucket’s worth of water on the floor as he scrabbled around for a dropped wire brush, “do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

“I think you’re not fully understanding my advice.” Merlin got up to gather the clothes Arthur had tossed, realizing a sock was missing and having to hunt for it. “But being kind to the druids is the right thing. Being kind is always the right thing.”

“Morgana will take advantage of this. Rodor doesn’t want to ally with us because he thinks I’ll call him to join a war against her, so I promised I’d stop her. But I have no idea where she is, much less how to stop another attack!” Arthur laughed again, this time more of a bark. 

“I’ve had my ear to the ground for her too,” and he’d been muddling over what he knew in between tasks for weeks. The actual facts were that he’d heard nothing, had no clues, no notes, and could reasonably conclude she’d vanished. In the dream, however, she’d joined Alvarr– an anti-Camelot renegade. He had vague memories of them allying with the king of Deorham and dying in a war with Amata. “There’s a man I think she’d reach out to. Alvarr… do you remember him? We took down his band of followers and Morgana helped him escape?”

“He was after something from the vaults, wasn’t he?” Arthur frowned. “Searching out her potential allies isn’t a bad idea.”

Arthur stopped to glare at the wall, so Merlin quietly went about cleaning up. Wanting to track down Alvarr and actually being able to were two different things.

“We need a list of every warlord in Albion. Odin is the only ruler I can think of that would ally with her. If she’s with a discontented noble though, we’ll never find her.”

Merlin hadn’t thought down that path. “Throwing herself behind one of the nobles in Essetir preparing to steal the throne would be a great move.”

Arthur sat up, excited. “That’s got to be where she is. That’s brilliant, Merlin.”

He didn’t want to give up on Alvarr, though. But how to convince Arthur without bringing up an alternate life his magical dead fae almost-wife had shown him? “It’ll take time to dig up all of the nobles in Essetir and try to guess at what’s going on behind the scenes.”

“Leon has a sister married to a minor noble over there. Have him see if she can help.”

“I can ask Bleise about Alvarr, see if he can point me in the right direction?”

Arthur looked at him questioningly, but gave in quickly. “Yes, let’s go down all the possible paths simultaneously.” He split tasks for Merlin to disseminate, so that different people were tracking down her potential allies. He closed with, “If you want to speak with Bleise, you should go now. He’s leaving this morning.”

Excited, Merlin agreed and left Arthur to bathe alone. That had worked? He almost couldn’t believe it! 

Merlin dropped Arthur’s used clothes with the staff doing laundry and hurried off to find Bleise’s room. Hopefully, he’d still be packing.

Past the portrait of Ygraine, hand posed to knock, Merlin paused at the sound of voices. Was that Gaius? It was too muffled to parse the words.

He knocked then, opening the door as he did. 

It was Gaius, very near to the door actually. His hands were folded in front of him, and he’d bowed just slightly. Bleise was on the other side of the room, gaze hard. He’d interrupted something. An argument? 

Gaius greeted him with a smile that was clearly not meant to look pained. 

“Can I help you?” Bleise’s voice was too steady to read.

“I had a question. A longshot,” Merlin said, still feeling the tension in the room. “I’m sorry for walking in. I should have waited. I’ll wait outside.”

“We were just finishing up,” Gaius nodded to Bleise. “Thank you for your time. Travel safely.”

Gaius breezed past Merlin, stoic. Did the two men have history?

“You have a question for me?” Bleise’s bags were already piled in the center of the room. Merlin and Gaius had both made it just in time. Had that been intentional on Gaius’ part? 

Focus. Bleise didn’t look happy, and Merlin didn’t want to burn this bridge. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of a man named Alvarr? He’s traveled in our woods before, a renegade sorcerer who’s gathered like-minded people around him. Or have an idea of how I could put feelers out for him?”

“Why?”

“Long story, but I believe Morgana may have a reason to reach out to him.”

Bleise’s answering pause stretched into an uncomfortable silence. Was Bleise confused, thinking, or untrusting? 

Merlin shuffled, of course this wouldn't be easy just because Arthur had been amenable. “I’m not leading a group of knights against him, I just want to see if I can track her down.”

Incrementally, the tension in Bleise’s shoulders bled out. “Kara, a young girl from the clan,” he sighed, “left us for him.”

The door swung open and Merlin froze. Stupid, to not have locked it behind him, but also– what he deserved. 

Forridel, the blonde woman from the druid clan, stood glowering in the doorway. Ignoring Merlin, to Bleise she said, “Ready?”

He responded, “Merlin is going to find Kara. Will you take him there?”

And Forridel replied with a snort. “Best two out of three?”

So, Merlin, that’s how it feels to have your questions answered.

Merlin shut the door to Bleise’s chambers behind him, leaning his back against the grain. The opposite stone wall was plain, one sconce lit and the other burned out. He watched the remaining flicker as its own oil tapered.

Through the wood he heard Forridel and Bleise speaking, arguing maybe, as she gathered his bags. It sounded like someone else had already tried to stop Kara. 

They’d also said Alvarr owned a tavern in Deorham. One where magic users could gather. Coincidence or comedy, he had to believe it was the same tavern Gilli and Vina had told him about.

“Merlin, my boy?” 

Merlin poked his head out of the archway of the door, to see Gaius leaning from an alcove further down the hallway. Fitting, that his conscience had stayed to stare at him. 

Strange though, that Gaius seemed to have the same thought. A flash of guilt flinched across Gaius’ face before the older man schooled his features. “Shall I walk you back to our chambers, or do you have a task for Arthur?” 

Merlin joined Gaius, tugging him into the hallway. “Is everything alright with you and Bleise?”

Gaius put a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, first as a warm pat, then as a counterweight as they descended the stairs. His gaze faded a thousand yards distant as he whispered, “Choosing Uther in the war didn’t win me many friends."

A fierce, sudden anger filled Merlin. How could Bleise have held that against this old man? Didn’t he see what Gaius had sacrificed? He'd survived, to try and make a difference in the way he could. 

And then his stomach flopped in a sick churn, because they were lines he’d told himself only skewed- I was only a servant, a dragon told me, what choice did I have? I had to keep Arthur and his destiny safe. 

He’d led Arthur to Alvarr and Mordred twice, and the second time had resulted in a massacre. He’d distrusted Alvarr’s manipulations, believed Mordred had to die to save Arthur, and ignored the horrors of the Purge.

Many magic users had died to protect the Crystal of Neahtid from Uther, and Merlin had only added to the body count. He’d done it willingly. He could still feel the pull of his magic as he’d stretched it across Mordred’s path– how it had felt for a little boot to trip across it– the cold self-loathing as he aimed for a young child to be murdered. 

“Do you…” Gaius hesitated, “dislike me for siding with Uther?”

Merlin’s heart hammered. “No. No, that’s– the furthest thing from my mind.” He chuckled but it came out dry, “I guess I was thinking on how I’d done the same thing.”

They completed the stairwell in silence, coming to a major thoroughfare where wings of the castle combined and branched. A statue of a dragon– the one from the Pendragon crest- sat on a pedestal in the center gleaming with light cast from arching windows. Servants and knights chatter echoed as Gaius shuffled over to a short stone bench and sank into it. “These knees,” he joked with little humor. 

Merlin looked down the stretch of corridor that would lead to the grand entrance and on to the Physician’s Chambers, and then down the other– the one he’d often slipped through, past the cellars and prisons, through the catacombs and caves and to Kilgharrah. “I may have to see some people I wronged too, soon. I should make amends but….” Treason didn’t seem like a word he wanted to say in such an echoey room. 

Gaius’ fingertips closed over his own, and Merlin found him hunched over and reaching in order to do it. “Take it from an old man,” Merlin shuffled closer, rubbing a thumb over the back of Gaius’ papery knuckles, “an old man with bad knees and bad dreams. Don’t live your life with regret.”

Yeah. The sick slide of guilts he never wanted to voice– that was regret. The Crystal of Neahtid, the artifact Alvarr and Mordred had come to retrieve, lay down this hall past the cellars and prisons, barely hidden behind an iron lock in a crowded vault. 

He wondered, would it be enough?

Deorham stank of fish brined in sea breeze and pickled in humidity. Its people swam in it, swarthy fisherman with knotted muscles and leathery skin, and nobles breezing by in salt-encrusted fluttery fabric and thick boots which squelched over whatever thin grime made the streets. 

Merlin scraped his own boot back and forth, eyeing the gray, gritty slime. It smelled powerfully of guts, sand, and salt. “Yuck.”

This half of the city rolled over itself heading further inland, crowding against old walls and tumbling over. Taverns built on top of inns on top of merchant businesses in a dizzying display of height, where long stretches of creaking wood slapped between the upper decks so peasants and children could skitter quickly to and fro. Old thick rope nets strung out beneath these bridges, but not all of them. 

The slapping of bare feet on a plank overhead made Merlin flinch. 

“The streets are narrow here, and the looks of the docks ahead are narrower,” Leon said to Forridel, who both strode up ahead. “Let me carry your leathers.”

“I can carry my own things just fine,” Forridel snorted. 

Gwaine nudged at Merlin’s ribs with an expression of unadulterated glee. Watching Leon get more and more flustered over the blonde druid had quite obviously made his day.

They made a strange team, the four of them. But Forridel was supposedly their guide to Alvarr, and the one most likely to convince Kara to return to Iseldir and Camelot. And in lieu of himself, Arthur had sent Leon ‘for leadership’ and Gwaine ‘for sneaking’. 

Alvarr wouldn’t recognize Gwaine, as Gwaine had come to Camelot far after that debacle. As an additional plus Gwaine was good at keeping secrets. 

“I need to haggle with the dockmaster for a space to sell. Stay,” Forridel barked, striding off. 

Gwaine sidled up to Leon, wiping a tear in his eye. “She treats you like a hound,” he smiled. “It’s beautiful.”

“Please refrain from gossiping like an old maid,” Leon ordered with all the strictness of his title. 

“Should I find us some rooms in an inn?” Merlin said. They’d packed light, but it would be good to settle the bedrolls and such in a room before he snuck about to find Alvarr’s tavern. And, ideally, he’d do that alone. 

“I’ll go with you,” Gwaine said, foiling that plan. “We’ll find you two later.” 

Despite the chaos of the docks, which were a maze of wooden walkways crisscrossing in off-kilter patterns and lined with boats and hawkers, at the least they weren’t more than one story. Forridel with her Camelot-red dress and fierce stride could be spotted with some effort. Leon’s gaze flickered after her, full of consternation. 

Gwaine patted Leon on the shoulder, and swiveled on a toe. “Onwards, Merlin!”

The castle of Deorham itself rose on a small rocky bluff, its entrance a sharp switchback up a slick slope. Unlike Camelot, noble houses did not crowd its gates and so it stood a strange lonely sentry above the hubbub of this place. Manor houses, Merlin had to assume, were in the countryside. Fancier inns did ring the coast, palatial structures of slate and whipping banners and yawning terraces, and though Arthur had provided them with a stipend those types of inns were clearly out of budget. 

After some searching, Merlin pushed into an inn a little in between the two ends of society they’d traversed– its walls painted a black peeled and painted a myriad of agains, and yet still in need of a fresh coat where damp cracks in the years of stain revealed specks of mossy green mildew. Despite the ever present haze of salty humidity, the rooms were clean and Merlin and Gwaine haggled two rooms with a sturdy locking chest in each. 

While stuffing their belongings in one, Merlin slipped his hand into his own pack and grabbed a cloth-wrapped Crystal of Neahtid. Despite the multiple layers, a shiver raced up his arm. It still called to seek out its secrets. He shoved it quickly into his pocket. 

Behind him, Gwaine had stripped to his breeches and was rubbing a brown tunic against a high crack in the wall so green mildew and black grease scrubbed into its creases. He’d adjusted his swordbelt so it slung lower on his hips, and the tip of the scabbard bumped his calf as he scrubbed in a way that must have felt stupidly unwieldy. 

“What are you doing?” Merlin asked. 

“Swarthy-ing myself,” Gwaine said.

Huh. Am I the Arthur of the two of us? “Explain yourself, peasant.”

Gwaine laughed and flapped open his tunic, checking his handiwork with a critical eye. “You’re going to need a better costume too.”

Merlin looked down at himself. He wore a red tunic belted over brown breeches, very typical for him. His coat he’d left in Camelot, too hot for it, and his last neckerchief, the purple one, wrapped around the crystal in his pocket. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” 

“How many peasants do you see wearing red here?” 

Merlin crossed his arms. “There are a few.”

“Uh huh,” Gwaine wiggled into his tunic. “We’re getting you something black. Very Deorham. Very forgettable.”

“Have I somehow led you to believe I plan to sneak into the castle?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.” Gwaine seized Merlin by the shoulders and shoved him towards the door. “Less arguing, more shopping!”

They reentered the multi-story contraptions of the lower city where peasants, sailors, and thieves pressed close, calling and laughing to each other through upper story windows, tossing things across the narrow strip of sky. Doors slammed open and closed, offering waves of raucous tavern laughter quickly cut off. Merchants, but more often grifters, often slipped in their way to try and dazzle with a bauble or quickly shuffled deck of cards.  

Ultimately Merlin found a man who thought he’d be able to sell strips of Merlin’s red tunic for a profit, and traded the black tunic off of his own back. Hide striped the shoulders and inner elbows– the shoulders Merlin assumed helped against light drizzle, but the elbows he was lost on.

While he tugged it over his head in the middle of the street, Gwaine poked him in the ribs. “The necklace is cute. Is it new?”

Hidden in the tunic, Merlin flushed. Oh, fie, oh spirits. Think! “It was a gift.” Stupid! "And here I was trying to impress you with my scars, not my jewelry."

Gwaine laughed. “The scars are cute too. Fall into a thorn bush?”

“It was a mace, thank you very much.” Gwaine had been there in fact, it had resulted in the whole Morgana Fomorroh debacle. Actually, Gwaine knew about that now. Merlin told him as much then added, “Morgana healed it actually.”

“Huh,” Gwaine said suspiciously, glancing furtively at Merlin. “Y’know, magic does have its uses.”

Merlin’s mind blanked. Instinct brought him into a total neutrality so complete that sound fuzzed. He hummed something noncommittal. 

Gwaine continued, noticeably trying to seem casual. “This tavern Alvarr-the-magical-mercenary supposedly owns, I’m thinking we check it out before heading back to Leon and Forridel.”

What did Gwaine know?

“Now, I’m no expert– but I think I can get us in.”

Gwaine was looking at him with a careful gaze but a roguish smirk. “Fool’s Gold, the tavern? You've been?” Merlin said, tentatively.

“Sort of,” Gwaine replied with forced nonchalance. "They're around, just not in Camelot proper—illegal usually, and unsavory."

Merlin swallowed roughly. "Have you… been to others?"

Gwaine shrugged. "Maybe once. Not often. Not my thing, y'know?"

Merlin’s gaze flicked down to Gwaine’s chest, as if he could see magic bundled up in there. He shot a bolt of mental connection at Gwaine on the off-chance, and it bounced off as expected. Okay, so yeah, duh. "So, how will you get in?"

Gwaine took the sentence to mean them both, not catching the slip of tongue. He patted the bag of coin in his pocket and said, "Show our gold, of course."

Gilli and Vina had shown Merlin the way, drawn in beer suds on gnarled wood in one of Camelot’s pubs. 

Gwaine, however, didn’t have the same landmarks to follow– though he ‘led’ them while rubbing his chin and muttering about instincts. 

They wove westward, every street an alley of hung cloth, fetid water, and unwashed bodies. Merlin stretched his arms out at his sides, fingers trailing across old cloths that draped across long-gone doors and tilted his head back so his throat ached when he swallowed. There was a tall ship’s mast, painted green, just to the back and right of where they walked. This was the first landmark Gilli had mentioned. Merlin needed to secretly watch out for a lion statue, now. It’d be made of old stone, pockmarked and eyeless- some estate decoration long stolen and pilfered. 

“Look, Gwaine, a shrine,” Merlin said when he spotted it. An unlit candle sat in one eyesocket and a folded leaf in the other. Merlin didn’t find any writing on the leaf, and unsure whether it was intentional or the wind’s trash, replaced it. “Think it keeps away typhoons?”

Gwaine rubbed its head. “It’s probably lucky.” 

The tavern was close now. He had to look for an abandoned structure, burned out and boarded up. It’d be down an alley that appeared to go nowhere useful, ringing to the rear of some other building–

Gwaine nudged him, pointing at a gleam of warm yellow light streaming from a crack in a soot-encrusted door three stories into the sky. A bulky woman with a whited out eye and thick scar stretching over her mouth sat on the creaking deck, picking at her nails with a knife. Thick thighs and booted feet dangled over the drop to the street below, and as they watched, she leaned back and snicked the door shut. “That,” Gwaine said, “is a guard to a tavern we’re not supposed to know about.”

“Explain to me again how you found one of these in the first place?”

“Rumor,” Gwaine replied, swiveling so he walked backwards and could grin at Merlin. “See, I can be mysterious too.”

Doors on the bottom level existed, but were sealed tight. Planks nailed to the windows formed hand and footholds, though, and carefully Gwaine and Merlin scaled to a narrow ledge on the second story. He balanced, fingernails scraping slivers off of soft wood as Gwaine edged to stand beneath the woman, muttering about nonsense entrances and how was a drunk supposed to get out? “Ho, there!”

She glanced down. “What do you want?”

Merlin decided to chance a look at the buildings around them. Maybe the actual tavern was somewhere else in this vicinity. 

“A way up, my lady.” Gwaine pulled a gold coin from his pocket, biting down on it before letting it flip through his fingers and disappear, tossing his hair as he did.  

“Do you flirt with anything that walks?” Merlin groused. 

“You’re supposed to take that gangway,” the woman’s voice dripped with disdain while she pointed at a plank leading to a nearby tower. “Idiot. I don’t know your face, do I?”

“New around these parts,” Gwaine smiled. “Still here as dishonestly as we can be.”

She narrowed her eyes, nudged her chin in Merlin’s direction. “What about him?”

“I’ve got two coins.”

“Not how it works. Not for newbies.”

Gwaine frowned, then ducked his head to Merlin with a sheepish expression. A sharp wind tugged at his tunic and made Merlin clutch his little rivets in the wood wall tighter. “I don’t suppose you have a butterfly up your sleeve?”

“What?” Merlin hissed.

“One of us has to have magic, apparently.” 

Merlin thunked his head against the wall. Now what? Come back later, without Gwaine? The one time he could actually have told the truth– actually, there was an idea…. “I’m here for Alvarr.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and Merlin’s heart lurched at the proof of it. “Who’s that?”

He pressed his chest and cheek to the wood, nervous as he pulled out the neckerchief wrapped crystal. “I’ve got a gift for him. He’s going to want to see it.” He shook at the fabric so it unfurled a little, revealing a peak of gleaming white stone beneath. 

The woman frowned, staring. After a long pause, where Merlin kept his gaze very carefully off of Gwaine, the woman leaned back. “Another fortune-teller, huh? Boring.”

A rope net slapped the space in between him and Gwaine. 

“What's that rock?” Gwaine whispered, grabbing the net and giving it a careful tug. 

“A… bargaining chip from Bleise,” Merlin flushed. 

Gwaine shook his head with exasperation as he swung onto the makeshift ladder and began to climb. “You had that with you before I said we should come here, you little sneak.”

Gwaine didn’t seem inclined to press further, and Merlin sighed in relief. His little card tower, stacked so precariously…. 

When they reached the top level, sea breeze brisk and salty and a welcome relief to the streets below, Gwaine’s hand paused on the doorknob. He leaned over to mutter, “Can you fake having a bit of magic a tad longer?”

Merlin blinked. Dryly he said, "I think I can manage it."

"Good." He tugged at Merlin's wild hair until it stuck up at odd angles. "Scowl a little. Look like an angry sorcerer." Merlin glowered at him and Gwaine nodded in approval. “That’s it.”

Then Gwaine opened the door.

Gwaine slunk into a room that didn't recognize him and felt an itch between his shoulders fade away. 

Oil lanterns hung from iron eyelets in a low-slung ceiling, sputtering shadows over a buzz of conversation and sticky flooring. The stale smell of flat ale and warm bodies pinged against a pleasure point deep in his skull. Give him a drink and a job and he could sink into a new persona. Be a nameless nobody again. 

The exit clicked behind him, and Merlin stepped close so their shoulders brushed. His friend, often coltish, seemed calm but for the slight frown on his lips. His blue eyes scanned the room with care, but when they alighted on him, Gwaine, they tinged with nervousness. "Decent crowd," Merlin said. 

Gwaine counted something between thirty to fifty people in this square room, tables at his left and a crowd at his right. "C'mon, we shouldn't just stand here." 

A long bar stretched near wall to wall made of long planks of wood etched with shapes that might have been coded writing, or doodles, and a wide mirror behind reflected a more feminine version of he and Merlin's faces. A male bartender stood between, head leaning on his fist and spare finger pointed at an empty flagon as it trembled. The harder he furrowed his brow, the more it shifted. 

While an ale called to him, Gwaine flipped instead to leave the man to his little study of spellwork. He leaned against the bartop, gold coin flipping through his fingers until Merlin joined him, hands shoved in pockets and slouching. He really did play a gloomy sorcerer well. "There are going to be people looking for various magical services here," Gwaine whispered. "And other people here to trade information. Some, er, less than legal work too. Don't flinch if you notice it."

Merlin nodded at a table nearby, where a long-fingered man wriggled his hands over a flat wooden bowl. A group of hooded people stared intently into its depths. "Like scrying into nobles' vaults?"

Images of other places in water, that was called scrying? "Uh, yeah." Gwaine tucked the coin back into his pocket. He wanted to ask about the stone in Merlin's pocket, that bargaining chip from Bleise for Alvarr, but doubted Merlin would be very forthcoming. Was it magical? Wasn't it sort of a bad idea to be giving helpful gifts to someone that might be allied with Morgana? "See Alvarr anywhere?"

"I'm starting to think owning a bar may not actually mean living in it," Merlin said. "But I wonder if there's a way to the lower levels from here. Some trapdoor, or stairwell or something."

"Sneaking a place we shouldn't is a pretty risky move for newbies. May be a better idea to do some weaseling up here, see what we can find out about Morgana's movements." He gestured with his chin at the scryer. "I could pay them to show us where she is."

"Asking about her too openly would be suspicious." Raucous laughter burst from a table of four, a woman there making pulling motions with her hands as her face rippled into that of a makeup smeared courtesan. She said something mockingly high-pitched before the illusion snapped away as the table laughed again. "We could split up. Just to look around."

There were dangerous people here. Potentially Morgana herself, but in that vein it wasn't like both of them together stood a chance against any sorcerer truly out to get them. If one of them went down, at least the other could go get help. "If you find Alvarr, don't talk to him. Come back and get me. And if you have to run, meet me back at that lion statue. Or the inn."  

"Yes, Arthur." 

Merlin and his smirk slipped into the crowd before Gwaine could respond, leaving him miffed. Don't insult me , he wanted to say, but the Arthur in him had the right of it. Merlin needed to treat this seriously, and they had to be careful. 

Gwaine had the barkeep give him a bit of a drink to carry as he prowled, telling himself not to actually sip on it. The table of four with the wiggly-faced woman wore different house symbols but the weathered fabric of the lower class. Performers, he figured. Or the secret house sorcerers of some noble families. They may know rumors, but ingratiating himself with them would be difficult. 

The group meeting with the scryer stood, replaced quickly with a short woman who slammed a coin down and whispered. Clusters milled in the vicinity, leaning on walls, or eyeing the scryer from nearby booths. There was some sort of pecking order here. What showed up in the bowl? Was the man looking for particular places or objects, or could he actually find someone wherever they were? 

The short woman bared her teeth, and Gwaine backed away- splaying the fingers of his free hand in the universal charlatan gesture of I've got nothing up my sleeve. The pecking order of eyes flicked at him, sizing him up. Clearly, he was unlikely to find a partial ear at the back of this crowd to ply for questions. He'd need to let the heat die off. 

The other half of the tavern needed exploring, so Gwaine folded himself into a crowd sudsy with ale. Long-trapped stink clung like a humid fog, brewed by weapon-heavy mercenaries and grinning sorcerers with gold flicking across their irises. It simmered under the warmth of oil lanterns, and the press of it made Gwaine's eyes water. Sweat gathered in the creases of his joints. 

A woman flipped her blouse to reveal a hundred tiny, glittering knives stitched into the lining. "Needle, handsome?"

They were wicked, jagged things- the type you might slip into someone's spine to leave them thrashing. Behind her, painted posters on yellowed paper hung in rows- scowling faces snarling at him. Prices for their bounty, or information on their whereabouts, were written in large block letters beneath. 

“Top five drink free,” she laughed. 

He caught sight of Morgana’s poster almost as she said it. Her face had been painted in broad strokes of black ink, a fierce ghoul of hollow cheeks, deep eyes and wild hair. That was Camelot’s bounty. Nearby was Dragoon’s, an old man with a weak mouth wanted for Uther’s death. “They come here often?” 

She followed his eyes and snorted, then nudged him towards a figure in the far corner. Another woman stood there, pale face shadowed by a deep hood and dark hair curling against her ribs. Long, royal fingers twitched at her sides. Gwaine’s throat went dry. 

“Ask her,” she said.

They didn’t have a real outhouse here on the third floor, Merlin was pained to find out. The trough of piss in this closet of a room reeked in an indescribably rancid sort of way. 

No mirror either, but Merlin would make do.

Magic thrummed over his skin, his clothes, and he imagined it coalescing into small interlocking mirrors until he shone like a strange stained glass statue. Then he twisted, and studied the fade of his body to something colorless, adjusting and torquing to something spiritlike, then to as faint as a thin shadow. As he twisted his forearm, the shadow came in and out of sight. Adjusting the mirrors only made his shadowed forearm appear at different angles. Good enough.

He pressed out of the trough closet so his back sat flush with a wall, shifting so the bar covered him from the right and the standing patrons filled the space before him. 

The bar itself, a long wooden structure decorated with runes, had space for the tender and a wall of casks backed by a mirrored pane of burnished glass. Behind that glass, though, was a narrow closet of space. As Merlin pushed into it now, he stepped over a dry bucket with mop congealing within, and slipped, catlike, around a tree of cloaks. 

Meant to look like a tucked away corner, it opened into a hallway only a little wider than Merlin’s shoulders. The mirror, from this side, looked out over the bar. Gwaine backed away from the scryer and disappeared into the standing crowd, and Merlin recognized no other faces. He slid further along aware that if someone else entered this hallway, there would be nowhere to hide. 

Dim, but not pitch, Merlin saw the blank end of the hallway early enough to fall to his knees and start feeling around for a trapdoor. Wood worn sandy hitched at the calluses of his palms as he slid over long planks, rusted metal, clumps of mud until his nails caught a long horizontal strip of groove. It wasn’t even that well hidden, catching easily under his fingers, a little pull of magic unlocking a latch to yank the small square of wood into his hands. 

Almost too easy- a trap, maybe? 

Well, even if it were, good luck to whoever came up against him in a dark hallway. 

A sloped ladder led down into another space dim with boarded up windows and cracks of sunlight. Two children sat below, cross-legged on a large rug that filled a space stuffed with couches, cots, chairs, and lined with the accoutrement of a crowd of people currently missing. Merlin closed the lock behind him and crept down the ladder an inch at a time, listening to the girl mutter instructions at the boy. Belatedly he heard snoring from a third body in the room.

If Alvarr or Morgana were here they were likely on the floor below, and in his quick glance he assumed the ladder for that would be on the opposite end of this room. Could he risk opening another door in this much quieter space? Would the children notice? 

He landed on the toes of his boots in a crouch, spidering his way carefully into the main room until he’d safely ensconced behind a green couch. The snore grated again, rumbling in the back of a throat that could use some plumbing. He hadn’t gotten eyes on the person, but, clearly, not Morgana.

The girl said something, lilting a little scoff off the end, and Merlin froze. The chance had been there, but– he popped up, quickly, shadowed features zeroing in on the children before him. 

Yeah. The girl was Kara. And the boy– 

Mordred. 

He’d grown in the years Merlin hadn’t seen him, the round cheeks of youth replaced with the hint of a stronger jaw. He still drowned in his clothes, but a small smile graced his face as he flicked his gaze between his hands and Kara before him. 

Mordred reached out and pinched twine from Kara, twisting his fingers until the string formed a boxy shape. Kara adjusted a few strands, then wove her fingers back through, praising and instructing with an arch in her voice. Morded huffed a single, amused, whisper of sound.

Merlin sank so his back pressed to the couch, fingers curled rigid into the floor beneath him. They were playing Cat’s Cradle, a child’s game.

A block of stone pressed against his chest, ground him into the floor.

He’d tried to kill that boy. 

He trembled. From holding himself so rigid? He shifted, tried to shake out arms that felt both weak and tense, wrapped them around his torso and curled in on himself. 

That boy would ally with Morgana and kill Arthur. He couldn’t let that happen. He loved Arthur. Camelot needed Arthur. Peace needed Arthur. 

But it felt like killing a child. Listen to him, Kilgharrah– those shy sounds as another parentless child coaxes him out of–

It’s crazy, Kilgharrah. I can’t. I won’t–

Gwaine in a stupid risk walked right up to the woman and looked her in the eye, and then laughed giddy. She snarled- brown eyes instead of green, flat face instead of pointed- and snapped, “Who are you?”

“I thought I was someone who knew you, but I’m not,” he fought the giggles, slapping at his cheeks. 

She leaned around him, glaring at someone else in the tavern. 

Before she could get him dragged away, “I was told you could let me know more about,” he nodded at the wall of wanted posters, “uh, the whereabouts of some people?”

The woman grumbled, leaning back but with fingers twitching at her side. “Yes. But you have to trade what you know.”

Gwaine scanned the wall again, quickly. “I don’t recognize anyone but Dragoon or Morgana, and I doubt I’ve heard anything anyone else hasn’t.”

She snorted, “Who did you say you were?”

“Just a traveler, but-”

“How did you find out about this place?”

“Uh, some druids.”

She quirked her head. “What druids?”

“Well, there’s this group up in the forest of Brecffa, southern Camelot? And-”

“Names would work.”

“Excuse me?”

“Give me names of everyone you know there. Especially anyone new.”

The crowd around them offered no help, and neither did the yellow depths of his ale. “...Why?”

She pointed at a poster above her head, of an older man with a short beard. The text called him Ruadan, a druid leader wanted in Essetir. “Seen this guy?”

Lost, he shook his head.

“What do you think I do here? I help people find each other. I’ve got new transients coming out of Essetir every week.” 

Oh. Well- Iseldir probably wouldn’t mind. “I could tell people how to get to the campsite? I don’t really know any names of new arrivals. I didn’t realize that might be happening. Did you know Iseldir’s clan is under protection of the crown, now? That a druid sits on the King’s Council?”

The woman’s hand shot forward, squeezing his bicep hard. Her eyes were wide. “You lie.”

“I’m not lying,” a few around him got shifty, glancing at them over mugs. His skin crawled in preparation for a brawl. He didn’t like having his back to so much of the room. “But you have to tell me about Morgana. What you know.”

“Everyone needs to hear about this, if it’s true.” Her hand squeezed tighter, and she leaned close- voice a desperate whisper. “You have proof?”

“I… well, how would I prove it? Actually, you could ask Kara. This is Alvarr’s tavern, isn’t it? She’d know.”

The woman jerked back, echoing his giddy laugh from before. “What about magic? Illegal?”

“Morgana?” 

“Dead,” she said. “Probably. After her last attack on Camelot. No one’s heard a word from or about her since.” She tugged his arm towards the opposite side of the room, elbowing people aside and ultimately kicking a chair out for him and shoving him into it. She sat across, the other people already at the table giving them raised brows. 

From her robe she pulled a wanted poster, flipping to the back before he got a good look at the face. Then she zapped him, like static, and his finger started smoking. “ Ow?”

“I’ll tell you what I know about Morgana Pendragon. But you promised me a map to Iseldir’s free clan,” she shoved the yellowed paper at him while tapping it with a manic energy. “Now draw. ”

Rough fabric of the couch pressed into his back made Merlin’s skin itch, and his bony arse ached from the way he’d curled up here on the ground. He’d calmed enough to have humiliation wake him. How long had he been sitting here, chittering?

The blood thundering in his ears had cooled to the soft sounds of the room- Kara murmuring, Mordred’s small huffs, the occasional snores. Muffled voices drifted up from below, but were far too muddled by the tavern’s noise to gather any specific words.

The triskelion pendant, a grounding, cold triangle against his chest, made Merlin loosen enough to grip it. Freya had helped him see that he had to do what felt right. Protecting felt right. Protecting everyone . 

He crawled back for the ladder, using a rung to steady knees that still shook slightly, and when standing reviewed the little pocket of peace Mordred had found. Am I the villain here? He dropped the invisibility spell, and grimaced as Mordred jerked backwards, fingers tangling in twine before he settled, tense. 

“Hi,” Merlin said. “I’m here to talk.”

Kara recognized him, lip snarling. “What do you want ‘ Emrys’?”  

How much did she know? Maybe everything. “I was wrong,” he forced himself to keep Mordred’s gaze, “working with Alvarr, or Morgana, doesn’t mean you were out to start another war. You were a child. And I’m sorry. I’m really–” he did break off here, turning his face away and scowling at how a crack of sunlight lit a strip along the dusty rug. 

“You came all the way to Deorham to apologize ,” Kara stood, fists balling at her sides, adding, “ badly ?”

A trap door opened on the far end of the room, a cloaked man exiting and pausing at the sight of Merlin. Mousy, with a pinched mouth, he tugged the hood tighter over his head and turned away, shuffling as Alvarr came up behind him. 

Alvarr hadn’t changed much– middle-aged, rough beard, shoulder-length blonde hair and smarmy smile. He held no surprise as he called, “Merlin, why don’t you let my guest pass so we can have our meeting?”

Merlin moved from the ladder, edging into the open area and feeling Mordred’s unblinking stare on the side of his face. The mousy-man shuffled past. With a confident smile, Alvarr gestured before climbing back down into the lower level. 

Kara glared, arms crossed, angry in that young teen way like he held all the evil in the world and aimed it at her, but Mordred had gone less tense. Quiet, and careful, but that hair of terror had passed. 

Merlin gulped as he lowered his way after Alvarr. Good. That was good. 

He scanned the room below first for Morgana, but if she’d hidden here she knew a spell for invisibility better than his. Still, Merlin shot four blobs of light into each corner and swirled them quick around the room before leaving them to hover at the ceiling. They hadn’t seemed to run into anything.

“Pretty,” Alvarr said, dry.

His magic lit another dim room, glinting off of walls stacked with weapons and artifacts. Swords, pikes, nets, and more dominated the space. A bed and a chest for clothes marked Alvarr’s private corner, but the key piece of furniture was clearly the desk. Alvarr settled behind it into a patchwork velvet chair, swinging his legs up to cross ankles on the long slab of wood. Long slices of driftwood connected by iron screws made up its surface, lime green moss growing ethereal in its cracks. “Pretty,” Merlin echoed, flicking his fingers at the table. 

Alvarr grinned, “Well, sit,” and continued while Merlin complied in the opposite chair. “What business does Arthur’s manservant have with me? Come to collect the bounty?”

He deserved that. “Why did the Crystal of Neahtid matter so much to the druids?”

“So that’s the white rock you’ve got in your pocket?”

“A little controlling, don’t you think, to be mentally communicating with everyone in the tavern?”

“Not often I get dangerous foreigners on my doorstep,” Alvarr’s eyes flicked to where the crystal hid in Merlin’s trousers. “Let’s see it.”

Merlin sighed, but produced the gift, flipping his purple neckerchief aside to reveal the gleaming stone. The… the ceiling looked sturdy. And there were… lots of weapons here. Maybe he should count them. Gwaine would ask. Long enough– he flipped the neckerchief back over and shoved the artifact to the corner of the desk. 

A clear sheen of greed shone in Alvarr’s eyes, tempered by a sag of depression. Sadness? Merlin hadn’t expected it, but then– a lot of people had died for this Seer’s stone. “What do you want?” Alvarr whispered. 

Merlin grimaced. “A lot of things. Peace, mostly. Freedom, obviously. But from you? Maybe a truce.”

“Huh,” Alvarr crossed his arms, and Merlin fought off a squirm as Alvarr’s gaze dripped over him. That gaze flipped to the bed and Merlin flushed.

“No.”

“The gift goes a long way,” Alvarr continued smoothly, “but I don’t trust you. And you don’t trust me. How do we fix that?” Merlin opened his mouth and Alvarr smirked, talking over him. “We need to speak about why. Why don’t I trust you? You led Uther against my people and got them killed.”

Merlin’s flush bled to one of shame. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“ Why?”  

How to answer that without going off the deep end with dragons and potential fates? He’d sound like a madman. “I was afraid Morgana would tip into what she’s become.” Hopefully that didn’t sound too accusatory. “I largely blame myself.” There.

“Huh,” Alvarr said again. Then uncrossed his arms and accidentally let an earnest undertone slip out beneath his affected disinterest. “You didn’t kill her?”

Merlin blinked, then cursed himself. Morgana wasn’t here. But he’d just given Alvarr the idea to seek her out. What was wrong with him? Every time he tried to prevent something! “So you’d ally with her against Camelot given the chance?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he held his hands up placating, “I’m taking this offer of a truce seriously.” Alvarr swung his casual posture away, boots planted on the ground and palms pressed into the driftwood. “How about, you do something for me, I do something for you?”

