Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Excerpt: 

Gaius frowned at the silver amulet, the coloring of his cheeks betraying the anxiety he clearly felt. Gazing up at Merlin with baleful eyes, his mentor suddenly appeared ancient, the lines in his face deep as carved stone. "Have you ever wondered if your destiny asks too much of you?"

Merlin weighed the words, and shook his head. "I don't let myself. And even if it were not my destiny, I would do it because he is my friend.”

The truth of the confession weighed heavily on his chest. It had never been the dragon’s prophecy he believed in so fiercely– it was Arthur. If Arthur died here, it would be like losing a part of himself. He would forever be incomplete. Severed. Merlin would remain frozen in time.

Rays of sun shimmered through the cool forest canopy, scattering patches of light along a worn dirt road. A subtle breeze rustled the woods carrying the whiff of damp earth, pine, and the musky-sweet scent that only comes from leaves in late Autumn. The heady heat of an unseasonably warm day played over eight horses and their riders as they traveled along at a leisurely pace.

The small patrol had ridden out several days from Camelot’s citadel to investigate rumors of road bandits. With the assistance of some local farmers, whose trade routes had been menaced by the brigands, it had been a simple enough task to flush the culprits out of hiding. The survivors of that brief skirmish had been left to the justice of the very townsfolk they had terrorized. Now returning home and only a day's travel from the capital everyone felt at ease, talking animatedly as they rode in a slow procession atop their horses.

Many of the Knights had stripped off their layers of heavy chain armor to enjoy the weather. The formal protocol was strict regarding uniforms, especially when in a royal’s presence. But the thrill of a successful mission and the seductively beckoning warmth of what very well may have been the last hot day of the year had even the King turning a blind eye.

Protocol, too, would have dictated that the alert raven-haired boy at Arthur’s side ride quietly a horse length behind his king. Out of sight, but close enough to be on hand should his monarch require his services. Or, if dismissed, then his place would be at the back of the line. But then again Merlin had never been much for protocol, and Arthur himself only eyed the grinning youth riding confidently alongside him with a stern fondness.

Of the group that followed in their wake, none were louder than a handsome long-haired knight comfortably entertaining in the middle of the pack. A flock of wood pigeons took flight, alarmed by the sudden ringing bark of Gwaine’s irreverent laughter. He enthusiastically recounted their recent scuffle with the aid of a dramatically flourished stick, contorting his face along with the story for full effect. The mild-mannered chocolate mare beneath him tolerated the loud noise and shifting weight atop her with only a flick of her ear.

Percival rode an easy stride on a black and white piebald mare beside him. The knight's clothing had been modified to expose his thickly muscled arms, nicely framing shoulders like a draft horse. The normally intimidating visual was spoiled slightly by heavy bruising around each of his eyes which gave Percival the look of a bemused raccoon, deep purples and blues further accentuating an already heavy brow. The corners of his mouth twisted in a wry grin as Gwaine mimed someone getting hit in the face.

“Never would have had my nose broken if you hadn’t ducked,” He remarked dryly.

One hand flying to his chest Gwaine drew a look of profound dignity onto his face, dark eyes wide and solemn. “What kind of proficient tavern brawler would I be if I didn’t know how to duck?”

“Just be grateful it was a startled farmer this time, and not a brigand with a blade,” cautioned Leon, “otherwise, you wouldn’t have come out of it looking so pretty.”

The senior of the knights was ever practical, warm blue eyes crinkled with laughter while his voice tempered with concern.

“If you can call this pretty” grunted Percival, complexion unusually pallid under his mottled bruises, his perch perhaps a little unsteady on his steed.

Despite his wild antics and jokes, Merlin observed how Gwaine always kept one eye on Percival. As they rode, he had continually nudged his mare close enough that he could catch the injured knight should he slip from his saddle. Shaking his head Merlin wondered how Gwaine managed to be a walking paradox of unflinchingly serious adult and 12-Year-Old Boy all rolled into one.

Banter flowed easily between the friends, heedless of their varying status or social class. The two knights trailing at the back of the line seemed uncertain about where exactly they fit in the well-established group. In fact, Emmanuel, who had been knighted only last week was delicately riding backward. "Melding the saddle," as Percival called it. It made perfect sense to the group and as Leon solemnly explained, it was in accordance with the ancient tradition of Melding.

Elyan had assured Emmanuel in a low voice that they all had to do it on the way back from their first patrol. Perhaps the quietest of the group, Elyan’s caring nature and easy smile acted like an open door to the new knight coaxing a grin from him in return.

Merlin felt a twinge of sympathy for the young man but not nearly enough to say anything. Every new knight had to endure an initiation, and depending on how gullible they were it could go on for some time.

A round of fresh repartee swept through the patrol.

“Well, if somebody hadn't set the medicine bag on fire as a distraction then I wouldn't have to go and search for new herbs now, would I?" Interjected Merlin pointedly, looking over his shoulder at Gwaine.

"Hey," said Gwaine raising one hand in surrender. "It was the closest thing to me at the time. And how was I supposed to know that that was the medicine bag?"

"You mean the same bag that Merlin always brings along?” posed Leon.

“Quite a distinctive look to it," added Arthur, flashing a crooked smirk.

"Come on guys, give Gwaine a break. I'm sure he was merely under the impression that they were Gareth’s beauty supplies,” reasoned Elyan graciously as he attempted to include the knight riding behind him in the banter.

Seemingly unsure quite how to feel about this inclusion, Gareth’s mouth tightened in what seemed to be an attempt at a smile. The overall effect ended up appearing more of a grimace.

"We'll stop for a brief lunch and send Merlin off to find whatever plants or weeds he needs to dull your pain," decided Arthur, and with a flick of the reins, he directed his black stallion towards an open clearing alongside the well-traveled road.

"You rhymed," exclaimed Leon in amusement. Then he obviously couldn't resist adding, "I guess your poetry sessions have been going nicely, then?”

The glower Arthur bestowed upon Leon spurred another round of guffawing. Merlin, glad to see the look directed at someone else for a change, grinned. 

Dismounting, the group set their horses to graze at the edge of the clearing, hobbling them with lengths of rope. Giving his chestnut mare a fond pat Merlin stroked the spot on her neck he had discovered she so loved. He found himself rewarded when she leaned into the touch, bending her head to lip happily at his trouser leg. With the kind of efficiency one only develops from many years of practice, he dutifully detached the saddle sacks containing the cooking supplies and a portion of the remaining food. Grunting perhaps more than absolutely necessary over the labor, he hauled them toward where Gareth had already started clearing a space for a campfire. Percival attempted to aid with set up at first, but after almost falling over several times due to persistent dizziness was ordered kindly yet firmly by Elyan to sit down. He now sat on a log with his head between his knees as Emmanuel hovered in concern.

Merlin glanced worriedly at Percival. He’d often heard Gaius speak of head injuries that resulted, either permanently or temporarily, in slowed physical response and mental befuddlement. He had even aided Gaius in tending many of them during tournaments or in training accidents. Because of that, he also knew there were few known treatments. The physician would know better than he, but in the meantime, he could manage the pain.

Dropping his jumble of supplies in a heap next to the rapidly forming fire pit Merlin straightened.

“I’m going to go find those herbs.”

"Go on then Merlin, just remember you also need to make us lunch so there is no time to waste!" encouraged Arthur mockingly.

"Wouldn't it be best if you finally just learn how to cook by yourself?"

"Why? That's what I have you for."

"What happens when I'm not around?"

Arthur scoffed at that, "Don't be stupid Merlin, I couldn’t be rid of you if I tried. Now off you go then." He made little shooing motions with his hand.

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Merlin folded his arms. "Do you always have to be such a dollop-head?"

"No matter how many times you use it,” said Arthur in a matter-of-fact voice, "that will never be a real word."

"Whatever you say, your Majesty." The way the manservant said the title made it seem more like an insult than anything else.

Feeling a tad rebellious, Merlin made sure to dawdle just long enough to make it clear he was going on his account and not on Arthur's orders. As finally he turned to stride towards the forest Gwaine jogged to catch up with him, grinning.

"I’ll come along.”

Smiling back, he nodded his acceptance of the offer, glad for the help.

"This time of year, we're looking for some Feverfew- It's a white bloom with a yellow center. The flower is about this size," he made his fingers into a circle about the size of a copper shilling to indicate, “and grows in bunches. We need the leaves though, not the flowers.”

Nodding, Gwaine gave a casual salute. “Got it, we can split up.”

⌘⌘⌘

"Hey Merlin, mate, did you say yellow flowers white centers, or white flowers with yellow centers?" called Gwaine sometime later, crouching down to dubiously finger a rather unfriendly-looking plant.

When no answer came, he looked right, looked left, and turned on the balls of his feet, gazing in the direction he had last seen his friend heading. "Merlin?"

He waited expectantly for a reply that didn’t come.

Hoisting himself upright with a huff and a grunt, the knight meandered towards the last place he knew Merlin had been. Just as he began contemplating whether he should worry or not he heard a shout which was abruptly and rather ominously cut off.

That had been Merlin’s voice- and he’d been yelling for help. 

Gwaine’s sword was in his hand in less than a second, guts twisting with tension. Crouching down he paused only as long as it took to sweep his surroundings with shrewd eyes. He moved swiftly in the direction he judged the sound had come from.

Approaching the top of a rocky ridge he slowed, homing in on rough voices and the obvious sound of a scuffle coming from over the edge. Pressing himself down against the rocks Gwaine peered over to see Merlin roughly fifteen feet below his vantage point, a group of men around him. They were on the ground, one of the brigands had a handful of the boy's hair with his other beefy arm wrapped around his neck, effectively cutting off both voice and air. The manservant finally grew still, losing consciousness. A moment more and his head was released to thump against the earth, body limp.

Gwaine released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Alive then, if not exactly safe. But that’s a problem Gwaine could help fix. Five of them, armed yes but not visibly armored. He’d faced worse odds.

Rising into a ready crouch and drawing in a breath to shout a battle cry in the hope that the other knights might hear and rush to assist, Gwaine instead heard a twig crack behind him. Spinning, he raised his sword in a block, but to no avail. A rush of movement, a large dark shape, the flash of a knife hilt, and his vision burst into bright lights before plunging into darkness.

The next thing he knew he found himself lying on the ground, one arm dangling in the open air over the ledge. The pain rushed over him in waves, and with each wave, his nausea worsened. Instinctive fear for his friend spiked through him.

Struggling to rally, Gwaine blinked hard fighting the darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision. One hand searched for the hilt of his blade with all the strength of a determined kitten as his eyes struggled to focus. The pressure of a boot met his ribs. A hard push, and then nothing but air. 

A short rush, a sickening impact, and merciful unconsciousness slipped over his mind.

⌘⌘⌘

The knights had finished setting up ages ago and now lounged around the crackling fire. Arthur had only been goading Merlin when he’d said he would have to make lunch, and a pot of stew hung simmering cheerfully over the fire. Tantalizing smells wafted across the clearing of cooking vegetables and meat.

Of course, he still hadn't been the one to make it. Despite Gwen’s best efforts, Arthur remained helpless when it came to cooking. Instead, Elyan had skillfully thrown it together. Only when the topic of conversation strayed to an upcoming tournament did he realize exactly how long Gwaine and Merlin had been gone. On the heels of that thought unease trailed ghostly fingers up his spine. Turning to gaze into the forest, one hand absently strayed to the comforting hilt of the sword belted at his hip.

Something was wrong.

Catching Leon's eye, they exchanged a look that confirmed he too had noticed.

Maintaining his calm Arthur rose to his feet, stretching luxuriously. "Come on, let's go after them. Merlin's probably lost in the woods, or perhaps he tripped and knocked himself out. Wouldn't be the first time.”

Delegating the task of watching the camp to Percival and the task of watching Percival to Emmanuel, Arthur set off.  

A skilled tracker, he picked up the two trails quickly. Signaling Gareth and Leon to go left Arthur and Elyan went right. Caution tempered his tongue, the unnatural quiet of the forest warning him that calling out would be unwise. Elyan followed his lead, moving with speed and silence. He would thump Merlin if they found him safe and happy. Yet, Arthur had learned the hard way to trust his instincts. Flickers of regret flashed through him at his failures to do so before and at the memory of the lives that had cost.  

Coming in sight of a stone outcrop rising in the near distance the sense of unease ticked higher, each man drawing his sword.

Following the path, Arthur scrambled down a hill keeping the outcropping to his right, quickly reaching the bottom. His sweeping gaze, searching for the next sign of passage, landed on the still form of Gwaine lying motionless with a small pool of blood under his head. 

Immediately his eyes flicked around, searching for signs of ambush but finding nothing. "Gwaine" he hissed, heart in his throat.

Where is Merlin?

Sheathing his sword he moved swiftly to the knight’s side. Kneeling, he felt for a pulse. Elyan fanned out, securing the area. And… yes, there, a strong rhythm thrummed under Arthur’s fingertips. Upon careful inspection, he located the source of the bleeding under matted hair: a wound on the side of Gwaine’s skull. The wound had clotted on its own, but the blood remained damp to the touch.

“Sire, all is clear. There was a struggle here but there’s no sign of Merlin,” reported Elyan, returning from his brief scout. 

“Come and bandage this as best you can. It looks superficial enough, but we need to be certain it doesn’t start bleeding again.” Instructed Arthur, smoothly slipping into the role of commander.

Where is Merlin?

Leaving the task of tending to Gwaine's injury to Elyan he stepped back, turning a circle to take in the full scene around him. Leon and Gareth had joined them by now; he relayed what had been found rapidly as his eyes roamed across the clearing. Half buried under forest litter a glimpse of red caught his eye. Kneeling, Arthur brushed the leaves aside and found the red kerchief Merlin often wore around his neck.

There, spattering the cloth, were flecks of blood. 

Clenching the strip of fabric tightly in a fist he stood. Someone had Merlin, and from the footprints, Arthur could see he had been both ambushed and outnumbered. The King’s sharp eyes caught more blood lightly sprayed across the ground. He did not know if they had come from Merlin or any of his assailants, or possibly both.

The tracks headed west. A knot sat heavily in his stomach, a lurching sense of uncertain dread and slowly roiling anger.

A hand landed lightly on his shoulder. Turning, Arthur faced Leon.

“Gwaine is coming round. And…” he hesitated, “still no sign of Merlin. Whatever happened it looks like they took him.” Concern colored the Knight’s voice and reflected in the eyes looking to him to lead.

Arthur nodded tersely, marching back to Gwaine. None of them had wanted to take the risk of moving the injured knight farther than the softer ground away from the rocks before they could confirm the extent of his injuries. From Leon’s initial report, it appeared as if Gwaine's only major wound was the one to his head, along with a score of bumps and scrapes. Flicking his attention to the cliff face Arthur knew it easily could have been much worse. The chant that had begun as a whisper on seeing Gwaine’s unconscious body strengthened in volume, nearing a shout inside his skull. Where is Merlin, where is Merlin, where is Merlin?

Gwaine groaned. Cracking open one eye and peering up at them solemnly, the knight seemed to be considering something before slurring out "Well at least I know I didn't die and go to heaven; the whole lot of you lot are here."

Arthur couldn’t prevent the laugh the knight startled out of him. If he could crack jokes he must not be in danger of dying. Though, on further thought he supposed that didn’t mean much. He would bet his last shilling Gwaine would crack a joke with his final breath. “You gave us quite the scare.”

"Does anybody else hear ringing?" 

Gwaine absently massaged his temples. His fingers found the edge of their improvised bandage, running over the length of it. He attempted to sit up, only to have Arthur push him back, crouching beside his side.

“Stay down, rest. Get your fingers out of your wound, they’re filthy. Now I need you to focus, what happened?" He bit down on the urge to rush the injured man, knowing it would just slow the knight down. Would all his people be taken off the board by head injuries!? 

“What happened when?” mumbled Gwaine, eyes unfocused. 

Frustration boiling over Arthur abruptly stood up, pacing away before he lost his temper. 

Elyan glanced his way and took Arthur’s vacated place in front of the knight. "Gwaine, Gwaine you have to concentrate," he said soothingly and yet with a tone of urgency that even the befuddled knight couldn't ignore. "What happened to Merlin?"

Gwaine's eyes widened, "Merlin! He's in trouble!"

Elyan nodded in agreement and pushed Gwaine back down as he tried to rise again. "Yes, yes we know that but what happened? Who did this?"

"I…. I can't..." He pressed one hand to his head and squeezed his eyes tightly. "There were... men, bandits, I think. They took him. They attacked from behind, the bleeding cowards.”

"Was he alive?”

The words spilled from Arthur’s mouth before he could consider whether he was prepared to hear the answer. The nod Gwaine gave loosened some of the anxious energy building in his chest. 

"I think so. No, I’m certain he was.”

Crossing his arms Gareth frowned slightly, puzzled at the level of concern his King and fellow Knights were showing for one simple servant. He had heard of Arthur’s strange fondness for the boy, but from the torment and barbs he’d observed he would have guessed the opposite. “Slavers, perhaps? Nothing against the boy but I can’t imagine another reason someone else would be interested in taking Merlin alive.”

"Why wouldn't slavers take Gwaine as well?" asked Leon confused, "It would have been easy enough, he's helpless in the state he's in.”

It was Elyan who answered this, "A crime of opportunity. Perhaps they weren’t aware Merlin wasn’t alone when they jumped him, and only realized afterward when they saw a knight what they’d stumbled on. That’s likely also why they left Gwaine alive; if they’d left him a corpse there would be no way they’d be allowed to escape. A mere servant on the other hand…”

Elyan turned to Arthur expectantly, eyes steady and gleaming with eagerness. "I take it we are going after him?"

"Of course, he’s one of our own," he confirmed without hesitation. Merlin would never abandon any of them; he certainly would not abandon Merlin.

"Sire, it looks like they're heading west,” Gareth affirmed. “Heading for the border, I’d guess.”

A flash of frustration sparked in him. "It’s likely you’re correct. Unless they’re complete idiots, which isn’t out of the question they’ll pass by Gawant, a staunch ally, and into Dyfed. The queen’s hatred of my family is no secret so I imagine they believe we wouldn’t follow them over the border.” 

Arthur gazed into the middle distance, considering all the factors at play. “We won’t abandon Merlin, but we have no political grounds to get him out of Queen Líadan’s kingdom once he’s there. Our best chance is now.”

They moved quickly, Elyan and Gareth shouldering Gwaine’s weight as they moved back to camp. They stripped the area of the necessary items, leaving everything else to be dealt with after they retrieved Merlin. If a traveler found their supplies before they returned, they would be welcome to the spoils. Arthur, knowing they had at least one fight ahead of them, served each of his men from the pot of stew and then himself.

The food tasted like ash in his mouth, but he choked it down. A good meal before a battle could provide the extra energy to make the difference between life and death. And if the men who’d taken him hadn’t killed Merlin yet, his life was in no immediate danger. They had time to prepare.

Once they’d finished Arthur checked his saddle’s strap one last time, pulling it tight. “Percival, I am sorry but you and Gwaine will have to return alone. If we’re heading into a fight, I cannot spare anyone to escort you. Ride slowly, rest often. If you go now, you should make it back a few hours past nightfall.” 

Percival, who had already had several days to accept the limitations of his injury unhappily nodded his acceptance. But before Arthur could swing himself up to his saddle a firm hand on his arm stopped him.

“Let me come with you,” urged Gwaine, still in the denial phase. 

“I already told you, no.”

 “But I-”

Before the knight could further continue the same argument, which had gone on almost since their return to camp, Arthur planted his elbow into Gwaine’s chest and pushed. The force was barely more than a tap but befuddled as he was the knight toppled over landing in the dirt with a puff of dust, yelping from both surprise and pain.

Stepping away from his mount Arthur planted the tip of his sheathed sword on Gwaine’s sternum, pinning him with minimum effort. He needed to make a point Gwaine couldn’t ignore. “You and Percival both need to return to Camelot. Go to Gaius so he can treat your injuries.”

'"I'm fine!" insisted Gwaine defiantly.

Arthur spoke slowly and deliberately, making sure no malice or passion entered his voice simply stating facts. “You are injured. You are a liability. You will slow us down.”

He could see the words cut the knight’s pride deeply. Softening, he withdrew his sword and reached a hand down to his friend. “I know you’re worried about Merlin. It's alright, we'll bring him back. You have my word, as your king.” 

Reluctantly Gwaine finally nodded his assent. His eyes burned with frustration, but he accepted the offered help back to his feet. 

“Ride swiftly, my Lord.”

Chapter Text

After parting ways with Gwaine and Percival, their count now consisting only of Arthur, Leon, Elyan, Emmanuel, and Gareth turned west. Their quarry had made no attempts to conceal their passage, making it an easy task to track the slavers. Pressing on until the last of the lingering sunlight had slipped behind the horizon Arthur’s agitation grew. Knowing that to continue would risk laming their horses it was only with immense frustration he made the call to camp for the night. Everyone completed their tasks in silence, picking at roasted bits of a rabbit which had been shot by Gareth.

Rising again with the first cold wisps of the dawn after a night of tossing and turning on their thin bedrolls they pushed both themselves and their horses through another day of riding, not once catching sight of their target. Arthur had to admit he hadn't anticipated that. His patrol was riding almost unencumbered, going so far as to discard their half plate in an empty tree stump, riding on in chain alone. Their speed should have more than matched anyone carrying the added burden of unwilling captives.

Unwilling live captives that is, his mind whispered. Arthur pushed the thought away. There was no use in entertaining such thoughts.

Still, they couldn't keep up this pace for much longer. Experienced riders they may be but each of them was growing increasingly stiff and saddle sore with each passing mile. It wouldn't surprise Arthur if his thighs and backside were as colorful a tapestry of bruises as when, as a recalcitrant child, the librarian had caught him ripping pages out of a collection of ancient manuscripts.

Arthur's eyes lingered on the heaving sweat soaked flanks of his stallion. Muscles trembling in fatigue, flecks of foam clung to his muzzle. A film of dust coated the tired creature rendering its once glossy coat a lusterless sheen, a muted shadow of its former self. The sight tore at Arthur's consciousness. It was a knight's solemn responsibility to care for his horse, and for such a long hard ride each knight should have had two mounts swapping regularly between them. It shamed him to push the creatures so hard, but the alternative was unthinkable.

Despite the sour sense of foreboding that curled heavy in Arthur's stomach, they pressed on. Passing through the Valley of the Fallen Kings and then the forest of Asgorath, by the afternoon of the third day they had crossed the river marking the border into Dyfed. Arthur's instructors had drilled the borders of Camelot into his head since he was a child, and as they rode, he could picture them as clearly as if a map was laid over the terrain around them.

He'd given each of his knights the choice to turn back at the crossing and each had immediately pledged to accompany him. Despite that, worry continued to gnaw on his thoughts.

Do the bandits know they're being pursued?

They had alternated their pace between a canter and a walk for the last several miles of the road, and Arthur leaned forward to stroke his mounts neck gratefully. Sweeping his eyes from side to side, fighting to see more than a few feet into the thickening woods closing in on either side of them, he delved deeper into his new path of thinking.

How long has it been since we've last seen signs of wildlife?

The events of the last few days took on a different shape, forming a faint outline of a new and unpleasant suspicion. If they did know that they were being followed, then this would be the perfect spot for-

Abruptly pulling his horse up short Arthur stood in his stirrups, twisting to look behind them his instincts screaming and the hair rising on the back of his neck. Movement in the trees, but his shout of warning was slower than the twang of a crossbow.

A meaty thunk and Arthur's stallion reared screaming in fear and pain an iron bolt protruding from its front shoulder. Tensing his body Arthur held on desperately with his knees, seizing the reins, fighting to stay in his saddle. The air abruptly filled with shouts of alarm and steel blades hissing from their sheaths. Arthur, still wrestling to get his injured mount back under control, watched as Emmanuel, who had raced to his side to grab for the reigns of Arthur's bucking horse, went down in an arterial spray of crimson.

Abandoning his attempts to keep his seat and kicking his feet free of the stirrups, Arthur launched himself backwards off his horse as far from the lashing hooves as he could manage. Rolling on impact he absorbed most of the force of the landing and was back on his feet in a breath, sword in hand, fatigued muscles screaming in protest.

Looking around Arthur assessed their position. They'd been surrounded. His knights were fighting against unlikely odds, most of them having lost their mounts to the surprise attack. Arthur's breath caught in his throat when his eyes landed on Emmanuel. The knight's body lay soaked in his own blood, a gory hole in his throat and a crossbow bolt held in a limp hand. The young man's wide eyes were already glazed and empty, mouth gaping, staring at the sky.

The man had likely panicked, pulling the bolt from where it had pierced his throat. With the only barrier between him and death removed he would have bled out in moments.

A sound behind him of heavy footsteps. Wordless rage and grief rushed out of Arthur in a roar. He spun, parrying a sword strike aimed at his ribs from the first of two attackers, ducking under the overhead strike from the second. Driving his sword into the gut of the first man seamlessly he pivoted, using the motion to draw his blade free of the body to knock away a follow up thrust from the second man, throwing him off balance.

Arthur's body twisted back the other way gathering strength from his feet to his shoulders, viciously returning a slash of his own. Too slow his staggered opponent tried to raise his sword to block. The length of deadly steel in Arthur's hand, an extension of the King's own rigorously trained body, caught his opponent in the space between leather gambeson and neck.

Ignoring a twist of revulsion at the hot drops that were spattering his skin he used the brief reprieve to assess the fight. They were outnumbered, perhaps three to one, but Arthur felt a rush of pride when he saw his knights holding their own against several opponents at once. He saw Leon and Elyan even fought back-to-back effectively covering each other's blind spots.

The pride lasted only a moment before guilt swelled in Arthur's throat, followed closely by shame. They wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. And Emmanuel…

Diving back into the fight he caught a strike meant for Leon on the length of his blade. Surging forward Arthur drove his shoulder into the attacker's side knocking him to the ground. Slamming his sword hilt-to-hilt with his next challenger he bore up, lashed out with his foot, and knocked her off balance. The warrior faltered and Arthur ran her through, took a step, and smashed the heel of his boot into the head of the man he'd knocked down as he attempted to get back to his feet.

A chain abruptly wrapped around Arthur's blade and yanked it violently from his grip. He had just enough time to glimpse a long mace held in the ham fist of a towering warrior whose shoulders would rival even Percival's.

I've never seen a bear walk on its back legs before Arthur thought wryly, putting his head down and bull-rushing the new challenger before he could disentangle his weapon to strike again. If he'd had more than a moment to think about it, he would have realized what an unbelievably idiotic idea it was to try and grapple the man mountain. If Merlin had been there to see it Arthur knew he never would have heard the end of it.

He got lucky. The warrior, caught off guard, hadn't braced for an impact and went down. Landing winded and in a heap, Arthur tried desperately to gain control over his opponent, who had thankfully lost his grip on the weapons in the fall. Coughing, lungs burning and half choking on the dust cloud their impact had created, Arthur was unable to find a purchase to secure the upper hand. Quite the opposite; far outmatched in strength he was steadily being overpowered. Heart hammering against his ribcage, sweat and dirt stinging his eyes, Arthur searched for some other way out of his predicament.

A flash of metal in his peripheral vision; an abandoned sword lying beside the body of its former owner taunted him, only feet away.

Lunging away from the grapple and towards the weapon Arthur felt a hand close over his leg. Kicking blindly clawing at the loose earth under him he managed to pull himself forward another foot, felt his hand close on the hilt, body twisting as he swung it around-

"Drop your weapons, or the boy dies."

The words roared across the still surging conflict cutting through the fog of combat focus that lay thick on Arthur's mind. Registering them almost too late, Arthur only just managed to halt the momentum of his swing his blade's edge resting across the broad shoulder of the giant.

Lungs heaving Arthur glanced towards the source of the call- A short burly man with dark curly hair and a thick beard standing several strides away on the edge of the roaming skirmish. He was fisting a handful of Merlin's hair, the point of a dagger pressed against the manservant's bared throat.

The tide of battle fury inside him bayed like hounds for Arthur to ignore the words, to finish this man who'd dared to challenge him. It was a primal beast calling for blood and it was one which Arthur had trained long to master. Cursing under his breath he roared an order to disengage, pulling his sword back hurriedly, rising to his feet as the fights around him each gradually broke apart.

Their bloodied attackers withdrew and regrouped to surround the circle of knights, giving them a wary berth. Calculating, hesitating, Arthur didn't give the order for his knights to disarm.

Eyes again finding Merlin, Arthur watched as the gangly boy was forced first to his knees then down still further, the boot of his tormentor grinding his face into the dirt with casual cruelty. Still, Arthur couldn't deny a flood of relief; the manservant's hands were bound behind his back, and he was being roughly handled, but otherwise Merlin appeared unharmed. The terrible images of gore and injury that Arthur had conjured over the last several days were eased.

The bearded man standing on Merlin's head gave Arthur a jaunty wave, the act so incongruous to the situation it made Arthur blink. "Welcome to Dyfed your highness- the name's Berwyn and I'll be your host. It's time for you to disarm."

"What mess have you gone and gotten us into this time, Merlin?" Intoned Arthur evenly, ignoring the man, buying time as he calculated searching desperately for another way out of the situation.

As soon as their weapons were out of their hands, they lost most of their options, and all of the good ones.

Expecting Merlin to respond with something stupid and recklessly brave as usual, Arthur nearly did a double take at the tight and fearful voice which emerged from his servant.

"Help me, Arthur!"

Merlin had never begged in fear. He hadn't thought the boy to be capable of such an act, as willful and stubborn as he was. Brave even, to a fault. Arthur's grip on his sword tightened as a coal of rage lit in his chest- what had they done to make Merlin's courage abandon him?

At his continued hesitation Berwyn let out an exaggerated sigh. "And here I was hoping we could settle this like civilized folk."

Dropping a knee to the back of Merlin's head his arm flashed out, burying his dagger a few inches into the meat of the boy's upper arm. The attack elicited a shriek of surprise and pain from the manservant who thrashed under Berwyn's unyielding weight, a dark stain spreading on his jacket sleeve.

"How about this then; If you don't put your weapons down this instant, I'm going to make you watch as I skin your friend here." He pulled the blade down further through Merlin's flesh for emphasis, widening the wound, and the manservant's screams echoed through the forest.

"Enough!" thundered Arthur, dropping his sword hurriedly.

He signaled for the other Knights to comply and one by one, they each did the same. The moment they were disarmed each of them was seized, men jostling them around forcing them to their knees in a line, weapons swept away.

Merlin was writhing, back arching, voice high and piercing, face still pinned against the ground. "You stabbed me!"

Seizing him by the back of his jacket Berwyn hoisted Merlin to his feet roughly dusting off the front of his tunic "Only a little."

Conditioned from his youth to recognize the signs of impending violence Arthur's instincts were sharp. Still, even he didn't anticipate it when Berwyn's hand shot out, trapping a fistful of Merlin's hair moving in a single breath from what could even have been a friendly gesture to one of force.

Using his grip to anchor Merlin in place Berwyn stepped behind him and, reaching around, brutally slashed the length of his dagger across the young man's throat. A yawning chasm opened in Merlin's flesh, a gory wound running nearly ear-to-ear, fountaining blood.

The reflexive horror that bubbled in Arthur's chest was trapped, frozen in place by a mind struggling to accept the evidence of his own eyes. The sun danced playfully through the canopy above as it was stirred by a breeze, blinding him for a brief instant. Blinking to clear his vision Arthur heard as though from a great distance his knights shouting, screaming, but in his ears their voices were nearly drowned out by thick, wet, choking gurgles.

Why were they shouting?

"Nothing personal, you understand" Berwyn drawled, "I have this thing about loose ends, just call me a cautious man."

Berwyn released his hold, and Merlin slumped to the ground.

Pulse roaring in his ears, fingertips numb, Arthur's eyes tracked the movement. Followed the descent of the convulsing body of his manservant. The body of his friend.

No.

Time slowed to a crawl as he hurled himself forward. A moment of resistance as his captors tried to hold him. With a heave he was free. Scrambling forward on his hands and knees to Merlin's side, "I'm here, I've got you!"

Arthur fumbled with the scarf still tied around Merlin's neck. Pulling it up, using his palms to press it tightly against the wound as a kind of makeshift bandage. No use. Immediately the scarf was soaked through, thick blood seeping inexorably up between his somehow steady fingers with every beat of Merlin's heart. His friend's eyes were glazing over, staring with sightless terror.

The blood was everywhere.

"No!" The sound of impotent protest of the unfairness of it all ripped itself from Arthur's throat. "You didn't- he wasn't- no!"

Hands, pulling at him, dragging him away ripping him from Merlin. He roared, fighting like a wild creature, clawing, kicking, shouting Merlin's name. Trying to reach again for his dying friend.

Quickly Arthur was overwhelmed, pinned to the ground, men piling on top of him squeezing the breath from his lungs and forcing him to silence. Pebbles ground into his cheek, he could taste blood and dirt in his mouth. It was all he could do to gasp in shallow sips of air.

Berwyn's voice drifted to him as though from a great distance, "Arthur Pendragon you have crossed the border of your own free will. You and your entourage are trespassing on Dyfed's lands. In accordance with the law, you will be bound and taken to Queen Líadan Morcant. She will decide your fate. Unlawfully resist any further, and it will be considered an act of war."

Half crushed under their weight Arthur watched, helpless, as Merlin died without even a friend to hold his hand.

Chapter Text

Several hours previous

Lying on his back, eyes closed, Merlin's head rested in someone's lap as cool fingers traced lightly over his face. The pleasant lick of warm sunlight played across his body as long grass tickled the bare skin of his arms, and in the distance he could hear the gentle lapping of water on a bank.

Birds sang, and a strangely familiar voice hummed above him. It was low, soothing, drifting on the edge of his memory.

A throbbing began in the front of his left shoulder, deep and insistent. Pushing it away Merlin focused instead on the touch, burying himself in the hypnotically delicious sensation. He had no way to be certain how long he lay drowsily content before his mysterious companion spoke, breaking the spell.

"It's almost time, child."

The voice was distinctly feminine but with an underlying resonance. It sounded to his ears as if several people were speaking at once blending to layer the croak of age seamlessly with the sweetness of youth.

"Time?" The words were heavy, his tongue uncooperative. The pain in his shoulder became harder to ignore. He kept his eyes closed, forcing his body to remain relaxed.

"Emrys… my handmaiden has begged of me a boon. Or she will, soon enough." The fingers drew lazy circles down his face, his neck, across his chest as the voice continued.

"There will be a price."

Her touch traced near his injured shoulder and Merlin flinched away reflexively. At his motion the hands, until then so gentle, crushed against him with surprising strength. Talon like nails bit into his chest digging into his flesh. The sweet touch became instead a restraint, a command, pressing on his ribcage. Startled he tried to open his eyes and found his body unresponsive. Alarm was a distant concept, hazy and detached even as a part of him understood he should be feeling it.

It's more than that, he was certain now he'd never heard the voice before. Regardless, he wanted to please her. Something ancient inside of him reached for her.

I want her approval.

A spark of fear now, like torchlight reaching him faintly through a heavy fog. Who was she?

As though reading his thoughts a low chuckle rumbled above him, and it was as if the sound was a drink of fresh water and he a parched wanderer dying from thirst. "Shhhh, there, there pet. You and I will have an eternity to get to know one another better. For now, you need to… wake up!"

Without warning the fingers thrust deep into his shoulder, directly into the center of the radiating pain, plunging into his flesh.

Merlin screamed; the sound muffled through a gag. Eyes flying open he shot upright. The muscles in both of his legs immediately protested the movement by seizing in a vicious cramp that stole his breath and prematurely choked off his shout.

Dear Gods, it hurt!

Falling back and slamming his eyes shut Merlin found his attention immediately preoccupied with taking short gasps of air through teeth clenched around the foul-tasting cloth in his mouth. Fighting through the waves of pain as his muscles spasmed awareness filtered to him of rough bonds at his ankles and wrists, further contributing to his disorientation.

He'd been dreaming but try as he might to grasp for the rapidly scattering tendrils of memory, he couldn't conjure more than a sense of… unease. It came paired with a brief ghostly sensation of fingers combing through his hair.

Where am I?

The fire in his legs faded to a sore ache, and he directed his attention outward. Leaves crunched as he shifted, and blinking eyes open he saw a sun dipping low on the horizon. A chill was stealing over the land, and he shivered realizing his jacket and scarf were both gone.

It appeared he was still in the forest then, but with no sign of any of his companions. Blinking harder he attempted to clear his vision, but his eyes stubbornly continued to drift in and out of focus.

A befuddled glance confirmed that he was indeed bound at both wrist and ankle, and his left shoulder felt like it had been struck by a blacksmith's hammer. Looking down he squinted at a row of rough stitches in this flesh, holding closed a bloody wound in the innermost front of his shoulder, right above his armpit.

That's not supposed to be there he thought, barely restraining a giggle.

Sluggishly Merlin strained to conjure the memory of what had transpired. Gwaine was asking him something about flowers then… he had been shot! Tumbling down the hill he'd been standing still on like a deer in one of Arthur's hunts. Stunned by the fall, he'd been seized and… and a… face. One that looked like his.

Becoming aware of voices Merlin twisted toward the sound, mindful not to roll onto his injured shoulder.

"What have you done? I feel… funny." He mumbled thickly, his cheek dropping to rest against cool damp earth.

Or at least, he tried to mumble. As he went through the motions of speech it came out unintelligible even to him.

Oh that's right- I'm gagged, how silly of me. Another giggle came, and again he bit it back. That was odd, he didn't giggle. Arthur would say it was undignified.

"How far from the border then?" said a short man with an accent Merlin had never heard before that slurred his words into a drawl.

Stumpy's companion crouched on the forest floor a few paces away, her eyes shimmering with a glaze of magic. Peering into a stone bowl held in both of her hands, she swirled its contents thoughtfully. "Perhaps two days ride."

Merlin tried to sit up, but his strength abandoned him and he fell back onto his side, this time the giggle that rose did bubble out of his lips. The two people speaking in low murmurs only feet away staunchly ignored him.

"Is a trap suspected?" Stumpy asked.

"All they can think about is rescuing the boy. The two injured knights will arrive back at Camelot in a few hours"

"I still don't understand why I can't just take them out, wounded birds would be an easy hunt. And two knights dead? That would demoralize them all nicely, especially their commoner Queen I bet." He snickered; voice full of glee at the thought.

The sorceress stood, finally looking away from the bowl now sitting on the ground at her feet as her eyes faded from gold to a bright green. "We don't need to understand, we just need to obey. If Camelot believes that it's King was merely waylaid hunting down unlucky slavers, they won't see the real threat. The news of their King's capture needs to be carefully timed."

"I think Berwyn would say- "

She cut him off, her voice cracking across his like a whip. "Stop thinking, that's not what we're paid for. It's all gone perfectly so far, and it will continue to do so as long as people like you don't start thinking."

The man's furious retort was lost on Merlin, who was replaying what he'd just heard over again in his head soaking in the implications with slowly dawning horror. Trying to marshal his thoughts he found them sliding away, refusing to line up properly. Each piece was there they just wouldn't… stay… put.

Trying again to get up this time he managed to roll up onto one elbow, and from there propped himself upright with his back against a log. It was the most his body could manage, and even that small effort left him breathless. He had to… magic.

"Magic!" He shouted into the gag, before stopping, confused, losing track of his plan as quickly as if it was water cupped in open fingers. His mind was tied in knots and stuffed with cotton, recalling him to the time he, Elyan, Percival, and Gwaine had stayed up late after the midwinter feast and together drunk a few too many bottles of ale. Only this was ten times worse.

For the first time the two individuals before him spared him a glance.

"The poppy tincture is wearing off sooner than we thought- he needs another dose," observed the sorceress.

"Get it yourself, wench" sneered her companion.

"If you insist on treating me like an irrational woman, I will show you what an irrational woman looks like, Odvar," she warned, voice cool.

Swearing at her, Stumpy, or Odvar as she'd called him, made a rude gesture with his hand before stomping off into the forest.

As she moved over to rummage in some saddlebags, Merlin remembered that Arthur was in trouble! He tried to stand up, promptly falling prone onto his side having forgotten all about his bindings.

"Poor lamb, you'll tear your stitches if you aren't careful." The sorceress said, her voice above him. Merlin hadn't realized his eyes had closed until they popped open again.

"Your King seems to care a great deal about you. Odd, you don't seem like anything special, or are you more like a favorite trained monkey."

He glowered.

A genuine laugh, and her smile was as beautiful and dangerous as a winter storm. "Don't look at me like that, love, it's just the job. Put it from your mind. Your misery will end soon enough. You can have the honor of serving your lord one last time by delivering the news of his fate."

She reached out and removed the gag from his mouth, pulling him into an upright position again before holding out a bottle.

"This is brandy mixed with a poppy tincture. It'll help with your pain and send you into a deep sleep. When morning comes you can slumber peacefully through your death."

Clearing his throat Merlin's voice came out in a croak. "Go jump in a bog."

Suddenly, Merlin recalled the plan he'd lost track of- magic! He reached out and touched her forehead calling up a sleep spell… and nothing happened.

His magic: he could feel it present, humming quietly in the deepest recesses of his body. Probing inside himself he found his power was as sluggish and disordered as his mind, ultimately failing to rise to his command.

So, instead, Merlin lurched forward and slammed the top of his head as hard as he could into her face. He heard the satisfying crunch of bone.

⌘⌘⌘

Gwen pulled her quill from the page and signed, turning over her hands. She surveyed the ink splotches marring the warm sepia color of her skin with thinly veiled frustration.

The other lords and ladies of the court seemed to have an uncanny ability to pen a letter and keep both their fingers and cuffs spotless. But, just like the callouses which roughed her hands and told the story of her life as a poor serving girl, these black spots set her apart from the rest.

Not that she minded, Gwen held no shame over the nuances of her past. But winning the respect of the ruling class with which she now rubbed shoulders had been an ongoing battle, and she understood how highly they viewed these superficial aspects of daily life. She thought it was obscene, but if learning these skills would remove even a small barrier and make the traditionalists in court more open to hearing the ideas which would bring about systematic change, then she could swallow her pride and pick her battles.

