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Chapter Text

Chapter 1

“A cockatrice? ” 

“Aye, your majesty, as big as my house and ugly as my nan! It swept through our fields and trampled our crops. When it turned its gaze on my sweet Inge, it turned her very flesh to stone!”

A fearful murmur swept through the court at the farmer’s cry, faces turning pale and mouths hidden behind hands. 

Arthur, sat on his throne for nearly three hours until that point, beseeching his people of their woes, had his mouth twisted in a frown.

“And it had the head of a rooster?” The King asked in a bewildered tone. 

Gaius’ voice rang out from the crowd, “Yes, sire. Though this beast is no common farm animal. The cockatrice is quite dangerous. It can kill a human with a mere look, and dispatching of one is quite the task indeed. Although, I was of the belief that the last of the cockatrice had been hunted to extinction during the Great Purge. Encountering one is exceedingly rare.”

The physician leveled his stare on the farmer, who was still shaking, having dropped to his knees in apparent fear onto the cold stone of the Great Hall’s floor. 

“I swear it to you, my lord,” The man clasped his hands in front of him with great fervor, “People have begun to flee the village, as the beast attacks us every night!”

Arthur held up one hand, face set in a distinct look of determination that Merlin knew all too well. 

“Fear not, for you are a citizen of Camelot, and as such, should never be required to live in fear of sorcery and its ilk. I myself will lead a hunting party to your village and dispatch of the beast.”

Merlin let out a barely audible sigh. If there are things in the world that can be truly certain and uncontested, they are that the sky is blue and that Arthur Pendragon will always find a new and exciting way to get himself killed. 

The court was dismissed promptly after Arthur’s declaration and Merlin fell in step behind Gaius as he made his way back to the physician’s quarters. 

“Do you think it’s really a cockatrice?” Merlin asked as the heavy, wooden door swung shut behind him, “That man’s story wasn’t exactly the most coherent, and you said yourself that they should be extinct.” 

Gaius considered his question as he slowly lowered himself into a chair, his old bones creaking slightly on the descent. Gaius moved slower these days, Merlin had noticed. Every movement effortful and heaving. The ancient nature of his mentor’s brow further creased with each passing season. 

“Cockatrice are, by their birth, rare to begin with. The circumstances for their creation are very specific, and often accidental. Though, I suppose it is always possible some slipped through the cracks. You should know better than anyone that not every magical creature hunted by the purge truly met its end,” Gaius leveled Merlin with a knowing and disapproving look. 

Merlin gave a small huff in return. The last time he had spoken with Kilgharrah had been several months prior, when he had told Merlin to end Mordred’s life, just before the Disr had nearly done it themselves. Though, the young knight had seemingly only risen in Arthur’s esteem because of it. Mordred now accompanied the King on all of his patrols, and the other knights had firmly welcomed the boy as one of their own. 

Through it all, the only thing that Merlin could think about was the dark relief he had felt when the Disr’s magic had pierced Mordred’s torso. 

There was a moment, when Merlin had laid his hands on Mordred’s wound as Arthur cradled the boy’s head, when he had thought himself lucky. Lucky for not having to do the deed himself, let the boy die at the hands of another, of a colder and clearer enemy than he. Lucky that he got to continue being a coward. 

“Merlin?”

Gaius’ gentle voice shook Merlin from his thoughts.

“Are you alright, my boy? I fear these days you have become,” the old man paused, “quiet.”

Merlin blinked, shook his head, and adopted a smile, one both rusty from disuse and strained from memory. 

“And what of the farmer’s wife, who was turned to stone? Or any of the other victims. Is there a way to undo the cockatrice’s stare?  

Gaius accepted the change in topic with practiced grace, “Unfortunately not. To be turned to stone is to be turned into something without life, without soul. There is no coming back from that I’m afraid. Which is all the more reason for you to exercise extreme caution on this quest, Merlin. And to advise Arthur to do the same.”

“Don’t worry,  I’m sure you’ll get to tell him yourself in just a few seconds.” 

“Oh?”

With that, the chamber door swung open, its hinges creaking as the King strode into the room. 

“Gaius, I beseech you to tell me all you know about this cockatrice and how I will go about vanquishing it.” 

Gaius and Merlin shared a look that Arthur took no notice of. 

The old man rose from his chair, waving Merlin off when he moved to help him up. He made his way to a bookshelf filled with ancient tomes, and retrieved one bound in dark leather. 

Gaius righted his glasses where they sat on his face and began to skim through the pages.

“Be warned, sire,” he said, “the cockatrice can kill with a mere look, and cannot be bested with fighting skill alone.”

Arthur’s shoulders slightly drooped at that, like a young boy being told he couldn’t go out and play. Merlin could tell that Arthur had been a little restless as of late. The encounter with the Disr had shook something within him. Yet, in the months since, Camelot had appeared to be at absolute peace. No signs of bandits at the border, no magical assailants to be dealt with. Just litigation on taxes and long hours spent in the throne room. Arthur was itching to hack away at something, Merlin thought, and smiled to himself as he half-listened to the rest of Gaius’ lecture. 

“A weasel? ” 

Arthur’s face had that contorted look on it again, one that was certainly not very kingly, though Arthur seeme to don it often. 

Gaius nodded, “Yes, sire. It is said that a weasel is one of the few animals that is not affected by the cockatrice’s gaze, and is in fact its natural predator.” 

Arthur maintained his pout.

“So, I have to catch a weasel and then set it loose on a magical beast?” 

“Indeed, sire.”

The king rolled his eyes, “Very well. Merlin, come with me, we need to prepare to set out at first light.” 

“Sire.” 

Gaius, eyebrow raised in warning, tried to catch Merlin’s gaze as he left the chamber, but Merlin made no move to answer it. 

—

That night, as Merlin had finished readying Arthur’s bed, the king seemed in a particularly chatty mood. 

“Honestly, a rooster head. Have you ever heard of anything so absurd, Merlin?” Arthur had said as he kicked off his boots.. 

“No, sire,” Merlin answered rotely. He had begun to think of Mordred again, and of the prophecy that often circled his mind as he tried to sleep every night. As his hands mechanically straightened sheets and fluffed pillows, he thought of the way Mordred had looked at him as he laid dying. That…knowing. Not quite acceptance, not quite surprise. He had expected to die there, Merlin had realized. Expected that Merlin would have let him die. And he had, in truth. He had made his decision, even if the Disr had a different fate in mind. It seemed that there was nothing, absolutely goddamned nothing, he could do to secure Arthur’s life. 

It was during this thought that something came whizzing towards Merlin’s head.

Merlin dodged the object, nearly a decade of instinct kicking in, as Arthur’s boot made contact with the wall behind his head. 

The two men just looked at each other for a moment of silence. 

“What was that for?” Merlin asked at the same time Arthur said, “How on earth did you dodge that?”

Another startled silence followed before Arthur’s face broke out in a grin and Merlin gave a tired smile in return. 

“Seriously though, Merlin” Arthur said through his amusement, “Are you ill or something? You’re distracted.” 

It was blunt, seemingly utilitarian if one did not notice the way Arthur’s eyes were tinted with worry and how his posture tilted to one side, uncertain. 

Merlin gave the pillow in his hands one final fluff before turning away from the bed, “I’m just so very enthralled with making your bed every night, sire. Perhaps you should try it yourself sometime.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes good naturedly, more comfortable now with Merlin’s familiar rebuttals. 

“But why deprive you of your favorite pastime? Be reasonable.”

Merlin huffed, and went to finish picking up the clothes Arthur had left scattered around the floor. 

“Should be fairly simple, then, this cockatrice,” Arthur said, “Though honestly, a weasel. ”

Merlin nodded, and the two discussed the hunting party’s plans for the following day. 

The village they would seek was about two day’s ride, close to the border. The weasel would, theoretically, be obtained at some point along the way. 

“I’m thinking of taking Mordred,” Arthur said, sprawled out on his bed as Merlin had moved to sit in the chair at Arthur’s desk. 

Merlin froze. He had not had to be around the young knight since the Disr. 

“Do you believe that wise, sire?”

Arthur considered his servant for a long moment.

Finally, he said, “I have thought about it at length, Merlin, but I cannot understand your dislike for the boy.”  

“It is not a dislike, Arthur-” 

“Then what is it?” Arthur sat up, “You do not trust him, that is certain. I’ve never seen you speak to someone as coldly as you do him. You question my judgment of his abilities, you-”

“He is young, has trained for not even a year’s time,” Merlin interjected. His arms had come up to cross in front of him, and he avoided Arthur’s gaze.

“You seemed to have no problem with lack of official training when it came to Gwaine. Or with Lancelot.”

Simultaneously as Arthur spoke, he seemed to regret it.

“I’m,” he floundered, “I’m sorry Merlin.”

“Why are you apologizing to me?” Merlin let out a heavy sigh, and felt an aching tiredness seep into his bones. 

Arthur made to speak again, eyes softer now, but Merlin interrupted. 

“I cannot speak on these things, sire.” Merlin’s voice had taken on a shallow and mechanical quality again, “I am just a servant. I simply am cautious of Mordred’s loyalties.”