Merlin squinted, tried to stay impassive.

“Morgana’s your big enemy. I could tell you if I hear of her,” he dodged his eyes towards the crystal, “through that. You leave it here with me. In exchange- did you get a good look at the man who walked out of here before you?” Merlin shook his head no, “He works for Alined. The king here. He’s another I don’t trust very far, a shifty sort of guy. Find out if he’s planning anything with Alined against me and I’ll consider us even.”

“The druids want Kara back with Iseldir’s clan. Mordred should go with her.”

“Mordred is the one who can read that crystal.”

“Then you could send it with them. They’d be safer with Iseldir, wouldn’t they?”

Alvarr barked, “I don’t barter children. They want to stay with me, they stay with me.”

“But if they choose to go with Iseldir, you won’t stop them?”

Alvarr huffed, frowned, then shrugged. “No.”

“Fine,” Merlin stood. After a pause, thrust his hand out. “We’re in agreement, then.” Alvarr stared at the hand near cross-eyed, then stood and gripped Merlin firmly. This cult leader– so confident in his tavern with his weapons and his people– had been decimated by Merlin’s choices once before. And as sorry as Merlin was for that, he could tell this wasn’t a truce of friendship. So he fed a bit of lightning into the balls of blue light that lit their faces, letting their crackle flicker dangerously against the warped wood of the building. “Don’t cross me, Alvarr.”

Alvarr, to his credit, didn’t flinch. But he did pale. “Truce, then.”

Alvarr had snuck him out of the lowest floor. Tugs of magic had clicked iron latches in a puzzle too fast for Merlin to catch, and released a veritable wall of wood that had once seemed to seal the door closed. Merlin then slipped out of that door, abandoning Gwaine, as easy as putting on new clothes.

The rocky bluff that protected the castle from him, the rain-slick switchback trail watched by two dozen guards who held long spears in tight grips and hung crossbows from hips, was not bereft of traffic. Knights of Deorham trotted by on horses, servants with laden baskets skirting their hooves, all decorated in the crests or black house color of Alined himself. 

A servant a few years his younger plodded past him, two sacks of grain sitting heavy on each shoulder, and Merlin fell into step just behind him. He arranged his face into a neutral mask, utterly forgettable in its blankness, and strode up the long path and past the front gates as just another peasant on his way to a job.

When the grain-laden young man veered into a servant passage, Merlin diverted to tail a maid. He continued in this way, shifting at intersections, hiding behind a blank boredom and imaginary task list scrolling behind his eyes. He took a cloth from a pile of laundry and flipped it over a shoulder. He picked a vase off of one table, and set it down on another. And when he saw a pile of dirty dishes bobbling he followed them to the kitchens.

There he seized a pitcher of wine in his left hand and a platter of cheese in his right, whirling back into the servant’s passages more invisible than ever. He knew how to swivel a platter on a palm and extend his arm straight in the air to wind through a tight crowd, knew just the right way to smirk at a maid behind a noble’s back. 

The dining hall he found empty. 

But the throne room held voices. 

High windows channeled a whipping sea breeze into a column of a room. Grey stone turned the beautiful browns and greens of a weathered cliffside loomed behind the throne, which sat on a carved replica of the rocky outcropping that held the castle so high over the town. Perched well over Merlin’s head, Alined lounged here with one leg crossed over the other and sharp-toed boot twitching.

Merlin had entered at the far end of the room, and had to skirt the moat-like center where the mousy man from Alined’s tavern kneeled, black cloak pooling around his ankles as his forehead pressed to damp stone. “I’m searching, I’m getting closer…” he muttered variations like a prayer.

There were five stairs to crest the carved dais, and by then Alined’s gaze began to shift more fully onto Merlin. He thrust the wine out, pouring before Alined could complete whatever thought he’d begun. “We can’t cross the Sarrum,” Alined hissed.

Merlin swung into a furniture pose– parade rest, bored stare on the back wall, tray balanced on a palm near his hip– he called this one ‘tea table’. 

“We won’t, sire, I have a lead–”

“Lead, you always have a different lead,” Alined grumbled and gulped at the wine, swiping a sleeve across his forehead and nearly sloshing wine over himself as he did. Sweating? The tall walls and high windows left this room almost cool. “He thinks I’m hiding things from him. How much longer do you expect me to hold him off because of you? ”

“Could we not, perhaps, and surely your eminence knows I don’t presume to know what’s best–”

“Just say it, Trickler,” Alined spat.

The mousy man, Trickler, bowed so deep his arms stretched out flat before him, face pressed so low his voice came muffled. “Our allies in Camelot could perhaps be availed upon for this small request–”

“Small request? It’s a small request now?” 

“I only mean to say–”

“Uther’s dead. Camelot isn’t our ally as it once was, and the son is a worrisome creature. He kills Odin’s crown prince, a king in Caerleon, goes silent. Who knows what he’s planning.”

“Apologies, my lord, I am a fool.”

Alined tossed a cheese into his mouth and around his chewing said, “Tell me more about this new lead.”

“I need to journey north–”

“Oh, so a lead to the majority of Albion, then?”

“Northeast, sire. There was a sighting, apparently, in Essetir.”

“And who says there was a sighting in Essetir?”

“The Trickler needs his tricks, sire,” the mousy man forced a papery laugh. 

“ Who says , Trickler?”

“I cannot begin to explain my magic, my lord, please I only mean to explain I have had a breakthrough–”

“Spirits, just shut up,” Alined wiped a hand across his face then shoved his goblet back at Merlin– “you whinge so much.” The goblet wiggled, and Merlin poured. “Leave the pitcher. I don’t want the cheese.”

Drat. Merlin propped the wine at Alined’s feet, slowly making his way down the cliff-like dais. 

“How many times have I told you to speak clearly? Succinctly. Get to the point. What is wrong with you that you always, always , blather?” Alined punctuated this rant with a drink. “And can you get off the ground? Did I ask you to lick the stones? You expect me to be able to hear you from down there?” 

Merlin had arrived at the doorway and could delay no longer. He pushed the latch with careful movements, keeping himself silent, and slipped out just as Alined drawled: “So, Essetir…. ” 

In the hallway, guards at doorways, Merlin had no choice but to put his head down and walk away. 

He needed to hear the rest of that conversation. The spell he’d used in Alvarr’s tavern would be too easily noticed here– a strange fae shadow opening doors and then standing by walls would be noticed. Could he mentally connect with Trickler and listen through his mind? It seemed, fundamentally, wrong but… well, Trickler would likely catch on. What if he scryed them, somehow? Through the wine pitcher? He needed a shallow bowl; he could conjure water…. 

The castle was the normal sort of busy, and he did not know it well enough to find an alcove for himself. Fie, he cursed, fie. I’m wasting time. 

He wouldn’t find a quiet corner. Not here. Not in time. 

So the next busy intersection he flipped into a corner, curled over his stomach with forehead resting on knees, and cupped his palms in the not completely hidden space he’d created. 

Then he conjured the smallest pool of water, laced the lightest scry upon it, and strove for the tinny echo of Alined and Trickler’s voices. Through the metal of the pitcher and the meat of his palm he caught only the jist of their phrases. Traveling to Essetir. Arranging passage. Which noble house would ferry them. 

When someone tapped his shoulder he lost the rest. The water he ran onto his cheeks as he stood, wiping a sleeve across his eyes to feign tears. “Are you alright?” The person said.

“Fine,” Merlin said roughly, and strode off before they’d focus too much on his face. 

He didn’t pull the same trick twice, and by the time he’d exited the castle, made his way down the switchback trail, and wound his way back into his room at the inn Alined, the Trickler, or the pitcher were long gone.

Gwaine learned the information trader's stories on which nobles, druid leaders, and sightings Morgana had traversed before settling on Agravaine, but as the trader had said before, she had no new information. 

He rubbed at his charcoal finger, no longer smoking but still holding the memory of discomfort. She traced her own ensorcelled finger over the lines he'd drawn, darkening and smoothening them. "It’s approximate; I’ve never really drawn a map before,” Gwaine worried, “but you could just send people to Camelot’s market. Druids will be trading there.”

She hummed, beginning to add notations based on instructions he’d provided earlier. “Morgana went this way, when she escaped Camelot?” She traced a path east out of the citadel. 

“Third time you’ve tried to needle info about Morgana from me, the guy asking.”

She smiled, wry, “You blame me?”

“Guess not,” Morgana was somewhere, but likely not here.  

Her shoulders drew back and went rigid, and suddenly she was rolling up her map and standing. Around them, others did the same. The scarred guard who'd berated him yanked open the door and barked, “Up and at ‘em, folks!”

“What’s going on?”

“Bar’s closing,” the bartender shouted at the crowd. “I take the plank when I go, better beat me out!”

Gwaine got to his feet, searching for Merlin in the press of bodies. Forced to shuffle out, he followed the mob out and across the gangway leading to the neighboring building. Most went down a stairwell and scattered across the alleys, so Gwaine followed, finding his way back to the hollow-eyed lion shrine. Merlin would meet him here.

From his vantage he watched the bartender come out and nod to the guard who then both disappeared around a corner to where the gangway would have been. 

Gwaine waited, imagining Merlin talking to a few folks in the stairwell house, maybe getting a little turned around in the alleys. Puffy white clouds drifted out of the ocean, the occasional rolling gray lumbering heavy after. While Gwaine stood one of these brought shade to his little corner of the world, and a few measly raindrops spattered over the gritty alleys and Gwaine’s cheeks. He waited through the cloud moving away, water steaming under a mid-afternoon sun, and until the dark drops dried as if they’d never been. 

Something cold settled into Gwaine’s chest during these long minutes, but he really did not want to acknowledge it. Merlin could have gone to the inn. Gwaine hadn’t been clear. 

He put his left hand into the loop of his sword belt, a relaxed pose that positioned the hilt into an easy to grasp angle. He’d just check the lower levels of the tavern before heading to the inn. Merlin had gone down there, and could still be snooping.

Or he could have been caught snooping, and caused the tavern to close down in the middle of the day. 

The lower level looked as soot stained and water warped as it had on his and Merlin’s initial perusal, and Gwaine tested the boards of the doors and windows with careful pushes of his hand. It all seemed quite solid. Hacking at it with a sword would look a little ridiculous. Percival’s ridiculous brawn would be handy right about now. 

He did another circuit, eyeing the alleyways nearby for shadows that may be tracking him. Then, in a moment of abandon, rushed a window.

His shoulder connected with wood, throwing a long line of pain through his collarbone as he heard a sharp crack . He stumbled back. The wood had splintered and his arm– fine. He rolled his bruised shoulder then slammed into the window again. This time one of the boards cracked all the way through and he followed up with two well placed kicks to clear the rest of the debris. 

Dustmotes filtered out first, and Gwaine thrust his face into a charred room empty of life, but more importantly, empty of Merlin. 

Still, he sidled over the ledge, pacing the square room. It felt abandoned– long abandoned– despite knowing that a roaring tavern had been merrily going just above not so long ago. Not a bottle, charred scrap of cloth, nothing , remained here. Alvarr had really built a tavern on a burned out husk, hadn’t he? 

The ceiling drooped, made of a thick bolt of ship canvas. He saw the poke of shards of wood and assumed the floor above had caved in, and this canvas were the only thing keeping himself from being crushed. If Merlin hadn’t come here, then where had he gone? Why hadn’t he met Gwaine at the lion shrine?

Fear made him think maybe Alvarr had caught up to Merlin. Maybe the renegade hadn’t been so forgiving. But if so, where had they gone?

Gwaine swung back outside and began a quick pace for the inn– glancing once more at the abandoned lion shrine on the way. Everything was fine. He hadn’t gotten his friend killed bringing him to a sarding underground sorcerer black market. 

He barely registered the charlatans of the shanty town thinning into the slightly sharper hawkers where their inn resided, ignoring the owner’s lackluster greeting as he burst into the front doors. He felt coiled tight. Ready for a brawl. Itching to sink his sword into something. 

Their room was empty though.

Both of them.

He appeared back in the lobby, the cold in his chest unignorable now. Merlin was missing. Alvarr got him. “Has my friend been through here?”

The owner lifted their head off a hand, fixing them with a bored expression. “Who?”

“He would have been about this tall, black hair, about this broad in the chest– wearing a black tunic?” 

“Don’t think so,” they said, returning to prop against their hand. 

His tension ramped. He needed to tell Leon; he’d let this get out of hand and now Merlin was captured.

No longer a point in subtlety, this time, he ran.

He secured his sword belt more tightly as he went, the oppressive mugginess and his own heat making his long hair curl and cling to the back of his neck. He panted harsh by the time he entered the sprawling, twisted mess of the docks. He'd watched earlier, Forridel's red dress gliding along, watched her pointing– there . Relief tasted heady.

Far less stagnant than the air of the alleys, the waters of the docks still ran fetid with scraps of vegetables, the guts of meals, and the general refuse of a population ever transient. Forridel and Leon had obtained a dilapidated space on an edge of the market, foreheads nearly knocking against a fresh pier built slightly crosswise above them. Gwaine ducked under the scream of gulls and around clouds of gnats, grip tight around the hilt of his sword and his coin as he dove deeper into this mix of layabouts and patrons. 

When he finally arrived Forridel stood alone, blonde flyaways whipping at her cheeks and throat, her pelts and leathers spread about her feet. "Where's Leon?" Gwaine asked.

"Hunting my lunch," Forridel remarked, a ghost of a smirk on her. "What brought you here alone?"

"Merlin," he needed Leon, "he's in danger. I think Alvarr's got him."

"Alvarr's got him," she repeated disdainfully. "So the two of you went to find him without me?"

"It was my idea."

"Uh huh," she said, voice still thick with judgment. "And how was he captured? What did Alvarr say?" 

"I didn't see it exactly. We split up. Merlin hasn't come back– I told him a landmark and the inn and he hasn't been to either." He was reminded suddenly of when he'd glued goose feathers to his sister's hair in the night, and his mother's morning glare. "I know how it sounds. But soon after we split, a call went out to clear the tavern. The whole place looks abandoned now. And Merlin's missing."

"If I've lost my chance to speak with Kara…" she grumbled. 

"But Merlin–"

"Is fine." Her eyes glinted, but he didn't know her well enough to read the expression. "He went off on his own, and he'll meet you back at one of your meeting points. You said they cleared the tavern? Did you see Kara at all? "

"I–" he cut off, at a loss. She was being so casual. 

She sighed, and this next expression he did recognize– as pity. "Look, Merlin… he's got his own thing going on. He saved my life once, snuck by my house before Leon and his crew rounded me up. I ran off to join Iseldir, after. Whatever he's up to, he'll be alright."

Gwaine recoiled slightly, then wanted to yell at her about how sneaking around Camelot was a completely unrelated set of skills to fighting off a renegade sorcerer who may have it out for Merlin. 

"Husband," Forridel said suddenly, with a layer of mocking. "What have you brought me?"

Leon held what Gwaine hoped was fried fish on a stick. Was that a tentacle?

"Gwaine has found Alvarr for me," Forridel continued, "and I'd like to go earlier than planned to seek out Kara. My wares," she gestured at the skins beneath them, "you'll watch for me?"

"Perhaps it's best if we pack these into the inn, so I can go with you."

"In case Kara seeks me out here I'd rather not lose this spot. She won't know of the inn." Forridel's eyes flicked at Gwaine before she lay a light hand on Leon's arm. "You aren't awful at selling leathers, actually. Better than I expected."

Leon's answering blush was boyish. "Then it would be my honor to protect and sell your wares until you return."

"Well," she said, red also beginning to splotch up her neck, "if it's your honor at stake, golden boy, I don't have anything to worry about."

They nodded tersely at each other and Leon thrust the fried creature at her like a bouquet after she'd already turned. As she strode away Gwaine took the stick with a smile and a curtsey, and wrote off whatever squire training Leon silently signed him up for as worth it.

The fried monster, he found, tasted rubbery but not bad. He pushed an unbitten side at Forridel who then stole the entire skewer from him. She ate without holding conversation, making him more nervous as they went. What was the plan? She’d caused him to leave the one person whose leadership he wanted. He could still turn back?

Forridel finished by wiping any trace of meat with a swipe through clenched teeth, then shoved the wooden skewer into her hair. “Wait at the inn,” she said. 

“But–”

“And tell me where this tavern is. And the other meeting point you planned with Merlin. Two sets of eyes. We’ll find him, and Kara.”

He barely knew her. But from what he’d gathered she’d been the person Leon had first run across in their initial search for the druids, she’d been the one to help ferry letters between Arthur and Iseldir, and, apparently, Merlin had saved her from imprisonment. She owed Merlin, and Gwaine trusted her sense of honor. He hoped that was enough.

He complied– telling her about the shape of the alleys, landmarks to follow, and the lion statue. The tavern he described in detail, and the neighboring building they’d used as a stairwell. Then he explained how to get to the inn where he’d be waiting impatiently. He’d stressed the impatience, and his worry. 

She’d rolled her eyes.

And then he’d sat on his cot, looking at the mold he’d rubbed into the creases of his peasant’s tunic, waiting, and waiting, and waiting.

At some point he threw it into his pack and sat shirtless, swordbelt and sword laying on the ground next to his boots. He nudged the placement a few times as if the exact efficiency of potential movement would make a difference should an emergency arise.

The wall’s black paint, he noticed, had crackled like dried skin. Flakes like fish scales patterned over spans. Patches peeled like sunburn. How long until dead bodies did the same? Gwaine had never stuck around long enough after he’d killed someone to find out.

The room had a series of square windows too small for even his hand to pass through, and their row of sunlight slunk slow across the room, fading in and out as clouds passed over. Gwaine was watching to see if one particular oranging square would hit the doorknob when it finally turned and opened.  

Merlin stood there frozen, sunlight glancing off his hip, as Forridel said something behind him. Gwaine registered nothing besides the wary, guilty pinch of Merlin’s expression. “I went to look for you at the tavern,” Merlin said, stiff. “You weren’t at the lion.”

Gwaine’s anger flared. Of course he hadn’t been at the lion. It’d been hours since the tavern emptied. 

Merlin stood awkward, hesitant to enter the room fully. 

So Gwaine chose to fall into bed and arrange his blankets. “I came here,” he told the ceiling. “What happened to you?”

The door shut, and Merlin’s cot creaked. “Alvarr recognized me. I… got into a bit of a situation. Forridel got me out.”

Merlin didn’t seem to notice that the two explanations he’d provided so far didn’t even match the same lie. But the most recent story chosen was that Forridel had saved him, so: “Leon’s got his eye on a big prize,” Gwaine said with a laugh he didn’t feel. “Think he’ll tell her his squishy thoughts next door, tonight?”

An uncomfortably long silence followed his lackluster joke, and Gwaine tugged the blankets a little higher up his chest. 

“I’m not sleeping on the floor?” Merlin said, following a conversation they both knew the end of. 

“There are a whole two beds for Leon to be proper about in the room over,” Gwaine said, “and a lady he’ll convince himself he needs to protect. I only hope she doesn’t open his mind to the possibilities too loudly.” Gwaine forced another laugh and turned on his side, away from Merlin. “Glad you’re alright. How did Alvarr like Bleise’s gift?” 

Merlin paused long, again. This time , Gwaine thought, nearly vicious, at least the story you’ve forgotten is from a few hours ago. “He, uhm,” Merlin eventually whispered, bland, “was appreciative. And didn’t seem to know where Morgana was.”

“I discovered the same,” Gwaine forced a yawn. “Guess she’s faffing about somewhere else.”

“...Yeah,” Merlin said, and Gwaine had to hope he could at least trust his friend not to lie about Morgana.  

He heard Merlin stand. 

“I’m going to wash up. Be back in a bit,” then the swipe and click of the door. 

Gwaine’s laugh, this time, came true. Fine , he thought bitterly. Bluff like you care what I think of you. 

Gwaine was no honest gambler. He held his own cards close to his chest and hid his tells behind pomp and fluff. Turned out, though, he was merely a more practiced player. 

I see you, Merlin. Merlin’s gaze skittered when dodging certain questions. He deflected around stories he didn’t want to tell. And, Gwaine berated, Merlin faced danger with uncanny courage. You fooled me on the flop.

But the game doesn’t last forever. You can’t hide your hand from me much longer.

Freaks sung by The Hawk in Paris

Chapter Text

Late July to Mid August

Merlin spent the evening pretending not to avoid Gwaine, who slept, or feigned sleep, in their shared room. The lobby of the Deorham inn had squat tables and watery wine for its patrons, and people brought meals in as he waited on Leon and Forridel to return from the docks. The third time he told his story– this time to Leon instead of Forridel or Gwaine, it came out smoother. 

The next morning he rose early to buy a loaf of bread and pile of tiny dried fish, which he split amongst the four of them as Forridel dragged out their stay. Eventually, though, the crumbs of their dry meal were too few to pile into patterns on the table, and she sagged, “I thought I’d gotten through to her last night.”

Leon put a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you take a circuit around the docks? Perhaps Kara has gone to look for you there. I could wait here. ”

Forridel didn’t appear to believe him, but her grief loosened. 

“I could check Fool’s Gold,” Merlin offered. 

“And I could check the front gates,” Gwaine added, “and meet you all back here by midmorning.”

She thanked them, agreeing, and near after he and Gwaine headed northwards together, sharing their initial route. Testing the waters, Merlin said, “How’d you sleep?”

“I dreamt you were a fish,” Gwaine laughed. “I kept thinking, why is this fish so good at terrible puns? Didn’t seem to bother me that you could talk.”

Alright, well… okay then. That wasn’t an altogether strange thing for Gwaine to say. “I didn’t sleep much, actually. I kept thinking how… Morgana really isn’t here. Where did she go ?” He said the last mostly to himself. 

“Dunno,” Gwaine said, “but Arthur will figure it out. What sort of fish do you think Morgana would be? You were sort of silvery. I bet she’d have a lot of tentacles.”

Gwaine rattled on for a bit, deciding what sort of sea creature each of their Camelot crew would be, but Merlin found himself frowning at the humor Gwaine propped up between them. This rant was quintessentially Gwaine, but in the same breath it felt…. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Thin?

“Oh, that’s your turn,” Gwaine said, cutting himself off. Merlin looked to the pink-washed shanty without much recognition, but believed him. 

“Wait, Gwaine,” he said as his friend had already begun sauntering off. Gwaine tossed his hair, tilting his head to raise an eyebrow. He was the picture of ease. “I… just wanted to… apologize for worrying you. I’ll explain it all when we get back to Camelot, at the Round Table meeting Arthur’s sure to call. It was pretty crazy, I ended up at the castle–”

Gwaine grinned, “You’re such a dork for apologizing. Sounds like a great story, mate. See you back at the inn, though, gotta swim.” 

And Gwaine left, all smiles. Merlin watched him go feeling… what, exactly? Disquiet, maybe. Guilt, most likely. Gwaine was a better friend to him than he was to Gwaine. 

He followed again the landmarks to Fool’s Gold, though this morning found it the same burned out husk it had appeared when he’d first returned. Yesterday, he’d thought he might have returned to the wrong place, and hadn’t quite trusted himself until he’d see the rune-covered bartop on the top story. 

A knocked out window on the lowest floor had allowed him to poke his head through, finding the room empty but for Alvarr who’d been sitting cross-legged and smiling cynically. All of Alvarr’s things had been floating on the ceiling, covered in canvas.

“I half thought you’d bring Alined’s men down on me,” Alined had said, then.

“ I see you’ve already squirreled the crystal away,” Merlin had replied. 

Alvarr wasn’t here this morning, though. He’d seemed to believe Merlin’s claim that the Trickler had kept Alvarr’s involvement out of whatever game Alined was playing. But, perhaps not enough to reopen the tavern until Merlin, and the Trickler, were well out of town. 

He combed through this lower level, then took the time to climb back to the top floor and search the tavern and second story. He didn’t find any clue towards Alvarr, Morgana, or even a letter from Kara for Forridel. Eventually, he gave up. 

Morgana, seen through the Seer’s stone, hadn’t been a bad idea from Alvarr. Merlin had no desire to look through the thing himself, and only half-believed Alvarr’s swear of sharing what he Saw of Morgana, but Kilgharrah… if he could just convince the dragon to give him anything clear– any prophecy or vision the dragon had seen– perhaps that would offer a similar clue. 

Kara, it turned out, hadn’t shown at the docks, gates, or inn. The failure clearly bothered Forridel, and she’d remained largely quiet on their return journey. “She knows the way,” Gwaine had said when they’d dropped her off at Iseldir’s camp. “Others will want to see what all this free druid business is about. There’s still a chance she’ll come back, if only to help someone else who wants to join up. I remember being her age– too stubborn to do anything anyone told me to.”

“That’s changed?” Leon had replied, then pushed a quick pace for Camelot so they arrived before sunset. 

Dusty and foot-sore, too long without a bath and still smelling faintly of fish, Merlin wanted nothing more than to grumble something at Gaius and fall into bed. Leon, however, invited them to his family home and made them sit at the dining table as he sent out for food. Merlin watched his sweaty fingers leaving fingerprints on the varnished wood as Gwaine blinked at an ornate candle-holder hanging from the ceiling. Portraits of people in fancy clothes stared at them from the walls.

“What old woman decorated this place?” Gwaine blurted. 

“My great grandmother,” Leon retorted as he returned with a sweating pitcher of water. He thunked this and three goblets on the table and began pouring. “I sent for Arthur too.”

Merlin groaned and stood up.

“Where are you going?” Gwaine said.

“Helping Leon’s staff get enough dishware out for the whole Round Table.”

“Sit down,” Leon said, following suit, “they’ll get it.”

Still, Merlin perched on the edge of his seat, smiling uncomfortably as a housemaid bustled through setting the table. She also handed Leon a pile of paperwork which he frowned at. As he riffled through, Merlin heard voices.

“-was you. I know it was you. I will grind all your swords dull.” Elyan entered the dining room flinging his arms in the air. “Stop lying!”

Percival entered after with an amused smile. “I only said it looked like beetroot powder.”

“Tell me this isn’t Sir I-had-three-sisters ’ handiwork!” Elyan thrust his hand at Gwaine where a layer of fuschia clung to Elyan’s nails. 

Gwaine cackled, “Smells like horse glue.”

Gaius entered then, looking curiously at the knights before taking the closest chair. 

Elyan groaned. “That’ll last days . I was messing up my carving all day. They’re so distracting!”

“But very fetching,” Percival added to Gwaine’s, “they complement your complexion.”

Gwen and Arthur trailed after Gaius, Gwen smiling something at Arthur while tucked into the crook of his arm. “Maybe, maybe,” Arthur was laughing as they entered. It felt… good to see him so happy. Good to know he was safe.

Arthur, settling into the opposite end of the long table from Leon, lounged and said, “Well? Meeting begun and all that.”

“Merlin will tell it best,” Gwaine said.

“Maybe I should get everyone some water first,” Merlin started, then heated under the annoyed look Leon sent him. Where’d he learn that glare, Gaius? “I mean, uh– so we found Alvarr. Or, I found him. Or maybe, he found me. Hold on, I’m a little–”

“Discombobulated?” Gwaine finished for him, grinning. 

“Just start from the beginning,” Arthur said slowly.

“No, I’ve got this,” Merlin huffed. “Here’s the important bits. The Sarrum is looking for someone, or maybe something, and has Alined helping him search. They’re still allies, right? And Alined, the king of Deorham, sent the Trickler, that’s his servant, to help find this person. Trickler thinks they’re in Essetir, because of information I think he got from Alvarr. The person they’re looking for may be Morgana, but they didn’t say that explicitly.” He leaned back, pleased with himself for being so succinct. Then, remembering, leaned forward. “I don’t think Morgana is in Deorham. Alvarr had a way of questioning me that made it seem like he’d thought she’d died in Camelot.”

Everyone stared and Merlin wondered, what? That was pretty clear. 

“Just,” Arthur sighed. “Leon, Gwaine, please?”

Leon was frowning even more deeply at the papers he was holding so Gwaine said, “We found the tavern Alvarr and his group hole out in. Merlin and I split up, him to check the lower levels while I questioned some of the patrons. I got the same questions Merlin did, about Morgana. They all seem very convinced she died after her last attack here.”

“And how did King Alined come into this?”

Merlin had practiced this part. “When I was looking for a way into the lower levels, the Trickler came out of a hidden stairwell. So I followed him to the castle, and listened to the meeting he had with Alined. I got to the part where they were planning a route to Essetir when I got kicked out.”

“Kicked out?” Arthur repeated. “They saw you?”

“No, Alined just didn’t want any more cheese.”

Arthur shouted at the ceiling.

“He went in as a servant,” Gwen explained. “Blended in well, didn’t you?”

Merlin grinned at her. “Walked right into the throne room and they didn’t even blink.”

“Idiot,” Arthur said, expression ashen. He did a quick glance around the dining room. 

“You talked to Alvarr as well?” Gwen bade, and Merlin launched into his altered story about returning to the tavern to find it empty, but Alvarr waiting on the bottom floor for him. He shared the same lie he’d given Leon about how Forridel had vouched for him, and Camelot. Which she sort of had, just… she’d done it after he and Alvarr had finished speaking. 

“And how did he ask about Morgana?” Arthur stressed. 

“It’s hard to explain… I sort of… spoke like she was alive. And he tried really hard to pretend he wasn’t extremely interested in that opinion.” 

“So, the undermarket of Deorham think she’s dead,” Gwen sat back with a puzzled frown. “She disappeared in that pop of air. I thought that was just her escaping. Gaius?”

“It’s called Tunneling, your majesty,” Gaius said. Merlin failed at hiding the way his jaw dropped at the name of the spell. He should have thought to ask Gaius earlier! “It’s a very powerful spell, and yes, it was her traveling quickly.”

“Could it have killed her? Her magic wasn’t working so well at first,” Gwen said. 

“It’s possible,” Gaius said, but his eyes flicked at Merlin and continued, “but unlikely. She’s very strong.”

Arthur sighed, “So we’re where we started. Leon, did your sister get back to you about possible nobles in Essetir who might be interested in a witch?”

Leon had about ten papers spread before him on the table, glancing between them. “There is a trend here,” he said instead. But at Arthur’s second prompt shuffled back into his stack of correspondence. “She says she’s too country to be petitioned for an alliance, but she’ll call on a few friends nearer the castle and see what gossip she can gather.”

Food arrived then, something that smelled beautifully of potatoes. Merlin folded over the meal, largely tuning out Elyan and Percival’s details on known warlords across Albion. Cornwall, with King Odin and the dead crown prince, Elyan brought up as someone he wanted to try to plan a trip for, similar to Leon’s in Deorham. The list of Morgana's potential allies was already so long, and didn’t yet include druid leaders or other magical groups the knights wouldn’t be able to dig up. If I could learn that tunneling , he stirred herby vegetables while so glad to be away from salty fish, I could check on all the places Arthur wouldn’t. He’d have to ask Gauis details, tonight. 

His warm belly and the comfortable chair was doing wonders for helping him ignore how filthy he felt.

The conversation moved into whatever Leon was finding in his letters, and he read a few paragraphs out loud. Something about druids, loitering suspiciously? Merlin propped his head on his hand, feeling heavy. He watched his spoon scrape the edges of dried potato off the wall of his bowl. Weak crops, broken roof shingles, and what was this most recent rant Leon was reading claiming, exactly? Candles burning at the wrong rate?

Gaius began a long metaphorical explanation about change, and fear, and Merlin thought he’d just rest his eyes….

“Are we boring you, Merlin?” 

“I–” Merlin sat up abruptly, processing the sight of his friends around him through a thick haze. “Sorry, did I drift off?”

“And he calls himself sneaky,” Arthur said, “you realize you drool, right?”

“Perhaps we should adjourn,” Gaius chuckled. “It must have been a long day for these three.”

“Adjourning sounds great after journeying,” Gwaine yawned. 

“Will you help an old man to his chambers, Merlin?”

“Right, sorry,” Merlin half-stood, wondering where his bowl had gone. All the dishware was gone. Weird, but nice. 

He came enough to himself and the tacky feeling of sleeping with your mouth open by the time he’d helped Gaius up. Behind him, he heard Arthur say, “That idea you had, Guinevere, we have this numbered queue method for grain emergencies that I think–” 

The dining room door shut behind them, muffling the remainder. Merlin didn’t fight to listen, anyway, instead scrubbing a hand over his face. “Did I miss anything important?”

“No, I’m glad you rested,” Gaius said.

They walked in companionable quiet through the upper town and into the tower that led to Gaius’ chambers. The stairs wound in a tight spiral, and from the quiet echoes of their own feet Merlin could tell they were alone. “Tunneling," he prompted and waited till Gaius nodded. "Do you know how to do it?”

“It’s very powerful. Nimueh was the only person I’d ever seen capable of it.” Gaius smiled fondly, “She would use it flippantly sometimes, to hop around the castle.”

Gaius spoke rarely about his life before the Purge. Merlin was sure to keep his voice even and careful as he asked, “She was your apprentice? Before me?”

“No, Alice’s,” Gaius went quiet. Alice, his former betrothed, was a piece of that life Gaius talked of even less. 

“I’m sorry, Gaius,” for killing Nimueh, for what became of them all, for bringing the memories up, Merlin wasn’t sure exactly. He gripped the triskelion below his tunic, remembering Freya wistfully, then let it give him strength. 

He was going to fix all of this. It was his destiny.

He slept light, and when the half moon edged towards the witching hour Merlin slipped from his covers. He dodged muted guard patrols with the barest attention, skirting the outer walls of the citadel until folding into the cool rustling of the forest. 

Familiarity guided him, the carved silhouette of the castle turrets before the scattered stars a marker. When the shape of his fist could blot the whole castle he stopped, and took in the forest stretching before him. Yes, the clearing was just ahead. He tipped his head back and roared.

“Dragons! Come to me.” The roar echoed through his chest like a bell struck, a strange magic that called Kilgharrah, the connection between dragon and dragonlord. 

In its wake it always felt funny to stand in silence, with nothing seemingly changed. But he knew Kilgharrah and Aithusa would fly swift. He waded into the knee-high weeds of this forest field, spikey leaves with budding white flowers brushing his calves. The heels of his boots slipped over hidden patches of slick mud and clusters of stone until he’d reached his favorite oak. Ivy choked its gnarled trunk and hung in clusters from its boughs. Its roots had always made a nice bench.

Kilgharrah and Aithusa would be, perhaps, an hour. So he sat, leaning his head on the rough bark, and soaked in the heady pollen of a nearby lilac bush. Supple leaves of ivy brushed his cheeks, and he let himself relax back into the country quiet that so reminded him of boyhood. He drifted off. 

“Young warlock. ” 

Merlin’s eyes flashed open and he sat up with a cough. A monstrous spider all sharp elbows eyed him out of the dark, head low and eyes gleaming with an inner golden light. After a jolt Kilgharrah resolved, scales a dull mustard in the darkness. The dragon took nearly half of the grassy clearing into his shade. Night insects silenced.

“It’s good to see you,” Merlin brushed himself off and stood, then peaked around the great body for Aithusa’s white scales. He didn’t see them but assumed she’d be along shortly. “Thank you for your help with Agravaine’s men. You made it out without injury, or being seen?”

“Of course,” Kilgharrah snorted. 

“We lost Morgana shortly after. Did you happen to see where she went?”

“My Sight doesn’t work that way,” Kilgharrah sat back on his haunches, extending and folding his wings in a series of stretches. “I’ve told you this before.”

Merlin passed into the expanse of field weeds and twisted his heel into the soft soil beneath him. How to get what he wanted out of the dragon? He’d had a few questions build up over the months. “Tell me more about your visions. It could give us a clue to where she’s gone.”

“She rides against Camelot with Mordred at her side–”

“Yes, but, details, Kilgharrah. Is there an army? What colored cloaks are they wearing? Are there banners?”

Kilgharrah’s teeth clicked in distaste. “Both traitors are bannerless, and she cloaks herself in darkness because she is a sorcereress of shadows.”

Dramatic, unhelpful Kilgharrah– he should have expected this. “What about these runes?” He began to clear a patch of grasses. “I found them etched on her dining table, and I think I used them to summon a strange magical creature.”

Kilgharrah's scales rippled as his brow arched high throughout Merlin’s sketching in the dirt. “These are man-made symbols, Merlin, and like man it is limited but capable of a great many things.”

"Like what?"

An irritated growl. "Order from disorder. Merlin," he wiped the symbols away with a sweep of his tail. "Runes are only imitations of man's desires. They are manifestations of man's ego projected into the magical world around him. You are capable of much greater magic."

"But understanding them could come in useful. I'd rather have the knowledge to interpret them, rather than ignorance, if something dangerous turned up on my doorstep."

"Knowledge, young warlock, is very different from wisdom."

Merlin heaved a sigh. This old bat. Fine, he’d figure the runes out on his own. 

“Can you teach me the Tunneling spell, at least?”

Kilgharrah’s eyes slitted. 

“You want me to end her life so badly; I have to find her first, don’t I?”

Kilgharrah’s tail thumped the ground once, twice, thrice, then his long neck wound close to look Merlin in the eye. “That is a worthy enough reason for the knowledge. Perhaps you will use it wisely, despite yourself. Come closer." Jaws expanded, large enough to swallow him whole. On Kilgharrah's exhale golden warmth enveloped and subsumed, blinding him to the clearing and its trees and revealing in their stead the spaces between. Emptiness stretched before him, a double-vision and a darkness, and he heard the long phrases required to build and stabilize an ephemeral structure.

