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Chapter Text

Merlin blinks awake to the gentle caress of sunlight streaming through the window, casting a warm glow on everything it touches – the rich fabrics draped over the screen at the far end of the room, the polished metal of a goblet on the nightstand, and the cascade of golden hair spilling over the pillow beside him. 

Reaching out, he threads his fingers through the silken locks, feeling each strand kiss his skin as he strokes through them. His heart tightens and he wishes...  

But it doesn’t matter what he wishes. 

He releases a held breath with a sigh and pulls his hand away, ignoring the soft whimper that escapes the sleeping form. Quickly dressing, he slips out of the room and into the awakening castle corridor before any more wishes can claw at his chest.

‘Rise and shine!’

Arthur groans and launches a pillow in the direction of the too-cheery singsong, before pulling his sheets around his head and hiding from the dawn that has quickly returned to steal his slumber.  

‘No, no, no, my lord,’ the cheery voice quips, and Arthur gasps at the cold that engulfs him as his sheets are pulled away. ‘The day awaits!’

‘Merlin!’ Arthur complains, snapping his arms around his chest in a futile attempt to trap some of the fleeting warmth. But the stone walls of his chambers quickly swallow all of the warmth of a good night's sleep and he shivers. 

As quick as a bolt, Merlin stands beside Arthur, holding fresh clothes. If the servant's fingers linger on his skin as he pulls the tunic over his head, no one says anything. If goosebumps rise in the places where those long fingers linger, no one says anything. And if Arthur's breath catches in his throat at the gentle show of affection, no one says anything.

As soon as Arthur is dressed, Merlin steps back and stands with his hands folded behind his back, a strange juxtaposition to his playful antics before. It's a cautious show of subservience, one he usually reserves for more public occasions. Arthur almost expects Merlin to bow his head, as most servants would. Almost. But of course, Merlin doesn’t. Instead, a small smile plays on his lips and Arthur rolls his eyes, gently shoving his shoulders as he walks over to the breakfast spread Merlin must have laid on the table before waking him.

And if that shove communicates something else, no one says anything. 

‘One day, Merlin, I will sleep through your morning antics,’ Arthur says, picking up a slice of bread.

‘And on that day,’ Merlin retorts, snatching the bread from Arthur’s hand and taking a large bite, ‘I will have to resort to waking His Royal Highness with a nice, cold bucket of water.’

‘Oh, absolutely not!’ Arthur says indignantly, rejecting both the notion of a cold water wake-up and Merlin's attempted breakfast theft. With a swift motion, he catches Merlin's wrist and redirects it towards his own mouth, devouring the remaining bread in one gulp while locking eyes with his mischievous servant. Arthur feels the soft brush of Merlin's skin against his lips, and he cannot help but grin at the delightful blush that has begun to spread across his cheeks. Still maintaining his grip on his wrist, Arthur holds his gaze, a silent challenge lingering between them.

Just as he is about to throw caution to the wind and pull Merlin closer, there is a gentle knock at the door. Arthur releases Merlin's wrist abruptly and they both jump apart, creating a respectable distance between themselves. When no one immediately enters, Merlin brushes himself off and moves to answer the door while Arthur hastily buries his teeth into the rest of the freshly baked bread on his platter.

‘The King requests Prince Arthur’s presence for an audience in the throne room,’ the person on the other side of the door says.  

Arthur watches Merlin nod politely before responding, ‘Thank you, I will see that he is ready and sent down.’

***

Arthur's heavy footsteps echo through the chamber as he enters the throne room. He bows before his father before taking his seat beside him, while Merlin quietly makes his way to the side of the room to stand beside his mentor and guardian. Arthur is careful not to look at Merlin as they move to their respective places.

‘Father,’ Arthur nods respectfully. 

Uther lowers his head in return, his countenance serious and composed, before wordlessly gesturing for the guards to open the doors. The air in the room grows cold and tense as a small group of visibly shaken villagers are granted their audience.

‘Your Majesty,’ the village elder speaks, his voice trembling with fear. ‘Thank you for seeing us. We have come from the village of Caernthwaite to seek your aid.’

Arthur notices the man wringing his hands together as he speaks and the shaky breath he takes between sentences.  

The elder continues, ‘Our village has been ravished by a hound, my lord.’

Silence. Everyone holds their collective breath. Everyone except Uther, whose eyebrows furrow, ‘A hound?’

The elder grimaces, images of the nightmare he has survived playing behind his eyes as he speaks. He recounts the chilling encounters in the village, describing how the creature – a large black hound with monstrous fangs and claws – emerged from the depths of darkness to hunt and terrorise the inhabitants. He speaks of a figure moving in the night, growls echoing with the wind, and the chilling sight of torn bodies strewn across the floor. Finally, he explains how the creature blends into shadows, seeming to vanish within them.

Gaius, the King’s advisor in all but title, stiffens beside Merlin. Arthur notices and dares a glance in their direction just as Gaius whispers something that causes concern to spread over Merlin’s face. 

‘How many remain in your village?’

‘None sire. It's just us... Our families... Our children…’ A young villager rushes to the elder’s side to stabilise him as his legs tremble. 

‘I’m sorry for your losses. But a vicious dog is hardly a matter for the citadel to waste resources on,’ Uther declares, raising a hand to dismiss the group before him as they protest that all of the animals from the village have also been slaughtered. 

Gaius shares a look with Merlin – a familiar expression that fills Arthur with dread – before stepping forward before his king. ‘Your Majesty,’ he begins, voice steady but with an undercurrent of urgency, ‘it might not be a mere dog attacking the village. Based on these descriptions, it sounds like a barghest.’

Uther looks at Gaius, surprised ‘A barghest? I have never heard of such a thing.’

‘For good reason, sire,’ Gaius says. ‘It is said that a barghest either appears as an omen of something worse to come or must be summoned by a powerful sorcerer.’

Arthur’s eyes narrow at the mention of sorcery. ‘I will gather a party of knights to investigate this menace at once.’

‘No.’

Arthur recoils. He has watched his father send entire armies at the mere whisper of magic and is shocked by his sudden show of caution. 

‘Father,’ Arthur says, keeping his voice low, careful not to publicly disagree with the king. ‘We must help those in our kingdom in the face of such dangers.’

‘And help you will,’ Uther states. ‘But you will send a scout ahead first. I will not risk my only son without knowing what we are up against. If we are indeed up against anything at all. You may ready your party to leave as soon as the scout returns, if necessary, but do no more today.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ Arthur says as the villagers begin to express their heartfelt gratitude to their most gracious king and brave and honourable prince. 

As the villagers begin to file out of the throne room, Arthur steals a glance at Merlin. He notes the conspiratorial tilt of his head toward Gaius and the way they continue their quiet conversation as they both turn to leave. Presumably, they are heading back to their shared chambers to delve deeper into the mystery of this barghest creature – a routine they've perfected over time with each new threat to Camelot. With a heavy sigh, Arthur departs to prepare his scout, and for the rest of the day, he finds himself unable to shake the haunting image of fear etched on the villagers' faces from his mind.

***

That evening, as night draws its dark curtain over Camelot and flames crackle in the hearth, Arthur finds his thoughts still shadowed by what might have happened to the village of Caernthwaite. When he feels the bed shift beside him, he realises that Merlin has finally slipped back into his chambers, likely via the servants' antechamber, after having publicly bowed goodnight hours ago.

This has become their routine: stolen moments of togetherness, hidden away from the prying eyes of both the city and the gods above. In the hallowed halls of Camelot, they play their roles – loyal servant and noble prince – but under the light of the moon they are equals, finding solace in each other’s arms. Only the moon and stars bear witness to the depth of their feelings and the tender affection they share.

Arthur pulls Merlin into his arms, breathing in his scent before resting his chin on the top of his head. They lie like that for a while, content with feeling each other’s chests rise and fall until Arthur sighs. Merlin sits up and looks down at him. Arthur prays that he can't see the weight of the world reflected in his eyes. 

‘Penny for them?’

Arthur blinks and tries to shake away his thoughts, not wanting to ruin their time together with his brooding. 

A pregnant pause stretches out between them before Merlin hazards a guess. ‘Is it about the village?’

‘Those villagers looked so scared, Merlin,’ Arthur whispers. ‘I can’t even imagine what horrors they endured.’

Merlin takes Arthur’s hand between his own and begins tracing small circles over his palm, his movements deliberate and gentle – each stroke carrying a wordless promise of comfort and understanding. As Merlin's fingers dance across Arthur's skin, a sense of tranquillity washes over him, easing some of the tension that had settled in his mind and body.

But as Merlin continues to work his soothing magic, Arthur can't help but notice the small furrow that appears on his brows.

‘Gaius isn’t sure if defeating the barghest will be a simple feat,’ he says eventually.

Arthur suspects there is more to that thought. But if there is, Merlin doesn’t share it. Perhaps he stumbled upon something in one of Gaius’ many books, a revelation or a warning that has stirred a hidden anxiety within him. 

‘Do you think my father was right to stop me from riding out straight away?’

‘Yes,’ Merlin responds without a note of hesitation. ‘You’re the future king, Arthur.’ 

‘I wish I wasn’t,’ Arthur hums. 

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘My whole life has been dedicated to one day being king, Merlin. People walk on eggshells around me, treat me like glass, even die just to keep me out of danger. All because of my title.’ Arthur huffs, then adds, ‘If I wasn’t the future king, you wouldn’t have to sneak around like some dirty little secret.’

‘That’s not because you're the prince,’ Merlin says. ‘I just don’t want anyone else knowing that I’m sleeping with a prat. I could do better, you know.’

‘Merlin.’

Arthur pinches soft skin and Merlin yelps. 

Quiet settles between them again, the crackling of the dwindling fire the only sound in the room. As darkness creeps in, Arthur dares to share a guarded thought. ‘If I weren’t the future king of Camelot, where would we be?’

Merlin hums and studies Arthur’s face, his eyes tracing every contour and mapping out the lines of tension that Arthur knows lie there. ‘Somewhere no one could find us. A piece of land hidden away from the rest of the world.’ 

Arthur smiles. ‘We could farm cattle and grow our own food. You’d have to do most of the work, obviously–’

‘Obviously.’

‘–but we wouldn’t have to fight sorcerers or magical creatures every bloody day. We could just be us .’

Merlin pulls his knees to his chest at the mention of sorcerers and takes a shaky breath. ‘It can never be, Arthur.’ 

‘I know.’

‘But we have right now. We have darkness.’ Merlin leans in and meets Arthur’s lips with his own, allowing his slow kisses to say everything else he might wish to.  

Tomorrow they will deal with whatever danger the kingdom faces; tonight they have this.

Chapter Text

The scout doesn't return as expected the following morning. Instead, his horse comes storming through the castle gates a candlemark before noon, galloping straight to the stables alone. In a panicked frenzy, she knocks down everything and everyone in her path, leaving a trail of destruction straight through the heart of Camelot.

Naturally, everyone assumes the worst. 

‘We don’t know that he even made it to Caernthwaite, Arthur! He could have been slain by bandits on the road,’ Uther argues when Arthur charges into the council room and demands to ride out immediately. 

‘We owe it to our citizens to investigate – especially if magic is involved. And Caernthwaite is only half a day's ride away. If this isn’t dealt with, the citadel could be next,’ Arthur retorts.

The mention of magic strikes a chord, as intended, and moments later Merlin is readying both his and Arthur's horses for the journey ahead with practised efficiency. As each buckle is fastened, the leather creaking softly under his touch, Merlin's mind races ahead to the looming threat that awaits them in the nearby village.

Gaius had been certain that facing a barghest, whether summoned by magic or appearing as an omen of impending doom, foretold nothing but trouble. As Merlin thinks back to Gaius' warning, a surge of anxiety courses through him, setting his magic ablaze with worry. Whatever awaits  them, he knows only one thing for certain: he will, as always, protect Camelot no matter the cost.

‘Hurry up, Merlin!’ Arthur's voice cuts through the air, snapping Merlin from his thoughts. Turning, he sees Arthur swiftly approaching, clad in full armour that appears hastily donned – some straps are askew, others left dangling loosely, and his right gauntlet hangs partially unclasped.