Arthur had stood by the end of Merlin’s sentence. Eyes beseeching, one hand raised ever so slightly from his side, like he would make some move to reach out for Merlin. 

“But why ?”

For one traitorous moment, Merlin thought about just telling him. If not about his magic, then about the prophecy. Then Arthur would see, would understand what Merlin was trying to do, what he should have done years ago. When they were both so much younger, still unused to each other’s company. When a captive dragon had told him to let a child die by the pyre. 

But, Merlin was, after all, a coward. And so he said nothing. Simply shook his head and stepped back from Arthur’s gaze. He wished Arthur a good night, and left the King still standing at the edge of his bed, eyes following Merlin as he retreated from the room. 

As Merlin lay in bed that night, thin straw mattress poking at his ribs, the scene of Mordred laid dying from the Disr’s attack kept flashing in his mind. The way his already pale skin sunk and lost its pallor, the slick of wet blood between his fingers. He thought of Arthur’s hand clasping over the boy's heart, and suddenly it was Arthur who lay dying in his arms. Around them lay the gray waste of a battlefield as Merlin pressed his hand into a large, tearing wound on Arthur’s side. 

Merlin choked, salt spilling down his face and mixing with the blood all around him. He looked up to Arthur’s face and was met with the glassy eyes of a corpse, his blue lips forming around a word, around a name. 

Merlin shot up in bed, panting as sweat coated the back of his neck. 

That hadn’t felt like a dream, he thought. That had felt like a vision, an assurance, a damnation. 

The sorcerer let his head fall into his hands where he sat hunched over on the bed, his breathing not yet calmed down. 

It was nearly dawn, he realized. He’d have to ready himself soon enough. Face Arthur’s likely renewed scrutiny, as well as the beast that lay before them.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

That next morning they set out before the dew had even left the grass. 

The colder months had been descending upon Camelot, and as Arthur and his knights mounted horseback and left the citadel’s walls, their breath could be seen crystallizing in the air all around them. 

Merlin rode near the front with Arthur, who had been unsubtly sneaking vague glances at him all morning. 

The knights were in good spirits. The looming danger of the cockatrice’s gaze had apparently left them unfazed, passing jokes between each other as the clear trodden paths that led from Camelot narrowed and became overrun with growth. 

“You ever caught a weasel then, Mordred?” Elyan asked, leaning casually on his saddle, and swatting Percival’s hand away as he tried to swipe his water flask from his side.

The young knight blinked his large eyes owlishly. While he had come to expect the other knights’ teasing, he had not yet found himself comfortable within the rhythm of their banter. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Mordred replied.

“Don’t think so?” Gwaine quipped, “How does a man not know if he has caught a weasel or not?”

“Perhaps he had caught it in his sleep,” Percival said.

The knights laughed and Mordred’s features took on a bashful expression, though he smiled along with them. The boy’s eyes then raised and met Merlin’s, still riding towards the head of the party. Mordred smiled again, innocent, and Merlin could not understand why. He turned back toward the forest road ahead. 

“Don’t worry Mordred,” Arthur called, “I’m sure Merlin here will have our weasel catching problem handled.” 

The king’s tone was playful and he looked to Merlin in expectation of the servant;s usual retort. Merlin, however, did not respond, and had taken to watching the treeline intensely. 

There was a slightly awkward laugh from one of the knights, and the conversation slowly picked back up behind him, though Merlin took no real notice.

There was something in the woods, he was sure of it. It wasn’t an artifact of sight or sound, moreso a feeling. One that dug into his skin and scraped at his magic. Merlin’s horse slowed slightly as he tried to reach out to the feeling, figure out where it was coming from. However, the more he searched the more it felt like it wasn’t coming from anywhere , instead draping the entirety of the landscape in its sticky power. Soaking the roots of the trees, glancing off the eye whites of the deer, fusing itself to the bedrock. 

They had entered something’s territory, Merlin realized. They were nowhere near where the cockatrice had been sighted, and surely that sort of beast could not conjure a power of this magnitude. 

“You alright there, Merls?” Gwaine’s voice sounded from beside him. 

Merlin shook himself from his concentration and realized he had fallen all the way to the back of the riding party, with the rest of the knights some feet ahead and only Gwaine at his side. 

“I’m fine, Gwaine,” Merlin said, voice still hazy around the edges as he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. 

Gwaine’s handsome face morphed into a frown, “I mean no offense, you know that, but I find that a little hard to believe.”

Merlin shrugged, “I don’t know what to tell you,” he said, and it was true. The presence in the forest didn’t feel exactly malicious, but it did unnerve him. The other knights, and even Arthur, had come to trust his “funny feelings” to a certain degree, but Merlin had no words to put to the thing out there amongst the trees. 

Gwaine, though not fully losing his concerned expression, lightly nudged Merlin’s side and said, “If it’s the weasel hunt you’re worried about, don’t you worry, I will gladly be your gallant weasel-catching hero.” 

He winked as Merlin let out a small laugh, which seemed to appease something within Gwaine. For the rest of the day’s ride, the two men rode together, Gwaine keeping up a fairly steady monologue the entire time. Merlin let out a few jabs and comments here and there, though half of his attention remained on the forest around them. 

—

Sometime, so early in the morning that it was still pitch dark outside, Merlin was awoken by a loud banging sound and the hushing of whispered voices.

They had set up camp in a small clearing. The presence in the forest had receded somewhat, and Merlin had gone to sleep with at least some assurance that they had begun to move out of the thing’s territory. 

“Your footsteps are too loud, Percy!” What sounded like Gwaine’s voice whisper-shouted from somewhere near the edge of camp. 

“It’s not my fault I- there!” the knight responded before the sound of another thud and the rustling of brush reached Merlin’s ears.

The rest of the knights, including Arthur, were already awake, Merlin noticed, though in varying states of awareness.

“What in God’s name is going on,” Came Arthur’s groggy voice.

“Gwaine said he spotted a weasel in camp, sire,” Said Leon, eyes glancing over the dark foliage, “It would certainly be lucky if we could catch one now.”

That seemed to shake Arthur from sleep’s stupor, and he rose quietly from his bedroll, adopting the stance he usually had while hunting. 

All at the camp was silent for a moment, before a scurrying could be heard coming from near the horses.

Arthur held out one hand to the other knights, and began to slowly move towards the sound. His hand instinctively rested on the pommel of his sword, though he removed it quickly, as if he had only just remembered they needed the creature alive. 

The king finally reached the small circle of horses and took one last step, heavy boot crunching the dead leaves under it. That was apparently enough sound to alert the animal, because Merlin saw the thing take off like a flash of light, a small, dark mass rocketing away from Arthur’s reach and bounding somewhere between the supplies piled around the camp.

Merlin watched, still half-asleep, as the famed knights of the round table tripped and jumped and ran after the weasel, trying to head it off at every turn and corral it into their grasp. At some point, Elyan tripped over his own feet, crashing into Gwaine. The two would have fallen right on the animal if it hadn’t scampered off right at that moment. The weasel, scared by its near brush with Gwaine’s backside, didn’t notice that it had run right into the hands of another knight. With great speed, Mordred reached down and grasped the creature with both hands. The weasel wiggled and squirmed, and Mordred held it out and away from himself like one might a recently caught fish. 

The rest of the knights, panting from exertion, stared in awe at the caught creature. 

The silence broke when Arthur gave Mordred a hearty pat on the back and praised the boy for his catch. The others followed suit, someone reaching out to ruffle Mordred’s hair as he grinned. A mixture of bashfulness and pride forming on his features. Once more, Mordred looked to Merlin. Was he searching for praise? Merlin couldn’t understand it. He had made his distaste clear to the boy, and yet his eyes always sought his own, a child leering for approval. 

Merlin simply went to the horses to retrieve the small cage they had brought, crafted from woven reeds. He held it out as Mordred carefully placed the animal inside, his smile having turned somewhat brittle at the edges. 

The sky had begun to take on the hues of dawn, and the knights, having been so roused by their near-failure to capture a small animal, decided to start their day early. After a short breakfast prepared by Merlin, the group mounted their horses, and began their final stretch to find the cockatrice, the weasel’s cage sat perched atop Mordred’s lap.

—

They heard the beast before they saw it. A shrill screech echoed through the evening air, accompanied by the sounds of panicked screams.

Arthur quickly dismounted from his horse, feet moving before they even hit the ground. The knights, with Merlin in tow, quickly followed. 

The small village at the end of their journey had been blanketed with a thin layer of frost, small houses scattered around a few fields. As they approached, a young woman came running out of a nearby house.

“Please! You have to help us, that horrible beast has returned!”

Arthur opened his mouth to respond but another loud shriek pierced the air. The woman’s face went pale and she broke into a sprint towards the treeline. 

“Alright men,” The king said, “We shall do this as we have discussed. I shall lure the creature out into the open and then young Mordred here will release the, well…” 

“The weasel, sire?” Gwaine said cheerfully.

Arthur ran a hand down his face, “Yes, the weasel. And remember that the cockatrice can kill with merely a look, use your shields to conceal both yourself and your sight.” 