A great store of magic spindled before him and in a rushing moment, like falling headlong into the rapids of a river, sucked him forward. For one blink a yawning tunnel built of vibrating golden chains surrounded him. 

Then he was on his hands and knees in weeds.

“Very loud,” Kilgharrah said as Merlin rolled over, rubbing the imprint of grass and pebbles from his palms. He was behind Kilgharrah, he realized.

"Is it not supposed to be?"

Kilgharrah shook his head, "You took a large amount of air through the tunnel with you, but I have no doubt you will gain better control with time." 

He felt exhausted, somehow, just from this short jump. Nearly depleted of magic. He’d never felt depleted before. He formed a small blue light in his palm, to make sure he could. It felt a little like squeezing water from an empty canteen. “That really took it out of me.”

“Your magic will return to you from the ambient magic around you, as it always does. You will need to be patient.”

The shape of the spell imprinted strong in his mind’s eye, and he imagined how he might use it, guide it. “Thank you, Kilgharrah.” There would be no attempting it again tonight, though. Exhaustion hung spirit-deep in him. “I think I’ll head back to the castle. Where’s Aithusa? I want to see her before I go.”

Kilgharrah turned his face away, stretching his wings to fly. “She is not coming.”

“I called her with the dragontongue,” Merlin replied dumbly.

“I worry she is unable.”

Confused, Merlin got to his feet. Was she hurt? Or ill? There was still time before dawn, he could go back with Kilgharrah and check on– 

“She is missing.”

…Missing? Missing where? 

Aithusa missing? “She ran away? Poachers? What happened?” Kilgharrah began answer but the image of Aithusa dead made his heart squeeze in panic. “For how long? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“She and I had a disagreement,” Kilgharrah said.

“About what?”

“About the witch.”

Panic fell out of him and dread filled its place. Oh no . “Where is she, Kilgharrah?”

“She did not agree with my visions. I tried to stop her, but she is small and sneaky.”

“Where is she, Kilgharrah?”

“A few months ago she left, and she hasn’t returned even as I called for her. I don’t know where she is, but I assume with the witch .”

“ How could you let this happen? You’re supposed to be all-knowing, prophetic!” Merlin raged, raking his hands through his hair. 

"I know how precious she is!" Kilgharrah snapped. "Do not forget who told you of her egg!"

“She didn’t agree with your visions? You said Aithusa was a hope for our future. She joined Morgana willingly! Tell me what she saw!"  His power laced through his words and Kilgharrah stilled.

“How dare you.”

“Tell me what vision of yours for which she didn't agree.”

“I have told you!” Kilgharrah roared. “She walks before an army with Mordred at her side. I have seen a hundred fates. In every one she strikes to kill.”

And Aithusa… disagreed.

He stumbled back, away from Kilgharrah until he hit the treeline. Freya had shown him a different fate. How many different fates were out there? How many had Kilgharrah not seen? “Everything I am is because of you,” Merlin said, shaky. 

“You have the responsibility of my race with or without me,” Kilgharrah rasped. 

He’d held her egg in his palms, killed for her. She’d come into the world eyes bright and his heart had never felt so full. 

She’d joined Morgana.

Willingly.

Fluttery panic crawled like frost over his skin. How were they going to find her? What would Morgana do to her? “ Aithusa! Return to me in Camelot, now!”

Kilgharrah shook his head, large eyes blinking slowly at the sky above them. “I am sorry, Merlin.” Please let her be flying here .

Please let her be safe.

Kilgharrah left to beat the dawn. 

And still, Aithusa did not come. 

He passed the next day with anxiety churning tight in his stomach. He could barely register anything Arthur said, wishing instead to push Arthur harder to find Morgana faster. His distraction had gotten him sent back to Gaius early. And as evening inched towards night, he could hardly feel the cooling water and his wrinkling fingers as he scrubbed used beakers. 

In Merlin’s first years in Camelot, direction had come from the often cold and calculating Kilgharrah who would kill yet innocents and call it justice. Since then Merlin had lived the pain Kilgharrah had tried to avoid, and had at times become just as cold and calculating. So he understood why Aithusa would reject them. The youth in him understood, and fled with her.

“Merlin, you’ve been washing the same glass for half an hour.” Merlin jolted, looking up to Gaius standing over him with clear concern. “And you look waxen. Are you ill?”

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” Gaius bent forward to put a hand on his forehead, but Merlin leaned away. “I’m not ill. I’m… practicing tunneling.” He didn’t have the emotional capacity right now to have a long conversation about a missing baby dragon who’d looked into the future and then gone to join Morgana . 

Merlin put the overly cleaned instruments back on Gaius’ worktable.

“Be careful, my boy. It is a tiring spell, and if you are using an aging spell on top of it you may find yourself in a place you didn’t expect in a face you didn’t mean to show.”

“I’ll just go from one side of my room to the other for now. Goodnight, Gaius.” 

The heat of Gaius’ concern followed him up the stairs. Closing the loft’s door behind himself he leaned his back against the wood. He didn’t have time to learn the spell slowly. He had to find Aithusa, and had to free her from Morgana’s influence. 

He closed his eyes, imagining a hole opening before him, only barely large enough to walk through. Magic spooled out of him, and he pushed into a place he knew was safe from prying eyes– Kilgharrah’s old prison beneath the castle. 

Spell hardly completed he felt a great sucking; magic wrenching out of him and into an unknowable space. Out of control, he was pulled in after.

He lost feeling and sight, for a blink only a void in a void, then his gut swooped up and away from him. It felt like falling.

He was falling! 

Air whistled past him, darkness around, a thin river below. Stalactites rushed towards him in a great cave– He’d made it to Kilgharrah’s old prison but had come out beyond the cliff’s edge.

Desperate he built another tunnel from him to the overhang, felt the rest of his magic yank from him like water in a suddenly bottomless vessel–

And slammed into rock ten feet below the ledge. He reached upwards, missing the lip by a huge margin, and felt weight sucking him downward once again. 

His boots scraped on the cliff, skin tearing beneath his hands, a fingernail lost somewhere in the rock above him. He reached into his store of magic, found nothing, tried again then again–

Found one last dredge, perhaps newly reconnoitered from ambient magic, and blasted it downward in a formless wave. Its force flung him upward pinwheeling, the small window to the stars winking as he spun, and slammed onto his back with a cough. 

He felt around him– flat, solid stone– and moaned in relief. Then coughed again as air wheezed back into his lungs. 

Rolling onto his side, ignoring the grit of stone dust beneath his cheek, he looked out into the darkness of the prison. In the long past he’d brought a torch, but now he didn’t have the magical strength to light sparks much less create a fire. A self-pitying groan escaped him.

His knees ached like he’d spent the day scrubbing floors. He didn’t even remember banging them on anything. 

Pulling himself to sitting he checked himself over, feeling more than seeing the injuries in the dim light. Just scrapes and bruises, ones that would be hidden beneath his clothes. He’d be okay. 

The injury on his pride was another thing. 

He probably shouldn’t try tunneling back, but he should store up a bit of magic for dodging guards before returning to Gaius’ chambers. Besides, he felt a bone-weariness that surprised him as much as it had last night; a weariness where even walking sounded beyond exhausting. 

How long would the replenishment need this time? He looked up at the small hole of stars in the cave's roof and measured hours by picking out constellations. 

How long had Kilgharrah waited in this prison with only that mocking window above? Alone, starving, raging at a people that had forgotten he existed? 

“It would have driven me mad,” Merlin whispered. “All of my friends dead, the last of my kind, betrayed by the last dragonlord….” 

Hatred would have been an easy companion, and the death of his enemies a righteous reward for his years spent waiting. The necessity of it would have felt no different than killing Agravaine and his men. 

If he’d seen a way to make Uther pay for his crimes, he would have made it happen. Killed the son that had spurred the Purge, or the daughter that would make it worse— 

From what Merlin had experienced, prophecy was vague and instinctual. 

And given Sight and a decade spent in darkness, he may have just seen what he wanted to see.

Merlin jerked awake, heart racing, the nightmarish sensation of falling dissipating as he confirmed the solid stone beneath him. 

Still in Kilgharrah’s past prison he noted a comforting bubble of magic in his gut. It wasn’t his normal store by any means, but he yet felt all the safer. Based on the stars only a few hours had passed.

He sunk into that magic, reveling in the sparking energy of it as it moved underneath his skin. With eyes half-lidded he fell deeper into hazy meditation. This magic moved wild and energetic and lively, like a creature existing alongside him, but smelled warm and earthy and comforting like a wheat field in Ealdor. 

The pendant at his chest cooled, and he touched a hand to the Triskelion covered by the fabric of his shirt. Like metal pulled from a dark corner and carried in a pile in his arms, it had a noticeable coolness without being uncomfortable. Now what had caused that?

He slipped the delicate chain out through his unlaced tunic. The clear glass of the Triskelion shimmered, and when he pressed a thumb to the crystal his mind –

Double vision twisted his mind's eye and he had the distinct sensation of his brain being squeezed through a tiny opening, but as he looked past his watering eyes he saw his magic.

He saw his magic.

Like the strange magical fae he’d seen in this very room that had revealed the golden structures of their spells, today he saw the crinkling, crackling windchime-like structure of his magic drifting about him. It swayed in non-existant breeze, twinkling as it moved. 

He formed a ball of light in his hand, watched his magic form a golden lattice ball before it lit into soft blue. 

Something dark sat at the edge of his sight, and he turned into a spot of pure blackness. It stared unmoving from ten steps away, no larger than a rat.

He stretched with one of his golden windchimes. It grew as he willed it, the thin line pushing through air and towards the darkness. As it grew closer it snapped left, out of his control, zigzagging like cracking glass, then in an instant of lightning white it disappeared, devoured. 

Had he come across another creature of magic, invisible to most? He took his boot off, slammed it over the darkness so it disappeared beneath the fabric. No force of magic fought back. A dead creature, perhaps? 

He slowly released the Triskelion from the grip he had on it, allowing his vision to fade to normal. He’d check for just a moment if there was anything he could see like this, and if not–

With a jerk he lifted the boot up a fraction and felt an instant wave of embarrassment. 

Kilgharrah’s old manacles were beneath his boot– or a chunk of one at least– and oh, of course they’d been made of dark magic. Dark magic, the inversion of magic itself, endlessly hungry, could be the only thing that could hold a dragon for so long.

Cursing, he thought, this must be why Aithusa couldn’t come when I called. 

Morgana understood dark magic, she’d made a Shade of Lancelot, and she would not be morally above creating a monstrosity like this. 

The image came easily of the baby dragon, small and crying, trusting and confused, manacle around her leg as Morgana smirked down at her. 

No, no, he wouldn’t let that happen.

Casting aside the fear and trepidation towards tunneling, he folded himself into a meditative seat and gathered magic for a return spell.

I have to find her, find them both, before it’s too late .

He spent a week's worth of nights learning how to aim the tunnel, practicing down the long hallway in the catacombs. (Surely if they hadn't heard a dragon roaring down here, they wouldn't hear the wind gushing behind every tunnel he created.)

This seventh night he found that if he first imagined his magic building the end of the tunnel, rather than the beginning, he could generally land within a body length of where he wanted to be. He had far less control over how much magic sucked out of him to make those tunnels, but he'd work on that later. 

Checking the stars through Kilgharrah’s former prison, he noted the few hours left before dawn. Near depleted anyway, the enticing thought of blacking out in his bed overwhelmed any sense. Using his new trick he imagined the tunnel ending in his room and felt magic drain from him as it yanked.

A moment later he skidded out onto the landing to the loft, nearly tripping into the stairwell. He caught himself on the railing and heaved a silent breath. 

“Merlin,” Gaius said, silhouette lit by a single candle in the dark room. His arms were crossed. 

“Gaius, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I’ve been awake,” Gaius said, “since you first left. You’ve had me worried near to sickness. Where have you been? You said you were practicing in these chambers only.”

“In a catacomb under the castle. It’s safe–”

“Why lie to me? If something happened to you, what am I supposed to do? How am I to find you?”

“…I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it that way.”

Gaius sighed, leaning back against his cot. “You remind me of Nimueh.”

That didn’t bode well. 

Gaius shook his head, gesturing Merlin downstairs. Merlin went, slowly, not totally sure what he was getting himself into. 

Gaius pulled him closer, hand on his shoulder, and let out a shaky breath. “Tunneling is dangerous. I worried you’d expended your magic and ended up in between walls. Please, for my sake, practice in an open clearing. I’ll help you find one. And I’ll cover more of the physician duties so you can practice before nightfall– Merlin, why is it so dire that you’d be gone all night? Why not just talk to me? I’d have given you an hour during the day. The last thing I want is you to be exhausted and practicing a dangerous spell.”

He’d left himself plenty of leeway in the catacomb corridor after the first cliff dive; but that thought was a cognitive dissonance of its own. “Sorry, Gaius. I’ll tell you where I’m going before I leave to practice.”

“You’ll practice here? Tell Arthur I need you for the lunch hour.” 

“Yes, Gaius.”

He’d succeeded in laying Gaius down in his cot when Gaius murmured, “Where are you trying to get to, my boy?”

Merlin dithered, not really having an answer. “Nowhere particular. Essetir? The Isle of the Blessed? I need to find Morgana. She has imprisoned Aithusa.”

“The dragon?”

“The baby dragon.”

“Merlin, you can’t expect to tunnel and then still have enough strength to face her.”

“That isn’t my plan. If anything, I’ll sneak around and free Aithusa.”

“Aithusa,” Gaius repeated, wonderingly. 

“Try to rest. We’ll talk more in the morning.” Gaius seemed to accept that, and Merlin backed up the stairs to the loft, aiming for stealth and gaining soft, even breaths from Gaius. He sighed in relief at the landing. 

Gaius was right, Merlin could use his help and cutting him out while panicked would only cause a worse problem. He had to stay positive. 

He rubbed hands over his face, exhaustion feeling like thick eyelids and a fuzzy numbness underneath his skin.

His bed was calling. His depleted and weary body was answering. He’d think about all of this in the morning.

After another week of practice Dragoon the Great arrived with a grand flourish into Gaius’ workshop. “I really think I’ve gotten the hang of it now,” he announced.

Gaius didn't look up from his work, and with the monotone of someone who had grown too used to Merlin's comings and goings over the past few days said, "I'm sure half of Camelot heard the cyclone in my chambers a moment ago; I'm surprised guards aren't knocking down the doors this instant."

Merlin waved the comment away, “It was way quieter this last time. Trying to forcibly not take air with me didn't work, but I can shape the tunnel to form around my body, I think.”

Steps passed outside the chamber doors, but moved on towards the stairwell. Gaius gave him a dry look as Merlin rapidly shifted his tunic and face back to normal. 

“It’s necessary to try for longer distances,'' Merlin said, moving to the rough map of Albion he’d sketched out. The nearby forest spot would make a good staging point for heading further eastward for Aithusa. Or, well, he probably couldn’t go back there now. “By the way, Percival may make an appearance later today, claiming to have been in a fight with Dragoon. Well I say ‘claiming’ but what really happened was–”

" Merlin!" Gaius swiveled.

“If nothing else, it was cathartic,” Merlin said while Gaius built himself into a lecture. Merlin went for the distraction. “What other thing besides dark magic manacles could hold a dragon? I want to be prepared for anything.”

Attempts to be prepared always won Gaius over, and this time was no different. Gaius rubbed at his temples, said, “I have put some thought towards this,” then gestured towards Merlin’s spellbook, where it lay hidden under a pile of fresh rags. 

Merlin brushed them away and checked the page it was open to. “The Horn of Cathbhadh,” he read. “The Horn is blown by High Priestesses on– what does this have to do with anything?”

“Read the bit on fae circles,” Gaius explained. 

Merlin skimmed to the small note near the bottom. “Fae circles are always used in conjunction with the Horn. Priestesses are always careful to check the shape of the circle and use heavy stones.” The other sentences went back to talking about spirits of the dead. “I still don’t see how this helps me.”

Gaius sighed, “I know you have a brain in you, my boy. The fae circles keep the spirits of the dead trapped, so that they do not escape to roam the physical plane. It could , with some effort, hold a fae like a dragon.”

He thought he’d seen large stones partly toppled and destroyed at the Isle of the Blessed. If that were a fae circle, it was certainly a place Morgana would think to go, as it was the once source of power for the priestesses of the Old Religion. But she’d have to fix the stones, and fight off the wyverns that had taken the place. 

Still, it was a place to check. And he had to keep moving forward. He had to stay positive. He had to. Otherwise–

Gaius was frowning at him.

Merlin thought quickly. “I don’t think I’m skilled enough to travel far enough to visit any known fae circles just yet. It wouldn’t be safe.” The impending lecture deflected away with the word safe , Merlin started shoveling tagged vials and poultices into their satchel. “Who are these for?”

Gaius sighed, accepted, and shifted his lecture into one filled with medical jargon. 

The rest of that week and the much of the next went in that vein– chores with Gaius and Arthur in the daytime, and practicing in the gaps between. 

Much of those gaps went late into the night, saw the moon rise and fall, where rest came in the form of sheer physical exhaustion from magic completely expended, laid out on his back in the dirt of some far off copse. He’d forgotten that his eyes shouldn’t feel swollen and itchy at all times. He’d never felt more Dragoon’s eighty years than now, decrepit in body, and wispy magic pushed to his extremities to hold himself together. 

But the tunneling spell got quieter, and he learned to stretch the tunnel further. 

Now, on only his second tunnel he appeared in the moon-shadows of the crumbling fort of the Isle of the Blessed. The inner courtyard still held a burned tree, the scar where Lancelot had died to seal the Veil, and the great stones of the fae circle. Blocks twice his height had weathered, pocked and cracked from neglect, but many still stood as proud as Nimueh, Morgause, or Morgana. 

Albion waited quiet. Soft winds turned short grasses into shifting ripples in a meadow of green that stretched from this lonely hilltop out through the tiers of the ruined castle to the dark waters of the lake of Avalon below. For leagues he was alone but for ripples that glinted and whispered under starlight.

Beautiful.

The rough hew of the stone slid comforting and cool under his palm as he passed, taking himself into the center of the broken ring of stones. He sat, shaky, depleted. Exhaustion pushed his head to his knees, made his arms hang limp at his sides.

Empty.

What, exactly, did I expect?

Hadn’t he made this argument, that capturing Aithusa in such a destroyed place was unlikely? Preparing himself for the failure should have prevented the feeling of it. He’d won, hadn’t he? He’d learned how to tunnel, could travel across Albion searching all the places he wanted. 

But he hadn’t helped Arthur these past weeks, not with the things Arthur actually needed help with. He’d worried Gaius. Whatever complaints the druids were dealing with from suspicious villagers he’d ignored, abandoning the outcome to Leon. 

Being the druids’ Emrys, Aithusa’s dragonlord, Arthur’s partner, Gaius’ apprentice, everyone’s friend… not only could he not do it all, he was failing at every one of them. 

“It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, nothing ever gets better , ” he muttered. “I’m trying but I don’t know what I’m doing. ”

The stones watched him break, silent judges. They’d been abandoned too; they also waited for a prophecy Merlin didn’t understand to save them.

Failure swelled around him. The air took it, thickened it, hung it over his shoulders like a cloak. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he repeated, accepting it, grieving for it. 

He’d failed Aithusa, abjectly. 

He’d abandoned her to Kilgharrah, hoping things would work out without his interference. He’d ignored his responsibility in the hopes it would disappear. She’d deserved better. 

Imagine what you will do for Albion if you love it the way you loved me , Freya had said. The pendant, always hanging about peasant’s twine at his throat, he sought out under his tunic. It hung at the base of his sternum above the hollow of his stomach. He pressed its glass swirls against his skin. 

“I love Aithusa,” he said desperately. “I swear. Help me, Avalon.”

The glass warmed, rigid and bruising against his chest. Merlin grasped at wisps of his remaining magic, pushed it towards the rune and willed it to give him a clue, a vision of Aithusa, anything .

Maybe destiny, or fate, or prophecy or whatever everyone else wanted to call it– maybe it did work through him, through magic itself, to guide the future into what should be. This lake of Avalon had given him this pendant. Something was out there, wanting miracles from him. 

The triangle of glass pressing to his skin grew tacky, clung and dragged across him as he breathed small, sharp breaths. 

“Cool down,” he begged of it, “you can show me magic. You’ve done it before.”

Yet his magic continued to stir at nothing, and the triskelion grew sweatier. He stepped aside of his expectant hope and found a stark clarity. 

The lake wasn’t listening, and the warming triskelion pendant no more than the heat of his blood in the confines of his shirt. He was alone here. 

Magic or fate or destiny or prophecy wasn’t coming to help him, and likely never would. 

It likely never had.

Losing My Religion sung by Shawn James

Chapter Text

Mid August

Merlin kneeled, surrounded by a ruined castle on an abandoned isle on a funeral lake, listening to the high pitched bark of distant wyverns. He’d thought them once like rats, infesting this once great pillar of magical might. Now, maybe, he thought he should be thankful. Something had to bear witness.

The histories didn’t dwell on the massacre here, but Merlin could smell it. The grass underfoot grew from human mulch.

The thump of feet at Merlin’s back made him swivel; a large female wyvern with her sewage breath and scaleless skin chittered– clicks of her teeth and a trill at the back of her throat. She stepped forward once, claws flexing, daring a gulping bark. 

Merlin sighed, “Have you come to defend your home?”

The dragontongue would clear her away, but why should he force her back? She was the steward of these unmarked graves, not he. 

Remnant magic churned behind his heart, and he judged maybe enough for a third of the way back to Camelot. 

The lifetime he’d lived with Freya clearly marked the path from the lake to the castle, so at a riverbend where they’d sometimes picnicked he aimed the end of his tunnel. Air slipped by until he landed on his knees leagues away. Another hour here, and he’d make it back to Camelot with enough time for a nap. 

A few hours of rest, enough to get up early to fetch breakfast and wonder if he could again ask for an update on the search for Morgana’s potential allies. Then a lunch hour placating Gaius’ worry. And another night unable to sleep because Aithusa was out there somewhere. 

He was tired. He was just so tired. And there was no spirits-forsaken point to running towards an invisible destination, which, if he were really honest with himself, was likely Aithusa happily at Morgana’s side helping her with whatever cursed plan she had next!

Forget it , he thought, and used a dreg of magic to transform his tunic into a thick blanket. Comforting and heavy he wrapped it tight around his shoulders so coarse fibers tickled his nose, and then he fell heavily onto his back. Stars blinked overhead. 

“No, I'm judging you,” he whispered, and went to sleep.

Sweat clung along his spine and to hair gone fever-damp. His mouth swollen and throat dry, dragging eyelids like a wire brush across grout, Merlin folded the grass pressed to his cheek and the burble of the nearby river into his awareness. Breeze blew in from a blue noon.

Lunch hour in Camelot. 

He unwraveled from his tunic blanket, stripping and stepping into the cold shock of the creek. Despite the aches of sleeping on the ground he felt more sated than he had in weeks. His magic burbled, full and ready at his core, though behind his heart yesterday’s tension remained. He rubbed at his sternum as he cleaned off. His pulse beat faster than normal. Maybe he was nervous. Or dehydrated.

He conjured mouthfuls of water and ran fingers through hair that had grown unruly. There was a hollow in his stomach from missing near two meals, but there may be a berry bush around here. They'd have grown sweet and ripe in these late summer months. 

But no, he'd head back. Gaius must be terrified. He returned his clothes into the costume of Dragoon and pitched his body old, for the practice twisted himself near invisible, and with the rest of his magic slipped away to Camelot. 

He crested onto the ledge of his loft with a whisper of wind, coming to while Gaius tended to a bare-chested man below. A nasty slice stretched from collarbone to stomach and a greenish bruise mottled the man's left side. Gaius' cleaning had caused the only partly healed scabs to bleed fresh, and the man hissed as Gaius began to stitch. 

"I know you said he's sick, but I really need to talk to Merlin," the man said, and Merlin's gaze swung for his profile. Gilli?

"I'm here," he dropped the invisibility to reveal Dragoon. Gaius jumped and both turned to gape at him.

"You can change your face," Gilli said, the words flat.

Merlin leaned on the railing and met Gilli's gaze, waiting for the back of his mind to condemn him for revealing the dangerous secret of Dragoon. But his tension never bled into panic. It never bled into anything. Instead, he noted Gaius’ shock and worry from the way one of his hands caught on the cot Gilli sat on, holding himself steady.

Merlin's own skin tightened, chin and scalp itching as hair retreated with youth.

"What made you change your mind?" Gilli said. "About killing him."

"Uther was an accident," Gilli grimaced at this, and Merlin waited through Gilli's flashes of anger, pain, and contempt. Scalp still a little sore, Merlin ran fingers through his now short hair and kneaded the final tingles away. "He was pitiful by the end. Morgana's betrayal broke him."

This seemed to hurt Gaius, who retreated to his herb table and began grinding a poultice far earlier than he should have. Catgut and needle still hung half stitched through Gilli's open wound. 

Merlin descended and grabbed the needle for himself. Gaius kept his face turned away.

Gilli muttered, "Did he ever admit to any regret?"

Uther had raved, and slept fitful, and stared sullen out of windows. "He wasn't really the type to do that." 

Gilli scoffed quietly, and then clenched his knuckles white as Merlin began threading. Merlin continued, "In hindsight, he had to go. I only regret that it happened in the way it did."

"And here I'd worried that you'd try to stop me from killing another king." 

"Tell me if you need a break," Merlin completed a pass of the catgut and stabbed through for another loop. 

"Not even going to ask how I got it? Where's Vina, my wife? What king I want to kill this time?"

“What happened?”

Teeth grit in pain and bared in a rictus grin, “The Sarrum happened."

Uther had sneered at Freya's dirtied body in the witchfinder's cage, had condemned a frail girl to death on a pyre without flinching. And he hadn’t fought the Purge alone.

"Vina was too pretty to waste on a palace guard like me. Her uncle’s dead, she thinks I’m dead, and he’s taken her.” His bruising grip transferred to Merlin's bicep, and Gilli's grief and rage were tinder. "He's taken her , Merlin."

Vina with her jacket of curios and easy camaraderie hadn't had a drop of magic worth being arrested over, but that wasn't what Gilli meant. "I've got a new spell for quick transport. It could get us into the castle, but not back out. Or if you know another way in, I could tunnel us out."

Gilli's gaze went feverish. "You're going to help me kill him."

"Whether that's a reasonable decision or not is another conversation, let's focus on Vina and freeing her first."

"Right," Gilli said fiercely, and fell back so Merlin could tie off the catgut. Then Gilli began speaking of Vina, and how her curls had bounced as they jumped over a broom and marked their marriage begun. How her uncle in the Amatan palace had put in a good word for him, and how Vina had been so proud and teasing of a Gilli so happy to finally be paid to swing a sword. How she'd nicked his palm with one of her darts then tied it and its drop of blood into the colorful piles of her skirts and said, you're my kind of poison. 

But the story ended as it had begun, with a covetous king who hadn't often enough been told no. Uther's had ended with Morgana's hatred. And Gilli's began like this:

Every full moon the Sarrum hosts a revel.

Melancholy string music drifted faint from Amata’s castle, aching alongside the sway of a drumbeat and croon of a woodwind. Gilli’s retching in a nearby bush added a special sort of tenor. 

Merlin kneeled nearby before a manmade turquoise-tiled creek, his fingers a dam as clear water spilled up and over. The full moon gleamed white peaks on waves that washed out his blurry reflection. He knew it without the help of a moonlit night, however. Raven hair lengthened to brush his shoulders, and he ran a thumb over lips gone pouty and eyelashes so thick his lids drooped. His naturally high cheekbones had become alluring instead of misplaced. 

Gilli landed next to him with a groan, plunging hands into the shallow river to rinse and spit through a gag reflex still turning him faintly green. “I don’t like tunneling.”

‘“It’ll be a few hours at least until I can do it again, so. You’re safe.”

“Plenty of time for me to wreck the place first then,” Gilli wiped a ropey forearm across his mouth and then turned to Merlin, daring a repeat of an earlier disagreement on how careful they should be. Magic pulsed from the golden ring within which Merlin had laid a fresh transformation spell, and Gilli’s face began to shift. “You’re too pretty. You can’t help but try to fuck the nearest king, can’t you?”

“Don’t…” Merlin sighed. Whatever, honestly. Why should he care if Gilli needed to take his anger out on someone?

“You’re in blue. I told you to go as a mingler like me.”

“I’d rather be a servant.” Gilli’s blocky jaw made for a flat-faced woman with thin lips and narrow eyes, which he rolled as he dug in his pocket. His brown hair grew thin and wispy as it lengthened. Gilli pulled a silky green gauze, strung this over his mouth and tossed a sister at Merlin. It smelled strongly of rose. “Do you need me to do your trousers for you?”

“I’ve got it,” Gilli groused as his tunic shortened to a stomach-bearing crop. Merlin already wore pants near shear, tied loose at his knees and covered at his hips by a different silken wrap. The triskelion pendant he'd hidden between small breasts. Arthur’s half-penny he’d left with Gaius. "Let’s get going for the garden."

Holding his cloth slippers, Merlin followed Gilli into the river itself. Tile pressed smooth and slick beneath his heels and the rush of water along his shins made the walk a slow, careful one. A tributary branched into the palace, widening to fill a dark tunnel. 

Merlin lit a ball to bounce between them and Gilli turned to watch it, his silks a bottle glass green in the blue light. "Teach me that one."

"It's called Leoht. " 

Gilli muttered the word and a dim haze appeared on their left before disappearing alongside a heavy pant from Gilli.

"Imagine a sphere–"

"You'll just have to put it on the ring later." 

"You should learn to make some spells without the help of your father's ring. If something happened to it you'd be in a bind."

"That's why I know how to swordfight," Gilli grumbled and Merlin let it drop. The scar Gilli had needed to hide with Merlin's spellwork told a different story, but clearly not one that Gilli was ready to face. 

They sloshed in silence until moonlight revealed the tunnel’s maw, blocked by the churning spokes of a massive wooden waterwheel. Blades scooped leaves and dead insects up and into an opening in the ceiling. Some unseen beast or unlucky chain of men must be up there imitating the threshing fields of Ealdor, turning the crank of this thing day in and out without the benefit of flour from dried wheat. 

Gilli had slunk ahead while Merlin stared, and he returned a silhouette. “Empty,” he whispered.

Gilli led them onto soft grasses, standing in the shadow of walls painted the rusty reddish-brown of the Amatan royal family. Their turquoise tiled river curved through the private garden and disappeared beneath a grate under ornate wooden doors. Yellow light peeked through their cracks, and the source of the music beat alongside a din of voices. 

“Through there?” Merlin whispered.

“No way, this is the Sarrum’s private garden. Even two richly dressed surprises won’t be excused for entering through that locked door.” Gilli pointed, “We go up.”

The garden had no other exits on this first level, but the second had a ring of windows covered with velvet curtains. Dotting the walls below were shapely iron bars hanging colored glass lanterns which threw light in shades of sunset. The iron hooks were wide enough for a handhold, or his slippered foot. Would the mountings be enough to hold their weight?

“Half of these windows are to the harem’s rooms,” Gilli whispered as he leapt and balanced himself onto the first hook, “and the other side is the Sarrum’s bedchamber. I don’t remember which is which.”

Merlin crawled up after Gilli, the private garden revealing itself with every spoke they climbed. Thin trees heavy with brown fruit grew artfully throughout, some grouped to hold glass lanterns and others trailing the turquoise tiles. Cupping a bend in the river, they ringed a repurposed well whose cover had been tiled into a breakfast table. A teapot sat alone with abandoned teacup, canvas chairs piled with cushions marking space for three. 

“You said you could unlock things?”

Merlin glanced up to where Gilli’s fingers rested on a keyhole. The windows were glass panes beneath iron shutters of tight filigree, the gaps between iron too thin for even a child’s hand to wriggle through. Merlin, however, plucked, and with magic like a set of puppeteering strings unlocked and swung the shutters wide. 

Gilli twitched aside the thick curtains and then slipped up and into the room beyond. “Drat,” he whispered. 

A large four-post bed hung in drapery took up the room they’d leapt into, but through archways Merlin saw what seemed to be a council room. Merlin drifted towards it, seeing a table with a few scrolls, shelves full of books, and plush couches. 

Gilli snorted. “Why am I not surprised? Look, can you unlock the harem windows from here?”

The fine movements in the locks were more difficult from this distance, and the latch slipped from his grip twice before finally unlocking on a grunt. One of the panes swung open. 

“Explore,” Gilli grumbled. “But check the revel for Vina, will you? She’s the reason we’re here.”

“We don’t have to split up.”

Gilli tapped at his head. “Just message me if you find her.” He flipped back out of the window, and Merlin lost him behind the fall of the curtain. 

While relocking the Sarrum's shutters Merlin perused the council room. It had multiple uses, clearly. The plush couches looked well used and comfortable, and small tea tables sat about the room filled with dried tea leaves and ashy tobacco pipes. Why hadn't someone been by to clean this yet? Or was it like the early days as Arthur's manservant, when Uther had only trusted one servant in his son's chambers– Merlin himself? 

He should focus less on the cleanliness and more on political secrets. A round table took up the center of the room, tall so one had to stand to use it. There were the few scrolls he'd seen earlier, an inkwell, and some carved wooden pyramids no larger than the end of his finger which Merlin thought may be used to mark knight platoons on a map, or as paperweights. 

Two of the scrolls were in languages he didn't understand, and the third was a map of Amata. There were annotations, but nothing that stuck out to Merlin's untrained eye. What was he expecting, a big red circle and a 'dragon found here' sign? A letter from Morgana detailing all of her plans?

The books lining the walls were eclectic. Texts on economics and political theory, noble houses, and more with the curling language he didn't understand. There was information on other countries, maps, and whole sections on what may have been battle tactics done in pictograms. A single shelf had books on magical customs and artifacts and animals. An interest of the Sarrum's, Merlin wondered, or trophies from the Purge? They did have a thin layer of dust. Whoever's job it was to clean this place did not understand their duties. 

Knowing he'd dallied long enough, he gathered a few of the teacups and stepped into the hallway. The doors to the revel had been on the first floor, and Merlin assumed if he followed the bend of the hallway to his right he'd come upon a stairwell. This he found soon– a grand landing decorated with a large tapestry and bronze statue– and unfortunately sporting a set of guards who blinked at him. 

"What are you doing here?" They asked him.

Merlin held up the used teacups. "Cleaning."

"Cleaning she says," the first guard said. "Give me that." 

He snatched the cups out of Merlin's hands as the second guard came up close to Merlin's side. "I get it," the second said. "Trust me. But you can't be seen here, and you know it. Come on, I'll escort you."

Merlin ducked his head, nodded. He watched his slippered feet as the guard led him down halls, and had to hide his surprise when the turquoise-tiled river showed up again, this time covered in a mottled glass. It snaked away towards the main entrance but also to a set of guarded doors. His guard led him here. 

"She got held up," he said. "Can you let her through?" 

The two guards at the doors exchanged glances, shrugged in a not my problem sort of way, and stepped aside. 

These were two huge doors. He was going to make an obvious entrance. Gooseflesh rose along the wide, visible expanses of his skin and he pressed a warm palm along his sides. They won’t be looking at you, he told himself. They’ll be looking at her. Then, what are you afraid of? You’re Nimueh in the court of Camelot. Unless Emrys is standing in the corner you can bring this place to its knees with a single spell.

The doors opened to a curtain of copper disks tied to thin links, imitating the sound of rain as he passed through them into a haze of clove tobacco. Smoke wafted from flute-like pipes passed from men in long tunics to a bounty of women in silk wraps and little else. Their conversation danced between the beat of younger women sliding by with trays of teacups and bites of pastry. One of these women stuttered to a stop before him, eyes wide. 

She wore lavender. All the tray-bearing women wore shades of light purple, he saw. Gilli had told him wrong, or the revel changed theme every full moon. The servant's gaze skittered to something over her shoulder, across the glass river which ran through the center of the room to the private garden's locked doors, to a resplendent chaise in the far corner. 

Upon it sat a ghoul. The Sarrum’s deep-set eyes and balding head had the look of a skull wrapped in sagging skin. He chewed around a brown fruit, absorbed by a woman in daffodil yellow who rolled a large sphere of glass along her arms and shoulders. 

But it wasn’t the king the servant girl looked at, but the woman seated next to him. The minglers as Gilli had called them seemed themed to orange today, and this woman wore a bloody version of it. Slunk in near red with a thick snake curling about her shoulders, her sharp gaze had already found Merlin and the servant girl shivering before him. The girl fled further into the room, teacups rattling.

The crystal dancer wore yellow. And along the glass-covered river sat other entertainers, perhaps waiting to be called next. They wore a myriad of colors, costumes related to their act, he assumed. He could claim that. 

His knee trembled on its first step, and he threw loathing into his legs to lend himself a familiar strength. Merlin would cow with an affable smile, Dragoon could blast magic, Emrys didn’t exist. They were watching him, and he didn’t know how to be. 

Gwen. Eyes down but proud. Quiet and confident. Where had this servant girl learned to walk with shoulders so straight?

He followed the river, slippers warbling under the effect of water streaming beneath. The last entertainer in the line, dressed in flowers, kept her gaze fastened on the floor before her, steadfastly not looking at him. Imitating her posture he folded to his knees and pressed his palms into his thighs. He dared a glance up. 

The Sarrum hadn’t swayed from the dancer, but the woman in blood orange smirked. 

