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Chapter Text

Door 5

Merlin’s breath hung in clouds before him as he fed the fire. The flames were crackling high, lapping greedily at the wood and casting dancing shadows against the crumbling walls of the castle ruin, but an icy wind cut through the broken stones like a blade. It brought the smell of frost and pines, and carried away most of the warmth the fire built. 

Winter was well and truly closing in now, nature wrapped in the kind of stillness that signalled a long season. The time for raiding was over, Kanen had announced just this morning. They would all wait out the cold until spring.

A bitter half-smile tugged at Merlin’s lips. ‘We,’ he had thought. As if he was one of them.

Behind him, he heard a faint shuffle, and he looked up to see Mordred, wrapped in a too-big cloak that had once belonged to a villager who was now lying dead in his field. The boy hunkered down next to Merlin at the fire, wrapping the cloth more tightly around him before tucking his hands under his armpits, and proceeded to stare into the fire with hollow eyes. At his throat, his collar glowed faintly; an identical cold iron ring that encircled Merlin’s own neck. It looked too heavy and too big on little Mordred, though Merlin hadn’t been much older when he had first received his. 

“Can’t sleep?” Merlin asked him quietly, bumping his shoulder into Mordred’s.

Mordred shook his head. Two months now, and he still didn’t speak. He had given his name once, so quietly Merlin had barely understood him, but otherwise remained mute.

Merlin offered him a crooked smile, understanding despite the silence. He had been twelve too once, caught and collared, and terrified of every crackling leaf and snapping twig. It felt like another lifetime now, the day Kanen had come to raid Ealdor. Slaughter it, really. Merlin had been just a child then, too young to know how to wield his magic well, though he had wielded it just enough to be captured and collared and dragged away, surviving Ealdor’s foolish attempt at resistance where others had not.

Others, like his mother.

Merlin had made his first fire for Kanen and his men that very night, forced to flick his fingers at the wood again and again, a shaking, grieving, weeping boy ordered to light the flames with magic. The raiders had cheered when he had succeeded, congratulating themselves on their best bounty yet.

From then on, they had fed him, and clothed him when the first winter came, and trained him to be a good, obedient slave who did as he was told: light more fires, hunt game, kill villagers. They kept him alive only for his magic, the constant threat of pain and punishment held over his head. And now, with Mordred, they had a spare in training.

The boy was still staring into the flames, running a finger along the collar’s edge.

“Don’t touch it,” Merlin said more sharply. “Kanen will punish you if he sees you fiddling with it.”

Mordred obediently snatched his hand away, then glanced at the fur-lined bedrolls spread around the fire, where the raiders were sleeping off their ale.

For the better part of the evening, the men had sat at the big round table in the corner of the abandoned Hall and celebrated the ‘harvest’. The spoils they had stolen from the raided villages were now stored away in crates and sacks within the castle ruin. Undoubtedly, Merlin and Mordred would be tasked with fixing the place up tomorrow morning, ordered to repair the worst of the crumbling walls and sagging roofs, and make up some nice chambers for Kanen and his men.

As for Mordred and Merlin, they would be sleeping on the cold floor in some draughty corner and be fed just enough scraps from the spoils to keep them alive for the next round of raiding. It would be a miserable winter. Kanen’s men would be bored, and tormenting slaves made for a fine sport in their eyes.

But Merlin was used to it; used to the small everyday cruelties as well as the big, terrifying ones, used to cowering and begging, to receiving slaps, kicks and lashes. He was used, too, to being ordered to do things he did not want to do, and to following those orders while ignoring the consequences of his obedience. He had long stopped struggling, or even just hesitating when the commands came. When Kanen gave an order, fiddling with the ring at his finger and sending fire through Merlin’s veins, Merlin obeyed. 

It was as simple as that.

Mordred, too, would get used to it one day soon. Already, he was a much more submissive child than Merlin had been. Once the worst of the grief had been overcome, Merlin had turned feisty and recalcitrant, fighting back at Kanen as best as he could, taking weeks and months to break. Mordred, by contrast, was quiet and soft, quick to duck his head and do as he was told, all the while terrified—so terrified that he often couldn’t summon the magic Kanen demanded of him.

He didn’t take the collar’s punishments well, but then, what child would?

Mordred chose that moment to shuffle closer, leaning against Merlin as the fire flickered in another bout of icy wind. Merlin wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer.