With the plan set, the knights broke off into pairs, Gwaine and Percival rounding the western side of the village, while Leon and Elyan flanked from the East. 

Merlin considered the heavy shield in his hands as he slowly made his way to the open door of the house the woman had run from. He was technically supposed to stay behind with horses, but when had he ever once done that? 

The inside of the house was warmed from a still lit fire. He used the wall near the window to brace against as he leaned his back on it. He retrieved the small mirror from his pocket that Gaius had provided the knights with, one of the only ways to safely observe a cockatrice without meeting a stony end. He held it up in front of the window, tilting it to get a better angle on the scene outside. 

The village appeared, at first glance, to have been deserted. Vaguely he could hear the clanking of metal shields scraped along the earth, and the metallic footsteps of the knights somewhere in the background. Other than that, the only sounds were the gushing of wind and the creaking of a wooden door, having been thrown open and abandoned by its inhabitants. 

Emrys

Merlin nearly dropped the hand mirror in surprise. He blinked, reaching out his magic to try and find the source of the voice. It didn’t feel like the thing in the forest, but it was so brief in his mind that it was hard to tell. His concentration was broken by the sound of a woman’s scream. 

He held the mirror up again and saw movement in the house across from the one he was hiding in. A shutter flapped, and Merlin saw a woman burst through the door, fear lacing her expression. She made it a few steps outside, one hand grasping out in front of her in an attempt to flee whatever it was that was pursuing her. Then, all at once, she simply stopped. There was no jolt of movement that is usually found when someone is stopped in their tracks, no exhale from where the woman was taking gasping breaths. Her legs froze to the spot, her expression of terror solidifying as the creep of stone overtook her body. Even the hairs frizzing on the side of her head ceased all movement in the cold wind. From behind her, something around the size of a large dog darted out, there and gone. 

Merlin cursed, sinking down to the floor and out of the thing’s potential gaze. 

“Arthur!” A voice called out, and Merlin’s stomach sank. He scrambled off of the floor and made towards the exit before he heard his king’s familiar, annoyed tone ring out.

“I saw it, I saw it. Damn thing got away.” 

“Be careful sire,” That sounded like Leon, “I think I saw it go your way just now.”

“Didn’t that farmer say it was the size of a house?” That was likely Gwaine, “Thing just looks like a really ugly chicken.” 

“Well, I just saw it turn a man to stone so- there!” 

There was the sound of scraping metal once more and Merlin ran from the house, pressing his back against a tall stone wall that concealed the center of the village. Across the way he locked eyes with Percival, who silently pointed somewhere past the wall. 

Merlin held out his mirror and saw the cockatrice slithering around an abandoned food stall.

The thing looked the way Gaius had described it, if not for its stunted size. It didn’t seem to take any interest in the scattered food around the square, though it picked its rooster-like head into baskets and crates and the like. It was almost as if it was looking for something.

Then, there was a flash of red just peering into frame. Merlin tilted the mirror and caught sight of Arthur, face set in determination, edging his way out from behind a building. He set his shield in front of him and crouched on the ground. 

There was the slightest crunch of gravel from beneath Arthur’s boots, and that was enough for the beast’s head to whip up from where it was inspecting a turned over cart. It tilted its fowlish neck as it slowly approached Arthur, the reptilian fringes on the side of its face puffing up as a hiss was let out from its sharp beak. Its pace quickened, and looked as if it was about the charge at the king’s shield.

“Now, Mordred!” He said.

From behind another stall, Mordred, who Merlin had not even noticed, placed down the cage and released the weasel from inside. 

The small creature, which Merlin had privately found very cute, let out a growl an animal of its magnitude should not have been able to make. The cockatrice froze in its place, and this second of hesitation was all it took for the weasel to descend onto the thing's neck, unhinging its jaw and clamping its teeth straight into the flesh of the magical beast. 

The cockatrice let out a scream of pain, lashing its serpentine tail in all directions, but the weasel could not be shaken loose. 

In grim fascination, the knights of the round table watched as the weasel ravaged the cockatrice’s sides with its small paws. Dark, pitch-like blood soaking the flagstones of the village square.

After some time, the beast’s thrashings stopped, and the weasel retreated from its prey. 

Slowly, the knights approached the carcass, Gwaine hesitantly reached out one foot and kicked the thing in the side. It did not stir.

“The natural predator of the cockatrice,” Arthur echoed, “A weasel.” 

A relieved jolt of laughter went through the group.

Merlin, however, stood back from the celebration, his tense expression not yet having left his face. 

“Arthur, get away from it,” He said, voice low and urgent.

Arthur gave his servant a confused, and yet simultaneously condescending look.

“Quit your worrying Merlin, the beast is dead, it can’t hurt anyone now.”

Except that Merling hadn’t felt it die. The cockatrice was a creature born from magic, its life force, its essence fed into the very magic that sang in Merlin’s veins, that whispered at the back of his mind and brushed along his skin. If the beast had been dead, Merlin would have felt that little part of the universe blink out, a star going dark. But he hadn’t . Something had happened, its life force had wavered in a way Merlin had never felt before, but it was like something had tugged it back down into the dead thing’s body. 

“Arthur,” Merlin warned again, and something in the severity of his tone caused Arthur to back up a step, forgetting himself. 

The king was preparing to say something in response just as a low hissing sound echoed from the body of the cockatrice. It wasn’t the same as the call the creature had made itself, bird-like and predatory. Something was wrong, and the knights had finally noticed it as well.

The cockatrice’s corpse began to stir, the wound on its neck undulating like some great force was pushing at it from beneath its flesh. The thing’s body thrashed from side to side, and green light began seeping out of its wounds, so bright it caused the surrounding knights to have to shield their eyes. 

With one lurching gasp, the creature rose on two legs, bones straightening out, the sound of cartilage scraping together audible to the ear. 

“Conceal yourselves!” Arthur yelled out and dove behind his shield. 

Merlin felt an arm hook around his waist and he was pulled down and against Gwaine’s chest as the knight similarly threw his shield up behind him. It was only then that Merlin realized he had left his only source of protection from the cockatrice’s gaze back in the abandoned house. 

“Goddamnit,” Gwaine muttered and Merlin enthusiastically shared the sentiment. 

Out of the corner of his eye, the servant saw the weasel scampering off into a nearby field. Apparently the thing had decided to cut its losses and Merlin, frankly, couldn’t blame it. 

Merlin heard someone shout, “What now?” though it was hard to make out over the cockatrice’s renewed screeching. 

Thankfully, the monster made that decision for them, as it took off into a sprint towards the treeline, leaving the knights alone in the village square. 

Slowly, they raised themselves up from behind the protection of their shields. 

“It left?” Elyan said. 

“For now,” Arthur said grimly, “But we have not yet bested it. It shall be back, and this village will not be safe until we see the creature slain.”

“Yes, but why didn’t it die? Was Gaius wrong?” Gwaine asked. 

“I think it did die,” Merlin said, “But something brought it back.” 

The knights stood silently as the thought of an unkillable monster beared down upon them. 

“Is-is it gone,” A shaky voice called out from behind.  

Merlin turned and saw an old man peering out from behind the door of a house. Around them, other villagers, those who had not fled or been turned to stone, began to filter out of their hiding places. 

Arthur shook himself from his uncertainty and raised his head, assuming the air of the King of Camelot, “The beast has fled, but it still lives.”

The gathered crowd, whose faces had been approaching the edge of hope, had their expressions darken and turn gim. 

Arthur began what Merlin was sure was a very rousing speech of bravery and assurances, but Merlin’s attention kept being dragged along by a faint sound playing in the back of his mind. 

Emrys

That voice again. Closer now, more distinct.

Emrys

Merlin scoured the crowd, looking for anyone out of place. The voice sounded young, lilting at the edges. 

Emrys

Finally he saw her. A young girl, no older than ten, standing alone in the crowd. The others had their attention rapt by their king’s words, but this girl was staring straight at Merlin. 

Emrys, she said, I know where the anchor is

Merlin’s brow furrowed. 

“Merlin.” 

The servant startled, breaking eye contact with the girl. He turned to see Arthur staring at him with some concern. 

“Did you hear what I said? We are going to stay in the village tonight, keep watch. Hopefully, we shall come up with some way to put the beast down for good by the time it returns.”

“Of course, sire,” Merlin said, distracted. This seemed to only complicate Arthur’s expression further. They were alone then, Merlin distantly noticed, the other knights and villagers had all retreated back somewhere beyond the wall of the square.

“Merlin,” the king said, “How did you know the cockatrice had not died?”

There was no accusation in Arthur’s tone, and yet Merlin still felt the blood in his veins run cold. 

“I…” He searched for an excuse, “I thought I saw it moving.”

This was usually the part where Arthur made some lightly teasing comment about Merlin’s “funny feelings” and yet none came. He just nodded, the last slivers of sunlight left in the sky glancing off his golden hair. 

Merlin saw something harden within Arthur then, close itself off, and Merlin felt a sensation far too close to despair clutching at his heart. 

“You should get some sleep,” was all the king said before turning on his heel and leaving Merlin standing alone in the village square. 

Merlin looked to the dark blood still staining the ground where the cockatrice had been mauled. 