Gwen would– he didn’t know. Not be in this situation. 

The woman held Merlin’s gaze, sinking deeper into the chaise she shared with the Sarrum. She nudged at her snake so it flicked its tongue and slithered from her shoulders. As it spiraled into her lap she ran long nailed fingers along its scales.

Both of their attention broke when the Sarrum grinned, “Bored, Malik?”

A young man with thick black hair stood with a huff, someone Merlin hadn’t noticed seated on the ground near the chaise. A final man lounged on the ground, tunic loose, grinning madly at the young man– whom the Sarrum had called Malik. Malik huffed, “I always am, around you.”

“To be a child again.”

“Let’s go,” this was directed at the lounging man who stood to bow floridly to the Sarrum and the woman, then wrap an arm around the waist of Malik.

The two men walked away, Malik pouting and his partner crooning, “You should be glad he’s chosen you for the crown, my Malik.”

“And he’ll choose another of the illitu in a month. I want nothing of his figs and fetishes,” Malik grumbled as they moved out of earshot. 

The most recent crown prince? Merlin thought hard on the last council meeting that had touched on rulers throughout Albion, but family trees did not come up often, and when they did Merlin’s eyes glazed over. 

The crystal dancer swept by next, her crystal ball disappearing into the folds of her top. A flick of the Sarrum’s fingers changed the musicians to a different tune and the room of minglers perked and twisted, following the new cadence. Purple wrapped servants bent to patch tobacco in the long pipes. This place had seemed a dissolute revel of lush vices, but the twitch and answer of every attendee told a story of a life carefully lived within the grooves of the Sarrum’s pressed thumb. 

“The new girl,” the Sarrum drawled along a sudden, vicious thump of Merlin’s heart.

Merlin turned slow, but another woman was already standing. He saw her only from the back, but short, curly brunette hair gave her away. A band of white cloth striped across her shoulder blades in what she’d been allowed as a top. Her colorful skirts– made of years of rainbow fabrics with hidden pockets for needles and surprises–  had been replaced with a silk replica of oranges to match the night’s theme. Between each finger fanned a thin wooden dart. She didn’t tremble. 

Perhaps he’d come not to save, but to witness a poison-filled assassination. He found no desire to stop her. 

But her first dart pierced the cushion between the Sarrum’s legs, the second ghosting over the snake’s nose to latch the woman’s sleeve to the seat behind her. The Sarrum toyed with the dart at his thigh, pushing on the fins so its needle nose began to bend. 

“About the right proportion?” Vina said.

The Sarrum rasped, “Would you like to find out?”

The woman in blood orange tilted the Sarrum’s face towards hers, leaning so her nose pressed to his. “Between our eyes,” she commanded. 

Vina complied, the dart clattering against the wall behind them. The next few skirted the Sarrum’s bald head and fluttered through the woman’s long black hair. Her last tumbled, broadwise smacking the Sarrum’s sternum and sliding into his lap. Vina hung her head, hands curling into her skirts. 

“What a defeated young woman you’ve brought me. What have you done to the poor thing?” 

“Perhaps you should ask her yourself, my Sarrum.”

“ Your Sarrum, hmm?” The Sarrum traced along the woman’s smirk, then snapped fingers near the hollow of her cheek. Vina’s shoulders slumped, and the woman retrieved a key from the folds of her clothes. 

Merlin’s gaze went from the key, to the set of locked doors, to the Sarrum’s heavy gaze on Vina. He couldn’t let Vina be trapped in that private garden with the Sarrum, and worse for them all if Gilli saw them through the harem’s windows. Merlin was not yet ready to tunnel the three of them out. 

The bundle of his magic felt warm and ready, just small. He could tunnel himself out if needed. He wasn’t in danger. And Gilli would know not to fly through a window for him. 

The woman set the snake aside, key twirling about a finger as she stood. Merlin stood also. 

“No,” Merlin said. 

The Sarrum’s gaze flipped to him, and the woman stopped her twirling with an abrupt smack of metal on flesh. 

Now what? He had their attention. 

Under his veil he whispered, “Come,” in dragontongue. The snake perked its head and he said more forcefully. “ Sit upon my shoulders.” 

Its tongue flicked out, beady eyes watching him, but its head dipped to the floor. The woman’s eyes went from it to Merlin’s as it slithered towards him in a slow undulating wave. 

He needed to be the kind of woman who got what she wanted. Who expected to get what she wanted. Morgana, really, as he’d first known her. How was it she’d walked? How had she spoken to Uther? He could hardly remember. But he knew the way she’d looked at him chained to the ceiling of her woodland hovel, could remember her prowl, the way she’d never forgotten how to tilt in order to taunt. 

“ No?” The Sarrum prompted. 

Morgana would make him wait. 

As the snake began its twine about Merlin’s leg, Merlin slipped fingers beneath his top and in the space of a blink he’d conjured a rose. 

When he withdrew it Vina froze. Good, Gilli had used the spell Merlin had gifted him. When close, Merlin brushed her short hair back and used the excuse of tucking the rose behind her ear to croon, “Go to our rooms. I don’t wish to share him tonight.”

The white’s of Vina’s eyes seemed so large. He willed her to understand. Save yourself. Gilli's upstairs. Get out of here. 

She did so brilliantly–  shrinking and taking a half step back. Merlin took full advantage, hunting the Sarrum, filling his gaze. His heart thumped wildly. He had no idea what to do from here. 

The Sarrum had grown an amused grin. His gaze trickled along Merlin’s long legs, lingered on his revealed stomach, and settled on the gap between bosom and chin. 

Merlin took a harsh breath, holding it tight so his collarbones jutted. Morgana had known how to make you trade pride for angles and shadow, for look but don’t touch . She’d known how to make you think she held all the cards. “I expected more from the women you… keep.”

“ Ishtar ,” the Sarrum’s smile stretched wider. “This creature finds you lacking.”

The woman in blood orange swiveled with silks fluttering, striding for the doors that led to the private gardens. They unlatched with a weighty clank. “I find her thin,” the woman hissed. 

The Sarrum ran a hand down his thigh to squeeze his own knee, and Merlin interpreted that as meaning he enjoyed pitting them against the other. “Fetch me tea.”

Morgana would be here expecting power. She’d never assume the command was for her, as much as Merlin felt the itch to obey. She wouldn’t wait for the Sarrum’s lead either.

Snake finishing its curl onto his shoulders, Merlin turned from the Sarrum’s gaze and strode for the private garden. With his chin up the veil fluttered with every breath. As he passed through the doorway he turned into the woman’s glare, puffed out a breath so the veil fluttered up, and gave her one of Morgana’s signature smirks. 

Golden light flooded from the revel behind him as he stepped out onto a ledge over the shallow river. Gilli couldn’t be seen in the harem windows, and he'd closed the single unlatched window. He threw a thought towards Gilli, “Vina was at the revel. She should be heading towards the harem chambers now.”

He quickly explained the situation in the private garden then cut the connection when a warm hand ghosted over his lower back. The Sarrum pushed, and they moved to the grasses under trees heavy with brown fruits. One of these the Sarrum plucked while trailing a finger up each ridge of Merlin’s spine, over the silk of his blouse, then cupping a hand over the back of his neck. Merlin did his best to keep his breaths even. 

The Sarrum brought the brown fruit between them, wrinkled and fleshy. “From home I brought only my wits and a single seed.” 

The hand on Merlin’s neck moved for the veil hooked over his ears, unlatching so it swung loose. The Sarrum’s finger traced over the chin revealed and pressed a thumb to Merlin’s lower lip. A tug pulled his jaw open so the Sarrum could push the fruit past his teeth. 

Merlin bit, tasting a surprisingly dense sweetness. “That’s something we have in common.”

“And what seed have you brought me?”

Merlin turned from the Sarrum’s dark gaze, trying for coy. He had no ‘seed’. Magic, maybe? A servant in purple bustled past them, clearing the tea table Merlin had spied when he and Gilli had scaled the short wall. He used it as an excuse to get the Sarrum’s touch off of him, arriving as the servant lifted a burnished copper teapot from her tray.

Steam drifted as a dark tea poured into two matching teacups. A small painted plate held slices of cheese and the brown fruit of the nearby trees. They cushioned this space, these trees, fronds rustling in slight breezes and shimmering under the dappled light of mosaic lanterns. Did any of the women the Sarrum brought here feel the peace of this place, or only the isolation?

The old well making up the table’s base was large enough for three chairs to ring it, and the tabletop itself was only the stone well cover decorated with painted tile. To sit in the cushioned chair Merlin chose– picked so he could keep an eye on both the revel doors and harem windows– he had to sit so his body twisted. He leaned into the lounge, elongating his limbs.

The Sarrum focused on Merlin’s ankles, frail and pale. He’d always worn trousers and boots, and hadn’t thought to tan his skin as part of this disguise. Did the Sarrum see that, or did he only imagine touching him again? 

Behind the servant the revel doors clicked shut.

Merlin took a firm grip on his magic, swirling and warm and ready.  

The Sarrum cut a tall silhouette, bulky through the shoulders, lumpy and uneven through the jowls and face. He had the broccoli-curled ears of a man who’d fought long and often against fists. Over this, his layers of soft drapery and bejeweled rings seemed ill-fitting. As he ate around the pit in the center of the brown fruit, billowing sleeves pooled to reveal thick forearms lined with silvery scars. 

Lavish, Merlin thought, and frightening. A skull in silk clothing.

The Sarrum flicked the pit into the treeline and stalked forward. From a pocket he pulled a flask and splashed liquid into his own teacup before waving the flask under Merlin’s nose. He couldn’t help recoiling. It smelt like stomach acid. A second wave over the snake’s nostrils made it rear up, tongue flicking. 

The Sarrum chuckled, placing only a drop into Merlin’s cup before putting the flask within easy reach. “My current Ishtar brought me a delicacy from each country of Albion.” He followed this with a whistle and the snake plopped to the grass, slithering into the trees. Merlin was sad to see it go, it had felt a little like having Kilgharrah at his back. 

When the Sarrum leaned into his seat, pleased, Merlin thought he may have lost the first moves. He needed wit now, more than ever. “Delicacies are fleeting.”

“And power is forever?” A smirk hidden behind a teacup. 

“Are you really content here, in this corner of the world?”

“You call Albion the world?”

He’d seen blue waters stretching to the horizon. The fruit trees, and the seed the Sarrum had carried, must have come from beyond them. 

Where Merlin held his teacup growing cold, the Sarrum brushed fingers along the back of Merlin’s wrist. “Drink.”

Whatever the flask had held, or the teapot, the Sarrum had already drunk half his cup. The tea clung sharp with spices and held the dull aftertaste of strong liquor. The Sarrum watched Merlin’s throat as he swallowed. 

Belatedly, Merlin realized he’d lost control of the conversation again. “I’ve seen much of Albion,” he said, lying fast, “and I find it lacking. You come from beyond. You see beyond our petty grievances. I want that.”

“And which petty grievance should I take care of so I may have you?”

The Sarrum’s words rolled on a rasp, steady and sure. He drained the rest of his tea in a long swallow, unblinking gaze locked on Merlin’s stillness.

“Our northern queens, Catherine or Annis? Or our southern kings, Odin, Alined, Rodor?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Who has wronged you that you've come seeking me? The only man capable of ending them?”

Is he so willing to go to war? 

“Lot falls. Arthur curdles. Ah,” the Sarrum paused, smiled. “Arthur. Could a bedwarmer not take the insult of his peasant queen? You wish now to be my queen?”

The Sarrum’s browned hands reached for him, knuckles swollen and joints knobby, tugging at Merlin’s right hand. Blunt nails traced the lines of Merlin's palm, brushed along the back of his hand. The Sarrum moved like a spider, too delicate, too careful. When he’d tucked Merlin’s hand into his, like a lord ready to kiss a lady’s knuckles, the urge to rip away had prickled up Merlin’s arm and shivered sharp across his spine. 

A ruby studded ring tugged loose from the Sarrum’s pinkie, and after a coax, slipped snug onto Merlin’s middle finger. The Sarrum’s smile felt wicked. “You wish to be my evil queen?”

“At my side– at your side,” Merlin faltered. “With my power….”

The Sarrum wrapped his hand around Merlin’s wrist, his grip tight. A thumb drew circles on the thin skin over Merlin’s pulse. “Mine.”

“It could be yours.”

Both rows of teeth were visible in the Sarrum’s grin. “Camelot does not become ours without Nemeth or Essetir under our heel.” Fierce , a stray thought decided. Ferocious. He wants to devour me. “Tell me, queen, how would you seize them? Flutter your eyelashes, open your legs? Put a knife in their throat as they slept, or leave only a door unlocked, a gate open?”

The Sarrum’s grip grew bruising, and Merlin’s hand spasmed. He tugged, but the Sarrum held firm. “I would burn their keeps down,” Merlin licked lips gone dry. “Raze their walls. And as their fields lit I would fall to you, the savior come with sand and water.”

“My last Ishtar brought me rare women. You gift ancient rage, cold in your breast, warmed only by death. What then, when you've offered your blackened world to then stand in my shadow, roll under me in bed? Would you find yourself warm, or cold?"

“We would be united. That’s enough.” Pulse beat where his hand had gone painfully swollen. He firmed his stance, seizing muscles along his abdomen and jerked his arm back. The Sarrum yanked harsher, toppling Merlin from his chair and slamming his hip into the stone table. “Unhand me!”

The Sarrum twisted into Merlin’s hair, shoving their faces together until chapped lips covered his own. Revulsion escaped him as a muffled grunt. Curse this. Ploy over. Merlin hitched his magic flat and launched it forward. 

Humid air pushed into his mouth before streaking cold as the Sarrum sucked a quick pant. His spell ripped. Scattered sideways. Disappeared. On his gasp the Sarrum's tongue delved in, sliding wet along his cheeks then the roof of his mouth. The ring grew cold. Magic? Dark magic? His breath stuttered. 

The Sarrum's mouth smirked against his, then pulled back, bit hard on Merlin's lower lip. Another spell shivered and lost against the ring, so Merlin gripped his teacup tight and smashed it into the Sarrum’s elbow. Pain flared in the fine bones of Merlin’s wrist. He tried again, then flung the teacup at the Sarrum’s grinning face and dove for the ring. If he could just get it off.  

The Sarrum seized hold of Merlin’s opposite arm with lazy ease, wrenched him hard and down so he crashed into the tabletop and pain flared along his cheekbone. “Now, Ishtar.”

Merlin did not see the woman, but cold metal closed around his wrist. Together, both sets of hands forced him to kneeling, pulled his arms so they hugged the well, locked manacles tied with heavy chain to his wrists. The ring wiggled off of his finger. 

A blast of magic. Kilgharrah. The manacles sizzled cold against his wrists. They’ve captured me like Kilgharrah.

The dragon tongue wouldn’t come. It faded on his lips. Threads of thought shot for Gilli made his fingers bend backward under frigid pain. His breaths came short, his anxiety a vice, the rough stone abrasive against his cheek. 

Fingernails scraping through his hair told him a body was close, made him realize he’d squeezed his eyes shut. The woman crouched before him, painted lips tilted in a smirk. Over her shoulder the Sarrum eyed him curiously, the dark magic ring already replaced on his pinkie and swiveling under the Sarrum’s thoughtful twists. “Brazen, broken, and beautiful,” he muttered. “Is it that which makes you witches think you can control me?”

The Sarrum stepped away, out of sight. The woman in blood orange rubbed Merlin’s earlobe with velvet care. She cocked her head as the Sarrum said, “Find her allies, will you?”

“With pleasure, my Sarrum,” she smiled. 

It was a dream from which she never woke. The dread nightmare known to be false, but sleep is so heavy, so deep, that it pulls her inexorably downward. She’s drowning in slow waves, in the soft, black sea. She knows this dream. It's death. Murmuring to her. It's where we end.

Most of us, at least.

Morgana cracks her eyes open, her only source of light a ring far above her. The well's lid eclipses the sky. She stretches fingers to the stone, and hears through touch the same words she's been told endlessly through the stink and echo of this place. Dirty. Damp. Buried.

She's shackled. Cursed manacles capture her wrists and her arms hang useless about her face. She cannot move far from the wall that serves as her bed, her chair, her outhouse. Her clothes are filthy, stained, and torn; her hair is matted, and her face and arms so streaked with grime, it is impossible to see the porcelain her skin had originally been. All she breathes is permeated with the retching stench of a pigsty.

Clanking metal reverberates through the tight space, and the dragon's small head warms against her knee. When she croons the dragon responds. She has not known this blameless love since the fog of her earliest childhood. It is more precious to her than life itself.

She breathes a slow, deep in-and-out, and sinks into the stone at her back with its stench of mold and decay and human sweat. She floats on the edges of her endless nightmares, drowning in darkness, and listens to the voices.

A tiny blade sawed at his back. Thin, repetitive, shallow slashes that pinched and then stung and then burned. His breath came in harsh pants. Blood trickled along his sides and tickled along his stomach. “Aren’t you going to ask me a question?” 

“I must mark you as my property first, love.” 

He might be able to kick her if he twisted just right.

He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the remaining magic within him. He’d been able to keep his disguise, the dark manacles unable to leech from a spell already completed, but Merlin worried if he let that remaining magic fall to nothing the spell would go with it. The bubble in him had grown, slightly. Slower than normal. But it had grown, and he held its familiar warmth close, rolled it through his fingers, his ears, his toes, tried to smooth his fears. 

A point of fire stabbed into him and he choked. 

“There, all done.” The woman leaned back on her heels, crows feet wrinkling around her eyes as she smiled. She had his mother’s eyes– the same broad forehead and narrow nose. But her hair took after Merlin’s, and though streaked with gray, hung long and thick and dark over her shoulder. It clung to Merlin’s cold sweat when she leaned over him, cobwebs in the breeze. “What’s your name?”

The sharp point she’d been drawing with trailed across his back– two sharp points, actually. They dug into the thin flesh outside his ribs, a third joining to create a pincer. She held him like a snake about to bite, just barely pinching and pulling at his skin. The longer he withheld his answer, the deeper that bite pressed. “Lin,” he gasped. “It’s Lin.”

She released, shifted the claws to pinch around the skin of a lower rib. “Lin, dear, remember as this drags on that when I stop is up to you. I need only a name and location of a friend of yours. Any friend of yours.” 

“I’d never.” Her pinch pierced, the sharp flare of pain stinging along his ribs even as she released him. 

Unrushed, she moved her three point pincer to another stretch of skin. She waited. He waited. “Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” he said, and bit back the exhale of relief as she again released and moved to a new location. 

“I have a friend that lives in the old town. An elder woman. Have you heard of scrying?”

She pinched. “Yes,” he said.

“She’s excellent at it. Excellent at little else, but can we honestly expect ingenuity from any who’ve survived the Purge? They’ve distilled secrecy and cowardice. You didn’t answer me.” She sliced him and he hid his face in the stones of the well, eyes clenched, teeth grit, not bothering to agree. “When I give her the name and location of a stranger, she fights hard to find them for me. Do you want to know why?”

“Yes,” Merlin said, “tell me.”

“When she finds someone for me, she gets to visit her daughter. Isn’t that lovely?”

“That’s terrible– ah–” Her claws bit, moved, bit again as he spat, “You’re terrible. Evil. How could you do this to other women? How doesn’t it sicken you? Something’s wrong with you–”

She didn’t answer, didn’t fight back, just repeated those little bites, over and over and over until tears dripped from his chin and he switched to begging, “Stop, I’ll stop, just stop.”

Her placid interrogation continued, sometimes telling stories, sometimes vying for information on where he’d come from, who’d told him how to get into the castle, his favorite colors, his happiest childhood memories. For the questions he refused to answer at first he’d thought, I just have to hold out until she tires of me. Gilli will get me out then. Then he’d worried, unless he’s already left with Vina. And after his side and back felt scrubbed raw, when he twitched and loosed pitiful sounds as she drug light scratches while looking for a new spot to bite he tumbled fevered over the thought: Morgana is a magic user I’d give up. But, even if I knew where she was– could I condemn her to this? 

On the soft flesh under his ribcage two claws pressed his back, and the third pressed his abdomen. “I have a few more personal questions, love. Are you ready?”

“No.”

She chuckled, slid down to his waist. “How did you control my pet?”

“Magic.”

Claws dug above his hip. “You thought your magic made you better?"

"No," Merlin said, but she dug the point of the claws in anyway. She was snarling, painted lips twisted. "I didn't."

"You thought you could smirk at me, sway your hips, and steal away the Sarrum?” Fire lanced along the point of the fangs, each jagged, serrated ridge a ripple of pain as she pushed past skin into muscle. “What did you offer him, oh great sorceress?”

Perception and heat narrowed to the flare of pain in his side, and he felt nothing but the hook of the fangs as they dug deeper. Were they getting larger, the sharp corners thicker? His vision grayed. 

“What’s this?”

The fangs ripped from him, and his body flushed cold as his hip and belly went warm.

She moved the pincers to where, for the first time, he could see them. White claws fashioned into rings locked into the joints of her thumb and first and second fingers. What had she killed to get them, a questing beast? A cockatrice? Blood coated them a brilliant red and smeared across his collarbone as she hooked a claw near the hollow of his throat. “You didn’t answer me.”

“I don’t–”

The scrape of twine along the back of his neck, then the pocket of cool air as the Triskelion pulled away from his breast. Tiny hairs of twine frayed as she slid a claw up along the necklace until the pendant hung between them. When she tapped it, it rang like crystal. 

She would not take Freya’s gift.

“This is special,” she said, tracing the swirls with a point of a claw. “What does it do?”

It let him see through the Veil into Albion’s magic. “It’s sentimental.”

Could he press magic into the pendant, use it through the pinhole it offered between the realms? Could he then break the manacles?

His heart thumped wild. He’d never succeeded in controlling when the pendant activated before. But now– now he couldn’t give up the chance that he might. It had something to do with feeding magic into it. Something with magic following the shape of the rune. 

She gripped the Triskelion in a fist and yanked upwards.

He kicked. 

Her stomach caved under his heel, one of them grunted. His side screamed. The twine caught at the base of his skull, tore with a faint pop, made his breath catch as she fell away. 

The triangle of glass glittered before his face, almost hovering. 

He’d known Avalon wouldn’t save him, knew it in the way Gaius couldn’t show up here blasting spells, nor Gilli, nor Kilgharrah. He didn’t need them to. Maybe he even didn’t want them to. Saving them is what made him strong– standing up when no one else would made him Merlin.

The Triskelion hovered, and he snapped hold of it between his teeth. Magic he shoved out through his mouth, through the press of his tongue, imagined it filling the small rune and swirling, spiraling, thrice over and infinite. Show me the Veil, he demanded. Give it to me.

Chaos stole him. 

Raw, golden wind spun, filling the courtyard in a tornado blast. It whistled and howled. It blinded. It soaked into his body and burned at his wrists. 

Cold, it was so cold. 

Glass shattered in his mouth. His vision doubled. The well, the storm. The woman, the wind. Golden chains of magic whipped vicious. They bent and crumpled, collapsing on themselves, kaleidoscoping into new shapes. 

His chest hurt, his lungs hurt. When had he last breathed?

The well was stone but also pillars of gold, an unbreakable fae circle stretching up into the stars and down deep into the ground. He was blind to his chains, but also saw their darkness. They curled into a pure black so deep, magic screamed to escape it. Great churns of it ran too from the fae circle, geysering into the sky. It flayed his hands, his soul. 

He was a flea before a goddess. Dust in a hurricane. And then he was lightning.

Power blasted into the garden in a column of white light, booming from Merlin to slam against trees, crack lanterns, and shatter windows. He’d snapped his manacles. They fell as he stood, static dancing along his skin, knees quaking under his weight, his side protesting. Slivers of glass fell from his lips coated in blood. 

He knew the spell to hold himself together but a shard of ice lodged behind his heart. He shoved, beat at it until it cracked, and when it shattered it skinned him anew. Threads of magic connected his veins, sealed over his wound, then congealed his blood and froze his heart. 

He shoved the spell away, gagging, coughing, sucked in spots of air as his heart raced to catch the beats it’d missed. Pressing a hand over his bleeding side, he looked for the woman. He had to get away from her. Before she caught him again.

But she lay on her back in the grass, lips purple and eyes vacant. Three darts pierced the column of her throat. 

“Here!” Someone shouted. “Up here!”

Merlin looked up, saw Vina leaning out a harem window with eyes wide, brunette curls floating in a wave of static. Gilli was at her side, waving. “Hurry! The entire bloody country must have heard that!”

A pinprick hole in the back of his mind, in the back of his heart, crashed with the sound of the storm, pressed cold like a needle of ice. How to close it?

The revel doors burst open, guards gaping out with hands on their weapons and revelers in the background with hands still pressed to their ears. A dozen guards at least seemed ready to run for him, so he seized magic like a stone and threw. The doors slammed closed, crumpling under the force. 

Often, shaping magic had felt like metallic thread– a bit rigid and partial to faceted shapes, but malleable. Now it felt only like– torn metal, or– huge chunks of shattered rock– he couldn’t catch the right analogy but could also recognize he was spiraling. Tunnel, he had to make a tunnel.

Oh goddess, his magic was cold, so cold.

He built two branches made of shards, one connected to Gilli and Vina’s window and the other to himself, melded them somewhere outside the castle, threw them all further. Into the forest. As far as he could reach. 

The pinprick hole flared frostbite numb, filled him with ice, whispered there’s nowhere in Albion you can’t go.  

His perception faded to the jagged whirl of the tunnel, to a clearing in some countryside where he and Gilli had rested.

Then, blood running past his fingers, mind darkening, Merlin fell through. 

The In-Between sung by In This Moment

Chapter Text

Mid - Late August

“Keep that pressed down!” 

Merlin’s vision fluttered to the sound of ripping fabric. Gilli’s face– male– hovered above him, weight pressed into his side. “Get off,” Merlin mumbled. 

“Idiot,” Gilli said, blurring as he heaved Merlin to half sitting and wrapped a strip of fabric about his side. “Stay awake. Press this.” Merlin followed direction, taking over the clamp on his side, not doing as good a job and feeling warm blood coat his fingers. “Can’t you heal yourself?”

“I tried,” he said, thoughts moving through molasses. He narrowed his eyes at his slippers, realized he was still wearing the body of a woman. He should probably dispel that. He wiggled his ankles, the movements numb and tingly and reminiscent of being drunk. “I’m a little dizzy.”

Gilli shoved a stick into the fabric bandage he’d put around Merlin and started twisting. That hurt. Little pained noises escaped until they left him breathless. “Now hold this,” Gilli said.

He held the stick in shaky fingers.   

He blinked at himself, legs extended, torso bowed over, hair tickling his thighs. Gilli and Vina kneeled nearby, Vina ripping strips of fabric from her skirt until Gilli moved to grab her by the shoulders, pulled her into a hug. “We’re free,” he said.

“I’m free,” she whispered, face crumbling, seizing Gilli tight. But in a blink she’d looked to Merlin and shoved Gilli aside. Crawling she said, “Can you walk? We need to get you to a healer. Do you know where we are?”

“It’s a clearing near Qila,” Gilli said to her, and they continued in a rapidfire conversation Merlin barely followed. 

“Where’s that? I haven’t heard of Qila.”

“Near Jaiput I think? Like three days walk?”

“I know a gold tavern there! I think Pem mentioned it.”

“That’d be a good place to lay low. Merlin,” Gilli turned back to him. “How long until you can tunnel again?” 

“Uh,” his magic felt as it had before the jump, largely made of chunks of cold crystal shards. Finesse wasn’t available to him, but that pinprick in the back of his mind whispered, ready to be called on again. “Soon,” he decided. 

Vina put a clammy hand to his face, wiping at him. Was he sweating? "We really need to get you to a healer," her voice shook. 

"I'm a physician's assistant," he said. 

Gilli groaned. "He's so out of it. Merlin, focus. We killed the Ishtar. The Sarrum is after us." He pointed somewhere into the darkness. "Jaiput is that way. There's a tavern like Fool's Gold there. Remember Fool's Gold?" 

He had to tunnel back to Camelot, and Gaius. But he couldn’t do that as a woman from the Sarrum’s harem. The leather soles of his slippers had gone damp, and the satin clung to his toes. As he dispelled their shape, magic drifted upward like smoke on a doused fire, shimmering a misty gold. The pinprick hole between the realms ached as he stared, covered him in waves of nausea. Looking both outward and inward, through the Veil, left him feeling upside down.

The boots reforming on his feminine ankles swamped him and hid a lacy pattern that coated his shins. Magic poofed out of his silky trousers, coarse fibers lengthening to cover his legs, seemingly formed out of golden shards snapping together. He'd always imagined magic more like a metallic thread that could be woven. This was nothing like that. 

A hand waved before his eyes, and others pushed at his shoulders. Laying on his back, unable to watch the magic, he frowned. He brought both hands up before him. 

That lacy pattern was all over him. Was it the illusion? No, these were his normal hands. Right?

Gilli's voice came through water. "I told you to hold that!" 

Hold what?

Vina leaned over him, pinching something at his side. "Gilli! What do we do?"

A slap swung his head to the side, and Gilli swam blurry before him. Merlin made a muffled, moaning sound. 

"Wake up! Use your magic you damned horse's ass!" 

Warm light pressed over him, sunlight while he lay for a nap during one of Arthur and Gwen's picnics. It churned his blood, brought sharp stabs of pain along his back and side. He blinked up into Gilli’s red face. “Ugh,” Merlin said, “Did you do that?”

“Yes, idiot!” Gilli shouted. “Teach me to tunnel so I can get us to someone who can help!”

Gilli didn’t have enough magic for that. “Did you want me to drop you off somewhere safe?”

“You’re the one we’re worried about,” Vina urged. 

“I can get to Camelot. Do you both want to come?” 

“Focus on getting yourself there,” Gilli said. “Hurry, dammit.”

“Alright. I’ll scry you, later.”

Gilli threw his hands up and stomped away. “Fine, Merlin, just go! Go!”

His Veil shivered, and cold chunks of icy magic blasted from him into a spiraling tunnel of stalagmite heavy shards. Once he dipped into the river it was so hard to stop it– Albion’s magic rushed through him, building and building and building– 

The fractured golden tunnel yawned into the dark room of Gaius’ chambers, empty of patients, a candle flickering at Gaius’ bedside. Tears pricked his eyes. Home.  

Gaius had lived many years alone. Decades, even. He’d grown used to the hollow sound of his own breathing, the shift of his sheets, the pops of the castle groaning in the wind. He’d stuffed the large room and loft with books, herbs, shelves, furniture– anything a physician might need to help another. He’d convinced himself it’d been cozy, warm, inviting.

Tonight, a congealed soup of barley and turnips sat untouched on his dining table, and a timing candle had burned down to its stub. He wanted to get up and light another. 

When Merlin had left with Gilli earlier that evening, flippant in his plan to break into the Sarrum’s castle, so sure his ability to tunnel meant he was safe, Gaius had wanted to seize and shake him. So many had died from that hubris. He should have yelled those stories at them, should have hugged the boy who’d brought actual warmth to his life, should have begged him to be more careful. 

Gaius sat up, reaching for the burned out candle just as a body skidded across his floor. 

It lay unmoving in a crumpled heap by the hearth, and Gaius’ breath caught in his throat as he hurried to roll the body, Merlin’s body, over. Merlin’s face caught in a grimace, and he had a hand pressed to a side which when Gaius probed, came away wet. 

He needed light. Eyes flashing, Gaius muttered the spell for fire and lit the hearth into a sudden blaze. Merlin appeared pale with blood loss, and peeling away Merlin’s hands revealed a puncture wound in the abdomen which bubbled blood with every heartbeat. 

Punctures could be very bad if they’d gotten to the organs. 

“There are two more on my back,” Merlin mumbled. “I’m sorry, Gaius.”

“You need to use your magic to seal any internal tears.”

Merlin frowned, then his hand spasmed and their bucket of boiled rags sped towards them. Gaius ducked in surprise, and Merlin twisted, reaching out an arm to freeze the bucket in a second burst of magic before it smashed into pieces on the opposing wall. Blood leaked from his side and he pulled back, clasping a hand over his hip with a hiss. "I'm having trouble controlling it."

"You're exhausted," Gaius offered as an excuse. He did not have Merlin’s finesse or strength, but he could push his magic into the tears in Merlin’s torso and paint them closed. “I’ve started the spell for you, can you mold it to your wounds?”

“I can’t,” Merlin whispered, voice shaky.

“You can,” Gaius put a hand to Merlin’s sternum. “Breathe. You have time. You’re safe with me. What is making it difficult?”

“I did something foolish,” Merlin cracked a smile. “Surprised?” 

"What happened?" He asked softly, painfully.

“...I think I tore the Veil between realms,” Merlin trembled. “Through it I can see the shape of spells, and use Albion’s magic for myself. But the magic feels lumpy and cold and is so hard to control.”

He tore a Veil? He could see magic? Gaius did not know how to heal that. “We are all natural sieves for the magic of the world. The magic you feel is the same magic you have always had.”

“Something’s wrong with me, Gaius.”

“It sounds like raw ingredients, like the leaves of herbs before we’ve ground them in the pestle. Can you grind the magic before you use it?”

“I don’t think so… I don’t–” Merlin trailed off, grimacing. “I think I can feel my own magic though, there’s a little in between all of this.” His forehead tensed, then smoothed. His hands loosened where they gripped his side and Gaius folded back the fabric to confirm Merlin’s blood had ceased bubbling. 

That looked good, if Merlin could maintain that through the weeks he’d be alright. “Don’t move,” Gaius hurried for a pre-threaded needle and some of their purified water. He cleaned the wound and threaded quick, efficient stitches. “I’m going to roll you over.”

Merlin helped, leveraging slightly onto an elbow and revealing a back so marred that Gaius’ experience left him. A sob tore from his chest. “My boy,” he cried. 

“I was so stupid,” Merlin spoke quickly, “the Sarrum has a ring that’s made of dark magic, and manacles like what held Kilgharrah. He captured me….” 

Gaius scrubbed at his tears, forced to rely on muscle memory to clean and stitch closed the puncture wounds. The remaining dozens of slashes would require his best herbs and tight bindings. They looked deliberate and repetitive. Someone had tortured him .  

He wanted to bundle Merlin into his arms, wanted to go back in time and poison the wine at Uther’s war tables. 

“He had manacles like Uther, Gaius,” Merlin repeated.

“You broke them?”

“He had cursed manacles.” Merlin sat up and gripped Gaius’ shoulders. “Cursed manacles that can seal away dragons.”

Did he think Aithusa may have been captured by the Sarrum? He couldn’t go rushing back there; it was far too dangerous for something with so little proof. 

“The Ishtar had three white claws, Gaius. She carved me up with three dragon claws.”

He tried to breathe through the ache in his chest. "You must rest, at least until your magic is stable."

Merlin’s gaze had gone wild and roving. “Magic ran away from the cuffs on my wrists. It swerved and streaked away, as if it couldn’t dodge fast enough. Magic flies away from cursed objects, Gaius.”

"You have spent weeks without sleep and now lie in my arms half dead."

Merlin’s grip tightened, his fevered expression begging Gaius to understand the unclear picture he drew. “Gaius, magic geysered out of the well.”

"You have put yourself in danger, and by extension, the king. Please, for all of our sakes, rest and allow me to tend to you!"

For a span Gaius could only anxiously watch Merlin's face gone blank, but then the young man returned, an apologetic smile on his lips. "You’re right. I’m being foolish." 

There was never enough time to make Merlin understand. Again, without time, he bullied Merlin into laying on his stomach. 

He would work methodically, in quadrants, and as he cut off Merlin’s tunic to fully reveal the job before him, chose to begin at the upper left shoulder. Each injury he cleaned, tied off the worst of them, and when his own emotions threatened to overwhelm paused to stroke a hand through Merlin’s hair. 

Through it all Merlin’s breaths began shallow and pained, but, in time, his eyelids fluttered as he fell into a shallow slumber. 

Only in the end, when he’d lain tincture-soaked bandages and was sure of Merlin's safety, did he allow his own tears to fully come. 

Merlin woke, face again in his pillow and this time sun warming his loft to an afternoon’s humidity. Voices drifted from the physician’s chambers below, but Merlin made no effort to parse them. Had he slept through the morning, or was this the same day Gaius had made him drink a rosemary potion for inflammation? 

It was the thirteenth time he’d woken, if that meant anything. 

He’d kicked the sheets to his ankles, and his trousers had rode up to his knees. The bandages, tight around his torso, itched. The warmth of the room put a tacky sweat into his joints.

A month ago he’d have called it uncomfortable, but it all together did nothing to bleed heat into his insides . Ice blocks pressed up against his heart, into the back of his throat, pulled his attention to the frigid cold of the pinprick eye hiding behind his skull. 

When Morgana had torn the Veil between the physical and spiritual realms, the rend in reality had been apparent– Lancelot and Arthur had seen it with their own eyes, and villagers had been set upon by spirits. Contrarily, Gaius saw nothing floating behind Merlin, no matter how many times Merlin had made him look. This tear, the one he’d made, appeared only to affect him.

The double-vision he’d gained upset his senses less, now that he’d spent a few spotty hours using the ability to keep himself alive over the past days. Using it now he found a new hesitant canopy holding together his punctured side, misshapen but thoughtful. Gaius, fussing, hadn’t realized Merlin had dissipated their stitching spell intentionally. 