Never leave a prince to dress himself, Merlin thinks. 

‘Wouldn’t take so long if you didn’t insist on taking half the castle with you on a day’s round trip,’ Merlin mutters.

Arthur shoots Merlin a pointed look before turning his attention to his saddle. Once Merlin has finished attaching supplies to both of their horses, he moves to amend Arthur's armour. As he secures each buckle, a sense of unease settles over him. Despite his efforts, Merlin can't shake the nagging fear that no amount of armour will be sufficient to protect them from whatever danger awaits. 

He tries once, twice, three times to buckle Arthur's gauntlet, but each time, the buckle slips from his shaking fingers. After the third failed attempt, Arthur places his hand over Merlin's and asks, ‘Are you okay?’ 

Merlin meets Arthur's concerned gaze and he smiles softly, attempting to reassure the prince. Dropping his hands, he offers a half-truth: ‘Gaius is worried about what we might face when we get there. Promise you’ll be careful?’

Arthur moves his hand to Merlin’s bicep and he squeezes reassuringly. To the casual observer, this might seem like a routine display of camaraderie. Indeed, Merlin has witnessed Arthur perform the same gesture with the knights on numerous occasions – a silent agreement to watch each other's backs in the face of adversity. But, right now, this gesture says more. It says: I love you and will shield you from all harm . 

‘We'll be back in Camelot in no time,’ Arthur says. 

Then, with a nod to the rest of the party, he signals for them to set forth and everyone seamlessly falls into formation. As they depart from Camelot's gates, Arthur assumes his rightful place at the head of the party, his posture radiating authority and determination, while Merlin takes his usual position beside him. Though traditionally reserved for high-ranking knights, Merlin's place among the party is unquestioned – a testament to years of steadfast friendship and loyalty.

Merlin catches Arthur glancing in his direction as they make their way over the undulating hills that surround Camelot. He wonders what Arthur is thinking – whether he sees straight through Merlin’s attempt at hiding the extent of his apprehension, and whether Arthur shares his anxieties beneath his hard, knightly exterior.

As the party progresses, the landscape undergoes a gradual transformation, evolving from rugged, rocky hills to lush, verdant woodland. Merlin feels the tension in his shoulders ease as they enter the embrace of the dense foliage, his spirit lightening amidst the towering trees – their branches stretching towards the sky, adorned with bright new growth. Beneath their canopy, a vibrant carpet of bluebells spreads across the forest floor, injecting a splash of colour into the earthy greens and browns that dominate the scenery. Meanwhile, amidst the greenery, bracken, still bearing the remnants of winter's chill, unfurls gracefully in the gentle embrace of the late morning light.

After several hours of steady riding, the party comes upon a small stream nestled amidst the woodland's embrace. Arthur calls for a halt, signalling to the others that it's time to water the horses and take a brief respite. ‘We're halfway there,’ he declares. ‘Let's not dawdle. We need to keep moving if we're to reach Caernthwaite and return before midnight.’

As the knights head towards the cool, babbling waters, Merlin seizes the opportunity to ease the discomfort that has built up in his muscles over the course of the long ride. With a contented sigh, he stretches his arms behind his back, feeling a satisfying release as his joints click into place. Then, rolling his neck to alleviate any lingering stiffness, he ventures into the nearby treeline, eager to stretch his legs before they continue towards Caernthwaite.

Merlin has barely stepped out of sight of the others when he feels the hair on his neck stand on end and the tingle of magic prick at his skin.  

Danger. 

A sharp snap echoes through the quiet stillness of the woodland, causing Merlin to spin around on his heels, his senses on high alert. His heart quickens as he braces himself to confront whatever – or whoever – may be lurking amidst the trees. Could it be a wolf stalking its prey? Or perhaps a bandit, lying in wait to ambush unsuspecting travellers?

When no one appears, Merlin lets out a held breath and silently curses his nerves for getting the better of him. It seems his senses had been playing tricks on him, and there is no imminent danger lurking in the shadows. 

Just as he begins to dismiss his apprehension as mere paranoia, a voice pierces the silence from behind him, causing Merlin to freeze in place. ‘Hello, old friend,’ the voice intones, sending a chill down Merlin's spine. The word friend is so full of venom that Merlin doesn’t need to turn around to know who is there. 

‘Morgana.’

The sorceress smiles when Merlin turns to face her, but it’s nothing like the smiles she shared with him long ago. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Instead, it betrays a simmering hatred that lurks beneath the surface, pulsating with a malevolence that sends shivers down Merlin's spine. It's a smile that speaks volumes, revealing more about her true intentions than any snarl or outward display of malice ever could – a chilling reminder of the darkness that resides within her soul.

‘What are you doing here?’ Merlin's voice cuts through the tense silence, breaking the silent standoff between them. 

Morgana hadn’t been seen in almost a year, having vanished after a failed attack on Camelot. Uther had taken her betrayal and subsequent disappearance hard, suffering from a deep depression for many months. He has only recently begun to resume his old duties, hardening himself and acting as if nothing happened.  

Morgana’s smile widens at Merlin's question. ‘What am I doing here? What are you doing here, I wonder?’ 

Merlin's mind races with a whirlwind of thoughts, each one more unsettling than the last. Could Morgana be the one responsible for summoning the barghest, orchestrating events from the shadows to thwart their mission and sow chaos within Camelot? Is she here to ensure Arthur's downfall? With each passing moment, the weight of uncertainty hangs heavy in the air, casting a shadow over Merlin's thoughts as he grapples with the implications of Morgana's sudden reappearance.

‘Imagine my surprise,’ Morgana says, piercing Merlin’s silence, ‘To learn that the great sorcerer, Emrys, has been at the heart of Camelot for years and is none other than my dear brother’s loyal manservant.’

‘What do you want?’  

Morgana snarls. ‘I want to know why you lied to me, Merlin. Why you let me think I was alone in the world for so long when all along you had magic too.’

Merlin feels a pang of guilt stab his chest as Morgana’s facade slips, revealing a hidden vulnerability. ‘I wanted to tell you. Truly. I just... Couldn’t.’ 

‘Wouldn’t,’ Morgan spits. Then, she straightens and plasters her fake smile back on. ‘Well, Emrys, soon you will know what it is to be truly alone in Camelot. And when that time comes, you’ll join me.’ 

‘I will never betray my frien–’ 

‘MERLIN?’

The air stills as Arthur’s voice calls out and he steps into the treeline. ‘There you are! We are ready t- Morgana?’

Merlin's breath catches in his throat as Arthur's gaze shifts between him and Morgana, a flicker of concern etched on his features. The tension in the air is palpable, and Merlin can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he braces himself for Arthur's next move. When Arthur calls for Sir Leon, a surge of fear courses through him, his mind racing at the implications of Arthur summoning reinforcements. 

‘Oh, hush brother. I mean you no harm. I was just visiting an old friend.’ 

The sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the trees as Sir Leon emerges from the shadows, his presence punctuating the tense standoff between Merlin, Arthur, and Morgana. But before anyone can react, Morgana's form suddenly dissolves into the wind and she vanishes without a trace. 

Morgana’s sudden disappearance leaves the remaining trio momentarily stunned, the air tinged with a lingering sense of unease as they exchange wary glances, each silently contemplating the ramifications of Morgana's fleeting presence.

‘Are you all right?’ Arthur asks after a beat, tentatively stepping towards Merlin until they are inches apart.  

Merlin swallows and nods. ‘I’m fine, Arthur.’ 

‘What did she want?’ Arthur narrows his eyes. 

‘I... I don’t know. She appeared just before you came upon us. I–’ Merlin’s throat feels dry. ‘I’m sorry, I should have done something. I was shocked.’ 

Arthur lifts a hand to Merlin's cheek, his eyes full of care and affection. ‘There’s nothing you could have done. We will get her. Don’t worry.’ 

Someone clears their throat and Arthur stumbles backwards. 

Shit, Leon! 

With a quick shake of his head, Arthur regains his composure and Merlin folds his arms behind his back.

‘My lord,’ Leon says, gently. ‘Shall I return to Camelot to warn the King that Morgana has returned?’ 

Arthur shakes his head. ‘Send Edric and Osric with orders to double the guards. I need you with me for whatever awaits us in Caernthwaite. I fear Morgana may have had something to do with whatever awaits us…’ 

Leon bows wordlessly and returns to the horses without a second glance at the prince and his servant.  

‘Arthu–’ Merlin starts when Leon is out of sight, but he is cut off by a fierce embrace. 

He hesitates, glancing in the direction Leon had headed in, before wrapping his arms around the prince’s shoulders to return his affection.  

Arthur buries his head in the crook of Merlin’s neck and lets out a shaky breath.  

‘Arthur... I’m fine.’ 

‘If I hadn’t come to look for you…’ 

If you’d come any sooner... Merlin thinks, but he doesn’t want to imagine what Arthur might have overhead if he had found them a second earlier. 

‘I can handle myself. These muscles aren’t just for show.’

Arthur snorts and presses a kiss to Merlin’s head. ‘I’m not sure twigs are powerful against magic, Merlin.’ 

‘Hey!’ Merlin protests. ‘Speak for yourself, clotpole.’

‘Come on, let’s head back to the horses. We are two people down now and I am more convinced than ever that something awaits us in Caernthwaite.’

Chapter Text

The first thing Merlin notices when the travelling party arrive in Caernthwaite, slightly later than planned due to the unexpected appearance of Morgana during their journey, is that the village is deserted. Carts lay overturned in the street, pouring their contents onto the floor; selections of grain and produce, forgotten and unwanted. Unneeded, perhaps.

The second thing he notices is that the air holds a strange charge as if they are on the brink of a violent thunderstorm despite the absence of clouds and the chill of early spring nipping at exposed skin.

Merlin adjusts his neckerchief and readies himself for whatever awaits them in the village.  

After dismounting their horses, Arthur turns to his knights and gestures for them to split up. Once he is certain that everyone understands him, he tears off with a knight called Vidor and heads into the heart of the village. Meanwhile, two other knights form another pair and begin to scout the perimeter, disappearing into the shadows that surround them.

Merlin decides to stick with Leon, hopeful that the knight doesn’t immediately dismiss his usefulness or bring up what he may or may not have seen in the woods earlier.  

Thankfully, Leon does neither. Instead, he nods firmly at Merlin and gestures towards the nearest house.  

With a raised sword, Leon gently pushes the door open, the resulting creak echoing through the silent air. Peering around Leon's broad frame, Merlin strains to catch a glimpse of what lies ahead.

They find the house deserted, yet impeccably maintained – a stark contrast to the dilapidated state of the street outside. It's as if the inhabitants have merely stepped out momentarily, perhaps to visit the nearby market or tend to their fields. However, despite the mundane possibilities, a sense of unease gnaws at Merlin's stomach, hinting at something far more nefarious.

The second and third houses are much the same – abandoned, patiently waiting for their owners to return to the warmth of their hearths and the comfort of their blankets. However, it's between the third and fourth houses that Merlin discovers the first sign of trouble. Nestled between the two stout buildings lies the scout Arthur had dispatched the day before, his form stretched out on the ground, pain etched across his features and his clothes soaked with blood.

‘Leon!’ Merlin calls out in a hushed yet urgent tone, quickly crouching beside the fallen scout to check for a pulse and assess the severity of his injuries.

Leon rounds the corner of the house, his gaze flickering between Merlin and the fallen scout with a glimmer of hope. Merlin shakes his head, conveying the grim truth without words: the scout is dead.

‘What happened to him?’ Leon asks, squatting beside Merlin to get a better look at the man’s wounds. 

‘It looks like he’s been attacked by something. Look here…’ Merlin points to a puncture wound on the scout’s abdomen, clearly visible through the torn leather of his armour.

Leon pushes aside part of the tear and lets out a sharp breath. ‘Bite marks.’

Merlin nods gravely, feeling the colour drain from his face as his thoughts return to yesterday’s conversation with Gaius. ‘Perhaps a vicious dog is roaming around after all.’