Emrys

Breathing out a sharp, frustrated breath, Merlin turned to see the girl standing in the darkening shadow between two houses. She looked around once, like she was checking for onlookers, before beckoning Merlin to follow her. After giving the area a once-over himself, Merlin complied.

The girl ducked past snow covered troughs and around abandoned carts, speeding up as soon as she was sure Merlin had followed. The two wove their way to the edge of the village, where what looked like an old monastery sat. It was strange. Seeing a church in a small village like this. Its stones were older than all of the buildings around it, and the pews within showed no sign of recent use. 

Trodding her way to the first row of benches, the girl sat herself down and beckoned Merlin over to sit next to her. 

Sitting on the creaking wooden bench, Merlin looked up at the strange idol at the front of the church. The figure’s face was completely featureless, and its outward turned palms had been smoothed through years of wind and dust. 

“What is this place?” Merlin asked the girl. 

She laughed in response, like Merlin had said something enormously funny.

“You are different than I thought, Emrys. Silly. Though, it is as Kaleach said, you do not like to use your heart’s voice.”

“I’m sorry?”

The girl pointed to her head, “When I called out to you, I could feel that you did not like the way I spoke. You like to speak into the air, like this,” she moved her hand to point at her mouth. 

Merlin turned back to the idol, “It is not safe to use any kind of magic around knights of Camelot, have you not been taught that?”

The girl nodded enthusiastically, “Kaleach taught me many things. She is a cursebreaker, and very, very powerful.” 

Merlin couldn’t help but smile at the adoration in the girl’s voice, the kind that only small children can muster.

“Why did you call out to me?” He asked. 

She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, where a long thread had come loose, “I know how to get rid of the weird chicken,” she said. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

“You are not a Druid,” Merlin said, although it was likely not the most important thing at the moment.

The young girl looked up from the loose thread on her sleeve, which had ridden up to reveal a bare wrist, devoid of runic marking. 

She shook her head softly, “No. Kaleach was. And she taught me many of their ways. She said that one day I should go and live with them, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay with her,” the girl said, her voice becoming sad and distant.

“And Kaleach taught you how to defeat the cockatrice?” Merlin inquired, trying to keep his tone warm.

“No,” she replied, “The weasel should have worked. You did try the weasel didn’t you?”

Merlin nodded.

Making a small humming sound, the girl held a hand up to her chin like she was some ancient scholar, “Then Kaleach was right. That mean man did put a curse on the chicken. He was a beastmaster, you know, and very rude. He was jealous of Kaleach’s power, that he was.” 

The girl said all this with arms petulantly crossed, looking to Merlin as if he would understand who this man was. 

“This beastmaster,” Merlin started, “It was he who created the cockatrice?”

With a great eye roll, the girl groaned and said, “Of course not. He wasn’t that powerful,” she sniffed, “He caught it and then placed a curse of loyalty upon it. He wanted to be its master, and wanted the chicken to do his bidding. Did you know, he even commanded it to steal from Kaleach?”

Merlin went to reply, as the girl had seemingly paused for audience interaction, but she barreled on, “It was because he was so jealous, you see. Kaleach had an amulet of great power, and the mean man wanted it for himself. But…” She trailed off, her words becoming slow and hushed, “That man is gone now. And so is Kaleach. Her amulet’s gone too. I saw it turn to ash before she…”

Her eyes began to water, though her face turned red with the will to keep her tears from falling.

Merlin placed a gentle hand on the girl’s arm and she looked up at him with glassy eyes.

“I am sorry,” he said softly, “You have been very brave, haven’t you?”

The girl’s eyes were wide with awe. She gave one determined nod and swiped an arm across her eyes.

“Thank you, Emrys,” she said.

At the name, Merlin’s hand flinched back on instinct, causing the young girl to recede back into herself.

“And the monster,” she stuttered, “The monster lived, but the beastmaster’s curse of loyalty was very strong. It didn’t even break when he died because he attached it not to himself, but to an anchor. So it is still looking in the village for the amulet. That’s why it keeps coming back, and why it cannot die. To do so would be to go against its master’s wishes.”

“And you know where the anchor is?”

The girl nodded enthusiastically, jumping to her feet from the pew, “Yes! Kaleach showed me. It’s deep in the forest to the north. It’s how you’ll break the curse, Emrys- er, I mean…” She looked at him with uncertainty.

“Just Merlin is fine,” He smiled, “‘Emrys’ feels too formal, don’t you think?”

She giggled in response before pulling Merlin to his feet, nearly pushing him back out of the church, “If we destroy the anchor, we can end the weird chicken’s curse! You won’t even need to kill it then, since it won’t have any need to come to the village anymore.”

As they approached the great, wooden doors at the exit of the building, Merlin gently pulled himself from the girl’s grasp before saying, “Wait, it is too dangerous for you to go walking around right now.” 

At the girl’s face of indignation, Merlin held up a placating hand.

“Why don’t you tell me where the anchor is, and I’ll go. You’ve already done more than enough to help just by telling me all of this.”

The girl sighed, “Fine. But Kaleach said that you need to use a specific spell to destroy the anchor. Here,” she fished out a crumpled sheet of paper from her patchwork pockets, “This is from her book. I don’t know where the rest of it is.”

She held out the paper to Merlin, but slowly, like she was hesitant to part with it. Merlin took it and carefully folded it into his own pocket, and promised the girl its safe return 

As he left the monastery and stepped back out into the chilled, evening air, he turned back to the girl and said, “Thank you Isadora.”

The girl smiled back and waved as he started towards the north woods. Merlin was so focused on parsing through the scrawled handwriting on the piece of paper, that he did not even stop to wonder how he had known her name.

—

Merlin wondered if Arthur had noticed his absence. It was a ridiculous thing to wonder about, he decided, but it didn’t stop him from thinking about the king as he walked from the church straight to the part of the forest the note described. 

There had been times, though they had not been often, when Arthur had regarded Merlin like he was something to be figured out. He’d voiced as much several times over the near decade they’d known each other. Played off as jokes, most often. Recently, though, as Merlin’s demeanor had sombered with the looming threat of prophecy, weighed down with the knowledge of all he had done and all he would do, Arthur, himself having matured, began to be almost soft with Merlin. Soft as he was with anything, he supposed. Years of tenuous non-friendship and suddenly Arthur looked to Merlin as if he meant something, not out of novelty but as a fact. And it scared Merlin senseless. 

It wasn’t as if he never took issue with the distance Arthur used to keep between them, and when he was younger he had often longed for the day when he could confide in anyone about his magic, about himself in any regard that actually mattered. Yet, every step that Arthur made towards him now only made Merlin feel like a cornered animal. He’d kept his secret for too long, done too many things so disparate from how he knew Arthur had come to view him. If Arthur got a good look at him, really looked, Merlin had no doubt he’d-

The clearing in the forest opened up before him. In the center of a grove of willowy trees stood a small stone stele. Engraved upon it was the image of some ambiguous magical beast, surrounded by beams of light. There was a barely noticeable swatch of dark red at the top of the stone, sunken into the divots of the rock, like someone had brushed their bloodied thumb across it. Merlin shook himself from his thoughts and approached the anchor.

The note had helpfully outlined the steps he had to take to properly destroy the anchor, it seems Kaleach had full intention of doing the deed herself. Scrawled away in the margins of the yellowed paper were small notes describing her annoyance with the beastmaster, calling him an assortment of colorful names that Merlin would have to add to his repertoire. 

The spell itself was a fairly simple one, and one that Merlin had used, to a less specific degree, himself. It was similar to one that might be used to remove a spirit from possessing an inanimate host, which Merlin unfortunately had to use on a rather upsetting occasion in which one of the kitchen girl’s dolls had begun speaking to her at night. 

Just as Merlin opened up his mouth to speak the incantation aloud, he heard the distinctive sound of rustling leaves behind him. 

He whipped around, fearing the cockatrice had found the grove, or worse, Arthur. 

Instead he was met with the shadowed form of Mordred as he stepped hesitantly out of the line of trees. 

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asked, voice hard. 

Mordred’s mumbled voice did not match the way his bright eyes bored holes into Merlin.

“I saw you leave the village. Does this have to do with the cockatrice?” He motioned at the stele.

Merlin turned away from him, “Go back to the other knights, Mordred,” he said, “They’ll sooner notice your absence than mine.”

He heard the sound of footsteps approaching behind him.

“I felt the presence of another of our kind in the village. Did that have something to do with it?”

Merlin bristled at the phrasing of “our kind” and let out a harsh breath, “Have you listened to a word I’ve said? You’re not needed here, return to the village.”

There was a silence as Merlin refocused on the spell. Though he heard no footsteps, he had half a mind to think Mordred had left. The quiet was broken when the knight’s sullen voice came from behind him. 

“Why do you despise me Emrys?”

Merlin closed his eyes as a crease formed between his brows. 

At his lack of response, Mordred continued, “I understand why you might fear me, fear my future. The druids all did,” his voice was waxy around the edges, emotion coloring mentions of the past. He had stepped around Merlin, as if trying to force him to look at the young knight, “But what have I ever shown you to make you hate me?”