And yet, as seemingly insignificant as it was, this skill continued to evade her.

Abandoning her task with a sigh Gwen stood and went to the window of her and Arthur's chambers, peering out over Camelot, missing her husband. Night had fallen, the city now illuminated by hundreds of points of flickering torchlight, a mirror to the heavenly lights hanging in the sky. Sometimes she felt as alien and far away from the woman she used to be as the stars must be from the Earth. Other times, she felt all that separated her from that simple girl was the thin drape of velvet and silk in which she now dressed.

An urgent knocking interrupted Gwen's melancholy thoughts and she turned, smoothing her skirts before noticing she'd accidentally wiped the ink still wet on her fingers across the fine fabric. With a sigh of both defeat and resignation, she called for whoever it was to enter.

Her maidservant burst in, looking flustered and dipping a hurried curtsy. "M'lady it's- "

A messenger boy pushed past her, his face flushed and his breathing labored. "Your grace, Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival need to speak with you urgently. They're injured, they say it's about the- it's about your husband."

All thoughts of stars and ink fled as Gwen gathered the stained folds of red silk in her fists and ran.

⌘⌘⌘

They had beaten Merlin, soundly. In the case of the one called Odvar, he had also done so gleefully, if impersonally. The unpleasant man had sauntered unhurried back to the camp in response to the angry shout of the sorceress, and promptly shown him the business end of his boot.

"Can't even handle one drugged boy, Maeve?" Odvar had taunted, giving Merlin her name.

Merlin coughed and curled into a ball around his screaming ribs, blood dribbling from his split lips. He watched night fall through one half open eye as he faded in and out of consciousness. At one point he'd woken to find a small fire had been built to keep the biting cold at bay and he lay at the edge of its heat.

In ever increasing moments of lucidity Merlin harbored a secret grin, a defiant victory; he'd managed to empty the entire bottle of poppy tincture in the scuffle.

Maeve had shrugged when she'd realized, telling him he could suffer then. As if the tincture had been a kindness. As though it has been some gesture of vast benevolence and mercy, a tool for humane slaughter.

As the night wore on and the drugs and alcohol steadily worked their way from his system, his body became an increasing cacophony of pain even as his thoughts began to take on the semblance of order. They hadn't bothered to tether him; the cage of his own injured flesh a more effective bondage than any other they might have devised. His body felt warm, but still he shivered.

Now, Merlin held himself as still as possible and focused on breathing. Breathing. His ribs protested with every inhalation but if any ribs were broken, they were merely cracked. He had broken ribs before, he reflected, flashing back to a memory of a mace crashing into his chest, and a desperate scramble through the trees. Of Arthur, refusing to leave him behind.

That had hurt worse than this.

Probably.

His captives had engaged in spurts of conversation, but he had thus far been unable to glean any new information about what fate was to befall Arthur and his Knights.

Unfortunately, Merlin had learned what was in store for him. Come sunrise, he was to be tied to the back of a horse and his throat opened. To paint a certain picture, as Odvar put it. The perverse excitement in the man's voice had escalated as he'd described his plan to Maeve in the same way an artist might tell of a planned masterpiece. His words had lovingly painted the image of a tapestry of crimson spilling over the flanks of the white roan, a bloody banner heralding a declaration of war. The exact terms of that threat would be inked on a scroll and pinned to his body with a dagger.

They'd kept him alive, going so far as to tend his wound, only so they could bleed him at the right time to the right effect. He was a stage piece.

Heart throwing itself against the inside of his ribcage like a frightened bird, he tried to think of any way to escape. But without his magic, Merlin knew he was of little consequence.

Over and over, he would turn his attention inward, calling to the power he could still sense there. Was it wishful thinking alone that made it seem as though it was shifting more and more in response his summons?

Had something broken inside of him?

The idea tightened his throat and made him feel very small indeed. His lungs seemed desperate to draw in every last ounce of cold air they could, as though trying to pack a lifetime worth of breathing into the next few hours before dawn. In and out, his breath ghosting before his face, scraping nails of ice down his parched throat.

This is no good, he thought angrily, fighting to master the panic thrumming through him. He'd heard Gaius mention in passing once that there were dangerous substances which could quicken or repress the flow of magic. The old physician had then staunchly deflected Merlin's further questioning on the subject, saying it was no use anyways as they were all much too dangerous. But wasn't it far more likely, then, that he'd accidentally stumbled across one such substance?

At last, after ages of increasingly frantic prodding, he felt it. Like an ancient beast waking from a nap, yawning, stretching, raising its head, his magic slid lazily from the deep well inside his center to answer his call.

He breathed out, then back in. Slowly. Releasing his fear, shaping his intent. Quietly, even though the agony was now singing in his battered body and limbs. Merlin smiled.

I'm coming, Arthur.

⌘⌘⌘

The last embers of the fire crackled, hissing as they fought to stay alive. Dawn was approaching rapidly, and the stars faded as if swept away in anticipation of the wave of oncoming light.

Merlin rolled into his stomach and somehow started crawling, pulling himself across the ground with his uninjured arm. He could crawl, good. Part of him noted clinically that he hadn't broken his arms or his legs, good. Good.

As he inched forward, he passed the bodies of Maeve and Odvar. Both limply sprawled where they had landed, Merlin's spell having batted them through the air like the hand of an invisible giant.

Merlin reached the contentedly grazing horses five or ten minutes or a year later, he couldn't be sure. Warm brown eyes peered down at him, curious. The ivory mare snorted, tossing her head and whinnying as though laughing at the sight of this human crawling on its belly.

Gritting his teeth in determination, fixing his goal in his mind's eye, Merlin murmured quiet reassurance to the mare as he rose to his knees and steadied himself on the horse's tack. Then, pressing palm to stirrup, he levered himself slowly to his feet. Standing for a moment his eyes fixed in dread on the saddle. Taking her reigns he managed to haul himself up her flanks, wheezing and grunting in the effort.

As much as he longed to ride after Arthur, Merlin wasn't so deluded as to believe he could do anything in his current state. His best chance was to return to Camelot.

Surely, Gwen would know what to do.

Gripping the ivory mare's harness in one white knuckled fist he laid his other palm down on her neck, calling to his power. It swelled within him, and he felt a surge of exhilaration at the familiar sensation.

"Cum vento sub pedibus tuis, me domum fere."

With little warning she lunged forward, and he turned his full concentration towards staying on. Hanging on with grim determination in the light of a new day he galloped back towards Camelot, and away from Arthur.

⌘⌘⌘

Gwaine and Percival both had been lingering in the courtyard for almost a full day since the morning after they had returned. In hushed voices they now were weighing the merits of technically committing treason by disregarding Gwen's orders to stay put. She had listened to their story intently, asking several questions, before sweeping off to do… well he wasn't entirely sure, but certainly something important. Arthur was a quite a hands on and involved ruler. Their queen had been left as the sole monarch in his bursts of absence enough times to have a comfortable understanding of things.

Gaius had seen to them both, quickly and efficiently. He'd given them each potions to help with their pain and even the persistent dizziness, but unfortunately the only cure would be rest and time. The physician had lingered with them in the courtyard for several hours, his old eyes anxious and solemn under thick brows. But when he had finally been able to ignore his duties as court physician no longer, he had retreated to his workroom.

The guards on watch at the gate had likely been notified of the situation, as they both showed a keener interest in the two knights than Gwaine would have liked. It would be tricky to slip out unnoticed.

Suddenly a horn trumpeted an alarm, and Gwaine spun, Percival gripping his arm in warning. There was urgent shouting and the sound of hooves, a single rider barreling into view up the main road toward the citadel. Gwaine's surge of hope was doused by the sight of the lone horse. If it was Arthur returning as he'd vowed there would be… well, he couldn't remember exactly through his brain fog but there would be more riders than one.

The ivory steed burst through the gate, the lone figure sagging forward in the saddle. The horse slowed to a trot as it approached the center of the courtyard, and to his shock and confusion Gwaine recognized even through a mass of blood, swollen flesh, and bruises, Merlin. The boy must have tied himself to the saddle at some point because ropes made of what at first glance appeared to be ivy were all that kept him on his horse.

The mare wasn't in very good shape either, eyes wide and rolling, flanks heaving, soaked with sweat as though she had run for miles without stopping.

Percival bellowed orders to the guards, as he and Gwaine rushed forward. Gwaine paused for an instant as he realized it was not in fact vines which held Merlin in place but what appeared on closer inspection to be roots. Setting the oddity aside for examination at another time he cut the thick things holding Merlin in the saddle as Percival lifted him down, cradling his body to his chest more gently than his vast frame might have lead anyone to believe possible.

"Merlin!"

Merlin didn't respond, his forehead glistening with sweat. Stomach churning at the sight of his friend's injuries Gwaine felt at the boy's throat, searching for a pulse and letting out a breath of relief when he felt an unsteady flutter against his fingertips.

"Is he…?" Prompted Percival when Gwaine didn't immediately provide an answer.

"He's alive," confirmed Gwaine, relief rapidly giving way to concern as he registered how hot Merlin's skin felt. Placing a hand on Merlin's forehead he confirmed that the boy had a scalding fever.

Merlin who had so far been unresponsive suddenly jerked, eyes going wide, gaze hazy and unfocused as he gasped weakly, "A herald of war- you must… Gwen…"

Eyes rolling into the back of his head Merlin's entire body tensed, before finally going limp.

Without another word Percival set off towards Gaius's chambers, moving as fast as he could without unnecessarily jostling the injured manservant.

A guard had been sent to find the Queen already, but Gwaine paused long enough to grab a serving boy. He had promised the startled boy a piece of silver if he was swift about it, before hurrying after Percival. An unarmed child who was properly motivated would be much more efficient than a guard in mail and armor.

Gaius's chambers looked like a simple place, every surface cluttered with scrolls and books, bottles and herbs. It smelled sharply of sage; a fresh bundle of the stuff now abandoned on the worktable.

When Gwaine stumbled in, a patient cot had already been swept out and Merlin laid upon it. Gaius had descended on the boy and was in the process of peeling back his shirt, inspecting an angrily swollen wound in Merlin's shoulder. Percival was hovering against one wall, eyes solemn.

"This wound is infected, badly."

Gwaine's initial shock at the sight of Merlin had faded and had started building steadily to rage. The boy looked like someone's favorite punching bag. Moving to stand on the other side of the cot from Gaius, Gwaine found himself experiencing a rare phenomenon; he was lost for words.

Gaius's gnarled fingers brushed across Merlin's injuries, taking inventory. "Whatever he was shot with missed anything of real importance. Someone stitched it, but not well. I need to remove this thread and clean it out."

"Why isn't he dead?" wondered Gwaine, thinking aloud.

"Would you prefer him to be so?" snapped Gaius, his worry breaking through the cool, practical mask of the court physician like the lash of a whip across Gwaine's skin.

"Of course not!" Percival soothed. "I think Gwaine just meant… how is he here?"

He shot Percival a grateful look, "Yes, that."

Had Merlin managed to escape, but missed the others on his flight back home? His memories of Merlin's kidnapping were hazy, but Gwaine tried to remember if Merlin had been shot at that point.

Gaius nodded jerkily, still terse. "We'll have to wait until he wakes up to know Merlin's side of the story, I have no doubt it will be very insightful."

Percival and Gwaine traded worried looks. When might that be?

Suddenly Gwen burst through the still open doorway, making them both twitch in surprise.

Rushing over, she nudged Gwaine out of her way with surprising strength, dropping to her knees at Merlin's side. Large brown eyes glistened unnaturally bright as she took in the sweat, blood, bruises, and labored breathing of their friend.

Tenderly she laid a hand on Merlin's forehead, smoothing his damp hair away from his face before glancing up at Gaius. "He's going to be alright?"

"He's very weak, but I believe so."

Letting out a long breath Gwaine combed one hand through his hair like he often did in times of stress.

Chewing on her lower lip in a rare show of open anxiety Gwen nodded and stood, withdrawing a clean rag from a small pile. Stepping to a ceramic pot full of drinking water, she dipped the cloth into it before returning along with a stool. Sitting she leaned in, drawing the cloth across Merlin's forehead.

On his other side Gaius was leaning in, using a long thin pair of tweezers and a small blade to cut and tease out bits of thread from the wound.

"Gwaine," said Gaius, intent on his work, "take the jugs from table there and go fetch us some fresh water. When you return, we will need to boil it. Percival, will you hand me some fresh bandages from the cabinet next to you? No- the other one-"

Many would have protested, arguing that they were knights, and such things were below their dignity. Work far beneath them, fit only for servants. Gwaine, however, accepted the task without hesitation and hurried from the room.

Chapter Text

-One Month Before-

Torches flickered with an eerily green flame, illuminating the throne room of Dyfed. Green and bronze banners spiraled down from soaring stone arches, the white silhouette of an osprey with its wings and talons spread wide visible on their face. Nearly all the length of the Kingdom’s northern edge bordered the sea, and the air was thick with the scent of salt and something nameless, but which felt as ancient as the old religion itself.

Queen Líadan Morcant sat erect on a large throne of intricately carved wood. Its surface was inlaid with delicate silver patterns of waves and wondrous ocean beasts. An inexperienced eye would have been quick to dismiss it, believing the wood, however fine, to be a humble material. But anyone who had dealt in the world of fine treasures would recognize the distinctive red purple hue of peltogyne wood. Worth a thousand times its own weight in gold due to the difficulty in harvesting it, as well as the distance from which it had to be imported. An effort which any merchant charged a ruinous price for.

It was a sly display of both influence and power, worthy of the Queen. Nothing less could be expected from a woman who had maintained her rule even after the death of her husband through an iron will and strong charisma.

She sat, resplendent in her throne, back straight and chin high. Long silver hair tumbled over her shoulders, and she was clad in a silk gown the deep green color of the sea before a storm. The bodice and the cuffs of the gown were embroidered with silver knot work in thread as fine as her hair. Age had carved weary furrows into her sun-tanned face, yet it had stolen none of the intelligence which shone from eyes as blue as the cerulean depths of the ocean.

A figure shrouded in darkness knelt before the throne. Two guards flanked the Queen on either side, eyes trained on the visitor. Weapons drawn, they stood in the deceptively relaxed posture of highly trained men who were ready for immediate and brutal action. Aside from those four figures, the grand room was notably empty.

After a long silence in which she contemplated the still kneeling form, the Queen spoke. “Your proposition is bold. And it would come at no small risk to my Kingdom.”

The Queen gestured for the figure to rise.

Gracefully, she did. “Pardon me for speaking frankly but I’m surprised by your hesitation. Your son had led me to believe, even all these years later, your belly would burn for revenge.”

A face flashed behind Líadan’s eyes, hair the color of rich ochre, eyes as dazzling as the summer sky. The edges of the memory were faded with time and sorrow.

“And so it does,” she agreed. “And yet I am more than a woman bereft. I am, first, a Queen. My people look to me for safety and security.”

“Voice your concerns and perhaps I may provide reassurance.”

“As satisfying as it would be- I’m uncertain what you expect of me. The Kingdom of Gawant is a close ally of Camelot’s. Should we capture and then put their King to death without just cause or due process, chivalry and honor both would demand they avenge their ally. They would flood in to crush us against the sea as Camelot’s army cut off any escape to the East. I am not blinded to the consequences of acts of rage and vengeance.”

Putting a subtle emphasis on the word “I”. Líadan knew the words would stoke the fury and wounded pride of this woman. She watched closely. The Queen was keen enough to recognize when someone was trying to use her. Perhaps, if this one knew how to play the game, they could use each other.

Eyes lowered demurely, a gesture entirely incongruous with the defiance and anger shining there. A nod of acknowledgment. “I understand that their alliance has thus far stayed your hand. But even the most noble of allies will not march to war for a lost cause… not if you give them an out.”

Expectant silence, a raised eyebrow.

“If he is condemned following the very tenants of honor and chivalry, then your position will hold. Accuse Camelot of being the aggressor- assert self-defense, that he attacked your men on your lands. Naturally this will be challenged, and with the word of one monarch against the other and no unbiased witness you will engage in a wager of battle. Your champion versus Camelot’s, where the winner of the fight is proclaimed by ancient law to be speaking true. I will fight as your champion. Your victory will be assured, and you can rightly take Arthur’s head. No one would dare to challenge the results of such a sacred tradition, whether it pleases them or not.”

A tenuous argument indeed, but Líadan knew King Godwyn well. Loyal and honorable he may be, but war was no small proposition. The trial by combat might just be a loophole to exploit. “What would you want in return?"

The woman's answer was swift and full of vicious anticipation, "I would ask to be the one to execute Arthur Pendragon and his Knights, in your name. On the field, immediately after the fight, where all may bear witness. A harsh punishment to be sure but trespassing and attacking one’s own men is a grievous crime.”

"You seem certain that they will accept the challenge of single combat. I’ve heard Guinevere is no fool, why would she do such a thing with these stakes?”

"It will be you who accepts their challenge, Queen Morcant. I have a man among Camelot's ranks. It will he be who presents the idea to her. She will be desperate to get her husband back and to avoid war. Your preliminary armies will meet, and she will be the one to seek an audience with you.”

There was a long silence as Queen Líadan considered. “I make no guarantees, this all hinges on their blind pursuit of a servant into my land. Should they fail to follow, there is no foundation for your plot.”

A bitter sneer curled the hard face half cradled in shadow. "It is obscene what any one of them would do for that particular servant.”  

Chapter Text

Pacing his prison like a restless hound, Arthur examined the bars for any flaw. From what they’d been able to ascertain through hushed conversation each member of their party had been confined to individual cells. They had also been placed along either side of the dungeon block, an empty compartment between each man.  

The torch lit room around him was simple: stone walls and a sturdy, iron grate. The floor was composed of hard packed dirt scattered with straw and a bucket propped in the corner to collect a prisoner’s waste. The place was decently clean, as far as dungeons went. Still, the air carried an undeniable perfume of ocean salt, human filth, and misery. 

He examined their circumstances with the eye of a strategist. Presumably a few days now had passed since their initial capture, his best guess being they’d been drugged to keep them quiet and complicit during transportation to Dyfed’s dungeon. Arthur had initially woken with a pounding headache in a disheveled heap on the floor of his cell, his last memory- 

Merlin’s throat opening, gaping wide, bright gore fountaining over the already scarlet scarf deepening the color grotesquely to an almost black-

Blinking hard he dragged his hands down his face, fighting to dispel the images pressing on his mind. They’d been stripped of both their weapons and their armor…

Armor clad figures piled atop him, crushing him, grinding his face against the dirt packed road. Dust stinging his eyes as he fought to reach for his dying friend-

Clenching his fist Arthur dug his nails into his palm until the physical sensation grounded him once more in the present. Continuing his inspection of the cell he brushed aside hay to see the bars were buried, hammered into the dirt floor and ceiling. He dug the toe of his boot at the bottom; trying to make a hole and finding the iron reached too deep. 

“What do you think they plan to do with us?" Elyan’s voice asked, drifting to Arthur from out of sight. 

Across the passage and to one side he could see Leon leaning against the bars of his own cell. Meeting his gaze the senior knight’s serious eyes were dark with unvoiced concern. Arthur looked away, refusing to acknowledge the unasked questions there. “I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“And you’ll do what, have a nice and civil conversation with the Queen?” Gareth’s voice now, uncharacteristically sharp. “A knight is dead! Slaughtered like an animal.” 

Though Arthur hadn’t known him well, Emmanuel had been a promising knight. Born to a cobbler he’d stood out during his testing; demonstrating an enthusiasm for teamwork and a willingness to accept feedback Arthur rarely saw from young men. His death weighed heavily on the King’s conscience. His rage, usually slow to stir, rose now like a striking serpent, “I remember the cost as well as you!” 

Rather than backing down Gareth’s own anger leapt to meet his. “None of this would have happened if you weren’t willing to trade a knight for a pawn!” 

“Enough!” Thundered Leon in a tone he usually reserved for the battlefield. “Bickering among ourselves will get us nowhere. Hold your tongue, Gareth. I understand you grieve for Emmanuel, but nobody here is responsible for his death. Besides…”

Again, his eyes flicked briefly towards Arthur. “Emmanuel’s was not the only life lost.”

Arthur threw himself back from the bars, heat pounding in his forehead. Shame, confusion, grief, all of it swirled unchecked within him. Retreating to the back wall of his cell and what little privacy the shadows offered, he ran through the events of the ambush over and over again, obsessing over what he may have done differently. Searching for how he might have saved his people. For why his manservant might had addressed Berwyn with familiarity. 

It was only then he realized- the remnants of dried blood still coating his hands, his arms, his clothes….belonged to Merlin. 

Seizing handfuls of straw Arthur began, almost frantically, to scrub at his skin. 

⌘⌘⌘

It took three days for Merlin to open his eyes. It was still another half a day after that before he recovered enough to speak. 

The entire time Gaius hovered around his ward like a broody hen, leaving only at Gwen’s insistence that he get some fresh air. Three times a day he cleaned Merlin’s shoulder, wiping away the pus and flushing the wound with boiled vinegar before reapplying a thick poultice of mixed herbs, honey, and clay to continue to draw out the infection. He also spread bruise balm over nearly every inch of Merlin’s body, tending the swollen, split, and bruised flesh left by the beating. 

Under his careful ministrations, Merlin’s fever finally broke. 

The first thing he had done after regaining his senses was to devour a loaf of fresh bread from the kitchen. Between famished bites, he told his tale to Gaius. The Physician had banned any visitors until Merlin had had the chance to eat something, but warned Merlin that if they took much longer Gwaine would likely resort to crawling through the window. So, quickly, Merlin had described in as much detail as he could remember his kidnapping in the forest, his stint in captivity, as well as his subsequent escape.

This story was then repeated to a solemn Gwen, keeping the details of his escape vague enough to remove any reference to magic. The Queen’s tired eyes grew darker as the story unfolded, mouth pressing into a tight line.

“Then it is as we had feared, this was all a trap.”

She held out a scroll “This was found in the saddlebags of the horse you rode in on. It details a challenge from Her Grace Líadan Morcant, sole monarch of Dyfed. She asserts that Arthur led a small war party, unprovoked, onto her lands-”

“But that’s a lie!” Merlin burst out furiously, interrupting her. His hands gripped the blankets over his knees so hard his knuckles went white. 

Gwen continued grimly, “She also claims that, when discovered and confronted, Arthur attacked her men, including her son. Because of this they have been arrested and imprisoned, awaiting trial. It ends with a warning that any interference from Camelot in her pursuit of justice will be taken as a declaration of war.” 

“But she can’t, they can’t do this!” protested Merlin, looking back and forth from Gwen to Gaius. 

“I’m afraid she can, it’s her word against Arthur’s,” sighed Gaius, concern written in the tension furrowing his brow. 

Gwen reached out to squeeze Gaius’s arm. “We’ve arranged a meeting to negotiate with Queen Morcant, but she hasn’t given us much time to prepare. I’ve called on our vassals to fulfill their military obligations, already the first of their number are arriving. And while I know Arthur would disapprove, I’ve also extended employment to any sell swords and mercenaries in the city. We don’t have time to be picky. It’s my full intention to avoid a battle, but we will show we are prepared should it come to that. And we will not take the imprisonment of our people lightly.” 

Another three days later and Merlin, Gwaine, and Percival had all officially been declared ‘recovered enough to be involved’ by the physician. 

All three were sporting stitches: Percival in a gash on his arm, Gwaine on the back of his head, and Merlin in his shoulder, across the bridge of his nose, and several in his lip. Merlin hated stitches. They itched constantly, even despite the soothing salve Gaius had given him. 

Gwaine had been inconveniently attentive; constantly offering to help Merlin change his bandages, not letting him carry heavy loads, and overall hovering to the point of endearing frustration. Merlin had taken the first chance he’d had to heal his ribs, but he knew even without Gaius’s warning that were his shoulder wound to simply vanish as if by magic, it would certainly be noticed by his friend. The look in the knight’s eyes as he persistently mothered him, combined with the way Merlin would catch Gwaine staring at his still fading bruises, made him suspect the man was blaming himself. Although any time he had tried to talk with the knight about it, he had found a convenient way to dodge the subject. And Merlin was too busy fretting over Arthur to pursue the matter as aggressively as he might have otherwise. 

He longed to jump on a horse and take off, riding straight into the heart of Dyfed to rip apart their castle stone by stone until he uncovered Arthur and the others. But Merlin knew he was no army, and he’d be going in blind. So instead he contented himself with riding out with the company to meet the armies gathering on the planes of Asgorath, positioned on either side of the border between Camelot and Dyfed. 

The royal convoy rode on ahead of the supply train and camp followers, moving fast. Still, it was a long and arduous trip to the valley, especially as Merlin’s body remained deeply bruised and battered. He tired quickly, relying heavily on the potions Gaius provided to give him the strength and endurance to keep up over a little less than a week of riding. Even then his shoulder wound reopened on the fourth day leading to Gaius exiling him to the back of the medicine cart. While he did find it an improvement to riding, with each clop of the horse's hooves he fantasized about making the trek in a carriage brimming with goose down pillows, rather than the ancient bouncing wooden monstrosity Gaius drove. 

When at last they arrived, it was to the sight of a camp of at least a thousand soldiers, along with perhaps an additional three hundred mercenaries and sell swords. The banners of many of Camelot’s noble lords waved proudly, the numbers already more than impressive for such a short notice.  

Despite this showing, visible in the far distance several miles away on the other side of the border, Dyfed’s gathered army dwarfed theirs. Merlin estimated maybe five thousand heads, outnumbering Camelot’s gathered forces by four to one. The sight made his gut clench. 

Following Gaius’s instructions Merlin managed to get the medical tent set up with assistance from two other castle servants, both looking as grim as he felt. Once they had finished and before Gaius could give him another chore he slipped away into the flow of the bustling camp. 

The smell of horses, leather, and sweat filled the chill midday air. Men called to each other in rough voices. The once grassy field beneath his feet had already been churned to dirt and smoke rose into the air from countless cookfires. As he was a servant of Camelot technically any of these nobles or knights could enlist his aid, and he hadn’t the time for distractions. So, grabbing an unattended bundle of firewood, he kept his head down, avoided eye contact, and walked as though he had a purpose. 

He passed a dozen great pavilions and at least a hundred fires, but with the directions from the other servants he passed Merlin managed to find his way to the royal tents. It was only upon arriving that he found they had been near enough the physicians own tent that he’d only gone and walked in a huge loop. Although tent hardly seemed adequate a word for this red cloth structure- Merlin had seen houses that were smaller than the massive sprawling thing before him.

So, this is war he thought. If it came to blows, how many of these people would never return home? The thought gave him a pang. He had to find a way to stop this. 

He stood before the guards at the front entrance of the tent, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I have a  uhm… a delivery from the court physician for the Queen.”

The guards looked from Merlin to each other, one snorting doubtfully. “Your delivery looks like a bundle of sticks, boy.”

“Oh, no I’m not delivering sticks,” he laughed uncomfortably. 

“Then what is it you’re delivering,” returned the guard, unimpressed. 

Merlin realized he’d backed himself into a corner; he had nothing else on him. “What I mean is, these aren’t sticks,” he said hoisting his bundle. 

“They’re a special… incense... That the Queen uses to help her sleep at night.” He plastered a smile as innocent and genuine as he could manage across his face. 

“Isn’t incense them tiny bits that smell funny when you burn them?” the other guard asked his companion, eyeing the bundle dubiously. 

The first guard, who at this point was looking entirely fed up, shook his head. “No, it’s-“

Merlin would never find out exactly what “it” was however, as at that very moment the tent flap pulled aside, and Gwen appeared. 

“It’s alright, let him enter,” she commanded, a twinkle of amusement in her eye. With sour looks at Merlin, the two guards did as commanded. 

Ducking inside he promptly abandoned his bundle of firewood, straightening and dusting off his hands. 

Gwen was dressed in a fine riding outfit of brown leather and crimson wool, a fierce golden dragon embroidered across her riding skirts. Her thick dark hair had been swept back in an elegant knot on the back of her head. A simple golden circlet rested on her brow, and she looked every stitch a queen. For a moment, Merlin became aware of how grubby and unwashed he was after a week on the road. Tugging his jerkin closed self-consciously over his sweat stained tunic he shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. 

Gwen didn’t seem to notice, gazing at a map of the area which had been laid out on a table in the center of the main room. Small colored blocks of polished wood marked the location of each army’s camp. 

"Gwen, I’m… so sorry. I should have stopped this from ever happening.”

She gave him an odd look before smiling sadly. “Come here and let me see you.”

He did as she asked and Gwen placed her hands gently on his cheeks, turning his face side to side. She studied the bruises which had faded now to a faint brown and yellow, brushing her thumb over the bridge of his nose where it had been split. 

She held his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You do more for Arthur than anyone. This was not your fault, Merlin.”

“They used me as bait. And your brother- Gwen he’s the only family you have left!” Guilt wracked his body in shudders, the full weight of what had happened crushing him.

“Their loyalty to you is not a weakness, no matter how our enemies have tried to twist it that way. We will get them all back.” 

Sighing, Gwen let go of his face and sat down in a luxuriously cushioned chair gesturing to another beside the first. Silently, Merlin joined her. "Many years ago, when I had only just become Morgana’s handmaiden, an envoy was visiting Camelot from Dyfed. Queen Morcant had sent her favored advisor, a man by the name of Edryd Carrow. He was both charming and handsome, and lady Morgana took to him quickly, as did many of the ladies of the court. But then Uther discovered he was a magic user. Against all counsel, full of wrath that a sorcerer had come into the heart of Camelot, he had the man executed. And then, in reckless fury,” Her voice grew quiet, dropping to almost a whisper. “He sent Queen Morcant Lord Edryd’s head in a box. Uther was certain she had been conspiring against him, that it had been an assassination attempt. He was beyond reason.”

Merlin was quiet, eyes wide, horrified at the barbarity of it. 

“The fault for what’s happened does not rest on you, Merlin. The seeds for this were planted long ago.”

Her eyes met his and he saw an uncharacteristic buckling there. Her spine slumped forward, eyes glinting with tears, fear slipping through the cracks of her iron composure. “But I don’t know… how to get them back. I don’t even know how to lead an army. None of the counselors trust me, they believe me to be a charlatan and a harlot. What if I can’t do it?” 

“I know you can!” The vulnerable slope of her shoulders called to something deep inside Merlin, causing him to ache. And wildly, recklessly, he knew what he had to do. He knew what he had to offer, how to help. 

He could give her a weapon. 

Heart pounding as though trying to burst free of his chest, Merlin squared his body in his chair to brace himself. "Gwen, I need to tell you something.” 

"What is it?"

"There's something that I can do, to help." He inhaled slowly, resisting the sudden urge to run that was stealing over him. Is this what a deer feels like, in the moments before it flees the hounds?

“Gwen, I - ”

Suddenly there was a voice from outside the tent, interrupting, "Excuse me, my Lady? The Lords you requested for the council are here."

Startled they both looked towards the entrance. Gwen glanced curiously at Merlin before answering, "Of course, just one moment. Merlin, can this wait? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how late it had become. I need to greet the nobles.”

The breath caught in his chest released. It felt like someone had snatched him back from the edge of a cliff a moment before tumbling off. Pulse slowing, hands unclenching, he forced a smile. “Of course.” 

He bowed and moved to leave but she caught his arm. “Will you stay?” 

Gwen’s eyes said what her voice didn’t, I’d like a friend here.

"They believe me to be a charlatan and a harlot."

“Of course I’ll stay.” 

Stepping back, Merlin moved to one side of the tent. He stood with his back against the canopy, hands clasped, head bowed. With no refreshments at hand to serve, he focused on being as unobtrusive as possible. 

Gwen gave a signal to the guards and finely dressed men filed in, their outfits practical for a battlefield but exquisitely made. The acting guard captain and several of the most senior of Camelot’s knights followed, and Merlin thought with a pang of how Leon should be among them. 

“First of all, my Queen, I wanted to say how relieved we all are by your safe arrival,” began one Duke in a thickly pompous voice, before descending into a long-winded formal introduction of each of the nobles. 

It only became more tedious from there. 

Try as he might, Merlin couldn’t seem to pay enough attention to follow the council’s conversation for more than a few seconds at a time. The politics of court had always bored him to tears, and he would typically spend his time daydreaming whenever he had attended meetings with Arthur. As much as he’d have thought a war council would be more exciting, it wasn’t. It was just as much posturing and empty platitudes as any other. 

His mind, well trained to wander, shifted to Arthur and the Knights. Why now? If what Gwen said was true and Queen Líadan had been nursing such a grudge for so long, why act now? And what did she believe her lies would accomplish? He combed through his memories of all he’d overheard in his time with Odvar and Maeve, trying to see if reframing any of it would bring some new insight to light. 

Merlin looked at his friend, studying her face as she listened to the lords debate and shout over strategy. Frowning, troubled, he could see the darkened circles under her eyes that hadn’t been there a week before. 

Suddenly a large man, hair black as pitch and oiled back, body clad in half plate, slammed his fist on the table for emphasis. “We should attack on the morrow! They outnumber us, but that is precisely why they won’t expect it. If we split our forces and encircle them here then we can-“ 

“That would be foolhardy,” sneered another voice. A tall Lord dressed in the colors of forest green and lemon-yellow stepping forward. “It’s clear that we should use stalling tactics and wait for a response from Gawant, they will be obliged to aid us. Queen Líadan will balk under our combined forces; she would have no choice but to surrender her prisoners.”

“We should be pulling conscripts from the city!” Another argued. “A boy old enough to swing a scythe can swing a sword.” A general murmur of consensus rose as this suggestion, the Lords all nodding to each other. 

“I will send a raven to-“

“No,” Gwen’s voice was at a normal volume, but it cracked through the room with authority, silencing the bickering. “We will not pull farmers from their fields to act as sacrificial pawns in a battle we may yet avoid.”  

“A commoner Queen would say that.” 

Merlin couldn’t tell who had muttered it, but from the looks in the eyes of the men standing around the tent more than a few agreed. The knights present shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Merlin made a careful mental note of each, rage simmering beneath his skin. They never would have dared be so bold if Arthur were here. 

Gwen remained undaunted. “A commoner Queen, perhaps. But have you considered, my Lords, who will finish the harvest and sew the fields for the next year if we take all the men and young boys from their work?”

Silence. Gwen’s eyes met Merlin’s, and he gave her the tiniest of nods. Keep going. 

“The women will be able to do a portion of the labor, of course, but they already toil alongside their husbands. And when the snow comes and the harvest rots in the field, will it be your children who cry from the hunger gnawing in their bellies? When the ground is too frozen to plough and the next year’s harvest remains unplanted, will it be your aging fathers and mothers who walk into the woods so that their grandchildren may have one more mouthful?” Gwen stood tall and made eye contact with each Lord in turn until they looked away, none were able to hold her gaze. 

Gwen continued, more quietly now. “Their only purpose would be to die. Each of you has taken an oath to protect the subjects of this Kingdom in the name of the Crown. Perhaps you now believe yourselves above the very oaths you swore?”

When again Gwen received only silence, she continued in a voice that rang with quiet authority and profound dignity. “My husband would rather die than have his freedom bought with the blood of his people. I cannot command your respect, my Lords, but I demand you do your duty. And if any of you cannot manage to do so with a civil tongue in your head, then I will replace you with someone who can.”

Pride roared like a dragon in Merlin’s chest, and he couldn’t suppress a fierce smile. She was a fine Queen, indeed. 

A new voice spoke up. “We have all shamed and dishonored ourselves by entertaining such poor conduct, my Queen. I, for one, offer the sincerest apologies.” 

A young noble stepped forward and went down on one knee before Gwen. He had bright blonde hair cascading in curls around a sharp featured face, brows furrowed and eyes downcast in seemingly genuine remorse. 

Gwen’s demeanor did not soften as she looked at him. “I’m afraid insults and apologies alike hold little currency for me when my husband and his loyal knights remain imprisoned, Lord…”

“Kylar, your majesty. Kylar Balcom. You perhaps knew my late father, Marquess Meurig Balcom.”

“I was sorry to hear of his passing.”

“Your condolences honor my family, my Queen.”

Finally, Gwen relented, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. “Rise and tell me, Marquess Balcom, what is it that you’d have me do?” 

The young man didn’t hesitate, resoundingly confident and calm as he straightened. “Ideally, we free our King without any battle. If it does come to war, what prevents her from simply executing them? Líadan lies about the charges, of course, but it is our King’s word against hers. That is a pointless argument and offers only a standstill. She may be content to have our King rot in her dungeons but I for one am not!” His voice rose with the passion of his words, and Merlin could see the others around him nodding, caught up by his fervor. 

The young man continued, arms spread, “So drag the truth into the light, challenge her to a trial by combat! Camelot’s champion to duel against theirs, let the Gods show us all their judgement, and their favor.”

His ringing proclamation was met with approving murmurs as each lord turned to his neighbor to confer. Even Merlin felt the excitement of it. He understood little of strategy, but it sounded like the perfect solution. And in a trial by combat Camelot’s knights were the finest in all the lands, each trained by Arthur himself. 

Gwen, however, had eyes only for Kylar. “Your suggestion reflects the wisdom of your father.”

She turned from Kylar to address the room at large. “Time grows short my Lords, thank you for your input. I will take your suggestions under advisement. For now, I believe I have heard all I need.” 

“My Queen surely there is more to discuss -” began one man dressed in furs of black and white, looking ruffled and indignant at the sudden dismissal. 

“You are my counselors; you have given your counsel. Now I will make my decision. Leave me.”

“Are they always that polite?” murmured Merlin sardonically, once the last of them had gone. A chill was stealing through the air as the day came to a close, so he knelt to begin a fire in the brazier. Stiffness clung stubbornly to his limbs as he did so, causing him to wince slightly. What he wouldn’t give for a hot bath. 

Gwen gazed into the burgeoning flames; eyes unfocused as her thoughts took her down paths Merlin couldn't guess at. 

“Believe it or not, for many of them their spite is born out of the love they hold for their King. They remember my… indiscretions and believe Arthur should never have taken me back. They believe I will disappoint him, betray him, again. And I cannot say that I blame them.”

She sighed, looking weary beyond her years. “All I can do is prove them wrong. I will not fault them for their love, or for their devotion.” 

Merlin looked carefully at his hands as he worked at the second brazier. The memory of the pain she’d caused Arthur with her tryst with Lancelot was easy to recall. Merlin had been the one to take the brunt of Arthur’s misplaced anger, and the one to witness his grief in the quiet moments he'd thought nobody was watching. And, too, Merlin recalled the confusion and frustration he himself had felt towards her for her choices, as well as the disappointment. 

Gwen's voice jolted him from the unpleasant memories. 

“Earlier, what was it you had wanted to say?”

Insides seizing up he tensed, had he really been about to confess his magic before? Something about Gwen, her honesty, her vulnerability, her kindness, made him want to spill his own deepest hurts and darkest truths into her gentle light. Surely, surely, she would understand. 

The moment hung, fragile, suspended between them. 

But when he opened his mouth to confess, to offer himself up to her mercy, the words failed him. The same fear which had lain like an invisible noose around his neck since the day he’d entered Camelot to see the brutal execution of a sorcerer tightened, strangling his voice. And the silence lasted long enough for his sanity to reassert itself. 

"I just- no it's nothing. I wanted to ask you a question, but I think I figured it out on my own.”

She looked doubtful but did not press him on it. Instead, she addressed their most crucial issue: what to do about Arthur. 

"So, tell me then, Merlin. What would you choose?”

Merlin found himself taken aback by her question, hesitating. Arthur never asked him his opinion on matters of politics, at least not directly. He’d always find some sideways way of asking of course. But a direct question, as though he weren’t a servant, but a confidant? An advisor? 

Her trust awoke a quiet, fragile longing in his chest. And it filled him with a shame as hot as an ember that he had refused to give her the same. Then again, how much freedom of speech did he really have with Gwen when it came to matters of ruling the kingdom? Was he overthinking this whole thing? 

She smiled faintly as though she had guessed his thoughts.

"I trust and value your opinion. You can speak freely to me, Merlin. I may be Queen now, but we've been friends since I was still a servant. My being Queen doesn't change that.”

A smile spread across his face, shoulders relaxing. Definitely overthinking it. 

So, he stood straight and met her gaze evenly. “You should initiate a trial by combat. We’re vastly outnumbered in a battle, and anything else risks her executing them as declared prisoners of war.”

Gwen was silent but Merlin could tell what she was thinking. “They're still alive, I can feel it! Besides, if they had been killed then their deaths would have been paraded. There are no good options, but it seems to be your best.” 

Nodding, Gwen clasped her hands in front of her, "I agree, though I wanted to see what your thoughts on the matter were. The meeting with Queen Morcant is at sun high tomorrow, we will send a small delegation to go meet hers in the no man’s land between our two camps. I want both you and Gaius to attend. Gaius, so he can assess her prisoners should she let us see them. As for you, she won’t know your face, but if you’re seen there then word will eventually reach her of your identity. If she doesn’t already know, then perhaps learning you survived will unnerve her. We need every edge we can get.” 

Chapter Text

Time held no meaning in the dungeon cells, and they soon became disoriented. The guards brought water and food but irregularly. If there was a pattern to when Arthur couldn’t discern it. The meager offerings of turnip stew, shriveled pulpy fruit, and stale bread satisfied their hunger but gave little energy. Neither would they suffer from a lack of water though the cups provided were too shallow to truly quench the thirst which had steadily set in. Often, they were left in the dark, their only light, whatever distantly filtered through the small window of the sealed door they’d been brought through.

Sitting against his cell wall Arthur contemplated the parched, cracked sensation slowly sinking in across his lips and tongue. His head sank down into his hands, thoughts turning yet again to his fallen men. Emmanuel: the young bright-eyed knight had been loyal and brave. He and Mordred had been the two most promising of Camelot’s new recruits. The young man’s blood was on his hands alone; he should have commanded Emmanuel to turn back at the border. Under normal circumstances, a novice never would have come on such a dangerous mission.