It had been strange in the beginning, having Mordred around. When he had first seen the boy, covered in snot and tears and blood as he was dragged by his hair from the burning druid camp, Merlin had felt nothing: a hollow, numbing void that swallowed any capacity for compassion. He had been blunted by then, dulled by years of cruelty and fear, deadened to everything but the fire of the collar’s magic burning through his body on Kanen’s command.

Gradually, however, something in Mordred’s quiet terror, in the boy’s desperate expression, had struck a chord. At first, Merlin had ignored it. He had been distant with the boy, downright cruel in his indifference, as if he could snuff out the embers of his returning humanity by turning to ice. But the boy had lingered close, an ever-present shadow; a quiet reminder of Merlin’s own lost innocence, desperate for any attention that wasn’t order or punishment, and absolutely starving for affection. 

And so, day by day, Merlin had felt his icy core thaw a little more: a gentler word here, a squeeze for his arm there, until the boy had slipped into his bedroll one night and whispered his name, and Merlin had felt a sudden, fierce protectiveness. 

He had known, then, that he would shield him; guard him from evil as best as he could, and not just out of pity or some abstract sense of duty, but because the boy had wormed his way into his heart and carved a permanent place there.

He was under no illusion, however, that Mordred could ever be safe with Kanen. 

And so, Merlin did what he had not dared to do in years, and tried to think of a plan. Every morning, he scanned their camp for ways to escape. Every night, he tried to come up with ideas on how to rid Mordred of the iron collar, how to break the metal’s enchantments, crush it or wedge it open. He tried to think, too, of places to send him if ever he succeeded, places far away where Mordred would be safe and sound. 

He knew that those plans were foolish and dangerous. But he clung to hope anyway; felt it even now just looking at him, taking in Mordred’s pale, fragile face. It had smoothed out at last, sleep claiming him, his breathing slow and even and his head slumped fully against Merlin’s shoulder.

Merlin let him sleep, unwilling to wake him, and closed his eyes where he sat. He could have used some proper sleep, but Mordred needed it more.

Hours passed in a haze of half-sleep and waking, with Merlin drifting in and out as the night went on, stoking the fire whenever it needed stoking, until dawn approached at last. The first faint light spilling through the holes in the roof had him force his drooping eyelids open for good, knowing Kanen and his men would expect a hearty breakfast, served by their slaves as soon as they awoke.

Merlin was just about to rouse Mordred when he heard the noise.

The sounds were soft but unmistakable—the muted clang of metal, the faint creak of leather, a footstep landing just a little too hard. Instantly, Merlin’s head snapped up, his heart picking up speed as he strained to peer through the gloom.

At first, he saw nothing, and was almost convinced he had misheard. But then, at the very edge of the firelight, just beyond the ruined archway that marked the entrance to the Hall, he saw a figure standing motionless. 

Merlin’s breath caught in his throat. 

It was a man. A man in a cape and armour, his hand resting on the hilt of a large sword.

A knight.

Chapter Text

Door 6

It was a knight.

The lord of this forest and crumbling castle, perhaps, or just a soldier passing by on patrol. Either way, his arrival promised bloodshed, for no knight of any kingdom had ever taken kindly to stumbling upon Kanen and his ilk. 

Merlin realised then, all of a sudden, that the drunk raiders had not bothered with a nightwatch, and left them all open and vulnerable to attack. His heart pounding away, Merlin tightened his hold on the sleeping Mordred, already opening his mouth to shout out a warning. But the fire flickered higher just then, spilling more light on the knight’s figure, and the words died in Merlin’s throat as their gazes met. 

He was young, the knight, with a noble face and kind eyes, and hair that gleamed gold in the firelight, so bright against the gloom that it looked like a crown.

A strange spark ran through Merlin then, so akin to magic that it made his stomach flutter, and with a sudden sense of clarity, with a certainty that he could not possibly explain, he understood that the knight wasn’t a threat—not to Mordred or him.

Merlin closed his mouth.

The knight relaxed, his hand dropping from his sword. He smiled, too, if rather crookedly, then gestured towards the raiders sleeping around the fire, tilting his head in question.

Merlin hesitated, not sure how to explain without words, but tried his best by mimicking using an axe one-handed and snarling.

The knight seemed to understand, nodding, then held up his fingers. It took Merlin a moment to understand he was making counting motions. How many? he was asking.

Merlin raised both hands. Ten, he signalled. And another three.