‘We need to find Prince Arthur,’ Leon says firmly, holding out a hand to help Merlin up from his crouched position.

Emerging from the narrow passage between the houses, they treat cautiously towards the centre of the village, following the path Arthur and Vidor had taken earlier. The deserted streets stretch out before them, lined with uniform houses that mirror those they've already inspected. As they draw nearer to the heart of the village, the square comes into view, its focal point marked by a solitary limestone well standing like a silent sentinel amidst the deserted space.

As anticipated, the square lies barren, devoid of the usual bustling activity that one would expect in a thriving village. Not a soul stirs, and the only audible sound is the faint rustle of leaves skipping in the gentle breeze.

Our families… Our children… 

A chill runs down Merlin’s spine as he remembers the elderly villager’s words back in Camelot.

Merlin is scanning the street for any sign of Arthur or Vidor when the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stands and his senses begin to tingle as if some unseen force is watching his every move. His heart quickens as a flicker of movement catches his eye. He whirls around but sees nothing – just shadows dancing in the afternoon light. Yet, the feeling persists and before he can comprehend its source, a feeling of dread settles over him. Emerging from the shadows, like a spectre materialising from the depths of his worst nightmares, is the barghest – a monstrous black dog, whose size nearly rivals that of a horse. With a low growl, it fixes its gaze on Merlin and Leon and its lips curl back in a menacing snarl, revealing razor-sharp fangs dripping with saliva. Step by step, it advances towards them, each movement calculated and predatory.

Leon's sword gleams as he draws it with a fluid motion, positioning it defensively between himself and the advancing creature. But the barghest is swift and its massive paw strikes out with unexpected speed. With a thunderous blow, it sends Leon sprawling to the ground, his sword clattering against cobblestones as he struggles to regain his footing.

Merlin's heart lurches and a surge of adrenaline courses through his veins as he scrambles backwards, his mind racing with thoughts of how to protect himself and Leon.

The barghest’s growls reverberate through the air, each menacing step bringing it closer to Merlin, who finds himself backed against a nearby building. His breath comes in shallow gasps as fear grips him, his pulse pounding in his ears drowning out all other sounds. With a shaky hand, he fumbles for his magic, drawing upon the depths of his power in a desperate bid for survival.

As he channels his energy into a spell, the air crackles with raw power, tendrils of magic swirling around him in a dazzling display of light and shadow. With a whispered incantation, Merlin focuses his will, directing the energy toward the advancing bargest. Suddenly, the air grows still.

In an instant, the creature's movements slow, its form gradually transforming into solid stone until it stands frozen in place. With a sigh of relief, Merlin collapses against the wall, his body trembling with exhaustion. Beside him, Leon slowly rises to his feet, his sword still clutched tightly in his hand as he surveys the scene before them.

But it’s not Leon’s voice that pierces the air next.

‘Merlin?’

Arthur is scouting a small field when a sudden, ominous growl rips through the village. 

His pulse quickens and his hand instinctively finds the hilt of his sword as he swiftly abandons his scouting mission and makes his way back towards the heart of the village. Each step measured and deliberate, he moves with the stealth of a predator; careful not to alert whatever might be lurking in the shadows to his presence. 

As he turns towards the village square, his heart stops. A tall, menacing dog looms over Merlin, who is backed up against a nearby house, his expression a mix of fear and determination.

Arthur is on the brink of calling out his loyal servant's name as he begins to charge forward in his defence when he witnesses a truly shocking scene. With a swift motion, Merlin raises his arms and the air is suddenly filled with an ancient, mystical language.

Arthur's eyes widen as he then watches the creature before him undergo a startling transformation. In a matter of moments, it begins to shrink and solidify – its once menacing form gradually turning to stone before his very eyes. As the last traces of life fade from its stony exterior, Arthur is left stunned.

‘Merlin?’ he says in a voice so quiet that he’s not even sure if he’s spoken at all.  

Merlin looks up from where he has slumped on the floor, his eyes wide but unblinking. The man – nay, sorcerer – remains rooted to the spot, as motionless as the creature he has enchanted before him.

He stands slowly, turning to face the prince as he breathes out, ‘Arthur.’ But something in Arthur's expression prompts him to raise his hands as if to surrender or as an attempt to pacify him.

Arthur recoils and a flash of hurt overtakes Merlin’s features. 'I’m still me, Arthur,’ he pleads, taking a tentative step forward. ‘I can- Please let me explain.’ 

‘You-You-You're,‘ Arthur stammers. ‘You’re a sorcerer .’ He spits the word “sorcerer” like it is synonymous with “murderer” – echoing the hate instilled by Uther's vendetta against magic.

‘Yes.’ Merlin whispers to the ground.  

Arthur feels a lump in his throat. He stares at his- at Merlin - for what seems like an eternity, his mind reeling with disbelief. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real; soon, he will wake up and...

‘Arthur,’ Merlin says, his voice breaking through Arthur’s trance with a single word—his name, laced with desperation and sorrow.

Arthur takes a step back. ‘No!’ 

As Arthur stares at Merlin, his mind races. Merlin couldn't possibly be a sorcerer. Merlin, who knows him better than he knows himself, wouldn't do this to him. The very idea feels like a betrayal – like someone has just ripped his heart out of his chest and stamped on it. How could he have been so blind? How could he have trusted someone who now stands before him, their very existence a violation of everything Arthur thought he knew? 

Arthur stumbles as his thoughts consume him, tearing at the fabric of his beliefs and leaving him adrift in a sea of confusion.

He glances at Sir Leon and Sir Vidor for the first time since Merlin revealed his secret and he notices their stern expressions and the way they have tightly gripped the pommel of their swords. They are waiting, he realises, for orders. 

With a firm resolve, Arthur straightens his posture and suppresses any trace of emotion that might have clouded his judgement. In a voice that brooks no argument, he issues his directive. 

‘Seize him.’ 

Within an instant, Leon and Vidor move to restrain the sorcerer. Merlin shoves at his captors hopelessly as they secure his arms behind his back. Letting out a frustrated yell, he turns to Arthur with wet eyes. 

‘Arthur, please . You know me. I’m your... friend.’  

Arthur feels his emotions churn inside him, threatening to rupture the facade of composure he has meticulously crafted for the eyes of his men. He clenches his jaw in an attempt to push his feelings back down.

Friend? Lover? Had this been Merlin’s plan all along? To insinuate himself into the prince's confidence, only to betray it with sorcery? The mere thought sends a shiver down Arthur's spine, his trust in his closest companion shattered by the possibility of deception. Then, like an icy dagger, a haunting memory slices through his mind – Morgana's cryptic words spoken in the woods, a sinister undertone now unmistakable.

I was just visiting an old friend.  

A chilling realisation dawns upon him, draining the colour from his face as he confronts the unsettling truth that perhaps he never truly knew Merlin at all.

Arthur looks away. ‘I could never be friends with a sorcerer.’

Chapter Text

Merlin crashes to the cold stone floor of a prison cell.

His heart sinks with the weight of betrayal and abandonment. He hasn't seen anyone apart from prison guards since he passed through the gates of Camelot and was promptly arrested, as per Arthur’s orders.  

As they rode back towards Camelot, Arthur didn't even spare Merlin a glance. The deafening silence between them spoke louder than any accusation or condemnation. Merlin's hopes of being heard and pleading his case to Arthur dwindled with each passing mile. Every moment of that silent journey felt like another nail in the coffin of their fractured relationship, widening the chasm in Merlin's chest until it felt like his heart might be consumed by it entirely.

Leon's pitying glances offered a brief respite amidst the overwhelming sea of judgement, but they were fleeting. Meanwhile, the stares of the other knights felt like accusing daggers. Their fear and disdain seemed to pierce through him, branding him as an outcast – an enemy within the very walls he had sworn to protect. Merlin’s bound hands served as proof of his impending fate; a fate decided by those he once considered friends, now turned judges and executioners.

Merlin knows he could have fled back in Caernthwaite, or even on the road back to Camelot, but the very act of running would only serve to prove his guilt. Uther's relentless vendetta against magic would ensure that he never knew a moment's peace, forever hunted and haunted for the crime of being born with magic. No, his only hope lies in appealing to Arthur, in reminding him of the bond they share and the years of love and loyalty that bind them together. Surely, after all they had been through, Arthur couldn't truly believe him to be evil. There had to be some shred of trust – some flicker of understanding left between them. If he could only talk to Arthur, explain that he has only ever used his powers for good…

Plus, if he were to run, what danger would it pose to his friends? Especially Gaius. Would the old physician be held to trial as well, accused of aiding and abetting a sorcerer? By returning to Camelot, at least he could attempt to shield Gaius from the same fate that awaited him. Uther's zealous pursuit of justice against magic-users knew no bounds and anyone suspected of harbouring knowledge of Merlin's abilities would be in grave danger. 

Tears prick Merlin's eyes as his cell door slams shut, sealing him in. He remains crumpled on the floor, hugging his arms tightly around himself in a feeble attempt to hold himself together as anguish claws at his chest.

After what seems like hours, Merlin hears footsteps approaching his cell. His hopes soar at the sound, only to plummet when he sees that it is just one of the guards. Upon entering his cell, the guard roughly yanks Merlin to his feet and drags him forward, his grip like iron around Merlin's arm. ‘Come on, filthy sorcerer,’ he spits. ‘You are to stand trial before the King.’ 

But instead of leading Merlin straight to the throne room, the guard shoves him against the stone wall with a brutal force that steals the breath from his lungs. Before he can react, pain explodes across his face as the guard's fist connects with his nose, sending a shockwave of agony through his skull. Blood trickles down Merlin's lip, the metallic taste flooding his mouth as he fights to stay conscious through the blinding pain.

He is then dragged from the confines of his cell to the throne room, where King Uther sits stoically upon his throne. As Merlin is brought before them, he desperately searches for a flicker of recognition or a glimmer of compassion in Arthur's eyes but he finds none. Arthur briefly shows concern at the sight of Merlin’s bloodied nose, but then averts his gaze, refusing to meet Merlin's pleading eyes.

The trial – or rather, the farce of justice that is claimed to be a trial – proceeds with swift inevitability. Uther proclaims the accusations against Merlin, his words a damning pronouncement that seals Merlin's fate before he even has a chance to speak. ‘Do you deny it?’ he asks afterwards.

‘No,’ Merlin says quietly. For how can he, when the person who has condemned him is the Crown Prince himself?

‘Then you leave me no choice,’ Uther says. ‘For the crime of sorcery, you are to be executed at dawn.’

The room falls into a heavy silence as Uther wordlessly signals for the guards to escort Merlin away. As they tighten their grip and start to drag him from the room, Merlin catches sight of Gaius stepping forward. ‘My Lord–’

‘I am so sorry I kept this from you, Gaius,’ Merlin calls out, meeting Gaius' eyes as the guards pull him away. He refuses to let Gaius implicate himself. With this simple admission, he hopes to convey Gaius' innocence of harbouring a sorcerer and spare his mentor from the wrath of Uther's judgement.

As he is taken back down to the dungeons, he can only hope that Gaius understands the meaning behind his apology. 

Upon reaching his cell, Merlin is met with the same brutality as before. Two guards roughly shove him into the cramped space, their contempt evident in the sneer of one and the venomous spit of the other. Instinctively, Merlin shields his face from their assault, but he's powerless to prevent the blow that lands squarely in his gut. Gasping for breath on the unforgiving floor, he braces himself for the onslaught that follows. The guards rain down blows upon him with ruthless precision, aiming for any part of him they can. Bruises blossom across Merlin's skin like grotesque flowers, painting a harrowing portrait of his suffering.

The sound of Merlin's cries echo through the desolate dungeon but there is no solace to be found in the empty corridors. No one comes to his aid; no friendly face offers comfort or reassurance. 

When the guards finally leave, Merlin stays curled up on the ground, his body wracked with unbearable pain and deep-seated exhaustion. Blood trickles from his nose, a thick, sticky fluid that pools beneath him, staining the already dirty stone. With each laboured breath, he feels the sharp, stabbing ache of broken ribs tearing at his chest. Fear grips him tightly as he remains still, his senses alert for any sign of the guards' return. 