“That’s enough Mordred,” Merlin replied, tucking the note back away into his pocket, “I will not speak of this with you.”

“But why ,” he pleaded, “I have done everything I could to make you trust me, to show you that I am not simply what a prophecy has set out for me. I thought perhaps you could sympathize with that.”

The boy’s eyes shone with frustration, as well as a deeper emotion that Merlin could not quite place. 

“You are a knighted servant of King Arthur. Isn’t that enough?” Merlin said, though he doubted his own words even as he spoke them. 

Mordred averted his eyes, “I am happy that the King can find it within himself to favor me. I truly do respect him as a ruler, though he is not mine.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I will serve Arthur, as he is the once and future King, but I cannot consider him my ruler.”

Merlin’s eyes narrowed and he scoffed, “And this is somehow supposed to make me trust you more?”

Mordred looked besieged. Frustrated in the way a child devoid of the faculties for self-expression would be. His hands grabbed at nothing at his sides, his chainmail clinking together where he stood. 

“You don’t understand,” he said, though it sounded as if he were speaking a realization into the air rather than addressing Merlin himself, “Oh Gods, you don’t understand. You cannot even consider -” he cut himself off, eyes raising helplessly to the dark sky above. 

An unsettled feeling wedged its way into Merlin’s bones, and he regarded Mordred more closely. If he were being truthful, Merlin would admit that he knew that Mordred bore no current ill-will towards Arthur, prophecy withstanding. Yet, Merlin had seen first hand the way destiny paid no mind to personhood, to morality, or to intention. Mordred was a liability simply predicated on the fact that he existed. And it wasn’t fair. Merlin knew that, but it rarely ever mattered. 

Merlin’s stern gaze slightly receded, “Mordred-”

“How would you feel if your god had abandoned you?”

He was still looking at the sky, searching the stars for some type of answer when Merlin had none. 

“I don’t know if I believe in God,” Merlin said.

Mordred laughed, not quite harshly but with none of the warmth that humor often brings, “Of course you don’t,” he said, “but you have something that you worship,”

With renewed and shocking intensity, his eyes locked with Merlin’s, just as images of Arthur scratched at the back of the warlock’s mind. 

“How would you feel, Emrys,” he continued, “If what you worshipped rejected you in your entirety. Not just your actions, not just your past, but you. ”

Merlin thought of Arthur’s concerned but open expression that night in his chambers, the way he skimmed over the surface of the lake that was Merlin’s mind. He thought of the way Arthur’s thumb had one night brushed lightly, though with intention, over the junction between Merlin’s thumb and pointer finger. He had noticed a scar there as Merlin was dressing him for bed. It was an old scar, older than Arthur’s notice of it certainly, whose source had been lost to Merlin’s memory. He thought of the way Arthur hadn’t said anything, just held his hand where it hovered over the laces of Arthur’s tunic. Neither of them had ever spoken of it since. 

Most of all, he thought of the man he saw beheaded on his first day in Camelot. Of screaming mothers, and of lost sons, and of young princes with indifferent eyes. 

“What are you trying to say?” Merlin asked, voice hoarse. 

Mordred’s features had taken on a look of conviction, and slowly, without breaking eye contact, he began to lower himself onto his knees.

“Emrys-”

“Stop it,” Merlin’s tone was sharp.

“Emrys, I-”

“Don’t call me that.” 

Merlin’s chest was nearly heaving then as Mordred gazed up at him from amongst the grass of the glade. 

“You may not understand it now,” Mordred said, his voice more clear than Merlin had ever heard it, “And that’s alright. You were meant to be human, Emrys, to share the form of your followers. And you are,” his tone hushed with some sort of treacherous wonder, “But you are still the god of my people, you are still my-”

Merlin wrenched the boy up from the ground, his face furious as much as it was terrified, “You will speak no more of this to me. I have told the druids countless times that they are mistaken. Prophecy aside, I am no one’s god.” 

Mordred didn’t fight Merlin’s hold, instead asking, “But can you at least understand what it must feel like to be forsaken by you?”

Something deflated in Merlin then, loosening his grip until his hand fell away from Mordred completely. 

“I…” he said slowly, “I can. Though I cannot accept it.”

The boy’s face seemed to fall, any despair he had been keeping at bay clawing its way back into his eyes. 

Merlin looked at him then, as young as he was when he first came to Camelot, and saw in him all that he must have experienced in that short time. And it wasn’t fair. Merlin knew that. He knew that. And with this, the guilt that Merlin had been suppressing reared its ugly head within his heart. 

“Mordred,” he sighed, “I have no right to pass judgement on anyone, on anyone .”

He was talking a bit to himself, he realized.

“I know so very little about anything. I’m certainly not someone worth your idolatry,” he continued and held a hand up when Mordred opened his mouth to argue, “I cannot trust you Mordred, and for that I am genuinely sorry. But I cannot judge you.” 

It was the most that he could give, and Mordred seemed to realize that. The boy nodded, once, and set his gaze somewhere to the forest behind Merlin’s head. 

“Thank you…Merlin.”

After that, there was little else to be said. Mordred seemed as if he wanted to stay and watch as Merlin continued with the curse breaking spell, but instead resolved something within himself and retreated back into the forest. 

Merlin allowed himself a single moment to let out a long and slightly untethered sigh, running a hand over his face and blinking the remains of some indescribable emotion out of his eyes. He turned towards the stele and began the droning syllables of the spell.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 

It was not a relief, per se. Merlin, in recent years, had rarely let himself feel fully and truly unburdened by anything. He still had that unsettled feeling lingering in the back of his mind anytime his thoughts wandered to Arthur’s destiny, but what he had discussed with Mordred had given Merlin a clarity he hadn’t had in quite some time.

After rechecking the anchor for a third time to make sure that all lingering wisps of magic had left it, Merlin made his way back to the village. 

He allowed himself to feel the magic in the trees around him as he walked, a buzzing under his skin that faintly echoed the feeling of Isadora speaking into his mind. 

As he approached the edge of the treeline he heard a triumphant cheer ring out from somewhere past a line of houses. 

Merlin slowly crept towards the noise, very aware of his complete lack of protection should the cockatrice still be alive. 

He peeked around the edge of a building to see a knight with blood on his sword. Mordred stood proudly as the surrounding knights praised him, a dead beast laid slain at his feet. 

“Merlin! There you are,” Elyan remarked happily, “You should have seen it. The cockatrice came back and Mordred just charged at the thing with no hesitation.”

“Could’ve sworn you were a goner, mate,” said Gwaine, “I swear I saw this thing look at you,” He poked at the creature’s head with the end of his sword. All of the knights seemed more hesitant to fully approach the body with the beast’s prior resurrection still fresh in their memory. 

Mordred just shrugged sheepishly, then, looking directly at Merlin, he said, “I just had a feeling it would work this time.” 

Arthur, who had been standing back, surveying the scene with his sword still drawn, relaxed his stance and nodded proudly at Mordred. 

“You exhibited great bravery today, Mordred. If you had not proven yourself as a knight of Camelot before, you certainly have now.” 

Mordred beamed, though his eyes furtively snuck their way towards Merlin, hesitant and resolute all at once. 

Merlin sighed, felt something within himself acquiesce, “Yes, Mordred. You did something stupid and nearly got yourself killed. You’re truly a knight of Camelot now.” 

Arthur managed an affronted eye roll as Gwaine gave him a good-natured elbow to the side. 

Mordred expression had mellowed out at that, his eyes filling with some type of gratitude that Merlin couldn’t look at for too long before he had to turn away. 

Arthur began delegating tasks to the knights, having Percival and Leon dispose of the body while the rest gather up the surviving villagers to assure them of their safety. 

As the sun began its mid-afternoon descent, the group mounted their horses, accompanied by the sound of grateful villagers praising their rescue.

Just before they left the village for good, the sorcerer heard a voice trickle back into his mind.

Thank you, Merlin

He turned and scanned the crowd for the young girl, but saw no sign of her as Arthur gave the order to ride out. 

—

As usual, it came about because of bandits. 

They’d set up camp in a clearing. The mood was light, jostled shoulders and relieved laughter. The sun was just dipping its head below the horizon when Arthur ordered Merlin to go and fetch firewood from the surrounding forest. 

They hadn’t spoken since that time in the village square, not really. Arthur hadn’t so much as glanced at him and Merlin couldn’t help but feel that it was some sort of punishment. For what, he wasn’t exactly sure. Maybe it was for a lot of things. 

If the other knights noticed the strange tension between the two they didn’t comment, and their good-natured laughter trailed behind Merlin as he made his way into the trees. 

There was a lingering humidity in the air, the last etch of swampy weather before the winter kicked in. The sorcerer found himself wandering a little. He’d picked up well enough kindling by then, but the stillness of the forest caused his mind to drift. 

Merlin was also very aware that they had nearly entered the territory of whatever being he had felt when they had first rode out to the village. His magic was tossing and turning within him, kicking up dust between his neurons. He hadn’t felt the presence again, but that did not keep him from tensing over every creak and ebb of the surrounding woods. 

Eventually, Merlin realized he had been gone a fair bit longer than necessary, and made his way back to camp. 