And Merlin… Merlin hadn't been just a servant; he'd been Arthur’s companion. Behind closed doors, he’d even been a confidant and advisor. Anyone who spent significant time in the citadel had witnessed the strangely amusing, and outright confusing, bond the two shared. Nobody else would dare challenge the King in the shameless and fearless way Merlin had done. Always in ways that pushed him to grow, and to think. He had a particular way of testing Arthur to be true to himself. Anyone else would have been shut in the stocks for their audacity. Only Merlin was permitted to do so because he was…well… Merlin.

Arthur had never really considered the thought of what would happen if his manservant were killed; mostly because the idea was so preposterous. Certainly, it had been a close call more than a few times. But that was what they did- mysteriously overcome impossible odds.

Merlin’s throat opening, gaping wide, bright gore fountaining over the already scarlet scarf deepening the color grotesquely to an almost black-

Arthur’s head snapped up, jolted from the memory. Reaching into his pocket he drew out the familiar red strip of fabric he'd retrieved from the forest floor. It was dusty, but nearly entirely free of blood. New questions flooded Arthur’s mind. Merlin’s scarf, discarded in his kidnapping, but then somehow back around his throat?

Gore fountaining over the already scarlet scarf deepening the color grotesquely -

The words that didn’t add up, the fear that didn’t make sense.

"Help me, Arthur!"

He didn’t know what it meant, but the inconsistency burrowed itself glaringly into the center of his thoughts.

Was it possible that Merlin-

With a bang, the drowsy monotony they had slipped into broke. The door at the end of the block slammed open, and Berwyn strode in trailed closely by four guards.

The hateful man no longer looked like a common bandit, his rough leather armor traded for a finely spun cotton tunic and breeches. They stopped before his cell and the gaze Arthur leveled on the group was sharp as a blade. “I’ve been demanding an audience for days now, what’s changed?”

“Stand up and turn around against the bars. Put your wrists together behind your back,” commanded Berwyn, ignoring the question.

With the mental image of Merlin’s death still lacing his vision, he complied. Subtly concealing the scarf under the hay he stood, hands spread to show he held nothing. Turning to bring his wrists together as he’d been instructed, he waited. The instant Arthur felt the touch of rope against his skin, he shot his own hands behind him, seizing hold of Berwyn’s sleeve cuffs and pulling hard. There was a satisfying thud of meat against metal before Arthur spun, releasing his grip and backing off. The blood running down Berwyn’s face from a fresh split above his eyebrow brought less satisfaction than he'd imagined it would. He wanted more than this man’s pain; he wanted his death.

The butt of a spear wielded by one guard lashed between the bars striking him in the stomach. The wind was driven from his body, doubling him over. Momentarily incapacitated Arthur could only grunt as the guards flung open his cell door and rushed in, overpowering him and forcing his hands behind his back. The jeering and shouting of the knights at the guards became a distant ringing in his ears as Berwyn struck him across the face with an open palm.

“Take him to the Queen.”

Swiftly he was bound and half dragged, half escorted from the cell. The four guards marched him along, swords drawn and raised. Berwyn trailed behind; his expression impossible to read.

Arthur offered no further resistance. Subduing them wouldn’t fix anything; another six would come running and at best he’d end up unconscious and chained in a deeper cell without even the hope of a candle. No, Arthur was a model prisoner, walking quietly with his wrists tied behind his back. He was getting exactly what he wanted.

The unfamiliar castle wound around him and soon he was hopelessly lost. The windows they passed were blindingly bright to eyes now used to the dark cells. Through harshly squinted lashes he was able to catch glimpses of a large expanse of sea. Inclining his head slightly towards the windows he could hear waves crashing against cliffs and the scream of gulls. Turning his focus back again to the castle, he concentrated on trying to memorize as much of his surroundings as possible. Should they manage to escape they would need to navigate these hallways.

Approaching a set of towering double doors with another pair of guards outside it, his escorts stopped so suddenly that Arthur nearly walked into one of the naked swords. Then he was being swept through; shoved into the room by Berwyn who shut the doors after him with a loud boom.

Centered in the hall before him sat a long and elegant dining table, heavy with food. Lady Morcant was seated neatly at the far end. A large dish of succulent-smelling boar with potatoes and greens was before her, a full plate loaded with the same fare several spaces down from her at the banquet table.

“Arthur, welcome, come and join me,” she said, gesturing to the empty plate. “I imagine you’re hungry.”

Stomach growling loudly at the scent he forced his eyes away from the intoxicating sight of the food. “Queen Morcant, your offer is generous but I’m afraid the hunger of my men would sour my enjoyment.”

“A drink then, to ease the way of our conversation. Wine? Ale?” Despite her casual tone and welcoming words her eyes never left him, hard as stone.

“I’m afraid I must again decline.”

“I insist.”

The rustle and clank of metal alerted Arthur to the looming presence behind him of a fully armored knight. An iron-clad hand clamped down on his shoulder, the powerful grip steering him to the empty place set at the table.

Arthur went, sitting down hard in the chair. He perched slightly forward, arms still bound behind him. “I’m afraid I’m a bit indisposed,” he said, indicating the restraints with a shrug of his shoulder, hoping she’d remove them.

The corner of her mouth quirked as she cut into her meat. “Sir Ward, if you wouldn’t mind, please assist our guest with his goblet.”

Arthur locked gazes with her as the knight raised the cup, pressing it to Arthur’s lips. The glint in her eyes clearly said she was taunting him. The sand texture of his tongue begged him to part his lips, to drink the chilled wine, to quench the thirst which seemed to be ever-present. But the thought of his knights fortified his will, and he kept his lips pressed closed as the rich red liquid in his goblet spilled down his chin. Sir Ward continued to pour until the entire goblet had been emptied onto his shirt.

“As stubborn and prideful as your father, I see,” her eyes dropped to her plate, and she began to eat. She took unhurried and deliberate bites.

Arthur couldn’t help but feel dismissed. Turning his chin to the side he wiped his face on his shoulder. “I’m growing tired of this charade. Let us speak with candor, my Lady, I’m not your guest. I’m your prisoner.”

The towering man behind him growled at Arthur’s rudeness but the Queen waved it off. “Whatever we may be, I wouldn’t be so hasty to dismiss such a kindness, Arthur Pendragon. This could be your last opportunity to eat a proper meal before you die.”

“I don’t make it a habit to dine with those who kill my men.” His words were stiff, the sudden rage behind them barely contained.

She in turn was unapologetic, confident in her position. “It was one man, you killed many more of mine when you resisted.”

Arthur dug his nails into his palms. “Two men and it’s different when it’s in cold blood.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Is it? Do they end up less dead?”

“We had the right to defend ourselves!”

“I’m sure their widows and children will sleep better knowing how, when caught trespassing, you were merely defending yourself.”

It was hard to remember the last time Arthur had felt more talked in circles. The conversation was making him increasingly flustered and indignant. “You can’t, your men trespassed in my lands and kidnapped my personal servant!”

“And you and your father have watered your Kingdom’s lands with innocent blood. It’s time someone stops you.”

“So, you scheme and plot to get me here? Why? You cannot keep me imprisoned forever and how do you possibly think this ends for you if you kill me?”

What seemed to be a genuine laugh burst from her. “Scheming and plotting? Deception is a necessary tool. One to be used rarely and discerningly, but those who would disarm themselves of it entirely are fools.”

She didn’t outright confess the setup, but it was near enough to make Arthur certain. “Others would call it being honorable.”

“And I’m sure their honor will bring them great comfort in death,” she said sardonically.

He took a calming breath, closing his eyes for a moment to regroup. “I’m not interested in debating philosophy with you, my Lady. My sole concern is getting my men safely back to Camelot.”

“And not yourself?”

“The decisions which brought us into your lands were mine alone.”

A bitter smile twisted her mouth as she considered him. “I’m afraid not, when one sovereign leads a war party onto another’s lands the retaliation must be swift and uncompromising.”

The sheer audacity of the accusation floored Arthur, “A war party? We were six men!”

“Six armed men who attacked my only son and heir. So perhaps you’d prefer to call it an assassination attempt? As Queen of these lands, I find you and your men guilty of treason, and I sentence you to die for your crime.”

Her tone was flat and insinuated she was more than ready to kill him and less than remorseful. It wasn’t that she relished the idea, but hers was the voice of a woman who had killed before and attached no particular significance to the deed. Arthur’s blood went cold at the implications of her accusation. An assassination attempt? If she was able to sell such a story not even King Godwin would ride against Dyfed once word of Arthur’s imprisonment finally got out.

He thought of a dungeon full of good men who might die on her word and made a choice.

“If you want to see me beg, then I will. If you need someone to punish, I will not resist. But all they are guilty of is loyalty to their King. Release them and I will consider the blood debt for my fallen men paid.”

The faces of Emmanuel and Merlin floated before his eyes, staring at him with accusation. The words tasted like bile on his tongue and sat sour in his mind. A long silence pierced the room, a contrast to their previously rapid exchange of words.

“If only you showed this much concern for all your subjects in equal measure, I think I could even grow to like you, Arthur.”

He couldn’t pretend the words didn’t sting, though he’d protest their validity. Whatever she’d hoped to gain by granting him an audience she evidently felt she’d received it. Without further fanfare or ceremony, he was returned to the dungeon.

Arthur knew there had been conflict between his father and Dyfed, but the details of it were hazy and beyond his reach. His father had made countless enemies in his time as King. It was clear that Líadan was a Monarch in her own right, a force to be reckoned with. Her actions here were clearly being driven by… something. A cause she believed in, which made her dangerous. What that might be, he had no way of knowing. Regardless, she clearly believed Arthur had wronged not only her but his own people.

Their steps as he was marched into the dungeon echoed off the dirt floor and stone roof; a ghost haunting a tomb. He took the opportunity to look around and mentally map out who was being held where. Between the empty cells and the aisle, nobody could brush their fingertips with their neighbor, let alone help each other.

They locked his cell door and removed his bonds before marching back out into the passage. The retreating footsteps died away leaving the lot of them in the quiet dark, the only light coming from a single torch.

Chapter Text

Loaded up with Gaius’ forgotten saddlebags, Merlin jogged back toward the edge of camp where Camelot’s chosen representatives were gathering. The sun shone high overhead, only lightly obscured by fluffy, drifting wisps of clouds. Despite that, chilling air bit at any exposed flesh and he found himself wishing he’d had the foresight to wear a cloak. 

He could feel his body was recovering well, and while strain pulled at his muscles in a constant but subtle ache, they no longer seared aside from his shoulder. And that, too, was holding up well, showing no fresh infection even after he’d reopened it on the journey here. Gaius had promised he would remove the stitches in another three days if Merlin, in turn, promised to take it easy. The ones in his face were already gone and he was anxious to have it all be done with. 

Gwaine appeared from between two distant tents, spotting Merlin and hurrying forward. Merlin, meanwhile, caught sight of the knight from the corner of his eye and increased his speed, trying not to make it too obvious he was fleeing. 

A stab of guilt twinged inside him over trying to avoid Gwaine. Since they’d left Camelot he had been, well, asking odd and uncomfortable questions. Gwaine seemed to be the only one interested in the details of exactly how Merlin had escaped his captors. He had evaded answering so far by claiming his memory of the affair hadn’t really returned yet, but he knew the knight would continue to press the matter. When he got stuck on something he was like a hound with a favorite bone. 

Worse, perhaps, he was also the only one to ask about the roots. 

Merlin truly didn’t know how to answer those questions. He himself remembered little beyond a hazy and fevered flash of using his magic with a sense of desperation to not fall from the saddle. And so, at least for now, his solution was to avoid the conversation entirely.

Undaunted, the knight was palpably closing in like a hot sun at his back and Merlin knew he could realistically pretend he didn’t hear his own name being called for only so long. Moving nearly at a run now, he burst around a corner only to almost collide with his mentor. 

“Merlin! There you are- I thought for sure you’d gotten lost and we’d need to send out a search party. What took you so long?” 

“Merlin!“ Gwaine hurtled around the corner a second later moving at a full tilt, drawing up short at the sight of Gaius. 

Gaius in turn raised one eyebrow disapprovingly as if this explained everything, “Ah- I see. Well if the two of you are ready to take this matter seriously, we’re just about ready to head out.” 

Stung by the undeserved chastisement, Merlin glowered. Nevertheless, he was thankful for Gaius’s abrupt appearance. 

Gwaine recovered first. “Yes, of course! Apologies, Gaius. I just–Merlin I was wondering if later, you may be willing to show me how you get Arthur’s mail so clean. I’ve been having some… issues with mine.”

Smiling blandly, Merlin couldn’t quite bring himself to meet his friend’s eyes. “Of course, although I’m not sure when I’ll have the time. We’ve been quite busy, preparing supplies in the event a battle does break out.”

“Of course, well in that case, perhaps I can come and assist you sometime. That is, if Gaius wouldn’t mind?” 

Oblivious to the significant look Merlin was giving him, the physician waved one hand distractedly. “What? Oh yes of course.” 

Merlin stewed over this unpleasant turn of events, resolving to have a conversation with Gaius in private about the matter. 

Hoisting one of the saddlebags from his grasp the knight nudged him, misinterpreting the cause of his mood, “Cheer up little storm cloud, I’m certain it won’t actually come to that. The Queen’s proposition benefits both sides especially in the long run.”

Forcing a smile Merlin nodded, experiencing another pang of guilt. “No, of course, you’re right.”

Gwaine deserves better. Even now all he does is look out for me. 

For a brief instant Merlin entertained memories of the connection he’d once had with Lancelot, of the freedom and even the fun, all of which had come from honesty. Could he find the same with Gwaine? Would Gwaine keep his secret, or would he do his duty to the crown? 

Would it be fair of Merlin to put the knight in a position to have to choose? 

No, this was a thought for another time. He had enough crashing about in his head as it was. One potentially cataclysmic disaster at a time, please. 

"Don't you think you will need more protection?" As they rounded a final tent, one voice became distinguishable above the rest of the camp noise. Recognizing it as belonging to Sir Charles he felt the edge of one lip involuntarily rise in distaste. He didn't like Charles and the man’s presence did nothing to lift his sour mood. A memory of the man tormenting a merchant in the market over ‘not showing a knight the proper respect’ stood at the forefront of his memory. 

“An escort of a dozen men was agreed on, I won’t jeopardize these negotiations by taking more.” 

“Of course not my Queen, but why take the physician and his assistant? Surely replacing them with additional guards would-“

“If Queen Morcant decides to betray us, even a dozen of our finest men won’t stop her,” Interrupted Gwen firmly. “I have my reasoning, Captain. I appreciate your concern but I do not owe you an explanation nor do I have the time to provide one.”

Glaring hot daggers at Charles, Merlin didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction at Gwen’s handling of the man. 

Stepping over to his mount, Merlin caught hold of Gwen's hand for the briefest moment as he brushed past, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He imagined he was one of the few people who knew her well enough to see the shine of anxiety in her eyes. She flashed a smile at him and squeezed back. The entire exchange lasted only a moment but both relaxed almost imperceptibly from the contact.

Their delegation was to ride out to meet Lady Morcant’s in no man’s land between their camps at sun high. Merlin hadn’t appreciated that distance until they set out. The distance from one camp to the other was deceptively far to his inexperienced eye, and he soon became grateful they traveled it by horseback. Even Gwen rode, looking regal and confident upon a golden palomino. She’d always been a good rider, it was one of the things Arthur used to gush about. Her mount’s tack was as decorative as it was functional, the black leather along its chest studded with golden disks and glittering rubies. 

The Queen was dressed in an outfit very similar to the one he’d seen her wear the day before, but with an added layer of furs peeking out from her neck and hemline for warmth. 

In the distance, the Dyfed delegation also approached. Merlin craned his neck around the mounted knights ahead of him trying to make out faces and details. The magic within him simmered almost eagerly, responding to the strong emotion coursing through his body, and he tightened his hands on his reigns. 

⌘⌘⌘

As the two parties drew closer Gwen noted that the lion’s share of Queen Morcant’s escort was an armed selection of Dyfed’s knights. The two exceptions came in the forms of a hooded figure riding on the queen’s left hand and what seemed to be a finely dressed young Lord riding on her right. Advisors, perhaps? 

This was the first time in her life Gwen had laid eyes on the Queen, though her mind was spinning with the information she had gathered in preparation for this meeting. Born and raised to royalty, Líadan Morcant was said to be a wise, if hard ruler. Stories painted a picture of a highly intelligent monarch who, when it was called for, could be as uncompromising and severe as the sea, but ruled fairly and justly. She was much loved by her people. Unlike Camelot, magic was welcome within the borders of Dyfed, and the execution of her ambassador had created a personal and political rift between the kingdoms ever since. As a sea-bordering kingdom, home to the majority of the easily accessible ports, this had had a long and deeply felt impact. Dyfed would still sell the imported goods it received from across the Seas of Meredoc to Camelot, but at vastly inflated prices. Significantly, like Camelot, they held a peace treaty with Gawant. And also like Camelot, their treaty with King Godwin has spanned several generations now. If it came to a military confrontation Gwen couldn’t count on Godwin to act decisively rather than bide his time, reluctant to choose sides between two such long standing allies. 

Dismounting, her knights followed suit and fell in to flank her as she covered the last few yards of ground on foot. Nearly face to face now, Gwen leveled a hard gaze at the woman who had taken her husband. 

“Greetings, Queen Morcant,” she began, her tone respectful but firm. “We have come to bargain for peace.”

Líadon regarded Gwen with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “Tell me, young Queen, what do you imagine that means?”

Gwen took a deep breath, her eyes unwavering. "We wish to negotiate for the release of our people. We understand the value of peace and I believe I have found a resolution which would benefit both our kingdoms."

“Your King and his knights came unbidden into my lands, only to then attack my son and heir.” With a gesture, the young Lord at her side stepped forward. Gwen couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes drifted towards Merlin, nor the faint smirk which flitted across his lips. 

Queen Morcant continued speaking, “In these lands, that is considered treason. I would be well within my rights to declare war. What need have I to agree to anything which benefits your kingdom?” 

Hostility then. Very well, she was used to that. Gwen didn’t know the depths of the deception here or the extent of this Queen’s involvement in it but she knew more was going on than they were admitting to. “These are very serious allegations. I wonder–according to my men the King only rode out to try and rescue one of our own, who they believed had been abducted. Circumstances which were misleading, at the very least. Although I’m certain you had nothing to do with that.” 

Gwen nearly choked on the words they were so bitter on her tongue. If I offer you an out, will you take it? “Perhaps circumstances on both sides were misleading. If you’d allow us to speak with our people, I’m certain it would illuminate–“

"I will not.”

“…Pardon?” 

Queen Morcant took a deliberate step forward. “I will not allow you to speak with our prisoners. I don’t see the necessity in providing you a chance to corroborate whatever tale of innocence you’ve conceived.”

“But surely we must look at all the evidence,” insisted Gwen, her temper flaring. 

Queen Morcant spoke without heat, but her words were relentless. “What other evidence is needed? You would challenge the word and the honor of a crowned prince, and by extension, myself?”

Gwen stepped forward to meet her pulse pounding in her ears. “No more than you would challenge the honor of my Lord and husband. But we have no need to quarrel; as is my right as Queen of Camelot, according to ancient blood rights of these lands, I invoke the right of single combat. Let two champions settle this matter between them. As has been taught, the Gods will show the wronged party their favor.” 

A flash of something behind those stony eyes, something Gwen couldn’t quite read. Queen Morcant tilted her chin up, the sharp angles of her face and the intensity of her focus reminding Gwen forcefully of a bird of prey. 

“And why should I agree to this?" 

"There is no reason to spill unnecessary blood." 

“You have the right to demand a trial by combat, but what would your terms be?" Líadan asked, almost inquisitive. 

Gwen's fingers clenched into fists "If my Champion wins then you return Arthur and the imprisoned Knights to us. We will withdraw our army and return home. From there, our two kingdoms will work to draw up a peace treaty to prevent any future… incidents.”

"And if mine is the victor?"

"Then all the lands of Camelot between our current border and the White Mountains will become a part of Dyfed. Additionally, we will withdraw our armies." There was the briefest of pauses before Gwen continued, "but we take Arthur and the Knights with us.”

"While an intriguing notion, I do not agree with these terms." Líadan said, succinctly.

"What is it you would change?" asked Gwen coolly, although it came as no surprise her initial terms would be rejected. 

"If my champion is victorious then no, you do not get your men back." Something glittered in those pale eyes, but Gwen didn’t believe it was joy. Sorrow? "If you lose, then the treason of both him and his Knights shall be confirmed beyond a doubt and they will face a summary execution. Additionally, you shall accept their guilt and withdraw without any further confrontation.”

Heart skipping a shuddering beat Gwen clasped her hands before her to conceal their trembling. Unhappy mutters and shifting clinks of armored men adjusting themselves came from behind her in a wave of response to the proposition. She was a serving girl, did she have the right to gamble with such stakes? No, she corrected herself firmly. You are a queen. Take a breath and make your move, you cannot flinch. 

A pause. She drew in a deep slow breath, focusing on the sensation of air moving into her lungs and then out again. "Very well, we are agreed… on one condition. I want to see Arthur. I’m certain you understand we must confirm his safety."

“Then it’s done. I will extend you a single day’s time to select your champion, we will meet again here at noon tomorrow and you will present and declare them. We will bring your King, but know his life is forfeit should you, for some reason, attempt a rescue or to double cross me.”

Gwen raised her eyebrows slightly, taken aback. "And your champion?”

“Is already accounted for.” Líadan took one step to the side and gestured vaguely, inviting someone forward. 

Tensing, Gwen glanced to the young man she had initially assumed to be the queen’s son. Instead it was the hooded figure who stepped forward. Gwen had been so focused on the Queen that she hadn’t taken much of an inventory of this unassuming companion, but looking them up and down now her stomach dropped through the ground at her feet as if her body realized something before her mind could catch up.  

Drawing back her hood, Morgana smiled coldly, her charcoal-lined eyes coals of simmering spite. "It's been a long time, Gwen.” 

This was exactly what they wanted. We’ve been betrayed. 

But Líadan wasn’t finished. “We declare Lady Morgana Pendragon to be Dyfed’s champion. Additionally, as a gesture of good will and transparency, I have brought you something.”

As if on a signal, her entourage split and a lone soldier pulled forward a small handcart. Inside of it was a body wrapped in white linens. 

"What is this?” breathed Gwen, hardly able to tear her eyes from the still form. 

“An offering–one of your knights who was slain in the initial confrontation. I’m afraid I know not which one. We return his body to you for a proper burial, so you may know we hold no hard feelings.”

The words sent ice water through Gwen’s veins and her knees weakened. A fallen knight? She had to resist every instinct within screaming for her to run and tear away the white sheet, to make certain it wasn’t her brother who lay dead. 

Gaius moved to the cart, glancing back to her before he pulled the wrapping down just enough to reveal the top of Emmanuel’s face. Oddly preserved, the young knight’s skin glittered strangely, as if covered in frost. 

The next hour passed as if in a thick fog. Head spinning at the turn of events, Gwen wasn’t certain how to recover. Even knowing something was wrong, they’d still walked into a trap. 

As soon as their parties had separated Gwen promptly ordered two of her accompanying knights to ride ahead as swiftly as they could and apprehend Kylar Balcom for questioning. Though she had little hope he would be foolish enough to remain, the actions of Dyfed’s Queen had cast his recommendation for the trial by combat into a poor light. The Queen had been too quick with her counter for this to have been anything but a ruse to which Balcom had been an accomplice, a case of espionage from within Gwen’s own court. She shuddered at the thought. 

Back in camp orders flowed from her with barely a thought, messengers dashing this way and that at her command. Emmanuel had to be laid to rest, the present Lords updated on the situation, but as for choosing a champion? Who among her people could stand against Morgana and be little more than cannon fodder?  

Storming into her tent, she ordered her guards not to let anyone enter before pulling parchment and quill from a bag. Throwing them down on a table she tore the golden circlet from her brow and tossed it beside them before staring, frozen, at the empty page. She searched her mind for names, for anyone, and could conjure nothing. There was nobody. 

She had to stop now because she couldn’t see through the silver light blurring in her eyes. She dashed her hand against her hot eyelids to clear her vision, twice, before surrendering to the flow of emotion. 

Pressing her wedding ring to her lips with trembling hands, it took a long time to gain control over her hitching breath. 

My heart’s prize, my beloved, what trouble have you gone and found this time? I do not know if I can save you from this.

Chapter Text

“You can't!" Pleaded Gaius, half imploring and half commanding, gazing at Merlin from across the small worktable in the physician’s tent. Not even out for a full day yet, it was already cluttered with ground herbs and fragments of parchment.

"Because I've never risked my life for Arthur before?" He tried to make a joke of it, but the words were dry as sand on his tongue, his smile weak.

"It's too dangerous! There must be another way." Gaius's thick eyebrows were drawn down and he leaned heavily on the table.

Merlin shook his head slightly, "I must, Gaius. I'm the only one who has the power to defeat Morgana. You know this is my destiny. You know what I’ve already done for Arthur, why is this different?”

“A duel with magic has specific rules, Merlin. You must fight for a span of time without your magic! I have endless faith in you and your ability, but you cannot deny that Morgana is a far more skilled than you in the art of marshal combat. You were only narrowly able to defeat her in the tombs the last time you crossed swords with her, and you used magic as well as swordsmanship to do it.”

"So, I will use Excalibur. If I weld Arthur’s sword, I can stand on even ground with her.”

"You don't have Excalibur!" exclaimed Gaius exasperated.

"Yes, I do,” Merlin replied, quietly. “When he is not using it, Arthur keeps it in a locked chest under his bed. As his manservant it was simple enough to get it before we left. I thought it would be best to have at hand, just in case.”

"You are certainly placing a lot of faith in one blade.”

"You know better than I the powers which a sword burnished in a dragon's fire possesses.”

Gaius paused, eyes shifting side to side recalculating to account for this new information. Finally, reluctantly, he acquiesced. “It’s true, the sword changes things. But how can you be sure Gwen will allow Emrys to fight as Camelot's champion?”

"Gwen isn't prideful or foolish, nor half as stubborn as Arthur. If I handle the situation right, she will see it's the only way," answered Merlin with more confidence than he felt.

Sighing deeply, Gaius walked around the table to put his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. Tired old eyes drank in the sight of the tall young man before him and he smiled, sadly. When he spoke, his voice bore the weight of all he had seen. "Sometimes when I see you, I still see the young boy who came bumbling into my rooms. The boy who needed me.”

Shaking his head slightly in disbelief Merlin smiled, grasping the old man’s upper arms. "I do need you, Gaius. I always have. I don't know how I could get by without you."

Imbuing every ounce of sincerity he had into the words, his entire body brimmed with warmth and affection for his mentor.

Gaius looked at him searchingly, "Perhaps. I like to think so.”

It wasn’t difficult to guess how conflicted the old man must be feeling. Gaius knew just as well as he did that if he fought, he very well may die. But it was the only way to save Camelot. To save Arthur. "Gaius, I can't do this without you. Please, trust me."

Eventually Gaius nodded, briefly grasping Merlin’s face in his hands. “Very well. Tell me, what do you need of me?”

A grin spilled across Merlin’s face, eyes lighting up. “You won’t like this part.”

⌘⌘⌘

Standing alone in a private audience before Guinevere, Gaius pondered the best way to propose Merlin's plan without it sounding too much like treason. Which would be tricky, of course, since treason was precisely what it was. Uther would have had his head for such a proposition. And Arthur had been so angry towards magic ever since his father’s death, that Gaius couldn’t confidently have said he’d have reacted any more favorably.

He began hesitantly, feeling out his words as he spoke. “My lady, it appears we are at a crossroads. We both know that no normal warrior can defeat Morgana. We simply have no way to match her power.”

Gwen closed her eyes. "What other option do we have? We cannot withdraw our challenge. Our only hope, is to find a warrior who is skilled enough to be able to defeat her before she can use her power.”

Speaking still more slowly, Gaius chose his words with the caution of a doe who’d entered a clearing only to come upon a sleeping wolf. His neck itched and he resisted the urge to rub it. “What if we did have a way to match her power? Perhaps even to overmatch it.”

A hint of understanding glimmered in the Queen’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

Well, there was no use beating around the bush. "I know of an extremely powerful warlock, who I believe would be willing to help. Morgana fears him as he is predicted to be her doom.”

A long silence as Gwen studied him with serious eyes. “You offer dangerous counsel, Gaius.”

“These are dangerous times, my Queen.”

The conflict within her was understandable to the world-weary physician. Torn between loyalty to the kingdom, to her husband and his ideals, and to her desire to see Arthur and the others safely returned. He understood conflicting loyalties. Gaius believed he knew which one would win, so he waited, silent. Allowing her to draw her own conclusions without attempting to influence her. She was smart. What’s more, she knew more intimately than almost anyone what Morgana was capable of, and what it would take to stand against her.

Mouth setting in a hard line, her back straightened with resolve. "Who is this warlock?"

Somehow, he’d hoped she wouldn’t ask. Feeling flushed and vaguely nauseous, he cleared his throat, steeling his resolve. "They call him Emrys. He has fought to protect Camelot before; I am sure he will willingly do so again. You may know him by the name… Dragoon."

Gwen’s eyebrows furrowed in understanding, “The sorcerer who killed Uther?”

He was prepared for this, and Gaius’s response was measured so as to hold no accusation. “Arthur believes so, yes, as Uther believed your father was a sorcerer. Both are examples of passionate men in grief. But the fault for Uther’s death lies with Morgana.”

The words struck her deeply, and she caught her lip between her teeth. Questions brimmed in her eyes as he held her gaze, unflinching, and he could almost see her filing them away for later. When she did respond it wasn’t how he’d anticipated.

“You see much and say little, don’t you.”

He bowed, hiding a small smile. “My lady.”

“My husband is a great man, but more importantly a kind one. And he… is also his father’s son. I do not know the truth of your claim, but I know you must believe it to be so. We are left with few options. How would we get word to this… Emrys?"

Gaius raised his chin, one eyebrow arching high to lend his claim an air of solemnity. “I'm sure he already knows of our predicament; he is very wise. It's been said that if you raise a red flag with a white dragon on it in a time of great need, he will come at nightfall.”

Gwen looked more doubtful than Gaius believed his tale warranted. "Very well. I am not saying yes to your idea, Gaius, but I am willing to meet with the Warlock and carefully consider it.”

"Thank you, your highness."

⌘⌘⌘

Gwen is never going to take me seriously.

It was all Merlin could do not to bury his face in his hands as he contemplated the flag which had been posted at the edge of the camp atop a newly erected pavilion. It would not do for the queen of Camelot to openly parade a sorcerer through the camp, after all.

He’d taken a wide circular route, journeying deep enough into the forest to be certain nobody would see him. Once there, concealed in a thick grove of saplings, he’d taken the aging potion to transform him into Dragoon. Struggling into the red robes he’d bundled along in a rucksack Merlin cursed the impracticality of beards, particularly ones long enough to get tangled in foliage. Now, having won his bout with an elderberry bush, he made his way back to camp. His first glimpse of the camp’s torches came just as the last of the sunlight finally dipped behind the horizon, plunging the forest into shades of cool blues and deep greens.

Taking a controlled breath, Merlin stepped from the tree line and pushed his way into the unguarded and unassuming tent, the garish red flag with a white dragon whipping above him in a sudden wind.

"Dragoon!" exclaimed both Percival and Gwaine immediately, drawing their swords on sight. Following their lead the other half a dozen guards present quickly followed suit, naked steel glinting in candlelight.

"Yes, it is I!" Merlin proclaimed dramatically, raising his staff into the air, turning a wicked grin on them as he blatantly ignored Gaius's hard look.

“Although I have many names, and so you will now address me as Emrys!"

“I will call you fiend and none else!” Growled Percival, leveling the tip of his sword at Merlin’s chest.

“Enough! Each of you will sheathe your swords at once!” commanded Gwen sternly. “This man has been invited here and you will treat him with the curtesy due any honored guest.”

Smirking at the knights’ sour expressions, Merlin lowered his staff and whirled his robes dramatically in their direction as he spun to Gwen. Approaching, he dropped into as low of a bow as his body’s new aches would allow. "Your hospitality honors me, my Queen.”

The stare of the two knights bore like hot knives into his back. Unabashed hostility and distrust radiated off them in waves, making it very clear the events of their last encounter when he’d knocked them out and used them as a foot stool were not forgotten. Yet his ears picked up the scrape of blades being returned to sheathes as commanded. The guards flanking Gwen did the same, visibly uneasy.

Brow furrowing Gwen cast a glance at Gaius, "But I know you, you're the sorcerer who was caught placing the charm under my pillow." There was no accusation or anger in her voice, rather confusion. A perfectly logical reaction, he reasoned.

"Ah yes-" Merlin raised one gnarled finger, "and if I hadn't been caught, you would be dead right now. It was Morgana who framed you with the first, but I who saved you with a second!”

Gwen considered this statement doubtfully, "You don't expect me to believe that was your intention, to save my life?”

With a cryptic smile he waved one hand, twirling his fingers in what he fancied was a suitably mystical way. "I had my own reasons for wanting you alive.”

"I don't suppose you would tell me those reasons?” said Gwen, more a statement than an actual question.

"No, I don't suppose I will." He snapped, before adding hurriedly, "My Lady.”

He may have been imagining things, but Merlin thought he caught the barest shiver of a repressed smile on Gwen’s lips.

"Show the Queen more respect, you doddery old man!" barked Gwaine from behind Merlin’s back.

Whirling he drew himself up to his full height, ready to spar with the knight whose hand had returned to rest on his hilt. Before he could snap a retort Gaius cleared his throat pointedly, and Merlin hesitated. Weighing the moment, he begrudgingly stayed silent. Gaius was right, of course, now was a delicate moment and antagonizing the Knights wouldn't help his cause.

So, instead, Merlin staunchly resolved to ignore Gwaine. Pursing his lips he turned up his nose at the knight and deliberately turned his back on him once more, showing how supremely unconcerned he was by the knight’s threat.

Gwen moved forward, standing barely a pace from him. The air crackled, quivering with barely suppressed violence as every guard in the room leapt into high alert, ready to defend their Queen. Merlin held perfectly still, aware of every breath. Gwen’s large brown eyes were intense as they searched his.

“Tell me… Emrys. Why are you here? Camelot has been no friend to your people.”

Cold sweat broke out on his palms as he fought the urge to look away, irrationally afraid she would recognize him. “Morgana’s magic is powerful, and her purpose is… perverse. Magic is, at its core, a force of creation, and she does nothing but perpetuate a cycle of destruction and death. I mean to destroy the shadow which has loomed over Camelot, choking its growth like a sapling strangled in darkness. I am here to bring an end to the Morgana Pendragon. And I am here to try to bring an end to the legacy of hatred between our people.”

It was perhaps not the entire truth, but each word burned with the fire of true conviction. Fervor rang in every syllable, lending a force far beyond the frail body he currently inhabited to his declaration. He paused, giving it a moment to sink in. "If you would allow, I will pledge myself to you and fight as your champion."

Gwen studied the old sorcerer, not swayed by his words. "And why should I allow it? I have no reason to trust you, let alone to put my kingdom’s fate into your hands. Arthur would even argue I have reasons not to trust you.”

The tone she used clearly indicated to him her meaning, and he suddenly became grateful that his involvement in the death of Uther Pendragon wasn’t more widely known. Of course, Arthur would have told Gwen, which would make this more difficult. He kept his answer simple. "I am the only one who can bring your husband and his Knights home alive.”

Gwen clasped her hands in front of her, not challenging this claim "And what is it you would ask in return?"

The question had been inevitable, and he’d been unsure how he would answer. Now that the time was here, the words rose within him like clear water flowing from his tongue, eyes heavy with sorrow. He felt as old as stone when at last he spoke. "I know all of you have suffered because of magic, and for that, I am truly sorry. Magic is nothing more than what we make of it. It is neither evil nor good; merely a reflection of the will of one’s heart. I said before that magic is raw creation. Each of us acts upon the world around us, and in so doing, we determine what world we create. This is true as much for those who wield power as it is for those who don’t. Those choices can be violent and harmful- but they can also be gentle and protective. Magic used in love, for service, for a just cause, has been hidden in the shadows and practiced only behind closed doors for too long!”

Hands tightening around his staff Merlin’s volume spiked, suddenly frustrated, "People who would use magic for good are too afraid to do so!"

The heat of the emotions which had surged abandoned him, leaving him cold as old embers. Bone deep weariness curled his spine forward, shoulders drooping as if bearing a great weight. "All we want... is to be free. I know you cannot promise that but grant me a chance to show magic used for those who would defend their home. To wield my power openly for the love of a Kingdom, for my belief in a brighter future, and for my devotion to the King who would lead us into a golden age of peace.”

Ringing silence followed his declaration, and the longer it went on, the more his embarrassment built. He felt naked, even disguised as he was, and pulled his staff in close. Unable to hold that piercing gaze any longer Merlin dropped his eyes to the floor, bowing his head, waiting for her answer.

It was a long minute before anyone so much as moved.

Finally, Gwen spoke, "I find I believe the truth of your words. But I must ask, there will be a time before magic is permitted when you must duel with steel. Morgana’s blade is swift, and deadly. Are you capable of such a feat?”

“I am. I cannot afford to lose; Morgana must be stopped.”

“Then kneel, Emrys. I would have you swear your fealty to this purpose.”

Heart leaping with disbelief hastily he knelt, and Gwen accepted a sword offered hilt first from the guard nearest to her. With great ceremony she placed the flat of its blade on his shoulder.

“Do you, Emrys, swear to take to the field on behalf of Camelot. To fight for the life of its King, it’s sworn knights, and all the people who would suffer from their loss?”

“I swear.”

“Do you pledge your fealty, and if necessary, your life, to this purpose?” asked Gwen solemn.

Dipping his head he nodded slowly, "I believe in the future Arthur Pendragon will bring, it is his destiny to become the greatest King Camelot has ever known. I will kill Morgana, and I will preserve his life, whether I die as well is of no consequence. If that is to be my end, then that is my fate.”

To one side, Gaius tensed and experienced a pang of guilt.

“Then I, Guinevere Pendragon, Queen of Camelot, vow to you, Emrys, that I will recognize and honor you as I any loyal knight. And when you are victorious, I will speak with Arthur, and he will never forget that it was magic that saved us all. Rise… sworn Champion of Camelot.”

The surprise in the room was tangible, prickling the back of his neck as Merlin leaned heavily on his staff to stand. The suspicion and hostility had slowly faded as he and Gwen had spoken, but in its place, he sensed confusion. The thought that a sorcerer would be willing to die to protect those who would have him executed, didn’t make sense to the people who were beloved by those they served.

A faint smile ghosted her lips, and she glanced at Gaius, "He sounds like Merlin, with all his talk of destiny and fate.”

Merlin brightened, "Ah yes, Merlin. Good looking boy. I found him quite endearing the few times I met him, though he's never given enough credit for everything he does for all of you. Where is he?"

Gwen glanced at the Knights questioningly, but they only looked at each other and shrugged.

Speaking up, Gaius clasped his hands in front of him, rocking forward on the soles of his shoes. "He is out collecting herbs for me.”

"Herbs?" Repeated Percival, doubtfully.

"They are quite rare," assured Gaius, "I suspect they won't be easy to find."

A groan nearly escaped him before he could hold it back. Gaius really only had two lies when Merlin wasn’t to be found: either he was out collecting supplies, or he was at the tavern. The man had the best poker face Merlin could have wished for, but it was paired with one of the most limited imaginations he’d encountered.

A thought occurred to Percival, and he narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “How do you know Merlin?"

Realizing his mistake Merlin hurried to correct himself. Raising his eyebrows he did his best to sound casual, "Did I say met?" He shook his head, "Oh no, I only caught a glimpse of him once in Camelot. What I really meant is that I've seen him many times in my-" Merlin searched his brain wildly, "-magic crystal.”

"Your… magic… crystal." Repeated Gwaine, dubious, and making no effort to hide it.

"Yes, my magic crystal!" Proclaimed Merlin, grinning mysteriously, “In fact I find all of you quite entertaining, what funny little lives you all have.”

Folding his arms sternly Percival glowered, "Why would you be watching us, if not for spy craft?"

Merlin blinked slowly at Percival before rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, as if to say it would be obvious if you weren’t an idiot. "I'm an old man living on his own in the middle of a forest, I get bored.”

"Well, if you were not a spy, there are plenty of other people you could watch!" insisted Gwaine, but rather halfheartedly. The fire in his aggression towards Dragoon seemed to have been dampened. Gwaine had always been stubborn and evidently still held a grudge over the forest incident.

Banging his staff on the ground Merlin roared in outrage "I need not answer to the likes of you!"

As the lot further devolved into bickering Gaius and Gwen shared an exasperated look tinged with amusement, in that moment very much the only adults in the room.

Chapter Text

The captives had been gathered from their cells; bound, blindfolded, and bundled into carts as unceremoniously as sacks of turnips. Restraints anchored to the side of the cart held their wrists behind their backs. Heavy, stinking, burlap canvases had then been draped over them for extra measure. As was undoubtedly the intention, the combined effect was unpleasant and disorienting.

Arthur wasn't certain how much time passed as they were tossed around with each bump and pothole. After what had to have been several days, bruised and sore, they came to a final stop and were unloaded like a line of livestock. The distinctive sounds and scents of a bustling camp assaulted Arthur's senses, a sour scent of sweat and campfire smoke enveloping him. Unseen hands shoved him along. Scuffing and grunts of a tussle broke out nearby, Elyan's distinctive shout ringing above the clatter of soldiers. Throwing his own weight around Arthur tried unsuccessfully to shift his blindfold enough to see what was going on, calling out to Elyan, unable to discern anything of use.

I'm useless, I can't help! Gods, please, I can't bear to lose anyone else.

Strong arms nearly lifted him off his feet, leaving him with little choice but to go along as he snarled in frustration. With his hands still bound behind him, he resorted to trying to kick his captors until they slammed him back against something tall and narrow. In the instant he lolled forward, rebounding from the impact, they released him from his bindings. It was easy enough to guess they were trying to take advantage of his surprise—but Arthur had been gathering himself for just such an occurrence.