As the night drags on, he listens intently to the changing of the guard, his heart pounding in his chest at the slightest sound. Every moment feels like an eternity as he waits in silence, too weak to move and too afraid to attract further attention. But as the moments pass and the new shift begins without incident, a flicker of relief washes over him.

His relief is short-lived, however, when he hears a new set of footsteps approach his cell – their gait much lighter than that of the guards. Merlin's heart quickens as he braces himself for what might come next.

‘Food for the prisoner,’ a voice announces, breaking the tense silence. Merlin listens as a muttered conversation follows, but he struggles to hear what is being said over the sound of his own wheezing.

Amidst the shuffle of movement, Merlin hears the food being pushed through the narrow opening in the cell door. He remains still until he hears a soft, whispered voice calling his name.

He pulls his body up, groaning at each new wave of pain the movement causes. As he raises his gaze, he finds Gwen squatting by the bars of his cell, her eyes filled with worry. He glances nervously at the new guard stationed beside him, but the guard pays them no heed. Then, he notices Sir Leon standing off to the side. Is he here to facilitate Gwen's visit or to ensure her safety, he wonders. 

Noticing Merlin’s anxiety, Gwen offers a gentle smile. ‘It’s all right, Merlin.’

Merlin grits his teeth against the pain as he moves closer to the cell bars, but a strangled cry escapes his lips. Concern flashes across Gwen's face, mirrored by the subtle shift in Leon's stance as he moves fractionally closer. 

‘Merlin, what happened?’ Gwen asks, desperately.

‘Nothing. It’s all right,’ he reassures, though the strain in his voice betrays his words.

‘It’s not all right. Who did this to you? They had no right!’

‘Gwen… I’m a sorcerer.’

‘I know,’ Gwen says after a pause. ‘But that doesn’t mean–’

‘Thanks for coming to see me,’ Merlin interrupts, cutting her off. He is grateful for her concern but knows her indignation won't solve or change anything. 

Gwen sighs. ‘Can’t you do something?’

Merlin looks away. ‘Arthur…’ he says eventually, his voice trailing off like a question.

Gwen casts a fleeting glance at Leon before redirecting her focus to Merlin, her expression shifting through a myriad of emotions. ‘No one has seen him since the trial.’

Merlin nods grimly, a knot forming in his stomach as his mind processes the implications of this.

‘Merlin…’ Gwen begins, reaching out for him through the bars. Surprisingly, Leon doesn't intervene. ‘I'll send Gaius with–’

‘No!’ Merlin shouts, his pulse quickening as his eyes dart to Leon and the guard. ‘I, er, can't bear to see the look of disappointment on his face for lying to him for so long.’

A sense of relief floods through Merlin at the mention of Gaius – Gwen’s words suggesting that his mentor understood his earlier apology and refrained from implicating himself in Merlin's plight. It's a small comfort, but in that moment, it feels like a lifeline amidst the darkness closing in around him. It reassures Merlin that his sacrifice in returning to Camelot was not in vain.

‘Gwen…’ Leon’s voice cuts through Merlin’s thoughts and he realises that their time is up. 

‘Promise me something?’ he says, trembling as they prepare to leave. ‘Look after Gaius for me?’

With a final, tearful smile, Gwen nods firmly and whispers a promise before turning away. 

Left alone once more, Merlin curls back up on the cold floor – the pain of holding himself up becoming too much to bear. His thoughts drift to Arthur, the one person he had hoped would come to his rescue in the end. But the fact that no one has seen Arthur since the trial doesn’t give Merlin much hope of salvation. He recalls how the hurt look in Arthur's eyes back in Caernthwaite was quickly replaced by seething hatred, and he realises two things: 1) Arthur isn’t going to give him the chance to explain, and 2) Arthur isn’t going to forgive him between now and tomorrow morning.

With a heavy heart, Merlin resigns himself to his fate. Tomorrow, he will be burnt to death. There seems to be no escaping that grim reality.

Arthur paces his room. 

Night has long since descended, casting an eerie glow on the courtyard below as the guards of Camelot prepare the pyre for tomorrow’s execution. The sight of thick branches being precariously stacked around a large post is a scene Arthur has seen a hundred times before, but never before has it been for someone he knows. Someone he thought he loved. The sight is nauseating and Arthur is forced to steady himself on the back of a nearby chair.

He wishes he could cry, could feel anything besides sickness, but the tears refuse to come. Instead, his chest feels numb and hollow, as if his heart isn’t just broken but absent. 

A knock at the door pulls Arthur from his thoughts and he frowns. He had expressly ordered not to be disturbed, not even by well-meaning servants attempting to attend to his needs – to take Merlin’s place before he’s even…

The thought sends a second wave of sickness crashing over him and he feels his legs buckle beneath him. How could he have been so blind? How could Merlin be so reckless? Amongst all his questions, Arthur can’t help but wonder why Merlin never trusted him enough to confide in him – the person Merlin shared an intimate bond with. Was this proof of sinister intentions? Arthur clenches his jaw.

The knock comes again.

‘What?’ Arthur shouts, his voice laced with anger and frustration.

The door creaks open and Sir Leon hesitantly steps into the room, his eyes scanning the chambers – taking in the sight of overturned furniture and strewn bedclothes – before finally settling on Arthur. ‘My lord…’ he starts, his voice faltering under the weight of Arthur's intense gaze. ‘It’s Merlin, my lord.’ 

Arthur frowns. What about Merlin? Leon, alongside Sir Vidor, had played a pivotal role in his arrest. Without them, Arthur isn’t sure that he would have had the strength to bring Merlin back to Camelot. He has replayed the events that took place in Caernthwaite over and over, imagining all the different scenarios that could have taken place. Without his knights, Arthur fears he may have let Merlin go.

Surely Leon isn’t suddenly on the sorcerer's side? The very idea that Leon might now sympathise with sorcery is unfathomable. He has always been a staunch defender of Camelot's laws, resolute in his duty to uphold order and justice – especially in the face of magic. His unwavering loyalty to the crown and his commitment to the code of chivalry have always been constants in Arthur's life. 

Arthur has seen first-hand the corruptive influence of magic. He has beheld the wanton destruction wrought by sorcerers, their dark powers laying waste to entire villages and snuffing out innocent lives with callous disregard. And today was no different – the devastation caused by a creature born of magic still fresh in his mind. 

But Merlin... Merlin had defied every expectation. Despite possessing the very thing Arthur had been taught to despise, Merlin had proven himself time and again. From the moment they met, Merlin had displayed unwavering loyalty, saving Arthur's life on countless occasions. Yet, Arthur can't shake the nagging doubt that lingers in the back of his mind. Why had Merlin spared him? Was he biding his time for something greater, something beyond Arthur's comprehension? The notion gnaws at Arthur's thoughts.

Arthur notices Leon watching him and he schools his features. ‘What about him?’

‘He’s been... Someone has…’ Leon frowns, struggling to summon the right words. ‘He’s been attacked, my lord.’

Arthur's heart lurches. The image of dried blood beneath Merlin's nose during the trial flashes in his mind, a detail he had dismissed as inconsequential at the time. But now, faced with Leon's grave words, Arthur can't shake the unsettling notion that there may be more to it. The thought of Merlin being harmed ignites a tumult of emotions within him, conflicting with the anger and betrayal that have clouded his judgement since learning of Merlin's magic. Despite his inner turmoil, Arthur finds himself fighting against the urge to rush to Merlin's side and ensure his well-being. He bites his tongue, forcefully suppressing the rising tide of concern threatening to overwhelm him.

‘Attacked by whom?’ he asks.

‘I’m not sure, Sire. But he has sustained considerable injuries and refuses to be seen by a physician.’

‘Find out who has attacked him at once and ensure they are punished,’ Arthur orders, attempting to sound detached. ‘Despite the accusations against him, Merlin is still under the protection of Camelot until his execution.’ 

Leon nods respectfully. ‘Of course, my lord.’ He begins to turn away but then pauses, a hesitant expression crossing his features. It's evident that he's wrestling with something, perhaps unsure if he should voice his thoughts.

‘What is it, Leon?’ Arthur says, irritation creeping into his tone. 

‘Forgive me, my lord. It’s just…’ Leon starts, avoiding Arthur’s eyes. ‘I know how much he means to you. How much you mean to him. Forgive the overstep, but I don’t believe he ever meant any harm. I’ve seen how devoted he is to you.’

Arthur sees red. ‘Get out!’ he snaps, his voice cutting through the air with icy fury as he shoves Leon out of the room and slams the door behind him. 

Alone once more, Arthur's composure crumbles and he falls to the floor in front of the closed door. He finally feels the sting of tears he has been desperate for since he ordered Merlin’s arrest and he buries his face in his knees, succumbing to silent sobs that rip through his body.

I’ve seen how devoted he is to you.

Why? Why is a sorcerer so devoted? Why is Merlin a sorcerer? Arthur's thoughts spiral again, grappling with the inexplicable contradictions before him. The pieces of the puzzle refuse to align, leaving Arthur lost in a haze of confusion and disbelief.

Then, amidst the chaos of his thoughts, a realisation strikes him like a bolt of lightning: He loves Merlin. 

Fuck.

In spite of everything, he still loves Merlin. Merlin the sorcerer. Merlin the loyal manservant. Merlin the bravest and most caring man Arthur has ever met. The weight of that truth threatens to crush him, leaving him grappling with self-doubt and shame. Does his love for a sorcerer make him despicable?

As Arthur wrestles with his overwhelming emotions, memories flood his mind. He recalls how Merlin always puts himself in danger if it means keeping Arthur safe; like when they stumbled upon a bandit camp and Merlin instinctively shielded Arthur from a flying dagger. Later, as Merlin lay injured in his room, Arthur had scolded him for being reckless. But Merlin had stubbornly pointed out that if Arthur didn’t rush headfirst into danger, he wouldn't have to save him all the time, which only angered Arthur more because he is a knight after all. However, their argument quickly dissolved as Merlin's quick wit and teasing broke through Arthur's frustration, making him laugh as he stroked a gentle thumb across Merlin's cheek.

Is there any chance that magic isn’t as evil as he believes? If magic is evil that means Merlin is evil and as Arthur cries into his knees, he struggles to envision a reality where Merlin could be anything but good and pure.

As his mind circles around these questions, exhaustion finally overtakes him and Arthur surrenders to sleep. In his dreams, he roams with Merlin through the fields of Camelot, laughing and jesting as they always have.

***

As Arthur's eyes adjust to the light of the dawn, his thoughts remain consumed by Merlin. A pang of soreness reminds him of the uncomfortable slumber he had on the floor, but it's nothing compared to the ache in his heart. The sight of the rising sun reminds him of the grim reality of Merlin’s impending execution and something within him shifts.

In a moment of clarity, Arthur sees things from a new perspective. He reflects on the countless times Merlin has come to his aid, risking his own safety without hesitation. From their very first encounter, when Merlin saved him from certain death despite their initial animosity, to the countless perils they faced together in service to Camelot.

He recalls how Merlin not only saved his life but also protected Uther, despite the king's fervent crusade against magic. In every instance, Merlin stood as a steadfast defender of Camelot, his dedication to the kingdom unwavering even in the face of persecution.

Suddenly, the idea of Merlin being a villain seems preposterous. How could someone who has sacrificed so much for Camelot be anything but a hero? In that moment, Arthur's perception shifts, and he realises that perhaps there is more to Merlin – and to magic – than he had previously believed.

Gazing down at the pyre below, Arthur's mind conjures a haunting image of Merlin bound to the stake, his eyes pleading for understanding amidst the engulfing flames. In that imagined moment, Arthur feels his resolve shatter.

He can't do it. He can't bear to watch Merlin die, not when every fibre of his being screams in protest against such a cruel fate. Not when, despite everything, Arthur finds himself consumed by the overwhelming love he feels for Merlin – a love that defies reason and the laws of Camelot.