On all previous awakenings he’d tied Gaius’ magic to his own fitful threads and tugged Gaius’ canopy into place. Finding those wispy threads even now, however many days since Amata, still required squeezing past shards of raw magic. Spirits, was this what his control would be, forever? Plucking through the detritus of his own soul like a child through a burned out village? How would he ever free Aithusa from the Sarrum?

He sucked a breath– there, a pocket adrift, stagnant. He strung it up and out of his stomach, careful, like a man fishing a key from a well, until two strings of magic warbled before him. He let out a shaky breath. Looping the strings through Gaius’ canopy, he pulled until its corners popped from his skin, suctioning as it peeled away. 

In gold a spell no larger than a lady’s handkerchief undulated, roughspun and patchy– made of hatched lines and frayed ends, crackling easily under Merlin’s scrutiny. 

For whatever ease he may have lost, he could almost call it worth it to now see these ethereally beautiful structures. He’d spent so long imagining and hadn’t come close to the way magic glowed as if lightning lived within it. He couldn’t have imagined the little rods of sparkling static that built three- or six- or eight-sided shapes that trembled and flipped and sometimes broke before his eyes.

The beat of boots on the stairs to his loft snapped him alert. Brittle cracks shot through the spell as lightning, shattering the handkerchief into jagged pebbles that faded fast. 

That wasn’t Gaius’ pace. 

Merlin flung himself to sitting, scrabbling for a tunic and pulling it over his head just as Gwaine burst through the door.

“You’re here?” Gwaine said, stunned.

Dizziness blacked his vision, and Merlin bent, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, trying to breathe through it. His wounds ached, but he forced himself to not flinch for them.

“Merlin?” Gaius appeared behind Gwaine, sounding breathless. 

He managed a small moan in response. 

Gwaine stopped before him. "You look awful, actually."

"I feel awful."

“What happened?”

He hesitated. What lie would Gaius have told? “Let me cough on you and you’ll find out.”

Gwaine paused long enough to make Merlin peek up at him. Near instantly Gwaine smiled the largest grin he’d ever grinned and said, “To quote every handmaiden I’ve ever met, the cure for the stomach sickness is sun!”

“I think I’d know cures better than you,” Gaius gruffed.

“Yet you never prescribe the darkest grog available, and that’s cured me countless times,” Gwaine said. 

Gaius had that worried look in his posture that belied a sleeping draught as soon as Gwaine left. Gwaine, alternatively, swept his gaze over the room. He cataloged the cold broth Gaius had left, the clean rags, the tin of balm. Would he know the smell for the antiseptic it was? Gwaine, with his life in and out of taverns and mercenary contracts? Maybe. He was more likely than Arthur, at least, to recognize wild rhubarb and sticklewort.

Of the choices presented to him Merlin decided to get Gwaine out of here, and dodge a draught. “You mentioned the sun would help?”

“Up for a stroll?”

“How about a prop willing to get me to Arthur’s Solar?” Maybe that overly windowed room could find a way to thaw him out. 

Gwaine, jovial, propped out his elbow for Merlin to take. “You’ve been sick off and on for awhile now.”

As he bent for his boots Albion’s magic shifted within him, jostling and clattering like he held a full set of Arthur’s armor inside his ribcage. “It’s been a tough one to beat.”

“Lucky it hasn’t spread, eh?”

Merlin flushed, he wasn’t making a good enough effort to prevent sharing a fake, terrible illness. 

“It’s past that stage,” Gaius cut in. “And be careful,” he added to Merlin, voice tight. “Move slowly. Don’t do anything foolish.”

“What foolishness can I really get up to,” Merlin grumbled. “I can barely walk.” 

He punctuated this by truly needing Gwaine’s arm to get all the way to standing. As Gwaine helped him out of the loft and onto windy ramparts Merlin wondered, what did Gaius think he’d do? Tunnel back to Amata, blast the garden apart, dig around in the well or every prison in that horrible castle until Aithusa was free or he’d found himself captured again?

Gaius thought he was foolish enough not to care about finesse? Sure, he’d tunneled with Albion’s raw magic before, but he’d been hopped on the rush of escape. And yeah, he’d thrown one of the shards of magic like a boulder and veritably crushed the doors to the revel, but it had ripped him apart to do it.  

Since when had he seemed the type to throw himself in battle with an injury that could send him to his knees with a well placed kick? No, he’d never been that foolish. But he had always been a coward. 

“Whatever it is you’re blaming yourself for,” Gwaine said, pausing briefly to make a rude gesture toward Percival down on the training pitch, “it won’t get better with you moping around.”

Gwaine didn’t even seem concerned with the sentence, instead grinning at whatever response Percival threw his way. “Why would you think I’m moping?”

“Like recognizes like.”

Brown hair tousling in the breeze, typical roguish smile in place, brilliantly distracting towards every guard or servant they passed, Merlin could not see how the image connected with the phrase. “This is you moping?”

“Maybe,” Gwaine grinned as they reached the stairwell leading down to the lowest floor. Gwaine unlatched from him, vaulting instead over groups of steps to leave Merlin leaning on the banister. He swiveled, hands on his hips, “What do you think?”

He’d never felt so perplexed. What weird joke was Gwaine playing? He didn’t have the energy for the knights’ pranks right now. Red cloak, chainmail, boots– Gwaine didn’t seem abnormal. “I don’t know, you’re missing a stein of ale?”

Gwaine swiveled, expression hidden as he shouted, “Got it in one!” 

Gwaine chattered his ear off after; he’d instructed a group of squires-in-training to walk backwards for a day, or use their non-dominant hands, or eat upside down or something. His side and back ached, Albion’s magic chilled, and none of it compared to what Aithusa was going through. She’d been so small the last he’d seen her. Who chained a baby? What kind of monster did that?

“Delivery!” Gwaine threw open the doors to the royal chambers, startling a group of servants. 

“Sorry,” Merlin grimaced. 

“They’re upstairs,” one of them said. “In the Solar.”

“Well, have fun!” Gwaine called, shutting the doors as he left. 

Had that been abrupt, or…? He really wasn’t all here yet. 

Rubbing at a dizziness threatening to grow, he skirted past the servants and edged his way up the spiral stair to the Solar. The warm press of the sun lit the room in a yellow glow, and with curtains swept aside, patio doors open, the summer breeze brought with it the smell of grassy mulch. Gwen and Arthur sat outside, and at their small, round ironwork table they bent over a decorated table runner whose ends spilled to pool in piles at their feet.

Arthur saw him first and barked, “What are you doing here?” 

Gwen turned, eyes widening. “Are you quite well?” She stood, arms out as if to catch or hug him. “Sit. Let me get us some food.”

“No, please. I just needed a walk and had nowhere to go.”

“I think we’ve got some rolls and fruit, I’ll just be a minute.”

Gwen urged him into her seat and bustled away, and Merlin flushed and turned from Arthur’s pinched expression. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“You’re apologizing too much,” Arthur scoffed, eyes skittering over Merlin. “You’ve been so distracted the past few weeks. Did something happen in Deorham that you’re not telling me?”

“I got sick.”

“There’s a difference between being sick and looking how you look.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You seem… I don’t know. Not like yourself.”

“I’m sick. ”

Arthur pulled back an inch, frowned, turned away. “Do you remember when that dragon attacked Camelot, and we were looking for that dragonlord?”

Merlin’s heart thumped, “What?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it just seems like… nevermind. Forget it.” Arthur’s gaze dodged down to the table runner before them, a black strip of fabric with hills, horses, and figures of men stitched in yellow-gold thread. Arthur pointed at one of the figures which appeared to have a crown on its head. “I think this one is my father.”

Merlin blinked hard, but processed the scene no differently. “From the crown?”

Arthur scrunched up the fabric, moving a section towards the ground and pulling another into sight. The scene showed three men in a tent around a tall table, lit from behind by a halo of light. Outside, on waves of rolling hills, shining knights slayed fang-filled, wolfish monsters. “I think this is King Alined, the Sarrum, and my father.”

Those three old, evil friends? What was this, then, some wondrous depiction of their heroism? “Planning on decorating the outhouses?”

He heard his own bitterness too late, and Arthur now watched him with a concerned, soft expression. 

“I just mean,” Merlin gestured at the death-filled scene below, “this is the Purge, right? Sort of morbid.”

“I wish you’d talk to me,” Arthur whispered. 

“Arthur, Leon needs our thoughts on tomorrow’s Market Day court,” Gwen strode into the Solar and onto the patio with a plate of food soon forced into Merlin’s lap. “He’s downstairs. It’ll just be a minute,” she said this last towards Merlin. “Eat, warm up.” 

She rubbed at his shoulder before they left, and Merlin had to pull slightly away and hope she didn’t notice the catch of bandages underneath his tunic. 

Guilt pinged through him, not unfamiliar. Arthur deserved the truth. And Aithusa deserved to be saved. And Uther should have paid worse for his crimes. What were Arthur and Gwen doing looking at this sick battle scene? What were those monsters supposed to stand for, fae? Or every witch and warlock that had burned?

He failed to fight off a snarl, so glared down at his plate of food. Gwen had brought him three buttery rolls of bread and a heap of fruit. If Aithusa really was at the bottom of that well, was she eating? The well cover could be removed, and the Sarrum seemed to use the table often. Maybe he dumped excess tea or that sweet brown fruit down into the pit, looking down his nose, impassive, as she cried alone and afraid–

A short sob cut through him, and he pressed the heels of his palms to eyes that burned with tears. 

I have to save her, and I could barely save myself. 

The tear in the Veil hovered behind him, and as he scooped it into his mental periphery golden magic shimmered into view. With eyes pressed closed it overlay on the darkness of his eyelids, something lacy and shifting and filling his vision. The storm had seemed less structured than this. 

He dropped his hands, opened his eyes, and the lace disappeared. If he leaned further into the Veil, he could see the whip of magical wind lost in the chaos that waited there, but no lace. Eyelids closed, he saw it faintly. Had it been his hands? 

Frowning, he stared down at his palms, alternating eyes open and closed, hands close or far. There did seem to be some sort of… pattern?... to his skin. It crawled up his forearms, disappearing under the cuff of his tunic. He'd spent the last days assuming this lace had been the transformation spell.

Arthur and Gwen voices he couldn’t hear and the men in the training pitch below wouldn’t notice anything if he was careful. 

A chunk of Albion’s magic shifted, and he wound it through his torso and up his arm until it clung cold inside his hand. When he pressed, faint… so very faint… the lace of his skin stretched. Not unlike his neckerchief wrapped round the Crystal of Neahtid he bent under the sharp facets of broken, raw magic as if he were cloth before its rigid form. Is this why it hurt to channel? Why it felt like it tore to use? It must be.

Gaius had said something about grinding, could he do that to wear the shards down? Pulverize them through collision with each other? Or scrape them against the skein of his skin until he’d formed usable shavings? 

“-as the commonor’s circuit at the Tournament of Camelot,” Arthur said as he reentered the Solar. Merlin’s head snapped up.

Gwen followed, “I hope. You’ll help me though, right? The first one at least?”

“If you want me there. You don’t need it though.”

Gwen smiled soft at Arthur, then joined Merlin as Arthur went to fetch a third chair. “You didn’t eat anything,” she admonished. 

Right. The idea of anything solid made his stomach turn, but he pulled a chunk of bread into his mouth and let it melt on his saliva. “Mmm,” he smiled. 

This was a dangerous place to lose himself. But his safe place, Gaius’ chambers, too often dosed him to sleep. He could make the trek to Kilgharrah’s former prison, to the cold, dank cell Kilgharrah had lain trapped in for over two decades, chained down, alone– he gagged around the morsel of bread. 

Gwen looked at him aghast. “Are you sure you should be up?”

“I don’t think I could stomach going back to bed right now,” he whispered.

She reached out to squeeze the piece of him she could reach. “Don’t push yourself then, not for my sake. Just rest.”

Right, rest, like Gaius said. Like that fixed anything. 

Still, as Arthur returned with a third chair and the two partners bled back into whatever conversation they’d been having before he’d come along, Merlin succumbed to his weakness. Staying was easier, and he wanted to be here in the sun with his friends. 

And, if he closed his eyes and let his vision suffuse with that of the Veil’s, then he was only working to save Aithusa with every moment he could. If he used the comfort of their presence as his stolid stone circle while testing the myriad ways he may break down Albion’s shards, while a trophy glorifying the death of others like him lay between them, he didn’t have to label it manipulation. Whatever lie in him that had earned their friendship he had to hope was genuine enough to buy their forgiveness. One day, he wouldn’t just sit here and use their kindness. One day, he’d trust them.

When Arthur and Gwen started making concerned noises about dinner and a meeting they needed to attend, Merlin fought his way back to partial attention.

“We should cancel,” Gwen said, rolling up the tapestry. “I’m still not sure what to say about this gift.”

“How are your letters with Queen Annis going? We could really use an alliance.”

“Would you be willing to travel up for their harvest feasts?”

Merlin slid his eyes closed, still lost without context. It wasn’t until Gwen whispered again, “Cancel the dinner, Arthur,” that Merlin came back to present. Both had been looking at him with concern, but Arthur dodged his glance away.

“I think I may go to bed,” Merlin said to the table. 

“No, you don’t have to,” Gwen said. “Stay.”

A buzzing gold static churned in Merlin’s soul, formed from his efforts to grind down Albion’s magic. As he shifted it lit like sparks, golden threads zapping along the table. Some formed the little figures that had filled the tapestry– swords raised, cloaks billowing, teeth gnashing. 

Two moved as if alive, clashing and snarling, sword driving through the chest of a beast and dripping golden blood. 

He’d spent far too long staring at this tapestry today. “I’m tired anyway. You both should get going. Don’t be late.”

When he stood he must have shook, because Arthur rose quick. “I’ll walk you.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

Even twisted away, even with his eyes closed, Albion’s magic clicked and snapped into the needlepoint version of Uther’s triumphant return to Camelot. Hands and banners waved, lauding ecstatic. He should never have channeled that raw energy. It wanted to return to chaos, and it was dragging him there one step at a time.

The longer he stood, the worse it sparked within him. This was bad.

“It’s not like I’ll miss the meeting just because I saw you safely to Gaius, Merlin.”

“Honestly, I’ll be fine.”

He tripped out of the patio, used the walls and furniture as handholds in a lurching stride for the stairwell. Arthur’s exasperated grunt was far enough behind for Merlin to curl around a bend and find a blind spot. Hidden, with a few seconds available to him, he threw his will at the sparkling magic.

The dancing figures remained, striking like lightning onto the steps around him. No time– he grasped the partly-used shards and whatever magic he could aim into a tunnel. He built a short one, from here across the training pitch and up into his loft, listened panicked to the echo of Arthur’s boots. Seconds. He leapt through.

What had he done? Idiot. Idiot. He should have noticed that grinding down those shards hadn’t created his normal magic. The static in him bounced off itself now, an explosion waiting to happen.

He’d made it to his loft, he was alone here, the door closed. His heart rate roared too loud to tell whether Gaius had a patient below. Out of his soul in forks of golden crackles streaked the Sarrum, Uther, the bloody, massive wolves of the tapestry. 

On all fours he dug his grip tighter into rough stone, tried to ground himself in reality. Maybe if he just let it burn itself out. 

But his mind was cotton, his stomach rolling.

He buzzed disoriented and empty.

Then woke healthy and whole.

Merlin blinked blue eyes open and found himself on warm soil, slotted into a corner along a wall of fabric.

Light filtered through that fabric in a muted orange glow, surrounding him on all sides and forming a peak overhead. A tent?

There were people talking outside, but Gaius’ steady voice filtered quickly above the others. Had he somehow tunneled to Iseldir’s camp, or had Gaius brought him here? Why would he be in a tent? 

He got to his feet and didn’t feel a sway, didn’t feel exhausted– in fact didn’t see the static or the feel cold shards in the pit of his stomach. He’d been healed– but more amazingly– healed beyond any way he’d ever felt before. He felt warm. Complete. 

With a wide smile Merlin flipped the tent-flap aside, breathed in the magically-laden air with a greedy suck of his nostrils. Gaius' voice came again from a much larger tent bracketed by guards and flying multicolored banners. To Merlin's side a field spread before him, dipping down into a valley before climbing another grassy hill. The smoke of many fires could be seen twisting into the sky.

The front flap of Gaius’ tent moved aside as he approached, and a young knight pushed past him while Merlin ducked through the opening. Within, a long rectangular plank rested on a barrel, acting as a makeshift table, and a group of richly-dressed men gathered round it. They didn't take notice of him as he slipped into a corner.

"It's not too late, sire. Perhaps I could talk to them." That was Gaius again, and Merlin searched for his face in the crowd, wondering what Gaius had done to heal him so completely, and what he was doing in a command tent. Because, clearly, this was a command tent. Had Annis waged a new war? How long had he been out? He was forgetting something, he felt. 

There was Gaius but… not. He had fewer wrinkles, long locks of black. He stood thinner and straighter and called someone sire….

Uther turned towards him and Merlin's knees nearly buckled. But the old king's eyes passed through, beyond, to men behind him.  "The time for talking to these creatures is long past. Now we must act, and act swiftly."

The second of the richly-dressed men– rust-colored cloak, ghoulish face– spirits it was the Sarrum – said, "They fight without honor. The longer we wait, the more likely we'll see a knife come through our back."

"I know they were once your friends, Gaius," Uther continued, "but look at what they have done to our people and our lands during their rampage across the countryside. Crops no longer grow in our fields. Surely you see them for what they are, now."

Attendants nodded, expressions a mix of anger and blind faith. 

Uther’s fist curled on the table, speaking now to the crowd who clung now to his charisma. “They are a kind corrupted, turned into unholy monsters by their greed for more power. It sickens me how deep their roots have dug as they spread their rot. Today, finally, together , we will wipe that scourge from our lands."

Gaius nearly wept in frustration. 

He had already lost his betrothed, the pupils he'd loved, and their rights as magic-users. And now he'd very likely be forced to watch hundreds of druids die.

Uther was a new king, but he was also a friend mad with grief, and how could Gaius abandon him now? Now, when if he left there would be no hope for recovery? No hope for magic without a friend to guide him back to sanity?

In misery he stood and listened to Uther's speech, so full of hatred for a people he had once embraced, if never understood. When he was finished the Sarrum said, "I believe your advisor has said his piece. Let him attempt to convince his former friends towards surrender while we discuss our strategy."

"Gaius, do you have anything further to say?" Uther asked.

“Please, reconsider,” Gaius said, only to be overtaken by King Alined’s huff. 

“Take the rest of the tent with you,” King Alined said. “These last plans are for a king’s ears only.”

He left, followed by the crowd of attendants who milled about waiting for orders and gossiping. Their words, their anticipation, beat on him. In the waning light he fell dark and deep into despondency. 

So many more would die, magic and common alike, and he could do nothing to stop it.

He moved leaden feet down from the royals’ encampment, across the empty field, and then up the hill shrouding the druids. The setting sun blinded at first, but faded quickly to warm oranges and purples. 

Wendol met him just below the crest, blonde hair pulled back into a short tail and wearing his druid cloak proud. "What brings you here, on the eve of battle?"

He'd came dressed for battle; wood axe on his back and long knife at his hip. He did not seem like a man who could be convinced to retreat further. Gaius drug his eyes back to his friend’s tanned face. "Stubborn hope.”

"The last refuge." Wendol turned, clasped hands behind his back. "Come, then."

Gaius let his eyes track over the opposing army. He would not return to Uther with news of their number, but he counted them all the same. There were many more than he expected to see. Wendol had brought together more tribes than Gaius had thought possible in a land consumed with their slaughter. 

They reached a sputtering fire ringed with druid elders and Isle priestesses. Wendol stood aside and presented him with a crooked smile, and Nimueh’s head snapped up. It’d been near a year now since he’d last seen her, and she looked hale. Where she’d once aimed for decadence she now tied her long brunette hair into braids that knotted at the back of her head and spilled over her shoulder. The child he’d shoved into her charge still sat at her side, unharmed. 

With a familiarity begat by his years working alongside her, years of thinking of her as an ally and friend, Gaius said, "This is no place for the child, Nimueh."

She quirked painted lips at him. "By the side of her people is precisely where she should be."

"Tell us your news," Wendol bade. "The time for talking is nearly past."

The words were so eerily similar to Uther's that Gaius faltered. Nimueh sneered. "What news could he bring? He hasn't come to help us."

"I am trying to help all of us," Gaius said, but bent under the gaze of those around him. He had learned from these men and women for years. How could they believe he was against them? "Uther won't stand down; he can't be dissuaded. He will come after you until all are spent."

"Then he must die," Nimueh spat acidly. "And who but you is in the perfect place to do it? You could have slipped a knife in his back and prevented a war."

"After an assassination from a known magic-user, I could just as easily have started one."

"Let him speak, Nimueh," Wendol interrupted. And while the man had no power over her, Nimueh sat back with a roll of her eyes.

"Kingdoms have allied together, and you can't slay them all. It would be never ending. Thousands would die for little gain," Gaius argued.

"And what do you propose?" Wendol asked.

Gaius took a deep breath, looked at the faces around him. The firelight was throwing shadows on their faces, and it was all the more apparent how late the hour was growing. The sun had set quickly. "Hide," he said, pleading. "Pretend you'll give up magic. Go to the Isle of the Blessed, at least defend yourselves with walls. Let their anger subside and then we could have a chance to return—"

"There is no returning from this!"

"Peace, Nimeuh," Wendol said, though he turned dark eyes on Gaius and continued. "But I agree with her, old friend. How can I live a lie while others are drowned– burned , for what we are? I cannot abandon them to that fate. We will fight for our freedom, and we will win it."

Gaius slouched. The sun disappeared beneath the horizon. Around them, fires tamped out. Then I have failed again. "I promised Vivienne that at least Morgause would be safe."

Nimueh put a hand on the girl's head, stroking her blonde curls. "She will be, because of what I will achieve in battle."

The sun winked away over the last hill, and a scream shattered the new darkness. 

There was a shout of magic, another shriek, and a rush of running feet. Gaius whirled around, and something oily black, small and wriggling leapt past him for Wendol's face. Nimueh's throwing knife killed it instantly, popping it like a sack of smoke. "He came to distract us!"

“How did they get past the watchers?” Someone shouted. 

Gaius turned back, aghast, eyes wide. "I didn't—"

"Gather your team!" Wendol yelled above the growing roar of panic. "Kill the creatures!" He crackled with magic and tunneled away, the others in their circle following until only Nimueh remained. 

“Not only did you distract us, you told them of our defenses.”

"On the Triple Goddess," Gaius repeated, "I didn't."

Her glare deepened, her lip curled, and for some twenty years, the last he would know from her was the force of her hatred.

On his knees, Merlin threaded his fingers into weeds. He felt their dampness, the give of the soil, the cool breeze. 

Why could he feel it all, but do nothing? 

Magic didn’t answer his call, his hands were someone else’s, his action another’s– he was forced, helpless, to live this memory. 

He was in a man’s body, and the man dipped low, moaning as another shriek echoed over the hills. He didn’t see the creature that attacked him, but he felt its thousand, million needles ripping into his legs, piercing into his soul. It sawed with serrated teeth and left him dead, gone, emptied.

For a blink he was only himself, floating like a mist over the battlefield. Did I do this? Why am I here? I’m out of control– 

He became a woman, whirling. Magic bolted in crackling energy from his hands, striking knights that bore down with gleaming swords. But the slugs, the ravenous, endless, mindless creatures of dark that crawled in the shadows and leapt with teeth bared– any bolt that struck they lapped greedily. Under his onslaught they grew plump and fat, slowed yet inching forward, an inevitable horde.

He spun, an intricate dance with propelling waves of force flew from him, shoving at the air until he’d formed a cyclone of winds. Weeds and pebbles ripped and spun, and he laughed in the maelstrom. 

Leaping slugs whipped to the side, catching in the cyclone, streaks of dark iridescence a flickering metallic rainbow against the growing night. He swung, dashing handfuls against the ground, smashing them to burst into pools of steaming liquid dark. 

Merlin admired this woman whose face he’d never seen, who moved as one with her magic and the whirl of the cyclone, who acted fierce and decisive against the flow of death. Who had she been, beyond this force of nature?

The first got her ankle. A small bite that made her stumble, come from a fat slug that had wriggled down underneath her cyclone. She smashed it under her heel, but it had been enough. The cyclone faltered, her magic flickered. 

As she fell the second hit her face, teeth goring into the thin skin of her forehead and into the hollow under her cheekbone. She saw down into the endless dark of its gullet. 

She screamed. He screamed. Deeper than their skin and muscles and bone grinding under its teeth something in them shredded. Their remaining magic revolted, twisting, tearing up and through their eye ripping ripping darkness darkness–

Merlin thought this was how she died. He tried to hide from it, but he lay in her shrieks as the creature devoured her soul. When it was done it left her on her back, gaping, bleeding, it and its fellow horde slithering over her husk and leaving trails of cold mucus in their wake. 

Magic flashed around him, lighting the sky, and shadows of people flickered by. The braying of hounds took up somewhere to his left. 

He wanted to vomit. They’d cut him in half, drained out the meat of him that had once lain under his skin. Oh goddess, why keep me alive?

An ally landed next to him, slicing through the body of a slug with a long knife. Another woman flew past them both. "Run!" She wailed. "Run!"

But he couldn’t, he was a sack of nothing, his face a meaty pulp. His ally closed his remaining eyelid and plunged a blade into his throat. He lost the last moments of his life drowning in blood. 

A blink and Merlin resolved on his stomach, howling. Teeth ripped out his throat, and then he was a woman whose tricep was eaten by hounds before they finally killed her. Again and again he died– for every druid that had moments ago lost their magic, came two sets of bloody teeth that took the rest of their life, the druids’ death cries mixing with the howls of the hunting pack. 

History had called this a purge. This wasn’t a purge. 

This was a slaughter. 

Uther's troops followed on horseback with red capes and redder swords, and he was pulled from one burst of magic to the next; the clawing, gnawing of the dark slugs always there, always greedy.

Please , he begged, to what he didn’t know. To Albion’s magic itself, maybe. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

He thought he saw Nimueh, eyes blown wide, a child in her arms. She was stumbling backwards. He was a woman in the dirt, long sleeve revealing the thin wrist of a young woman. “Help me, Nimueh, please.”

"I can't—" Nimueh broke off, fell to her knees. Then Merlin was a small child, Morgauase, then was the blanket of Nimueh’s breath, was cradling the bloodied woman in his arms as her eyes slid shut.

It wasn't fair; they didn't deserve this.

He closed his eyes and felt the tears form. The woman in his arms had weight, was still warm. She had been pale and green-eyed. He already knew the pain of holding the ones you loved as they died. Now he knew that had been a mercy. So many had died alone and afraid. Too many. 

Now he stood strong, knife at his belt, the echo of a hundred conversations rattling in his mind. He was a man, and bolts of magic blasted from his palms to scatter horses and destroy packs of hounds. 

“Regroup! Gather two friends and put your backs to them– together you can withstand those coming for you!”

Still, the voices of his allies disappeared. How terrible, to hope they had fled and abandoned him here. 

They were all going to die here.

He gathered his wits, pooling his magic, and in a yell that covered the battlefield projected his final order to any who could still hear him. "Retreat to the Isle!" He thrust a wave of magic to push a pair of knights from their horses. "I was proud to—"

Oh.

He looked down. A spear? He reached for the shaft protruding from his gut, weakly ran his fingers over smooth wood. I need to…. His vision blurred, he felt faint. I need….

He collapsed to his knees. The cries of the battle faded into a hum and he stared, unseeing, into the darkness ahead.

Teeth came for him, an Eancanah, and in a burst of anger he grasped it in midair, tightened his hold around the slime, pressed it into the dirt and hoped it were possible to strangle its life. He would take one more with him.

Then a dagger from the gloom burst quick into the monster's head, and as he began to slump, practiced arms caught him and lowered his body to the ground. The world swam, but he recognized his friend. Merlin recognized his mentor. "Gaius…" they croaked.

"Wendol," Gaius said softly, grief etched across his face.

"Help me."

"I want to," Gaius replied. Tears lay tracks down his cheeks, and Gaius gripped his shoulder tightly. "But if you live, there will be another battle. Only more people will die, and I can't let that happen."

Gaius’ hand swum back into his vision holding a dagger. He was shaking, Gaius was trembling. No, Gaius, please—  

The cold metal carved into the hollow of his throat, spilling hot streams of fire into his lungs and mouth. He gasped and burbled instead. I can't breathe.

"Forgive me."

His eyes rolled into the back of his head.

Blackness engulfed him.

Then he vaulted upwards, his entire being lost in an all-consuming shriek.

Blinded, he huddled in on himself, and he felt the scratch of burlap against his cheek, the knobbled floor under him. His hip stung, and his back throbbed. 

This was his loft, his cot, his dresser, his window that looked down onto the plaza. He was home; it was over.

He scrabbled up the bed for his pillow, pressed his face into it as the tears came. His body wracked and spasmed with the grief, sucking in great lungfuls that were more pillow than air. I’m home. They’re all dead. He was home. Gaius killed me.

The cold shards of Albion’s magic rattled in his stomach, and that horror made him gasp and sit up, clutching at his heart, shuddering. Would the magic pull him back? 

If he hadn't wailed aloud before, he did so now—one long scream of unendurable agony.

He could not hear the stumble for a candle, the sound of feet on the stair. He did not hear as Gaius swung wide his door so it collided with the stone of the castle's wall. He could not register the worry and concern in Gaius’ voice.

"Merlin? Merlin, what's wrong?"

It had been that face, those arms, that kindness that had killed him, that hadn’t stopped Uther, that had allowed that slaughter. He held up a hand and blue became gold. “ Get away from me!”

A wave of energy slammed into Gaius, carried him out of the door and into the space above the workshop. The candle fell from his hold, trailing smoke. He would shatter against the opposing wall, or break as his body landed on the unforgiving ground. 

He stared in shock, still trusting, hung literally between life and death as Merlin's second wave of magic swept the room.

Merlin stumbled from his chambers on skeletal legs, feet, toes. Hand over his mouth, eyes wild. His magic put Gaius safely in his cot and then Merlin was doubled over, fingers at his throat, his stomach, struggling for breath as he curled inward onto the banister.

I’m not safe here.

They’ll kill me.

I can't breathe.

Hercules sung by Sara Bareilles

Chapter Text

Late August

Oppressive weight smothered him awake. 

I’m not safe.

Gaius’ phantom fingers pressed indents into his arms, magic cracked against the rushing beat of hooves over the hills. He couldn’t stay huddled here, the Eancanah would come for him.

“Merlin?” Gaius’ voice warbled.

Would they come for him here, huddled against the banister? Would the buzz of magic in his stomach draw them?

I’m in Camelot. Uther’s dead. He can’t hurt me. But Gaius– 

Dense shadows marked the blocks of their tables, herb racks, and patient cots. Gaius stretched along one, limbs sprawled. The wet reflection of his eyes grew wide. 

Merlin’s chest hurt, strung taut, heart racing. His magic, his own magic, swirled in the now larger spaces between Albion’s cold shards, and he gripped it with relief. It pulsed warm under his skin, prepared, ready to defend, his.  

“Merlin, can you tell me how you’re doing? How are your wounds? Can you check for me?”

They throbbed dull along his side and back, unimportant against the remaining shiver of raw magic, shallow after the death staining this castle, this kingdom, Gaius’ hands.

“Breathe, Merlin. I’m here. You’re safe.”

He cares about the wrong things.

“My boy?”

“How could you? How can you live like this? What’s wrong with you?” As Merlin stood Gaius shrunk into the loose piles of his robes. This– Uther’s great defender? 

What if he'd never found a way to break those chains in Amata? 

Or, what if he returned to Amata ready to break the rest? What if he brought all of his magic, all of Albion's magic, to bear in favor of justice ? 

How far before not just Arthur, but Gaius , thought he'd grown too dangerous to trust?

"I will never wait for someone to save us," Merlin said, "remember that. Understand that. I won't be like you."

He dropped the hold on his own magic and seized the remaining shards of Albion. These he threw into a tunnel that burrowed through these chambers and out over the lower town. Frigid claws shredded the golden skein on his skin, flaps of it hung loose where he could see it on his arms. It burned so cold. 

Enough magic remained for the tunnel to end frayed over treetops in the eastern forest. Where was he going? Anywhere but Camelot. 

The Veil winked at him, the magic beyond churning. With it Amata was not so far. Revenge crouched close. He could uproot the garden, pulverize the walls, grind the Sarrum under his heel and make him beg, make him regret. 

He leaned into the Veil, seized hold of the magic waiting him there. He spiraled his tunnel out across leagues, across a river and a gorge, to a sleepy village. 

Then he stepped through, and crumpled at his mother's bedside. 

An old anxiety half-woke Hunith, the one that said I haven't heard my baby stir recently. Instincts checked for breasts too full, and she smoothed a palm over her blankets, looking for a swaddled Merlin perhaps too smothered to wake her. 

"Mother?" He croaked, and she came fully awake. 

Her child crouched before her, windblown and rueful. What terrible emergency could have brought him here? She put a hand to his cheek. He felt warm, his breaths strong. 

"I shouldn't have come. I don't know what came over me."

He brushed his arms, little soothing strokes as if placating a rash. If it was a nervous tick, he'd come upon it recently. "You're here now, and it's unfairly rare I get to see you. How about some juice?"

Early plucked white cranberries were a treat of late summer, and Merlin would remember the joy of sipping the sweetly floral juice with the other farmers in advance of a sweaty reaping season. He could use a reminder of happy memories in the sun, it seemed. 

"How's the wheat harvest? Is Lord Urien still giving you trouble?"

He wanted to get her talking about the taxes, did he? Well, the Leshy's spell had done its duty and the growth this year has been unprecedented. The jars of cranberry sauce lining her table would be proof enough. As for the juice, she poured half a jar between two cups and forced him to sit up on the edge of her bed. 

"You used to wake me up like this when you were a boy, remember?" She tucked into his side, put her head on his broad shoulder. He'd sprouted up so fast. 

"Not on purpose."

"When you had a nightmare you'd curl right up next to me. I miss those days."

Because she leaned on him she heard his embarrassed hmph of response. His childhood frights had always been about magic. She'd had to impress too early the dangers of letting others see, and worried now secrecy had woven too tight into his sense of safety. She had to outlast him, every diverting tactic and steady silence. "I don't suppose," he finally said, after another attempt at getting her to abandon him to sleep, "you remember much of the Purge?"

"The Purge?" The way he'd wilted told her this was the crux of it. "I remember… uncertainty. We had people come out of the forest saying their village has been razed. We'd do a lot of worrying and arguing in the village square about our food stores, about who we'd let stay, about what was safe. Most moved on eventually. King Lot and our local lord at the time… didn't do much. Some of our boys left to join the border army." She'd heard some stories from the people who'd traveled through town, but not enough of any of them to help. "Why?"

"I guess… that's what my nightmare was about this time. The Purge. I'm not even sure if what I saw was real, or… I don't know. It felt real."

"Most dreams do," she sipped at her juice, already half done. "Are there specifics you could research? Perhaps the royal library in Camelot could provide answers." 

"Maybe. I'll think about it. Maybe the druids would know." He pulled away and looked down at her face. "I thought maybe… even though you don't remember Balinor, you might remember some things he told you?"

"Balinor…" through Merlin she knew this was the man who'd been his father, whose memory she'd given up in favor of the village. But Merlin's childhood was clear to her. Whoever this man had been, he'd been gone a long while. "I'm sorry, Merlin, but no."

"I'm sorry I brought it up," Merlin took her cup and curled to standing. “This helped, mother, thank you.”

Had it?

“Could I rest here a few hours? I’ll leave in the morning.”

“So soon?” But she wouldn’t pressure him. He’d grown beyond her village long ago. “Of course. But if you can stay for a morning meal, I’ll show you a feast the likes of which will rival Camelot.”

Delicate ropes of water spun from the air, twined about Merlin’s arms and swirled through their used cups. A flash of heat and hollow burst of air left them ringing as he replaced them, now dry, in her cabinet. In comparison to the surprisingly skilled magic, his voice came dull. “I see the Leshy did very well.”

A few hours after breakfast with his mother, Merlin tunneled from Iseldir’s camp to a cellar in an Amatan tavern. Through a scrying spell, Gilli had told him to wait for them there. 

Merlin came out of his tunnel in a closet of a room lit by a flickering candle. A hay mattress filled half of the space, hooks held two cloaks, and a new travel pack slumped in the corner. Tucked behind its cheap burlap sat a bowl of water. This must be the bowl they’d used to scry him since their escape. 

He peeled the door slightly open and peered through the crack. A dim, low-ceilinged cellar stocked with barrels and wilted vegetables chilled in musty air, but showed no sign of Gilli and Vina. Not so surprising, since Gilli had mentioned needing to step away to earn their keep. 

He took the chance to probe his magic. His own warmed in his chest, near full up and hardly used. His skin, the magic version, hung again in flaps where Albion’s magic had torn through. Channeling had grown no easier on him, but this new plan– using the shards immediately, seizing any that got caught within him and forcing them out and into the spell, seemingly worked. 

Pressing the shreds of his soul back into place created scars that popped and crackled like a wool blanket’s static. He sealed the new and felt at the old as he moved out into the cellar. 

I can do this. I will do this. The Veil isn’t something to be afraid of; it’s a gift.

A wooden shelf weighed down Gilli and Vina’s closet door, nailed to the front, blending into a longer wall of shelves as he closed the door behind him. The cheese rinds it held must have been the musty smell he’d first noticed. The large wheels with hardened skins or wax coatings wafted a pungent, earthy scent when close.