As he approached, he was immediately struck by how quiet it was. Merlin had expected the raucous conversation of the knights to greet him as he emerged into the clearing. Instead, Merlin came upon a deserted campsite. A great flurry of footsteps and gashes in the dirt littered the ground. Equipment had been hastily dropped, a half-dug fire pit being soaked by an overturned canteen. The knight’s swords were missing from their packs.

Merlin dropped the wood in his hands and dashed back into the forest, following the faint trail of hurried footsteps. As he did, a light rain began to fall, gentle on the skin though it quickly turned the dirt below him into mud. 

He could hear faint echoes of sound in the woods all around him. Short yells and grunts bouncing off the trees, making it hard to find its source. 

Eventually, through the treeline, Merlin could make out the figure of one of the knights, Percival, if the height was any indication, along with one other person clothed in dark fabric. They were both fuzzy through the rainfall, though the knight’s sword glinted in the fading sunlight, raised high above his head.

Merlin made to approach the figures, a spell on his lips, but his foot stuck in the muddy earth causing him to jolt. His other leg slipped from the sudden movement and the ankle still wedged in the dirt tweaked slightly at the ankle, causing Merlin to suck in a sharp breath. 

As he pulled himself free, testing the extent of his injury he felt the sharp, cool point of a blade press against his lower back.

The bandit behind him didn’t say anything, breathing hard like he’d been sprinting. 

Merlin growled out a sound of frustration and as he felt the sword begin its press into his skin, he whipped around and hissed a spell that sent the bandit hurtling against the tree behind him, his skull making harsh contact with the trunk. 

By the time he had turned back towards the knight obscured through the rain both figures had vanished, nothing remaining but the echo of a battle cry resounding through the glade. 

The rain was coming down harder, cold daggers of near sleet. The bandits must have somehow managed to scatter the knights, using the torrent as cover, masking the sounds of their footsteps. 

Merlin ran, ignoring the shooting pains from his ankle. He followed the sounds of nearby battle as best as he could, losing track of which way he had come from and which way he was going. 

He felt a presence approaching rapidly from his left and narrowly dodged the arrow that whizzed past his head and lodged in the wood of the tree next to him. 

“Merlin!” Someone yelled and at the same time a bandit emerged from the rain, crossbow pointed at the sorcerer, a sword was pushed through his stomach. 

From behind the slumping over bandit appeared Gwaine, hair plastered to his skin with either sweat or rain, and a small gash on his cheek, oozing blood that spattered quickly to the ground like the rest of the downpour.

“Where’s Arthur?” Merlin winced as he put too much pressure on his ankle. 

“You’re injured?’ Gwaine’s eyebrows knit together, seemingly forgetting the open wound on his own face. 

Merlin just shook his head, “It’s nothing. What happened , Gwaine?” 

“I don’t rightly know myself,” he said, his eyes still lingering on Merlin’s ankle, “They were like phantoms, ran Arthur off first, he- Really, mate, are you sure you should be walking?” His hand reached out towards the empty air as Merlin began to limp in the direction Gwaine had emerged from. 

“I think they’re using magic,” Merlin said as Gwaine trailed after him, nearly yelling over the crashing of the rain against the earth.

“What?” Gwaine called back. 

Half a battle cry broke through the air, cut off as if swallowed whole by some great beast. It was unnatural, not fading or being softened by the rain, simply sliced into silence. 

“They’ve done something to conceal themselves, confuse you all. It’s like they’re appearing out of nowhere-”

Merlin sucked in a breath as Gwaine crashed into his side, narrowly avoiding the throwing axe that would have found its home squarely in Merlin’s skull.

“That’s twice I’ve saved your life in as many minutes, Merls,” Gwaine somehow found it in himself to grin, “I’m starting to get a bit concerned.” 

“ Gwaine,” Merlin growled out, as the newly appeared bandit looked ready to launch himself at the knight.

Cold armor pressed into Merlin’s side as Gwaine heaved himself up just in time to block the bandit’s oncoming attack with his sword. His opponent, though towering over the knight in stature and bulk, clearly lacked the combat skills of a trained knight of the round table, even one as given to tavern fights as Gwaine. The bandit was swiftly pushed back from where Merlin was pulling himself up to stand on his good leg, half-slumped into a tree. 

The bandit seemed to realize his disadvantage at the same time Merlin did and muttered something unknowable under his breath.

It was like the very air around him shifted, changed, folded the part of the forest surrounding the bandit in on itself. 

“What in the-” Gwaine gritted out as he and Merlin stared at the spot the bandit had disappeared into, “The bastard ran?”

“Maybe not. Maybe we just can’t see him. Stay alert.”

Gwaine gave the sorcerer a scrutinizing look, softened at the edges with concern and familiarity, but it was still enough to make Merlin avoid his gaze. 

“Get behind me,” is all the knight said, sword drawn and ready. 

The two listened to the nearly imperceptible creek of the forest through the rain, unrelenting in its deluge. Merlin closed his eyes and tried to drown out the sensation of water on his skin, the press of Gwaine’s back against his own, the stinging pain from his ankle as he searched for the distinct feeling of the bandit’s life force. 

“Your right!” Merlin yelled as his eyes shot open, turning to see the bandit lunge out from nothing, sword raised as the collapsing air around him righted itself. 

With Merlin’s warning, Gwaine had enough time to block the attack, causing the Bandit’s scarred face to morph in surprise. Gwaine used that to gain the upperhand, forcing the bandit to scramble back. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Gwaine said as it became clear the bandit was going to use the disappearing enchantment again, and clashed the steel of his sword against his opponent’s.

It came a second too late, though, as in the same instance that metal met metal, the bandit had finished hissing out the spell and both he and Gwaine disappeared into thin air. 

“Gwaine! Oh, godammit,” Merlin ground out. He whipped his head around, seeking even the smallest trace of the knight, or he bandit, or anyone he could sense in the dark forest. 

Taking off in a random direction might do him more harm than good, he decided, there was no telling when another bandit could pop out or if they had used enchantments to lay traps to further scatter their adversaries. Instead, Merlin stayed perfectly still and listened . Listened until his face turned numb from the cold rain and his magic flooded the space between his skin and his bones, nearly spilling out of his pores. 

He listened until-

Here 

He wasn’t sure what it was his magic had latched onto, but it was the only thing that Merlin had to go on. He followed the pull of sorcery as he limped through the mud and over upturned tree roots. 

Here, it sounded again, more insistent and distinct in its syllables. 

He sprinted as fast as his limping ankle would allow until he was met with the leering maw of a strange cave. It was carved into the soft face of a grassy hill, gushing rivulets of water fell its crest, creating a waterfall that concealed whatever laid inside. 

Here, the force compelled, and Merlin could not help but comply. 

Stepping under the falling water was shocking in its intensity and frigid cold. Merlin pushed the water out of his eyes and off his face as best he could. 

The cavern in front of him was pitch black and Merlin wordlessly lit a small flame in the palm of his hands.

As he crept his way deeper, he held his hand up to the cavern’s wall, made of some type of dark stone, dripping wet and slippery from an unseen water source. 

His numb feet continued to stumble further on until he could see another source of light glancing and shifting across the dark expanse of the cave. 

Merlin didn’t know what he was expecting to find. The bandit’s hideout, perhaps. An anchor similar to the one the cockatrice was tied to, something to fuel the bandit’s enchantments. 

Instead, he found an old man. His skin was weathered like rotting  paper, folding and creasing in on itself. A shock of white across his brows, furrowing over his bright blue eyes. He was standing stock still in the middle of a hollowed out room, his features illuminated by the small wisps of fire emanating from the torches scattered around him. His robes bore a resemblance to the kinds the druids wore but older, tattered and stained. 

Merlin froze, hand still raised with the flame dancing in his palm. 

“Who are you?” He asked. 

For a second he thought the old man might have been dead, or a statue, as for a solid minute he didn’t even move a muscle. Then, like some ancient machine creaking to life, the druid raised his gnarled hand, a single finger pointing at Merlin.

“Emrys,” he said and his voice burst out of him much louder than an old man’s should be able to, resounding in the cavern like a booming call, “I have something I must show you.” 

Merlin remained in a defensive stance, “You didn’t answer my question and I really don’t have time for any druidic mysticism at the moment.”

The man’s body shuddered in what might have been a laugh, “Druidic? Maybe once, but no longer. The old religion has rended itself in twain, broken bone from flesh and torn skin from meat. There are no druids anymore, only people remain, people removed from their birthright.” 

“... Alright then,” Merlin said, brow furrowed, “Then I repeat: who are you?”

“A seer, Emrys, one who watches and one who knows. I had called you to this forest, though you knew it not. You shall listen to what I will say if you care for the future of your king.” 

With narrowed eyes, the sorcerer lowered his hand, “I have no need for any prophecy. God knows I’ve been shown enough of them and they’ve only ever brought misfortune.” 

“You will have need for this, Emrys, ” the seer nearly hissed, “I make not the same mistakes of my peers and forefathers, I do not peddle in wishes or possibilities. You will listen to what I have to say because I am the last person alive with the ability to say it.”