Why did I bring Merlin back to Camelot, he thinks in anguish. It was a reckless decision, born out of hurt and confusion in the aftermath of Caernthwaite. The knights had seen Merlin use magic and Arthur, bound by his duty as their future king, had to act decisively. Yet now, faced with the imminent loss of the man he loves, Arthur can't help but question the wisdom of his actions.

Now, no matter how deeply he loves Merlin, Arthur knows he can't undo the events that have brought them to this moment. He can't overrule his father's decree and he can't change the course that has been set in motion. 

Not legally.

He has to help him escape. He'll run away with him if he has to. But. Merlin. Can’t. Die.  

As he watches the sun rising over the horizon, Arthur knows that time is running out. Soon, Merlin will be dragged from his cell and set alight. 

With determination coursing through his veins, Arthur tears out of his chambers and sprints down the corridor towards the dungeons, his heart pounding in his chest. 

But then, amidst the sound of his own rushing footsteps, he hears it - the distant chiming of the cloister bell signalling trouble.

Chapter Text

Merlin sits in the corner of his cell, scratching anxiously into the stone walls. Through the small opening that barely qualifies as a window, he watches the gradual transformation of the sky. Pitch black fades to cobalt blue as the rising sun begins its ascent above the unseen horizon. Merlin's heart hammers in his chest, fear tightening its grip. Very soon, he will stand before all of Camelot and face the flames of a sorcerer's fate.

The revelation that a sorcerer has lived among them for years will have undoubtedly instilled fear in the people of Camelot, and Merlin worries that any strides he's made in fostering acceptance towards magic will crumble once he faces judgement. Equally troubling is the thought that Arthur's softening towards magic may have regressed because of him. Merlin believed he was getting through to Arthur – slowly breaking down a lifetime of conditioning against magic. That sense of hope, however, now feels like a distant memory, overshadowed by his impending doom.

Merlin's breath catches as he notices the guards changing once again and his heart sinks when he sees the familiar faces of yesterday's tormentors returning. As they settle into their positions, a chill runs down his spine at the malicious glint in their eyes, as if the thought of being the ones to lead Merlin to his death excites them. 

‘You’re disgusting,’ one of them sneers. Merlin remains silent, curling in on himself as a shield against their cruelty. The guard's laughter echoes in the cold dungeon air as he approaches the cell door, his hand curling possessively around the iron bar. ‘I bet Prince Arthur has already found someone new to warm his bed.'

Merlin’s head snaps up and the guard lets out another laugh. 

‘Oh, did you think we didn’t know? Guards and servants learn everything. We are invisible to the likes of nobility, you see. Did you think you were nobility when you lay with him?’ He spits through the bars. ‘Filthy sorcerer. I bet you disgust him now.’

I bet you disgust him now. 

In a wave of raw emotion, something deep within Merlin snaps, unleashing a torrent of pent-up magic that erupts from his very soul. The force hurls the offending guard across the room with a violent impact, rattling the walls of his cell. Before the other guard can react, Merlin's magic lashes out again, sending him staggering.

As Merlin's mind clouds with anger, the air around him crackles with energy and the torches on the walls blaze higher. With a ferocious roar, he strikes out at the bars of his cell, his magic surging with an unprecedented strength that sends them flying off their hinges with a deafening clang. 

As the guards scramble to regain their footing, their expressions a mix of shock and fear, Merlin stands tall amidst the chaos, his eyes blazing gold. With a wave of his hand, he sends another burst of magic cascading towards them. The force is so powerful that it propels the guards backwards, crashing into the wall with a resounding impact that cracks the stone and leaves them slumped and motionless on the ground.

Outside his cell, the pounding of footsteps echoes through the corridor as other guards rush to investigate the disturbance. Meanwhile, the cloister bell rings out urgently, alerting the entire castle to the imminent threat.

Turning away from his cell, Merlin propels himself forward, darting past bewildered guards and into the labyrinthine passages of Camelot's dungeons. With each step, his heart races with adrenaline-fueled urgency, his mind focused solely on one thing: escape.

Merlin runs. 

Each step takes him farther from the dungeons, from the looming threat of the pyre and from the clutches of Camelot's grasp. As guards and knights attempt to intercept him, Merlin channels his magic, warding them off with bursts of energy that send them stumbling, clearing a path for his flight to freedom. He doesn't stop until he's well beyond the castle walls, beyond the citadel itself, with the open expanse of the countryside stretching out before him.

Anger courses through his veins, fueled by a bitter sense of betrayal and frustration at his own carelessness. How could he have been so reckless, so foolish to believe he could evade detection forever? He had flaunted his magic openly, performing feats of sorcery before courts and tournaments with impunity, yet it was in the desolation of an abandoned village that was finally his undoing. The weight of his own hubris bears down on him heavily, mingling with a profound hatred towards fate, destiny, and perhaps most of all, towards Arthur.

Merlin is deep into the forest by the time exhaustion threatens to overwhelm him. He seeks refuge in the shadows, casting a spell of concealment in a desperate bid to evade capture. It's a spell he's never tested before, but in his dire circumstances, he can only hope it will work. Hidden at the base of a tall oak, he falls asleep. 

Days pass in this manner – running until his lungs burn and his vision starts to swim, blurring at the edges as if he's viewing the passing world through a foggy veil. Every step becomes a battle against the encroaching darkness, and every breath is a struggle to stay tethered to reality. When the weight of fatigue presses down on his eyelids, threatening to steal away consciousness, he collapses into fitful sleep wherever he finds himself. He braves the elements without the solace of fire, for fear of drawing unwanted attention to his hiding place. Each day brings new trials and tribulations, but Merlin presses on, driven by a singular purpose: to outrun the shadows that threaten to consume him.

Merlin wakes with a start, his heart pounding against his ribcage and his body drenched in a cold sweat. In his dreams, he found himself bound to the pyre with Arthur standing before him, holding aloft a torch, its fiery glow casting grotesque shadows on the faces of the gathered crowd. Staring into Merlin’s eyes, Arthur had slowly lowered the torch to the kindling at his feet, igniting the pyre with a searing blaze. Merlin could feel the heat of the flames licking his skin and hear the roar of the fire as it consumed the wood around him. As he looked pleadingly into Arthur's eyes, there was no trace of the love Merlin once felt, only condemnation and betrayal. The echo of Arthur's words reverberate through his mind. 

I could never be friends with a sorcerer.  

Shaking away the remnants of the dream, Merlin steadies himself and reaches out with his magic to discern today's route. Letting his eyes flutter shut, he listens to the whispers of the trees and feels for the flow of energy that guides him forward.

When he opens his eyes again, his course set, the familiar rogue of Camelot's colours catches his attention. Holding his breath, Merlin quietly backs away from a passing knight. But in his effort to remain concealed, a twig snaps beneath his feet and the knight whirls around. He peers in Merlin’s direction, staring straight at him, but doesn't reach for his sword. It's as though he's looking right through him, oblivious to his presence. With a shake of his head and a muttered curse about damn rabbits, the knight continues on his patrol, none the wiser to Merlin's presence thanks to the concealment spell.

With a sigh of relief, Merlin slips away and disappears into the shadows of the forest once more. When he is confident that he has put enough space between him and the searching patrol, he breaks into a run again, desperate to make it past Camelot's borders.

Merlin races deeper into the forest, his breath ragged and his heart pounding with every step. The rhythmic pounding of his feet hitting the forest floor fills his ears, drowning out all other sounds. Suddenly, his momentum is halted as he collides with something solid, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Blinking dazedly, Merlin looks up to find Morgana standing over him. In a panic, he attempts to scramble away but he doesn't get very far. Morgana kneels beside him and pulls him close, enfolding him in her arms. With gentle hands, she smooths his tangled hair and whispers quiet reassurances. ‘Shh,’ she murmurs. ‘It's okay, Merlin. I've got you. I told you that you'd soon understand what it means to be alone in Camelot. How swiftly your beloved Prince turned his back on you because of your magic. But not me. I won't cast you out.’ 

‘It's because of Uther…’

‘It's Arthur who ordered your execution, Merlin,’ Morgana says, her tone hardening.

A pang shoots through Merlin's chest and he's certain he can feel his heart splitting in two. The tears he had stubbornly refused to shed suddenly break free, flowing unchecked down his cheeks. Everything he and Arthur had shared – every word spoken, every tender glance, every moment of passion in the dark – feels like it's being ripped away from him, leaving him raw and exposed.

Hurt and broken, Merlin collapses into Morgana's arms, clutching onto her tightly as his sobs wrack his body. 

‘Ssh,’ Morgana soothes, rocking Merlin gently. ‘It's all right, Emrys. We will have our revenge. I promise you.’

Merlin barely hears her. Overcome with exhaustion and emotional turmoil, he passes out.

‘HOW COULD YOU LET HIM ESCAPE?’ Uther booms, his anger directed at no one and everyone as he paces the throne room. ‘I should have killed that boy the first time he sat in my dungeons.’

‘Father–’

‘You!’ Uther spins, pointing an accusing finger. ‘You'd better not have had something to do with this, Arthur. You've always had a soft spot for that useless servant.’

Arthur's lips press into a tight line. Before he can respond, Sir Vidor cuts in. ‘Sire, he blew the door off his cell. Ewan and Rhys are dead…’

‘I want patrols out searching for him. Now. No one is to rest until he is found!’

Sir Vidor and the other gathered knights bow before leaving the room, heading to organise patrols. Arthur moves to follow them, his mind already working on the logistics of leading the search and organising his men. Just as he turns to leave, he hears his father’s bitter words pierce the air: ‘I can’t believe I let a sorcerer so close to the heart of Camelot.’

Arthur freezes, his eyes widening as a ghostly touch brushes his cheek and glides down his arm to firmly clasp his hand, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. He swallows hard against the flood of memories, each moment with Merlin replaying in his mind like a tormenting phantom. Uther can never know how close Merlin had truly been to Camelot’s heart.

Gritting his teeth in an effort to maintain carefully constructed composure, Arthur strides out of the room without another word. With a heavy heart, he heads towards the barracks.

As he walks, Arthur's mind races to form a plan of action. He knows he's been a fool, blinded by duty, but now he must find a way to keep Merlin – the most hunted man in Camelot – safe, despite being charged with the task of apprehending him.

‘For the love of Camelot, Merlin, why couldn't you have waited a little longer?’ he quietly curses, thinking of how close he had been to breaking Merlin out. But now it's too late and Arthur can only lament the missed opportunity while attempting to figure out his next steps. If only he knew where Merlin was…

Arthur’s mind flashes through every possible hiding place Merlin might seek – deep within the forest, the isolated caves beyond the borders, even the druids’ encampments. Wherever he is, Arthur clings to the hope that Merlin’s resourcefulness will keep him alive.

Once he arrives at the barracks and the gaze of every knight falls upon him, Arthur's resolve strengthens. He knows he must find Merlin before anyone else does.

With a composed demeanour, Arthur coordinates his men, organising patrols and charting routes that span every corner of Camelot. Yet, beneath the facade of calmness, his heart races as he grapples with the unsettling realisation that he cannot predict Merlin's next move. His eyes flit back and forth over the map laid out before him, scouring the landscape for any sign that might lead him to Merlin's whereabouts. 

‘Sir Vidor, lead your men to the western woods,’ Arthur commands. ‘Sir Osric, search the northern hills. Sir Edric, check the southern villages. Report back immediately if you discover anything. As for myself, I will lead a small contingent of knights to the east.’

Essetir sprawls to the east of Camelot, and Arthur can't help but wonder if that's where Merlin's feet will take him. He doubts Merlin would be foolish enough to head back to Ealdor, knowing Camelot would search there first. Yet, perhaps Merlin would seek refuge in his home kingdom, drawn to the familiarity it offers.

As the knights nod and disperse, Arthur is left with a tight knot in his chest. He hopes beyond hope that his intuition is correct and that he hasn't inadvertently sent his men to pursue Merlin.

‘Leon!’ Arthur's voice rings out, halting the knight in his tracks. As the others continue on their way, Leon turns back to face Arthur. 