The quick clop of feet leading down into this space made him flinch, but he turned into Vina’s beaming grin and bouncing curls. After her Gilli entered, gripping a wicker basket. 

“So, what’s such big news you won’t risk it over a scry?” Gilli began without preamble.

“How are you?” Vina stressed, “It’s good to see you walking about.”

She’d said it clearly to chide Gilli, who rolled his eyes. “He scryed us back, obviously he’s fine.”

Merlin greeted Vina as she took the wicker basket from Gilli and began filling it with potatoes. To Gilli he said, “I think the Sarrum captured a friend of mine. The table I was chained to was an old well, and I think my friend is inside.”

“Inside the table? That’s insane.”

“Would you put it past him?”

“I wouldn’t,” Vina said, “he did like sitting in that garden.”

Merlin continued, “The druids confirmed the Sarrum had access to this particular fae that eats away people’s ability to use magic. It can only be killed by mundane means… with knives, swords, things like that. In case I’m wrong about what’s in that well I could use backup.”

“If he had that, wouldn’t he have used it on you while you were chained up? He suspected you had magic then.”

“Gilli,” Vina said, “means we’d be happy to help you.”

“Yes, let’s just run back towards the man we’re trying to escape.”

Vina strode over and shoved the basket into Gilli’s arms. “Sir Oaf, they’re smuggling us out tonight .”

“And I feel his eyes on my back. How did his men find us at the last tavern?”

“He probably put an alert out for us. He knows our faces.”

“Where are you heading?” Merlin cut in, “if you’ll come with me, I can drop you off there instead.”

Vina shrugged, “We don’t really know. But our next stop is in Nemeth, I know that.”

“Why not live with me in Camelot? We could find work for you both there.”

Gilli and Vina exchanged a glance, and Merlin saw the no before they said it. “We’re hoping to get to a kingdom with more flexibility for people with magic.”

He’d too recently died a dozen times at Uther’s army to defend Camelot, had too recently fled it in favor of anywhere else. The echo of Gaius wide-eyed in the dark beat at the back of his thoughts.

“When are you planning prison break part two?” Vina said, “Could it wait about a week?”

“We could scry you once we’re safely in Nemeth, and you could pick us up from there,” Gilli added.

His stomach sank even as the lie crystallized. “Sure,” what was one more week for Aithusa? A lifetime. What if the Sarrum had already moved her? What if he’d be moving her soon? He couldn’t risk waiting, regardless of how much he needed a spare sword watching his back. Maybe he could risk Kilgharrah? “While I’m here could you, Vina, give me your rundown of the castle? Anything about guard patterns or other prisoners you heard about?”

She and Gilli exchanged another glance, seeming grim. It was possible they didn’t believe him. “Is all they wanted potatoes?” Gilli said. 

“And any other vegetables that look like they won’t last the week.” Gilli moved off as Vina drew forward to catch Merlin’s sleeve. “Give me a minute to get some charcoal, and I’ll draw what I know as best I can.”

A nervous ball rolled in his stomach, cold manacles tightening around the thin skin at his wrists and the wounds on his back beginning to pulse. He didn't want to go to the Sarrum's private garden alone. The Eancanah's teeth had felt so similar to the serrated scrape of the Ishtar’s claws– Aithusa's claws. But he'd escaped the Sarrum once, and the druids had escaped the Eancanah in the long-flung past. If he was smart, and careful, he'd be safe. 

Vina returned with her charcoal, and she and Merlin tucked into her closet room for the short period of time where Gilli helped prepare the tavern’s lunch. She led him through every hallway, guard change, and kingly habit she’d spied through the harem windows, sadness often wincing across her expression. 

When she’d finished she squeezed Merlin’s forearm. “Wait for us. Your friend will last the week. The Sarrum… he doesn’t waste his playing pieces.” 

“Stay in touch,” Merlin diverted, nodding towards the scrying bowl in the corner. 

She gave his forearm one last squeeze, then left, clicking the closet door shut behind her. He may still wait for the two of them, though he himself wasn’t terrible with a knife. Arthur wouldn’t notice a missing blade, or even an old set of armor. 

Clanking around Amata’s castle in Arthur’s ill-fitting childhood plate would make for one of his more ridiculous disguises, and despite himself he chuckled at the image. 

He should speak to Kilgharrah, though whether the dragon would make a good backup against Eancanah he wasn’t sure. Would Kilgharrah’s scales be shielding, or a source of magic for them to devour? Regardless, if Aithusa was in that well, Kilgharrah would want to help free her. 

If they played their cards right, Kilgharrah could distract the guards while Merlin snuck in. Would there be a way to do it without revealing the existence of another great dragon?

A set of voices drifted muffled from the cellar, and Merlin froze. He dodged his gaze from the flickering candle that lit the small room to the small crack under the closet door. Those were definitely two female voices, neither of which was Vina. Just in case, a huff of magic blew him into darkness. 

Even in his own silence he could not hear them beyond their general tenor and occasional laughter. He had to assume they were only around to get something from the cellar, but in any case he’d overstayed his welcome. Time to leave.

A forest clearing where he could safely call Kilgharrah came first to mind, but Gaius’ worried face flickered underneath. Gaius, spread on his cot where Merlin had thrown him, hand out in supplication, wet eyes gleaming… it’d been half a day now. Would he really go back to the Sarrum without speaking to Gaius?

Why not? Aithusa was in danger, and Gaius could wait. Merlin wasn’t even quite sure what he’d say to Gaius, or how to approach any of this with him. 

He wanted to take the memory, the problem of his mentor, the entire Purge and ball it up and toss it away like old linen. Running headfirst into a rescue mission was a different sort of cowardice, it seemed. 

Merlin seized hold of Albion’s magic, pulled it through the Veil and out his ripping skin. In a shimmering tunnel he twisted from this small closet to his own loft, appearing in the furthest corner. 

The door was closed, the room undisturbed. Noon sun warmed the stones with golden light and outside Gaius slumped at his herb table. Tinctures sat unstoppered, thyme filled a pestle half-ground, and the smell of old ash filled the usually bright room. 

They were alone here it seemed, but to be sure Merlin used a push of magic to slide the bolt closed on their main door. Gaius blinked, turning quickly to Merlin on the landing.

Hope and trouble filled Gaius' gaze, and Merlin couldn't heal either. Instead he seized their broom and dustpan and set his magic to sweep out the cold hearth. 

“It’s good to see you’re safe,” Gaius forced a neutral tone.

“These ashes are cold. You can’t let worrying over me keep you from eating, Gaius.”

“A little extra worry seemed warranted.”

Merlin clomped down the stairs to dump the ashes out of a window, then put his head in his hands. He’d built a paltry shield around his heart, its tin metal made more of a desire to be strong. Gaius’ concern pressed against it, battering him. “I’m sorry. For throwing you over a railing. And leaving.”

“Did I do something? Did you have a vision? What happened in Amata, Merlin? Perhaps talking will help.”

“None of this is about getting captured, Gaius.”

It was about Gaius choosing the oppressor over the oppressed, about wondering if Gaius had intentionally cultivated Merlin’s flaws to soothe his own past discretions, about Uther! Uther, a blood-soaked killer, a cold-blooded monster, who’d stood around with a mocking smile as he’d murdered thousands of people for his own sickening pride. I spent years serving him. Protecting him. You let me help him.

Gaius was holding his shoulders before Merlin realized he’d been shaking. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“I hate him. I hate them. I hate this place.” Tears blurred, made his face burn as he tried to hold them back. 

None of this was fair. They were so alone here. 

He turned away from Gaius, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until they hurt. “I need to save Aithusa. The Sarrum has her. And I don’t want you to tell me not to go, or to wait. I want you to help me. He’s evil, Gaius. Uther was evil. The Purge– you should have done more.”

“I…” Gaius broke off. “I see. Tell me… the plan you have so far.”

Merlin explained, to the bookshelf rather than Gaius, what he knew of the layout around the Sarrum’s private garden. There would be a door he’d have to seal, and two rows of windows leading to two separate rooms he’d have to clear before approaching the well. And if the well were empty, what he knew of the castle’s halls. 

He knew how to defeat an Eancanah, but did not necessarily have the combat skill. 

And he’d used Albion’s magic to break out of cursed manacles the last time, but hadn’t been entirely aware. He couldn’t be sure he could do it again. 

Quiet, Gaius said, “I think I can help with the last.” Kilgharrah, once trapped beneath the castle, had been chained with cursed manacles. Merlin had broken them, but had some shards remained? Enough to make a set that would bind him now? 

“You’d tie me up, and I’d try to break out.” He lit in excitement, “That’s a great idea.” 

Gaius shuffled to their dining table, bowing his head over clasped hands.

“And you’ll cover for me for another day or two?”

“Gwaine was very forceful, if he comes again….”

“Say you’ve sent me out for herbs so I could get some sun. Besides, yesterday I looked and felt like death warmed up. I doubt he’ll question us again so soon.”

A little more practice with Albion’s magic, time to talk to Kilgharrah… he could be ready to try for Aithusa as early as tonight. And he’d want at least one extra day to talk to her. Two days would be enough. He turned his mind’s eye to the caverns under the castle, seeking out Kilgharrah’s old prison. Could he tunnel back holding cursed chains, or would he need to walk? 

“Merlin,” Gaius whispered. “I dedicated my life to changing Uther’s mind, and failed.”

A part of him, a mean part of him, thought good. Gaius should acknowledge he didn’t always take the right steps forward. 

“You deserved better than the world I helped build.”

“We all did.” Yet Gaius didn’t deserve his vitriol. He’d spent a lifetime alone. He’d paid for those failures. “Though you built a haven for me.”

Gaius looked up, hope in his wrinkled gaze. 

“I forgive you. How could I not? I love you.  But I can’t go on making only safe choices for you and I. I can’t.”

“I understand.”

“I’m sorry too. For what I put you through– what I will put you through.”

Gaius’ eyes shone. “It’s worth it when it means I have you.”

If everything fell apart, he’d try to protect Gaius. He owed the old physician that, at the least. But until then they had to stop waiting for something better, and start working for it.

So Merlin cast his mind back to that underground prison and the cursed chains that awaited him there, and leapt. 

The first injury Merlin remembered was a skinned knee, one he’d gotten from agreeing to Will’s taunts to jump from the treelimb he’d sprawled on. The ground had seemed dizzyingly far, then. 

It wasn’t that he was afraid of heights– when he’d first stood on the ramparts of Camelot’s castle, felt the cold wind buffet him backwards, and saw the tiny figures of the townsfolk far below he’d been awed. He’d thought no wonder nobles think so highly of themselves.

He’d even stood on the edge of gorges and viewed the thin snakes of rivers carving deeper valleys. Felt his toes tingle at the thought of descending. Trembled at how small he was in comparison to the vast expanse of the world. 

None of it compared to flight. 

Upon Kilgharrah Amata’s capitol city passed as a field of winking candle lights and them the giants, striding overhead. Wind filled his lungs with every breath, seemed to fill him so he could float away and fly for himself. His mind raced, his stomach leaping at every twist in Kilgharrah’s wings, and his jaw ached from grinning. Could one be thrilled and terrified? 

“That hill,” Kilgharrah spoke into his mind. 

What? 

“ While you make your way to the garden,” Kilgharrah said, clearly irritated. “ I will slip away there, to hide in the shadow of those hills. You will meet me there, and keep me abreast of your journey to Aithusa.”

“ And you know where the private garden is if I need your help?”

“I will feel your location from here.” Kilgharrah could feel his location? 

Still, Merlin touched the knife he’d borrowed and bound to his hip, knowing if it came to fighting with it against the Eancanah or any knight, he’d already lost. His face he transformed to that of the fae-nosed girl, clothes this time not wasted on a harem costume. Her hair he braided down his back and blended his tunic and trousers to a black that faded against the night sky. “Ready,” he sent to Kilgharrah. “ Be careful.”

From dragonback he appeared in a dark passage filled with the rush of sloshing water. This, the passage he and Gilli had snuck through, he was pleased to find as silent as it had been then. The waterwheel still churned, hiding a large portion of the garden, the ringing windows, and the well they watched. He noted a few windows open to let in the breeze, the curtains beyond ruffling. He saw no silhouettes behind. He heard no voices.

The well, so close, tempted him. Even if people waited for him he could run, toss the lid aside, free her before they knew he’d arrived. Leave another explosion in his wake.

But there could be Eancanah in that well; the dragon claws the Ishtar had worn could have come from any other jail cell in this castle. So he quested with his mind to the one door of this garden, the one which led to the great hall which could too easily drown him in guards. It locked on the opposite side– so sealing the door would require some trickery. 

Water flowed in a thin stream at his feet, snaking through the garden to eventually pass below that door and enter the castle as an art piece. Merlin carved a bubble of that water up, as soft as scooping a palm through a rain barrel, and buoyed it to the seams of that door. It seeped through, winding into the weaves of the wood, trickling down into the mechanism of the lock. There he tightened, water pooling, ice thickening.

It was the sort of seal that would melt away in an hour, but enough of one that the lock would jam long enough, hopefully, to delay his capture.

Still, only the sound of churning water and the rustle of leaves. 

He didn’t trust this peace. He’d used magic to escape only a few weeks ago; the Sarrum had to be expecting another potential hit. 

“ Kilgharrah,” he thought, “ I’m going into the Sarrum’s rooms.”

“I lit a building on fire. You will use the distraction.”

Merlin groaned. “I needed you to watch my back. What happened to secrecy?”

“These beasts should know a dragon seeks their ruin.”

Ugh, but hopefully it’d keep guards distracted. He’d have to hurry in case anyone came to wake the king.

In cadence with what he now hoped would be a very distracting blaze, Merlin leapt for the Sarrum’s chambers. He appeared crouched in a far corner, half-hidden by the meeting room’s lounges. He took in the lonely library and table, still with a few abandoned letters and maps strewn across it. No guards. 

In the far room, the sheets folded over a body-shaped lump. The curtains drawn closed shrouded the room in shadow. Would it really be so easy? Was the Sarrum so arrogant as to sleep only yards from where the Ishtar had died only weeks ago? 

Drawing tea from an abandoned pot Merlin sealed the Sarrum’s door in a similar way, flinching at each crackle of ice. Then he crept, boots whispering across stone, pressing his back to walls. The Sarrum’s shoulder shifted slight as he breathed. He didn’t like that he couldn’t see the Sarrum’s face, or either of his hands. He could be holding a crossbow, faking sleep. 

Kill him, his dreams called. 

He should. The man deserved it. 

He had lain sleeping spells before, pushed them like waves over groups of guards near Camelot's cells. Cover them, swathe them, and they'd sleep like babes. He experimented now, watching a crystalline web of the thinnest layer of magic spread between his palms. He sensed he could tighten; strangle. 

Pressing his hands forward he willed the magic outwards. Gossamer insect netting climbed over bedding, stretching upwards and expanding round. A small current moved through him in time with the Sarrum’s shifting breaths. 

His hands fell to his sides, the spell disconnecting with a small lurch. For minutes it stood trembling on its own, a threadbare blanket sprinkling dreams. No cursed object ate the spell. He hadn’t even heard a catch in the Sarrum’s breathing. 

Far too easy. Or did no one prepare against a tunneler? Perhaps no one knew it could be practiced into silence.

Cut his throat .

The Sarrum had helped Uther slaughter hundreds, maybe thousands of magic users. He’d harnessed creatures of dark magic. They’d driven dragons near to extinction, and if Merlin had guessed right, had captured and abused a child. What reason was left to wait for; a Camelot tribunal?

Weights dragged at his ankles, his heart thrummed hummingbird light. Something in his gut, something dark, something tired, reeled him forward. 

The knife slipped, slick despite his grip. He flexed his fingers once, twice, then flipped the Sarrum onto his back. 

Narrow, youthful cheeks, aquiline nose, dark brows. A son? A concubine? Not the Sarrum. He had been holding a crossbow.

Steel whipped against his legs– chain launched from beneath the bed– tightening about his knees as a snake of a man slithered out. 

His first attack stuttered and stopped, sucked into the chains. The metal went cold. 

The snake grinned. 

A long blade flashed up towards Merlin’s thigh in time with Merlin’s vision tunneling to two dark points. No, no, no I practiced this. I can do this. 

He just needed a thread of Albion’s magic. Lean back, into that flaming maw of gold. 

Throw it down towards the chains, out towards the man. 

Metal hit stone before his vision fully returned, he stumbled away, falling to a seat. In blinks the man, facedown, legs hidden beneath the bed. The fake Sarrum still snoring. 

Deep breath, let it out. It shook. But he was fine. You can’t be captured. Stop panicking.

Another breath in, slow breath out. Insane, they’d had someone lying under the bed, for weeks, in case he’d planned on coming back?

“What is it?” Kilgharrah, distracted. “You screamed.”

Had he killed that man? He wasn’t moving.

“Nothing. You seem busy.”

“These fools think arrows will stop me.”

He’d had to kill him first. Even if the man had been justified to attack the assassin in the night come to kill his king. Wouldn’t any other knight of Camelot have done the same? 

A shiver wracked him. “This was a trap. If Aithusa’s not here…”

“Stop whinging and check. Your initial reasoning was sound.”

Kilgharrah cut the connection and shame rushed him. Right, focus. 

Magic brought him his knife where he’d lost it, along with the man’s long-bladed weapon and the sleeping man’s crossbow. They hovered at his sides, prepared darts, as he peeked past the curtains.

The only movement was the sparkle of the shallow river and the slight sway of fronds. Across the way some windows to the harem propped open, curtains blocking their view. Surely, a different trap lay beyond. 

He checked his face in case he’d lost it in the scuffle, but the girl remained. Then he leapt for the harem and appeared by a table where four men sat playing cards. More at the windows. A pair at the door. 

Anticipation lit his veins. Time seemed to slow. 

Knife handles he drove into the temples of two men at the table, the bolt driving into the door and sending the guards there diving away. 

The window’s watchers swiveled, bringing a flute-like reed to their mouths. Darts? Poison darts? The still conscious men at the cardtable reached for swords. 

He saw it in a moment– how to destroy them all. Heat the metal weapons, raise the table as a shield. Tear the curtains from their rods and wrap the rest as hogs. If any remained standing, two skulls cracking together or against a wall would be enough to drop them. It’d be noisy. It may also be immoral.

So he risked the worse– more use of his personal magic, the type he could finesse with greater skill. He sieved out a good quarter into a bubble that expanded out from him, coating each man and object as it passed in a golden sheen of hair-thin coils. A chair froze half to tipping over, darts hung midair. Each man became a statue, unaware of time continuing on around him. 

It worked, of course, because none were strong enough spellcasters to resist him. 

He pulled curtains, binding wrists and ankles, shedding each guard of their weapons. He worked quickly, magic leaking to feed the complex spell, until they lay before him gagged and trussed, twisting and yelling, muffled, in their surprise. A final thought bound a final cloth about their eyes. He’d have preferred to put them to sleep, but with this much of their attention he doubted the spell’s complete success. They’d escape eventually as they were, but with Kilgharrah already razing the city he didn’t have much choice but to move fast anyway. 

Rope pooled by each window– what he presumed had been pieces of the plan to throw troops into the garden at a moment’s notice– and he threw one over now to scale quickly down the wall and make his way to the well. 

If anticipation lit him before, now it burned. “I’m headed for the well, Kilgharrah. If my voice cuts off it’s because Eancanah were trapped within, not Aithusa.” Silently he began listing runes, in order, as his mother had once taught him. 

Those Eancanah moved fast– he’d have to be ready to slam the cover back in place and run; get his back to a wall. 

A spiral of gold raised the well’s tiled lid, and he waited, breaths a harsh echo in his ears. Only silence, only bait. 

He edged closer, magic ready– tightening on his grip of the lid, spooling out to seize nearby chairs and the weapons in the rooms above. Filth and rot overpowered the smell of damp, wet mold. Kilgharrah chanted runes back to him.

Heart a drum, he peered over the well’s edge. Slimy stone led to a pit of liquid stench, and down deep, in the shadow, moonlight gleamed across white scale. Torn leather wings half-unfurled spread wall to wall, and bulbous eyes stared upward, studying him, wary. 

“She’s here,” he choked to Kilgharrah, then to Aithusa called, “It’s me. I’m so sorry it took so long.” 

She cocked her head, blinked, then collapsed her wings. And there beside her she revealed a macabre sight of matted hair and streaked skin— Morgana — curled into the dirt beside her.

Morgana’s visits are never this close together.

She hears their footsteps falter, they’re scared , she thinks, and she hopes they are one of the stupid ones that lean a little too far over the edge. The ones she can intimidate into flinching. 

But the dragon pulls wings back and reveals a person backlit by moonlight that blinds her. 

Then the collar snaps from round her dragon’s neck– a cursed collar of dark magic– and she knows then who’s come for her. She's known him in her deepest dreams, and fears him whenever she grasps something she covets.

Agony is a pain she learns afresh as the dragon cries for her, as Emrys speaks words in a tongue she’s never heard, as magic lifts the babe up and to freedom. 

Her own cuffs are as hard, and cold, as ever. A drum begins its beat into her skull. If he speaks to her, she cannot hear him.

For a brief time she'd tasted love. The rage and violence that had defined so many of her years had a hope to ebb, but then that monster had thrown her into this prison, mocked her for months, and allowed her worst enemy to steal away the last pieces of her. No matter what she does, or what she chooses, the end result is always madness.

Hands to her head, face to the stone, screaming without sound. She pushes back hard. Gains nothing. 

Her well's lid settles firmly into place.

How Villains Are Made sung by Madalen Duke

Chapter Text

Late August

Aithusa had no sooner landed at his feet than she went for his neck.

“Wait,” he gasped, switching to dragontongue as fangs closed inches from his face. “Listen!”

Her skin stretched so thin Merlin worried it’d tear with the gnashing of her teeth, even as she growled her skull wobbled dangerously on a bony neck. Dirt-streaked wings stretched wide, black blood clumping around old scars. Wingtip to wingtip she’d near beat him in height and still she strained to widen further, menacing. 

He kept his voice low in what he hoped would soothe, “I’m so sorry. That it took me so long. That I’ve left her there.” In the dark, alone, trapped. His stomach flipped and saliva filled his mouth. Spirits, he may be sick right here.

“Aithusa!” Kilgharrah broke into both of their minds, crowing triumphantly. Aithusa’s wave of rage cut off against Kilgharrah’s, “ Kill the witch, Merlin.”

“ No. No way.”

“The only light left to her is revenge, who will she have to kill for you to finally understand?”

“And your current razing of Amata is somehow better?” He crouched before Aithusa, stretching out his palms. “I won’t let him control us. But I can’t take her with you. Please believe me. First I need you safe.” 

Aithusa howled, pressed her face to the well.

“We don’t have much time, Aithusa, please.” She collapsed, and he surged forward to wrap her small, scarred body in his arms. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve any of this. I’ll listen to everything you have to say, I swear it.” Then he followed the thread of Kilgharrah’s triumphant mind and tunneled the two of them out into empty air. 

Wind whistled as they fell towards watchtowers aflame and huts crushed under wreckage. Kilgharrah had certainly enjoyed himself. Dozens of soldiers ran, pointing at the sky, aiming crossbows. A catapult trundled towards them. 

“Kilgharrah, ” he messaged, “here.”

Ponderously Kilgharrah turned, a great golden bat larger than constellations, and swooped. Smoke trailed from a jaw bared in a grin. 

Nose over tail he and Aithusa crashed into Kilgharrah’s broad back. “They shouldn’t see the direction you flee,” his shoulder ached and copper curled sharp on his tongue. “Where do you live?”

He pushed a good chunk of his magic northward, dipping into Albion’s as Kilgharrah pulled up into the sky. 

“ The witch cannot follow?”

“Where?”

“Beyond the Isle of the Blessed on the Lake of Avalon is a mountain, do you know it?”

Magic curled about the three of them and yanked. The world blinked between ember red to golden storm to the stony desert of mountains in summer. River valleys wound below as Kilgharrah’s momentum carried them towards craggy walls steep, sloped, and brittle. 

Aithusa twisted, the bridge of her wing smacking Merlin in the sternum. “Hold on, let Kilgharrah land first.” 

Aithusa’s thoughts stole his vision– months in darkness, and Morgana. Inescapable pain, and Morgana. Love, and Morgana.

The next kick caught him winded, and Aithusa leapt up and away, screeching. 

She beat wings too atrophied to carry her, the buffeting winds of these peaks bearing down. Kilgharrah trapped her in his jaws even as she fought him. In dragontongue Merlin had to order, “Please stop fighting, Aithusa, you’ll only hurt yourself worse. You must stay with Kilgharrah until you’re healed. He is the only who can help you now.” 

Aithusa’s screeches became long, quaking cries. Morgana had hurt so many of the people he loved. What had she done to deserve this loyalty?

On the mountain’s leeward side Kilgharrah banked into a long wedged shelf bracketed by looming mountains under a star-pebbled sky. Scrub and leggy edelweiss bloomed in crevices, and on the far scraped slate wall a dark slash marked entrance to a narrow cave. As Kilgharrah released Aithusa she fell, sallow. 

Merlin leapt to her side, put a hand on the back of her neck even as she curled away from them both. “I couldn’t bring her here,” he whispered, “and I couldn’t let her go completely free either. What other option did I have?” Chain her himself? Lock her up in Camelot’s dungeons and make Arthur decide? Any plan condemned her to be cut off from her magic, manacles chafing, under the full power of whichever monster, however well-intentioned, enslaved her. Maybe death was a mercy.

Aithusa shared nothing sensible beyond memories of terror and abuse. 

Kilgharrah shuffled impatiently, eventually pushing Merlin back. Gentle jaws lifted and carried Aithusa for the cave. “I must look at her injuries.”

“I’ll be back soon, to help.” 

Kilgharrah rumbled an acknowledgement and Merlin turned to look out over the moonlit mountains. His skin crawled, sending whispery shivers up his arms and back. I was right. And so wrong. I should have expected Morgana around, somewhere. Kilgharrah said Aithusa had gone to join her. I just thought… he hadn’t thought anything. He’d focused only on freeing Aithusa. Stupid. And now too vividly he knew a Morgana who’d stared at Aithusa being lifted away with a wretchedness that made him sick. His stomach clenched and again he tasted bile. 

This was the final proof of a lack of destiny, of a goddess pulling strings. If she’d ever existed she was evil, or dead. 

He needed a way to prevent Morgana from attacking Camelot, but couldn’t stomach chaining her down. What did that leave? He could bring her here, order Kilgharrah to not hurt her. Would Kilgharrah’s fae magic have a way to keep her here?

A stray thought crossed him, and his gaze dodged from the landscape to the wall at his east. 

Maybe, he thought and pulled back into his memories for a golden arrow once given him in trade for a spell of scrying. Around it he channeled Albion’s magic to bear him into the shadow of a hill spilling moon-flowers and moths. 

Silently, he cast out an apology to Kilgharrah and Arthur for what he had once again failed to do, and another to Aithusa and Morgana for having no better answer.

The hill split into a tree root grin. 

"Little warlock," Ascetir’s Leshy said smugly, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Morgana, seeing nothing, thinks she sees Camelot’s catacombs. 

Low ceilings, arched doorways, shadowed alcoves. “This is Gorlois’ resting place,” Uther tells her, putting a hand on a stone coffin just high enough off the ground for her to not be able to reach its lid. She imagines if she could poke her head over the lip she’d see her father’s face perfectly preserved. What does he look like, Uther but with dark hair? “No other knight lies in the royal catacombs. Your mother requested it, and how could I deny her?”

Uther’s footsteps echo away, leave her with her back to the wall that holds the father that loved her. Uther had killed him so she’d killed Uther. “Father for a father,” she cackles. Her hands are cold, chained above her head. “What do you think, Gorlois? Is this my resting place too?” 

She flops her head in a different direction, the rest of the circular room growing from the shadows. Dusty ancestors provide no greater conversation. A gleam from the abandoned Cup of Life catches her eye, knocked over by Merlin when he’d destroyed her army. He’d offered her the druids then poisoned her; like Gwen, like Uther, he’d chosen Arthur over her. What was so great about her spoilt half-brother? So worth abandoning her over?

A ball of blue light pops into life, a needle into the back of her eye. The walls slam inward, a tight stack of bricks tipping towards her. She is in one of the alcoves, stone coffin closing her in. “I’m not dead yet, Uther,” she struggles.

More of the blue lights appear in her coffin, floating fae motes, and then Emrys is crouching before her. 

She kicks, or thinks she does. He’s too far away, maybe. “Have you come to kill me, Emrys?” 

“It would be a mercy, wouldn’t it?” He’s a man grown bowed and pale in the age he’d spent hiding from the world. A monster more fate than real, she is for a moment awed by the contraction of his pupils as his lights float between them. Blue irises reflect the spell and seem all too human as they skim her face, stained dress, and naked feet. 

“Like what you see?”

“You didn’t deserve this.” 

He crouches at her side, close enough to spit on only if she could find the saliva.

“I’ve been captured like this,” he says. “Not for very long. Not like you."

You’re nothing like me. 

“I don’t want war again, Morgana. I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to know what that would do to magic, to the world, if we subject it again to extermination."

She rasps what may have been a laugh. “You claim to defend magic after all you’ve done for Arthur.”

“I know a place where you won’t be chained, and your magic won’t be restrained, but you won't be able to leave.” 

A new prison? Emrys’ prison? She moans. He was her doom. Her doom. 

“I can’t argue that any prison is more humane than another, but… it’s got to be better than this.”

What way would Emrys want to use her? He held the dragon, could he coerce them to some chosen action? He’d lose. She’d find a way out, free the dragon, free herself. One day she’d kill him before he killed her.

She sags against the stone, hanging from her wrists, though tilts her chin to stare down her nose. “You ask my permission.”

“You deserve a choice.”

“ A lie of one . ” She pulls all her strength into a smirk she’s proud of. “You have my permission,” she mocks, “to imprison me.” 

His blue eyes bloom gold. He reaches his hands for her and in a moment of fear she regrets– “Where is the dragon?” 

He pauses. His rough palm lands on her knee. “Safe,” but where? “Her name is Aithusa.”

Ai…thu...sa? She mouths the sounds.

Gold drains from his touch and soaks into her skin, lining the curve of her calf and the bruise of her shin. It bleeds warm along her stomach and then tightens hot along the column of her throat. As it leeches up past her jawline he’s awash in a bone-white glow that dips into the crags of his years. She’s glowing.  

Has to squeeze her eyes closed as her body betrays her to a spasm. She melts like candle wax, turgid and boiling, dripping from one shape into another.

She sinks into heat clogged with incense– mulch, pine leaves– and feels the wax seal closed over her crown. 

And, in a flash, she disappears. 

The next day rose cloudless and warm, and under a noon sun a robin egg’s sky condensed to a liquid blue deep and vast: Lake Avalon, gilded in ancient. 

Mountain foothills tumbled behind a Kilgharrah laying on a sun-warmed gravel shoreline, focused on a cloudy spell enveloping Aithusa. Half-submerged, they hoped the summoning of Avalon’s magic waters would do what they couldn’t.     

Merlin had spent the rest of the night on a cave’s floor holding her, and the morning held by his mother. She’d flinched as she’d realized her returned memories of Balinor. The “what have you done?” whispered quiet into his hair clung to him even hours later.

In time with the slosh of waves he imagined responses he’d never speak. I broke myself. I gave an artifact that sees the future to an enemy. I sold Morgana’s soul in exchange for yours.

Aithusa rolled in the shallows, a laboured blink aimed his way. I traded Aithusa’s soul as sure as I did Morgana’s. But what did I gain? What else did we lose? 

Kilgharrah’s spell changed, skewers tearing open a few of Aithusa’s ragged scars and plummeting his cloud of magic upon her. Dark blood leached into Avalon’s waters. Kilgharrah’s cloud sharpened into individual lightning lines, crisscrossing into a delicate scaffold pressed to the membrane of her trembling wings. He knew that spell, he’d used it on the healing wound given to him by the Ishtar and on the half-penny he’d hidden in Excalibur’s scabbard. “She needs to eat if you mean for her body to cover the majority of the healing.”

“She’s been throwing up water, we’ll take it slow.”

“Will she be okay? Aithusa, how are you feeling? Did that hurt?”

The shoreline’s smaller pebbles skittered, crunching under the press of Aithusa’s slow drag. She climbed from the water until only her tail floated in the pull of the shallows, then collapsed, breathing softly. Merlin crawled forward to put a hand on her snout– the only way he’d consistently succeeded in communicating with her– but received no thoughts. She slept, he hoped. 

“Anything?” Kilgharrah asked. After the shake of Merlin’s head, “Her wings are stunted, her hind feet warped. She has subsisted on magic only these months and for her age she is weak and small. But her body can be healed.”

Kigharrah’s disquiet was obvious. “But, her mind…?”

“Her silence worries me. A dragon her age should know language.” Maybe she’d forgotten how to use magic. Locked in cuffs for months, so young, deterioration made sense. “You told me something before Amata about the Veil between realms,” Kilgharrah said. “You can see my spells, as I do?”

“I think so,” Merlin pushed up his sleeves, thought, then pulled his entire tunic off. “I tore my own, using some pendant I gained from this lake. If I lean into it I can see spells, if I open myself to it I can channel the raw magic of Albion.” He ran a hand of gravel through a fist. “It feels a bit like what I imagine swallowing stone would feel like. Using that magic rips me apart, leaving these scars. Can you heal them?” He gestured along his arms and torso where glimmering lines of white-gold stood out over the lacy skein of his skin. He couldn’t yet tell if some had healed further with time. 

Kilgharrah pulled close, serpentine neck twisting to view him with one large golden eye. “Scars?”

“Can you see something like a golden pattern over my skin?”

Kilgharrah rumbled. “Do I have one? Does Aithusa?” 

It had been hard enough to notice his own, but to see gold against Kilgharrah’s scales… he focused, looking for a shimmer not from the sun until his temples tightened into an ache. “Maybe.”

“Practice if you can. Perhaps it will help us heal her.” Through Kilgharrah’s fangs magic billowed into a new loose cloud, molding in time with little twitches of Kilgharrah’s nostrils. It compressed to a spindle, then spun into something like a cornucopia.

“What spell is that? I see a cone about ten feet long.” 

Shaped so it hung over them like a small tornado, “The Eancanah ate away the dragon's ability to prepare for the Purge. Our visions ended with this spell. Something like it must be what Nimueh used to give Arthur life.”

“It’s so small.”

“Hers wasn’t.”

Kilgharrah cast the magic away and nodded towards the Isle of the Blessed. So far away, its broken walls were harder to trace. Bird-like shadows marked the flight of wyverns. “As for spells, your sight is as mine. What do you see when you view the Isle?”

He doubled back for the island, “Should I see something special?”

“The stain of the Eancanah, the death and destruction of magic that took place there.”

The slight blur of mist, the brown slope of a ruined dock. In the Sarrum’s garden he’d seen magic fleeing the cursed manacles that held Aithusa. The Veil, on its surface, did not show him the same. But he hesitated to tip further in and fall into the storm. 

“It may be an aspect of dragon’s sight that allows me this.” Kilgharrah closed his eyes, turned his face away. 

Merlin shifted to put a hand on Kilgharrah’s foreleg, then leaned into his side. “I didn’t know Eancanah attacked the Isle.”

“They took everyone I loved, everywhere they lived.”

Amata’s streets burning, like Camelot had under Kilgharrah’s rage, was hard to forgive. But alone by an abandoned lake, with the last great dragon and a broken child, Merlin thought he could at least understand. 

“I won’t let them take Aithusa. Or you. Or me.” He pressed closer to Kilgharrah’s hide. “We three will find some way forward.”

Kilgharrah rumbled, “Even you, Merlin, cannot protect us from fate.”

Merlin returned to Camelot as he’d promised Gaius, where he traded away days as a focused apprentice, boisterous servant, and pleasant friend. Gwen gushed to him about the fitful start of Commoner’s Court, the affair a mix of strange characters rambling and hesitant queries. Gwen worried how she’d establish trust. 

The answer seemed to be time and consistency, similar to her correspondence with Queen Annis, just recently borne fruit. Merlin’s re-entrance to society gave everyone a new ear to bother on whether Arthur and Gwen should risk both attending Caerleon’s autumnal equinox celebration. It held the gossip-hive’s attention, begged everyone’s opinion, and Merlin, for his part, struggled to care. How far should he tilt his head to seem interested? How often was too often for a joke?

“Two ales, as amber as they come.” Miri smiled through the Rising Sun tavern’s smoky haze, Amatan nut-brown skin glowing in the oil-lantern light. She tapped a finger on the back of his fist where he leaned against the bartop. “You seem distracted. What’s on your mind?”

“Oh, you know… the usual. Been keeping busy?”

She pulled her thick braid over her shoulder, tilted closer. “So busy. My window’s been leaking for two weeks and I haven’t had a moment to patch it. Perhaps you could take a look? After closing?”

As flattering as that was, this was the last thing he needed. What was a polite enough smile that wasn’t too rude? “Sorry, Miri. I’m not very handy.” He gestured at the ales. “Think I could get these both on the crown’s tab?”

She tipped back with a half-sigh and a hand wave, moving off as a drunk Arthur slotted into Merlin’s side and propped a chin on his shoulder. “I lost again,” Arthur grumbled.

“You aren’t a good liar. Too trusting.” Arthur snorted, reaching for his ale. “How about a break?” 