Without pausing to remove his blindfold he rushed forward, shoulder lowered, hoping to hit something. There was a satisfying contact with what he guessed to be a ribcage and he was rewarded with a grunt of surprise. They grappled, Arthur wrestling blindly to gain the upper hand on his opponent.

A fist sank into his lower side, staggering him. His body had grown weak from days suffering fitful bouts of nightmare that stalked his sleep and insufficient nutrition; the blow he once would have shrugged off easily enough now left him nearly in a heap. The shock of it echoed through his bones as he was dragged backwards. Someone jerked his hands up behind his back, nearly dislocating his shoulder as they bound his arms around what seemed to be some kind of post in the ground. Kicking out blindly at his captors, at least one solid strike connected, eliciting a thump and accompanying shout of pain and rage.

A gruff voice cursed him, but he ignored the harsh words. Scraping the back of his head repeatedly against the post he'd been tied to he managed to dislodge his blindfold, screwing his eyes shut against the sudden light, "Elyan!"

"Here, I'm fine!" The knight called back, and Arthur's heart unclenched.

After so long in darkness even the sunlight filtered by clouds pained him. He kept his eyes narrowed into slits as he gradually adjusted enough to see. They'd been corralled into separate, crudely crafted cages, their positions to each other forming a circle. A tall pole was buried securely in the ground at the center of each, to which they were bound with their hands behind their backs.

Counting, Arthur's muscles only relaxed once he'd laid eyes on each of his remaining knights. Elyan sported a freshly bleeding split in his lip, his clothes smeared with dirt. Otherwise- they looked relatively untouched.

It was a different setting, but Arthur couldn't help but notice the same tactics which had been applied in the dungeon cells here. They'd been split up once more, far enough away from each other that a private conversation was near impossible. Queen Morcant seemed to understand—to separate them was to greatly weaken them.

And there they were left, provided only with water periodically offered from a ladle. Initially, attempts were made to bombard the guards with questions, all of which were staunchly ignored. Eventually, Arthur gave up. His reserves of energy were low enough as it was.

That night was brutally cold and he slept very little, drifting in and out of consciousness. Entire body aching, he thought he might shake apart from the strength of his shivering. The breath puffed out before his face in little clouds. When the first light of dawn touched the mountaintops, promising a reprieve from the cold, Arthur's relief was palpable.

That next day, Berwyn had come for him.

"You will not be gagged, but you will not speak unless you are given permission. You will not make a sound. If you do, things will abruptly become far less… dignified. Do you understand?"

Arthur nodded, lips tight with suppressed anger. Despite the desire to attack Berwyn with tooth and nail, he kept both his silence, and his peace. If he were too difficult, they may leave him behind.

"Good. We'd rather avoid such a tasteless display."

Berwyn had changed, donning much finer attire than when they'd first met. Beard trimmed, hair oiled back, and every trace of blood had been scrubbed from under his neatly manicured nails. The hateful man wore a practical outfit made from fine leather and cotton, dyed to fit the bronze and green colors of house Morcant.

As he'd been given ample time to reflect, Arthur had realized he knew of Berwyn. From his earliest lectures, he'd been taught the names of each member of the various royal and noble families in not just Camelot, but the surrounding kingdoms. He'd had little talent for the task. Berwyn Morcant; Camelot's spies whispered he'd been sired by one of the queen's advisors, when the late King had discovered he was unable to bear heirs of his own. Regardless of the truth of these claims– the bastard-born child had been declared a legitimate son by the Queen, and had been recognized by her court.

A new voice interrupted his thoughts, "Do you think they've chosen a champion? Or, will sweet Gwen try to worm her way out of the agreement."

Morgana slid into Arthur's line of sight from behind Dyfed's prince, a wicked grin twisting her mouth.

"Personally I hope it's Gwaine," she teased, "I've always loved to watch him dance. I wonder what his scream sounds like."

Arthur gazed at her from under half closed lids, searching for the willful, wild child, who'd chased him barefoot through the halls of Camelot. Their shrieks of laughter rang off those towering arched ceilings of memory. He didn't remember ever laughing before Morgana had arrived at the castle.

When did that laughter stop? Try as he might, he couldn't pin the exact moment, hidden somewhere between pillars of escalating anger and resentment. Or was it fear and loneliness?

Perhaps, when the laughter left, it had taken the person he once cared so much for along with it. There was no hint of her now. The fissure in his chest which had opened the day he'd learned of Morgana's betrayal ached anew.

As he chewed on his melancholy thoughts, Berwyn tethered him to her horse. He was forced to march behind Morgana as she, Berwyn, Queen Líadan, and nine of Dyfed's knights ventured out into the fields between the camps. Arthur craned to see his own army, stretching out before them. It was considerably smaller than the Dyfed encampment.

At several points Arthur's legs cramped and he fell, getting dragged across the ground. Each time, they paused, a guard dismounting and pulling him back up. Once the man even put a water skin to his lips, allowing him a drink, though Morgana openly sneered. If she had it her way he doubted they'd stop at all- she'd simply drag him across the several miles of dirt and grass and brush.

Eventually, Camelot's entourage came into sight, journeying from the opposite side of the field. Craning in an effort to catch sight of his wife, his nerves stilled once his eyes finally found her. The sight of her, even here, was a balm to his heart.

Next, Arthur recognized Gaius, riding on the far left side of Camelot's line. On instinct he looked for a black haired youth at the physician's side—stomach cramping viciously as he remembered.

Crushed under a pile of men—struggling to draw air into his lungs even as he saw Merlin's own last breath escape, blood bubbling at his open throat.

The visions were so strong that for a moment they threatened to drown him. Breath coming in short spurts, nostrils flaring, he fought to stay calm. Did Gaius know? Or had he spent all this time believing Merlin to be captured, as Gwaine and Percival had no doubt reported.

Did he know yet—that Arthur had failed to save Merlin?

If the king had previously harbored burgeoning doubts about the validity of Merlin's apparent death, they were settled by the lack of his presence at Gaius's side. Merlin never would have allowed himself to be left behind.

Desperately, he tore his eyes from the physician and looked back to Gwen. Hungrily drinking in the sight of her, his soul clamored for the calm and reassurance he so often found in her presence, the comfort of her settling over him like the brush of a silk cloak. But with that sense of comfort came a surge of emotion, and he felt dangerously close to tears.

My only real friend in the world is dead,he wanted to wail to her.

The two parties converged and dismounted, stepping forward and spreading out to face each other.

The brief respite he'd felt ended abruptly on noticing the individual standing on Gwen's right hand. The ancient sorcerer, parading himself as Dragoon the Great, who had murdered Uther Pendragon. The burning sensation behind his eyes vanished. Anger, shame, and confusion wrestled together in Arthur's gut, at the sight of his father's killer beside his wife.

There was a sharp hiss of breath, and he jerked around his head to see Morgana had taken a step back. Emotion widened her coaled eyes in obvious surprise and… was it possible, fear?

"Emrys!" She gasped, calling the old man a name unfamiliar to Arthur. So, they also had history.

"Morgana. I wish I could say it's a pleasure to see you again. But frankly, it's not," replied Dragoon.

Gwen strode confidently forward, eyes shifting for only a brief moment to Arthur. "Queen Morcant, as requested, we have come to declare our champion."

Ice congealed in Arthur's stomach as the pieces fell together, his attention darting between Gwen and Dragoon. Fueled by the strength of the revulsion he felt, a single word broke from his lips before he could snatch it back, "No!"

Instantly, hands were on him, and a dirty knotted cloth was forced into his mouth. His gag reflex revoltedas it was shoved what felt like half way down his throat, but he didn't resist. Resisting would undoubtedly provoke a fight, shattering any chance of averting a massacre. But Gwen must be warned she couldn't trust this sorcerer! He kept his eyes locked on his wife, desperately trying to convey his meaning to her without words. If only she would look at him!

Catching her lip between her teeth for the briefest moment, Gwen finally directed her gaze at Arthur. He could see a tide of tightly controlled emotion welling there, but also a hardened resolve. "We will fight magic with magic." Turning to Queen Morcant she drew herself up tall, chin held high, "Camelot declares Emrys as our champion."

Arthur's gaze lashed back to Dragoon only to find the old sorcerer's feet had turned, the center of his gravity shifting forward. Arthur would have sworn the old man looked as though he were on the verge of rushing to Arthur's aid. The aged body thrummed with visible tension, bristling. His attention drifted down to Dragoon's hand; clutching his staff so tightly his gnarled knuckles had gone white. The longer he was around this old man the less he understood.

"You think Emrys will assure your victory?" hissed Morgana, bringing Arthur's focus back to the conversation.

The two powerful magic users regarded each other, crackling hostility palpably filling the air. It was apparent that no love was lost between them.

Morgana took a step forward. "There is no more hiding, no more tricks. You have stood in my way for far too long. Tomorrow, we will settle this, once and for all."

"You cannot win, Morgana."

"I wouldn't be so certain," she said.

Dragoon shook his head, once. "You are fueled by hatred and spite; I fight to defend what I believe in. What I love. You knew what that was like, once."

Arthur frowned as he listened, what was the old man playing at?

Taking deliberate steps until she was toe to toe with Dragoon, Morgana put one hand on the warlock's chest, leaning in. As her lips brushed his ear she murmured, barely loud enough for Arthur to hear, "You have no idea how much I am looking forward to seeing your broken corpse lying at my feet. My one regret will be that you cannot watch me kill Arthur, slowly and painfully, his greatest protector gone. I will cut out their hearts and let their blood water your grave."

Gwen's equanimity broke for a brief moment, one hand flying to cover her mouth, eyes tightly closed.

Arthur knew exactly how she felt; hearing those

words coming from Morgana's mouth, spoken with such sincerity, made him feel as though he wanted to be sick.

Oh, Morgana, where has all your love gone?

Dragoon, or, Arthur supposed, Emrys, remained unfazed in the face of the vicious promise. Rather than sounding angry, he sounded sad, and the contrast between her heat and his calm couldn't have been more stark.

"I'm sorry things have come to this. I blame myself for what you have become, but that does not mean I will hold back."

Although it wasn't a violent statement, Morgana jerked her head back sharply. A flash of the fear returned to her face, before vanishing again, whipped away by her now customary rage. She swept her hair back from her face, returning to her place at Líadon's side.

"Emrys, the defender of Camelot: a traitor to his own kind."

"The one who has betrayed our people is you, Morgana Pendragon. And if you insist on this path, then I will see Albion built atop your corpse."

Chapter Text

"I've never crafted a magical artifact myself before, though I've seen it done. This piece should be simple enough; we are going to anchor an illusion of you, as Dragoon, to this amulet." Gaius held out a long chain, a heavy silver disk half the size of his fist swinging from it. As it turned it glinted, catching the fire from the oil lamps placed around the physician's tent.

Wearily, he studied the simple knot work etched into its face, unenthusiastic at the idea of deviating from the familiar. Merlin rubbed his head. He'd only just shed the effects of the aging potion and longed for bed. "Hells, remind me why this is necessary again? I've always just used the potion before now, it works well enough."

Gaius scowled, "So you've said, more than once now. And what is this with the expletives today? Cursing is the crutch of an unimaginative mind, you know."

Merlin glowered back in answer, cursing even more extravagantly in his mind. Exhaustion clung to every thought and movement. As he came down from the rush of his latest escapade as Dragoon, the late hour and lack of sleep were greatly taxing his mood.

"As one far more experienced in being aged than you," Continued Gaius, dryly, raising one eyebrow at the youth, "please, do tell me how you expect to keep up with Morgana when your hip locks up at every fifth step? You'll be without your magic, is your plan to lean on your staff with one hand and swing the sword in the other?"

"…No. Yes." There was no denying the physician had him there. Reaching behind himself to rub his back, he grimaced in remembered pain. "Fair point, I suppose I hadn't thought ahead that far."

"Which is why I'm here. Mind you, we will still need the aging potion; the amulet must be fully immersed in it for the duration of the process. The effects of the potion should be drawn from the mixture and then imbibed into the silver." As he explained, the physician held up a bottle of now familiar light blue substance. Slowly approaching Merlin, an internal struggle played openly across his face.

"This is the last of what I had made of it. Should the creation of the artifact fail– should I remember incorrectly, then we shan't have the time to prepare more. This portion will be left, useless, drained of its magic."

"I trust you, Gaius." Casting one last longing look toward his sleeping roll and suppressing a yawn, Merlin, resigned, turned toward the work bench. "How long will the amulet last?"

"Such an item will last for several months of regular usage. Back in my day, magical artifacts were all the rage, you know. From items of protection to illusions to make a lady's hair look perfectly coiffed at all times." The fond smile which had stolen over his face as he reminisced melted away.

"As part of The Great Purge, Uther rounded it all up, and either had it destroyed, or locked in the vaults beneath the castle. For years afterwards there remained a black market— but Uther was as ready to execute you for selling a charm to keep the ticks from livestock as for attempting a bloodline curse. It didn't last long."

As someone who had never known a world other than one hostile to magic, the notion left him baffled. Ladies of the court had once worn charms for fashion? Absurd! The notion caused his heart to race with excitement. Hearing Gaius speak of the time before the Great Purge was rare; Merlin's questions were solidly rebuked whenever they so much as strayed near the subject. Now, this tiny scrap of information brought his imagination flaring to life.

What did it mean if one could anchor a spell to an object? If charms could be crafted to keep ticks away, what about charms to help food storage last longer? To keep the edge of a plough sharp for longer? To make a single log burn to warm a home for weeks, instead of an hour? Fantastical thoughts danced behind his eyes as his fingertips tingled in anticipation.

"I know that look," cautioned Gaius, "You mustn't get carried away, Merlin. Remember that magic is still very much illegal. Perhaps one day it will change, but if that's going to happen, you need to focus."

Giving his head a shake Merlin blinked, forcing away the mental images he'd conjured. "Where do we start?"

⌘⌘⌘

"Merlin!"

Starling awake Merlin sat up, disoriented, the haze of sleep still thickening his thoughts. "Wha…"

A blanket slipped off his shoulders, falling in a heap to the floor. Gaius, standing beside him, shook his shoulder gently. A pool of drool had collected under where Merlin's cheek had been resting on the worktable only a few seconds before.

"Merlin, I'm afraid I cannot let you sleep any longer. It's time to get up."

Tousling his hair, Merlin peered, bleary eyed, around the dimly lit tent. It was only slowly he detangled himself from a marvelous dream. In it, he'd journeyed from village to village across the kingdom- giving away various charms to better the lives of its citizens. Finding daily hardships alleviated he'd basked in their unnecessary, but appreciated, adoration. Not a single pitchfork, headsman's block, or gallows in sight. Abruptly, he recalled the previous night, panic surging as he realized he must have fallen asleep. "The amulet!"

"Is finished," Gaius soothed. "You fell asleep about halfway through, and I completed it alone." Deep circles shadowed the physician's eyes, and Merlin could see the exhaustion in every line of his frame.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

Snorting derisively Gaius peered down his nose at his ward, mouth quirking up at one edge. "I've endured more sleepless nights when attending to my patients than you've been alive. Now, eat your breakfast. You have a long day ahead of you."

The bowl of beef stew Gaius set before him had smelled incredible only a few seconds ago. At the reminder, Merlin's stomach cramped, seeming to crumple itself into a tight ball. That's right, today is the day.

The food tasted like ash in his mouth and seemed determined to stick in his throat, but under Gaius's worried eye he managed to choke down half of it. Then, on the physician's orders, he drank two cups of water a sip at a time.

Half hysterically, he wondered, what do warriors do if they suddenly have to pee during a fight?

He and Morgana had danced around each other for years. They'd come into conflict countless times, but neither had ever finished the other off. There would be no evading that final conclusion this time. Today, they would crash together again, like an inexorable tide, and one of them would die at the other's hands.

"You said you finished the artifact?"

"What? Oh- yes."

"And… does it work?"

"From all I could tell, the enchantment bonded nicely. You will both look and sound as though you were eighty."

Reaching out his hand in a silent request, Merlin tried to calm his escalating heartbeat. Fetching the necklace from a now empty bowl, Gaius placed it face up in Merlin's palm, without relinquishing his own grip. Sensing that Gaius clearly had something to say, Merlin waited for him to speak.

Gaius frowned at the silver amulet, the coloring of his cheeks betraying the anxiety he clearly felt. Gazing up at Merlin with baleful eyes, his mentor suddenly appeared ancient, the lines in his face deep as carved stone. "Have you ever wondered if your destiny asks too much of you?"

Merlin weighed the words, and shook his head. "I don't let myself. And even if it were not my destiny, I would do it because he is my friend."

The truth of the confession weighed heavily on his chest. It had never been the dragon's prophecy he believed in so fiercely– it was Arthur. If Arthur died here, it would be like losing a part of himself. He would forever be incomplete. Severed. Merlin would remain frozen in time.

His racing heart calmed. Gently, he pulled the amulet from Gaius's grasp. "Thank you, Gaius, for everything. You…you've shown me what it's like to have a father."

Eyes bright, Gaius reached for his charge and pulled him in tight against his chest. In that embrace, Merlin felt how deeply precious he was to his mentor. "I fear I'm a poor replacement for your father. I've done my best to fill that void in your life, and not out of duty, or obligation to my sister. I do it because I have always believed in you, Merlin."

Returning the hug, Merlin closed his eyes as he tried to memorize this moment. It felt too much like goodbye.

They stayed like that for a long time before Merlin gently pulled back, smiling. "I will return" he promised, with far more conviction than he felt.

Gaius returned the smile, but Merlin could see the way it stopped before reaching his eyes which clung to their sorrow. "I know. When have you not? Now go on— try it on. I will teach you the words."

Ten minutes later, after having confirmed the amulet worked perfectly, Merlin finally found himself alone in the tent. Almost ceremoniously, he changed out of his clothes, wiping down his body with a wet cloth and a bowl of cold water. It was a practice Arthur often did before he entered a fight, claiming that cleaning his body helped to clear his mind. Merlin wasn't particularly impressed, finding his thoughts as much a jumble after as they'd been before. The only difference being, now, his body shook in the early morning chill.

Once dressed, he knelt beside his bedroll. Worming an arm under the layers of cloth he withdrew a long bundle, concealed among the folds. Setting it atop his blankets, he ran one hand along the oiled leather before flicking the protective covering back, revealing a sword. His gaze drew up and down its carefully honed edge, polished steel reflecting the light from the oil lamps, glowing as warm as candlelight. Merlin knew little about the workings of smiths, but even his untrained eye could recognize he held a gorgeously forged blade.

With what he could most closely describe as reverence, Merlin reached out to rest a hand on the hilt. Opening himself to the magic seething just under its surface felt as natural to him as breathing. The hair rose along his body. A ghostly sensation of flames danced across his skin and he imagined a great eye turning its gaze upon him. An intelligence, an awareness, pressed against his mind, spiraling out from the sword. It was as if the dragon fire which had kissed the blade lived on inside it. There was a magic here as ancient as the heart of a mountain, and as primal as the roar of a great beast.

He could feel its will, as tangible as though words were being whispered in his mind. I am The King's sword. I am justice.

Tightening his grip on the weapon, Merlin drew it up before him. When he spoke, it was under the mantle of a Dragon Lord. I shall wield you, he thought, wrapping the words in magic of his own. I am yours, while you are in my hand our will shall be one. Please, aid me once more in the service of The King.

He felt a thrill as the sword's power seemed to respond to his thoughts, extending its magic towards him, grasping his mind as firmly as he held its hilt.

Again, Merlin felt more than heard the response- sweeping across his body like a second rush of flames.

Yes.

He smiled, grimly, fiercely. He was ready.

⌘⌘⌘

They came for Arthur nearly an hour after the first rays of the sun spilled onto the horizon, sweeping a lazy golden lacquer over the valley.

First, they were each untied and ordered to wash, buckets of chilly water, sponges, and clean clothes provided. Loathe as he was to admit it, Arthur felt grateful for the gesture. While no stranger to the smell of sweat and unwashed human flesh, it was never a scent he'd been able to become truly accustomed to. He relished climbing into a tub at the end of a hard day, water deliciously warm and laced with scented oils. Hot baths were one of the luxuries of his position he had never hesitated to enjoy. It had been a chore Merlin had loathed, groaning dramatically and endlessly over the heavy pitchers of hot water. The pit gnawing inside Arthur yawned, once again threatening to swallow him whole until he beat it back.

A cold sponge bath stood as a poor substitute- but he eagerly took the opportunity to scrub the dirt, grime, and crusted blood from his skin. The fact they were expected to do so, fully exposed, under the open sky, bothered Arthur little. He'd long since grown accustomed to battlefield rules. If they believed they could shame him with his nudity, they were sorely mistaken.

After making himself presentable Arthur's hands were manacled in front of him, the manacles then attached to a heavy iron collar around his neck. His legs were hobbled with chains, and his ankles held apart by an iron pole. With the pole perhaps being four hand widths long, the set up even allowed him reasonable freedom of movement… with little possibility of fleeing or attacking anyone. It was the most sophisticated restraint he'd ever seen, and he couldn't help but feel grudgingly impressed.

Each of the knights were given the same treatment, before the lot of them had been herded into a makeshift animal pen which stood at the edge of the great army's now nearly empty campsite. From the smell and hints of wool caught on the gate, Arthur would guess sheep. His mouth watered, belly growling at the thought of a juicy leg of mutton.

In the sky above, the day couldn't seem to decide if it wanted to be cloudy or sunny. A fickle breeze accompanied the shifting weather. One moment it would whip high, pulling at anything lying unsecured around the camp. The next minute it would drop to a playful tease, unpleasantly cool on a day which already lacked much warmth.

He drank in the scents of the nearby forest on the crisp fresh air, discernible in the wind even above the earthy aroma of sheep. Even the heady scent of leaf rot felt like ambrosia after spending so long immersed in the smell of their waste buckets and grime.

Queen Morcant may have been scrupulously methodical and detailed in her treatment of her prisoners, but even the greatest tactician relied on their soldiers for enforcement. And, soldiers were rarely as disciplined or detail oriented as the tacticians who commanded them. Yet, try as he might, he could find no window to attempt an escape. Previously in their misadventures, if he'd just stayed alert, opportunities had always seemed to present themselves. Now, it seemed as if the face of good fortune had turned from him entirely.

Was he truly going to have to rely on this trial to determine his future?

As he turned this uneasy prospect over in his mind, the Queen herself approached, flanked closely by four of her knights. She was outfitted for war in a bronze-colored mail dress, laid over deep green fabrics, lined with brown fur. Her long hair had been bound back away from her face, a small but intricate circlet of gold resting atop her head.

Arthur flashed her his most charismatic smile. "My Lady. I'd rise, but I'm afraid I'm a bit tied up at the moment."

Almost ruefully her mouth twitched, turning up slightly at one edge. "You have your mother's charm, if not her subtlety."

The words hit like a blow to the kidney. His mother?

As though reading his thoughts plainly across his face, Queen Morcant nodded. "Oh yes, I knew Ygraine. One may even have called us friends. She kept your father's brutal nature in check when she was alive."

"You say my mother was your friend, yet you would execute her only child?"

"You are more Uther's son then Ygraine's, I hear. How many innocent lives have drained into the cobblestones of your courtyard simply because of the magic they carry in their veins?"

"I've seen nothing but wickedness come from sorcery. You are free to govern your lands as you see fit, and I my own."

She scoffed, lip curling. Turning as if to leave Arthur hurriedly spoke again, giving her pause. "If you are determined to kill me, then may I at least know why?"

That strange intensity in Líadan's severe eyes was suddenly back as she turned to him. "Your father's blind hatred took someone very dear to me. And I lay the blood debt in your lap, Arthur Pendragon. You have chosen your father's path, and so I will kill you, because it is the only way to stop you."

He met that fierce gaze evenly, and felt the stirrings of something that may have been shame curling around his ribs. The worst of it was that Arthur was truly starting to believe that Queen Líadan Morcant wasn't insane. She was a normal, intelligent, highly capable woman driven to extremes by her circumstances; circumstances which the Pendragons had much to do with.

The siren call of revenge did not discriminate in who it beckoned. And it could cloud one's vision and mind more effectively than the most potent of spirits. A brief flash of a memory- the moment he himself had attacked his own father, murder in his heart.

"I am sorry for your loss."

What more was there to say? Words could not sway her from her path.

She looked, for a moment, as though there was much she wanted to say. Instead, Líadan offered only one. "Your manservant, the one you mourned— He's alive."

It felt as if Arthur had been struck by a stone between the eyes. "What…"

"I saw him with my own eyes. I still expect you to curse my name at the moment of your death, Arthur Pendragon. But before you die I return to you one you thought lost."

He blinked, stunned. A lie, a vicious and pointless one. He'd seen Merlin die. "Why would you-"

"Tell you this?" She paused before continuing, "It is a terrible thing to lose a friend."

Before he could recover enough for his rage to build she spun on her heel, gesturing to the guards. "Bring the prisoners- it's time."

Arthur was marched with his Knights along behind him, each shuffling forward in their restraints. His mind was far away, spinning, swinging between anger and a tentative hope.

She had no reason he could think of to lie, nor had she struck him as particularly cruel. The weight of the bloodless scarf, heavy with its unanswerable questions, burned in his pocket.

There was no way to be certain of the distance they traveled, but eventually the rear ranks of the amassed forces of Dyfed rose before them. The army parted around their party to let them pass, and when the rows of soldiers ended, he found himself in the center of Dyfed's front line. Facing the red and golden sea of his own people, amassed only fifty paces away.

At the sight of their King, Camelot's men shifted angrily, a steady roar of noise building and lifting into the sky. They quieted only when the regal figure mounted at their head raised a hand, commanding silence. Guinevere dismounted, shadowed by a handful of the remaining Knights of Camelot, Gaius, and… Emrys.

Prince Berwyn, Queen Morcant, and Morgana mirrored them, backed by an honor guard of knights. Arthur, Leon, Elyan, and Gareth were pushed to their knees before them, a sacrificial offering.

Arthur zeroed in on Emrys, and his pulse roared with a fresh surge of anger. He felt rage; both at the humiliation of being paraded before his men like an animal at some fairground show, and also that Gwen had turned to magic. It seemed a betrayal- how could she so openly compromise the ideals he has striven for his entire reign? Although, an irritatingly calm and logical voice whispered in his head, there is sense in using magic to fight magic.

He couldn't pretend any ordinary warrior would be capable of defeating Morgana in a fair fight; they just wouldn't have anything to match her power. If the decision had been left to him, would he have been able to make the same call?

Beneath the surface of his anger tumbled confusion. What were his motives? What was he getting out of this arrangement? Arthur hoped that he would live long enough to find some answers. Queen Morcant may not have been an ally, but he did trust that she would keep her end of any bargain. But… Dragoon? What could a feeble old man hide for Morgana to fear?

He only hoped Gwen was right in trusting the very sorcerer who had killed his father.

Chapter Text

"Cause you're my king and I'm your lionheart."

- Of Monsters and Men

Resisting the urge to pace, Merlin couldn’t shake his awareness of the thousands of eyes upon him. As a servant his presence remained near invisible, and he’d never appreciated that cloak of anonymity more than now. The attention made his skin crawl as he commanded every bit of self-control he had to stand calmly beside Gwen. A span of conspicuously empty field had been left between the two armies, and Merlin supposed he and Morgana were meant to battle there. 

Beneath the illusion of stuffy red robes, he wore a much less cumbersome outfit. In his favorite blue tunic belted around the waist, red neckerchief, and dark brown trousers, Merlin enjoyed a freedom of movement he hadn’t experienced before as Dragoon. It was an odd sensation; to feel something that he could not see, and see something which he could not feel. He’d have preferred armor, but with no way to conceal the rattle of mail, it may have raised questions. As long as nobody touched his illusory robes, they would have no cause to question. Even his bespelled beard fluttered in the breeze.  

Casting his eyes over the intended arena, Merlin noted with satisfaction the relatively flat and clear ground. Whether naturally or artificially so, either way, he wouldn't need to keep his eyes glued to his feet just to avoid tripping over something.  See, Arthur?  He thought, smugly, remembering Arthur’s many passing comments over the years.  I checked my environment— I was listening.  

Palm straying to the hilt of Excalibur, Merlin felt a reassuring hum from the sword. He took an odd comfort in the feel of the metal and leather. 

Even at this distance he could clearly see Arthur smoldering with anger, for reasons which weren't very difficult to guess. Glancing sideways, Merlin’s eyes lingered on Gwen. By all appearances she remained calm and confident, standing boldly before her army. Few people had known her long enough to understand what it meant when the edge of her mouth dimpled that way—she was a nervous wreck. 

He wanted to reach out to her in some way, to reassure her, but in his current form he had to be cautious not to seem too familiar. After a moment's thought he said, "I will not fail you, my Lady.”

Eyes widening as if startled, Gwen nodded, flashing him a strained smile of gratitude. “Return Arthur and our knights to us safely, please.”

Conflicted by all the things he wanted to say and couldn’t, Merlin settled for a deep bow. Turning, uncertain what else to do, he squared his shoulders and ventured alone into the open ground that separated the two armies. Morgana came to meet him in the middle, hostility bristling as they each took the other’s measure.

The rules of a magical duel between champions were obscure. The exact terms were to be reiterated by a rather scrawny orator, who had followed at what he must have considered a safe distance behind Morgana. The man sported a fitted emerald doublet buttoned over a cream jerkin. Around his thighs to his knees ballooned yellow and green striped pants so bulbous as to nearly double his width. Yellow stockings beneath gave long legs the appearance of a water bird’s, a yellow and brown plume of feathers atop his hat only reinforcing the imagery. As he walked, the pants wobbled so dangerously it effectively distracted Merlin. Staring in morbid fascination, a new gratitude for the traditional attire of Camelot’s court swelled in his chest.

The man cleared his throat nervously, tittering for a moment as his gaze shifted between the two combatants. When he spoke, it became apparent why this nervous man had been chosen; a stark contrast to his mousy appearance, his voice boomed across the field. 

"As dictated by ancient law and tradition, each Champion will duel for the length of the sand dial without utilizing their magic.” The orator gestured to where several servants emerged, carrying a short table, a hunting horn, and a sand timer. The items were carried far to one side so as to be out of the way of the battle but placed at an equal distance between the opposing armies to allow each a clear view. 

“This fight will be to the death. It will begin at the first sound of the horn. When the last of the sand falls, should both representatives remain alive, the horn will sound for a second time. On this sounding, the magical portion of the trial will begin. Should- should either of the Champions use their magic before the sounding of the second horn, they will immediately forfeit the match and… face a summary execution…”

Simple enough, Merlin supposed, and just as Gaius had described to him. The timer was even the same sort he’d seen countless times during tournaments. It didn’t look like it would be too long, surely.

The orator’s voice dropped to a normal volume, and he looked from Merlin to Morgana. “Do either of you have any, uh… any questions?”

The poor man’s tongue flicked nervously over his lips; pupils dilated to pinpricks. The way his upper body leaned away from each of them gave the appearance of being poised on the verge of flight. Merlin offered a reassuring smile. It seemed to have the opposite effect as the man’s legs began to tremble violently. 

Not that there is any danger of his knees knocking together, what with those pants. Wait, am I… frightening? 

An absurd idea, surely. 

“You are dismissed,” snapped Morgana, giving the man as little heed as if he were an insect. Needing no further permission, the orator fled, rushing to where the sand dial had been set upon the table. 

Everything rested on this- this fight would determine the future of Albion. Never before had Merlin felt the weight of his destiny as much as in this moment. Each step he’d ever taken, seemed to have been in pursuit of this exact point in time. He had been able to hold Morgana off with swordplay once before, he only hoped he could do it again. He must do it again. Just until the horn. Then, he’d have the upper hand. 

They took up positions roughly ten paces apart. Merlin resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his damp palms onto his shirt before drawing Excalibur. His heart jumped against his ribs, speeding with some odd combination of terror and eagerness. 

Their eyes locked and his vision narrowed to those two, hard, green points boring into his. 

The horn sounded– and Morgana came for him. 

Charging forward, she raised her sword high, sweeping it down at him with the full strength of her upper body. Merlin was ready. Planting one foot behind him, bringing up his sword, and tilting it to turn aside her blow. As it glanced away he flowed the other direction, forcing her to turn to follow as she swung her weapon for him again. Bracing the flat of his blade in his palm he caught that attack, too, pushing in with his own body to break her stance, forcing her to adjust. She adapted quickly and returned with a stab, sword darting for his stomach. Excalibur blurred into motion, batting her weapon aside, making her stumble. Morgana snarled at him before throwing herself into a dizzying array of attacks and jabs that would have felled a lesser man. Gaining in confidence Merlin evaded each one, driving her rage higher and higher until her attacks shifted to be more open, less precise, leaving him his first opening to strike.

He ducked beneath her next swing and swept his sword at her exposed side. She quickly reversed her attack and, surprised, he was forced to defend. He managed to catch the blow, awkwardly, the edge of her blade slamming into his pommel. He grimaced as the impact jarred up his arms, rattling his teeth. 

Pushing off their point of contact Morgana withdrew, dancing away from him with quick light steps.

He came to a stop, sword relaxed at his side, watching her every step as she stalked like a caged animal. Sweat dripped down his face as his chest heaved. This needed to end soon. They began to circle, assessing each other with new eyes.

 “You promised me a threat!” she snarled. 

Setting his mouth firmly, Merlin ignored the taunt. His body ached, burning fatigue already setting into his arms. One never truly appreciated the weight of a sword until you swung it around a few times. But he had gained an idea of how she moved. In the eagerness of her attacks, he could sense her thirst for blood, her hunger for victory. Every tendon in her body thrummed with violence. If he offered her an opening, could she be goaded into attacking recklessly? 

By her hesitation now, she had likely been counting on the opening melee to overpower and finish him quickly. Grimacing with satisfaction, Merlin adjusted his grip on Excalibur’s hilt, the strength of the sword flowing into him. Its magic heightened his senses, honed his reflexes, and provided new reserves of energy. Tracking the trajectory of her attacks without the sharpness it lent his eyes would have been near impossible. At times it had nearly felt as though the sword were pulling his arms into position before he’d made a conscious decision to move. The strange awareness the dragonfire blade possessed pressed in, reassuring, like an old friend. Instead of the awkward feeling he normally got when holding a weapon, its weight felt comfortable. It seemed more an extension of his own arm than a tool. Was this how Arthur always felt whenever he fought? It was glorious! 

Engaging her once more with a thrust, his attack found only air as Morgana skipped aside before spinning in close, slashing for his chest. He knocked away her strike, and, feeling more confident, feinted high before twisting his sword and coming up from beneath instead. Parrying easily, she moved as fast as a striking serpent, the steel of her blade glinting in the shrouded sun as it darted for his throat. Heartbeat deafening in his ears Merlin watched his oncoming death, arm moving to block, knowing he couldn’t make it in time. He didn't have the skill, the speed, needed to survive this. The icy touch of death slid fingertips up his spine. Knees slamming into the turned dirt, the whistle of the blade next to his head served a sobering reminder for caution. 

He’d managed to dodge, but it wasn’t clean. A line of fire across his ear and the side of his face marked where she’d sliced him. Not for the first time he offered a silent thanks to Gaius; If he had truly been as old as he appeared he never would be able to move so nimbly. Unquestionably, the amulet, still tucked beneath his tunic, had spared him countless times. 

Giving him no time to recover, Morgana delivered a series of fast, aggressive attacks aiming to break through his guard. By some miracle of borrowed skill and luck, he managed to meet all but one, earning another shallow wound across the forearm.

Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes, and he had to fight the urge to wipe it away. They exchanged blow after blow until his arms were screaming and perspiration slicked his whole body, beading between his shoulder blades. The cold air dragged claws down his throat as he gasped for breath. He gave up the notion of trying to bait her into an attack– it took everything he had left to merely keep her at bay. 

If he gave her an opening, she’d kill him. 

With each second his strength waned. His reactions grew progressively slower, arms and shoulders screaming for rest. How much time had passed? Surely, the horn must sound soon! 

Something wet and warm dampened his shoulder and Merlin realized his wound from the ambush must have torn open, again. He cursed himself for not thinking to heal it. As the lead weight of exhaustion crept in, Camelot’s champion misjudged another strike. Morgana’s sword slipped past his guard, sinking into his hip and rebounding off bone. The pain was exquisite, eliciting a scream even through his clenched teeth. 

Merlin brought his sword up hard as she came around for her next blow, trying to finish him off, slamming his blade hilt-to-hilt with hers. A ring of clashing metal, and the downward sweep of her attack abruptly stopped. 

Arms trembling at the effort, he gritted his teeth and held. Bearing down on their locked blades Morgana lunged back, then forward again; her left foot connecting solidly with his thigh. The blow caught him off guard and he wheeled back, wounded hip giving out and sending him crashing to the ground where he lay, gasping, stunned and winded. A flash of steel above him and instinct took over, sending him rolling aside just in time as the point of her sword struck, driving deep into the earth where his head had been. 

In the fall, he’d lost his weapon. His heart hammered a deathbed confession in his ears— I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die! 

All seemed lost when, abruptly, the horn sounded his salvation. Morgana opened her mouth, but Merlin was faster. From his hands and knees, he threw out a hand in the direction he last remembered her being, "Forb fleoge!"

The Witch blasted back, landing hard on the ground. It had been a hasty spell; he hadn’t had time to properly gather in his power or will and she recovered swiftly.

Rising up, hair whipping loose around her head like a tempest, she snarled, "Forbaerne Ácwele!" A ball of fire coalesced in her palm, and, flinging her arm out, she hurled it towards him. 

On his feet again, rather than shielding, he merely dodged to one side, leaning heavily to compensate for his wounded hip. The screams behind him alerted him to his mistake: the ball of fire now hurtling straight towards Camelot's front line. Cursing his own foolishness he half turned, raising a hand, and on pure instinct managed to snag the ball of fire with a tendril of magic. With a minor effort of will he unraveled the spell, dispelling it only feet away from the panicking soldiers. It was only afterwards he noticed Percival had lunged, appearing from nowhere, throwing himself in the path of where the spell would have struck. Their eyes met for a heartbeat. 

The momentary distraction cost him, a blunt force smashing between his shoulder blades. Feet leaving solid ground the world whipped around him as he spun forward, through the air, crashing back in a heap. Even as Merlin gasped for breath he pushed himself up on one elbow, slamming his other palm down. He’d rid her of the illusion she had the upper hand. 

Drawing deeply on the well which flowed inside him, he drove his awareness into soil and stone, pushing out power in a tidal wave. "Ic be bebiede bat bu abifest nu." 

The entire valley began to tremble as if the world were tearing itself apart. With a bone shaking groan, a great fissure yawned beneath Morgana. He had to give her credit– She moved quickly. By casting a shield beneath her own feet, the sorceress found enough purchase to throw herself to one side, narrowly avoiding being swallowed whole. 

Merlin fought to contain the destruction as much as possible, directing the growing chasm down the center of the field. Straightening up he noted, grimly, that she had gotten much better since the last time they fought. It wouldn’t be enough. In the clear imbalance behind the power of their spells, the desperation in her movements and the frantic nature of her attacks grew. Despite her improvements it remained clear, even to Morgana, that Emrys remained the more powerful wielder.

"Fleoge!" Sweeping her arm towards him, Morgana's discarded sword rose off the ground, flying like an arrow at his face. At the same time, she threw herself forward, brandishing a dagger. 

"Culter, ic be healte!" the sword stopped a foot away from him. With another flash in his eyes, he spun it around and sent it right back at her with a thrust of an open palm. 

Morgana ducked and it skimmed over her head, falling to the ground before it could strike a Dyfed soldier. But she’d gotten into melee range. Surprised by a physical attack, the blade aimed at his gut nearly found its target before he managed to catch her wrist. Undeterred, the weight of her body collided with his. She howled like a wildcat, clawing at him with one hand as, magic momentarily forgotten, they wrestled for control of the dagger. Her nails found flesh and a trail of fire blazed down his cheek and the side of his neck as he reflexively twisted his face away. “Hleap on bæc!”

The dagger went flying from her hand, and while he meant for Morgana to do the same her eyes also blazed gold. In the instant his magic lashed out something seemed to blunt the impact of his attack. She should have been flung head over heels. Instead, she ripped from him, staggering back a few steps. 

With his next breath Merlin hurled a fireball at the ground between them, a second spell following on the heels of the first. "Cume poden!" The burst of flame which had blazed high on striking the ground was caught up, spiraling into a vortex of fire which he directed towards the witch. 

Throwing up both arms Morgana visibly panicked, cringing back, eyes wide and voice tight. "Miere torr sweolobhat!" 

Her magic ripped the column of fire apart, but the force of the subsequent explosion blasted Morgana away as well. It would have done the same to Merlin, had he not thrown a shield up just in time, having already learned the hard way what happened when those two castings met. 

Slowly the dust cleared to reveal Dyfed’s champion on the ground, dazed. Breathing hard, Merlin tasted salt, dirt, and iron on his parched tongue. 

The inexorable tide crashed down. 

Limping towards her he raised one hand slowly between them, fingers rigid and palm up. His lips murmured a half-remembered spell from an enchanted labyrinth, and a wise old man. "Gehæftan."

Roots twisted up from the ground, winding around her arms and ankles, binding her in place. Morgana stared up at him, something new in her wide dark eyes. A look of confusion and, could it be, betrayal? Her mouth opened soundlessly. 

It was no matter. He clenched his hand into a fist, commanding his magic to coalesce in his palm, preparing a final decisive strike. "I'm sorry, Morgana. Ast-“

“Merlin?” Her voice when it interrupted him sounded small, smaller than he could ever remember hearing it. But the single word cracked over him like a blow, instantly disrupting his concentration and dissipating the spell he’d been gathering. 

There followed a moment of perfect quiet, perfect stillness, as his mind struggled to process what she’d said. How she could know. Was it a bluff? A gentle breeze lifted the hair that wasn’t matted with sweat from his forehead. And slowly, very slowly, Merlin’s eyes drifted to the sunlight glinting off an amulet which hung from a broken chain clutched in Morgana’s hand. 