Once they are alone, Arthur's tone is serious as he lays out part of his plan. ‘I need you to ride out with me, and then take a couple of trusted men onwards to Ealdor,’ he says. ‘I don't believe Merlin would be stupid enough to go there, but my father will expect us to check. I'm entrusting you with this task because I cannot afford for a single citizen to suffer for the sake of association with Merlin.’

Leon nods, his eyes reflecting understanding. With a reassuring grip on Arthur's shoulder, he silently pledges to carry out the mission with diligence and care.

***

Before the midday sun reaches its peak, Arthur rides eastward through the dense forests surrounding Camelot. With him, six trusted knights, including Sir Leon and his chosen party, ride in a disciplined formation. They maintain a careful distance, allowing them to cover as much ground as possible while keeping each other within sight. 

As they move deeper into the forest, Arthur leads them toward a brook – its gentle flow guiding them forward and offering a reassuring path back home.

Arthur looks out across the water as he rides forward, and suddenly his heart skips a beat. There, on the other side of the stream – obscured from view by thick foliage – he catches sight of a familiar figure. Merlin. Arthur falters, his horse shaking her head in response to the sudden tension on the reins as he inadvertently pulls them tighter.

Arthur slows his horse, his eyes fixed on Merlin. The once vibrant colours of his clothes are now muted by mud and wear, draped loosely over his gaunt frame. His hollow eyes and sunken cheeks speak of exhaustion, and his skin bears the purple evidence of the abuse Leon reported yesterday. Yet, there he is, kneeling by the water's edge, cupping his hands to drink.

The sight causes Arthur's breath to catch in his throat. Merlin looks like a shadow of his former self, the once mischievous spark in his eyes replaced by an empty, haunted gaze. He moves slowly, as if every motion is a struggle, and his hands tremble slightly as he collects water.

Arthur's heart tightens with guilt and sorrow as he witnesses the depth of Merlin's suffering – a suffering for which Arthur holds himself partly, if not entirely, responsible. Caught in a tumult of emotions, Arthur finds himself momentarily paralysed, torn between the instinct to rush forward and the necessity of remaining undetected.

He turns to his men and notices that they are still scanning the area, thankfully oblivious to the figure on the opposite side of the stream. A plan forms in his mind – a desperate hope that he might be able to reach Merlin without alerting the others. But as he considers his next move, the sound of snapping twigs underfoot causes him to freeze. Any sudden movement now could draw their attention to Merlin’s vulnerable position.

Arthur takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and quietly signals to his men. ‘I think I saw movement over there!’ he calls out, pointing in the opposite direction. The knights immediately shift their focus, readying their weapons as they prepare to investigate.

As they depart, Arthur steals one final glance at Merlin. Though their eyes never meet, Arthur makes a silent vow to find a way to make things right. Then, with a heavy heart, he turns away and leads his men deeper into the forest – putting as much distance between them and the brook as possible.

Chapter Text

For weeks, patrols are sent out in every direction, scouring each forest and village in Camelot for any trace of Merlin. Arthur does his best to direct them away from the eastern border, hoping against hope that Merlin hasn't changed course. The fact that he remains out of Camelot's clutches fills him with optimism that perhaps – just perhaps – he has safely crossed the border by now.

Yet, despite clinging to hope, Arthur's heart is heavy with regret and longing as he wrestles with the memory of seeing Merlin and being unable to reach him. Though every fibre of his being yearns to seek Merlin out once more, duty holds him back, compelling him to remain in place and safeguard Merlin from afar. 

When the weeks roll into months, reports of sightings start coming in. Merlin has been spotted in the woods on the border between Camelot and Essetir; Merlin has been sighted in a small village market towards the north of the kingdom; Merlin has been seen riding east. 

Arthur's brow furrows in deep concentration as he pours over the latest reported sightings, his fingers tracing the parchment in search of some sign of Merlin's intentions.

‘Why are you still here, Merlin?’ he mutters under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knows Merlin is resourceful, capable of slipping through the tightest of nets, yet he remains within Camelot's reach. Why? 

The answer to his question arrives with a soft knock at the door, drawing Arthur's attention away from the reports that consume his thoughts.

‘Your Highness,’ Sir Leon's voice breaks the silence of Arthur's chambers, his figure framed in the doorway as he bows respectfully. ‘We've received word that Merlin has been seen in the company of Morgana.’

A knot forms in Arthur's chest and the muscles in his jaw tense. Had his initial assumption back in Caernthwaite been correct after all? Has Merlin really been in league with Morgana this whole time? 

Struggling to contain his mounting anger, Arthur clenches his fist tightly, feeling his nails dig into his palm. The revelation that Merlin could have been in league with Morgana all along cuts deeper than he could have imagined, especially after weeks of convincing himself otherwise and tirelessly working to protect Merlin. Yet, as the initial shock wears off, something doesn't sit right with him. And Arthur now knows all too well the cost of hasty judgement and anger. He has already lost Merlin once because of his temper, he vows silently to himself that he won't let history repeat itself.

‘There's more, Sire,’ Sir Leon continues. ‘There is someone else with them. A boy, barely eighteen.’

Arthur looks up. ‘A boy? Who is he?’

‘We don't know yet, Sire. The reports are unclear. But he seems to be travelling with Merlin and Morgana.’ 

Arthur leans back in his chair, his thoughts churning. The image of Merlin by the stream comes to mind. That version of Merlin didn't resemble a man embroiled in an evil scheme. Could he have been forced into Morgana's company? Did he drive Merlin into her arms?

As Leon departs, Arthur rests his head on the table, exhaling deeply as he attempts to process the flood of new information and prevent himself from shattering once more.

In the weeks that follow the revelation of Merlin's association with Morgana and an unnamed young boy, each newly reported sighting becomes increasingly unsettling. What initially began as mere sightings soon morphs into tales of destruction wrought by powerful magic. People flock to the city, recounting how their once peaceful and flourishing villages now lie in ruins, courtesy of Merlin's actions. The reports detail staggering devastation – homes reduced to smouldering rubble, fields rendered barren, and families torn asunder by violence.

Arthur struggles to reconcile the image of the kind-hearted young man he once knew with the reports of destruction attributed to him. Could Merlin truly be responsible for such devastation? And if so, why? To what end? The thought is almost too much to bear. Yet, as the evidence mounts, Arthur is forced to confront the possibility that he has lost the man he used to know forever.

As Camelot slips through Arthur's fingers, replaced by a world tainted with betrayal and uncertainty, he fights to make sense of the reports. Consumed by a sense of lost direction and uncertainty, he knows he must act swiftly and decisively to protect his kingdom – even if it means confronting a painful truth about Merlin that will drive them apart forever, stamping out any hope of a future reunion. Unsure of the right course of action – or if there ever was one – Arthur finds himself constantly questioning his own judgement and second-guessing every decision he makes.

***

Arthur jolts awake, his heart pounding in his ears as shouts pierce the air outside his chambers. Throwing off his blankets, he springs to his feet just as his door bursts open and a guard stumbles in, eyes wide with terror. 

‘Your Highness! We're under attack!’ the man pants. ‘An army is breaching the gates!’

Arthur feels a chill run down his spine. ‘Gather the knights! Sound the alarm!’ he commands. 

The guard nods frantically and turns to run while Arthur hastily dons his leathers and grabs the sword he keeps under his bed for emergencies such as this, the metal singing as he unsheaths it to inspect the blade. Satisfied that it will do the job for now, he rushes out the door and into the chaos that awaits in the corridor.

Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Arthur pushes through the commotion of scurrying servants and rallying knights, his booming voice echoing as he barks orders at his men to try and restore some order. Gripping his sword tightly, he sets his sights on the armoury – recognising the need for proper armour before he can lead the charge in the courtyard.

However, as he navigates the familiar hallways, a cloaked figure catches his eye, moving stealthily towards the dungeons (unnoticed by the frenzied soldiers). Suspicion grips Arthur, and without hesitation, he follows, his footsteps silent as he melts into the shadows.

The air is thick with tension as Arthur’s keen eyes scan every corner, nook, and cranny, poised to react at the slightest provocation. This is no time for caution – the security of his father’s kingdom is at stake, and Arthur is ready to do whatever it takes to protect his people. However, the deliberate movement of the cloaked figure and their apparent familiarity with the castle gives him pause.

The cloaked figure swiftly descends a hidden stairwell, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous space, and Arthur's brow furrows – he doesn’t recognise this part of the castle. Determined to find out what other secrets this person knows, he continues to follow, keeping his distance and his hand on the hilt of his sword.

At the end of the unfamiliar tunnels, the figure approaches massive iron gates. The gates appear locked. Arthur’s heart pounds in his chest, knowing that once the figure realises they have hit a dead end, they will turn around and spot him. But the figure doesn’t turn around. Instead, they mutter an incantation under their breath and, with a groan, the gates swing open to reveal steps that lead to a huge cave hidden beneath the city. 

As Arthur peers into the dimly lit cavern, wondering how this person knew of its existence, his eyes widen in shock. Chained in the shadows beneath Camelot is a great beast – a dragon! The figure steps forward, unfazed, and pulls back their hood to reveal… Merlin?

Arthur's heart skips a beat as he takes in the sight.
The dragon's roars echo through the cavern as Merlin casts another spell and the great chains anchoring the dragon fall to the ground with a deafening clang. With a mighty beat of its wings, the beast soars high into the cavern and vanishes from sight – the sound of crumbling stone indicating its escape from captivity. Arthur stands, paralysed, a mix of betrayal and confusion swirling within him as he tries to make sense of the situation.

Just then, Merlin turns, and his eyes widen in alarm when he spots Arthur in the shadows behind him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he takes advantage of Arthur’s shock and darts past him, the sound of his hurried footsteps echoing against the stone walls as he runs.

‘Merlin, wait!’ Arthur's voice rings out, laced with urgency as he gives chase – his long strides quickly closing the distance between them.

The narrow passages twist and turn, but Arthur refuses to slow his pace, driven by a growing desperation to catch Merlin. Rounding a sharp corner, Arthur finds himself once more in an open area of the castle and he surges forward, his outstretched hand grasping at the folds of Merlin's cloak. He can see the panic in Merlin’s eyes as he stumbles, his balance momentarily thrown off as he whirls around to face Arthur.

'Merlin, please. Just wait,' Arthur pants, his breath coming in gasps. 

Merlin obliges, observing Arthur with an air of detachment. The changes in his demeanour and appearance are striking. Where once he was a vibrant, loyal companion, now he appears hardened, his features etched with a coldness that seems at odds with the Merlin Arthur once knew. 

The dark circles beneath Merlin's eyes betray a weariness, a heaviness that was not there before. His clothing, too, reflects a shift - the familiar servant's garb replaced by protective leathers, as if he has grown accustomed to the need for such guarded attire.

Arthur realises, with a sinking heart, that this is no longer the Merlin he once knew – the devoted, selfless protector who would have given his life to safeguard Arthur's. This is the Merlin of the reports, the one who has aligned himself with Morgana, the one capable of decimating entire villages with a mere flick of his wrist.

As Merlin holds his gaze, Arthur feels a profound sense of loss, a desperate longing for the Merlin he had once known – the one who had held him tight at night, whispering assurances of a glorious future; the one whose eyes had shone with unwavering loyalty and love. But those eyes, those eyes that had been the very windows to Merlin's soul, are now nothing more than a hollow facade.

Arthur searches in vain, but there is no trace of the Merlin he had once known, no glimmer of the man he had trusted with his life. It is as if Merlin has been replaced by a soulless golem, a mere imitation of the beloved man Arthur had once cherished.

In this moment, Arthur is confronted with a profound truth: the Merlin standing before him is no longer his Merlin, but a stranger. This realisation weighs heavily upon his heart as he grapples with the loss of the one person he had trusted more than any other.

Arthur's heart races as Merlin's piercing eyes bore into him. This is the moment he has been dreading ever since he first heard the troubling reports of Merlin's carnage. He has spent weeks protecting this man, but now, with Merlin's powers on full display, Arthur knows he has to act decisively.

‘Merlin, stop this madness!’ he cries out. ‘Whatever you're planning, it can only lead to ruin. You don't have to do this.’