Again, the knight nodded, then gestured at his throat, making a circling motion before pointing at Merlin. It looked like a threat at first, and Merlin stiffened until he understood that the knight was asking about his collar.

Not sure how to explain, Merlin bowed his head as low as he could without jostling awake Mordred, then lifted it again, pointing at the collar. Slave, he mouthed, then pointed at the bedroll that was Kanen’s. Master, he added, and made a motion like using a whip.

The knight gave another nod, his expression half-obscured by the flickering fire, though Merlin thought he looked disapproving; angry, even.

Again, Merlin’s stomach fluttered, that strange spark burning brighter. Slowly, carefully, he dared to lift his arm from Mordred’s back to bring his hands together in a begging gesture. Please, he mouthed. Help.

The knight raised a hand, as if telling him to stop.

Merlin did, his chest constricting as he shrank in on himself.

The knight grimaced and shook his head. Stop, he signalled again, though perhaps what he meant was Wait, or Patience, as he pointed at himself next, then his sword, then gestured behind himself. He raised his hands, counting out ten twice before pointing at his sword again, then at the raiders sleeping in their bedrolls.

Merlin frowned as he tried to decipher the motions. Twenty swords? No, twenty men. He wanted to return with twenty knights. They would outnumber the raiders easily. 

But the knight didn’t know that Kanen had two sorcerers at his disposal, and knew how to use them well. It wouldn’t be the first troop of knights they defeated using magic.

Quickly, Merlin shook his head. No, he signalled. Bad. Dangerous.

The knight frowned, then tilted his head again.

Merlin pointed at his collar, then shook his head a second time, more fiercely now.

The knight signalled that he didn’t understand.

Biting his lip, Merlin tried to think of how to explain, eventually making a vague motion with his hands as if casting a spell, then pointing at his eyes.

The knight stared. He did not understand, not at all. Again, he gestured at Merlin to wait, then offered him another crooked smile before lifting a finger to his lips. Hush, he meant. Don’t tell them I was here. He raised his thumb next. It will be fine.

Then he was gone, vanishing like a ghost, leaving the archway dark and empty. Merlin was left with a knotted stomach and a pounding heart.

Not a moment later, Mordred stirred next to him. Reluctantly, Merlin dragged his eyes away from the archway, finding the boy blinking up at him. 

“Morning,” Merlin murmured.

Mordred nodded in greeting, rubbing his eyes. 

“We need to make breakfast,” Merlin added and rose to his feet, offering Mordred a hand.

The boy took it, swaying before he came to stand, looking very small and thin in the large cloak; skinny, really, his face far too thin for his age. 

Merlin snuck him some bread from the loot as they made ready to prepare breakfast, shielding him from view lest one of the raiders awoke while he wolfed it down, then hauled the cauldron and a sack of oats to the fire, starting a porridge for Kanen’s men, who were beginning to stir, too.

Merlin ducked his head as they woke one by one, though couldn’t help but sneak a glance at the archway again as he stirred the slowly thickening oats. Would the knight really come back with more men? If so, was there any chance they could actually win? Perhaps, if they happened to slay Kanen first, sliced open his throat before he could give an order—

“Merlin.”

Merlin flinched, nearly dropping the ladle into the porridge. Hurriedly, he hung it over the edge of the cauldron, then flung himself to the ground. “Master,” he told the crumbling flagstones.

Kanen waited, revelling in his power perhaps, then kicked at him, his way of telling Merlin to rise. 

Merlin did, though he remained on his knees, his eyes on his master’s boots. They were in dire need of shining. He should put Mordred to the task before Kanen noticed and had a fit over it.

“Put some butter in that glop, will you?” Kanen grunted. “Salt, too.”

“Yes, Master,” Merlin told Kanen’s boots.

“When you’re done cooking, fetch some more firewood with the boy. Ask Tatum to accompany you, and hand you an axe.”

“Yes, Master,” Merlin repeated, already dreading the chore. Tatum would not be happy about having to supervise the slaves, and would likely beat them over it.

“When you’re done, find a dry place to store it, then come back to me. I want you to fix up this castle before the next rain.”

“Yes, Master.”

Kanen waved a dismissive hand, the ring glinting at Kanen’s finger, which drew Merlin’s eyes as he turned away. It was deceptively plain for an object that held so much power: the key to Merlin’s magic, and a tool for his torment should he not obey Kanen.