Hand flying to his chest he looked down and saw only the front of his own, simple, blue cotton tunic, dark brown pants, and worn brown leather boots. A flood of horrified understanding rushed through his body- but how!?

At the edge of his awareness Morgana hissed a spell "Onbind tha tease." The roots fell away, cut to pieces. She rolled, scrambling gracelessly to her feet and backing away, gaping in open shock. 

Fingers moving in an almost dreamlike state to his burning cheek Merlin traced down to his neck, feeling the bloody furrows in his flesh from when she’d gouged him. His touch made the wound sting anew. His mind teetered on the edge of hysterics as his stomach churned with the sudden urge to vomit. This had to be a joke, a nightmare, anything but real. 

Merlin may as well have been standing there utterly naked. If he had been, he wouldn’t have felt nearly so exposed. Gutted, raw, his deepest and most fearful secret had suddenly born its throat before thousands. And there was no way to snatch it back. 

No more hiding. 

Everyone knew. 

Merlin was a sorcerer. Merlin had magic. Merlin was Emrys.

Hand dropping from his neck all else fell away as his vision narrowed. Heartbeat in his throat, turning, searching with desperate eyes to find…Arthur. Uncertain whether it was a blessing or a curse that he could discern his expression, he searched the familiar face. What he found was blank, desolate, as empty of recognition as if his King were looking at a stranger. Tremors wracked the length of Merlin’s body as his and Arthur’s eyes locked, the moment heavy with expectation. And, despite Merlin’s terror, a fragile hope. 

His entire soul reached out towards the man he would lay down his life for without hesitation, pleading, begging, Arthur, this is who I am. Can you possibly accept me?

Before Merlin could see any hint of an answer Arthur’s eyes broke from his, lips forming words. Screaming… something. No sound reached him. He heard only the roar of his own heartbeat, broken by the sickening, sucking sound of a blade sliding neatly into flesh. 

It felt like he’d been punched. Merlin staggered; brows furrowed in confusion. A dull throbbing ache radiated out from his left side. Had he been injured? Looking down, he raised his arm. Morgana’s hand was wrapped around the handle of her dagger. Its blade had been driven into his side, angled upward, buried to the ornate hilt. 

For more than five years he had stood at the court physician’s side at the autopsy table whenever needed; human anatomy was as familiar to him as the lines on Gaius’s face. Strangely detached, Merlin now heard Gaius’s voice in his head, as though the physician were there beside him; giving a lecture, as he so often had, over the bodies that came across his exam table.

“Now look here, Merlin. The blade is angled perfectly to penetrate behind the third and fourth ribs. Straight into the heart.” 

Chapter Text

The dramatic crescendo of noise from both armies faded to a distant ringing as Merlin’s eyes drifted up, stretched wide, boring into Morgana’s. For a shivering moment, she seemed as surprised as he felt. Somehow, despite knowing better, an enduringly naïve part of him still believed she would pull a killing blow.

Morgana, who, along with Arthur, had first taught him how to use a sword.

Morgana, who had ridden boldly to aid him in the defense of his mother and childhood home. 

Morgana, whose eyes once danced with an abundance of playfulness, laughter, and mischief.

Morgana, who, when lost in his own fleeting, clumsy, adolescent affections for her, he had once imagined might return those feelings. He’d been half in love with her— in another time.

Her darkly coaled eyes now pierced his, the surprise in them melting into a vicious delight as cold as starlight. As they stood, frozen, green fixed on blue, the rest of the world fell away. All that marked the passing of time was the warm wetness rapidly expanding across his shirt. His hand found hers, gripping it over the hilt. 

Sound returned as she pulled the blade free, an arc of crimson spattering along the grass to follow its path. The roar of men filled the air as Merlin teetered, stumbling. 

Watching with greedy anticipation, Morgana’s honey sweet elation withered to fear as he regained his feet and stood defiantly before her. 

Careening back, she flung away the dagger in a fit of rage. That blood smeared hand rose between them as though to keep him at bay. "How?!"

A thin laugh morphed into a cough, breath leaking out his mouth in painful wheezes. Merlin tasted iron. "I am the last Dragonlord, kin to the Dragons. Like them… my heart is on my right side."

Despite his veneer of confidence, bright red blood continued to seep out from under his fingers. Desperately trying to stem the flow, he bunched his shirt in his hand, pressing the makeshift bandage tightly to the wound. She may have missed his heart, but Merlin could feel the labor in his lungs. A pinching sensation in his chest accompanied each pull of air, so he settled for unsatisfactory rapid, shallow breaths. Most telling, a faint, wet, sucking sound came from his side whenever he drew in air. No court physician, Merlin still understood at least on a rudimentary level what it all meant; she had pierced his lung.

A tingling sensation had begun suffusing his body; shock, and battle focus holding the agony of the accumulated injuries at bay. 

I don’t want to die!

Clamping an iron will down on the thrashing thought, he rebuffed the urge to flee. Hadn’t he already resolved himself to such a fate? Playing it right, victory could still be theirs. Camelot could not fall. Arthur must not die. So, he had to stop the bleeding. 

Merlin mustered as much command as possible, "Purhhaele pina, prowunga!”

He waited. Nothing happened. 

While Merlin had never been particularly good at healing magic, this felt odd. It felt as if the magic were sliding from the damage like water from an oiled skin. Rather than press her advantage, Morgana watched with a strange light in her eyes. 

"Ic hale pina prowunga" he gasped with increasing urgency. Again, a mental impression came of something slick and oily not so much repelling magic as much as sloughing it off. 

"It's useless," said Morgana, her air of victory returning. "Your simple fumbled charms will achieve nothing. It takes an intimate knowledge of the old religion to close a wound dealt by that blade; I've been imbibing it with dark magic every night for months now.”

Dismay tightened around his throat, head spinning. The pinch in his chest had escalated into a stabbing sensation with each breath. His traitorous heart was speeding up in response, trying to compensate, the blood weeping from the gash even faster to the rhythm of his galloping heart. Merlin’s pant leg was wet with it.

I am bleeding out, he realized, distantly, coldly.

"Forbaern aeltaewlice!" A jet of violet fire roared towards him.

For all his weakness in the healing arts, Merlin’s talent soared when it came to defensive magic. The shield he conjured was instantaneous and powerful, suspended as transparent coalescing golden light between the combatants. It cost only a minor effort for him to hold the defense and fend off the sudden flurry of her spells, although he wasn't sure how long his waning strength would hold.

Morgana shrieked in fury, "Look at the power you wield! You have the power to rule the Five Kingdoms: the power to force Arthur to grovel at your feet! At any moment you could have cut Uther down for his crimes against our people and you did nothing!”

The vehemence in her voice scalded him. Merlin knew he owed nothing to Morgana, least of all an explanation. But Arthur? Could he hear them? No, not likely. But if he could, if he did... "Nim bod min pissere nihte bod dryhten." 

The improvised spell whispered from his lips, a wish. He hoped Arthur would find it in him to forgive Merlin for using magic on him.

It was painful, but by taking pauses he could speak. "Ruling is Arthur’s destiny. Mine is to walk in his footsteps. To protect him.” 

When had he dropped to his knees? He couldn’t quite remember; clear thinking evaded him. Numbness had settled into the tips of his fingers. “I don't betray my friends," Merlin added, distracted as a new sharp agony radiating from his side. A sense of pressure had become noticeable, building steadily in his chest with each billow of his lungs. 

"No, you just poison them!" She spat, eyes brimming with something more than rage- betrayal, jagged and raw.

They’d had this conversation once before, hadn’t they? Merlin flinched, despite himself, "I had no other choice!"

Even he could hear the pleading, the defensiveness, filling his voice.

"You would do anything for Arthur. Yet had you been victorious here, he’d have had you executed!" She sounded maliciously pleased by the picture she wove. "To be betrayed by your friends after you betrayed your own kind, how fitting. I'll spare you the suffering and just kill you here and now. After all, we were friends- once. Consider it my parting gift.”

The many lives his decisions, sacrifices, and mistakes had cost spanned the distance between them. When he spoke, Merlin felt the weight of each. “Perhaps that end is all I deserve. Even so, I swear on the Goddess, I will take you with me.”

Another spell flew from her hand, and it, like the others before, was deflected. Morgana sneered, "You're already half dead!”

"Purhhaele dolgbenn" again, nothing.

"I told you; it's no use!”

Dropping his shield for an instant he flung a fireball at her. She hadn’t expected the attack, even so, it was weak and easily dissipated by the witch’s magic before it could pose any threat. If the focus for a spell strong enough to actually kill Morgana was beyond him, what remained? His thoughts kept slipping away, details hazy. Faintly, the memory of a boy, Gilli, drifted across the years. The young man had been reckless, but he’d closed a bad gash on his own shoulder. If magic couldn't heal this… maybe a mixture of magic and science could. 

Slipping a hand up under his shirt fingers probed until he found the pulsing wound, bare skin slick with blood. Bracing himself he pushed fingers into the open flesh, releasing a muffled scream through clenched teeth. "Purhhaele licsar min!"

The pain struck like a physical blow even as a wave of light blinded him, bringing with it a wave of scorching heat. His hand jumped away as the smell of charred meat filled the air, the pain so vicious and consuming that his vision went white and then black. The next thing Merlin knew he was hurtling through the air, skidding across the ground and rolling to a stop on his stomach, dazed. 

His body's first instinct was to gasp for breath, which almost sent his body into paroxysms of protest. How was breathing more painful than actually getting stabbed? His lungs seemed to be made of hot lead. But no, this was good, the numbness had faded as this new sharper pain roused him from the half-awake fog state he’d found himself trapped in.

In a moment of either inspiration or desperation, he let himself collapse limply to the ground, feigning unconsciousness. If he were honest, it was barely an act. He could feel the ultimate surrender of his body creeping up on him. 

He’d lost hold of the spell he had cast between himself and Arthur when he’d lost consciousness, but no matter. He'd need all his limited concentration if his half-formed parody of a plan was going to work.

Perhaps “plan” was being generous.

A boot dug painfully into Merlin's side, rolling him over onto his back. Fighting to stay limp, he cracked his eyes open until he saw Morgana as a faint outline against the sky.

Standing at his head she positioned the point of her sword straight over the right side of his chest, and his heart, "This time... I will not miss.” Raising its point high she drove it down.

The instant she moved, Merlin's arm came up. Eyes snapping open they flooded with molten gold, burning to match the fatigue in his body. There was a ringing clash as her blade was deflected. Glancing off a small shield in his palm and slipping to one side, it buried itself in the ground. At the same time Excalibur flew towards him, flashing in the sunlight as he awkwardly twisted around onto his knees. His outstretched hand closed around the hilt as desperately, inelegantly, and completely gracelessly, he rammed the sword to its hilt in her gut.

Merlin knew the sound it made as it went through her would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Her eyes regarded him with cold surprise as she collapsed, off balance. The blade was jerked from his weak grip, twisting to open the gruesome wound nearly to her sternum. 

Gods help him. His thoughts flew apart and he tried to catch her, missed, and crawled to her side through sticky bloody mud. Uncertain what else to do he mustered what strength he had left to pull her onto his lap as the gorge rose in his throat. He held her, tenderly, a grim parody of when he poisoned her. Except this time her shaking hands were clutching at her stomach, holding slippery intestines inside her body from where she'd been nearly disemboweled. 

Unlike that ruinous day, he didn’t allow himself to look away. He forced himself to gaze with eyes open to all he had wrought. This was what he’d wanted… right? 

This doesn’t feel like victory.

It was different– killing with a blade instead of magic. Writhing in the blood and the dirt and the sweat and the hot breath as a person stopped existing. Despite his horror at the act, Merlin did not mourn the death of Morgana Pendragon. To those who once loved her, she had died long ago. So instead, panting until the black spots dancing around his vision eased, that's what he mourned; days when enemies had come from outside the castle walls. Times before resentment and dark magic had consumed all of Morgana's kindness and light, turning her into a ruthless shell of what she had once been. A shadow of all she might have become.

Looking at her with eyes unclouded, Merlin observed a creature as deformed and stunted as Aithusa. A tear wound down his cheek.

Morgana’s head twitched back and forth. "You cry for me?"

He thought she meant it to sound scornful, instead she just sounded... tired. "Once, you were my friend." Merlin answered, simply.

He expected her to sneer. Instead, Morgana seemed almost wistful. "And you mine. But times change."

Her eyes held his– one last rebellion. A final shuddering breath escaped as a bubble of blood at her lips before her body relaxed in his arms, a flame flickering out.

Gently, he laid her on the ground. Brushing a tangled lock of hair away from her face, Merlin closed her eyes. Long, wild hair spread around her head like a dark halo. For the first time in many years, she looked peaceful. He’d done it; Arthur and the Knights would be released. He’d done it. 

Why, then, did it feel so hollow? 

Gazing at his greatest foe one final time he staggered to his feet, making it only a few steps before collapsing back to the ground. Morgana was dead; it was going to take Merlin a little longer. He was no longer certain to whom the blood soaking him belonged.

“I fear I’ll be joining you soon,” he said, aloud, as though she could hear him. 

There was no satisfaction in having outlived his killer, if only by a few minutes. Letting heavy eyelids drift closed he focused on the soft breeze that played across his face, wishing the day were warmer. Despite the layer of sweat soaking his skin he felt as cold as a grave. One hand absently stroked the ground beside him as he wondered how long it would take for death to come. Disconcertingly, he realized he couldn’t feel the grass; his whole hand had gone numb. From the way his chest felt half crushed, he thought his trick may have made his injury worse instead of better. Maybe it's better this way, better to die here. That way Arthur won't have to have me executed.

A pang of guilt chewed at him that he wasn't able to keep his promise to Gaius. As if the thought had conjured him, Merlin gained a strange distant awareness of the old physician, caught glimpses of his face, and felt hands on him. Someone poured something thick and syrupy with a sharp bitter taste down his throat. It hurt, but everything hurt. He ignored it all, steadfastly shutting it out.

Had he completed all he'd been meant to do? Wasn't he supposed to assist Arthur in building a new Albion and fulfilling his destiny? But, then again, the dragon had never said Merlin would have to survive in order for Arthur's destiny to be fulfilled. Perhaps he had played his part in Arthur's story and his chapter had come to a close. Besides, this mist was so peaceful. He was ready for the pain to end. 

⌘⌘⌘

Arthur had watched the events unfold on the field while experiencing a tenuous mix of frustration and anxiety. Everything was so far beyond his control.

The sorcerer who had once seemed an old man, full in his might had towered over them all. He stood as tall and impregnable as the soaring peaks of the distant mountains. A colossus carved from flesh and blood, against which even the likes of Morgana became small. Then, somehow, the Titan had been unmasked, leaving Merlin standing forlorn and awkward in his place.

Arthur hadn’t recognized his friend. He couldn’t reconcile the sorcerer seemingly hewn from might and magic with… Merlin. Merlin, who had always had more courage than brains or skill. Merlin, who was supposed to be dead.

Merlin… who had lied to them all.

The look which had brimmed in the boy's eyes as he’d turned to Arthur haunted his mind; It had been naked supplication. And, in that look, Arthur had known this was indeed the young man who’d walked beside him for so many years. Somehow alive and whole, though he had no explanation for it.

Then the blade. And all confusion, all thoughts of Merlin’s deception, of his magic, flew from Arthur’s mind. He’d been singularly transfixed by the undeniable truth before him. Arthur had been trained to kill since his youth- he knew precisely where to find the organ that mysteriously seemed to control the mortal body.

He’d been gutted for days on end by the memories of Merlin’s supposed murder. Now, resurrected, returned from the tomb by some unknown twist, the blade stuck in the manservant’s side felt like it had pierced Arthur’s own heart. Aside from his futile warning he hadn’t yelled, hadn’t screamed. The overwhelming impulse was there, immediately suffocated by the oppressive weight of the moment.

No.

And yet, Merlin fought on. More than that, somehow his and Morgana’s words had been carried to Arthur. No doubt by magic. Their brief conversation spun out implications like spiderwebs, but for each question that seemed to be answered a dozen more were born until his head became so crowded with them he thought it might burst.

When Morgana fell, Arthur thrashed against his restraints whipping around to stare at Queen Morcant. “The combat is decided!”

The expression on her face was indiscernible as she watched her fallen champion, giving no reaction.

“You gave your word!” he urged when she remained still, voice low. Warmth welled where skin tore under the manacles, but he did not stop straining. 

Turning her eyes on him he saw a struggle happening there, the nature of which he could only guess at. “Tell me, Arthur: even when faced with death your iron-clad composure never abandoned you. Why now?”

“He can still be saved!” His pulse roared along with the words— vision narrowed to the woman before him.

She turned, facing him squarely. “What do you care for the life of a sorcerer?”

The answer that burst from him came without thought, welling from the depths of his being. “Everything!”

Something softened in her gaze at that. He identified perhaps the first shadow of gentleness he’d seen in this imposing figure of iron resolve. The moment stretched into an eternity.

“Guards, release Arthur Pendragon and his men. They have been found innocent. Each is free to return to their people.”

Berwyn shouldered his way forward, face contorted in a mix of anger and distress. “Mother, no! You cannot-“

“You will be a great ruler one day, Berwyn, but you must learn that in order to do justice… one must also have mercy. Change will never come if you don’t give hearts the chance to learn. Now, do as I command.”

⌘⌘⌘

“Merlin!”

Arthur? He fought to break free of the fog that had claimed him, reaching for the new voice.

"Merlin, Merlin!"

Prying open his eyes Merlin’s vision slowly focused enough to make out Arthur bending over him. Percival, Gwaine, Leon, and Elyan hovered around them both. And Gaius, too, looking heartbroken and forlorn. Rather than being reassured, terror seized him, abruptly sharpening his sight. His body flinched away from the hands on him. The primal urge to flee overwhelmed him now as it hadn’t even in the battle; they knew he had magic. 

“Merlin, Merlin it’s us!” reassured Arthur, although he didn’t try to touch Merlin a second time.

Forcing his muscles to unclench Merlin looked at each. His breaths came out in a strangled wheeze, shallow and rapid. What should he say? What words were there? With a great deal of effort, he stretched a fragile grin across his face and managed to gasp out, "What'd you know? I'm not as useless as you always thought.”

Arthur huffed out a breath, but a familiar warmth crept into his piercing eyes. "I've never really thought you were useless, you idiot."

Merlin frowned, doubtful.

Arthur nodded his head, a forced smile of his own twitching his mouth. "Yes, believe it or not, you usually mostly get the job done.”

The banter may have been as familiar as his reflection, but it felt different. Contrived. In the strain of each of their expressions, Merlin could feel the tension between them, as rigid as a drawn bowstring. Eyes abruptly stinging with desperate tears he opened his mouth to find some response, some way to bridge the distance, and didn’t have the breath for words. He focused on drawing what air he could into his body until he again gathered his strength, "This isn’t how… it was meant to happen.”

"But you have magic!” Arthur burst out, “You, you just have to heal yourself.”

Wordlessly Merlin shook his head, a no.

“You’re not dying!”

The shout seemed to spring from Arthur’s lips against his will, body heaving with rapid breaths in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. The invisible wall separating them crumbled as the King lurched forward, spreading his hands helplessly over his servant’s torso. Merlin couldn’t tell if the tremor he felt there was a figment of his imagination or not. 

“You can’t die, you have too much to answer for.”

"There's some incentive," agreed Merlin weakly, with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

Head rolling to one side he met Gwaine’s eyes, and saw they were bright with unshed tears. His old friend nodded to him, silently, solemnly, before barking an order. “Knights, circle up!”

Without another word they took up positions: shoulder to shoulder, facing out, shielding their King and offering what privacy they could from the prying eyes of those who would not understand this brotherhood. Even Gaius drew back, silently weeping his impotence. 

Merlin’s attention slid back to Arthur and he smiled apologetically. A golden light seemed to halo around his King, filling his vision with a gentle haze. His body had become heavy, too heavy to move anymore. "You'll have to, to train, another idiot, to run around for you. This time, try not to… such… a prat.”

Suddenly, Merlin felt a sharp sting on the side of his face and his eyes flew open. He didn't remember closing them. Arthur had slapped him! The initial surge of indignance drained away, leaving only resignation. The clotpole never knew when to give up a fight.

If he did die... things would be so much simpler, right? And he wouldn’t ask for forgiveness- It was better not knowing. This, here, could be enough.

And like the sudden illumination of a gentle dawn, Merlin knew; that with Morgana gone, even without him, Arthur would succeed. Rather than bringing comfort the realization crashed into him with the weight of an avalanche, tears streaming freely as he realized he wasn't needed anymore. Wasn’t wanted, really, not with magic. 

Pain spiked again through his chest, seizing up his muscles. A groan tore from his mouth. For a long moment after he couldn’t breathe back in again. Sternum pumping up and down uselessly, he panicked. 

“Breathe, Merlin, come on!”

He couldn’t. The billowing frantic convulsions of his chest which had taken over wouldn't let him. 

Arms encircled his body as Arthur drew him up, pulling him against his chest. The King spoke firmly, a command. “In and out, just focus on breathing. Follow me.”

This close Merlin felt each expansion in Arthur’s ribcage as his friend guided him. In and out. Forcing his breaths to deepen he did as he’d been commanded. In response his racing heart slowed, air coming back as he matched Arthur. Though it didn’t fill him up, it gave him back his voice. "It’s okay.”

What was he saying? It wasn’t okay! The warm golden light swirled thicker now, obscuring most of his vision. He wanted to stay. He wanted to know. 

Arthur shook his head adamantly, "I can't lose you, Merlin, you don’t get to just go and die on me! Gaius– do something!"

For the first time that Merlin could recall, he heard fear in Arthur’s voice. Fear he didn’t understand. Above him, his friend was saying something else. Try as he might to listen the meaning escaped him, the sound fading into the mist. His thoughts, too, began to slip into the warm haze. Head too heavy to keep up he rested his forehead against Arthur’s shoulder. Something wet landed on his ear. Pulling back enough to see Arthur’s face he found tears heavy in the man’s wide blue eyes. Even as he watched, another fell. 

A warm surge of affection for Arthur washed over him, and with great difficulty he focused his attention on one of his hands, lying limply at his side. Slowly, an inch at a time, he reached up until he clutched Arthur’s sleeve. “I pledge my fealty, my life, to this purpose.”

The need to know slipped away, released, along with all questions of guilt or mercy. 

The golden light which had steadily infused the scene around him closed in one final time. It was warm. It rushed into his eyes and filled him. 

And Merlin found he was no longer afraid.

⌘⌘⌘

Merlin’s eyes drifted closed a second time, and this time nothing Arthur did could conjure him back.

In his arms, Merlin’s muscles relaxed a little more, as if he were no longer trying to stay. Something had broken loose inside Arthur and he couldn’t seem to stem the tears that flowed silently down his cheeks. Adjusting his grip on his friend, he bent down his head until his ear was to the young man’s chest. There, yes, though it was weak, he found a heartbeat. 

He clung to that sound as if it were evidence of hope. As long as that sound went on there was a chance it could continue to do so. Merlin’s hand still gripped his sleeve, though the fingers trembled. As long as they trembled, there was life in him.

He stayed like that for what felt both like an eternity and no time at all. Until he could no longer feel Merlin’s fingers tremble on his arm, and his hand had slipped away. Until one last quiet wheeze escaped and the rapid, labored, rise and fall of his chest stilled. 

Until Merlin’s heartbeat sounded like nothing in his ear.

By then Arthur’s tears had dried up. Something akin to calm but sharper, less sane, had taken their place.

Uncertain what else to do, Arthur shook him a little. Nothing. Raising one of Merlin’s eyelids he found fixed pupils staring into the sky. He knew what that meant and couldn’t… he couldn’t be dead. Now, more than ever, Merlin had to get up and be okay.

Tacky blood coated his palms, the thick metallic scent of it cloying in his nostrils. There was so much— too much.

“Arthur?” a voice asked, distantly familiar.

“I…” He held out his hands, they were shaking. Arthur glanced around and watched in a strange, detached manner as his whole body violently trembled. He forgot that he was surrounded by witnesses, that he wasn't supposed to show this kind of emotion for someone so below him in rank. Not for anyone.

Gentle but insistent hands pulled him away, making more room for Gaius. He didn't put up a fight; too numb to do anything but stare at the empty, pale shell which was all that remained of his manservant.

Bards waxed on about death, likening its appearance to a peaceful slumber. He’d been barely more than a boy when he’d first learned the truth. Death was rarely anything beautiful. The crimson wash to Merlin’s clothes, the marble color of his skin, the blue hue at his hands and lips, all of it dispelled any romantic notions. 

Gaius fell to the ground beside his charge, pressing two fingers to his neck. At last, the old man slowly withdrew his hand, a low primal sound like a wounded animal escaping his lips.

The sound resonated deep in Arthur’s being and he took a moment to breathe, letting a small, choked sound of his own escape before straightening up. Brick by brick he walled off everything he felt until he was ready to face a world that wouldn’t understand, couldn’t understand.

Merlin the liar, the secret sorcerer, Arthur’s only true friend, was dead.

⌘⌘⌘

Oil lamps flickered, illuminating a lean body laid out on a table. Bruises marred the pale flesh. The hues ranged from the pale yellow of nearly healed to a fresh deep purple. Otherwise, the tent was dark as the sound of a camp at night filtered distantly through the fabric of the walls.

Queen Morcant had, surprisingly, offered them the services of her physician. The woman had explained it was their custom in Dyfed to cast a spell of cold over the recently deceased. She claimed, when done properly, it would preserve the body for several days as any mourning rituals were completed. At the close, the beloved was sent out into the sea. In their case, she said it would simply allow them to transport their champion back home for a proper funeral pyre. 

Arthur had, in turn, perhaps more surprisingly, accepted the magical aid and they had been given the night to prepare the body. 

Together, Gaius and Gwen soaked rags in clay bowls. Gaius barely noticed how the chill of the water and the bitter night air made his joints ache. For the work they had to do, cold worked better. Using the damp cloths to moisten the caked-on blood, they worked to slowly peel and cut away the fabric that had adhered to Merlin’s flesh as the gore had dried. The work progressed slowly, gradually revealing the full extent of the external damage.

The sight nearly brought him to ruin. 

Gaius existed as a familiar companion with death. In his role as a physician, he regularly saw the worst of injury, disease, and tragedy the world had to offer. He had lived through a war which had slaughtered most of his friends and colleagues. As a young boy raised in a small village with few resources, he had watched, helplessly, as a young cousin succumbed to fever. She hadn’t even seen her seventh summer. The helplessness he’d felt had been what first spurred him toward learning the healing arts.

Sixty-seven years later, he felt as helpless as that boy he thought he’d left behind in that village so long ago. He was standing knee-deep in the shallows of a mighty river, the waters roaring through and past him, threatening to sweep him away.

Merlin had been cast out of the current. Body broken; spark extinguished.

The physician did his best to lose himself in the familiar work, trying to ignore the stiffness of the joints and muscles. Once the spirit departed a body became meat. Still to be valued and treated with respect, but not the person who had… gone on. It was like a stone mausoleum, merely a monument to their life, cold and impersonal. That's what he told himself. It was an understanding that had aided Gaius in some of his more gruesome work– allowing him to compartmentalize. But grasp as he might for it, the usual detachment slipped from his grasp.

It didn’t look right, Merlin as meat. Merlin as a body. Without his animating spirit, his smirk, his fierce determination. Each time his hands grazed the body, no, not the body Merlin’s body, it was with tenderness. Each contact came with the urge to take him into his arms and fall apart. This wasn’t just a body; this was his son. This body had belonged to his boy.

Pausing over Merlin’s now fully exposed chest, Gwen's long fingers strayed from her cloth, hovering over a thickly knotted scar. “What is this from? I never knew he’d received such a wound, it looks like a burn?”

The words pulled Gaius back from the edge of the abyss he’d been teetering on. Haunted eyes followed to where she indicated, and a fresh wave of pain tightened his lips. “Nimueh, an enchantress. She struck him with a spell of fire. He had gone to confront her in an effort to save my life.”

In a halting voice, Gaius recounted the adventure. Gwen listened in silence. More questions followed, and more tales, in a slow trickle at first before flowing readily from the physician’s mouth. It brought Gaius a reckless joy to finally release the secrets that his lips had been locked tightly around for so long. Strangely, it was a comfort to speak of them. To recount the way he and Merlin had first met, of their initial efforts to explore the meaning of his destiny. And he spoke of his own clumsy navigation of the bond which had formed between himself and his charge.

As his stories painted a new picture of the last several years, gentle hands passed clean wet rags across Merlin’s battered body. They cleaned away the sweat, the mud, the dirt. With patience and loving care their hands erased whatever evidence of abuse they could.

⌘⌘⌘

Deep enough into the forest that the light from their fire didn’t reach the camp, a small gathering of men were drinking. As the alcohol flowed freely from questionably obtained barrels, they began to find their words even through the muddle of conflicting emotions. Each in turn shared memories of a raven-haired youth with a sharp wit but little sense. As the night wore on and the spirits soaked in, laughter echoed between the trees, a testimony to the celebration of a life ended too soon. 

A flush faced Gwaine hopped unsteadily up onto a fallen log. Wheeling his arms to keep from losing his balance he teetered dangerously, sloshing most of the ale from his mug and onto his tunic in the effort. He nodded, thankfully, as Percival handed him a fresh tankard before tossing back the last of the first. Hoisting the fresh drink high he gazed around, eyes bright in a mixture of inebriation and grief. “To Merlin-” 

Choking briefly on the words, tears slipped down his cheeks. The knight made no attempt to hide or wipe them away, “The best of us.”

Elyan, Percival, and Leon raised similarly full tankards towards the stars. Their voices rose, as one, “Merlin.”

⌘⌘⌘

Arthur contemplated a familiar piece of fabric in his hands, spine resting against the rough bark of an ancient tree. Shadows swallowed the shape of the king nestled in their depths as he listened to the knight's stories, holding his silence. 

Leon had let him know of their intentions to hold a wake for Merlin. A part of him had even considered joining them. He’d come all this way before hovering, unseen, at the edge of the light of their fire. In the end, he’d balked, turning away from the light and concealing himself in the darkness of the forest to listen. 

There was companionship with them- this small band of brothers. They’d each put their lives on the line for one another without a second thought, and he trusted them implicitly with his life. But risking his heart? He’d never opened that up to any one of them. A part of him still held the world at arm's length. It was the part that spoke in his father's voice, whispering vulnerability was weakness, and a king must walk alone. He didn’t agree with his father’s philosophy, but It was an armor he’d worn so long he wasn’t certain how to remove it.

Merlin had been the one mysterious exception. Arthur wasn’t entirely certain that had been his choice, either; the boy had wormed himself inside of Arthur’s guard despite his own best efforts to keep him out. Nobody got under his skin the way Merlin did. In time, he’d been won over by the boy’s willful nature and fierce personality. The unassuming manservant disarmed him in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Or… he had.  

How much had been a lie, all of it? Had Merlin been using him? Had he used his magic to make Arthur trust him? 

And now? Well, Arthur didn't know how to name what he felt. Anger, betrayal, sorrow, confusion, denial, each concept was inadequate. He mentally scratched at the swirling mass inside but only tangled himself up more and more. What little Merlin had said before he died did nothing but muddy the waters.

And he would never get an explanation. He’d never know. And he was lost in the dagger and the blood and the collapse of all he’d thought he’d known. 

Merlin's solemn voice seemed to drift to him through the years, 

"I will protect you or die at your side."

Rage, sudden and hot, flared. Lies. Balling the red scarf he’d been contemplating into a fist Arthur made as though to hurl it away, stopping at the last moment. Unable to uncurl his fist from around the fabric. 

Snarling, he twisted and drove the fist into the tree he’d been resting against. Bark and skin alike split, Arthur’s hand flaring with pain. As the heat cooled, the throbbing beat shooting through his hand, up into his wrist, focused the drumming thoughts.

He had things to do. What a mess Merlin had made. 

Chapter Text

“A single lie discovered is enough to create doubt in every truth expressed.”

-Bram Stoker

The trial by combat was a sacred and ancient law, with stringent practices. One ignored such traditions at their own peril. It was, historically speaking, in the best interests of even the most bloodthirsty tyrant to obey such laws. At least publically. To do otherwise, and to be caught, was to invite enemies to one's doorstep. Tradition was a sacred thing in the Five Kingdoms, and flouting it would sow seeds of doubt, even among one's allies. 

The burial rights of a slain champion would normally fall to whichever kingdom that champion had stood for. This practice acted as a safeguard against the ill-treatment of a defeated champion's body. Honoring the dead, in turn, sets a broader precedent for the treatment of one's own corpse should you someday fall into the hands of an enemy.

At his request— Queen Morcant, the woman who had so effectively weaponized these very traditions against Camelot, broke from them. Not that he had any intention of ever making it known. After the battlefield had been cleared; she relinquished Morgana’s body to Arthur.  

Gwen had cleaned and prepared Morgana for burial, alone, after she and Gaius had finished with… their other charge. And in the hours before that first dawn, after he’d slunk away from the knight’s vigil, Arthur had carried his half-sister’s body on horseback into the forest. 

He’d traveled through the deepest shadows; riding until he was certain none who would seek to desecrate her body in vengeance for her evils would ever find her. And there, he had buried her. 

Morgana Pendragon was laid to rest tucked in a split among the gnarled roots of an ancient oak tree. The last of its leaves had seemed to whisper in the sorrow of all that had been lost to them as he worked, pushing his already taxed body to the brink of collapse. Finally, staggering, he’d marked the site with a cairn. 

Kneeling there, burning lungs billowing after the long exertion, a cold part of him had thought this was what Morgana deserved for her pride. For taking dark magic into her soul. He hated her for the pain she had inflicted on their family, on their kingdom. There was another part, though, one that echoed with the lost laughter of their shared childhood. One which had never forgotten the woman he knew had loved him and Gwen more than anything. And that part pitied her. 

Standing, he’d taken a long draft of water from the skin on his hip before pouring out a portion over the freshly turned earth. Arthur hadn’t looked back as he’d ridden away, returning to camp only a few hours after dawn. The sleepless night and emotional weight of burying the sister who had desired nothing more than to butcher him before his people, surprisingly, had done little for Arthur’s state of mind. 

Feeling as though training weights were wrapped around each limb, Arthur woodenly followed Gwen in spending that first day doing their due diligence as monarchs. 

The sound of the rustling, dry leaves from that great oak he’d labored beneath seemed to fill his ears as he moved from pavilion to pavilion, dutifully thanking each noble lord present for their loyalty and swift aid. Along with that came promises of feasts, of celebratory hunts, of Arthur personally evaluating this son or that nephew for potential knighthood. 

Mostly, for Arthur, it meant making sure he was seen as much as possible. He knew his people needed reassurance that he was safe, whole, and strong. They needed to see he hadn’t been diminished by his imprisonment, that he remained a capable leader. As demanded, he played the part well. The true carnage of his emotions and thoughts remained locked away, muffled by the rustling of the oak tree. 

Nobody had ever asked about his injured hand. Arthur never volunteered the information, only allowing his wife to treat the split skin. He’d fractured his hand before, and he knew those familiar injuries, too, would heal with time. 

He managed to endure a full day in camp after the duel, finally setting out on the sunrise of the second morning. Separating from the main body of the camp under the guise of getting the King back for proper medical attention; the retinue around Arthur was as small as he could negotiate without blatantly ignoring the demands of his advisors. 

Behind them, they left Camelot’s army to pack up and make their way home. For some, that would mean returning to the city, for others, returning to their own fiefdoms and lands. Even now, nearly a day free of the suffocating camp and the necessary tedious politics, Arthur experienced no relief. If anything— their absence highlighted where they had been acting as welcome distractions. He was particularly sensitive to Guinevere’s emotions, the weight of loss hanging heavily about her shoulders like an ill-fitted suit of armor. She was no stranger to sorrow and bear it she did. From the way his wife’s gaze lingered when she thought he wasn’t looking, she was worried. No doubt she wanted to talk about it. Merlin’s death was not only Arthur’s to bear, he knew. Yet, as much as he wanted to comfort her, he couldn’t. He already felt nearly overwhelmed by the resonance in his sips of her grief from mere proximity. If he opened himself up to it, if they talked about what had happened, he knew his own emotions would rise in recognition of hers. Guinevere seemed to understand he wasn’t ready and spoke of it only in gentle touches and the way she didn’t ask him about the nightmares that ravaged him at night. 

Arthur’s attention was drawn like a loadstone to the dour court physician. All spirit seemed to have drained from Gaius, who greeted every attempt at a conversation from the hovering Knights with a vacant stare. Nevertheless, Percival appeared to have taken it upon himself to see to him. With the patience of a mother tending her babe, the brawny knight made sure the old man was both eating and drinking. 

Did you know this entire time, Gaius? 

Even more of a weight, perhaps, was the cart Gaius drove. The place where Merlin’s body rested wrapped, protected, concealed. 

Arthur had been unable to face the shell the young man had so recently inhabited. A panicked sensation seized his organs and attempted to use them like a climbing hook to crawl up his throat anytime his eyes had so much as drifted near the cart. So, he kept a deliberate distance. Among the silent mourners mingled those oblivious to the deeper currents, and Arthur maneuvered to place them as a wall between himself and the truth he couldn’t confront. 

He hadn't known the person who lay in that cart. They were a stranger, wearing the face and the life of the man he thought he’d known. The knowledge festered like a hole in his stomach, leaking acid through his body. Arthur was numb and distant and angry and near tears all at once. He wanted to rage and flee and scream insults and beg forgiveness... But the person all that emotion was directed towards would never hear him.

The land passed below their horse’s hooves, and he hardly felt it, no more than he felt the passing of days. His body moved across rocks and streams and sand, but his mind wasn’t there— it was back on the battlefield with a ghost. 

“I pledge my fealty, my life, to this purpose.”

Several days into their trip, someone laid a hand on his arm drawing him out of the turmoil. Arthur had drifted from the group to sit atop a nearby hillock overlooking the campsite. Turning, he found a familiar weary face. Annoyance stabbed through him. 

“I don’t need a tender, Leon.”

“I’m not offering. I’ve got enough to deal with, with Gwaine right now. Any moment I half expect him to lay face down in a puddle and just give up.” 

Lowering himself to the ground beside Arthur, Leon pulled out a dark brown bottle. Uncorking the top, he took several long pulls of a strong-smelling liquid before offering it to Arthur. “I confiscated this from him. At the very least— I think he may be trying to drink himself to death.”

Accepting it with a raised eyebrow Arthur took a swallow. He immediately regretted it when the taste of oak and smoke burned his mouth, slipping down his throat to scorch his insides. He brought the bottle to his whiskey-numbed lips for a second, long pull. 

They sat in companionable silence for a time, the fire of the spirit anchoring Arthur in the present more than anything else had. Passing the container back and forth they watched the simple camp go up for the night below them. Completed, it was a huddle of around a dozen tents in all. Impractical compared to the quick and practical way Arthur usually preferred to travel but he’d offered no protest.

“It’s okay to be angry.” 

Arthur froze, bottle halfway to his lips. “What?”

“At Merlin, I mean. I know I’ve been.”

Shame flooded through Arthur, flushing his cheeks with heat beyond the warmth of the whiskey. Planting the bottle in the grassy hillock he stood.

“I’ve had enough. And I think you’ve had too much.” 

“Look, you don’t need to talk to me about it. Just… My father was a real piece of work. And something I learned the hard way when he died was you don’t have to forgive someone before you let yourself mourn them.” 

The words rang in Arthur’s ears as he stormed away, the sensation of fire still twisting in his esophagus, moderately unsteady on his feet. 

⌘⌘⌘

Gwen sighed, biting her lip and twisting her fingers together as her feet worried a new path down the center of the campsite. The sun had dipped below the tree line, and still, Arthur hadn’t returned. 

She’d been uncertain how to touch the cloud of grief hanging so densely over him. Her husband was a pot on a slow boil— angry since the moment he’d returned. Trying to grieve, but with no idea how. She sensed he wanted to take out his emotions on what had hurt him, but he had no direction. There was no easy answer. There was no simple truth. In place of an enemy to face, there were only ghosts; of his father, of Morgana, and of Merlin. 

On her own account, she’d found swift acceptance of the reality of Merlin’s magic. Rather than bringing her conflict, it merely cast understanding over previously unexplained events. Gaius’s ongoing stories in the private moments of their travels filled in many holes she’d wondered at for years. She’d always known pieces were missing, she just hadn’t guessed Merlin would have the answers. Enemies flung away without explanation, openings for escape appearing in the nick of time, an old man caught slipping an enchanted bag under Arthur’s pillow on the eve before her own scheduled execution. Even her father mysteriously recovering from certain death. Gwen’s eyes grew damp at this last memory; such a gesture encompassed Merlin’s nature perfectly. She wished she’d had a chance to thank him. 

While weary of magic and those who wielded it, she didn’t share Arthur’s hatred. She’d seen good people both hurt by magic and also hurt by the hatred and persecution of magic. Either way, people got hurt. In such a conflict… wasn’t the true threat the darkness every human heart was capable of? No, his magic troubled Gwen very little. It was Merlin’s death that pulled her into turmoil, and the role she had played in it. Though she hadn’t known Dragoon’s true identity; he’d fought Morgana on her command. She’d sent her dearest friend to his death. 

Dashing away the heat of tears with the back of one hand, Gwen nodded to Elyan, on watch by the fire. She ducked into her and Arthur’s tent, only to find the inside pitch black. That was odd, a servant should have lit the lamps at nightfall. 

Fetching an already glowing lamp from outside Gwen entered a second time. Her stomach lurched into her throat as the light nearly slipped from her hand. The sudden illumination of the interior revealed a motionless figure, sitting on the bedroll. Her panicking mind took a long moment to finally recognize Arthur. 

Spine curling forward in relief one hand went to her chest. The breath that had been compacted in her lungs releasing. “Arthur? Why are you sitting in the dark, where have you been? I thought-“ 

“Why?”

Pausing, she hovered near the door, uncertain what he was asking. “What do you mean?” 

But he said nothing else. Instead, her husband looked to her, and on seeing the oceans welling behind his eyes she knew. Striding across the room she dropped to her knees, reaching for his hand. The scent of strong spirits on his breath and the glaze to his eyes only deepened her concern. “You remember how he… was” she said, struggling to name Merlin dead. To speak of him in the past tense. 