‘You don't understand, Arthur,’ Merlin replies, his words dripping with conviction. ‘This is the only way to ensure Camelot's future. The sacrifices I must make are necessary.’

Arthur takes a careful step forward, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword. Merlin's eyes track his movement. ‘But what about the future you always spoke of? Destiny, or whatever?’ 

Merlin's eyes narrow and a hint of regret flashes across his face. ‘I was wrong,’ he says, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘This is the only path forward.’

Tension crackles in the air. Arthur can't let Merlin go through with whatever he is planning, no matter the cost – even if that cost is the reconciliation he was hoping for. With a fierce determination, he draws his sword and charges forward but his blade clashes with Merlin's magic.

Arthur moves with the grace of a seasoned warrior, his footwork nimble and his strikes precise, as Merlin unleashes a barrage of magical attacks, his hands weaving intricate patterns as he summons the very elements to his aid. A powerful blast of wind forces Arthur to retreat momentarily, only to counter with a series of lightning-fast strikes that have Merlin scrambling to counter.

In a moment of vulnerability, Arthur manages to pull Merlin close, their faces mere inches apart. The intimacy of the moment causes Arthur to falter and Merlin seizes the opportunity, sweeping Arthur's legs from under him with a well-placed kick.

Arthur hits the ground hard, his sword clattering to the floor as he stares up at Merlin, his heart pounding in his chest. The sorcerer stands over him, a triumphant smirk upon his lips.

Suddenly, as Merlin stands over Arthur – considering his next move – Sir Leon rushes towards them. Panting, he briefly looks between the two men before shaking his head. ‘Arthur! You must come quickly. Morgana... she's… The King is dead.’

Arthur's world crumbles around him, the weight of Leon's words hitting him like a physical blow. He tries to stand, but his legs buckle beneath him, the shock rendering him helpless.

Merlin freezes, his expression one of genuine shock and sorrow. His shoulders slump and his eyes widen in disbelief. He looks around, almost lost, as if trying to piece together how things have spiralled so out of control.

‘You didn't know, did you?’ Arthur asks, his voice laced with a mixture of accusation and desperation.

‘No... this wasn't…’ He trails off, clearly grappling with something unspoken. Then, despite their momentary connection, Merlin’s resolve hardens. 

In a flash, he unleashes a powerful blast of magic which knocks Arthur against the wall. The prince crumples, his head striking the hard surface with a sickening thud, and he slips into unconsciousness.

***

Arthur's head throbs as he slowly opens his eyes and is met with the sight of Leon hovering over him, a look of intense relief on his face.

‘Arthur! Oh, thank the gods. Arthur, we need to get you up. Morgana's forces are retreating, but the city has been burnt down by a dragon. We need to regroup and examine the extent of the damage.’

The sounds of battle are fading, replaced by the anguished cries of the people and the crackle of flames consuming the once-proud city. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Arthur grasps Leon's outstretched hand and pulls himself to his feet. He moves to the nearest window overlooking the city and his heart sinks. Camelot – his kingdom – has been devastated. And his father...

The crushing weight of his losses threatens to overwhelm him. Camelot: in ruins. His father: dead. And Merlin...

As Arthur gazes up at the sky, the dragon's silhouette rapidly disappears into the distance. Looking over his broken kingdom, Arthur silently vows to protect Camelot, avenge his father, and find a way to save or stop Merlin – whatever it takes.

With a steely resolve, he turns to Leon. ‘Gather the knights. We will prepare a counterattack. Morgana will not rest, and neither shall we. Camelot will endure.’

Chapter Text

"He is the other half of my soul, as the poets say. I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.”

― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

The sun sinks low over the fields, throwing long, foreboding shadows across the packed earth. With Uther dead, the dragon having devastated Camelot, and Morgana having mounted the next stage of her attack, Arthur finds himself on the opposite side of a battlefield. 

Hastily erected camps line the edges, their shadows looming ominously in the dim light. Arthur and his knights sit around their camp, the soft crackle of the campfire punctuating the tense silence as each knight methodically prepares their armour and weapons, the routine tasks offering a small measure of comfort. The glow of the firelight dances on polished metal and weathered faces, highlighting the deep lines of worry etched into their expressions.

Arthur sharpens his sword with deliberate, steady strokes, the rasp of stone on steel mingling with the murmurs of the night. Nearby, Sir Leon inspects his shield, running his fingers over the familiar dents and scratches, each one a testament to battles fought and survived. Sir Pellinor tightens the straps on his gauntlets, his brow furrowed in concentration, while Sir Vidor polishes his blade, the rhythmic motion soothing his restless energy.

As their hands work, the knights exchange worried yet determined glances. Despite the weight of uncertainty hanging in the air, there is a shared understanding and unyielding bond that unites them. They know the battle ahead will be fierce, but for now, they find strength in each other’s presence, drawing courage from their shared purpose.

Arthur's gaze sweeps over his knights, their silent preparations filling him with a surge of pride and unease. These are his most loyal and brave companions, yet he knows the coming battle will exact a heavy toll. Before he leads them into the fray, Arthur has to be certain he has done everything in his power to avoid it.

Which is why, bearing the heavy weight of responsibility, he soon finds himself striding towards enemy lines, intent on negotiating peace before any more blood is shed.

Arthur's footsteps echo through Morgana's camp, the eyes of her people bearing down on him as he walks purposefully towards her tent. Jaw set with determination, he pulls back the flap and steps inside, meeting Morgana's unwavering gaze. 

Morgana sits behind a battered table, fingers laced together as she studies him, an air of cool detachment surrounding her. ‘Arthur,’ she acknowledges, her voice low and measured. 

Arthur's gaze darts warily around the tent, searching for any lurking threats as he faces Morgana. ‘You know why I'm here, Morgana. We have to put an end to this madness before more blood is spilt.’

Morgana rises from her seat, her eyes glinting with malice as she circles the table. ‘People have already been hurt. They've been hurting for a long time, Arthur. You only care now because it's your people who are suffering.’ She scoffs. ‘Your pitiful reign as king won't last long.’

Arthur's throat tightens as he thinks of his father, his grief still raw despite the chaos surrounding him. He swallows hard, his voice tinged with desperation. ‘Why? Why did you do it, Morgana? We were friends once. What happened?’ 

Morgana's lips curl into a sneer, her eyes hardening. ‘Friends? You could never be friends with someone like me. We were never equals.’

‘I am not my father, Morgana. We can end this now. There has to be a way forward, a path that doesn't lead to more bloodshed.’ 

‘What about when you arrested Merlin? Were you “not your father” then?’ Morgana taunts, her voice dripping with venom.

‘That... I…’ Arthur falters, guilt gripping him as his words stumble out.

Morgana's eyes narrow, relishing in his discomfort. ‘You couldn't even look past the man you loved having magic. But I should thank you for that. Thanks for sending him straight into my arms – one of the most powerful sorcerers to have ever lived. I was worried for a while that he would be my downfall, but your hatred of magic fixed that for me.’

The accusation hangs heavy in the air. Arthur's jaw tightens as he struggles to respond. Morgana has exploited his weakness, and he knows it all too well. The weight of his past actions threatens to crush him, as the devastating consequences of his own blindness are laid bare and confirmed. Arthur feels his heart shatter. 

‘I was wrong... I realised that the moment it happened. I regret what I... I tried to save Merlin the morning he escaped. I went down to the dungeons, prepared to do whatever it took to get him out, but he was already gone.’ Arthur’s voice trembles, the strain of his emotions evident in every word. The admission is laced with anguish, a tacit acknowledgement of his failure and the pain it has caused. 

Standing before Morgana, stripped of his usual confidence and haunted by the spectre of his own actions, Arthur continues, ‘I searched for him for weeks – not to have him executed but to bring him home to me.’

The air is thick with tension as Arthur’s words hang in the air. ‘How touching,’ Morgana spits, her tone dripping with sarcasm. ‘But your regret doesn't undo the pain you've caused him or the decades of murder, all because of your precious law banning magic. I will not back down, Arthur. I suggest you head back to your camp and prepare your men because I can assure you, mine won't stop until Camelot lies in ruins.’

With the battle lines drawn, Arthur turns to leave, his stomach sinking at the realisation that he has failed to prevent this war. As he makes his way out, he thinks he hears a faint rustling around the side of the tent. He pauses, straining his ears, but when he checks, there is no one there. 

Unease settling in the pit of his stomach, he quickens his pace, knowing that the calm before the storm is about to break.

***

At the first light of dawn, the clash of swords and the thunderous impact of shields reverberate across the land as Arthur’s knights meet Morgana’s forces on the field between their encampments. A cacophony of war fills the air, a symphony of steel, and the anguished cries of the fallen.

Arthur fights with unyielding determination, his blade dancing through the air as it slices through the ranks of his foes, each swing precise and each parry calculated. His footwork is light and agile, dodging swords and spells alike as he carves a path through the enemy lines. Fighting against magic is a true test of his dexterity; his movements are swift and instinctive, the chaos around him a blur as he focuses on staying one step ahead of his enemies.

Arthur's gaze darts frantically across the chaotic battlefield, searching for any sign of Merlin amidst the clash of steel and the crackle of magic. The very thought of facing his former lover in combat fills him with a dread he dares not examine too closely. But the alternative – seeing Merlin's lifeless form amid the fallen – is a fate too terrible to contemplate.

With a roar of defiance, Arthur redoubles his efforts, his blade becoming a whirlwind as he fights. He battles not for glory or conquest but to protect all that he holds dear – his kingdom, his people, and the man he let down. 

The battlefield erupts in chaos as Morgana's dark magic surges through the air. Waves of energy ripple outward, disorienting Arthur's troops and causing their formations to falter. The fighting grows more brutal and desperate as both sides struggle to gain the upper hand.

In the midst of the turmoil, Arthur catches a glimpse of Sir Leon rallying a small group of soldiers. With valour in his eyes, the loyal knight manoeuvres his men to flank the enemy, his leadership shining through the din of battle. But Morgana's onslaught proves too powerful. Despite the brave efforts of knights like Sir Leon, Camelot's army is gradually pushed back, forced to cede ground to the relentless magical assault.

Arthur grits his teeth, his heart sinking as he realises he has no choice but to order a retreat. His soldiers fight with every ounce of their being, but Morgana's sorcery has tipped the scales and they cannot hold their position any longer. As the sound of clashing steel and anguished cries ring out, Arthur knows they have to regroup and find a way to counter Morgana's dark powers if they are to have any hope of turning the tide of this battle.

***

Arthur sits in his dimly lit tent, flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows across the maps and battle plans spread out before him. His brow furrows in deep concentration as he pores over the strategies, searching for any way to turn the tide of the battle.

Outside, the solemn cries of his men mourning their fallen comrades pierce the night air, a sombre reminder of the heavy cost of war. Arthur's heart is heavy but his resolve is strong – he has to find a way to lead them to victory.

Suddenly, the rustling of the tent flaps draws his attention and he looks up to see Merlin slipping inside, his eyes darting about nervously as if checking for any unwanted observers. Arthur's breath catches in his throat and his hand instinctively reaches for the dagger on the table, his mind racing with the possibility that Merlin has been sent to kill him once and for all.

Merlin spins around, his piercing gaze immediately locking onto Arthur. His eyes flick down to Arthur's white-knuckled grip on the blade's hilt and his brows knit together.

Raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, Merlin takes a wary step forward. ‘Please, put the blade down, Arthur,’ he says, his voice calm yet tinged with an undercurrent of urgency. ‘I'm not here to fight. I just want to talk.’

Arthur watches wearily as Merlin advances. What was it that Morgana had called him? One of the most powerful sorcerers to have ever lived. Though Merlin appears unarmed, Arthur knows that his true weapon – his formidable magic – is ever-present, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

The tension in the air is thick as the two men face off. Arthur knows he should be on his guard but something in Merlin's eyes makes him hesitate. Slowly, he loosens his grip on the dagger and lets it fall back onto the table.

Merlin's shoulders visibly relax. ‘Thank you,’ he says.