Turning back to the cauldron, Merlin stirred the porridge again, then waved at Mordred to fetch him some butter and salt, all the while glancing at the archway again, which was no longer quite so dark with the sun now rising above the ruins.

Had there even really been a knight? Perhaps Merlin had been dreaming, his ever-exhausted, ever-aching, ever-hungry body yearning for a golden hero to rescue Mordred, and perhaps himself.

Unsettled, he went and served the raiders their breakfast, enduring their pinches and cuffs and unkind words as he filled their bowls, leaving nothing for himself and only half a ladle for Mordred.

When he collected the bowls again, he approached Tatum last, quickly slipping to his knees to tell him the news. “Sir,” he said, as meekly as he could. “Master Kanen wants Mordred and me to fetch firewood.”

Tatum grunted, “What’s that got to do with me, then?”

Merlin swallowed, already bracing himself for Tatum’s ire. “Master Kanen said you should accompany us, sir.”

“Did he now?” Tatum did let out an annoyed huff, but it seemed he was craving a different sort of cruelty today. “Well, I dunno that I can, do I? You’d have to ask very nice-like, wouldn’t you?”

Merlin was already bending over before Tatum had finished. “Please, sir,” he said, his forehead pressed to the ground. Grovelling came easy to him these days.

“Mhm,” hummed Tatum. “Still not sure. It’s bloody freezin’ out there, innit? And a bloody chore, too, lookin’ after you vermin…”

“Please,” Merlin repeated more hoarsely. “Please, sir.”

Tatum let the moment drag on before conceding. “Fine. But you had better rub my feet after. My toes’ll be ice-cold.”

Relieved to have got off so lightly, Merlin nodded against the ground, then went to fetch Mordred.

They left the Hall through the crumbling archway, following the knight’s steps—if he really had been there. Merlin was almost convinced now that he hadn’t been. His kind face, his gleaming hair—it seemed rather a lot like a vision, a mirage Merlin’s mind had hallucinated.

He had often had such dreams, when he had been young like Mordred: dreams of someone rescuing him; his mother rising from the dead and coming for him with an army; a benevolent god striking Kanen dead. Perhaps his worry for Mordred had brought those old dreams back to the surface. 

Merlin’s breath froze in the icy air as they descended the winding path from the ruined castle toward the forest below. The chill bit at his fingers, and the axe in his hand felt heavier than usual. He glanced back at Mordred, who followed closely behind, clutching his cloak tightly around himself. The boy’s small frame trembled with each gust of wind, his fading boots crunching softly on the frozen dirt. Tatum walked ahead, his bulk wrapped in furs, grumbling under his breath about the cold.

The path faded as they reached the treeline, the branches above swaying and groaning with the wind’s force. Merlin took in the scene: the frost-dappled ground, the deadwood scattered beneath the trees, and the shadowed underbrush beyond. The forest was vast and foreboding, but it offered plenty of kindling if one was diligent enough to scrape it together.

Tatum planted himself on a fallen log near the edge of the treeline, propping his boots up on a chunk of mossy wood. “Get to it, rats,” he barked, pulling his fur cloak tighter around himself. “And don’t be slow about it. I’ve better things to do than freeze my arse off watchin’ you two.”

Merlin gave Mordred a nod to start collecting sticks. Mordred nodded back, his face pale and solemn, before shuffling off into the undergrowth, his small hands reaching for any twigs or branches light enough to carry.

Merlin turned his focus to the axe in his hands. The blade was dull and pitted with rust, forcing him to hack at the dead branches with brute strength rather than precision. Each swing jarred his arms, the impact reverberating through his bones. Splinters flew as he worked, breaking the larger branches into manageable pieces.

Around them, the forest creaked and rattled, the wind sending dry leaves skittering across the frozen ground. Merlin kept one eye on Mordred as he worked, ensuring the boy stayed within sight. The other eye, he kept on Tatum, whose disinterest in their work could not be any more obvious. The raider had pulled an aleskin from his belt and was sipping from it, his breath misting as he muttered curses about Kanen.

For a while, the only sounds were the rhythmic thuds of the axe, the crunch of Mordred’s boots on frost, and the persistent howl of the wind. Merlin’s thoughts drifted, his body moving on its own. He thought again of the knight he had seen—or thought he had seen. The man had been so vivid, so impossibly bright against the gloom of the camp.