Arthur laughed, harshly, his voice brimming with bitterness. “No, I don’t. I only remember what I believed him to be. All of that was a lie.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed, “Or perhaps it was also just more of the whole truth.” 

“No. No that can’t… it can’t.” Her husband’s voice carried the faintest slur, legible but with a rounded or drawn-out syllable here and there. 

Reaching out to touch his face, he jerked away from her hand, angry. Gwen knew she shouldn’t take it personally. Still, it hurt, and she fought not to show it. “Why not? What is it you’re afraid of?”

“You can’t understand!”

Chest aching, Gwen searched for the right words. She took a slow, deep breath. “No, I can’t. But I can sit with you while you go through whatever you need to.” 

She raised her hands towards him, silently, saying no more—a quiet offer of companionship. The gentleness of her unassuming support, free of expectation, broke him where a confrontation never could have. 

Slumping forward against her, he wept. The tears carried the momentum of the last week, finally bursting free as his wall of righteous anger collapsed. “I didn’t know him, he never let me. And now I never can!”

Stroking his hair, Gwen blinked back tears. The sight of her husband’s pain wound through her like it was her own. 

Eventually, his tears dried up, transitioning into deep and steady breathing. She was beginning to wonder if he’d fallen asleep when Arthur offered a confession. One which Gwen knew echoed up from the depths of a broken heart. 

 “If he was truly everything he appeared to be— then what I’ve lost is immeasurable. And all I feel is the fool.”

Chapter Text

Less than a day’s ride from Camelot, Guinevere ordered most of the attending procession on ahead to the castle. Very few of what had already been a small traveling party completed the journey to the lake—  accompanying only a single cart. The funeral rites were to be held before sundown. 

Arthur now stood alone, facing the very thing he’d been avoiding for the last… week? His sense of passing time had become so disoriented, there was no way to be certain. What had finally driven him there was not his wife’s gentle encouragement, or even their arrival at Lake Avalon. It had been Gaius returning his sword. 

The physician had bowed and offered the wrapped blade without a word. The sight fractured Arthur’s compartmentalization, his heart stuttering. 

The weapon used in the trial had been cleaned– excellently. Arthur knew, since under the command of a hammering heart he’d poured over each groove for any hint of blood. The kingsword of legend. The very symbol of his right to rule. Unless, of course, that was another lie. A tall tale to manipulate him.

Even after a third close inspection he had remained dogged by the conviction he’d turn it over to find congealed gore. On its fourth turn, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished steel. He had seen accusations there. 

Whatever else Merlin had been, anything else he’d done, he’d laid down his life in the defense of Camelot. He’d offered his blood, his pain, his life, for the Kingdom. For his King. If he hoped ever to be worthy of Merlin’s choice, if he ever hoped of being a worthy ruler, he had to stop hiding. If he didn’t, he’d never be able to trust his own rule. He had to face this. 

What exactly “this” was— he still wasn’t certain. But his companions had left him alone to figure it out. 

Uther’s burial had been an event of extravagance. Body prepared using the finest oils, myrrh, and incenses– Arthur’s father had been dressed in fine velvet and buttery silks. Adorned in enough riches to purchase a small castle, his body was laid atop a holy altar surrounded by towering marble walls. The finest stone carver in Camelot had been brought in to create a graven image of his likeness, meant to forever watch over his posterity. Eventually, his father was moved into the royal catacombs to rest beside his father, who lay beside his father’s father, on and on for generations. 

In striking contrast to that spectacle, Merlin’s body lay nestled along the open tailgate of an old wooden cart. Reaching out, Arthur’s fingers felt the roughness of the humble and threadbare white linen wrapped carefully about the body as he drew the cover down from his face. The young man was wearing a fresh blue cotton tunic. Instead of incense or oil, Merlin lacked any scent at all, his usual aroma of woodsmoke and clove conspicuous only in its absence. 

Furrows from Morgana’s nails still scored down his cheek, though all traces of blood had been cleaned away. The king hadn’t noticed it before— but the tip of one of Merlin’s ears had been severed in the duel. True to her word, Dyfed’s physician’s spell had halted the march of time. Though nearly a week dead his champion’s corpse appeared as fresh as the day he’d fallen. Flesh pale as ivory, mottled with nearly healed bruises, that haunting blue tinge to his lips. The spelled chill had steadily faded, as they’d been warned, but hints of unnatural frost still dusted his skin. Clumps gathered on Merlin’s eyelashes and in the sweep of raven black hair. 

The sight slammed Arthur into a vivid memory: facing the terror of the undead Dorocha. Otherworldly spirits said to kill any mortal with a single touch, freezing them to death on even the slightest contact. Naturally, Merlin had flung himself into the path of one swooping attacker… to protect Arthur. Caught up, the manservant had hung, suspended, before falling to the ground as if dead. Body cold as ice, skin covered in frost, only a shivering pulse had betrayed continued life. 

That vision seemed to overlay the present in Arthur’s vision, the young servant’s appearance eerily similar. So much so that he resisted the urge to feel for that same fluttering beat. 

How many times had his manservant saved his life? And… how had he forgotten about that night.

Seeing Merlin lying there, still as the grave, Arthur was confronted with how small the young man was. When he was awake, talking, his personality was so big you forgot. In Arthur’s thoughts over the last few days he’d built Merlin up in his head to match the warrior sorcerer who had taken the field as Camelot’s Champion. Now, here, he looked so thin, so vulnerable. 

He just looks… human. 

As though having magic would make someone less human. The thought troubled Arthur, and he tucked it away for closer examination at a later time. Perhaps it was simply a struggle to attribute the being who had wielded such power so easily to… this. This empty, bruised, fragile husk of an unassuming manservant. Who, by all appearances, had devoted himself to Arthur with half a brain and his whole heart. 

Teetering, Arthur was forced to steady himself on the edge of the cart. The wood was rough beneath his calloused palm. Tentatively he shifted his hand until it brushed against Merlin’s arm. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

A flush of heat spread from the base of his neck to his ears. Though he knew he was alone on the path, he still glanced around self-consciously. What had he been thinking; that he needed to express gratitude? Accuse? Acknowledge? After years of praying to his mother as a child he knew by now…  the dead could not hear him. He was only talking to himself. 

Leon had been right— Arthur was angry. Merlin had lied to him, tricked him, and the revelation was destabilizing. If he’d ever been certain of anyone it was Merlin. As it turned out, Arthur hadn’t known him any better than he had known his own father. The deception left him with doubts about his friend and manservant, doubts he did not want to have. He wanted to believe in Merlin; but he wasn’t certain how when he didn’t even trust his own judgement.

His own father, Morgana, Agravain, Lancelot, Gaius, Merlin. Everyone he had ever trusted had betrayed him. What did that say, then, about Arthur himself? 

“And that is your weakness- you put too much trust in other people. You and you alone must rule Camelot.”

“I would rather not rule at all than rule alone!”

“Your whole life I tried to prepare you for the day you would become king. Did you learn nothing?”

“I watched you rule. I learned that if you trust no one you’ll always live in fear, your hatred comes from fear, not strength.”

He’d been so confident when he’d rebuffed his father’s ideology. In the face of this new revelation that confidence seemed as fragile as spun glass. What if that was the deal, the curse, to never really know one another? Perhaps that’s what his father had meant, urging his son never to trust. Never to confide. All Arthur seemed to be capable of was erecting an idol of who he believed someone to be, an edifice in his mind, only to have it come crashing down when subverted by the truth. Was anyone ever capable of loving anything more than their idea of who a person was? Did that, in turn, make that love any less real or important? 

Not that he had ever loved Merlin. 

If one insisted on using such a ridiculous word, then it was not a love of passion. It wasn’t quickening heartbeats or hunger or desire. 

It was choice made free from infatuation or urgency. Nothing compelled it, nothing demanded it. It was enjoyment of and comfort in each other’s presence. It was companionship. It was honesty and conflict and the certainty that, when emotions cooled, you’d always come back together. Or… it had been. 

Is that what a family was supposed to feel like? 

Arthur’s mouth twisted bitterly. The affections of family were a mystery to him. He was certain his father had loved him… in his way. But Uther’s legacy was one of rage. Those fires had consumed his sister, and even Arthur had felt their heat sear his insides. Merlin had always been the one to pull him back from those flames. 

How was he supposed to find Merlin in this stranger who wore the face and the life of the man he’d considered his only friend? Had Merlin even been his friend? But he had sacrificed himself— for Arthur? It may have been a miscalculation in some grand scheme or was it really possible that Merlin was truly all he had always appeared to be and just… more. 

"I don't want to rule, that’s Arthur’s destiny. Mine is to walk beside him. To protect him.”

His father had been wrong about so much. Had his father been wrong about the old ways, too?

Already immersed in the ghostly whispers of the past, Gaius’s words from what felt like ages ago drifted across time. 

“I'm not the only one seeking to protect you. There are many more who believe in the world you are trying to create. One day, you will learn, Arthur. One day, you will understand just how much they've done for you.”

And years before that, standing in a deep, cool grove. A young man’s face had peered earnestly up at his dethroned King with steady confidence and devotion. 

“Believe in you- I always have.”

His own capture, Merlin’s supposed slaughter, the duel, the dagger. Watching, helpless, as Merlin died a second time. 

“I pledge my fealty, my life, to this purpose.”

The sound of a slowly fading heartbeat in his ear. 

In the quiet whispers of their tent, her warm body curled into his chest, Guinevere had explained to Arthur how Merlin had been able to keep fighting because his heart was on his right side. That he was a Dragonlord. 

Just another thing Merlin had forgotten to mention.

"You're a riddle Merlin."

"A riddle?"

"Yes. but I've grown to quite like you."

Arthur had assumed Merlin would always be at his side, a constant presence he could turn to. A voice to keep him grounded when he began to lose perspective. Merlin had boldly challenged him, tested him, but never in a way to best Arthur or position himself as morally superior. The truth was he couldn't now imagine a life without him.

Arthur’s thoughts raced, nine years flashing behind his eyes, heart quickening in his throat. The pale face below him swallowed his entire vision. He pulled at the laces of his shirt to loosen his collar, finding it difficult to breathe normally.

“You were coming back to look for me."

"Alright it's true. I came back because you're the only friend I have and I couldn't bear to lose you."

There was the sensation of something splitting behind Arthur’s ribcage. Jerking his eyes up to stare up at the silhouette of trees above them he clutched at his own chest. He was splintering apart. 

A voice spoke a name that could have been his, or not. Just a word. Just a noise. Whatever it may have been was drowned out by the flood of memories. 

A hand on his shoulder caused him to spin. He found himself locking gazes with Gwaine. 

“The boat is ready, sire. Shall I…“

Unable to meet the knight’s eyes, his chest filled with heat. “No, I will. Just… I’d like a bit more time.”

“I will protect you or die at your side” 

⌘⌘⌘

The weight of the carefully prepared figure seemed both as heavy as a mountain and as light as air in Arthur’s arms. Picking his way, step by step, he moved towards the small crowd waiting at water’s edge. The red and orange and yellow trees of the changing season were framed by emerald evergreens, their shimmering reflections dancing together on the surface of the water. 

There was no silk, no marble, no incense. Just the scent of pine, a silver-grey sky, and the lapping sound of water caressing the bank. 

Lake Avalon was resplendent before them, snow peaked mountains rising high in the distance. Around them the air was still, as though the sky itself held its breath. Small birds flitted from tree to tree, short bursts of lilting song drifting to the unconventional group.

It wasn't a large ceremony: Arthur, Guinevere, Gaius, Leon, Elyan, Gwaine, and Percival were the only ones present. That's what Merlin would have preferred. His manservant had abhorred the pageantry and posturing of ceremony. While, as the king, he couldn’t officially agree, the two had often exchanged significant looks at formal events. It had made them more bearable. 

All eyes turned upon him now. The forest seemed to tilt around them, so he looked to the sky, nostrils flaring as he took in a steadying breath. 

Leon stood to one side, a bow and nocked arrow held loosely in his grip. It was not yet ablaze, although Elyan had knelt to plant a burning torch in the soft earth at Leon’s feet. Gwaine and Percival waited beside a small boat. Its barren cavity had been lined with the forest’s offerings: leaves and ferns and moss creating a soft bed. Someone had spread a knight’s cloak out atop where Merlin was to rest, and the golden dragon of Arthur’s family peered up at him from its nest of crimson fabric. 

Gently, the king lowered his manservant into the pyre boat. Beneath blue folds of rumpled cotton, the young man’s tunic bulged; a promise, concealed within a leather pouch, hanging from around Merlin’s neck. The only way he had known how to say goodbye. Arthur folded both the young man’s hands over the distortion. It was a sentiment meant for the two of them alone. 

Gwaine stepped forward, clearing his throat gruffly. “I don’t know how these things are normally done. With your leave, sire, I’d like to say something?”

On his lord’s nod, the knight swallowed. Arthur’s eyes followed the man’s hand, noting the tremor as he lifted a flask to his lips before speaking. 

Gwaine stood tall, brows knitting together. "When I first met Merlin- I was doing my best to drown myself at the bottom of a bottle. He never dismissed me as the drunk even I had written myself off as. He… believed in me. Plucked me from the floor of that tavern, put a sword in my hand, and gave me a purpose. He showed himself a true friend.”

Unshed tears glinted in the knight’s bloodshot eyes, and Arthur could see the care lines carved deep in his forehead.

“I'd never have a friend who could be such an ass.”

"Or I one who could be so stupid."

Gaius spoke; voice hoarse from disuse. "He was as a son to me. I never expected such a blessing so late in life.”

"Brave, often to the point of foolishness.” Said Leon with a wry grin. 

Percival snorted at that. "I thought we had really good luck, but now I know better. We had a protector.”

"He was a sorcerer, but there was nothing of evil in his heart," said Elyan. His soft voice bore a hard edge. The normally agreeable knight’s gaze blazed as it met and held Arthur’s, a challenge? 

The silence rang, building between knight and sovereign, before it was broken by Guinevere’s firm timbre. "He never hesitated to put his life on the line for those he loved. He gave his whole heart, always, to what he believed to be right. No matter the cost.”

Arthur gazed down at Merlin, feeling a growing pressure to contribute… something. What might he  say? 

What words could encompass how precious Merlin had been to him, or how desolate and bewildered the absence of him made Arthur feel? Perhaps he was supposed to say how, when they first met, he’d thought Merlin was a complete idiot. But in the years since he’d come to realize he was the bravest man the king would ever know. How did he articulate that, now Merlin was gone, he felt completely and utterly abandoned. Or that his secrecy had broken his heart.

"He-"began Arthur, voice cracking. 

“You’re not going to die Merlin, don’t be such a coward. 

If I do die will you call me a hero? 

Probably. 

But whilst I’m still alive I’m a coward? 

That’s the way these things work, I’m afraid. You get the glory when you’re not around to appreciate it.“

Clearing his throat he said, simply, "He died a hero."

Something pretty and formal and perfectly acceptable and… utterly shallow. Exactly the sort Merlin would have scoffed at. 

"Sire!" Barked Percival, sword ringing as it cleared his scabbard. His attention seemed fixed on a point over his king's shoulder. 

Turning, Arthur’s mouth fell half open. So far from any civilization seeing another person would have been strange enough. But he wasn’t certain anything could have prepared him for the sight of a woman, walking out of the glassy lake as calmly as someone else might stroll up a grassy hill. 

Though the water pulled her tumble of dark hair into eddies and swirls as she emerged, every part of the unearthly figure remained completely dry. The rosy lips and smooth skin of a youthful face were offset by large, dark, solemn eyes which carried the wisdom of someone three times her age. The gown she wore was fit for a princess, silks in deep purples and blues with a delicate silver clasp about her waist.

Uncertainly Arthur took a step back. Though she appeared unarmed, he knew how little that might mean. 

Her eyes landed on him, a gentle smile softening the corners of her mouth. “Peace. I mean you no harm, Arthur Pendragon.” 

Pausing hip deep in the lake, her gaze slid down to the body in the bed of the small boat. Noticing her attention a fierce protectiveness rose in Arthur, and he stepped forward to place himself between her and the fallen champion. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage, my lady. You know my name, but I do not know yours.” 

The words were courteous, and a challenge. 

The mysterious figure curtsied, spreading her hands out to either side on the lake's surface rather than lifting her skirts. “My name is Freya, and I am merely a handmaiden. I have come, with the Goddess’s leave, to fulfill a promise made long ago.” 

In the brief glance he threw behind him Arthur caught Gaius shifting, a look of understanding dawning on the physician’s face. He recognizes the name. “A promise?”

“To Merlin,” she said.

Arthur swallowed hard. “Depending on the nature of your promise, I’m afraid it may be too late.” 

The smile that broke over her face shone as radiant as the midday sun. “No, Arthur. Not this time. Will you trust me?”

Arthur nearly laughed at the absurdity of her request, eyes narrowing. “Trust, you? Why…. What possible reason would I have to ever do that?”

She held out one hand, slender fingers loose and palm up. An invitation. “For him.”

“What do you care for the life of a sorcerer?”

For him? The words drummed against the inside of Arthur’s ribs. Despite all he did to smother it, hope flared to the beat, a tenacious ember reigniting itself in a bed of cold ash. It beckoned him on in a voice that was reckless and dangerous. Peering into those dark eyes he nodded, once. 

“Sire, this is rash!” Cautioned Leon, catching hold of Arthur’s shoulder as he bent to gather Merlin’s body. 

Arthur glared at Leon until he let go. The senior knight’s counsel was wise, as always. But something deep inside Arthur’s intuition urged him on. And, perhaps, there was even a part of Arthur that longed for his own destruction. That believed he’d deserve it. 

He met his wife’s eyes as he straightened, adjusting his grip to get a more secure hold with the arm around Merlin’s back. She nodded her support, and the warmth of her trust in his judgement steeled his nerves. 

The bank of Lake Avalon was muddy, seeping up around his boots, sucking at each step. The glacially cold water made goose flesh rise along his body and he clamped his teeth together to keep them from chattering. Undeterred, Arthur kicked past the reeds at the shore, pushing into open water. The bank sloped down gradually, and he plodded out until he stood an arm’s length from the mysterious lady of the lake. 

The thunder of his heartbeat counted each passing second, limbs shaking as a heavy chill steadily worked its way down to his bones. Freya appeared as though she didn’t remotely feel the cold, her arms steady as she held them out for Merlin.

Arthur hesitated, uncertain of her intentions. His entire life he’d heard stories of spirits, unable to move on until their bodies were honored properly. His father had always dismissed the tales as superstition, but it was one reason why desecrating the body of your foe was considered such a grave insult. Was he gambling with Merlin’s eternal rest? 

Freya saw his reluctance and spoke in a whisper, “All will be well, Arthur. I, too, loved him.” 

The pools of longing and regret in her eyes tugged at Arthur's heart, even as it filled him with confusion. As far as he was aware— Merlin had barely known what a girl was. Once, he’d watched his manservant pine after Morgana, but that had simply been a crush. The depth of emotion in Freya’s eyes implied something different. Something more. 

So, Merlin had kept more than magical secrets. Relenting, he followed her silent directions to lower the young man’s body into the water of the lake. 

Merlin’s head fell back as he did so, the sharp angles of his throat bared to the pale sky. Reaching out the mysterious lady tenderly slid her fingers through the drifting black hair. Cupping her hand against the back of his skull she lifted his face from the icy water. Together they held him in place, floating at the lake’s surface. 

Casting her eyes up to the sky Freya’s lips began to move, whispering unintelligible words that brought a gentle glow of candlelight into her irises. As the words wove a tangible thread of power through the air around them, she bent down to touch her forehead to Merlin's. Arthur watched, barely breathing, not daring to guess at her purpose. Tenderly, she pressed her lips to Merlin's in a lingering kiss. A goodbye?

The moment was heart-rending and intensely private. Uncomfortable, Arthur looked away, pulling back slightly. His forearm grazed Freya’s elbow and disjointed images slammed into his mind; jet black fur, razor sharp fangs, and slitted feline eyes. Pupils dilating his muscles tensed, heart leaping in response to danger. A slender hand darted out to size his forearm and additional impressions followed— feelings of loneliness, fear, and bottomless despair. Then it was gone. He was again shivering waist deep in the lake, her hand sliding from his arm. 

“All is not always as it appears, Arthur Pendragon. Not every enemy you’ll face is themselves a villain.”

Hesitating, he met her illuminated gaze steadily. The sight of the once brown eyes now ablaze was unsettling. The confusion of the disjointed images and emotions hadn’t passed, and he wasn’t certain he understood her meaning. But beyond the reactive alarm the sensory ambush had triggered, he detected no threat or hostility from her. What had the visions meant? Were they real? Perhaps those were questions better let go.

Securing a better grip on Merlin, Arthur was careful to avoid touching the sorceress a third time. “What do you need from me?”

The soft glow of the magic swirling in her eyes intensified until they burned like two points of golden flame. “Call his name.”

⌘⌘⌘

Merlin hoped that, even though he was dead, Arthur would continue on to fulfill his destiny. Since taking the throne Arthur had definitely been making good progress. And yet, despite Merlin’s best efforts, he remained a cabbage head. Not as prideful as his father had been but nearly as stubborn. 

Then again, Merlin also supposed some things could never change and, in fairness, everyone had their faults. 

He remembered dying quite clearly. And he was certain that dying had truly been what it was. The moment your soul detached from your body was one it would be hard to ever forget. But… if he were dead, where was he now? 

Despite being born with the power of the old religion in his veins, Merlin had never put much thought into the afterlife or its deities. While the triple goddess had haunted his steps through her priestesses, her existence itself and what that might mean had always seemed like distant worries for tomorrow. It wasn’t exactly that he was apathetic about the matter, but he’d had quite enough to worry about moment to moment without also contemplating the greater expanse of Gods and eternity. Perhaps that had been foolish, seeing as now he found himself in that eternity, supremely ill equipped. 

He had a faint memory of… a light. Golden mist, warmth, a sense of peace. And… his father! Other familiar faces, too. He’d known each. Hadn’t he? The more effort made trying to recall the details the hazier they became. Like awaking from a pleasant dream only to have the memory of it leak from your grasp as quickly as if you were trying to hold water. 

Only darkness enveloped his consciousness now. There was no way to discern in any definitive way if his eyes were open or closed. This moment of his existence was void of any scents, of all physical sensations. His thoughts seemed to be the only thing remaining to him. 

If I can’t feel my body that begs the question then, I suppose; do I still have eyes? 

Merlin didn’t have time to properly entertain the strangely funny idea before sound bloomed within the void. A musical whisper, one sweet voice thickly layered in magic. A jolt of shock rocked him, Freya?

Beginning at his lips the power she spoke seeped like warm honey into each limb, bringing with it an awareness of self. Its slow but steady progression melted away a terrible cold he only became aware of as he experienced its retreat. 

Another less gentle vocalization joined the first, swallowing it up like a tidal wave before landing like a clap of thunder across his mind. Its tones were embedded with the baying of hounds and the scream of a summer storm. As the language of the old religion rose in volume the second voice, the only one he could discern now, resonated strangely as if many people spoke at the same time. 

“It is time. Although, you may not find life to be a friend, Emrys. As Arthur is the Once and Future King so you are his sentinel. My sentinel. Éower widsiþ gewitan hæfde begunnon.”

The ghost of a hand stroked possessively through his hair, the way one might pet a favorite hound. The pleasant warmth intensified until it became uncomfortable. Discomfort morphed to pain as his entire body was barraged with the sensation of being stabbed with thousands of needles. It reminded him of times after he’d sat oddly and his foot would go numb, only intensified a hundred-fold. Merlin fought to cry out, to writhe, only to discover that while he had an awareness of form he lacked any sort of influence over it. So he lay, helpless, still as a statue, silently enduring the pain. 

Just when he had begun to wonder if his afterlife was to be one of eternal torment a voice as familiar as his own broke through to him. 

“Merlin!” 

…Arthur? The needling ebbed away. In its place other sensations emerged, one at a time.

He was… wet? Yes, wet and once more freezing cold, the sensation lapping over him. His limbs began to shiver. 

Next returned sound; a disorienting wash of voices and bird song. 

And he had to do… something. What was it? Oh yes— sucking in a sudden painful breath, his first in a very long time, Merlin was hit with the scent of pine and lake water and iron and something faintly reminiscent of strawberries. 

From above came an exclamation of surprise as a touch dropped from beneath him. Water closed over his head. Senses he’d so recently reclaimed vanished, muffled in cool darkness. Uselessly, he moved limbs which were slow and uncooperative through the water. The touch swiftly returned, and he floundered, grasping weakly at the arms that lifted his upper body from the water once more. Coughing up the mouthful of lake he’d tried to breathe in, Merlin fought and failed to get his own feet under him, feeling like a mostly drowned cat. 

Cracking open one eye he reclaimed sight and squinted at the painfully bright world, registering a blurry image of golden hair and blue eyes. “Are you trying to drown me?”

Arms crashed around his shoulders, pulling him in tight for a fierce embrace that crushed the air from his lungs. The rings of Arthur’s mail ground uncomfortably into his cheek before the king pulled back. “Merlin! You’re- it’s you?” 

What was going on? A chorus of voices calling his name, people he recognized and cared about. When he tried to seek them out, light stabbed his eyes sending a burst of pain through his head. Shutting them tightly Merlin let out an audible moan. When he made another attempt to stand, the strength in his legs failed sending him falling to his knees in the freezing cold water. Panic edged confusion swirled inside him. What was this? 

A second touch joined Arthur’s, catching Merlin’s arm, gently restraining him. “Rest— you’re still awakening, you must take it slowly". A small palm covered his eyes, “The magic hasn’t finished healing you.” 

The touch…he turned into it, heart twisting with anguished longing. “Freya?” 

Though he had known her for only days, he knew he would have loved her. As crazy as it sounded perhaps he already had. Or maybe what they’d shared was the longing not to go unloved. Either way, Merlin wished he’d had the time to learn her favorite song. He wanted to hear her laugh ring out with abandon and he wanted to be the reason for that sound. Freya had been… the first moment since he’d arrived in Camelot that he’d stopped obsessing about the future. She had also been the last. But for a stolen moment the overwhelming weight of his destiny had slipped away. He’d been ready to abandon everything for the present, and for a person who truly understood him and the loneliness he felt. She’d whispered her secrets into his heart, and there he’d kept them. Moments of candlelight tucked beside her memory, safeguarded for all these years.

“Hello, Merlin.”

It was the voice of a love he had never had the chance to know, and a love he missed so desperately. Placing one hand over hers he shifted her palm away from his face. The light still hurt, but he opened his eyes again, slowly, forcing them to adjust until her face came into focus above him. His chin trembled. 

"But how? You're still... aren't you?"

"Yes.”

“And… I’m?”

“Alive.”

“But how?” 

Freya briefly glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows furrowing with a flash of regret, "That is a long story, and I’m afraid I haven't much time left."

A sound that was half a laugh, half a sob burst from his chest. At last managing to get his feet planted under him he lurched into her, sloshing through the water. Scooping Freya close, he felt her slender arms go around him in return, lending him a strength her seemingly frail frame concealed. The warm press of her body against his was solid and he buried his face in the tangle of her dark hair, breathing in the sweet scent of strawberries. “It's really you!”

His legs gave out and Freya caught him, laughing, his weight carrying them both to their knees in the water. The cool waves lapped halfway up his chest and he shivered.  

Pulling back her eyes captured his, all else fading around them. Emotion closed around his throat as he reached one hand up to lightly brush a strand of hair away from her face. "I'm so sorry... I couldn't protect you.”

Freya shook her head and pulled his face down to press their foreheads together. "I didn’t understand it at the time, but your place is by Arthur's side.”

"I'm afraid those times may be past," said Merlin, miserably.

“Or maybe this is when they truly begin,” She whispered back. “I'm glad for this chance to see you, Merlin, but we must part once more.”

"You're going to leave again." The idea left him feeling hollowed out and incredibly lonely. 

She clasped his hands in hers. "We are no longer of the same world. You understand this, don't you?"

Catching hold of her hands he squeezed them fiercely, a denial of her words. "Will I see you again?"

"When they die, all worthy and noble souls return again to the mists of Avalon. Until your time truly comes Merlin… I shall watch over you."

He grasped her forearms under the surface of the cold lake, pulling her back to him in another embrace as his heart broke anew. "Don’t go!”

In the cage of his arms her physical form began to shimmer and fade, ebbing from visibility like sunlight through water. Pulling away she raised her chin and pressed her lips against his. Despite a distinct lack of experience in being kissed Merlin’s body responded instinctively, and he bent his head closer, one hand cradling the small of her back while the other trailed lightly down her arm seeking her hand out beneath the waves.

As they separated he found she was more transparent than present. Merlin clutched her in his arms, desperate, "Don’t leave me alone!” 

"I'll never truly be gone, Merlin. In the flash of light as the sun dips under the horizon, in the breath between waking and dreams, I will be beside you. That's where I'll always love you. Even after the day comes that you’re ready to love again.”

With those last words she faded completely, and Merlin's arms closed on nothing but water. His breathing hitched as his vision wavered, dimming for a moment. A hand steadied him. Turning, looking up, he saw Arthur.

As his body gave out, pitching him forward into the lake, mailed arms were there to catch him. 

Chapter Text

Startling awake, Merlin experienced a period of deep disorientation.

His eyes focused on the familiar beams of the underside of the roof in the Physician's quarters. Dusty light tumbled through the high windows and the comforting ruffling of parchment drifted to him from the direction of the worktable, accompanied by a gentle clinking of glass bottles. The sharp aroma of fresh-cut herbs perfumed the air.

Last he'd known he was in the lake, with Freya. All appearances indicated a significant change of scenery.

It was so perversely normal, that he was half convinced the last week had all been some terrible fever delusion. Indeed, the fact Merlin was waking in the physician's quarters and not a dungeon seemed a significant indicator his imagination had fabricated at least parts of it.

Making a conscious effort to unclench his jaw he let his eyes drift shut, seeking to return again to the dream of the lake and Freya. Frustratingly, Merlin's now awake thoughts began to race with the momentum of a boulder careening down a hill. One hand crept under his shirt, fingertips gliding over his side. The intrusive memory of a dagger's bite quickened his breath. The skin was smooth and unblemished. A dream. Relief had begun to flood his veins when he found tough leathery scarring, centered on a sunken point roughly two inches wide.

Hand recoiling as though from a hot coal he pressed both palms against his aching eye sockets, pushing until stars filled the void. Sitting perfectly still he let the tension in his bones and sinews mount until it was so immense he couldn't bear to remain still any longer. In an explosion of movement, his eyes flew open as he flung off the blanket and swung his legs out of bed, almost falling over from a rush of dizziness. His body felt heavy as clay, limbs cumbersome and sluggish even as his mind tumbled on with a horrified crystalline clarity.

It was all real.

The gorge rose in Merlin's throat, and he barely managed to throw himself to one side before retching, gagging on acidic fluid. He emptied the watery contents of his empty stomach onto the floor, body heaving.

When at last the convulsions stopped, he sucked in deep, steadying breaths. Someone patted his back and pressed a cup of water into one hand. Merlin swished the fluid around his mouth until the lingering sour taste was gone before spitting it back into the mug. Giving Gaius a grateful smile, he set it to one side. "Thank you. I really hate-"

His expressions of gratitude were interrupted as Gaius pulled him into a tight hug. His mentor's arms trembled with emotion, clutching Merlin with something near desperation.

"I thought we'd lost you."

Blinking back tears Merlin soaked up the embrace, returning it fervently. "Can't get rid of me that easily— who'd clean the leach tanks?"

Someone cleared their throat from across the room, and he looked in the direction of the sound to find Leon. Perched on a stool against the far wall, the man's pale eyes were tired. The senior knight nodded at him, the corner of one mouth dimpling in a smile. "Welcome back."

When at last Gaius released him, Merlin took the time to run his hands across his own body as if taking inventory it was all there. "What's happened?"

The knight and physician glanced at each other. "Well," began Gaius, "When the Druid girl disappeared you collapsed."

Determined to steer the conversation away from Freya, Merlin pushed on. "How long did I sleep?"

"Three days," said Leon.

Eyes widening the startled manservant looked to Gaius for confirmation, "Three days?"

"You were dead for almost a week. I'm surprised you woke up after only three," said the physician. He looked as though that week had aged him a hundred years.

Merlin contemplated how to ask his next question. "And you're sure I was really… Uhm…" Unable to say the word out loud he trailed off before gesturing significantly.

A strangely intense glint entered Gaius's eyes.

"Yes."

Chills of foreboding slipped up and down his spine, a minstrel playing a lute. "But the old religion demands balance— for a life to be given one must be taken!"

A thought occurred then, one which tried to wrench his stomach through the floor. "Gaius! Where's my-"

Gaius patted his hand, "Hunith is safe, I already checked. Bedridden from having drunk some bad water, but it's nothing out of hand. She will visit as soon as she is fit to travel. I didn't tell her about… well. I thought it best not to worry her for nothing."

"Then how? Who?"

"I cannot be sure. Do you remember anything from before you came back?"

The air in the room crackled from the intensity of the focus now directed at Merlin from both adults. Not that he could blame them— a chance to peer behind the veil of mortality? To perhaps glean an answer to one of the biggest questions which mankind had ever conceived? Regretfully, he shook his head. "No. Well, not much. I remember… being called back."

"What does that mean?" Asked Leon, eyes narrowing in confusion.

"I remember a voice. It was unlike any I've heard before." He paused then, for the claim somehow felt like a lie. "Or…I'm not sure."

There was a flicker of intuition there, and Merlin chased it. Through sheer force of will he dredged up the sensation of phantom hands caressing his face, and an echo of that same voice.

"There will be a price."

Whether memory or imagination; the ominous words rang in his head clear as the tolling of a bell, filling him with dread.

Gaius's voice interrupted, interrupting the tumbling thoughts, "Rest, there's no need to push yourself just yet. Why don't I make us all some hot tea?"

The words drew Merlin's attention to his body and to the layer of perspiration that gathered across his forehead. His breathing tore a ragged path down his windpipe. Blinking rapidly, he nodded gratefully to his mentor.

"None for me, thank you, Gaius. The King will want to know he's woken." Leon burst out, visibly uncomfortable. "I'll also have the kitchens send up some food."

He inclined his head to each of them before stepping quickly to the door. As the knight slipped out, there was no way to miss the two guards Arthur had posted in the hallway.

"I tried to talk to him once, explain some things," hedged Gaius, noticing Merlin's attention lingering on the now-closed door and guessing at the direction of his thoughts.

"How did he take it?"

"I think he wants to hear it from you."

Heaving out a breath Merlin buried his face in his hands, "How can I face him, Gaius? What do I possibly say?"

"Tell him the truth," said Gaius. As if it were that simple.

Could it be?

"There is something more. The voice that brought me back? She called me Arthur's sentinel. She named Arthur The Once and Future King like it was some sort of title. And she said something else." Merlin took a moment, forming the words carefully from memory to avoid mispronouncing anything, "Éower widsiþ gewitan hæfde begunnon. I understand bits of it, but not others. Do you know what it means?"

The old man's face had drained of color. When he spoke, his voice was carefully cultivated to mild curiosity. "No, I'm afraid not."

Lie.

"What does it mean?" Pressed Merlin, determined.

Gaius stood, flustered. "You have been awake for all of ten minutes! Will you relent in your incessant pursuit of new problems and let yourself rest for once in your life!?"

Unfair as it may have felt, Merlin accepted the chastisement. He let it land and sat in the ringing silence that followed. The longer he sat with it, the more aggrieved he became.

"I don't… choose this." He whispered, gesturing vaguely. "It feels like something cursed follows in my footsteps. And I worry if I ever take the time to rest, to stop thinking, then someone I care about will be… lost. I knew Morgana was struggling. Maybe if I hadn't looked away, I wouldn't have had to kill her to stop her. What if the next person I miss the chance to save is Arthur?"

Letting out a long breath Gaius rested a hand on the crown of Merlin's head. "Morgana made her own choices. As we all do, at the end of the day. You can't save everyone. And even if you could, you are more than a sacrificial lamb for the lives of others. Perhaps this is my fault for not reminding you of that. Your path is a dangerous one and your destiny is so much bigger than I can understand; I thought it not my place. But my dear boy— I cannot remember the last time I heard you laugh. And that was all I could think of as you lay broken under my hands."

The Hell his death had put Gaius through was writ in a tremor in the old man's gentle voice. "I won't stop you from fighting, I know you may even die. But if your life is so cold, then I have failed as your guardian. We can talk about what comes tomorrow once you've had a few days to take care of yourself. Physician's orders."

Suppressing a reactive instinct to argue, as Merlin's defensiveness faded, he began to consider the possible merit of Gaius's words. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed either. The sort that wells up from the pit of your belly and stretches your face so wide it aches.

"Alright, then. I'll take that tea."

⌘⌘⌘

A half-hour later, Merlin finished the last dredges of his second drink. Savoring the lingering taste of peppermint, he cradled the pleasantly warm cup in his palms. He was entertaining the idea of a third, this time maybe even with extra honey, when there came a banging on the door.

Gaius stood from where he'd been perched on the foot of Merlin's cot. Before he could answer, Arthur himself shouldered his way inside.

The king breathed hard, as if he'd been running. He was dressed in full mail, a padded red gambeson underneath damp from the day's exertions. Wide eyes locked on Merlin's, and, for an instant, the world stopped.

Glancing between them Gaius hesitated, then bowed. "I'll give you two the room."

Arthur nodded stiffly, uncharacteristically formal, stepping aside for the physician to pass.

"Sire," said Merlin as the door clicked shut again, the eye contact abruptly unbearable to him. He looked away under the pretense of setting his empty mug on the ground before moving to stand.

Arthur made an odd lurching motion towards him, raising one hand, interrupting.

"No, stay, there's no need. How are you feeling?" Pulling the stool Leon had occupied over to the bed, he perched on it.

"Tired, and stiff," answered Merlin with cautious optimism. This was exactly what he had thought to avoid by dying.

"Understandable, considering… everything," said Arthur.

On another day, in another time, Merlin would have embraced the man. Arthur would have tolerated it, briefly, before shoving him off. Likely some good-natured ribbing would have followed in which his lord insulted him just to emphasize how much he definitely didn't care. Neither of them had the heart to joke about this. Not now, with this uncertainty between them and so much unspoken.

Mail rustled as the King crossed his arms, angled slightly away from his companion. He spoke in a rush, all at once, as though the words had been building up inside and were now tumbling out.

"I thought you were dead. Before, I mean, in the forest when we were captured. Gaius says they must have used some kind of body magic to impersonate you. But then on the field..." There was a long hesitation, "Merlin, you died for me."

"I knew I might," he answered, quietly.

"But still, you fought."

"Yes."

Silence fell. Merlin's racing thoughts threw themselves against the inside of his skull. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, brown eyes flicked up to meet blue. For a time, each young man was caught, suspended in a weighty silence full of doubt, hopes, and unanswered questions.

"You have magic."

The words crashed through the moment like a cavalry at full charge. This was a reckoning they had been hurtling toward since the moment their lives had become intertwined. Merlin's fingers found and tugged at a stray thread on his blanket, unraveling it determinedly.

"I was born with it."

This time it was the King who looked away. Exhaling a rough breath, Arthur closed his eyes. His fingers clenched his biceps so tightly his nails beds went white. "So you've had magic this whole time."

Merlin's heart plummeted. "I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you, Arthur, but—"

Holding his hands out to stop him, Arthur opened flaming eyes, "What excuse could you possibly have to justify not telling me? You had… so many chances. So many years!" Seeming to realize his voice had risen to an angry shout he jerked his face away, taking a deep, shaky breath. "I thought that you were— that we were friends."

The words carried the force of a slap, and Merlin took it. Instinctively he reached over to touch Arthur's arm before thinking better of it, withdrawing. He did not think Arthur would approve of his touching him. There were things he could say, reasons he'd compiled over time. He had miles and miles of words that would make perfect sense of it. But now the moment had come, each one tumbled inadequately into silence before he could speak them.

"You would have chopped my head off," he managed in a small voice.

Arthur's cheek jumped as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. "There are many on my council who want you executed in accordance with the laws of Camelot. They saw how powerful you are; it scares them. They don't want to give you an opportunity to turn against us."

Fingers trembled and Merlin tucked them away, folding his hands tightly around the edge of his blanket. "I knew the risks I was taking. I won't try to run, whatever decision you make."

A flash of hurt flickered over Arthur's face, tightening the corners of his eyes. "You really think that I would ever…" he looked down, "You really have such a low opinion of me?"

Startled, Merlin shook his head. "No! No that's not what-" he sighed. "Arthur, for years I've heard you, seen the way you feel about magic. I- I didn't want to make you choose."

Pointing a rigid finger at Merlin the king's voice was uneven, "So instead you took away my choice. You've lied to me." There was a pause as he rested a fist against lips that were tight with anger. "You thought you could keep it a secret forever?"

For a few moments, the stoic king who bore the weight of a kingdom without faltering vanished. Vulnerability glistened in his blue eyes, the depths of his sense of betrayal clear to Merlin's discerning gaze. Lost for words, the warlock could only manage another, "I'm sorry."

"You said that."

"What would you have had me do?"

"I would have had you trust me!" Arthur roared, exploding in a surge of movement to his feet. Merlin recoiled, shrinking away from the sudden unbridled rage.

Neither man took much notice of the stool clattering to the ground behind the king.

Heat seemed to pour from him in waves, bitter words leaking out like infection welling from a wound. His fists shook at his sides. "The same way I've trusted you! Would you have ever told me if you hadn't been exposed? What else have you lied about? I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, yet I cannot understand how you've been so comfortable being right beside me and actively deceiving me for so long! You'd rather create a whole other persona to use like a puppet against me, rather than just… be honest! The lengths to which you went to hide your lies, how deep do I need to go before finding anything true about you? Was any of it real?"