“I’m one ale behind the others.”

“You’re not. They’re tricking you.”

“Why would they do that?”

“The knights are distracted enough to forget to hold you to it. Come on, sire.” The low-ceilinged tavern created a gloom that felt private, their conversations masked by the rowdy din of neighborhood gamblers poised to spend any spare earnings on more drink. Arthur considered himself blended in with a borrowed tunic and peasant-born knights, and fell back into their corner table sloshing ale and grinning. 

“Let me weigh your dice,” Elyan scowled. “Or we switch to darts.”

“Or cards,” Gwaine said.

“You cheat at cards,” Percival laughed.

Merlin settled in by Arthur who waved off the next game, ultimately dice again. After this last ale he’d convince Arthur to bed. If they left soon he could still spend an hour or two with Aithusa. 

As the game ramped up, the knights levying suspicious glances and betting at twos, Arthur bustled Merlin under a friendly arm. “She’s going to kill me, Merlin.”

“Queen Annis? After forgiving you for killing her husband?” Something he’d said six going on seven times to various servants, “If she were going to kill you, she’d have done it then.”

“No, Merlin! Guinevere! Instead of preparing for Caerleon here I am… drinking.”

“I’ll let her know you lectured yourself.”

“Do you know how much reading I’ve had to do while you were sick?”

“Do I need to be picking up at your bookmarks?”

“A lot! My father had made me study the histories of course, but,” here he whispered, “I needed a refresher.”

“That seems very normal of you.”

“Did you know Queen Annis’ grandmother was a Priestess of the Isle? What if Annis is like Gaius? What if that’s why she briefly allied with Morgana?”

“I feel like we’d know if….”

Arthur’s voice lowered further. "What if she took Morgana back in? Rodor wants me to kill her, Merlin. What if Annis wants the opposite? We need allies. Not another war." What was all this searching for Morgana about if not to at least imprison and kill her for crimes against Camelot? Merlin darted between the knights nose-deep in their game, and a crowd indolent. 

He muttered, "You wouldn't kill her, if you had the chance?"

Arthur, ruddy cheeks and sweat-matted hair, looked at him with wide, guilty eyes. "I don't know."

"That's a bald-faced lie or you're my uncle!" Elyan shouted, pointing at Gwaine, who balked. 

"I age well!"

"I do have a lot of fives though," Percival smiled.

From Elyan, "Whose side are you on?"

"The one that keeps me from paying for drinks."

"A pox on both of you. I call."

The trio revealed dice and devolved into a cacophony of laughter and shouts. Merlin pulled his attention back to Arthur too late, his friend already blinking drunkenly at an oil lantern. Still, Merlin said, “Maybe it wouldn’t be so wrong to try to find common ground with her again.”

“Huh?” Arthur returned.

Merlin wilted. “I think it’s time to get you back to Gwen, sire.”

“There’s one more thing I shouldn’t tell you,” Arthur put his head in his hands and groaned. “This one’s bad.”

“Don’t then. Come on, time to stand up. Let’s walk.”

“Leave him, Merlin,” Gwaine laughed. “We’re his sworn knights. He’s safe with us.”

Arthur wobbled. “Rumors are coming with our merchants. Leon says a dragon attacked Amata.” He stared at Merlin, intense, “Some say it was gold.”

“They’re stories, Arthur,” his heartbeat kicked up. “Wyverns, probably.” He’d known this was coming. Keep it together.

“That’s what Leon said,” that intense gaze was asking something of him, but Merlin didn’t know what. “He said I mortally wounded the one that attacked Camelot.”

“You did, Arthur.”

“You and I both know I didn’t.”

Arthur’s inebriation made him too open, too knowing. Does he remember Balinor dying for me? 

“I should have hunted it down while it was weak. It’s my fault more people are dead. My fault Camelot is in danger again.”

Merlin stood, pulse in his throat. “That’s preposterous.”

“Where are you going?” Arthur tipped, off balance.

“To, uhm, pack. For Caerleon. In case we go.”

“Bring your good tunic,” Arthur slurred, “we need to make a good impression.”

He fled, jaunty wave, dodged gaze. Twisted through the crowd. Acrid smoke coughed as he closed the tavern door behind him. Pressed hands to his temples. Now that he had Albion’s magic and the ability to tunnel, Kilgharrah never had to risk himself by leaving Avalon’s mountains. Merlin would not fall for whatever trick Balinor fell for. Enemies would not find, or capture, Kilgharrah or Aithusa. Panic was unnecessary.

Yet his deep breaths caught on a quake that trembled in the cold pit of his stomach– an anxious blend of adrenaline and simmering anger. The real problem, as always, was Morgana. Arthur, maybe, didn’t want to kill her? Is that what Aithusa had seen? A chance at reconciliation? Or Arthur’s last tragic flaw?

Stupid, to have helped spur Arthur into a serious search for Morgana only to now wish to hide her. Could the Leshy conceal her from hunting dogs? He needed to see her prison for himself. He’d known that. He shouldn’t hide from his own guilty conscience. 

Where had this headache come from? He pushed away from the Rising Sun’s walls and dipped into an alley.

While with Aithusa and Kilgharrah he’d work on a new face. One he’d be comfortable showing Morgana if he went to check on her. When he went to check on her. Maybe that would perk Aithusa up, to hear his plans. 

The rear wall of the Rising Sun had windows, so he slipped instead for a narrow path where an inn pressed against a storehouse. Old ale and wet stone made a stagnant perfume. The inn roof's overhang washed away the stars. A half-rotted wooden pallet slumped, forgotten. Here, he could breathe. This shadowed, rejected place comforted him like kin. 

One thing at a time. Heal Aithusa, keep Morgana safe but separated. Distract Camelot from Kilgharrah, defend the druids as needed. Don’t tear the Veil any further. Easy.

A last heavy breath of mildewed air he suctioned to lingering frustrations, then expelled it all in a gust of golden magic. Each snap of glittering, jittery spellwork rang like wind-chimes. Albion’s magic buzzed a whispering storm in his mind’s ear, offered him icy hail in exchange for the mountains behind Avalon. 

From a small dot the tunnel yawned, sparking, lively and sharp and smelling like the wake of thunder. It itched to hold the spell in stasis, but for one extra moment he stood like a child before a beast.

Magic glowed from within and kept that light for itself. Against its beauty, its deadliness, its impartiality, the rough alley walls bled to a dark blur. 

Perhaps this is what he’d traded Aithusa’s soul for. How terrible, to almost call it worth it.

Merlin stepped forward.

And on the other end of that tunnel, Kilgharrah leapt forward on powerful legs, flames building in his maw. Merlin’s world stuttered to a halt. "Stop!"

His tunic fluttered oddly and Kilgharrah roared, inches away, slit-thin pupils focused over Merlin’s shoulder. He whirled, heart sliding into his throat. 

Calloused hand still outstretched where he must have grabbed him, sword at his hip, loose cards half stuck in a pocket– Gwaine. Eyes wide in wordless shock.

And Kilgharrah’s growl rumbled over the mountains.

Centuries sung by Fall Out Boy

Chapter Text

Early September

Dearest Gaius,

It was wonderful to hear from you. I find your news very distressing, and I appreciate how delicately you are proceeding. I could not have trusted my scatterbrained son with a more dependable mentor.

As I sit at my table enjoying this cool morning's sunshine, I can't help but recall a similar day, and some similar news, that I received many years ago. My little boy had come running into my hut with Will on his heels, both boys grinning ear to ear and just about giving me a heart attack. But Merlin finally had a true friend after years of hesitation. He was so happy that I could not condemn him. More than his safety, I have always wished for his happiness.

How is he Gaius, truly? Is he well?

Mulch chips poked Jaon in his rear, sawdust and cedar filling his nose pulpy and sap-sweet. It made the air a yellow haze, fell gritty on the tongue. Behind him the crack-rustle-crash of a tree breaking lit through him, made him want to jounce his knees, made the itch at the back of his brain expect hoofbeats. 

But druids only called instructions, the thud of chopping regaining a rhythm as branches were tossed into piles. A few woodworkers, who Jaon had propped himself near, cleaned and shaped log ends into slots and wedges. With his own whittling knife Jaon copied them on thrifted sticks.

He made problems more often than perfect fits– slots too wide, wedges too misshapen. Still, they made for a decent wobbly log cabin, one wall a little too long and one corner tilting precariously. 

With practice these would make for nice toys for the new kids, the ones coming from Essetir and the south, bootless and wild and quieter even than he. Of these Toddler approached him now, thumb in her mouth, plump cheeks flaking with dried spittle. 

She kicked at his cabin and cackled when it fell. 

He was too old to deal with a baby. He was practically a teenager now, which was practically an adult. “Where’s your sister?” 

She babbled back, wiggling her body. 

“Well, come on, then. And I don’t want to hear any arguments.” 

She chattered back, but didn’t stop him from scooping her into a side carry. From this treeline the camp stretched an even mix of roughshod tents and the deep greens and browns of Iseldir’s original clan. Those coming to join Iseldir were meant to blend in, to not make it so obvious that the camp had doubled in size in the matter of a season, but the bramble circus the camp had become was certainly obvious to Jaon!

Men and women moved about in tasks, preparing food or tradecraft for Camelot’s larger weekly market day. He didn’t remember whose parents were this baby’s. It was possible she was cared for by the group at large, sort of like him. Though she was lucky to have a sister.

At the far end of camp people shifted, heads swinging as a horse clacked out of the treeline. Two horses! One mounted by a knight with red cloak rippling behind him. 

That one had blonde hair, and Jaon craned his neck for Elyan’s dark skin. It’d be great luck to show him his stick cabin. Elyan would find it interesting, and he’d have tips on how to improve it. 

Most of the other druids, especially the newcomers, didn’t share his excitement at the sight of a red cloak. They shied away as he trotted closer. 

That was a windblown Forridel sliding off the first horse, rubbing at her rump. The knight on the second horse was the leader one– Sir Leon. “Did Elyan come?” 

“Apologies,” Sir Leon said as Forridel filled her gaze with him and Toddler. 

“Did she eat?” 

“I just found her.” 

Forridel took Toddler, Leon trailing them with the horses. Jaon skipped to keep up. 

“Is that your horse?”

Forridel flushed, glancing back at Sir Leon. “Temporarily.”

“Whoa. What are we going to do with a whole horse?” Merlin had put a bag over their heads when he’d fed them, and Jaon had never figured out what was in those bags. “They eat leaves right?”

“The horse isn’t staying here. It’s going to carry my things… I’m going to live in Camelot again.”

“But where, there are no druids there? Are you starting a camp? I want to see it.”

“I’ve purchased a small stone home from the son of a recently deceased old woman. My plan is to get there in the next day or two, so I have ample time to prepare for winter.”

“But that’s so fast. You said this was your home, that Iseldir was like family.”  

“I haven’t always lived here.” She looked at him in a way that made him feel like that stupid horse had kicked him in the chest.

“But everyone’s moving in, not leaving.” He gestured at Toddler, at the clusters of new tents. “You can’t leave.”

“Come here,” she swung a surprise arm around him, squeezed him close. “Visit me. Bring your wood carvings. I’ll help sell them at market.”

She was being too nice. Her niceness stacked up inside him into this big pressing wall that made his face prickle and swell. His lip wobbled, and he tried to hold it all back with a glare into the dirt. Something like static sparkled in his chest. 

“And I’m sure Elyan will be happy to see you. And I’ll visit the camp all the time. Where else will I get my pelts for my leathers?” 

He nodded into her side, pushed a smile into his cheeks. Why did everything have to change?

Toddler began struggling, whining to be let down, and their hug ended as Forridel dealt with the baby. 

Jaon backed away, another adult coming by to help with Toddler, and Sir Leon drawing close enough to leap to the ground by Forridel. Jaon drew his whittling knife.

The blade still looked good, except for the usual chip in the tip from getting too thin, and he’d bent it a bit at the base when he’d been hacking at a knobby part of a stick. Maybe he’d go back to knife handles and figurines for a bit, save up for a few different sized blades before going back to making cabins. He swallowed past a lump.

The mix of spit and unspoken sounds swelled in the back of his throat, rolled downward to bounce in his stomach. It jumped once, twice, uncomfortable like unchewed food, a knot unraveling, spinning static.   

He coughed, yeowtch! and magic sparked between his fingers.

I appreciate your asking for my advice. It’s strange your timing. I had two dreams about Merlin very recently, dreams so vivid they could have been real. He needed my help, and I don’t believe I fully gave it.

I know how he can be. He puts the world on his shoulders and chooses to carry the burden of everyone's troubles alone. Be more than his guidance, Gaius, please. Force on him the support that he will never ask for.

In front of the harem’s long mirror Yasil eyed the knot of skirt at her hip. It had taken her three tries to adjust, the tie falling apart in her fingers as they trembled. Would the Sarrum notice the imperfection? Would he say something? 

She hadn’t had time to pack all of her things with the way they’d been forced to travel so soon after the Ishtar’s death. This outfit, cobbled from the yellows of her fellow dancers, looked cobbled, and the Sarrum had been so short with everyone recently, and she hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to her mother before they’d left, and now she wondered if they’d ever return or if she’d ever escape beyond this windowless room in this deeply secluded war fort….

“You’ll do fine,” her friend appeared at her back, put calming hands on her shoulders, “just stay quiet and do exactly as he says when he says it.”

“I’ve never done tea service before.”

“He mostly ignores you. Keep your eye on the ashes of the incense, and the fill of his cup, and otherwise put your back to a wall and stay there.”  

The fact her friend’s voice shook did nothing to calm her nerves. “Do I look perfect?”

Her friend fiddled with the flyaways at Yasil’s browline and answered instead, “You should go. Better to be early.”

A tray of tea was shoved into her hands, steam curling from the pot's stem. She imagined that steam filling her lungs to warm her from the inside, its perfume mirroring her decorated exterior so she became the enticing creature he wanted both inside and out.  He’d know if she were scared, and it would irritate him.

“We’ll see you later tonight,” her friend said with hopeful confidence. Yasil took one last deep breath, then exited the harem’s makeshift chambers. 

She walked the halls alone, low-ceiling rat maze passages a stark difference from the arching, airy Amatan castle they’d left behind. She hardly knew her way around, couldn’t memorize the routes when every hall looked the same as the next. She’d made a left when she should have made a right, she was sure now, and she doubled back the way she’d come, quickening her steps, pot cooling as the minutes ticked by. 

The war fort’s council room had two guards flanking its entrance, and Yasil pulled up before them with a whispered, “Am I late?”

“He hasn’t checked for you yet,” a guard said as the other knocked her arrival against the iron door.  

The curls at the apex of her neck had gone damp, which meant they’d go frizzy. The Sarrum opened the door and locked eyes with her. “Yasil,” he said, and she felt her heart drop into her gut. 

He preferred eye contact when he focused on you. She tried to keep it as he pinched her chin between two knotted, meaty fingers and tilted her face back and forth. The other girls had painted her. Did he not like it? She had no Ishtar to protect her, and with a war fort this secret she could not dare hope to be set free. If he found her lacking he’d cull her. 

The rough pads of his fingers fell away, and she tensed. But he swept away, and all she had to do was follow.

Heavy iron clunked shut behind her, and before her the Sarrum’s pale yellow robes billowed. He walked straight for the centerpiece table where an older woman sat alone. Gray hair tickled her collarbones, and when the Sarrum’s hand landed on her shoulder she straightened. A single eye faded cataract blue, and when her gaze connected with Yasil's, a tear beaded in its corner. 

Mother.

“Yasil looks well, doesn’t she?”

Where do I look? At him? The tea? Can I look at my mother without offending him? When the Ishtar had let them see each other it had been in the harem rooms, semi-private. She’d had no idea the Sarrum knew either of them existed beyond the occasional dance and grope. 

She placed her tray on the table, preparing two cups of tea. After she’d passed the first to the Sarrum for his approval, she passed the second to her mother. Through the brush of fingers they tried to will both comfort and love. 

“Yasil, why is it you don’t have magic like your mother?”

Her muscles went cold. “My mother is special.”

“Do you use that word as a curse or a blessing?”

Say curse and he may take that as her calling her capture and servitude in his castle an extension of that curse. If she said blessing would he call her an ally of magic? 

“Have you ever tried to follow in her footsteps? No? Come, try.” He pushed his teacup towards her. Yasil gripped it dumbly. 

What trap was this?

“Well, go on,” the Sarrum said to her mother. “Coach her.”

Yasil scanned her mother’s worried gaze, her own heartbeat ramping until her chest tightened like drum skin. 

Her mother put a hand over Yasil’s, pressing gently until the teacup sat on the smooth wooden table. She coaxed Yasil’s fingers loose, then held her, small near-grimace smile softening her gaze until Yasil had calmed enough to breathe evenly. 

“Start by emptying your mind. Make it as a mirror, smooth as a calm lake.” 

Yasil imagined it, but didn’t expect to succeed. She’d never had magic, or never enough to feel more than embers. 

“Do you remember Vina’s pointed chin, her button nose? Bring it to fill the plane of your mind. Etch her name into her skin.” 

Her mother splayed fingers, her pointer and thumb forming perfect sharp angles as if she held Vina’s portrait between them. 

“Press her onto the surface of your tea. Let the liquid follow the curl of her hair and shade the hollow of her cheek.”

As her mother channeled magic, gold bled on her blind side to spread diffuse over the whites of her eye. Pupilless and empty like a nighttime animal eyeing her over long grasses, despite having seen this a hundred times in her youth, her mother's sight unsettled Yasil. She focused on her mother’s normal eye, gone gold only in the iris. 

For the benefit of the Sarrum, she imitated her mother’s hand motions over her own teacup. 

“Does it take a life of its own, swirling through her form? Does she begin to blink, to breathe? Ask the water to fill the space behind her. Is that a sun setting over trees, or the flicker of candlelight in a squat room? Does her mouth move? What is she saying? Is it a clue to where she is?”

“Yasil,” the Sarrum said, “you saw the blue-eyed sorceress, did you not?”

He must mean the woman who’d arrived the day Vina killed the Ishtar with her darts– the one who’d blasted lightning through the Sarrum’s private garden and crumpled the door to the revel. Rumor said she was why they’d left the castle.  

“Not well, sire. I saw her in profile from far away.”

“More than your mother.” The Sarrum sat back, steady unreadable gaze on her. “No success scrying, hm?”

She felt her heart shrivel. “I’ll keep practicing, sire.”

“Bring the girl that paints. She can work on a portrait for your mother.”

That girl painted on their bodies for his entertainment, not replicas of the human face. Oh Ishtar, she couldn’t say that without angering him. 

“Portraits are difficult to work from, my lord,” her mother said. 

“You found Morgana Pendragon once before with only her portrait as seed.”

Morgana Pendragon! 

Her mother bowed her head. “When I did, she lay passed out in a forest clearing after her ousting from Camelot. She may typically channel a spell to block my sight; I can no longer find her. Perhaps this blue-eyed sorceress knows of this magic.”

“You say we must rely on luck,” he said. “Of the three of us luck is something only you were born with. I came to rely on lesser talents. Yet, here we are.” A thin smile stretched the Sarrum’s face. “It appears I learned something in my youth that you never did.” 

He leaned forward, large palm falling to the back of her mother’s head. He forced her gaze back to her teacup. The table trembled, and tea rippled. Her mother’s eyes bled back to brown. 

“But you will learn,” he said. “Luck always falls to effort.” 

Gaius, you must tell him I, and all of Ealdor, are doing more than well. We have a surplus that we could not have dreamed of after the doubling of our hearth tax. Our purses are full, the ground is fertile, and the food is bountiful.

Yet, for your eyes only, I know what the other villagers have surmised.

They think Morgause lay a curse when Cenred lost the war, and they believe we have at long last escaped from under its web.

In that respect, things are not well. Whenever travelers pass through this small farming village, they bring sour rumors that the troubles of Essetir began with Morgause, and will end when magic is completely pushed from these borders. When our new lord comes to inspect our lands, he's quick to remind us why he was forced to increase our taxes.

We were not once a hateful people, but now many friends laugh at the news that the king of Camelot has opened his borders to the druids. I have heard some say that the loss of the druids from our nearby forests and the proliferation of our fields only validates what poison they truly were.

Tell your king to be wary, Gaius. There are many who would enjoy seeing him proved wrong.

A fist collided with the thin wood of Hunith's door and she looked up, startled.

"Open up!" A deep voice called. "Urien’s orders!"

Despite leaving the specifics of Merlin’s magic from her letter, her opinions on the druids were too strong. In a cabinet she hid her quill and with quick movements tucked the letter into her bodice, still-wet ink bleeding to splotchy patches. “Coming, sir.”

Let them search her place, or steal her food. They’d never know her real secrets. 

Two large brutes in the burnt orange cloaks of King Lot bent thick necks to spy the empty room behind her. Their cloaks had a new patch sewn through the center marking Urien’s house crest. 

The round-faced one held a scroll, and the broken-nosed one his sword hilt. 

"Town meeting," round-face said. “Follow us.”

"What’s happening?" She tilted back as he leaned half through the door, encroaching on her space.

"Urien’s orders," round-face repeated.

"Now, now," broken-nose said. "This matron isn't a threat. She's only asked a question. In fact, I'm sure she'll be happy to help in any way she can when she hears the news."

She read pleasure on both men’s faces, the sour type small-spirited people got when finally given their first whiff of power.

"The king is dead," broken-nose smiled, "and, rumor has it, his named successor is lacking a few key allies . ”

Bad Omen by FJORA

Chapter Text

Late August

“Your big secret was a fucking dragon?”

Black-peaked mountains surrounded him, and pebbles under his shifted stance went skittering down a cliffside that Gwaine did not hear the end of. Eyes larger than his face with pupils gone snake-thin filled with pure fury.

An actual, alive, fire-breathing spirits-damned dragon. 

Merlin edged into his periphery, arms out. “Please put the sword down, Gwaine.”

Oilslick breath hit Gwaine in the chest, and fire flickered in its fangs.

“Are you kidding me? I’m the problem?”

Could he stab an eye out? It would be his only chance.

“How much should I bet that this is the gold dragon that burned Camelot?” And hadn’t Arthur been drunkenly recounting that newest rumor– “And Amata, days ago? You go too? What’s the game, three points for a house aflame, ten for a child?”

“Of course not!” Merlin yelled as the dragon roared, “We must kill him, Merlin!”

“It talks!”

“Go to the cave, Kilgharrah!”

“This is a knight of Camelot, don’t be a fool!”

Merlin turned his back to Gwaine and roared. Words otherworldly, layered with a growl, rippled between them. He felt them hit, felt them try to snap up through his ears to latch onto his soul. The dragon fared worse, stumbling away under a physical blow. 

And there was proof dug deeper. Something hysteric grew in his chest. Scream or laugh it begged. 

“Put the sword away, Gwaine!”

“I’m dying with a sword in my hand, Merlin!”

Merlin swiveled, gaze dark. Untrod power crackled in static bursts between them. The slant of Merlin’s stance, despite the fists at his sides, meant a fighter coiled. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

“I wanted the truth you were never going to tell me.”

“Well, you’ve got it.”

The dragon screamed to the sky as it stumbled into a crevice. 

Gwaine gestured at it, then the mountains around them. “Do I?” Merlin was a sorcerer who could leap leagues in a blink and was chummy with murderous sky lizards. “Why did you attack Amata?”

Merlin grimaced, turned away. “I won’t tell you. Not until I’m sure I can trust you.”

“Why is it me who has to earn your trust in the middle of this?” He shook his sword at Merlin. “Kill me if you’re going to kill me.”

A burst of magical light lit in time with Merlin's manic laugh. “You say that like I’ve ever succeeded at killing someone when I should have.”

“Lucky me, what an honor to make your failed assassination list. Who else is on it?”

“Oh a few kings, maybe a queen or two,” Merlin spat, “Now what? Should I expect to die to your blade? Or should I wait patiently for the pyre?”

“Does a manmade death sentence mean much against a fucking dragon?”

“He’s in the cave. All sorcerers are evil. What are you waiting for?”

“Oh, what am I waiting for? Only what I’ve been waiting for! What I deserved months ago instead of more lies. An explanation!” 

Whistling wind in a strange mountain range, Merlin’s shadowed silhouette, glowing light flickering through his pupils– how did this dangerous piece fit with the smile that brightened when Gwaine told a joke, with the accepting soul that didn’t condemn when it found him dead drunk in a grimy corner late again to squire training? He’d wanted to leave it all behind… his mother, his last name, the pretentious self-serving fake honor that came with a title… but Merlin had burst into a forgotten tavern for forgotten people over and again ecstatic with his chaotic love for Arthur and stupid with his ability to plan ahead and he’d said help and Gwaine had said duh because I want a bit of that light you carry around with you…. And what of it had been real?

“I just want to understand,” Gwaine said. “Why would you do this?”

A dozen cracks of hair-thin lightning surrounded them, shattered, disappeared. “Someone has to. Someone has to care that the dragons are nearly extinct, that magic-users are oppressed, that the fae deserve to be treated with respect.”

“Does Arthur know?”

“Sometimes I think he may suspect, but….”

“He trusts you too much to question you. He figures you’d tell him if it were important enough, and otherwise when you’re ready.” He could no longer see or hear the dragon, but he’d be a fool to think it were not hiding in that dark crevice and waiting for an opportunity. He said it anyway. “This is too big to keep a secret.”

Merlin flinched. “I can’t.”

“You’re the one who convinced me Arthur was worth following. Why do that if even you yourself don’t trust him?” 

“It’s not that I–” Merlin’s jittery sparks of magic grew to loud snaps and pops. One lit like a flare at the corner of Gwaine’s eye, made him blink away spots as his ear rang. “I trust him I just–” Merlin’s breathing laboured, deep breaths becoming audible, shortening staccato. 

“Hey,” Gwaine said, “hey, calm down. What are you doing?”

Lightning spidered from Merlin’s boots, filling the cracks of the cliffside and pulsing with the puff of Merlin’s rapid breathing. Gwaine sheathed his sword. 

“Mate, I’m not going to run off and tell Arthur tonight. I can’t fly. I don’t know where I am. And I’m pretty sure he’s too sloshed to remember anything I’d say anyway.”

As he stepped over a root of lightning, it forked and burned black smoke from the sole of his boot. It carried the acrid taste of fire-singed hair. Merlin’s eyes were fluttering.

“I’m not that mad. I mean, I am a little mad. But not like insurmountably mad. Come on, man.” Close enough to touch, and not sure if he should, Gwaine reached out a hand and braced himself. Static lanced from Merlin like a wool blanket after a storm. “Fuck,” Gwaine folded over. Maybe the dragon would know what to do. 

The hysterical laugh came then, tearing out of him. 

“Sorry,” Merlin gasped. 

“I didn’t know magic could be lightning. I thought it was all potions, and spying, and slamming people into walls and stuff. Evil fae that take over your mind.” Or whatever strange creatures that traveling carnival had brought with them. “Stupid of me maybe, but it’s not like magic was all out in the open in Caerleon or taverns like Fool’s Gold. I used to wonder what it was like, controlling things with your mind. Seems spooky.” 

He paused; Merlin wasn’t worsening at least. 

“Do you have to practice? Probably, right? What’s magical practice like? Lightning that tree! Let’s see how far I can throw the cookpot! Something like that? Seems more interesting than training squires. I tell you, Merlin, footwork is a lost concept on them. All they’re interested in is the next cool trick. They puff as if I’ll teach them to flip a sword out of an enemy’s hand. That’s my thing! Took a lot of near dying before I figured that one out.” 

A gasping laugh left Merlin, and he curled his fingers into Gwaine’s shoulder. They trembled, but the night around them dimmed as the wild lightning snaps lessened. 

“Gwen’s commoners, which we picked up after the tournament, aren't so bad. A stable foundation could marry their daughters and they wouldn’t recognize it, but at least they understand to stay wary. Wiliness and wariness, that’s the commoner way. Those squires born into it though? It’s more like wobbliness and, uhm…” Merlin’s magic died down completely, and they stood a moment in quiet dark. He listened to Merlin’s carefully controlled breaths. “What else starts with ‘w’?”  

“Since when can you spell?” Merlin muttered back, then sighed, taking back his own weight. “I’m sorry.”

“What was that?”

“I don’t know. Freaked out. I didn’t mean to.”

“Obviously.” Gwaine looked back at the cave, hesitant to turn his back to it. “Let’s sit down.”

He chose a spot where he kept the cave in his periphery and his sheathed sword pulled up close to his side. His feet tingled where they hung over a void, a thin starlight-glinting river snaking far below. Just where were they? 

Merlin thankfully took the spot between Gwaine and the cave, and nervously ran his palms up and down his thighs. He apologized for a third time. 

“Does that happen… a lot?”

“Not really,” Merlin said miserably. “First time my magic went haywire at the same time.”

“So it wasn’t like a spell, or….”

“No, that was uniquely messed-up Merlin.” He said the next layered with sarcasm, “More proof prophecy is a joke.”

That last from Merlin made little sense to Gwaine, but the crux of the problem seemed to be Arthur anyway. When had it not? It was often Arthur, Arthur, Arthur with Merlin. “I think Arthur would understand, you know. He’d rather know what’s going on than be kept in the dark. You’re his best friend. He’d want to help.”

“Sorry, Gwaine,” Merlin said again, quietly. 

“I just think you should tell him. It hurts not being trusted by someone you trust; you’re always walking around wondering, well, what’s so wrong with me?” 

“It’s not him, or… you, for example. Gwen deserves time to get settled. And Morgana attacked so recently… she’s still on everyone’s mind… and I’ve got responsibilities to the dragons. Uther kept Kilgharrah in a prison basically our entire lives. Kilgharrah may not be completely sane but he doesn’t deserve another imprisonment.”

Kilgharrah the dragon, he assumed. Dragons, Merlin had said. “Why not tell me, then? You had chances. Especially before I became a knight in Camelot. We were off on our own fighting wyverns or whatever, and it would have been less dangerous if you’d given me all the facts. It’s not like I was going to run off and tell some foreign king I could barely recognize from a sheepherder.” 

“Secrets like this get people killed,” Merlin said, anger starting to leak back into his tone. “It’s not a secret like I know more about Excalibur than you think I do, or I lied to you once to keep you from killing your father.”

Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. “If you’re waiting for him to be ready, he never will be. You just have to tell him,” and Merlin’s excuses seemed weak. 

“So are you going to?”

“Am I going to what?”

“Tell him when we get back.”

Good to know they were both definitely going back. “You could start with the magic piece. You don’t have to go all the way to dragons from the start.”

“It’s too soon,” Merlin’s voice tightened. 

“You don’t have a great reason not to at least broach the truth. You’re afraid, I can tell, but if any of our history has been real then we’ve got each other’s backs, right?”

“I do have your back,” earnest, “that was never a lie. But there are huge issues I still haven’t figured out… and I don’t really know where to start or how to explain…. You’d think I’d have a speech prepared, but it’s hard enough on my own without having to wonder how Arthur would react.”

What was going on out here in these mountains, with these dragons? What was Merlin not telling him?

“I just need a bit more time to work things out. Please don’t tell Arthur, not yet.”

He had sworn his loyalty to Arthur, but he’d also sworn it to Caerleon and to his own father before that and he hadn’t cared about breaking that record. Still, whatever weird business Merlin was up to was clearly big, way too big to pretend Merlin was only a manservant or apprentice. He was the king’s most trusted advisor and confidant, after Gwen, and he couldn’t hide a double life forever. “I’m not saying it has to be today, but maybe in a few weeks, or a few months….”

“That’s reasonable,” Merlin said quick, “it’s time for me to get a better handle on things. And give you a better explanation.”

It was hard not to strongly desire his own unique explanation, separate from whatever Arthur would receive. Then they’d revisit this. He held out a hand to shake. “Promise me, Merlin. A good explanation, and a good reason to delay telling Arthur, or you tell him by first snow.”

Merlin heaved a relieved sigh, and gripped Gwaine’s forearm. “Promise.” He smiled brightly. “What are your thoughts on me dropping you off at Camelot so I can have a private conversation with Kilgharrah? He’s going to take some coaxing and it’ll go smoother if you’re not here.”

Suspicion pinged, but he swallowed it. “Just tell me one thing.” 

Merlin’s fingers spasmed in his grip on Gwaine’s forearm, but he nodded. 

He may not have a full friendship to prove his worth, but he had his knighthood. The realm’s safety would matter to a Camelot knight. “That dragon threatened to kill me. It attacked Amata. It’s not safe to keep as a friend.”

“Is that your question?” Merlin’s voice came weary.

“I guess.” Merlin had slouched, turned away. “If I were Gwen would you say I could trust it? Is it Camelot’s ally as much as it is yours?”

Merlin went silent, then, “No.” 

That crag in the mountainside, still dark, hiding a beast that likely watched him with reptile eyes. It made his skin crawl. Merlin had said no. “How can you trust it? Seems like it’d eat us in a moment of peckishness.”

“He’s a friend, in a way, one of my only. I’ve known him longer than I’ve known you, as long as I’ve known Arthur. And,” he sighed, “I’m a dragonlord. Balinor, Camelot’s last dragonlord, was my father.”

“So?”

“It’s a magic thing. I can command Kilgharrah and he has to obey. I try not to unless absolutely necessary. There’s so little autonomy left to be had.”

Control over dragons, obvious in hindsight. “Could it attack us again, could it come out here and kill me, or is whatever you’ve said to it enough to hold forever?”

“I’d have to think back to the exact words. I think any command I gave was more situational. And before you tell me to change it, there’s too many times I’ve needed him on Camelot soil to save my life, or Arthur’s. Arthur would definitely be dead without Kilgharrah. Agravaine’s men would have killed him.”

Arthur, Arthur Arthur.

“Alright, fine.” He’d take that for now. Dragonlord, huh? “Let’s go.”

The words had barely left his mouth before the tunnel pressed in again, brief and disorientating and all-encompassing, sucking away his body so he spun without eyes and flew without an up. He failed to wonder where he was, to panic, to even register he’d gone. Then he was plopping into the abandoned alley, and Merlin handed him his stomach back all too early.

Yeah, there was that nausea again. But without the threat of imminent death to keep it under control.  

It and the entire situation built like slime along the back of his throat, and he stumbled away to puke acid-tinged ale all over a wooden pallet. A pastime too recognizable to his stomach, once he’d started he couldn’t stop until he was gagging bile and pressing his nose into the crook of his elbow trying to trick himself into smelling anything else. Sometimes, he really hated himself. 

“Were you sneaking drinks again?” That was Percival’s voice. 

Gwaine squinted out to the end of the alley, then glanced over his shoulder to where Merlin was long gone. He didn’t bother answering. He hadn’t actually, but he could use a dose of wine now. 

Percival held up a waterskin and shook it so it sloshed. “Come and get it, buddy.”

Spirits curse that bastard. I’m not drunk. Gwaine stumbled out on weak knees, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Fuck off, Percival.”

“When you went after Merlin I was hoping I might find something a little more salacious.”

Gwaine snatched the waterskin and chugged. The first splash of liquid made his abs clench and stomach revolt, but he held himself tight this second wave. “Creep,” he cursed. 

Percival only chuckled pleasantly, and gently offered a shoulder to lean on which Gwaine shoved away.  

“You missed all the drama,” Percival said. 

If he’d had the energy he’d have snorted loud enough to wake Percival’s dead damned parents. As it stood, though, he didn’t, so he muttered a sound half-interested and forged the way towards bed. 

“Gwen showed up.”

Great.

“She drank Arthur’s entire flagon in one go.”

Okay, that might have been a bit impressive. 

“Then she dragged him out by the ear, berating him about Caerleon. By the way, we’re all going for the harvest feast. And from this day on she gets full decision making power when Arthur is out drunk after last bell.”

Percival trailed off, chuckling, and Gwaine felt a new wave of sickness clawing close. It was the type that started at the back of his brain and whispered to run before it caught him. “We’re all going? Leon may need help with the druids or squires while Arthur’s gone.”

“Did you just offer to run squire training instead of going on an adventure?”

“I’m sick,” he groused.

“Uh huh,” Percival poked at the waterskin. “Have a bit more of that.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Come on, Gwaine. What’s up with you recently?”

Merlin lying to him, not trusting him. Relying on his knighthood to prove he held worth. Courage, loyalty, chivalry, justice, courtesy. He was a joke, wasn’t he? He’d inspired none of them from Merlin, and hiding that he’d broken them in Caerleon made him a hypocrite, not an honorable, respectable knight.

His sister’s desperate worry, her reedy child voice begging him not to go, clambered over every defense he’d propped up in the intervening years. She’d barely come up to his ribs. He’d abandoned her. 

Fuck, he couldn’t do this. Not now with everything else going on.

He wasn’t ready.

Morgana isn’t here.

She isn’t here.

She’s at the tower with Morgause, laying on her back in a bed of mulching leaves, breathing air gone soil-moist, and reveling in the freedom of grime. She can’t tell if the featherlight touches on her arms, ankles, neck are the scrape of foliage or the webby crawl of insects. She loves it either way.

And it’s not dark. The sun is out.

Morgause has told her the warm bud in her chest is her magic. It blooms in the sunlight, thrives when their hearth flickers. It could be fire, her magic. A literal flame alight inside of her, starved in the cold stone of Camelot and now ravenous for knowledge and sky and earth. 

There was something thicker about it now.

No, no, no.

Morgause bends over her, skin made of bark. Has she come to bring her inside? “No, not yet, Morgause. Look at the clouds with me.”