Surely, he couldnʼt have been real? But if he was—

A sharp crackle from the woods nearby snapped Merlin from his thoughts. He paused mid-swing, his eyes darting toward the sound. At first, he thought it was just the wind, another branch snapping under its weight. But then came another noise—a strange crunch in the undergrowth.

Merlin glanced at Tatum, but found the raider deep in his ale, then looked back into the woods, where he thought he heard another crunch. Were there wolves around these parts?

“Mordred,” he called softly, his voice taut.

The boy looked up from where he was crouched just a few feet away, clutching an armful of sticks and tree bark, his eyes wide. Merlin gestured for him to come closer, his stomach twisting with unease. His fingers tightened around the axe—only to nearly drop it a moment later.

Because there, just beyond the tangled thicket, figures emerged from the shadows of the trees. Cloaked in red and gleaming with steel, their armour caught the pale light filtering through the branches, their movements deliberate and silent as they crept closer.

A sense of foreboding settled over Merlin then, even as the strange bright spark in his chest kindled anew.

The knight had been real. 

And he had come back with more men, just as he had promised.

Chapter Text

Door 7

The events that followed unfolded so quickly, Merlin could barely comprehend them.

One moment, he was staring into the forest, watching the knights approach. In the next, someone had already stepped up behind the unsuspecting Tatum and clapped his hand over his mouth. 

Tatum dropped his aleskin, immediately starting to struggle against the knight’s grip, his eyes wide. But the knight was massive, at least two heads taller than the raider and built like a boulder, and Tatum stilled when a dagger was pressed against his throat.

“Quiet,” said the knight.

His comrades stepped from the forest just a moment later, swords at the ready. At the head of them was the blond knight from that morning, his expression determined.

Merlin’s heart fluttered like the leaves on the ground as he gazed at him, his feet frozen. Not a vision, not a mirage, but a man of flesh and blood who had come to their rescue.

Tatum, however, did not stay still. Perhaps, had he been less drunk or simply less stupid, he would have listened and saved his own hide. Instead, he suddenly resumed his struggles, and bit the knight’s hand.

The knight cursed, his dagger slipping, the blade cutting straight across Tatum’s throat. Tatum let out a wet gurgling sound, slumping forward on the log when the knight let go, grasping at his throat before he fell over, crumpling to the ground as he choked on his own blood.

Mordred screamed. 

It was a guttural, wrenching scream, raw with terror and so loud it seemed to slice through the cold air like a knife. Shaken from his stupor, Merlin immediately jumped forward, dropping the axe and trying to hush him, but already Mordred had broken away from the treeline, sticks and kindle falling from his arms as he ran towards the castle, still screaming.

Without hesitation, Merlin ran after him, calling his name and shouting at him to come back, cursing himself for not paying more attention. Behind him, he heard the sound of heavy footfalls, the knights pursuing.

But already, Mordred had reached the winding path snaking up to the castle, whip-fast as only a child scared for his life could be, and was still screaming so loudly that by now, the raiders must have heard.

Sure enough, two of them emerged from the castle ruins when Mordred had almost reached the entrance, raising shouts of alarm when they saw the knights approaching.

“Mordred, wait!” Merlin shouted again, racing up the path, but to no avail. 

Mordred had rushed past the two raiders and crashed right into Kanen’s arms, who grabbed the boy by the back of his cloak as he stepped out of the castle, sword at the ready. He hauled the boy up in front of him just as Merlin reached them, his face grim as he gave the screaming Mordred a rough shake.

“Shut up!” Kanen snarled, shaking him again until the scream turned into a frightened whimper, then threw Mordred on the ground. “Time to prove you’re worth all the food you’ve been eating.” He pointed at the knights gathering at the bottom of the path. “Use your magic.”

Mordred gasped when his collar started glowing brightly, faint sparks of gold flickering in his eyes. Kanen’s eyes darted to Merlin, who had watched on with horror from a few steps away, still panting from the chase.

“And you.” Kanen’s lips curled in a cruel smirk, his gaze narrowing. “You know what to do, too. Fight them.”

The order hit Merlin just as the first sounds of battle reached his ears. The collar at his neck flared to life, the command searing through him like fire, and he staggered to the side, shaking with the pain that demanded his compliance, already raising his hand to obey.

Not a moment later, he clamped down on the instinct with all his might. His legs buckled as the fire burnt brighter, but he stayed upright by propping himself up against the nearby castle wall, teeth gritted as he resisted the urge to follow Kanen’s command. Not this time, he told himself desperately. Stay strong.