‘Has Morgana sent you?’ Arthur asks, his brow furrowing with suspicion as he regards Merlin. 

Merlin shakes his head and looks down, nervously grinding the toe of his boot against the ground. ‘No. She doesn't know I'm here.’

Arthur's frown deepens but the tightness in his chest eases slightly. ‘Then why are you here?’ 

When Merlin meets Arthur's gaze again, Arthur notices a glistening in his eyes, causing the deep blue to sparkle with unshed tears. Merlin appears to be struggling to keep his composure and, when he speaks, his voice trembles. ‘Arthur, you need to surrender. Morgana's powerful and she won't stop until Camelot is destroyed.’

‘You think I'd give up my kingdom so easily?’

‘I'm not asking you to give up,’ Merlin says, desperation lacing his words. ‘I'm asking you to save lives. To save your people. To save yourself.’

The sight of Merlin's distress, so palpable and raw, cuts through the layers of Arthur's stoicism and he finds himself compelled to draw closer, tentatively closing the distance between them.

Gazing into Merlin's eyes, Arthur is struck by the depth of sorrow swirling within them. Gone is the dark mask Arthur witnessed during their fight in Camelot. In its place, Arthur sees only profound sadness.

Searching for any sign of insincerity, Arthur’s heart clenches at the realisation that Merlin is laying his emotions bare before him, vulnerability and all. A familiar protectiveness surges within Arthur and he brings a tender hand to Merlin’s cheek.

Merlin tries to look away, unable to bear the weight of Arthur's scrutiny, but Arthur gently guides his gaze back.

Merlin relents, leaning into Arthur's palm. He places his own hand over Arthur's, the touch lingering, warm and familiar. ‘Arthur, I'm so sorry.’

Arthur's heart cracks. He brings his other hand to rest on Merlin's cheek, cupping his face as a torrent of remorse and self-reproach pours forth. ‘No, Merlin. It is I who should be sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have trusted you. I was such an idiot, Merlin.’ 

‘I heard you,’ Merlin breathes, his voice barely a whisper.

‘What?’ Arthur says, momentarily taken aback.

‘When you were talking to Morgana yesterday. I heard you. I wish I had waited for you, Arthur, but you were so angry…’ Merlin pauses, his lip quivering. ‘I didn't think you were coming.’

Arthur strokes a thumb across Merlin's cheekbone. ‘I am so sorry, Merlin. I would give anything to undo what happened.’

‘Then please, surrender!’ Merlin begs, his hands desperately grasping Arthur's shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric as if trying to physically hold him there.

Arthur sighs, bringing his forehead to rest against Merlin’s. ‘You know I can't,’ he says, his voice soft but his resolve clear.

‘I can’t watch you die tomorrow.’ Merlin trembles, his grip on Arthur tightening as tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

Merlin's words hang in the air as they hold each other, silence stretching out between them.

‘Help me save Camelot,’ Arthur says eventually.

Merlin's hands fall away, the connection between them breaking. ‘I can't. Not like this.’

Merlin sighs, a broken sound, as he turns away from Arthur.

‘Merlin!’ Arthur cries out, his voice cracking. His fingers desperately grasp at the air as Merlin slips from his hold. 

Merlin pauses at the tent's entrance, looking back one last time. ‘Stay safe, Arthur,’ he says softly. ‘For Camelot. For me.’

And then he's gone, leaving Arthur standing alone, the weight of his duty pressing down upon him like never before. But in the silence that follows, the warmth of Merlin's touch lingers.

***

At the first glimmer of dawn, the battle wages on with neither side willing to concede ground.

The clash of steel on steel echoes across the battlefield as swords flash and arrows sing through the air. On one side, the disciplined ranks of Camelot's soldiers and knights fight with a desperate intensity, their movements honed by years of training and the knowledge that failure means certain death. On the other, a force of sorcerers unleash spells and arcane powers, the very earth trembling beneath their onslaught.

The terrain underfoot is churned to thick, sucking mud by the trampling feet of warriors and the unleashing of powerful magic. Banners snap and flutter overhead, the sigils and colours of Camelot waving amidst the chaos, while the sorcerers' battle standards billow ominously. The cries of the wounded mingle with the roar of the conflict, soldiers and knights stumbling and falling as they are struck down by bolts of energy and blasts of arcane might.

Amidst the chaos, the commanders of each army bark orders, their voices barely audible above the din of battle. Strategies are hastily adjusted and reinforcements are rushed to the points of greatest need, as Camelot's forces strive to hold back the onslaught of the sorcerers and gain the upper hand.

As the sun slowly climbs higher in the sky, the battle shows no signs of abating, with both sides locked in a brutal, unrelenting struggle for victory.

Arthur fights fiercely, each swing of his sword cutting through the enemy ranks. Suddenly, a burst of powerful magic ripples through the air, sending knights and soldiers flying. Arthur’s heart sinks as he sees the devastation wrought by the spell, the broken bodies of his men scattered across the field.

Amidst the chaos of battle, Arthur spots a familiar figure: Merlin, standing amidst the mayhem, his hand still outstretched from casting the spell. Their eyes meet, and in that instant, Arthur sees the turmoil in Merlin’s eyes – a mixture of regret and determination.

The sight of Merlin, so powerful yet so conflicted, strikes Arthur to his core. Remembering his pleas last night, Arthur raises his hand as if to reach out across the battlefield. But the moment is fleeting and the sounds of battle crash back in around them.

‘Merlin!’ Arthur shouts. But Merlin turns away, his face a mask of resolve as he prepares another spell. Pain and regret surge through Arthur, knowing that his actions created the instrument of their destruction. He grips his sword tighter, the weight of the battle pressing down on him more heavily than ever.

Arthur's chest heaves as he presses onward through the enemy ranks, his sword dripping with the blood of his foes. With newfound determination, he fixes his eyes on a single target: Morgana. The chaos of the battlefield blurs around him as he finally emerges in front of her, Merlin, and the young boy from Leon's report. Raising his sword, Arthur prepares to strike Morgana down and end the war once and for all.

However, in that tense moment, the boy lunges forward, his blade gleaming as it arcs towards Arthur with deadly precision. Arthur watches the danger approaching but he can’t react fast enough. Just as the blade is about to make contact, Merlin quickly shoves Arthur out of harm's way.

Arthur stumbles, hitting the ground hard and rolling to his feet just in time to witness the boy’s blade bury itself in Merlin's side. Time seems to slow as the scene unfolds before him. Merlin's eyes widen in shock and pain, yet there is also a fierce resolve burning within them. He stands his ground, his body acting as a shield between Arthur and the deadly strike.

‘Merlin!’ Arthur's voice breaks, raw with anguish. He scrambles to his feet, rushing to Merlin’s side as the boy withdraws his blade and steps back with a look of horror and remorse.

Merlin sways, blood blossoming from the wound, but he manages to stay upright, leaning heavily on Arthur for support. His breathing is ragged, each inhale a struggle. Arthur's hands are frantic, trying to stem the flow of blood, his heart pounding in his chest with a mix of fear and fury.

‘Why?’ Arthur chokes out, his voice trembling as he lowers Merlin to the ground. ‘Why did you do that?’

Merlin's gaze softens, a faint smile playing on his lips despite the pain. ‘Because, Arthur,’ he whispers, his voice barely audible over the battle raging on around them, ‘I couldn't let you die. Not for her. Not like this.’

Morgana's eyes narrow. She raises her hand, dark magic crackling at her fingertips, ready to unleash a deadly spell. But before she can act, Arthur rises to his feet, his sword steady in his hand, standing protectively in front of Merlin.

‘Enough!’ Arthur roars, his voice echoing across the battlefield. ‘This ends now!’

Morgana hesitates, her eyes flicking between Arthur and the grievously wounded Merlin. The determination in Arthur's eyes gives her pause, but her expression quickly hardens and she begins to chant an incantation.

Arthur doesn’t give her a chance to finish. With a powerful, swift motion, he lunges forward, his sword aimed directly at her heart. Morgana's eyes widen in shock and fury, but before she can react, Arthur's blade pierces her chest.

She gasps, the dark magic in her hands dissipating as she staggers back, clutching the wound. With a final, desperate effort, she tries to summon her magic. But as the strength leaves her body, she crumples to the ground, her eyes glazing over as her life slips away.

Arthur stands over her, his breaths ragged, a mixture of sorrow and grim satisfaction washing over him. He had done what was necessary, but taking the life of the woman he had grown up with wasn’t easy.

With Morgana's lifeless body at his feet, Arthur rushes back to Merlin's side. His heart sinks as he takes in the sight before him: Merlin's pale face is streaked with blood, his chest rising and falling in shallow, laboured breaths. His usually vibrant eyes flutter weakly, struggling to stay open, and his body trembles with the effort of each breath.

'No, Merlin, please don't go,' he pleads, his voice thick with anguish as he cradles Merlin's limp form.

The weight of Merlin's mortality crushes Arthur's very soul. All the moments they shared – the laughter, the banter, the unwavering loyalty – it's all crumbling before him. Arthur can't bear the thought of a world without Merlin by his side, the other half of his coin.

Tears stream down Arthur's face. 'I can't do this without you, Merlin. You have to hold on,' he begs, his grip on Merlin's shirt tightening. The reality of Merlin's fading life is a knife to his heart, and Arthur's desperation only grows.

Around them, the tide of battle begins to turn in Camelot's favour. Morgana's forces, seeing their fallen leader, start to waver and crumble. The knights press forward with renewed vigour, but Arthur's focus remains solely on the man in his arms.

'Please, Merlin,' he whispers, his voice breaking as he leans in and rests his forehead against Merlin's. 'I need you. Camelot needs you. Don't give up.'

Merlin's eyes flutter shut, a faint smile on his lips. 'Arthur,' he murmurs weakly, 'I knew you'd win. You always do. But promise me something… Promise me you'll end this war against magic before it tears the kingdom apart.'

Arthur shakes his head, crushing Merlin's frail body to his chest as he chokes back a sob, his whole being consumed by the overwhelming grief.

'I'm so sorry, Merlin,' Arthur cries, his tears falling onto Merlin's pale face. 'For everything. Please, please don't leave me now.' 

But Merlin's grip has already slackened, his breathing fading. Arthur holds him close, his heart shattering as he helplessly watches the life slip away from the man he loves.

Arthur sits on the blood-soaked ground, cradling Merlin's lifeless body in his trembling arms. The battlefield has fallen silent, but the deafening weight of grief echoes through the air, crushing Arthur's heart with each passing moment. Tears stream down his face, blurring his vision as he gazes upon the pale, still features of his beloved.

Time seems to stand still as Arthur holds Merlin close, unwilling to let go of the man who has been his guiding light and the other half of his soul. The minutes tick by, each one more agonising than the last, as Arthur is consumed by the overwhelming devastation of his loss.

At last, with great effort, Arthur leans down and presses a soft, reverent kiss to Merlin's cold lips: a final gesture of love and farewell. His heart shatters with the realisation that he will never again feel the warmth of Merlin's touch or hear the comforting timbre of his voice. As he pulls away, Arthur knows that he will carry the weight of this tragedy for the rest of his days, a burden that will forever haunt him.

***

In the days that follow the devastating battle, Arthur throws himself into the task of rebuilding Camelot. With each stone laid and each wound tended to, he feels Merlin's presence beside him, a silent but ever-present guide urging him forward. As he works tirelessly to restore the kingdom to its former glory, Arthur is reminded of Merlin's unwavering belief in him and his potential to be a great king.

Finally, the moment arrives when Arthur convenes the council and makes a momentous announcement: the repeal of the magic ban. The chamber erupts into gasps and murmurs, but Arthur stands firm, his resolve unshakable.

‘Magic,’ he declares, his voice ringing with authority, ‘will henceforth be welcomed as a force for good within our realm. Never again will we allow fear to divide us.’

With these words, a new chapter unfolds in Camelot's history, emerging from the ashes of tragedy. And though Merlin may no longer walk among them, Arthur knows that his legacy will endure, leading Camelot towards a future where magic is free.