A cloud of gnats floods from Morgause’s ear and obscures her face. When they’ve gone she’s a monster of vines growing long, wriggling into roots at her feet. When they slither beneath the ground they bump along Morgana’s shoulders and hips. 

“I taught you the rituals,” Morgause says, even though her lips don’t move. 

“Power over life and death, blah blah blah.”

“They’re important for more besides. There’s a lesson you have to remember.”

“Let’s raise the other sisters. I want to talk to our mother.”

“Focus, Morgana.”

“Fine. The Rowan Tree grows at the Isle. Eat its fruit to heal, dry its leaves to banish spirits, burn its wood to draw them.” Build a staff from its husk and raise the dead.

Morgause was dead.

No, no, no.

They hadn’t gotten there yet. 

“The Cup of Life forged from the Goddess’ own crown,” prompted Morgause. 

“Drink from it and taste her immortality.” Give it a drop of your blood and exchange your soul for everlasting life. Turn to dust as soon as a serving boy casts it across the ground. 

“And the last.”

“The Horn of Cathbhadh. Surround yourself in stones then blow to summon the dead.”

“Why are the stones important?”

She knew, didn’t want to remember. The well had been another version, one she couldn’t escape. 

No, please. She wanted to forget that place. 

“You have to remember why, Morgana.”

“They… are the foci of the fae circle. Design them equal, place them even. They keep the fae from escaping.” She grins, desperate, at Morgause’s vine-blonde hair. “But we can leave when we wish.”

“No, we cannot,” the Leshy said. 

Morgana rolled to all fours, scrabbled away screeching, “You’re not here!” Two feet, her feet, sprinted for the heavy canopied forest even as her magic bubbled wrong and slowed her down. 

Her knuckles struck first, bursting and bleeding against the invisible unyielding well that stretched up, up, too high to ever climb, too deep to ever dig under. Her shoulder hit next to lance pain along her collar and then her cheekbone to bloom a hot, pounding bruise. 

It threw her into a bed of mulched leaves sharp with pine needles, their earthy, moldy scent not so different to a well’s mud-slick stone. Trapped again by a fresh monster. Why couldn’t she leave? Why couldn’t she walk out of a fae circle?

Her magic felt wrong. 

Tears burned on a face already swelling, and Morgana screamed into the pine needles. Their evergreen perfume was cloying. “Change me back!”

“No,” the Leshy grumbled.

“Goddess, help me! Help me! I am your Last Priestess!”

But she’d had months to respond, had already proven her indifference. 

Or, she’d sent Emrys in her place.

Captured by Uther in her childhood, the Sarrum, and now Emrys. These horrible men. Emrys had come to her preaching he didn’t want another war, what would it do to magic, and had changed her own. Made it so she couldn’t escape a fae circle. Trapped her in his green clearing with his fae warden and pretended he was so great, so magnanimous. They’d all rue the way they’d used their power over her. She’d show them horrible. She’d show them horror. “Tell me where Emrys is. Bring him to me.”

The Leshy’s vines drove into the ground, pulled loose pillar-sized fallen tree trunks coated in damp soil and white insects. The crumble of old wood chips whispered, “That’s not in my power.”

She seized her strange, liquid magic and pushed its flow towards her palms. Familiar blooms of fire swelled, became spheres smoother than she’d ever formed them. So, not her magic, but still her power.

Dribbles of flame dripped from her sphere to light the pine needles beneath her. They smoked heavy and hissed steam. For the freedom of it, Morgana tipped a palm and let one of the spheres roll to her side, bursting alight in time with a shriek and the Leshy slamming its trunks into the ground.

“It’s not in your power?” she cackled, “Well, it is in mine! Come and stop me, Emrys! ”

Down an unmarked tunnel that split from deadened dungeons and excavated catacombs, where air went the cool damp of a cave, lay a thick-walled water-worn chamber that ate firelight as much as it did secrets. Arthur held aloft his torch, watching it sputter against that cavern, and its thick iron bars that marked the entrance to Camelot’s second vault. 

The first many had access to, but this one, down here in the dark, had a single key passed from his father to himself. And sometimes to Merlin, but only because Arthur trusted him. Guinevere too, of course, after this. 

She pulled up beside him with raised brows, skin a golden brown in the firelight. “You felt it was necessary to put the helm this far below ground?”

“Agravaine advised it. In hindsight, I think he wanted access to the other items stored here.”

He flipped through his ring for the multi-pronged key, the pressed dragon scales of the Pendragon crest a recognizable pattern against his thumb. The door unlocked with a heavy thud. 

“Is anything missing? He could have passed items to Morgana.”

“If he knew where this vault was, he would have told her before she sacked the castle, and she could have raided it then. No, I don’t think anyone’s been here but us.”

He ran the torch over sealed crates and locked wardrobes, its glow misting as the back of the chamber faded away. Guinevere kept her hands sensibly folded within her sleeves but studied every container with a critical eye. “What else is in here besides the helm?”

“I’m not entirely sure.” This clearly shocked her. “Confiscated magical items, of course. Some texts too. My father kept the inventory memorized.”

“That’s a tad paranoid,” she frowned. “You haven’t gone through the inventory yourself.”

Arthur shrugged. He’d never be tempted to use any of them, and neither would Guinevere. Whatever danger they posed was moot. 

Moot, now that he’d learned his lesson. 

“I put it over here, would you mind?” He gestured with the torch, and she came up to grab it and trail him to a boxy wooden chest. A button on its side and a particular shift of its latch popped the lid and he spent a minute explaining the trick to her. She seemed already ahead of him, brow furrowed prettily and sharp gaze on the contraption. 

“And it’s all wood?” She knocked at different points along its sides.

He never claimed to know how to build things. He loved that she did, though. “Checking for woodworm?”

“Listening for where it’s hollow.”

“It was a joke,” when she gave him the you-could-do-better look he decided to forgo explaining it was a callback to one of Merlin’s many idiocies. 

Inside, firelight glinted off a few small jewel-encrusted weapons, a rust spattered greeve, and a pile of boots. Caerleon’s helm sat cushioned in their center, molded steel and decorated with a now stringy blue-plumed feather.

When he reached to pick it up, it zapped him.

“Arthur!” The light bobbled. 

He’d recoiled, heart racing, hand on Excalibur. “Was that a spell? Could it have been static after sitting on boots for a year?”

They both knew the answer to that last was no, and Guinevere pushed the torch towards him and reached for the helm herself. 

“Careful–”

It didn’t shock her, and she twisted it carefully in her hands, viewing it from all sides. “These are runes, right? What sort of spell is it?”

“Caerleon didn’t seem to have any sort of special advantage, but you see how it holds magic.”

“You didn’t ask Gaius to read these runes?”

“Better for it to be safe, here, where nobody knows what it can do and nobody is tempted to access it.”

She settled on her heels and turned that builder’s gaze onto him. 

The first time she’d done it he’d wanted to impress her. Lately he was happy that she’d looked and loved him anyway. This time, though, he could tell she found him missing a piece.

“I’m not afraid,” he said.

“Oh?” She raised a delicate brow. “And what else are you not?”

“Tell me people trying to control this aspect of the world isn’t dangerous.” Even Dragoon, recommended by Gaius, hadn’t been able to control it. And the temptation for a quick fix had turned into his father’s death by the very thing his father had sought to end. 

“We’ve had this conversation already. My concern is your intentional ignorance.”

“It’s safer not to know.”

“That’s what I thought about Morgana’s magic when she started showing signs.”

Guinevere turned back to the helm, head down, shoulders just slightly hunched. Even with her hair in structured waves and dressed in expensive clothes, it struck him back to her years as Morgana’s maidservant. He’d often argued with Morgana about court gossip while Guinevere perched in a corner mending some hem, pillowing it in her lap not unlike this bit of armor. He’d always blamed himself for not noticing Morgana’s fall sooner, but Guinevere…. “It’s not your fault.”

“What she did after is not my fault,” Guinevere said firmly. 

“If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine. We were practically siblings. Well…” they were half-siblings, but he hadn’t known that until it was far too late. 

Guinevere sighed and stood, the firelight rolling off of the velvet waves of her skirts. “Perhaps then you agree it is generally better to know than to not?” She tucked the helm onto her hip and held a hand out to help him stand. 

“Well, I can agree it’s better to know before we hand it off to Queen Annis. If it’s something terrible, can you agree to think about refusing to return it?”

“I can, but only because he clearly would have used whatever terrible spell it may have held when his life was threatened.” 

Arthur stood, squeezing her hand. “Who knows why he didn’t activate it. Annis probably knows what it can do. Why does she want it back so badly, unless it has some special quality we’re not aware of?”

“If roles were reversed, I’d want Annis to return Excalibur.”

“But Excalibur–”

“Arthur, please. It was in a stone. The blade never dulls. I’m a blacksmith.”

Right. Well, obviously. 

Maybe he hadn’t wanted to analyze that too closely. He should probably leave it here, with the other weapons, in this forgotten chest. The cool metal of the sword belt’s buckle clicked softly under his thumb.

Maybe that’s where it belonged– a forgotten stone, and now a forgotten tomb.

His heart quivered. His people had cheered, faces turned to him with such hope. He too badly wanted that memory of pride, of being chosen by something higher than him. 

And that was the danger, wasn’t it? This was the way magic tempted. It offered you something you could not refuse, and then, when you’d gone lax, it took twice as worse. What would he lose for this sword he could not leave in this chest, for the pride he valued more than lessons learned?

Guinevere turned back from the iron vault door, eyeing him. “Do you feel alright? This helm’s spell… tell me honestly.”

He shook his head. “I feel normal.” He kicked the chest’s lid closed and hurried to her, torch held high so she could see her way into the corridor. 

“Perhaps we should head straight to Gaius.”

“I genuinely feel fine. Let’s stick to the original plan and get it into a safe, iron box that looks sufficiently gift-like as fast as possible.”

She tutted in the way that let him know the conversation wasn’t over, squeezed his forearm to remind him she couldn’t help but worry, then jutted her chin in the woman-wide version of now get going.

He chuckled. “Yes, madam.” 

Camelot’s kitchens often provided a morning meal to the barracks men, a group with whom Gwaine typically enjoyed cultivating irreverence. With every eyeline in the Great Hall filled with massive Pendragon banners, breaking down the group's desires to live up to Arthur’s name was a hard fought victory. One that, once he’d gained it, at best brought him glee. At worst, a sick satisfaction.

Now however, after the revelation in the mountains, the cascading red fabric and gold dragon motif had grown only more uncomfortably, burdensomely familiar. 

A young guard yelped as a juggling performance failed, and an apple rolled across the long table to bump Gwaine’s arm. Across from him, a squire Gwaine had rejected balanced his friends’ plates on his head. 

He’d put a lot of effort into middling chaos, but the din of men one-upping each other had done nothing to drown out what he needed it to. He may as well have spent the morning as he’d spent the night– staring at the ceiling in silence.

On his breakfast plate Gwaine pushed scrambled eggs into the shape of a dragon, squishing fluffy balls of it under the prongs of his fork to attempt fangs. When wings stuck out of a bulbous body and led to a sufficiently menacing jaw, he tilted his plate towards Percival and said, “Guess what it is.”

“You going to eat that?” 

“Yes, unless you guess correctly.”

“Chicken?”

He took a bite of the dragon’s neck and scowled. He’s seen Merlin scuttling around on the ramparts in what felt like a clear effort to avoid running into him. He hadn’t even shown up to trail after Arthur, who’d joined them all briefly to make a short announcement about Caerleon. They’d leave next week.

“Hide your eggs,” Percival said, diving over his plate. Gwaine looked up to see Elyan hurrying over. 

He’d already dressed in full chainmail regalia and had the smoke-tinged scent of an Elyan who’d woken up at the crack of dawn to work the forge. He reached between Gwaine and Percival for a remaining half loaf of bread. “Percival, progress.”

Percival mumbled around a mouthful of food. 

“Remember that bandit chieftain from the north? The one that challenged you to an arm-wrestling match?” Elyan tore chunks out of the soft interior of the loaf, popping them into his mouth and speaking around them. 

“The one whose daughter arrested him? Don’t tell me he escaped.”

“How would that be progress? He finally told her about his rivals in the countryside! This is exactly the breakthrough we needed.”

“I don’t know, Elyan,” Percival said, “the bandits we found up there felt more like common thieves than potential warlords. Morgana wouldn’t waste her time trying to make an army out of that.”

“This is the thread we were told to follow, and if we don’t do it, no one will.” Elyan finished the inside of his loaf and shook it at Gwaine. “You going to finish those eggs?”

Gwaine sighed, and shoved the plate towards Elyan. 

As Elyan filled his self-made bread bowl with scrambled eggs, something he’d been known to call an egg sandwich with no fear for his reputation as a hopefully sane person, he said to Percival, “I’ve got leads. And Leon gave me a map of old forts in the area. If we leave today we could check them out and still meet everyone in Caerleon before the feast.”

Percival gave Gwaine a sidelong look, though he spoke to Elyan. “I do love clearing out bandits.”

“Great,” Elyan said then, “put salt on your eggs, Gwaine, this is terrible.”

“Ignore me, insult me; watch yourself Elyan. I may just dye all your clothes purple while you’re gone.”

Percival slid away from the bench, starting on with a list of what they’d have to pack quickly, and he and Elyan left after a final goodbye and don’t burn the castle down. 

Alone again. 

Gwaine looked out at his audience of barracks knights, squires, and guards, and felt his stomach sour. A young man’s tower of forks toppled to the cheers of his compatriots.

How apropos. He got what he said he wanted while getting everything he actually deserved. 

His preemptive displeasure was proven valid when they’d all made their way to the fresh trimmed grasses and robin’s egg sky just outside the castle. Leon pulled most of the knights and knight-hopefuls for horseback maneuvers and left him a pack of pimpled squires. 

They looked at him with glee in their eyes, some going for practice swords and hoping for whatever time-wasting nonsense Gwaine usually put them towards. 

He just absolutely could not handle burning more hours in fakery. Anything but more of it. Staring at the ceiling in silence over it.

“We’ve got a special challenge for this week,” he pointed at the group going for the swords. “Nope!”

He began to pace.

“Why didn’t the knights take you with them?” Why wasn’t he worthy of the rest of Merlin’s secrets? Why pretend to be a knight of Camelot when he’d known he didn’t deserve it?

The more brown-nosed among them opened their mouths to answer.

Gwaine yelled, “Rhetorical question! You’re missing something. It might be how to aim at speed on a horse, how to maneuver the reins, how to wield a sword one-handed, or it might be that you’re too easily enticed to balance plates on your head!”

“Aw,” one of the squires said. “You tricked me into being a bad example.”

“It’s only a bad example if it doesn’t impress me,” Gwaine shook his head. “Three plates?”

“Should I get more plates?”

“Maybe!”

“The point of training is to teach us,” a kid said, petulant. 

“Well too bad. I’ve got secrets. Now what are you going to do?”

They stared at him in confusion, and someone in the back querulously called, “Fight you for them?”

He tried not to sigh too heavily. He’d also desperately wanted for life to be that simple. “You’re going to earn them. Try to earn them. And even then I may hold back what you need to know.”

“That’s stupid.”

“That’s life. You have to try. And you have to figure out for yourself what the next small step forward is, then the next. Do it long enough and you won’t need anyone else’s lessons.” 

“But the point of squire training is for you to at least show us the first step.”

“Oh yeah? Everyone walks backwards for a week.”

They blinked. 

“Run laps backwards. Go to bed backwards. You piss backwards. You got me?”

“What!” A squire threw his hands in the air.

“Any of you catch your friend cheating, it’s ten sit-ups for them, twenty for you both if I catch you letting them off.”

Gwaine left them wide-eyed and bereft, the eldest among them yelling after him, “But what’s the point?”

“Figure it out for yourself!”

Damn squires. They wanted everything handed to them. They’d never done hard work and didn’t know how to start. 

They likely spent all their time imagining battles that tasted of glory rather than blood. 

They fell easily to irreverence. Had never escaped irrelevance. 

He’d been just like them. 

Gwaine pressed up against the cool stone wall of a castle tower, out of sight. His nose throbbed, his fingers gone too-warm in his gloves. His jaw, clenched tight and breaths coming through grit teeth, he had to forcibly loosen. He wanted to rip his sword out and sink it into something. He wanted to go back and make them each fight him, one-on-one, five-on-one, until he were so stretched worn he passed out. He wanted to find Merlin and shake him, make him explain himself. 

And then what? He scowled at the sky. He didn’t want to hurt Merlin any more than he wanted to hurt those squires. 

He pushed away from the wall, beginning a prowl around the exterior of the castle. The rear, with the training fields, backed into the city wall which held off the forest. The front of the castle would spill out into the rest of the town. The distraction offered there felt like escape, one whose bubbly vibrancy he could almost taste on the back of his tongue. 

There was the problem of the dragons. He should learn what he could, apart from whatever one-sided truth Merlin might tell him later. He’d heard plenty already from when it had first attacked Camelot, and Arthur had never mentioned the gold one as previously imprisoned. There had been a dragonlord meant to stop it, but he’d died. Merlin's father.

Grass gave way to paving stones as the eastern arches of the castle’s courtyard curled overhead. A pair of small dragon statues perched on its pillars looked out over the kingdom, eyes in the sky watching for danger approaching. 

He’d never questioned the whole dragon thing as a symbol. Had Uther picked that up after penning a literal dragon, or had all these statues and crests been from a time they’d been friendly?

His mother had been pushed to bedrest, fanned by servants over the anxiety, bemoaning the lack of hospitality available in their backwater war fort. Eri had whispered, “A dragonlady stopped in to visit father,” and they’d slunk through the halls trying to catch a glimpse of her. He’d needed to crouch slightly to peek through keyholes, Eri had needed a boost. He must have been around eight?

They’d never seen a dragon. He’d called Eri an airhead and she’d called him a butt. There had been guards preventing them from getting any closer to the war room. 

Had there been a Caerleon dragonlady, had she helped with the war against Camelot? Or had she fled? Had the inability to host a frivolous party had his mother worried for the sake of her own shallow reputation, or worried a dragon would raze them in retribution?

The memories were all so thin and reedy in his mind. They’d returned to court when he’d become old enough for squireship, an injury to his father’s leg not healing well. There certainly hadn’t been any dragonkin around by then. 

Guards nodded to him as he passed into the inner courtyard, hesitating at its threshold. 

People streamed in the thoroughfare just outside the courtyard’s southern arches, carrying the low rumble of a life in constant motion. He could join them, just walk the streets. It’d be a way to clear his head. It’s not like he’d actually stop for a drink; it was the middle of the day. Besides, it was too hot out. 

One of the archway guards stepped past him, opened a door in the nearest tower. He heard Gwen’s teasing before she appeared, amused smile aimed over her shoulder at an Arthur with blush splotching his cheeks. 

“It could have been something worse,” Arthur said. 

He held the king’s– King Caerleon’s– helm. He’d recognize that blue plume anywhere. He’d stared more at it, at the firelight bending around the runic etchings, then his own father’s funeral pyre. 

“What are you doing with that?” 

“Returning it,” Arthur rolled it in his hands. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at practice?”

“As if I need practice. Say, Arthur,” should he ask? “That, uh, rumor you mentioned about Amata that was supposedly a big secret but you sort of said loud enough to overhear….”

Gwen gave Arthur a light smack. He winced dramatically. “Yes?”

“I heard this other rumor that it was imprisoned here. Before. Does that sound like anything?”

“Imprisoned?” Arthur frowned. “Absolutely not. What would we have fed it? Who said that?”

“Eh,” Gwaine said. “Drunk guy. That cave system beneath the castle is huge. It seemed possible, is all.”

“We’ve mapped the whole area, none of those caves open up to the outside,” Arthur looked uncomfortable. “At least I don’t think so.”

“I could do a once-over?”

“That’d be great, Gwaine. Geoffrey has the maps.”

They chatted a few minutes longer, about Elyan and Percival heading out to the countryside and Gwen’s desire to build a nice chest for the helm as part of returning it to Queen Annis. He found out that there was a large feast planned in Caerleon he’d have to attend, and be on his best behavior for, and it had been years since he’d been there so he likely wouldn’t be recognized, but who could guess at how the dice would fall? With his luck Eri would be their personal guide around the city.

All smiles, he waved Gwen and Arthur off on their journey to the craftsmen’s huts, waited for the desire to run to ebb and wane. He had a task to do. A good one. 

So he turned for the castle’s grand entrance, and headed in.

Morgana drifted on the edge of sleep, stretched comfortably on her side in Morgause’s single bed. An evening breeze carried the scent of pine, and the smooth linen Morgause had procured scratched softly at her cheek. She could stay here, warm and safe, for the rest of her life and be happy.

The mattress dipped as Morgause joined her, reaching across Morgana’s body to take gentle hold of her wrist. 

“Let’s practice without the bracelet tonight, Morgana.”

“But the nightmares… I could hurt you.”

“They aren’t nightmares, sister, they’re visions.”

The dream flickered to a forest clearing ringed with dense trees, and an old woman in the shadows, watching her.

She jolted fully awake. A warm afternoon filtered through the Leshy’s canopy, its leaves the bright shock of summer green and rustling quiet overhead. Around her spooned the cradle of its limbs, warm and solid at her back, lifting her protectively away from the ground. 

She hadn’t had a vision since before her time in the well. 

A white-hot righteousness burned through her– joy, proof, she wanted to point at that flicker of vision and laugh with delight. Whatever the Sarrum had taunted, whatever ways Emrys thought he’d control her, she’d claw back her autonomy. Her magic was her own. Her power her own. Emrys had been foolish to give her a leash.

What had this vision meant? An old woman in a dark cloak, watching her. Emrys, perhaps? Looking out on the forest around her, she saw no place for a specter to hide.

“Let me down.” 

“Do not attack me again.”

She shuffled in the Leshy's hold so her breastbone pressed against the edge of her cocoon, and leaned out over the clearing below. Small mounds dotted what had once been flat land, white mushroom caps turtling through the long grasses covering them. Around them blackened scars striped, muddy and waterlogged. A small pond had even formed, and she felt now its aftereffects in the damp of her dress and the way the breeze made her shiver. The Leshy must have dunked her in the midst of her rampage.

Tearing its limbs off in explosions of magic, throwing tongues of flame, she recalled in snippets. Not clear ones. “I’ll leave you be. There’s no point in trying, is there?”

Its boughs cracked and groaned, new limbs sprouting out of the old, carrying her down until she could fold to her knees. Some embers of magic swirled within her, strangely thick like molten steel from Gwen’s forge, enough only to stave off hunger. She must not have dozed long. 

“What am I meant to do in this prison? How long will you keep me here? Can I never earn my release?”

Her hands lay on the front of her thighs, more thin and pale when contrasted with the rotten dress beneath them. In the sunlight the blue-green of her veins was stark. Uther had wanted these hands for her, delicate, unworn, entrapped in a castle. Why? Control? Now no nails grew on three of her fingers, though one had made a valiant attempt and ended half-formed in a lumpy and dried nail bed. Her others were long and cracked, filled black with months-old grime. She’d won this over him at least.

The Leshy breathed in tune with the wind, its canopy of leaves with their dappled shade shifting, for a moment, violent. Its branches stretched and dropped, plopping like thick raindrops, until a curtain of white willow surrounded her. It boomed, “Why have you come?” 

“I was forced!”

“To make a deal,” another voice said, and Morgana stilled. She didn’t know that voice. It sounded feminine, older.

“Now what do you wish for?”

“Well, now I wish only to speak to the woman you’re hiding from me. Who is she?”

Morgana pushed aside the drooping leaves. A tall woman stood outside her prison, long white hair pulled into a low tail, angular face slightly plump and heavily wrinkled. A simple blue-gray dress with wide belled sleeves marked her as a likely peasant, and a wicker basket at her elbow filled with leaves marked her a gatherer. Perhaps a druid? 

“I cannot make deals on the witch’s behalf. Speak to her if you must. Perhaps she will respond.”

The old woman seemed to eye her up just as carefully, and Morgana pushed a clump of matted hair over her shoulder to hide along her back. 

“I'm called Dolma. Who are you?”

Shouldn't trust this woman yet. “Viv,” a peasant version of her mother's name. 

Dolma crossed the border of the fae circle with slow steps, gaze leaving Morgana to take in the prison more fully. She was so tall and clean and regal. Perhaps a leader of druids? Her gaze lingered on the burn scars. 

“Leshy, may I use this pond?”

The tree rustled a response. Dolma kneeled and withdrew her pile of leaves. What sort of woman came to make a deal with a fae, gave it up to talk to a prisoner, then went to wash plants? 

Dolma stretched a stalk towards her. “Would you mind helping?”

Help? Ugh, why?

Energy tingled along her skin, her own magic perking in response. The taste of rain on wheat landed earthy on her tongue. Could it be? 

She pressed her own magic out, latched it snugly against Dolma’s. She heard a glancing thought on how many nettle leaves were needed for tea, felt a sort of general wariness. 

The way Dolma’s eyes snapped up to hers, and the slow roll of magic that followed, told her Dolma knew she was watching. “Curious?” 

It had been years since she’d spoken through magic. She had to take special care with the words she formed, how to press them to the wave she sent back. Still, emotions she didn’t mean to send may have gone through. Speaking with Morgause had never been like this. Was it an effect of whatever also kept her trapped here?

“Can you feel that?”

The flow of magic into the soil– a bit. Dolma pressed fingertips to the ground, forming a claw with her hand. Dirt churned, rose so it pressed against the cup of her palm. There was a structure to this spell, something Morgana couldn’t quite grasp.

“Like a snowball,” Dolma said, and a satisfying crunch of soil compacted under the press of her magic. Similar to throwing a wall of air in an attack, but different. It really was like a snowball, like crunching something tight in your fist. 

Dolma’s magic faded, and in a small flourish she revealed a smooth stone cup.

Something of Morgana’s interest must have passed through the mental connection, because Dolma grinned. “Want to try for yourself?” 

Maybe. 

Morgana crawled closer, the curtain of willow branches trailing over her shoulders and back, catching slightly in the nest of her hair. 

Dolma pressed some nettle leaves to the bottom of the cup, and with a twist of her finger spiraled a smooth stream of water from the pond. “How are you with boiling?”

She was better with fire, but she could try. 

The cup, accepted from the Dolma’s offered stretch, felt as smooth as it looked. It seemed finely sanded and made of expensive white stone. She’d put a small lip to its edge so that Morgana’s thumb had a dip to tuck into. 

Who was this woman, who came to make deals with Leshy’s and could make tea without speaking a single word of magic?

Outside the fae circle the dense forest shade lengthened and deepened. The air prickled with black mist, and the shape of a dark woman stepped between two trunks. Her limbs were gaseous shadow, and long, curly hair covered her face. Morgana felt the press of her wrath, the storm she held at her back, as sure as she felt the smooth stone cup. 

“Viv, if you wouldn’t mind trading,” Dolma said as the specter watched, pulsing, angry, impatient. Morgana clawed her attention to Dolma’s curious head tilt, the black mist still swirling in her periphery. 

Dolma drew a diamond-like shape into the dirt, one whose opposite corners had extra legs. Oh, ingwaz , the rune that gathered magic. She’d learned it in desperation, drawn it over Morgause’s wounds and kept her alive as they’d fled Camelot. 

Morgana found herself tracing the lines with one long, cracked fingernail. Dolma ducked to catch her gaze, and the woman out in the woods hissed. Such pretty blue eyes. 

“Viv… what does the rune do?”

Geoffrey had Leon’s copy of Camelot’s cave system, inked on a huge sheet of parchment that folded in six separate places. Not for the first time, Gwaine found himself clenching his torch between his teeth and holding the map out in front of him, squinting against smoke. 

He had to be methodical if he were going to find a prison even Arthur had never known of, one not on this map, with a small enough entrance that none had ever accidentally discovered it. 

If he read these flowery annotations correctly up and to his right Uther and his forefathers were entombed. Passageways up ahead branched a dozen directions, some into pockets of what seemed like large caverns, others into what may be narrow channels, or rivers. Any of those would be the place to start.

But to his left… he’d tried to ignore it, felt his eyes drawn anyway. An animal maw in the sandy stone, jagged sides cracked from sledgehammers, lower fangs formed from the slow wear of laden wheelbarrows… What are you looking for? 

“That’s for me to know,” Morgana had preened, circling round him. “You could tell me what you know of these tunnels, what that fool Agravaine didn’t deign to discover.” 

“I’ll never betray Arthur.”

“This is no betrayal, Sir Gwaine.” She’d put a hand to his injured shoulder and squeezed, leaned to speak hotly into his ear. It had made his skin crawl. “No one would ever know. It’s just you and me here. Imagine, anything you want. Another loaf of bread for Gaius, a break in Sir Elyan’s pain. Power. All the power at my disposal.”

She’d pegged him so wrong. 

He’d been terrorized, beaten, and made to fight thrice as many people until Arthur had finally shown up. 

Until Arthur and Merlin had finally shown up. 

Beaten for fatiguing, for the slightest disobeyment.

Why hadn’t Merlin come sooner? 

He could jump anywhere in Albion. He had a dragon. He had magic. Why hadn’t he stopped her?

Map refolded and tucked into his belt, torch’s flames flickering against the pockmarked floor and low ceiling, he stepped into Morgana’s shallow excavation. When she’d drug him down here it had been only a crack in the tunnel wall, but she’d pressed her hand to it and seemed to know a cavern opened beyond. Merlin must have the same ability if he’d found the dragon on his own. 

A thin coat of water clung to the ceiling, slicked the floor in what had once been the natural bend of a cave. Its walls, under Gwaine’s fingers, had grown slimy with old silt.

The smell of old musk and moss drew him to a carved out pocket, one that, logically, may have once been the home of a bat or rodent colony. 

He pushed firelight into its nooks. What had drew Morgana here? A spell written on the walls? A hidden book? Insanity?

A bright blue flashed from his torch, and Gwaine jerked back. What had that been? Flammable gas pocket? 

Soot stung, he blinked, and the flash came again. Squeezed his eyes shut and there it was, an eerie blue glow, rippling behind his eyelids. 

He stumbled, back hitting the wet cave wall. She’d laid a curse here, a trap. He had to tell Arthur… Merlin… before it finished its course.

Already it resolved into a blue oval and he yanked his eyes open only to find her spell, sitting there, staring back at him. 

“What is this? Morgana?”

Shimmery blue light danced under the translucent skin of a spidery thin, long-limbed, humanoid fae. Its freakishly oblong face tilted back, doe-eyes nearly at Gwaine’s chin. Sitting, and it was nearly as tall as him. 

He put the torch between them, drew his sword. “Stay back.”

“You have nothing to fear from me. Peace. Your wounds are not yet healed.”

“My wounds?” 

“Your…” the creature put a hand to its long head, grimaced. “Your wounds. You were injured… seeking me.”

Maybe it was thinking of Morgana? Or when he was down here, months ago? “I think you’re off by a chunk of time, mate.”

The creature moaned, pressing tight to its temple. 

It’s blue, uh, blood? flickered and swirled, a storm trapped. It began to rock back and forth. 

“You alright?” Twice in one day? How did this keep happening? “Did Morgana send you?”

It began to mutter something unintelligible, the words of spellcraft Gwaine assumed.

“Hey, now. Uhm,” he listened quick for nearby footsteps, heard none, then crouched to try to catch its gaze. “Uh… Merlin? Is that you?”

“I… have been called many things by the children of men.” A papery thin whisper, but it looked up with eyes wide and expression earnest. 

“But… not Merlin, right?”

“I am the last of my kind. Shunned and hunted, hunted, hunted. Once… we were revered by all. Once, our knowledge was our boon, not our bane.”

“I’ve never even heard of a creature like you.”

“I am the Diamair. The Euchdag. A sliver of the Goddess and a reflection of her wisdom.”

“Her wisdom, huh?” And what did showing up at the completely wrong time to probably the completely wrong person say about this wisdom? “You ever see a dragon down here?”

“Shunned and hunted, hunted, hunted.” It raised a twiggy finger, pointed it somewhere over Gwaine’s shoulder.

“The dragon was that way?” 

“When is today?”

“When?” Gwaine blinked. “Fall, a few months after Morgana’s attack.”

“Saxons?”

Saxons?! “No,” he said, alarmed. 

“I’m early. Three years early. It’s too late, all too late.”

“You can see the future?” This thing was completely mad. 

“We are past, present, and possibility. Magic, spirit, and stone. I… have been called many things by the children of men. The Diamair–”

“Yes, yes, got it. Goddess fae.” Hesitant, but, well, why not ask? What was the worst that could happen? “Could you tell me my future? Or… what I should do?”

It pressed the side of its oblong face again, eyes flicking left and right. “Hurry.”

Uhm, okay. “Am I Caerleon, or Camelot?”

“You are Gwaine.”

Pointless. “I call myself a knight, but am I worthy of it? Of being called brother to Percival, Elyan, when my blood family I’ve abandoned? Shouldn’t I…” he waved his sword, “capture you? Turn you in? Turn him in? Whose side am I on?”

“You are wounded, fair knight. You must rest and heal yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You are worthy of my help.”

“Then help me.”

“Am I worthy of yours?” It reached out. “I need your help. I need–”

It’s eyes latched onto a terror at its left, its blue lights roiled–

“What? What do you need?”

“Kill me,” it gasped, grabbed the metal of his sword with both hands, and plunged it into its chest. 

“The fuck!” Gwaine ripped the blade out, its bloodless skin clinging, sticky, snapping back elastic when he’d pulled far enough. 

A blue glow leapt to its wound, tear sealing before his eyes. “It’s not ready yet,” it sobbed.

“What does that mean?”

“Ravenous darkness,” it gasped, “mindless slither. Blind want. Never satisfied.”

“Look, just wait here, alright? I’m going to get my friend. We’ll figure this out.”

“Help me.”

Blue flared. Gwaine winced back, “Wait!”

But the glow faded, and he opened his eyes to the soft run of water sliding slowly down the alcove’s wall, a bloom of green moss sprouting where the fae had sat. 

Torchlight waned across the small cavern and threw stark shadows, everything gone suddenly too dark, too yellow.  

Gwaine fell to a seat, sword clattering to the stone. Just… what the… why?

He put his head between his knees and yelled.

Why could nothing ever, ever be simple?

HOPE by NF

Chapter Text

Mid September

Caerleon, the city of hills.

Hills, carved tier upon tier and iced with stakes black with old blood, spiraled up to forts candled in fang-necklaced, wolf-pelted, leather-bound warriors. They carved swaths from the sky, howled down at Gwen’s traveling party as they wound, forced sparse, on a valley path thin as a servant’s stair.

Her carriage trundled behind Arthur’s lead, two Pendragon banners wafting from attendants marching at his side. He charted their way for Caerleon’s capitol, a stone castletown dripping in blue banners looming over its army of hillforts.

She’d chosen to sit up front on the coachman’s bench. On her lap she secured King Caerleon’s helm in a heavy chest. Let them jeer. She’d sit straighter, prouder. Let them know she’d been born peasant, had never seen a capitol beyond Camelot; they’d learn soon enough she could not be intimidated.

“I wish you'd stay in the carriage.” Dressed in livery hiding chainmail, Gwaine, her personal guard undercover as her coachman, she’d hardly ever seen so tense. 

“They had their chance to kill us. They won’t.”

“Is it that confidence, or me, blocking you from arrows?”

How droll. She jostled the chest in her lap. “Would you feel better if I replaced my circlet with Caerleon’s helm?”

Gwaine snorted. “When I die and you’ve burned me, will you sprinkle my ashes in a pretty lady’s corset?”

Arthur paused at a fork, a hillfort directly before them and the castle beyond. He diverted left. Queen Annis had, likely intentionally, omitted the potential of aggressive behavior in her encampment-like city in her letters, and it made Gwen’s hackles rise. From a hill at their back howls became a chant, booming. “ Ee!” 

It spurred a chorus of shield-banging and wolf calls from the hills at their side. The forward hillfort called back, “ I!”

Her own people quailed under the assault, shoulders hunched, eyes down on the path before them. They acted defeated before they’d even arrived. Stand up! She thought fiercely. They’re only sounds! 

From their retinue Merlin kicked the flank of his horse, trotting past Gwen with a grin, and improperly joined Arthur. “Sorry I’m late,” she heard him say.

“Merlin,” her husband drawled in greeting. “Nice of you to show up for your duties. Get lost?”

“What’s a straight line again?”

“The pathway from one of your ears to the other.”

“Huh?”

Arthur hid a smile, Merlin chuckled, and beside her Gwaine’s fingers clenched tighter on the reins. Over their chatter the call of “E,” and the scream of “I!” bounced back and forth between the hillforts. She elbowed Gwaine. “What are they saying?”

“They’re just teasing each other.”

That was a warrior’s chant, they shouted it like a battle cry. It was not… Merlin, leaning on his horse’s neck with arms folded over its crown, head pillowed and smirking up at Arthur busy priding his own magnanimity for employing a manservant clearly dropped on his head as a babe.

Her gaze went from Merlin flirting with her husband, to the vein jumping in Gwaine’s jaw. “It’s never been more than jokes, you know.”

He looked at her, suspicious. “What?”

She had never enjoyed being probed about Arthur, or Lancelot. So she pointed up at the hillforts again. “What are they saying?”

Caerleon’s warriors channeled that mob sort of glee that took over a tournament in its final stretch. Gwaine scowled up at the nearest hill, muttered, “Free or die.”

E and I, Free or Die. That made better sense. “They’re still living in the war.”