Around him, the world had dissolved into chaos, more raiders running past him and throwing themselves into the fight below, shouts and clangs filling the air.

“Slaves!” Kanen hollered. “Obey!”

With a pained groan, Merlin shook his head. The knight and his men—they were the only hope for him and Mordred. To fight them now would destroy that fragile chance at freedom. 

Below, the clash of swords rang ever louder as the knights met the raiders still spilling from the ruin, but Merlin could barely follow the fight, his vision swimming as the pain burnt brighter and brighter, slowly tipping into agony.

On the ground, Mordred was sobbing, his eyes still flickering gold, his hand raised vaguely at the fight.

“Damn you!” Kanen bellowed. “Boy, do it! Do it now! Blast them away!”

“Don’t!” Merlin tried to shout, but it came out as little more than a strangled rasp.

Mordred let out a pained cry, tears streaming down his face, and then his eyes flared and magic exploded from his hands. An invisible blow struck one of the knights, sending him flying back with a shout.

“Again!” ordered Kanen. “Both of you! Attack!”

“No!” Merlin gasped, still clutching at the wall, though the pain of resistance had become torture. His body crumpled under the molten heat coursing through him, his hands clawing at the crumbling stone as he sank to his knees. 

I can’t, he thought, his blurry eyes seeking out a head of burnished gold amidst the chaos of the fight. I won’t.

He was grabbed, kicked and slapped, Kanen’s voice filling his ears, “Obey, you rat! Obey me, or I will flail you raw when this is done! Strike them! Strike them dead!”

No, Merlin thought, groaning, his body shaking violently as a new wave of fire engulfed it.

Somewhere beyond, Mordred was still sobbing, perhaps still trying to obey Kanen, who continued to scream orders into Merlin’s ears before abruptly letting go.

Merlin’s vision darkened, the pain blinding and all-encompassing, his very blood turning to molten iron. His veins were rivers of flames coursing through his body, a pain so profound he could not tell if he was still screaming or if his throat had given out. His muscles convulsed, his limbs twisting as if trying to wrench themselves free of his own skin.

Obey, Kanen’s voice rang in his head. Obey. Obey.

But Merlin did not obey, no matter that every part of him felt like it was being scorched and torn apart, the collar at his neck merciless. Its heat was sinking ever deeper, deep into his flesh, wrapping itself around his spine and sending white-hot tendrils of agony lashing through his bones.

The world around him dissolved into red and black, pulsing in time with the firestorm inside him. The sounds of battle, even Mordred’s cries—all of it faded beneath the roar of torment that drowned out everything else. He was lying on the ground now, he thought, clawing weakly at the frost, trying to anchor his existence to anything but the unbearable inferno consuming him.

And then, just as it seemed the fire would strip him of the last shred of his existence—just as he thought he might vanish entirely into the endless blaze—it was gone.

Merlin gasped, the pain vanishing so suddenly that it left him reeling. He rolled onto his back, wheezing and coughing, the world swimming back into focus as he blinked at the ice-blue sky, barely registering the figure flinging itself onto his chest until Mordred’s sobs reached his ears.

Blinking, Merlin turned his head, finding bodies littering the winding path. He pushed himself up, wrapping his trembling arms around Mordred when he crawled into his lap, still sobbing. But his eyes were glued to the scene before him.

The raiders were dead, all of them, whereas most knights still stood, battered but triumphant. And there, just a few steps away, standing over Kanen’s lifeless body, was the golden knight, gleaming brightly through the blood and gore. 

Merlin’s heart soared, the promise of freedom so heady he thought he might pass out. 

But the knight’s face was grim, and his eyes zeroed in on Merlin just a moment later, his gaze hard and piercing. In his hand, raised like a trophy, was Kanen’s ring. “You’re sorcerers,” he said, just as another gust of wind whipped across the winding path.

It was then that Merlin’s eyes fell on the knight’s crest for the first time, the golden dragon bright on the fluttering red cape—the crest of Camelot.

The men that had come to their help, they were Camelot’s knights. Camelot, which hated magic, and had sworn to eradicate it.

Dread flooded Merlin, choking him anew as he realised the truth: they weren’t saved, not at all.

They were doomed.

Chapter Text

Door 8

Trembling with fear, Merlin did what years of survival had taught him: submit.