Merlin looked the druid over. His eyes were two solid pieces of stone, but there was a hint of some indiscernible emotion creasing his brow, the barely there echoes of something like desperation. 

“It concerns Arthur?” Merlin asked.

The man nodded, “The Old Religion has splintered, most have given up on the Once and Future King. They have seen his acts, the acts of his father, they have seen the time of Arthur’s reign and they have seen that nothing has changed. That their king is an empty vassal, that their savior has abandoned them,” he said the last part with his cold gaze leveled at Merlin. 

The sorcerer felt his hackles rise, “Arthur will be a good king, is a good king.”

“And how are they to know this? What proof has been offered? They have renounced the prophecy, buried their effigies, some have even put aside their pacifistic ways.”

“And you?”

“I was never a pacifist to begin with. But without the prophecy we will all be doomed. The Bane is real and near bedfellows with its mark.” 

A phantom wind blew through the cavern, sweeping over the torchers and fracturing the light across the druid’s face.

“Are you speaking of Mordred?” Merlin asked quietly. 

“Will you listen?”

Merlin drew in a breath, “Yes,” he said, and at the same moment that the word had barely left his lips a cold wave of power flooded over his eyes and he was whisked into darkness. 

—

It was warm, wherever he was, warm like blood. 

It felt as if his eyes had been replaced with cotton, too full in his sockets, overflowing with static and roughness. Merlin groaned, his limbs creaking and sticking to the earth below him as if they were made of lead. 

There was dirt in his mouth, he realized, and the sensation was strange enough to pull him into coherence. He opened his mouth to push out the dirt but choked on the mud, the source of the crushing weight all around him making itself known. 

He scraped at the earth, clawing desperately at the dirt he was buried under, feeling the mud slipping beneath his fingernails and caking over his eyes. He dug and flailed for what felt like hours, the threat of suffocation piercing at his lungs but never cresting into unconsciousness. 

The searing heat of the wet earth suddenly gave way to blistering cold. Merlin’s hand burst through the surface, his skin being met with pelting, icy rain. He pulled his face from the mud and gasped for air, feeling it hit the back of his throat like daggers, the iron taste of blood coating his tongue. 

He was nearly overwhelmed with the incredible clamor of noise coming from all around him. Screams, the clanging of metal, a great resounding yell that was all at once choked and silenced. 

A battlefield. He was on a battlefield. 

He’d emerged from the dirt directly next to a corpse. A young face peering out of a rusted helmet, half draped in a torn, red cape. Merlin didn’t recognize him. He didn’t even recognize the army that descended upon the soldiers of Camelot, their faces blurry in the rain, being struck down as quickly as they themselves struck down their opponent. 

Merlin staggered to his feet, flinching to the side when a dark robed soldier ran in his direction, sword raised. The soldier, however, ran past him without so much as a glance, bringing the steel of his blade crashing down into the shoulder of a knight of Camelot. 

The rest of the battle ran past him as well, swirling, it almost seemed, like one great mass of grey and red. Merlin had never seen anything like it. He’d rode with Arthur into battle, but never before had he encountered this scale of combat. 

Was this what the seer wanted him to know? He scanned his eyes over the undulating battle fray, pushing past warriors and stepping over young men cut down in their prime. 

Finally, he saw him. Bright, golden hair stained darker with mud and grime, but still glowing above the din of war. Arthur hacked his way through a line of soldiers, shouting commands to the other knights that Merlin couldn’t hear. 

He made to run towards his King but found his foot sticking in the mud. As much as he yanked and pried, his foot would not come free. Each time he twisted his leg, frothy blood squelched to the surface like it had completely saturated and soaked the dirt. 

Merlin cursed, cringing as he heard something pop in his ankle, though the pain could barely penetrate past the unrestrained pounding of Merlin’s heart against his chest. Something bad was going to happen, he could feel it, feel it in the way you feel an arrow pierce your thigh or feel a drop of rain hit your face. Something bad was going to happen. It was primal, it was fear, it was a thousand years of prophecy crushing down upon this single moment in time and Merlin could feel it. 

The name that clawed its way from his throat as he saw a dark haired figure approach Arthur was guttural in its cry. 

Arthur had noticed Mordred as well at that point, and even through the foggy mist of rain and battle, Merlin could still clearly make out the expression on Arthur’s face. A realization, then something like betrayal, and then, most damningly, hesitation. 

Merlin screamed as Mordred ran Arthur through with his sword. He could feel it in his hands, could feel the hilt, wrapped tightly in rough leather, felt the blood that poured out of Arthur’s wound and over Mordred’s hand, a tight gasp as the king’s body sagged to the ground. 

And then Merlin was on the shore of a lake. The sudden switch from the intense cacophony of the battlefield to the shocking quiet of the shores of Avalon was so jarring it left Merlin swaying where he knelt, a lingering ringing in his ears. 

This is where he had sent Freya off, he thought numbly. 

He looked down and saw Arthur’s corpse laying in his arms. His eyes were open wide, already greying from the departure of life, unnatural, so unlike the king that Merlin knew that he felt bile rise in his throat. 

The waters of the lake brushed along the sandy ground, getting closer and closer with each wave, it seemed. Intent to swallow up its prize, take back its lost son. 

Merlin held Arthur’s lifeless body close to his and pictured the look of bitter determination on Mordred’s face as he had killed him. As he did so, the water began to flood around his knees, slowly filling up the world, gently rushing over Arthur’s hair, cleaning it of grime and dried blood. Merlin closed his eyes as the water overtook him and he was once again plunged into darkness. 

—

When Merlin next woke it was gasping on the floor of the cave. 

The druid had not moved from where he stood, ancient eyes boring into Merlin’s own where he struggled to catch his breath around the phantom sensation of drowning. 

“You listened,” was all the old man said. 

Merlin staggered to his feet. It felt as if he’d been laying against the unforgiving stone floor for a century, and yet the torches and candles that illuminated the room showed no sign of age. 

“Is that what you call ‘listening?’” Merlin rasped, his voice coming out creaky and unused. 

Instead of answering, he replied, “You must heed this vision’s warning, Emrys, or else all will be lost.”

“I have seen this all before,” Merlin’s voice was steely though his hands shook at his sides. Seen, perhaps, but the visceral feeling of Arthur’s corpse in his hands left something sickly and unsettled in his stomach.

The old druid merely shook his head, “You have seen visions, Emrys, possibilities. I am offering you a certainty . Arthur’s bane will be his demise. If the boy is left alive, there will be no legacy to Arthur’s reign, only a hazy memory of a sovereign that was born in blood and died in blood.”

Merlin’s eyes widened, and a stinging sensation nestled its way into his skin as the druid’s magic filled the room.

“The decision is yours to make. The Triple Goddess will make her’s in return.”

That look. That look on Mordred’s face. Remorseless. Unflinching in its brutality. 

“I don’t,” Merlin breathed around a hysterical laugh, “I don’t know what you expect me to do. ”

The seer, in an uncharacteristic fit of fury, stormed into Merlin’s space faster than he should have been able to, “Do? I expect you to act , Emrys. If the prostrations of your followers mean nothing to you, then at the very least act to save the life of your King from a fate more certain than the rise of the sun this next morning hence,” the druid’s words were hissed and in Merlin’s resulting silence he pressed a strange dagger into the sorcerer’s hands. 

The dagger’s hilt was slightly curved, with no embellishments or nicks. A simple and lithe blade, an assassin’s blade. 

“When the time comes, you will use this blade,” said the seer, hand clasped in a vice around Merlin’s wrist, “after the deed is done and the Bane lays slaughtered upon the ground, it will disappear. It will hurt no one else, cannot hurt anyone else.” 

Merlin recoiled at the thought, though he did not drop the dagger. 

His entire body felt as if it was alight with a thousand raging fires, little pinpricks of nausea and doom. 

“I will make my own destiny,” Merlin declared, though the shaky timbre of his voice did not exactly convey his conviction. 

“You will take the blade with you,” said the druid and it was neither a question nor a command. 

Merlin turned on his heel and ran from the cave before he could even think to reply, dagger tucked carefully into the inside of his jacket. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: The Harp

The rain had stopped. The smell of dampened dirt and grass filled Merlin’s nose as he emerged from the cavern. He felt an odd sort of rawness, nestled somewhere between his skin and his bones. He shook the images of the blood-soaked battlefield from his mind and set back out into the forest in search of Arthur. 

The sounds of skirmish had ceased. Merlin hoped that wherever Gwaine had been transported by the bandit’s spell that he was safe. Or at the very least not dead yet. 

The ends of his fingers and toes felt numb, a lingering cold and the phantom remnants of dirt beneath his fingernails from where he had been buried alive in the seer’s vision. His ankle flared with pain with every step he took as he called out the King’s name, pressing farther into the moonlit forest. 

His voice had nearly gone hoarse by the time he heard a rustling through a thicket of trees to his right. 

“Merlin!” Arthur’s boyish voice rang out, and the sorcerer turned to see the king stumble out of the bushes. His hair was mussed from battle, and though he seemed to be in all other respects unharmed, Merlin could not shake the image of Arthur on that battlefield. Arthur in the lake. Arthur in his arms for the first time and yet already gone. 