The tirade was a torrent of pure emotion bursting free, leaving each of them stunned in its wake. In it, Merlin glimpsed the true nature behind Arthur's anger— and it was pain. Shame, regret, sadness. And in that last pleading question, hurled like an accusation, immense fear. All honed like arrow points and aimed decidedly in one direction.

Merlin gaped, open mouthed. He had nothing.

Again, a weighty silence slammed down. Sovereign and servant stared at each other across a space that felt far greater than the few feet that separated them. A chasm yawning, preparing to swallow them both whole.

Arthur wasn't done, Merlin knew. But he could see a blemish of embarrassment crawling up his neck. In the tension of Arthur's shoulders and the way he took carefully measured breaths, clenching and unclenching his fists, he watched his friend claw back the wild and unchecked emotions he'd just unleashed.

Arthur gestured wildly; face flushed as a bright edge of regret glinted in his eyes. "I don't... I can't."

Face falling Merlin swiped at the moisture that gathered in his own eyes before it could escape.

The sight of his tears seemed to have a calming effect on Arthur who took a deep, slow breath. When his king next spoke, the tremor which had accompanied the loss of control was gone.

"I'm sorry- look, I'm glad you're back. I am. I just, I need to be somewhere else. I can't do this right now, I'm not ready."

Almost in spite of himself a flicker of hope rekindled inside of Merlin. Would he be allowed to stay? "So, you're not banishing me?"

Shaking his head Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, standing near the window on the other side of the room. "I don't know."

"But... you're not executing me?" Merlin clarified, hesitantly.

"No." Arthur gazed out across the city, deliberately not looking at Merlin. "But the law is the law whether I like it or not. The law must be applied. And it was all much simpler to do that when you were dead."

Merlin flinched. Arthur had every right to be angry, and Merlin had no right to hold it against him.

He did anyway.

Arthur drew in a breath as if to speak, to take back the harsh words, then stopped. He drew his hands down his face, exhaling against his palms. The man who re-emerged was colder, closed off. Shutting Merlin out.

"I have asked George to take over your duties," the King said, finally.

Acutely aware that he hadn't said exactly how long George was to be taking over his duties, Merlin didn't dare ask.

The next thing either of them knew the door banged open and Gwaine burst inside, followed closely by Percival, Elyan, and finally, a trailing Leon. "Welcome back to the world of the living!" announced Gwaine.

The knight's jovial expression froze, his steps drawing up short as he surveyed the scene they'd walked in on.

Turning from the window, Arthur avoided looking at Merlin, his face an expressionless mask. "Get your rest; I'll visit you again once I've... sorted things out." There was an odd blankness about him, a flatness to his inflection like a poor actor reading from a script. Or the parroting of words in a language he was imitating but did not comprehend.

Things between them were different now. They both sensed it, and Merlin wasn't sure if there was any way to fix it. Did their lives still fit together?

A nameless buzzing panic rose, filling his chest, his ears, redoubling with every step Arthur took towards the door. Arthur's hand was on the handle, pulling the door open before Merlin called out. "I do have magic! But I-"

The words, they wouldn't come. They stuck in his throat, choking him, so many of them he couldn't pick out individual sounds from the screaming mass. There was so much more he needed to say, and he didn't know how to begin. The certainty settled on him that, if he let Arthur just walk out that door, something would remain broken between them forever. It was desperation that thrust his hand out in a closed fist towards Arthur.

At the sudden movement towards their king, the knights responded. Perfectly honed reflexive instinct did what it had been trained for. Hands went to weapons, swords half relieved from sheathes before anyone comprehended what was happening.

Each and every one of them, with the singular exception of Gwaine, had moved as if to defend Arthur from an attack.

Freezing, the pulsing of his heart hammered in Merlin's throat; ears and cheeks burning. A flood of confusion and embarrassment washed across several of the faces around him. This, above all else perhaps, drove home how things had changed. Whatever their minds believed— their instincts told them he was a threat.

Slowly, very slowly, he raised his other hand palm open in a gesture of submission. They may as well have plunged their swords into him; it would have hurt less.

Arthur held up a hand to stay any further action, expression grieved. Only at that gesture did the knights relax again.

After a pause as he gathered himself, Merlin opened his fist. Blinking back tears he whispered, "Hine on ylde eft gewunigen wilgesibas, bonne wig cume."

Heat rushed through his body, flaring in his eyes. A revolving orb of blue light, its surface as pearlescent as a soap bubble coalesced in his palm. Arthur's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and, as Merlin had hoped, there was a flicker of recognition.

"I use it for you, Arthur; always for you."

The weight of every gaze in the room rested squarely on the young sorcerer but kept his own eyes fixed on Arthur alone. After a long moment, the king pulled open the door and walked out, brushing past Gaius without a word. Leon followed close on his heels, throwing an almost guilty look back into the room before the door closed after them both.

The light in Merlin's hand slowly faded. He was left sitting in bed, staring forlornly at the spot where Arthur had been moments before. He let his arm drop, the effort of having kept it raised for so long draining the limited stamina he'd regained.

"Merlin, we didn't, I don't…" Elyan trailed off, lost for words, not wanting to lie.

Forcing a smile Merlin shrugged, as though his heart weren't broken. "You don't need to apologize for being a loyal Knight, Elyan."

Although the sight had cut to the bone, he wasn't lying. He wouldn't hold it against them.

"You saved me."

Everyone looked to Percival. A man of few words, his voice was the last anyone expected to cut through such a terrible moment.

"On the field," The gruff man continued, brows furrowed. "You didn't realize it would be me, you just… knew someone would get hurt."

Flashing back to the seemingly insignificant moment in the battle with Morgana, Merlin nodded slowly. As he'd snatched Morgana's fire spell from careening into Camelot's ranks his eyes had met Percival's, recognizing him. "I guess."

The strongest of Camelot's knights stepped forward before going down onto his left knee, placing the fingertips of one hand over his heart. "Thank you."

Merlin's face flamed. It was a gesture of such profound respect that his eyes welled with tears as he swallowed, hard. Unable to speak past the knot in his throat he smiled. It was small, but it was a smile he felt.

Gwaine clapped Percival on the back, "Don't get too serious, now, he might start to think he's dying… again."

The long-haired knight's eyes sparkled in a gaunt face.

From behind them both, Elyan let out an exclamation of dawning realization, "You were always the old man!"

"What?" Merlin blinked, struggling to follow the rapid shift in both subject and tone.

Gwaine lunged and Merlin yelped in alarm, unsuccessfully trying to pull away as his friend trapped him in a playful headlock.

"Dragoon the Great? Really?"

"Well, I had to find some way to actually get things done around here!" Merlin exclaimed indignantly through a startled laugh. Although he had rather enjoyed tormenting the knights, he decided best not to mention it.

"Yeah? Well, it seemed to come pretty naturally," growled Gwaine, smirking.

Elyan's face split in a rueful grin, helping Percival back to his feet.

Gwaine relaxed his hold enough that Merlin, even pitifully weak as he still was, was finally able to pull away. Laughter echoed off the high ceiling.

If Merlin was honest, it all seemed a bit forced, a little too jovial. Yet, he appreciated the effort they were making to reclaim some normalcy. And it did genuinely seem the revelation of his identity was enough to reframe Dragoon's actions in each of their minds. As impossible as it had seemed only seconds before, as he laughed along with the knights the yawning pit inside seemed just a bit smaller.

For the manservant, the light-hearted moment passed all too quickly. His humor drained away as his mind turned to tomorrow. There was a tightness at the edges of Elyan's mouth, a stiffness in the way Percival held himself, that demonstrated a level of discomfort.

While there was no way to speak for the knights, Merlin remained keenly aware of the inherent conflict in their roles; he, an unlawful sorcerer, and them, the enforcers of Camelot's law. Together, the lot of them existed in the tension between their bond of friendship with Merlin, their brotherhood with Arthur, and their pledged fealty to the crown. In such an equation, Merlin was distinctly overmatched. Should Arthur order it, each man here would be duty-bound to arrest or even execute him. Of course, Merlin had always been aware of that. That it was now a mutual understanding made it somehow more difficult to ignore.

He forced his thoughts away from that dark path with a question, "How are you all recovering?"

"What?" asked Elyan, blankly.

Merlin shrugged. "I know very little about Queen Morcant beyond the fact that she conspired to have you killed. For all I know, she spent the duration of your captivity torturing you. Are you doing well? How are your fingernails, all still there?"

"You really mean that, don't you?" Said the youngest knight, mystified. "You died, and you're worrying about us having spent a week in a dungeon. That's just so... so typical."

Elyan said it with a laugh, but the comment wounded Merlin.

"I never pretended to care, Elyan. I know there's a lot of things I hid, but I never lied about any of that."

There was a very long and painful pause where nobody knew quite what to say. There had been a lot of those lately. Merlin buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry."

Gwaine didn't give the room a chance to decide if it would descend, yet again, into silence. He jumped up, clapping his hands together.

"Don't the lot of you have things you need to be doing? Honestly, the state of this Kingdom! No wonder, with our knights sitting about like toadstools on a log."

Before anyone knew quite what was happening Merlin watched through his fingers as Gwaine swept the knights from the room like a matron shooing naughty children from her clean linens. Percival grinned and Elyan tried to protest, but Gwaine spread an open palm over the younger knight's face, effectively stopping him.

"I'm the only one designated to assist Gaius today, so the rest of you can go. I can feel my befuddlement creeping back in with every second I share with you lot! Away with you!"

With varying degrees of cooperation, they went. Percival threw a troubled glance over his shoulder and Merlin covered his eyes. The door clicked, and then the bed sagged as somebody sat down next to him. He stayed silent, embarrassed by his outburst. It was probably best he just never said anything ever again.

"He will come around. Arthur, I mean. Give it time. Only someone who cares deeply would feel so hurt."

Turning his head, Merlin considered Gwaine, "And how do you feel about it?" The question slipped out and he promptly wanted to take it back. The not saying anything ever again approach hadn't lasted long.

Gwaine leaned back, bracing his hands on the cot and tipping his chin up. "As a liar myself, I believe there are two kinds of people who make excellent liars."

He held up two fingers, ticking them down as he spoke, "The monsters and those who are desperate. Monsters have no conscience; they lie simply because they see no reason not to. But those who become excellent liars from practice or necessity do so because they are deeply ashamed. I don't think you are a monster, Merlin."

What his friend offered was not absolution, neither was it blame. It felt more honest than either.

Gwaine wasn't finished. "You're the only one here who knows I come from noble blood. It's not easy keeping secrets— even ones you've had your whole life. You're never quite sure how others will react." He laid a hand on Merlin's shoulder and met his eyes, " Or… how much to say to someone when you find out their secrets."

Merlin nodded, studying the knight, not following.

Gwaine raised his eyebrows, waiting for the copper to drop.

Merlin's stomach somersaulted. "You knew!?"

Gwaine shrugged. "When we first set out to meet Dyfed on the field, I followed your tracks. I found the bodies of the people who'd taken you. If I'm honest I've suspected something was going on with you for a while. I kept trying to talk to you about it in camp, but you were avoiding me."

He reached over, putting one arm companionably around Merlin's shoulders. "We both have our reasons for the secrets we keep. Merlin, whether you have magic or not, isn't going to change the fact that you're my friend. Arthur knows that too, even if it's taking him a little longer to figure it out."

Merlin knew how badly he wanted to believe that. On an average day, the word goofy could accurately describe Gwaine. Maybe that was the reason Merlin had so sincerely underestimated him.

What a terrible realization that was to have about the way you thought of a friend.

"You sure that knock on your head didn't scramble your brain?"

"Who'd notice if it did?" Said Gwaine with a wink.

Ruffling Merlin's hair fondly the knight stood up, "Today may be dreadful, but tomorrow is always a chance to try again. Now, you really should rest."

Nodding, Merlin watched as Gwaine walked to the door. "Hey, Gwaine?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

The knight paused and looked back when he reached the doorway.

"It'll work out."

And with that, Merlin was left alone.

Uncertain of what else to do, he stood, unsteady. Merlin shifted from one foot to the other, feeling unwanted and out of place but with nowhere to go either. He was exhausted, hurt, and angry. He edged towards the window with the glacial speed of someone with no sense of purpose.

Clinging to the windowsill, breathing hard from even the short walk across the room, he pressed his forehead against the cool glass and stared outside. Sun high, townsfolk milling about, a midday queue forming at the water pump. He saw a world that looked, on the outside, the same as it had before.

Overcome by weakness, Merlin sank to the floor, turning to sit against the wall under the window. Was it a world he just didn't fit into anymore? If he were being honest with himself… had he ever? Or in the background of his mind, had it always felt like there was a division; a pane of glass, between himself and everyone else. Present, but try as he might never be part of things. Not really. Despite that, he'd found himself a purpose, as misplaced as he was. Would Arthur allow him to continue to serve him?

The question lanced through his mind like a spike of ice. The next breath came a searing wave of anger. Shame and indignation flushed Merlin's cheeks— had he not proved himself time and again? Had he not always been the model of loyalty and steadfast devotion, and this was the thanks he got? The gal of the man!

Merlin's heart seemed to be twisting, was Gaius certain he'd been fully healed? His lungs didn't seem to be working properly either.

The memory of what it was to feel a blade ripping through muscle and organ rose in his flesh. The airy light-headed sensation of the body's heat spilling out across the skin. The certainty and confidence he'd felt even as he'd given his life. Would nothing he'd do ever be good enough to prove himself to that prat!?

Could he ever be enough?

He couldn't seem to get enough air; he was suffocating. They'd missed something. His lungs still weren't right. Anger blotted out his vision, heat concentrating tight on his forehead. Hands touched him and he thrashed, surprised.

Gaius. The man was trying to pull him upright, his lips were moving but Merlin had to blink a few times before he heard anything over the roar of blood in his ears.

Merlin shoved his hands away, "Don't help me!"

"Nonsense, we need to get you back to—"

"Gaius, haven't you realized I've likely cost you your position? I've taken everything from you. Stop, I don't deserve it!"

Gaius didn't stop. He didn't leave. He hesitated, then pulled his robes around himself, and lowered his old frame down to the floor next to Merlin. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

The words crumpled something inside Merlin and the rage buckled.

In the sudden absence of an imminent threat, the mental and physical toll of having been kidnapped and beaten, of fearing for the lives of his friends, and of being exposed as a sorcerer before then killing Morgana and dying himself welled up. All of that was before today had pulled him in so many directions his emotions seemed torn to bloody ribbons.

It laid him bare. He had nothing left to give or to put forward. Like porcelain dropped on a stone floor, he shattered.

He was too tired.

Chest heaving Merlin bent forward, pressing his forehead to his raised knees. There was screaming in his mind. It tried to force its way from his lips. One cry escaped before he clamped his mouth shut. If the screaming started, he didn't think it would ever stop. His teeth ached from the efforts of crushing the noise, their crescendo built heavy in his bones. It was going to shake him apart. He couldn't make sense of the tangle of the debris that so recently had been his life.

Gaius's hand was warm, his touch grounding, resting on his back as Merlin silently wept his grief.

Eventually, the tears ceased, trailing off into sheer exhaustion. And then, as any good father would, Gaius gently guided him back to bed where he brought him a warm bowl of grain and a cup of honeyed milk. And he even made sure there was extra honey.

Chapter Text

A part of Arthur knew it was a dream, even as the now familiar scene began to take form. Clinging to that knowledge he fought to rouse himself from sleep. He was tired of this memory. Weary from the guilt and questions it stirred within.

The thin veil of awareness he attempted to secure himself in was torn away as boredom thrummed up every inch of Arthur's four-foot stature. Try as he might to focus on the history lecture, his eyes kept glazing over. The tantalizingly blue sky outside the high windows drew his attention far more effectively than any lesson. It would be a perfect day for sparring; instructor Bluegrass had praised Arthur's form just yesterday. The young prince had been doing shoulder strengthening exercises every evening, and he was handling the weight of a real sword nearly as well as he had his wooden training one!

Across from him, Morgana's foot swung out to dig sharply into his shin under the table. He hissed in protest, scowling at her.

She glanced significantly towards the door and Arthur turned, sitting up straighter as he saw the tall, imposing figure of his father.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," said Uther.

Tutor Havishim swept into a low bow, the front of his velvet brocade doublet stretching near to bursting over a portly stomach. "Not at all, your grace. We were just detailing the events of the Dark Days which lead to The Great Purge."

"Ah, yes. I had heard from Lady Morgana that it was to be your subject this week," mused the king."I wonder, Lord Havishim, if you'd begrudge an old man a moment to reflect on the matter?"

Arthur's tutor chuckled, sweeping out a magnanimous arm. "Your insights would be most valued, my King."

Uther linked his hands behind his pack, pacing thoughtfully along the length of Arthur and Morgana's shared work table. Unlike when his teacher had been speaking, the young prince waited with rapt attention. His father rarely had the time to involve himself in Arthur's formal education; this would be a rare opportunity to impress him.

"No doubt it is a difficult subject for ones so young. I would that we lived in a world where I could preserve your innocence for as long as possible. I fear doing so would only leave you vulnerable. In the days before the Great Purge, Magic ran rampant. It corrupted even the hearts of the pure, and innocent. Ignorance to the truth of its insidious nature left many defenseless to its influence. Magic is too great a temptation. Inevitably, it leads people to misuse it. To prevent its chaos ever from returning to our land we hunt anyone who would seek to wield it. We find them, and we execute them. There is no place in Camelot for those who would flout the laws which have kept us safe and made us strong."

The idea was an affront to Arthur's growing sense of justice. The more he thought of it the more confused he became.

"But how do you know?" He asked.

Uther paused, head tilting, "What do you mean?"

Arthur glanced at Morgana, who widened her eyes in warning. Arthur ignored her.

"You said we hunt them because people misuse magic, how do we know they will misuse it? We're just assuming they're bad people and that's not fair!"

His father's eyes flashed and Arthur shrunk back in his seat.

"That doesn't seem fair," the young prince amended, quietly. "Not to me."

Uther's mouth twisted wryly. "Not yet, but it will. I know it can be difficult to believe, you have seen little of the world. Within these castle walls you have been sheltered from the evils of those who would hurt you. This is wisdom that will come with time. For now, it doesn't need to make sense to you. As my heir, it will be your duty to uphold the law and protect the realm from any who would threaten peace. Questions of morality are decided by those wiser than you."

If there was a note of finality to Uther's explanation, Arthur did not hear it.

"But what about healers?" Arthur persisted. "Those people aren't dangerous! Why should I- why should we- kill them for helping people?"

"Sorcery is evil," Uther said coldly. "There is no fire that won't burn those who touch it. Any who do not desist from using magic are dangerous fugitives from the law. We are the law. Only decisive action will prevent a return to the Dark Days."

The King who had laid waste to the Old Ways studied his son's face for continued dissent. Finding none, his voice softened. "Magic of any kind is dangerous, and above all it is deceitful. The help it appears to offer is a seductive masquerade, but it is only a trap. We are tasked with protecting our people by securing its elimination from these lands. You are still young. For now, you must trust me, and choose to believe that I know what is best. In time, I know you'll grow to be a young man I'm proud to call my heir."

Arthur nodded eagerly, young heart swelling at the thought. The lingering trepidation he felt paled in comparison to the longing for his father's approval. If Uther's acknowledgment was infrequent, that just made Arthur strive all the harder to achieve it. And, after all, his father would know best. He was the smartest person Arthur knew.

"I'll make you proud, father!"

"Good. Now then, carry the corpse," Uther said, gesturing behind Arthur.

There was a twinge of confusion as Arthur's conscious mind fought to the surface just long enough to register a single thought. This isn't what happens next.

"The corpse?"

"He's hanging from the hawthorn tree."

Turning to see where Uther had indicated, the world above stretched like it was being torn away.

The lecture hall was gone. He and his father now stood under a blood red sky, as far as the eye could see were fields of dead wheat. The stalks were so tall they came halfway up Arthur's young chest, dry husks hissing as he moved.

Arthur saw him then; a rope around his neck, body swaying as if in a non-existent breeze.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Watching the body shift, hypnotized by the motion, Arthur approached slowly. The corpse's eyes opened. Pupils milky white, Merlin raised his arms towards Arthur as if for an embrace.

"But father, he's alive." Arthur said, his youthful voice merely observant, emotions strangely detached.

"Kill him," Uther commanded.

Rising to the full height of a now powerful adult frame, Arthur moved to obey. Stepping up onto a stone pile brought the prince eye level to Merlin. The pale gaze was silent, pleading. Arthur looked away. He was afraid to not obey. And he was the child, and he was the man, and neither was himself.

Between one blink and the next the tree vanished. He and Merlin were standing now in shallow waters, the ruby sky reflecting up at him from a mirror calm surface. The water was so hot it felt close to scalding.

"Kill him!"

Another blink and Arthur was atop Merlin, straddling his chest, holding the manservant under. Merlin flailed, clawing at Arthur's forearms, bubbles of air erupting from his mouth. He fought with panicked strength.

Arthur was stronger.

Merlin bucked, flailed, twitched, and finally fell still. Muscles relaxing, pupils dilating, the young man's arms rose as his hands floated to the surface. A grisly mockery of the way he had held his arms out in supplication as he swung from the tree.

Arthur kept him under for so long the surface of the water stilled again, the only disruption the ripples of his own hard breaths. Blinking, he saw in his reflection a boy no more than eight summers old.

Through the transparent image of his own face, he could glimpse another child under his hands in the water. One with wild black hair drifting about a pale face and high cheekbones.

Hauling a young Merlin from the shallows he struggled to lift the waterlogged body into his arms, stumbling. Finally, he managed to get under the boy, lifting with his legs as he'd been taught, shifting it onto his back like he might during a childhood game.

In the distance, echoed a nearly forgotten lullaby his nursemaid used to sing to him.

"When your father used to go to hunt,
with his shaft on his shoulder and his club in his hand,
he would call his speedy dogs,
"Giff, Gaff, catch, catch, fetch, fetch!",
he would kill a fish in a coracle,
as a lion kills an animal."

Uninterrupted water stretched as far as he could see in every direction. With no indication which way he should go, Arthur chose one and began wading; stumbling, searching for his father.

"When your father used to go to the mountain,
he would bring back a roebuck, a wild pig, a stag,
a speckled grouse from the mountain,
a fish from the waterfall of Derwennydd
Whatever your father would hit with his spear,
whether wild pig or lynx or fox,
nothing that was without wings would escape."

"Forgive me," the corpse whispered, its cold lips moving against Arthur's ear.

Arthur paused, only mildly surprised that the dead could talk.

"Forgive you for what?"

The corpse sighed. And Arthur realized it was no longer his friend's body he was carrying; It was Morgana's. Her dead eyes regarded him solemnly, peering at him from a nest of ratted hair. "You're a good and loyal son, Arthur."

He blinked, and it was Uther's body he carried.

He started screaming. The ground disappeared under him and he couldn't swim, unseen hands in a vice grip around his ankles, pulling him down. Burning water poured down his throat as he clawed at his own clothes. The sound of fluttering wings, somehow clear in his ears, pulled his attention to the surface. Above him, his mother's face peered down. Her golden hair tumbled over one shoulder in a braid, eyes sad and gentle as she smiled.

She held out her hand to Arthur.

He awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. His own hand reached up towards the ceiling above, stretching out to his mother to save him.

⌘⌘⌘

Gazing intently at the unfamiliar reflection in a small hand mirror, Merlin studied his own profile. Four thin red scars trailed down the left side of his face, tracing from his cheekbone to his jaw, and down the side of his neck. Faint to any other eye, the marred flesh was now the first thing he noticed when he looked at himself. And no matter how he rearranged his mess of black hair, it was impossible to hide that a large chunk of his upper left ear was simply gone.

Tugging on the dark strands in dissatisfaction, Merlin willed them to be longer. It seemed it was maybe time to grow his hair out.

Flexing his wrist to angle the mirror's surface down, the solemn young man contemplated five unfamiliar pitted scars sunk into the skin on his bare chest. His first day awake, as Gaius had assisted him with undressing for a bath, Merlin had explored each change to his body. The silent mental inventory ran up alongside numb acceptance. It wasn't the first time his body had borne the consequences of various adventures.

Nearly each mark paired with a memory from the duel. All except… these, positioned in a circle around where his weary heart once more beat behind his ribs.

There was a memory there, teasing, lingering delicately on the very edge of remembering. The tips of his fingers rested over the five small indentations, feeling the ghostly weight of a hand pressing over his chest, phantom nails burrowing into the flesh. And… no. Even the certainty of those details dropped away, tumbling like a lost coin into the depths of a well.

Frustration tightened his grip around the looking glass as his teeth ground together.A sense of unease persisted like the tired burn of a strained muscle. The Old Power demanded balance. It cared nothing for how, only that it was accomplished. Despite this law of life and death, he'd been unable to find evidence of anyone he knew suddenly meeting an untimely demise.

As Arthur is the Once and Future King so you are his sentinel. My sentinel. Éower widsiþ gewitan hæfde begunnon.

The unfamiliar words hadn't been a spell, like he'd first assumed. Or, if it was a spell, it was unlike anything Merlin had heard before.

"Your long watch has begun," He recited for the hundredth time, thinking aloud.

Gaius had provided him with the translation, eventually. Only after two days of Merlin impatiently allowing himself to be coddled.

Huffing out a breath, the young sorcerer set aside the mirror, staring forlornly at his clothes. The reluctance he felt to finish getting dressed could easily be explained by the profound lack of structure in his days. Daydreaming of getting time off was a thing of the past; now he was drowning in it.

No one had explicitly forbidden him from leaving the physician's quarters, yet the glimpses of guards still stationed outside the doors had so far been enough to keep him from making an attempt. The idea of boldly strolling down the hallway when he jumped like a startled rabbit at every knock on the door was laughable. Each echo of footsteps down the hallway was a set of guards coming to drag him to an executioner's block. Each time he looked out the window, he was convinced people were staring back.

The uncertainty of it all had reduced him to a nervous wreck.

If there was one thing he was good at, though, it was carrying on. And if what fueled him was stubbornness and desperation, if he woke up each night from nightmares that left him drenched in sweat, then he and Gaius didn't talk about it. Gwaine tried, when he was able to visit. It had taken Merlin threatening to curse him to get him to stop.

The weakness permeating each sinew and bone ebbed steadily. Recovery was helped along by every exercise Gaius bullied him into and each elixir the old goat coaxed down his throat. But his body remained frustratingly infirm. Still, working on his physical state had been a welcome distraction from the instability of what was sitting inside his chest.

It gave him something else to think about that wasn't Arthur.

Arthur, who he hadn't seen again in the two days since their fight.

His thoughts turned to what lay concealed inside his bedside had discovered it a few hours after he'd been dragged out of the lake; hidden in a pouch on his unconscious body.

Had Arthur…

He shook his head violently as if the movement could shake away the thoughts. No! He was done thinking of Arthur. It was useless wondering, waiting. There is no point.

Reaching for the rumpled heap of his clothes he angrily shook them out. The shirt he managed to put on without aid. When he lowered his head to slip on his pants, his infuriatingly enfeebled body toppled over, hitting the floorboards with a thump.

"Would you like some help?"

Twisting around on the ground, Merlin caught an upside-down glimpse of a dark curly-haired head peeking through the door into his room. Mordred. The knight looked solemn, his expression, as usual, too serious on his young face. "I volunteered to bring you dinner, from the kitchens. Gaius mentioned you were cleaning up, so I was waiting. Then I heard… Are you okay?"

Grunting in a non-committal way, Merlin flipped onto his stomach, untangling himself from the now twisted pant legs only with difficulty. The whole situation was utterly humiliating, and he felt heat rising in his cheeks.

Mordred had the grace not to crack a smile. Silently, he pulled Merlin back to his feet before assisting him with the uncooperative garments.

Once Merlin was presentable, the knight handed over the staff he'd been using to get around. Leaning heavily on it, he paused, assessing the man who had been born and raised a druid. Well, he thought, things can't exactly get worse. Why not?

"Mordred, what can you tell me of the Gods of the Old Religion?"

The knight quirked his head to one side. "I know a bit. The elders of my camp primarily followed the teachings of the Earth Mother, Nemaine. Why do you ask?"

"I think I've been having… visions. Or dreams or… I'm not sure."

Moving to the dinner table, the two made an awkward pair. Merlin had always felt uncomfortable around Mordred, even to the point of avoiding interactions with him. He was intensely aware of the role he himself had played in leading Camelot's men to the druid camp a young Mordred had been sheltered in. While unintentional, the outcome had been a slaughter.

This man had every reason to hate him. And despite his doe eyed appearance, Merlin never forgot he harbored immense power. It went against every instinct he had to confide in someone who had so much motivation to be his enemy. And yet, he found himself with nothing left to lose. Always so cautious, the uncharacteristic recklessness of it beckoned like a siren's song.

The offerings from the palace kitchens of salted pork with a side of bread and boiled potato were pushed to one side as he described what little he could remember of the place empty of all things but consciousness. He spoke of the magic which had summoned him back, and the scraps of the dream he'd been able to retrieve where he'd heard the same voice.

There will be a price.

Mordred drank it all in, nodding, occasionally asking questions. Merlin did his best to answer, even pulling up his tunic to show Mordred the unfamiliar scars.

Reaching out one hand, Mordred hesitated, "May I?"

Receiving Merlin's nod of assent, the knight's fingertips lightly touched his skin over each point. His eyes stretched wide. "You've been marked."

"You mean the scars?"

"No, nothing so literal. To be marked by a God or Goddess isn't something you can see with your eyes. It's like a brand, but on the soul. And you…" his eyes hummed with a soft flash of light, almost brief enough for Merlin to miss it.

"You carry the mark of the Triple Goddess. The brand burns so brightly that it's nearly blinding."

The hair rose along the nape of Merlin's neck. He knew precious little of the goddess, aside from the name of her last two priestesses. Both of whom he'd killed. He couldn't help remembering, too, that this last time he'd invoked her name before doing so.

He swallowed hard.

As for what she expected from him, or why she would send Freya to intercede on his behalf, he hadn't the faintest idea. "How can you tell?"

"We have the same eyes, Merlin. You and abilities have always set us apart. We look at the world in a way that makes others uncomfortable. We are not afraid to look, when others turn away. To see where others are blind."

That wasn't an answer. It wasn't a subtle dodge, either.

"Arthur doesn't realize it, but it's one reason why he keeps you with him– because you see in the dark places where he is afraid to look. Where he can't see. Arthur is a good man. There are things he can't, that he won't see, because he wants to believe the best of others. It's a strength, and it's also his blind spot. Perhaps that's why she named you a sentinel."

Discomforted by the shift in the conversation's direction, Merlin tried to parse out if Mordred was delivering a compliment or an insult. In a way, Merlin might have perversely prided himself and the transformation from naïve boy to secret world-weary bodyguard, morbidly happy with the calloused carapace which had grown around his once tender sensibilities.

He cleared his throat. "Do you know what it means to be marked?"

"I only know it means you need to be very careful. If the Goddess has taken notice of you, it will be for a reason."

Brows pulled low as he thought, Merlin nodded.

"Merlin, may I ask you something?" hedged Mordred.

Merlin's guard, which had lowered steadily as they'd talked, slammed back into place. "What is it?"

"I wasn't there, my patrol didn't get back in time to join Camelot's forces on the field. I was four days in the wrong direction. I've heard… stories. It's all anyone seems able to talk about, and I've heard at least a dozen different versions by now."

One corner of Mordred's mouth quivered in a reluctant smile. "One man swears on his mother's grave that at one point you grew tall as a giant and stomped so hard you cracked open the earth."

Merlin snorted, familiar with the imagination of ale-soaked soldiers.

The young knight's gaze dropped to his hands, a finger tracing the wood grain of the table. "I know the things Morgana did were terrible. You had no other choice, when you killed her. My only regret is that she never found her way out of the darkness and back to the light of the person who put her life at risk to save me as a child. I just…" His eyes flicked back up.

Seemingly unable to bring himself to say the words out loud, Merlin instead heard the question within his mind. "Did she suffer?"

Merlin's defenses melted, the tension in his shoulders relaxing. The knight before him was a long way from the injured boy hidden in Morgana's bedchamber. Still, he could understand what drove him to ask. To need to know.

The two of them were some of the very few people left in the world who would care about the pain of Morgana Pendragon.

"She…" his voice broke and he cleared his throat, mastering the brief surge of emotion. "She wasn't alone."

Both of them could hear what Merlin hadn't said.

Mordred stood, expression unreadable. "Thank you for your honesty. I should leave you to eat your meal."

Almost regretfully, Merlin watched the knight's back as he disappeared in the closing sliver of the open door. Rain began to strike the windows and he turned to see the skies open, drenching Camelot in a downpour as bleak as his mood.

Faintly from outside in the hallway, Merlin heard Mordred's voice, "Your majesty."

⌘⌘⌘

Gwaine tugged at the buckles and straps of his armor with unnecessary aggression, tossing each piece to the ground rather than hanging it neatly up as he ought to. He flicked sopping wet hair from his eyes, shaking out hands sore from clutching a sword through the icy rain which had poured down on the training field. The last several days had been full of even more grueling training sessions than their usual drills. To his eyes, at least, it had been obvious Arthur was channeling all his emotions into the fighting– one of the only outlets that he had. The emotionally stunted prick.

The cold water had sobered Gwaine up effectively, clearing the last of the wine fog from his mind. In its place he was left with a splitting headache, and raging thoughts.

He needed a drink.

"You should treat your equipment with more respect," scolded a disapproving Leon.

Spite raised its head in Gwaine's chest. He maintained eye contact with Leon as he flung his other gauntlet atop the pile, getting a satisfyingly loud clatter. "Respect? You want to talk about respect?"

Arthur, always quick to pick up on rising tensions between his men, stepped forward. Percival, Elyan, Bedivere, Kay, and another half dozen knights Gwaine couldn't care to remember the names of, pretended not to watch.

"Enough, both of you. We are all tired, cold, and hungry. There is time enough for quarreling once you have had a warm meal to cool your tempers."

The equipment room, just off the inner citadel's training field, was cold enough Gwaine saw visible steam rising from his king's body, blood still hot from the hours of relentless drills and exercises. The noble's clothes were as sodden and muddy as any of theirs. The sight only enraged Gwaine further.

As the last few hours had passed, he'd become increasingly frustrated with his King. Now that he didn't have a sword to channel that emotion into swinging violently at Arthur's head, that frustration spilled out of his mouth at the slightest invitation.

"It shouldn't still surprise me that your new favorite solution is to sit around and wait."

Percival shouldered his way over, looming. "Gwaine," he said, warningly.

Arthur stilled, turning his full attention on his snarling knight with the weight and authority of a mountain. "No, it's alright Percival. Do you have something you'd like to say to me, Gwaine?"

Shoving Percival aside, Gwaine squared up to Arthur. He bundled up all his feelings, all his accusations, packing them into a few words before hurling them at Arthur. "Merlin is your friend!"

The young manservant had been desolate the last few days, the light having drained from him. The memory ripped at him like barbs in his mind.

The knights around the room had dropped any pretense of cleaning up, and Arthur's eyes darted slightly to each side before his chin set in a hard edge. "My first duty is to the law, Gwaine. Truth is, though I have known him always, I hardly know him at all. You've spent years under this roof, within these halls. Can you say with any conviction that you know him? Or understand the desires that drive him?"

The rising aggression inside the enraged knight broke against a pillar of profound disbelief. Baffled, he squinted at Arthur.

"How much of an idiot can you be? Do you know what he said, when Gwen asked him what he wanted? He said 'to wield my power openly for the love of a Kingdom, for my belief in a brighter future, and for my devotion to the King who would lead us into a golden age of peace'."

Taking a step closer, Gwaine searched for anything recognizable in the leader he'd thought worthy of his life. "Does that sound familiar?" He leaned in even closer, "That man you're so quick to doubt, he was the first. He may not have sworn the oaths we do as knights but he's been living them every day of his life. Not because he was forced to. Because he believes in you. Because he chose you."

Gwaine couldn't keep the disgust from curdling his voice. "If you've no gratitude, then have you no shame?"

The flinch in Arthur's face was nearly imperceptible, noticeable only to someone who had spent years alongside him. Gwaine could see his words hit home, noting the way his pupils contracted. The room was so quiet he could hear the water dripping from his fingertips to plop on the floor. He sucked in a shuddering breath.

"When I knelt before you, it was because I thought that you were noble and just; a good man. I decided then that my life would be well spent even if all I ever accomplished was to spend it in service to Arthur Pendragon. When I swore my oaths I did not kneel before a throne I knelt before you! You, Arthur, and the world I saw you were fighting for. Tell me now if that just world of yours is only reserved for a select chosen few. If it is, I want no part in it."

"Careful Gwaine, you're speaking treason in front of your King," said Arthur quietly.

For the first time Gwaine experienced true disappointment in Arthur, feeling like he was watching a childhood hero be exposed as a fraud.

"What a sad world it is, where when truth is spoken it's considered treason."

With that he stormed out, leaving only ringing silence behind him.

Chapter Text

Flinging the parchment he’d been reading atop the pile on his desk, Arthur rubbed the spot between his eyes where a headache was determinedly forming. He hadn’t initially recognized the handwriting. A letter from Mordred, carefully penned, confessing to being a sorcerer. Standing in solidarity with Merlin and accepting whatever judgement Arthur was to pass on them both.  

He sat back and waited for the anger to come. Instead, the only identifiable emotion bubbling up was weary resignation. 

Steam wafted enticingly from a hot bath on the other side of his bedchamber. After the icy downpour, George had anticipated his King’s needs perfectly, with no prompting or tomfoolery. The opposite; George always took on even the most menial task with the enormous gravity of a knight tilting at a giant. The man now carefully set a plate of finger sized meats and cheeses atop a stool beside the basin. With an intense expression akin to a hunter baiting a hair trigger bear trap, he added a sprig of some sort of green frilly garnish before adjusting the platter to be perfectly centered. 

“Would you like assistance removing your mail, sire?” 

Proper service, for once. All it did was leave a hollow, lonely feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Body crying out for the bath and a minimum of twelve hours of sleep, Arthur turned away from the comfort. His hands spasmed in revulsion as he remembered holding a thrashing Merlin under the hot water in his dream. Neither did his bed offer any escape; certain he would just be returning to the hawthorn tree and the accusation which swung from it. “That won’t be necessary. You’re dismissed for the night, George.” 

“If my lord has no further need of me here, then I shall go and see to your hounds. Petunia has been rather malcontent lately, perhaps an extra bit of exercise will lift her spirit.”

“Leave her to the kennel master. Go home, George.”

“If that does not please you, then I could instead use my time to whiten your more delicate linens, my king.”

“Go home, George.”

The servant positively wilted, looking as crestfallen at being deprived of additional work as a child who had reached into the bottom of a bag of sweets only to find the sticky treats gone. “Very well, sire. I shall return on the morrow.”

The resentment Arthur felt at that promise was underserved, he knew. Still, he couldn't deny the relief he experienced as his new manservant closed the door behind him. 

Pressing out a deep breath of air through tight lips, Arthur leaned his face into his hands. Shame, an ever present companion these days, turned over within his chest. 

Merlin was a sorcerer. Merlin was Emrys. Merlin had lied to him. Merlin was alive.

And Gwaine was right.

So now, Instead of slipping under the water to soak away the mud, misery, and knotted muscles, Arthur was sulking. Like a child. Gods, he was pathetic.

Back on that whiskey soaked hill Leon had told him it was okay for him to be angry at Merlin. Leon had been wrong. Merlin had died saving him. In the face of such a grand gesture, he wasn’t allowed to be angry. But as much as the roiling feeling shamed Arthur, he couldn’t quiet its voice. The more he tried to find silence in his soul and failed, the deeper the rage and shame dug in their barbs to torment him. A king would pardon and thank their champion. A proper ruler would hold a tournament in celebration, or throw an extravagant feast, to celebrate the victory. Wouldn’t be angry. It should be easy.

So why did he want to scream?

Merlin made it hard to be a king rather than to just be… Arthur. 

Days ago when word reached him that his manservant had woken up, Arthur’s feet had flown over the ground. He’d hardly had time for a thought as he’d raced through the castle, punching off walls rather than slowing down to take the turns.

The only desire fueling him had been to see Merlin. To thank him. To witness him whole and hale and to try and wipe away the haunting memory of his body battered and awash in blood.

Instead, he’d yelled at him.

He’d been unprepared by how uncomfortable their reunion had felt. He hadn’t anticipated the searing anger which had swept through him on hearing confirmation from Merlin’s own mouth what he’d already mostly pieced together. It roared through him like a wildfire. A force of destruction obliterating rational thought and reason, leaving behind ash and smoke too insubstantial to grasp. And then he’d been too afraid to go back. Coward that he was. While he knew all of Gwaine’s words had cut to the core of the matter, there seemed to be a disconnect between what Arthur knew in his heart to be true and what Arthur felt. And what Arthur felt seemed to currently be in control of his fool mouth.

Merlin had even confessed; bursting into the throne room, announcing that he was a sorcerer in an attempt to save Guinevere's life when she had been accused of witchcraft. It had been Arthur himself who brushed the claim aside. He’d interceded with his father, the entire council, writing the confession off as the ravings of a love sick boy.

"Merlin is such a wonder, but the wonder is that he's such an idiot! There's no way he can be a sorcerer."

Thrusting himself up away from the desk Arthur grappled with his armor, the sensation of heavy metal rings abruptly unbearably suffocating. Ripping the mail shirt over his head he dropped it on the floor with a clatter, ignoring the strands of hair it took along with it as they caught. Wincing he unwound the soaking bandages from the hand he’d struck the tree with the night of Merlin’s vigil, flexing the injured fist open and closed. The visible wounds had all faded, but the pain from the still healing fracture was intense. Binding it helped, though not when paired with his tendency of using the hand anyway and ignoring the discomfort until it faded into a searing burn. His heart burned the same way.

Shuffling across his chambers he spun a chair away from the dining table, dragging it across the room before planting it before the roaring hearth. Sitting heavily Arthur gazed into the flames as he replayed every adventure where something inexplicable had happened. Merlin was always there. Of course he was, he was always with Arthur.

“You've been here all night?"

"I didn't want you to feel that you were alone.”