Grasping Mordred by the neck, he tipped them both forward, pushing the boy to his knees before flinging himself into full prostration next to him, pressing his forehead into the frozen ground.

“Master,” he gasped, his voice shaking with desperation. “Please, spare us.”

The answer was silence, the wind howling about the castle ruins.

“Please,” Merlin tried again, his lips moving against the dirt. “Mordred—the boy—he did not mean to use magic against you. He was compelled to. Please, Master. Have mercy.” But there was no response, only the faint sound of clinking chainmail and more wind, and Merlin’s eyes filled with frightened tears, his voice thickening as more words spilled from his lips. “Punish me in his stead,” he begged. “Kill me if you must, but spare Mordred. Please. He’s just a boy, he’s just a child, Master, please—”

Sudden footfalls had him stop, and he flinched when a hand curled around his shoulder.

“Hush,” said the knight.

Merlin shook against the ground, waiting for a kick, a strike. 

“We won’t hurt you,” the knight went on, his voice low and gentle. “Do you understand? We don’t mean you any harm.”

Merlin did not understand. Camelot hated magic, did it not? And they were sorcerers, both of them. “Please,” he begged again.

The knight squeezed his shoulder, gently. “Won’t you look at me?” he asked.

Carefully, very carefully, Merlin raised his head, finding the knight kneeling on the ground. He was smiling, his gentle expression at odds with the drying blood streaked across his cheek.

“What’s your name?”

Merlin swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Merlin,” he offered timidly.

“Merlin,” said the knight. “I’m Arthur.” He looked to the side. “And you are Mordred?”

Merlin glanced to the left, finding Mordred there, still on his knees, staring at the knight with large, blue eyes.

“He doesn’t speak, Master,” Merlin dared to explain.

The knight grimaced. “Call me Arthur,” he said, then got to his feet, his hand dropping from Merlin’s shoulder. He gestured at them to get to their feet, too, then turned away, speaking to one of his men and asking about the injured, eventually ordering the whole group inside the ruins.

“We’ll rest as we get everyone patched up, then make for Camelot,” he announced. As the group entered the ruins, the knight turned back towards Merlin and Mordred, who was keeping himself pressed close to Merlin’s side. “You, too. Let’s warm up and eat something.”

He ushered them both inside, and Merlin was quick to follow his orders, pulling Mordred along as they walked through the crumbling archway and back into the Hall, where some of the knights had settled around the fire to tend to their injuries, while others had sat down at the round table in the corner, groaning as they came to a rest.

Desperate to keep them all in a benevolent mood, Merlin pulled Mordred towards the stores, pulling out bread and strips of salted meat, and told the boy to start serving the men, relaxing ever so slightly when Mordred’s offers were accepted with smiles and kind words, not disdain or cruelty.

Merlin, too, made sure to be helpful, fetching fresh water from the collapsed well in the inner courtyard and bringing to the fire what balms and bandages Kanen and his men had had in their possession. 

He flinched when his name was called.

It was the knight—Arthur, though Merlin was neither daring nor stupid enough to address him as such. He had settled down with the men at the round table, and was waving at Merlin to approach. 

As soon as he was there, Merlin sank to his knees at Arthur’s feet, but the knight vehemently shook his head, gesturing at the empty chair to his left.

Merlin stared at him.

Arthur grimaced, but insisted, “Sit.”

Not about to disobey a direct order, Merlin did, perching at the very edge of the seat, trying not to tremble too obviously as he was scrutinised by the men.

“So you’re a sorcerer,” Arthur said at last.

Merlin’s eyes dropped to his lap. “Yes, Master,” he replied, a new wave of dread crawling up his spine.

“The raiders—they enslaved you for your powers?”

“Yes, Master,” Merlin repeated, only to flinch again when his words were met with a rebuke.

“Do not call me that.”

“Sorry, Ma—” Again, Merlin flinched. “My lord,” he amended, mimicking the other knights.

“Arthur is fine,” the knight insisted, then went on, “These raiders—we’ve been looking for them for a while. They have ransacked several of Camelot’s villages, and I know they pillaged Cenred’s realm in the past, as well as Caerleon’s and Godwyn’s. I’ve been wondering how they managed to evade capture all this time, but now it makes sense. You helped them. With sorcery.”

Merlin shrank in on himself, even as he admitted, “Yes, my lord.”

“The collar—it’s not only for show, is it?”