There must have been a terrible look on Merlin’s face because Arthur’s features softened, sombered. He wordlessly approached, removing the gauntlet from one of his hands. 

“Merlin?” He asked, brow furrowed in a searching worry. He placed his bare hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and the point of contact radiated warmth throughout his body, and Merlin slowly felt the dread clawing at his heart begin to subside. 

He was searching for something in Merlin’s eyes, but the sorcerer felt that if he spoke he would say something he could not take back. 

One of his hands came to rest upon Arthur’s wrist, his grip loose at first before tightening around the skin, cold from the rain. He held it there, eyes downcast, until he felt the thrum of Arthur’s pulse beneath his fingers. He breathed out, a knot unspooling in his chest. 

“Merlin, what happened?” Arthur breathed out. Slowly, as if with great intention, he moved his hand from Merlin’s shoulder to the side of his neck, barely gracing over the skin, going further upward until he was a hair’s breadth away from cradling Merlin’s jaw. 

His mouth formed around a word, around a confession. He couldn’t look Arthur in the eyes. He didn’t know how to pretend to be the bumbling servant at that moment, his thoughts both racing and muted all at once. There was something prickling at the backs of his eyes and Merlin ground his teeth together. 

Arthur’s thumb was moving, almost imperceptibly, against his skin. He let his question hang in the silence, and Merlin knew that if he looked at him, looked to see the open, naked concern in Arthur’s eyes that he would doom the both of them.  

Creaking out a hoarse voice, Merlin said, “Must’ve gotten lost, sire.”

A crease formed between Arthur’s brows, “Lost?”

Merlin nodded, and pulled back from Arthur’s touch, putting a good foot of extra distance between them, “I- I tried following wherever you and the knights had gone. But- ah, you know me. I’m terrible with directions,” he tried for a sheepish smile at the end, but he could barely tell what his face was doing, and the expression quickly morphed into a grimace as another step backward put pressure on his injured ankle. 

Arthur’s eyes widened. He surged forward and clasped both his hands on the sides of Merlin’s shoulders holding him steady when his foot threatened to give out from under him. 

 “ Merlin, ” the King’s voice was beginning to sound pleading and his eyes bore no mask when Merlin finally looked at him. Arthur’s face was equal parts frustration and worry, his furrowed brow juxtaposed against his wide eyed expression. 

Merlin couldn’t understand it, could never understand this . But he found himself in that moment unable to push Arthur away, the very idea of him leaving made fear drip down Merlin’s spine. 

“I…” Merlin felt oddly stuck in time, every point in the universe narrowing down to Arthur’s hands on his shoulders and Arthur standing in front of him, “I just hurt my ankle a little. When I was out looking for you. It’s not very serious either way, it-”

Merlin was cut off Arthur pulled his arm across the King’s shoulders and slid one of his own along Merlin’s lower back, the cold steel of his gauntlet digging into his side as Arthur steadied him. 

“Sire, really, I can walk-”

“Stop talking Merlin.”

Merlin bit his tongue at the King’s tone. It wasn’t as if Arthur telling him to shut up was a rare occurrence, but his voice lacked the teasing edge that it normally held. 

The two stumbled in silence back to camp, Arthur’s firm grip never wavering. 

—

The other knights were in various states of disrepair. Leon and Percival were largely unharmed, but Elyan had a bruise darkening the skin around his jaw. Gwaine’s cheek appeared to have stopped bleeding, but the way he moved was stiff and inelegant. There was a distinct air of annoyance that circulated the camp. Usually, after a battle successfully won, the knights reverted to their usual good moods and teasing banter. Apparently, the nature of the bandit’s attacks had worn the men out past the point of celebration.

Merlin observed this as he and Arthur limped back towards the warmth of the campfire. 

Mordred was the first to notice their return. The young knight sported nothing more than some mussed hair and slightly battered armor as proof of battle. He rose from where he was sitting which caught the attention of the other knights. 

Gwaine called out Merlin’s name and smiled in relief. He and the others stood to greet their King, who, still supporting Merlin against his side, dismissed them all to get some rest. The knights gladly complied, crashing onto their makeshift beds, save for Mordred, who openly watched as Arthur lowered Merlin to sit on an overturned log. 

“Really, Arthur, it’s probably not even sprained. You should get some rest, you fought as well today.”

Arthur sighed and shook his head. “At least let me look at it.”

Merlin tried for a teasing laugh, “And what medical expertise will you be using in that endeavor, sire?”

“Well, if it’s not sprained, as you say, then what does it matter?” He lowered himself onto one knee in front of Merlin. 

The sorcerer balked at the action. It was one thing for Arthur to be familiar with him in the privacy of his chambers, but for a King to physically lower himself in front of a servant, in plain few of the knights of the round table, should they still be conscious, made Merlin’s face erupt in a blush at the same time his stomach swooped in anxiety. 

He turned to Mordred and narrowed his eyes, just above Arthur’s notice. 

Turn away, he spoke clearly and harshly into Mordred’s mind.  

The young knight frowned, and held Merlin’s gaze with a knowing look in his eyes before retreating to his bedroll, laying down on his side facing the forest. 

Oblivious, Arthur had taken to rolling up the cuff of Merlin’s trousers, just enough to reveal the angry splotch of red and purple that decorated the joint of his ankle. Arthur let out a sympathetic hiss at the sight, and grazed his fingers across the inflamed skin so gently that Merlin could barely feel it. 

“I…I can’t tell if you’ve twisted it or not,” Arthur admitted, an uncharacteristic act of self-refusal. 

Merlin felt the need to tease him for it so strongly that he nearly let out a barbed response, but the grim, almost distraught look on Arthur’s face made him hesitate. 

“Arthur,” Merlin coaxed, gingerly pulling his ankle away from the cradle of the King’s hands, “I just bruised it a little, I promise. The fact that I can still walk on it at all is proof enough. Besides, Gaius would have my head if I couldn’t identify a mere twisted ankle after all these years being his apprentice.” 

That was half-true. Well, the Gaius part was fully true, and Merlin had sat through enough long-winded scoldings to believe it as such. Merlin was pretty sure that he hadn’t wrenched his ankle, but if he had, he probably would have walked through that forest looking for Arthur all the same. 

“That’s good, then,” the King said, though his eyes hadn’t left the injury, even as Merlin had hurriedly rolled the cuff back down, “You should still see Gaius when we get back to Camelot.” 

Merlin sighed, “Yes, sire.” No avoiding it then. 

He waited, sitting there with his hands scraping against the rough bark of the log, for Arthur to stand back up from where he was still kneeling in front of him. Arthur, instead, looked back up at Merlin. His eyes had been caught in a battle between concern and a return to the commanding, disaffected gaze of a king. He opened his mouth, lips quirked upward in a wavering smirk, but no words arrived, and the expression soon fizzled and died like a candle’s flame. 

Arthur rocked back on his haunches, an unconscious movement, his whole body sagging under some unseen weight. 

“When we couldn’t find you after the battle I thought you had died.” 

The admission was so sudden and blunt that Merlin froze where he sat. 

“Arthur-”

The king held a hand up. He was staring intently at some distant point in the forest to Merlin’s right, eyes unfocused, “We returned to camp and found you gone and I thought you had died. It was just for a moment, right before I remembered how stubborn you are when it comes to living and to, well, everything, but for a moment I thought it. And in that moment I…” he swallowed thickly, “Merlin, I-”

“Arthur, really, you don’t have to…” What? Didn’t have to speak? Didn’t have to look at him like he meant anything at all? Bright, blue gaze tilted upward, a fading remnant of rain dripping from the front of his fringe, down and across the bridge of his nose. He didn’t need any of it, Merlin thought. Didn’t need Arthur’s worry or his adoration or his interest or his mouth, pressed into a thin line of discontent. He didn’t need it because Merlin would be there anyway. 

Arthur looked like he didn’t know what else to say, and Merlin was glad for it because he didn’t either. 

Eventually, Arthur let out a heavy sigh and heaved himself up from the ground, his posture speaking to the lingering aches of battle. With a final glance back at Merlin, he retreated to his bedroll. 

Merlin didn’t sleep that night. Even when Leon roused himself to take watch, Merlin stayed sat against a tree, watching the rise and fall of Mordred’s curled up form where he lay. He slept mere feet from the unsuspecting king. Perhaps they were both unsuspecting. 

Merlin wondered, as he sometimes did, if it mattered. If Mordred actually wanted to kill Arthur. There, in that moment, as a boy pretending to sleep though he could feel the judging eye of a god on him, even if then he did not want to be the bane, to be what he might be, did it matter? 

Merlin used to think it did. He used to think, or want to think, that his own destiny allowed for a little human autonomy along the way, that his entire life wasn’t just predetermined by a dead god hundreds of years ago. Merlin had seen no proof of this. 

His head was still stinging with the blistering static of the druid’s power, like the old bastard had left a purposeful, lingering imprint. A searing reminder of the seer’s prophecy. It left Merlin twitching at shadows, the faintest murmuring of emrys ghosting past his ears and through his mind.