The headstrong and reckless manservant had never hesitated to dive into danger alongside him; more often than not both unarmed and unprotected. Well, Arthur supposed neither of those were accurate. Merlin had had his magic. Although it seemed such an inadequate word to describe the forces Camelot’s Champion had wielded– like calling a tiger a kitten. Arthur’s entire understanding of what magic was had been shifted by what he’d witnessed. 

Why would a man with the power to reshape the very world bend the knee to Arthur? And why in the name of all the Gods couldn’t he move on from the same thoughts he had worn to rags as he’d been combing through them for nearly two weeks. He kept searching for some reason, some justification, but of what even he didn’t know.

The door quietly opened then closed behind him. Arthur didn’t need to look to recognize the steady, even footsteps striking sharply on the stone floor. Gentle hands that could only belong to Guinevere rested on his back and he closed his eyes, leaning against the touch. He inhaled the sweet scent of lavender with just a hint of lemon, letting her familiar presence soothe his ragged nerves. 

"Elyan told me what happened. Are you okay?"

Contemplating the enormity of the impossible question, Arthur cleared his throat. "Honestly… no."

She stepped around him with a quiet swish of silk, slipping her hands into his. “Where is your head, my love?”

“In the past.” 

Absently, Arthur rubbed his thumb over the back of her rough knuckles, the skin marked by her many years of hard labor. "I don't know what it looks like to move forward— as a Kingdom, as a son, as a king. Everything I thought I knew has changed.”

Guinevere angled their joined hands to study the fresh swelling over his as she pursed her lips. She’d begged him to rest, to let his hand heal properly, her protests fading into resigned silence as she seemed to accept he needed the physical push of training right now. The healing process was ostensibly delayed by his carelessness. She bit her lip and refrained from scolding him. Pulling away and sweeping across to Arthur’s bedside table, she opened the drawer to retrieve a clean wrap and a brown bottle of thick yellow ointment.. 

Returning, his queen spread out her many layers of skirts and settled on her knees beside his chair before taking his injured hand. The firelight glowed beautifully against her warm chestnut skin, reflecting as a golden halo cradling one side of her face. Even now the sight of her was distracting. 

Once the bottle was uncorked the strong scent of herbs jammed its way up Arthur’s nose as he screwed up his face in distaste. Guinevere’s grip tightened, sternly, holding him from pulling away. Without any coddling she spread the pain numbing salve over his knuckles before binding the hand again. As she worked, she spoke. 

“When I was young, I knew of a noblewoman who was both selfish and cruel. She delighted in toying with others. She enjoyed using them however suited her whims. Had she been born a commoner, the damage she could have done would have likely been limited to a strand of jilted lovers. Petty betrayals, if cruel. Instead– she was born to a position of power. She cheated her business partners, costing several of them everything. She beat her servants savagely at the slightest inconvenience, just for the pleasure of it, while keeping their families extremely well cared for. It was easier for most to bear the broken ribs than it was to hear their children cry from hunger pains. Perhaps some people simply aren’t suited to power. When given an opportunity, they will choose to use it to hurt others around them.”

Bringing his palm to her cheek, she continued, lips brushing against the fresh cotton. “And I wonder, my lord, if evil will exist among those without magic just as goodness will exist among sorcerers.”

The inalienable truth of such an ideal was hard to ignore. “And when a sorcerer goes bad? The damage they do is far beyond that of any other person. I wasn’t the only child raised on stories of Cornelius Sigan.” 

In his mind's eye he saw the way Merlin had opened the very earth, wielding elements like they were his playthings. Frankly, Arthur didn’t believe anyone should have such near Godlike power. If Merlin was to be believed, he'd been born with them. The thought was chilling. 

Guinevere nodded, “My nan scared Leon, Elyan, and I all witless with those tales. And laws aiming to prevent the abuse of power are important. Is that goal justification to punish the people trying to use the power available to them to do good? Are all people guilty for the things they may be capable of? And if so, where does that end?”

Arthur scoffed, “I can barely fathom what I know Merlin did, let alone contemplate what I still don’t know about what he’s been up to.”  

“Are we talking about Merlin, or about magic?” 

Flustered, Arthur looked away from her and into the fire. “Are they not the same? One cannot exist without the other, and both are consistent problems. As for guilt, I don’t know about that either. But no, I don’t believe in punishing people for simply trying to help others.”

Then why do you continue to uphold laws that do? 

The thought fell like a lash across his mind, and the voice in his head sounded like Merlin’s. Merlin– who had always held him accountable, challenging his worst impulses. His father had seen the risks and dangers of magic. Those perils hadn’t been imagined, not entirely. 

“I don’t want to be like my father,” Arthur whispered the words to the flames. 

Guinevere paused before speaking. He did not dare turn his gaze to see the expected censure there.

“I wonder then, if this may be the time to ask what the cost has been of the solution your father found to answer the dangers magic can pose. And if, perhaps,” Guinevere’s strong, stable fingers caressed his, “the cost is more than the kingdom can afford to keep paying.”

The air tried to swallow him up, absolve him from his guilt by consuming him whole. 

The cost? His first thoughts trailed along Morgana's laughter, its memory drowned out by the rustling of oak leaves towering above her lonely grave. Of Merlin's eyes sparkling with mischief, and wheezing breaths wet with blood as a courageous heartbeat faded to silence in Arthur's ear. He thought of Mordred; hunted as a child, returning now to Camelot as a vibrant young knight loyal to a fault. Confessing, in writing, to treason. There had been many casualties Arthur regretted in his own bid to uphold the laws against magic, but Arthur had always pushed on, convinced it was for the greater good. Was Mordred destined to become the next name carved on that sacrificial altar?  

What were the prices Merlin had paid? He wondered about the girl with large dark eyes, who Merlin had looked at as though the memory of her contained all his failings and all his hope at the same time.  

"I don't even know how to talk to him anymore, Guinevere. I don't know how to listen to him and tell if he's being honest or not. I want to believe him. That's the problem. I want it so badly that I don't know how to trust my own judgement."

Guinevere seemed to make a decision, straightening her shoulders and pulling her face back enough to look him squarely in the eyes. “I trust your ability to come to your answers on your own. You don’t need my help. But maybe the time for my silence is over. I don't believe Merlin ever planned to lie to you." The edges of her mouth dimpled briefly, "I know he didn't plan or even pretend to like you. I do think everything tumbled out of control after he saved you from that assassination attempt. I think he was afraid, Arthur. And I think he was a child. Do you remember when my father got sick?”

An icy hand gripped Arthur’s heart, dread bubbling in his lungs. Of course he did. A sledgehammer of misgiving landed on him with the power of the old blacksmith’s arm. He could only muster a nod as he looked back to Guinevere, uncertain where she was going. 

His Queen put one hand lightly to her chest, her upturned face open and earnest. “I still remember when you came to Morgana’s rooms to arrest me. I was so confused at first. I resisted, convinced it was a mistake, and the terror as you dragged me through the castle as I begged and pleaded for my life. I remember the certainty that I was going to die. We weren’t friends but we’d known each other for years. And still, you didn’t hesitate to bring me to your father just as he’d ordered. And he didn't hesitate to condemn me to death, though I was innocent.”

Arthur’s voice rumbled, low in his throat, choked with emotion he didn’t know how to feel. “What? Why are you, I couldn-“

“Shhh, my darling. I’m not accusing you. Your dedication to your convictions, your sense of duty, your loyalty, these are all things I love about you. Arthur, I see your father’s legacy in you. He was a wise king, a ruler who cared about justice. He may have been a hard man but he loved his people and they loved him. I also see Uther’s legacy in Morgana. When your mother died he was consumed by his grief and blinded by his hatred. And when Merlin met you, you were a loyal son who loved his father and believed if he said it was just, then it must be so. There were times your father wielded you like a weapon. Part of growing up is realizing maybe our parents didn’t have all the perfect answers. That, maybe, they are people who make mistakes, too. And by the time you grew up… maybe Merlin just didn’t have the words.”

Arthur drew in a sharp breath, a dozen retorts rising to his lips. They died quickly, cut apart by her difficult truths. 

Her hand disappeared into a pocket cleverly hidden along the seam of her skirts. When it reappeared she was holding a bronze metal disc roughly three inches wide. "I went to see him today. Merlin asked me to return this to you.”

She offered it to him, both palms up. On the disc’s face was an engraved image of a dove in flight laid over two crossed bars, all contained within a layered circle. The sigil of Ygraine de Bois– Arthur’s mother.

Abruptly, Arthur was standing beside a rickety old cart, gazing down at the broken body of his… friend. The smell of pine and earth was in his nose, the salty taste of tears on his lips. Gwaine's footsteps retreated into the distance, and he knew he was out of time. 

The wind rustling through the leaves had given the forest around them an insubstantial dream-like quality. Arthur didn’t really know what he was doing, as he had looped the sigil in its bag around Merlin’s neck, tucking it out of sight under the plain servants tunic. Merlin hadn’t been much for fanfare or ceremony. In fact, he’d actively resisted participation at every opportunity. But this was what Arthur knew. This was what his father had taught him. Members of his family were always formally buried wearing the family's crest. He’d had none other to offer. He’d claimed Merlin as his family not through Arthur’s father, but his mother.  

It was the only way he knew to honor him.

He hadn’t known his mother. Her death was an ever present wound just under the surface of his skin, ready to burst open at the slightest touch. As a child, he’d grown up filling her absence with secret stories he made up about her. He'd decided she was kind. She was the sort of mother who would have told him stories about knights who rescued fair maidens, and she’d have attended every tournament he fought in. He decided she’d had a sense of humor, and a beautiful laugh.

The gentleness and mercy of a dove, held against the might and fury of a dragon. He hadn’t thought about himself or even Camelot’s fate as that cursed dagger had pierced his Champion’s side. It was for Merlin, alone, he had feared. 

Arthur would have given anything to bring him back. Even his own life. 

Anything to revive him— magic and all.

The touch of cold metal in his hand grounded him in the present. Releasing a long slow breath, Arthur rolled his head from one side to the other, shoulders knotted from the tension he'd been carrying. Apparently, recognizing certain truths and acting upon them were two separate beasts all together. Terror, conviction, relief, and the seedling of hope battled within Arthur Pendragon, each one wrestling for dominance. The fire of rage he carried in his blood still roared, offering an illusion of control. He knew it really only left one fearful and alone. But as he opened himself up to the memory of his mother, it all paled beneath a placid calm. He closed his eyes. Was there, perhaps, a different path he could follow rather than a continuation of his father’s rage? 

“What do you care for the life of a sorcerer?”

His mother reached out in his mind’s eye, extending her hand to him. 

He didn’t need to forgive or overlook Merlin’s deception because he’d died for him. In fact, Arthur didn’t need to forgive him at all. But if he wanted to, he could choose to… because Arthur didn’t want to lose him. Because Merlin mattered to him. Because Merlin's magic wasn't just titanic terrifying power, it was also gentle orbs of blue light that led Arthur safely from the darkness. 

The weight of obligation fell away from his mind, as heavy as a wet fur cloak he’d been lugging around on his shoulders. It was as though a rope had been looped around his waist, either end pulling him in two separate directions, only for one to lose all tension. The roar of conflict within became a whisper, solidifying into a single idea. 

Maybe trust wasn’t something that just happened to you. It seemed as though, at least sometimes, it was a choice you made. Against all odds or reason. And maybe it was also true that you could never know someone, not entirely. But to trust was a decision you made anyway, because to never trust anyone was a far worse fate than to trust and be betrayed. 

So, then, what did he need from Merlin in order to mend this break? What would it mean for him to choose to trust himself? 

If Merlin made it hard to be a king rather than to just be himself, maybe it was time to close the gap between the ruler he thought he ought to be and the man he was. It was time for Arthur to choose: what kind of leader did he intend to be, and what was the world he would fight to create and leave behind? 

Distracted by the deep currents of thought, Arthur couldn't suppress an intense curiosity from bobbing to the surface. "You said you went to speak with him, what was it about?" 

Gwen stood, dusting her hands over her skirts. "I had something I wanted to say to him." 

When she didn't continue, Arthur prompted her further. “What did you go to say?”

“Thank you. I went to tell him thank you." 

Chapter Text

"Hey Merlin— think fast."

Turning from where he sat at the pitted physician's table, the manservant blinked at the apple Arthur lobbed in a lazy underhand through the air towards him. 

The gangly young man’s arms leapt up to defend his face, nearly flinging away the tools he’d been working with a moment before. In what seemed to be a paroxysm of indecision, Merlin’s hands made an odd spasming motion in the air, presumably caught between catching the projectile or trying to save his supplies. 

The result was the wooden tools crashed to the bench before rolling to the floor, as the apple struck his chest with a dull thunk; quickly following mortar, pestle, and his half ground concoction to the dusty herbal graveyard of Gaius’s floors. 

The physician’s quarters rang with silence as Merlin peered resentfully from the chunky unusable mess at his feet, to Arthur, standing with his hands on his hips in the open doorway. 

Arthur, for his part, rocked from the balls of his feet to the heels. He'd anticipated a level of awkwardness, and so, made a calculated attempt for a peace offering. The painfully uncomfortable, and unforeseen, consequences made him want to turn around and try again the next day. He really should apologize.

The king grimaced. “That wasn’t… well. I didn’t think you’d just drop them.”

Right, that wasn't quite it. 

“What I mean is you really are clumsy, then.”

"I've always had magic, Arthur," said Merlin, testily, pushing himself away from the table and standing up. "It doesn't make me a whole different person just because you now know about it." 

Arthur wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t the guarded almost resentful glint in his friend's eyes. It did make sense that he hadn't been the only one who'd spent the last few days stewing. 

He took a deep breath. “Let’s go for a ride.”

“A… ride?”

"Yes, Merlin, a ride. In the sun. You’re already far too pale to have been shut inside for so long. People are going to start thinking you’re a ghost.” 

“Why?”

"Your milky pallor, your general proclivity for moaning, the way you drift aimlessly-"

"No, why do you want to go on a ride?"

He’d expected even a flash of a smile from that last jab, Merlin wasn’t making this easy. Arthur crossed his arms and took several steps into the room. “Because I married a woman who’s far smarter than either of us.” 

Merlin’s face remained stony, a stubborn tilt to his chin. “Is that supposed to be an answer?”

Tamping down his flaring irritation, Arthur clenched his teeth. “Look, can you just, come with me? I’ve already been scolded enough to last me a lifetime.” 

A hint of a grin finally lifted the corner of Merlin’s mouth, as his eyes narrowed with open glee. "Somebody other than me told you off?" 

“Yes.”

“Who?”

It cost Arthur something to answer. “Gwaine. Yesterday.” 

The manservant’s eyebrows rose. “And you… listened?” 

Arthur’s arms tightened uncomfortably over his chest. “Look, are you coming or not?”

“Is that an order?”

“I can order you, if you’d prefer. But it would be faster if you just cooperated. Besides, I’m not sure how I’d enforce it, all my guards are scared of you now.” 

Arthur offered a tight grin, despite the way the half truth sat deeply uncomfortable between them. 

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Scared of me, now.”

“No.” 

Merlin caught the lie. Arthur saw it in the way his eyes glazed over and dropped to the floor, withdrawing. 

Turning away the young man crouched down, setting the mortar and pestle back on the table and sweeping what he could of the herbal mess into his hands. “You don’t have to force yourself to do anything, my King. I gave only what I owe you as a citizen of your lands. There are no debts between us.”

Listening to the gentle scrape of fingers over stone, Arthur could sense the tension. He could let this end here, now. Accept the invitation to walk away. Allow the discomfort and distance to grow between them until it solidified into a wall of thorns separating them. 

“You’re wrong!” he said, the words flying from his throat before his pride could swallow them down. This price was not one he would pay. The flames had claimed enough from him already; he would not be his father. He surreptitiously flexed his injured fist, letting the pain center him. “I— that's not why I’m here. Please.”

The knot in Arthur’s chest loosened slightly as Merlin nodded after a long moment, relenting. 

“Let me grab my coat then, sire.”

⌘⌘⌘

Gazing steadily out the window, Gwen leaned forward to watch two horses trail out the citadel gates; one blonde head bobbing alongside one black. The sight was strangely reassuring, restoring some sense of normalcy to a world in active upheaval. 

The air smelled cold. Glancing towards the overcast sky, she hoped it wouldn’t rain for a second day. It had been her idea for Arthur to talk to Merlin away from the castle, out from under the shadow of the roles and expectations it may subconsciously reinforce. Even if Arthur didn’t realize it yet, Gwen knew he still trusted Merlin. It had never so much as occurred to her husband to fear for his own safety, alone, in the forest, with a powerful sorcerer. 

Besides, privately she knew Arthur had a tendency to overcompensate when he was being watched. Particularly in front of his knights, he felt the need to act decisively. In a heated moment he’d rather double down on a poor decision in order to appear certain, rather than change his mind. 

A silent presence hovered near her shoulder, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth nervously. “They’ll be okay.” 

Gaius let out a long breath, the sound heavy with weariness. “With some luck we all will be, given some time. Change has been on the horizon for a long while now.”

Gwen’s fingers twisted around a cream handkerchief, running over the silver and golden embroidery. The fine silk felt heavy as a stone, drenched in impossible questions. Gwen had never been certain if the final gift she’d received from Morgana had been genuine or not. 

The idea that this scrap of cloth may have been the last moment of genuine warmth Morgana had felt for her, meant it had lived in a simple wooden box at the back of her wardrobe. There it had remained, frozen, equal parts of her wanting to remember, and wanting to forget. Unable to change. 

Perhaps she was as haunted as anyone. 

“Do you really think so?” She asked, voice quiet. Allowing herself a moment to be uncertain, to reveal the anxiety she secretly harbored. 

“Well… perhaps not Arthur,” amended the old physician.

Brows lowering with alarm Gwen looked at him sharply, “what do you mean?”

Gaius’s face, dour as a basset hound, swiveled to meet hers.  His expression was grim. “I caught Merlin looking up spells to turn him into a donkey again.” 

A tired smile cracked through the hardened surface of worry and distress Gaius had worn for weeks now, the old physician’s eyes crinkling at the edges. 

Gwen found herself laughing. What began as a small, startled chuckle, gained momentum each time she remembered Arthur with his donkey ears, sulking in his bedroom. Soon enough, peals of laughter rolled freely from her lips in uncontrollable waves until her sides ached, and her eyes watered with tears of mirth. 

Gasping for air, she put a hand lightly to her stomach. “Let’s hope Arthur stays on his best behavior, then.” 

The Queen of Camelot looked after where the shapes of her dearest friend and her husband had disappeared, shaking her head in wonder. 

Boys. How Gwen loved them both. 

⌘⌘⌘

This is it, I’m going to die. Again. 

Every inch of Merlin’s body simmered with nervous sparks. Chills of foreboding creeped along his arms and neck as he hunched in his saddle, eyes darting in every direction, seeking the danger his body was certain loomed. 

Whispers had trailed them through the streets. It had been impossible not to see the glances, the way people in the marketplace had drawn back from his horse. 

"Demon," one woman had muttered, fearfully. He'd recognized Sabia; a baker who used to sneak Merlin an occasional sugar dusted cookie or raspberry scone. She liked to sing as she worked. 

"Abomination," Odhran, the butcher, had hissed. Merlin had spoken with him and his wife at least once a week, since he'd started fetching the scraps their shop would set aside for the royal kennel master. He liked bawdy jokes and ending his nights at the tavern. His youngest daughter was Merlin's age. 

The words scorched his ears like a hot iron. Setting his jaw, Merlin had done his best to pretend he hadn't heard them. Fastening his eyes stubbornly to his saddle, he let Arthur’s mount guide his own, and refused to place any of the other whispers that drifted to him. Some were angry, others fearful, but a shocking number sounded… curious. With no way to know what rumors had spread he couldn't be certain if the chorus of gossip that rose in his wake was because he was a sorcerer, or because he had returned from the realms of the dead. Either would be fair, he supposed. 

Now, free of the city walls, his anxiety had only grown until he was about to crawl out of his own skin. 

They didn’t follow the road for long, turning off into the sparser stretches of forest and fields that rimmed the city. Though the path they followed was unfamiliar to the manservant, Arthur seemed to know exactly where he was going. Merlin dropped back even more, attention darting back and forth between the landscape they traversed, and the back of the king’s red tunic. Without his customary armor, Arthur looked much younger than his thirty years.

As they wound deeper into the countryside, Merlin decided there was no reason Arthur would bring him out here, other than to avoid making a scene. Execution it was, then. 

When his companion eventually spoke, he jerked so hard he nearly fell off his horse in surprise. He’d slipped sideways in the saddle before he caught himself, his mare snorting in annoyance. 

“This will do, I think.”

Will my body stay dead this time?

He braced, but no attack came. Arthur slid out of his saddle, looping his own reigns around a sturdy branch. "Walk with me?”

It’ll be easier to have me walk than to drag my body. Wouldn’t want to get blood all over the horse. 

Not that he really believed Arthur had brought him out to kill him. Probably not. 

“Merlin, will you stop silently glowering and use your words? And quit jumping like that, you’re making me uneasy.” 

Merlin finally noticed the way his king stood: posture rigid, avoiding eye contact, apprehension painting each limb with tension. 

He’s as nervous as I am.

It made sense. For someone as emotionally stunted as Arthur, the least comfortable topics of conversation mainly consisted of anything regarding feelings. Arthur preferred problems he could beat into submission by hitting them with his sword. This taut pretense he insisted on maintaining, of superficial pleasantries and forced humor, was both unsettling, and not like him at all. 

Focusing on the swirling scents of earth around them, Merlin took a breath, steeling his resolve. A lark burst into song in the branches above. Stiffly, he swung one leg over the saddle, slipping down until both his feet were planted firmly on the ground. Riding at such an easy pace wasn’t nearly as taxing as walking, but he could feel a quiet fatigued burning in his joints and muscles. 

“I’ve decided, I’m going to… go. It’ll be better that way, I think. I’ll leave Camelot, you won’t have to worry about me.”

“No!” Angrily, Arthur seized the reigns of his mount, as if he thought Merlin might hop up and try to ride away. 

The refusal didn’t make sense. “So you did change your mind about not executing me, then?”

“What? No, stop being an idiot. Is this because of what the townsfolk were saying?” 

Watching as the king tethered his mount alongside his own, Merlin searched out the right words. “Of course it isn’t. Or, maybe it’s just part of it. There’s not a place for me here anymore. I played my part, I’m not needed.”

Arthur spun, eyes blazing. "You once said you would protect me, or die at my side! Was that a lie, then?”

Cold anger stirred, creeping through Merlin’s insides as he leveled a frigid gaze at the man he'd given everything for. ”Didn’t I?”

Arthur's cheeks went pale, heated demeanor snuffed out as efficiently as if Merlin had dumped a bucket of cold water over his head. He took a step back, looking away. “You’re right, yes. You did both. But you’ll be breaking that promise if you leave now. If you truly meant what you said, prove it. Stay.”

“Is that an order, sire?”

“Damn it, Merlin! I’m not trying to make you do anything. When… when you were stabbed and I lost you, it, it… broke something in me.” 

Arthur was visibly struggling with his words, face turning red with the effort of forcing his way past some sort of mental block. A vein throbbed at his temple as he pushed on, “It was as if I’d been rudely shaken from a deep sleep.” He noisily cleared his throat and looked away. “It reminded me of why I decided I wanted to become king in the first place.” 

This piqued Merlin’s curiosity, if nothing else. “Why was that?” 

“Why do you think?” Arthur returned, testily. Spinning on one foot he walked into the forest. With quick, deliberate steps, he moved as if trying not to flee. 

Intrigued, despite himself, Merlin followed like a shadow; glancing at the still sheathed sword Arthur had left hanging from his saddle.

“Look, I am open to the possibility that I’ve been wrong about magic.”

The ground dropped out from under him, and Merlin had to take a step out to one side to steady himself. A ringing rose up in his ears. The forest seemed like it was bending closer, holding its breath to listen. 

It took Arthur a moment to realize he was leaving Merlin behind. When he turned back around and faced his old friend across the forest floor, his eyes brimmed with emotion too complex to read. “I’d like it if you showed me. That’s what you fought for, right?”

Merlin's confused voice only distantly reached his own ears, muffled by the blood rushing in his head. “I don’t understand.” 

"I am not my own. I am a King, I must make decisions for my Kingdom. I’m not free to act solely for myself. That is the price of the crown; the land and its laws do not exist merely to serve me. As a ruler, I strive to live in service to the people of this land. To all my people. Or, I should. I think I may have let you down, Merlin. You and all those like you.

Look, I won’t pretend like everything is just fixed. It’s not. But this? It needs to stop. You, making choices for me. You, always keeping secrets, concealing the whole truth. Can we try trusting each other, instead?”

It was everything Merlin might have dreamed, once. Now, it felt hollow and empty, sparking off a hard stone of resentment which had formed in his core. Trust? Truth? 

So preoccupied with maintaining his secret, Merlin had always held himself back. He'd never spoken his unfiltered thoughts to Arthur. He'd never allowed himself. 

Who would I be if I did?

Hands balling into fists at his side, he drew himself up to his full height and fought to control the tremor pulling at his voice. “Yes, I lied. You’ve always claimed to trust me, and yet it’s only ever gone so far. I've given you everything. You’ve only ever thought of me as a servant. A fool. Maybe it’s not just me, I don’t know if you’ve ever really trusted anyone in your life.”

Arthur’s cheeks flamed, “I know I can be a… a clotpole. An ass. Merlin, I’m not just asking you to change. I’m promising that I will also do better. I brought you out here because I want to start over, and do it right this time.” 

Turning, Arthur kept walking, not giving Merlin time to answer. Ahead of them the forest opened up into a meadow. A large gnarled beech tree squatted to one side of the clearing, its low hanging branches heavy with age.

A cool breeze played across the two young men as Merlin turned, gazing to where Camelot’s spires rose in the distance. Splashes of crimson flew in the wind atop each tower, his heart swelling at the sight. They were high on a rise that gave them the perfect vantage point. He stared without blinking, trying to sear the memory of the place that had become his home into his mind. 

Arthur stepped up beside the trunk of the ancient tree, resting one hand on its surface. “I used to come here when I was younger, to think.”

“Explains why you stopped,” Merlin shot back, reflexively. 

Flashing him a look of warning Arthur continued, “You’re weren’t wrong; trust is hard for me. It doesn’t come naturally. But I think it’s fair to say that I can’t trust you if I don’t know you. Tell me who you are. Tell me… everything. From the start. I’m ready to listen.”

Arthur settled himself on the ground, reclining back against the tree. He looked at Merlin, expectantly. 

Snorting in disbelief, Merlin crossed his arms. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Arthur patted the ground next to him. “And if, after we talk, you still want to go? I won’t stop you.” 

Considering the offer, Merlin hesitated. “Everything?”

“Everything.” 

He hesitated some more, heart twisting. 

And if you discover you're right to hate me, my king? 

The face that drifted to the forefront of his mind was, of everything, Mordred. No loyalty tied him to the knight, he'd made him no promises. But despite his own best efforts he couldn’t help liking the young man. And, even now, outing him as a magic user was an act Merlin couldn't fathom. He'd dealt betrayals out like poisoned kisses, but somehow this line was one he couldn't cross. 

“There is one secret I need to keep. One last person I haven't betrayed.”

“You'd throw it all away for this secret?”

Merlin shrugged, helpless. "It isn't enough to redeem me, and what I've done. But it's the last part of myself I haven't sacrificed." 

“Mordred?”

He wanted to be sick, but instead he pulled his expression into a blank mask. How could Arthur know– had he slipped up somehow? “Who?” 

"Come off it, Merlin." 

"I thought I misheard-" 

"He told me himself. It seems he feels a sense of loyalty to you."

Hot shame flooded Merlin, "Oh."  

What else could he say? Kilgarrah's warnings about the young man had driven him to question everything about him. Determined not to make the same mistake as he had with Morgana, he'd been nothing short of frigid with the young druid since he'd come to Camelot. 

Arthur smirked. “You are a terrible liar, you know.” 

“Good enough to fool you,” Merlin growled. 

That shut Arthur up. Gazing across the valley, the Champion of Camelot turned his thoughts inward. Maybe that was his problem, though. He never seemed to be able to stop thinking. 

Throwing out an arm he pointed into the distance, tracing a hill through the air with one fingertip. "When I first came to the castle, I knew so little about the world. I'd spent the last sixteen years insulated in Ealdor; Camelot was a distant and insignificant idea compared to the year's harvest.

Since I was young, using magic has come as naturally to me as breathing. Eventually, my mother helped me understand that I needed to keep it a secret. I didn't always have control of it. Will knew, and he developed a bit of a reputation as a trouble maker, since he'd take the blame. He protected me, gave the townsfolk explanations they could swallow. If a pitcher shattered he'd start throwing rocks. When I accidentally lit old man Belin's hut on fire, he claimed he'd dropped a torch. 

Since I refused to stop using my magic, my mother decided that I needed a mentor. She didn't dare confide in anyone beside Gaius." 

Settling hip to hip beside his king, sharing the shade of the large tree, he started with the day he'd walked through the gates of Camelot to see an execution. As he wove his accounts, Merlin didn’t spare his friend. Perhaps sparing him for so long was how they'd ended up here in the first place. 

When he told him about the slave trader and Freya: he described how it had been Arthur’s blade that struck her a fatal wound in her cursed form. 

When he spoke of Balinor: he confessed to the existence of a father, found and lost within a day, to the protection of a kingdom which would have seen them both dead. 

He spoke of Uther’s cruelty, and the way he himself had gone from nearly allowing the former king’s assassination at Morgana’s hands, to preventing Arthur himself from killing his father in a rage. He confessed that he had lied in doing so— how Uther had, indeed, used magic to trade Ygrainne’s life for Arthur’s. 

He didn’t know how Arthur took the news, refusing to look at him. 

While he may not have spared his friend, neither did Merlin spare himself. He ruthlessly cast each of his darkest deeds into the light, exposing each shame and regret. 

He confessed to identifying Morgana as the source of the sleeping spell on Camelot, and poisoning her in a desperate effort to end the magic.

He confessed to using magic on Arthur in order to bend his will, forcing him to abandon a Camelot under siege. 

He spoke of how, as Dragoon, he’d genuinely tried to save Uther. Only for Morgana’s spell to twist his own magic, snuffing out Arthur's father's life along with the hope he’d harbored of bridging a peace between Arthur and Magic. 

He spoke of killing Agravaine, deep in the bowels of the mines. How, though it had been an act of self defense, he’d been nothing but calm and calculated in ending the man's life. 

Going through each year they'd spent together, condensing wherever possible, he still spent endless hours describing the years he'd spent in Camelot. The countless risks he’d taken, the sacrifices he’d made, the calls he'd struggled with, the blood he’d shed. The many lives Merlin had ended. 

True to his word, Arthur listened, only speaking to request clarification on a point here and there. Merlin spun out his tale as the sun steadily moved across the sky overhead, only pausing to drink from a nearby stream. He talked until all the words he'd kept balled up inside unraveled. His emotions pivoted wildly. They built until, at the end of his tale, Merlin glared venom at Arthur. The King's pulse thrummed in his throat, throbbing with every pound of his stupid noble heart. 

“You say you want honesty, truth? If we are talking about truths– then let me admit mine. You asked me how I could possibly be comfortable being beside you and lying. Well, it wasn’t comfortable! It was miserable and lonely and I did it anyway. I did what I had to do to stay at your side, because you’d be dead a thousand times over by now if it wasn’t for me!"

Merlin expected anger, some kind of retaliation. He wanted it. A part of him demanded the rage he’d glimpsed from Arthur before, now that he finally deserved it. Now that he'd earned it with all his damning truths. 

Instead, Arthur remained perfectly still beside him. The moment drew out, unbearably long.

“Yes,” Arthur finally said, looking him over. And, to Merlin, it seemed as though his king was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time. A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Yes, I would be.”

The admission felt like an apology. Merlin nodded once, accepting it with little fuss. Impossibly, all that had been raging within his chest, so insurmountable the second before, stilled.  

The King’s next words were low, barely a whisper, “Thank you for saving me. Not just from Morgana, but… all of it. You saved all of us, Merlin.” Too many emotions laced his words, each one easy to see as it flashed across his face: gratitude, shame, regret, pride, respect. Above all things, respect. 

“You sound like an Idiot.” Merlin growled back. Even so, his throat tightened, eyes stinging. No one had looked on him in such a way all his life. He sat back, wrestling back the lump in his throat, staring up through the branches above to where blue sky was breaking through the clouds. 

"I think I might be an idiot," Arthur agreed, quietly. "But so are you. Because you're wrong, you are needed. I need you. Merlin, can I trust you?”

After hours of talking Merlin finally had no words left. Barely daring to breathe he nodded, once. 

"Okay.” Arthur agreed, as simple as that. “Will you stay by my side?" 

Tears flowed silently down his cheeks as Merlin's face crumpled, the immense weight of blood and destiny finally lifted. With Morgana gone, this was his choice alone.

He nodded, again. 

True to character, Arthur broke down under such an emotionally laden moment. Uther had never been one to tolerate feelings. Such an upbringing, paired with a natural reserve, made meaningful conversations a struggle for him. On the occasions Arthur did say something nice, he’d turn around and match it with an insult. Today seemed to be no exception. “That's not to say I don't have critiques. You got a bit sloppy there at several points, if I'm being honest. And I don’t know how I feel about calling you my sentinel, it seems a bit… pretentious. Once and Future King, though? That has a ring to it.”

There it was. Merlin laughed, relieved at the return of this familiar and predictable version of his friend. 

Rolling forward, Arthur rose fluidly to his feet. “Now, I’ve been thinking.”

Merlin raised one eyebrow. “Well, this is the tree for it.”

Rolling past the comment as if Merlin had never spoken, Arthur began to pace the dirt. “I do need, as King, to uphold the law. I wasn’t wrong about that. I will not be a ruler who offers a different law, a different justice, to my friends.”

Above him, Arthur’s golden hair shone, even in the dim light. To Merlin, it looked like a crown of sunlight. A near fevered glint shone in his king’s bright blue eyes. “Guinevere accepted Emrys’s declaration of fealty when you became Camelot’s champion. The relationship between vassals and the crown is one of mutual obligation. Should you accept the continued duties of a royal vassal, then, legally speaking, it would be within my rights to pardon you. Not even the most traditional member of my counsel would contest that. Hopefully, if we do this right, we can avoid civil war.”

Merlin scrambled to his feet, abruptly so lost he felt dizzy. “Hold on, what are you going on about? What civil war?”

Looking Merlin straight in the eye, Arthur lowered his voice. “Merlin, I’m going to lift the ban on magic. I had resolved to do so whether you chose to stay or not. But seeing as you have agreed to stay, I want you to act as an official ambassador between our two people .”

The confusion dampening Merlin's thoughts quickly began to replace itself with unbridled panic.

Arthur carried on, not picking up on the shift. “Of course, we won’t be able to do it all at once. It’ll have to be one step at a time; otherwise we risk sparking a civil war. Not just from those who would oppose such a move- but also from those who lost the most during the purge. It necessitated a complete restructuring of power. But once the nobles have settled from the upheaval of revoking the ban, they’ll have a vested interest in keeping you in place. You’ll be safe. You, the people you care about, will have a place here. A place in Camelot.” 

He'd been expecting a pardon, at most. “Why would you go that far?”

“I already buried a sister. I don’t want to have to…”

Cutting himself off, Arthur choked on whatever he seemed to be trying to say. Merlin stared, befuddled. 

His friend thrust out a hand to him, something glinting in his palm. “This is yours. Don’t lose it again.”

I don’t want to have to bury a brother, too.

The words Arthur couldn’t seem to bring himself to confess were offered in the sigil Arthur held out to his champion. His friend. Merlin silently took the sigil, clutching it so tightly he could feel the dove pressing an indent into his palm.

“Well, Merlin, this is the point in the conversation where you thank me, and in gratitude show me some of the respect that you so often lack.”

"I- I don't know what to say," Merlin managed at last. "Except, I don't… you have the wrong man."

Arthur's momentum stopped, and suddenly he looked worried. "What?" 

Merlin spoke, hurriedly, "I'm honored, I am. You’re thinking of this wrong though;  Mordred should be your ambassador. He is already familiar with the Druids and their customs. He grew up in that world. He is smart, discerning, and… and naive enough to still believe that people can be good." 

Thinking of the way he'd treated the knight who had confessed, of his own volition, in order to stand by him of all people, Merlin stared at his own feet. "He also knows how to forgive when they aren't."

Appearing to think it over, Arthur crossed his arms. "Merlin, I can't help thinking about how, whenever I actually listened to your council— you never led me astray. Are you certain?" 

"About this? Yes. I don't fancy a job that keeps me away from Camelot. Besides," he said, grinning, "I'm no good at diplomacy, you know that. I'd call some druid a cabbage head and just start off another war. Then where would we be?" 

Arthur laughed, rubbing one hand through his hair. "I suppose that's true. But I can't just… keep you as my manservant." 

An odd pang of sadness struck through Merlin. 

"No, I suppose not." 

They both fell silent, and he guessed they were wondering at the same thing. What was his new role? What would, whatever this relationship was between them, look like moving forward?

Finally, Arthur offered him a hand. "I'm looking to make a new world, not simply return to the old one from before the purge. So, maybe it's time to make a new title, a new job." 

Merlin grinned, accepting the offered hand and letting Arthur pull him to his feet. "Very well then, what is this job? I'll think it over, let you know if I'm interested." 

"I don't know. Something with status, for one." 

"Diplomatic immunity?" suggested Merlin.

"What for?" said Arthur, narrowing his eyes.

"For when I call that druid a cabbage head. Diplomacy won't be my job–It'll be up to Mordred to handle it."

"I'll take your suggestion under advisement." 

"I thought you said you'd do what I say now?"

Screwing up his face, Arthue pretended to consider. "I don't seem to recall that part of our conversation. The best offer I have is that, when we don't see eye to eye, I'll occasionally consider maybe giving your way a shot."

"Bold of you, considering I didn't say I'd take the job." 

"Here's the thing," began Arthur, and Merlin probably imagined it, but he rather thought Arthur said it fondly. "You are rather annoying, clumsy, stubborn, and pretty terrible at your job. But I've grown rather fond of you. So how about, for now, we have George take over the majority of your more time consuming chores. You know him, he'll probably think it's an honor to muck out the stables and polish my armor. The man nearly wept when I wouldn’t let him scrub my undergarments. 

And while we figure out the details of how you'll be spending your time; you can continue to accompany me at mealtimes, to council meetings, so on and so forth. Not necessarily to wait on me, perhaps in an advisor capacity. Oh, and you're still to join me during training, but on the field now. Your grip on your hilt in that duel was dreadful, no wonder you got stabbed." 

“Speaking of losing ones grip– what happend to your hand? It's bandaged, and you’ve been favoring it like it hurts. I could…?” Merlin waggled his fingers suggestively.

“No!” 

The vehemence in Arthur’s immediate rejection struck the tenuous thing building between them like a hammer blow, leaving Merlin's confidence shaken. 

Arthur took a deep breath, measuring himself, blinking rapidly as if the strength of his reaction had taken them both by surprise. "No, I'm not- Although, I could use help rebandaging it? When we get back. You know how Guinevere fusses.”

Accepting the offered olive branch, Merlin nodded gratefully. Acknowledging the effort. “Of course.”

"Merlin?" 

"Yes?" 

Arthur's eyes were serious, wide and flickering with a shadow of unease. "On that subject, I… appreciate why you made the decisions you did in the past. Don't use magic on me again. Not without my explicit permission."

Feeling the weight of the command in Arthur’s voice, Merlin hesitated only a moment. "I won't." 

Arthur didn’t owe him an explanation. He regretted pushing. It made sense, at least to Merlin, why things like this would take time. But Arthur stood as if coiled, visibly struggling, choking on his own self doubt.

So, Merlin leaned in conspiratorially with an olive branch of his own. “Probably for the best, anyways. The last man I tried to heal? Well, he died.” 

The tension in Arthur's shoulders and face visibly melted as he rolled his eyes, shoving Merlin playfully. 

Straightening, the Young Warlock steadied himself. Ribcage expanding he drew in what felt like his first full breath of air since Arthur had been taken, holding it, savoring the crispness of the season. He subtly ran his fingertips across his palms just to feel the sensation, marveling at the fact that he was alive. The lark had gone, replaced by the sounds of a distant woodpecker's frantic bursts of knocking. Merlin's body felt light, and he was present in a way he'd forgotten was possible.

These shifting tides would take some getting used to, and he would have to earn some trust back. He'd need to learn how to trust more himself. And life would go on. And he wouldn't be walking into this new future alone. 

He may not know what that looked like, precisely, but he knew something was beginning. Merlin could practically feel the hum of its promise in the air. 

This was to be a story worth telling. 

After considering Merlin for a few moments, Arthur raised one eyebrow. "So, have you ever actually been to the tavern?"

A grin as broad as the horizon split Merlin's face. "Maybe once or twice."

Chapter Text

Because you're wrong, you are needed. I need you. 

In the months that followed, even years, the king would never waver in his disavowal of saying those words. 

Arthur would wave it off, saying “You must have been delirious, I never said anything like it,” or Merlin’s favorite, claim he said something entirely different and Merlin had simply misheard him. 

Arthur would raise his eyebrows and speak in his haughtiest voice, "I do not deny repeating what I have often said, Merlin, and that is that in general your services have proven more useful lately than not. I have never pretended otherwise. I believe in acknowledging hard work. One must take care, however, not to extrapolate anything well... excessive from it, for lack of a better word." 

And then he would brusquely change the subject.

This was more like the Arthur Merlin had come to know, and somehow, he preferred the familiar version. It was predictable, and therefore, comforting. But they both knew. 

Stay. 

So, Merlin did. 

It took a while and nearly started three wars, but the ban on Magic was, at last, lifted.

And when the day came that Merlin was appointed High Steward of Sorcery and Champion of the Realm, it was the sigil of Ygraine de Bois that served as his badge of office; the wings of a dove, not a dragon, carrying Camelot into its future.