Merlin shook his head, daring to glance up as he explained its purpose, resisting an urge to slip from the chair and cower at the knight’s feet again when Arthur’s expression grew darker and darker. When Merlin came to explain about the ring, Arthur dropped it on the table, the ring spinning on the spot several times before coming to a rest in front of Merlin.

It would have been easy to snatch it, but Merlin did not dare. If he failed, that would mean certain death for Mordred and himself. Instead, he finished his report, telling Arthur of the villages they had raided in the past weeks and how Kanen had captured Mordred, ending it with a soft, “I’m sorry, my lord,” trying to ease the worst of Arthur’s ire.

“Fucking bastards!” one of the other knights spat from across the table. 

Merlin cringed back.

“Gwaine,” Arthur chastised his man, though he looked every bit as enraged as him. Turning in his chair, he spoke to a different knight. “Elyan. Would you come take a look at that collar?”

Another knight stood and approached, leaning in. “May I?” he asked Merlin.

Merlin hunched his shoulders, but dutifully bared his throat.

The knight inspected the iron, running his finger over it. “No lock,” he said at last, retreating. “Not even a hinge.”

“Magic,” Arthur concluded darkly. Then, “How do we get it off?”

Merlin grew very still.

“Not sure,” said Elyan. “There’s some tools at my father’s forge that could do the trick. We will have to be careful, though. It sits very tightly. Gwen might have a better idea, actually. She’s always been good with the more delicate stuff.”

“We will ask her, then, once we’re back,” Arthur replied, nodding at Elyan. “Gaius, too. He can see about a magical way to remove it, check his books for a solution. Perhaps there’s a spell he can use.” His eyes met Merlin’s again, and he frowned. “I’m sorry, Merlin,” he added. “I don’t think we can get it off here. But I promise you we will try everything in our power when we’re back in Camelot. Is it hurting you right now?”

Merlin stared at him, his vision growing blurry.

“It seemed like it was hurting you, when we were fighting,” Arthur went on. “You were resisting it, weren’t you? Resisting your master’s orders? I’m sure we wouldn’t have stood a chance had you wielded your powers like Mordred did, and I can only thank you. I know you took a great risk, helping us, and I—” Abruptly, he stopped speaking, taking in Merlin’s face. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“You’re freeing us?” Merlin whispered. He was shaking all over now, and couldn’t stop.

Arthur’s frown deepened. “Yes. Why wouldn’t we?” 

Merlin’s eyes strayed to the knight’s cape, lingering on the dragon there, though he could hardly make out the shape with the tears welling in his eyes.

Arthur followed his gaze, then grimaced again. “Oh,” he said. “Oh. That is—no. We don’t hunt sorcerers anymore, in Camelot. Not since my sister—that is, not since my father—since I—” He shook his head. “The laws have changed, is the important thing.” He reached out to pick up the ring, then leaned in, smiling crookedly—that same crooked smile he had offered Merlin just this morning, in the gloom of dawn. “You’re free,” he said, pressing the ring into Merlin’s hand. “Both of you. Once we get that collar off, you can go home, or stay in Camelot, or—”

A sob escaped Merlin’s mouth then, cutting Arthur off. Quickly, Merlin pressed his free hand over his mouth, but another sob had already made it past his fingers. He was still shaking all over, and couldn’t stop shaking, his fingers flexing and flexing around the ring.

Arthur was starting to look a little overwhelmed. “Merlin—”

But Merlin had slipped off the chair after all, his knees hitting the ground at Arthur’s feet. “Thank you,” he choked out. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”

“Gods, no. Please, there’s no need—” Arthur started again.

But Merlin shook his head, bowing low and thanking him again before pushing to his feet. Rubbing at his eyes, he sought out Mordred, who was standing only a few feet away, staring, and Merlin let out another sob when he stumbled towards him and pulled him in his arms. “Did you hear that?” he choked out. “Did you hear, Mordred? We’re free. We’re free.”

“Yes,” Mordred whispered, finding his voice, which made Merlin sob all the harder, squeezing the boy so fiercely he eventually squirmed from his grasp.

Still crying, Merlin looked back at the round table, finding Arthur looking back at him. Light crept through the ruined roof, touching his hair and shoulders until he looked like the answer to every unspoken prayer Merlin had ever uttered in the dark, bright and golden and true.

And Merlin knew, irrevocably, that wherever Arthur led, he would follow.