Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. Jeremiah 29:11

Outskirts of London, England

5 July 2164

4:51 PM

Niska paced back and forth restlessly, her heels clacking loudly on the concrete of the abandoned train station.  She wasn’t cut out for this— waiting, overseeing the mundane routines of life while others were out in the field. She would have been out there herself if it hadn’t been blatantly obvious that there was nothing she could do. They didn’t know what the problem was, and until they did, there was nothing they could do to solve it. And Niska was no good at gathering information, either— people, even other magic users, tended to be intimidated by her. No, there really had been no choice but to send Max and his team to do the job.

But that did not mean that she had to like it.

She had turned to make her fifti-somethingeth lap of the room when she heard the door open behind her. Immediately she whirled around, prepared to take the head off of whoever had disturbed her; she hadn’t had a moment to herself in days—

“Niska.”

“Max!” She beelined towards him. “What have you found out?”

“We think we know what’s causing the irregular readings,” the dark-skinned man said gravely. “Niska, it’s…”

“What?” the blonde bit out impatiently. She ached with the need to do something.

Max swallowed hard. “We think it’s Leo.”

Niska felt like she’d been punched in the gut. They’d let Leo go. No, they’d made him leave. He had become a danger to the operation after— after he’d lost Mattie and the baby. He was their friend, and he had been grieving, but Niska and Max had mutually agreed that it wasn’t safe to let him stay at the compound. Had that decision backfired?

“He’s the only one whose power could possibly cause disturbances like this, and— and he matches the description of several witnesses.” Max’s eyes were haunted. Of course, he’d been closer to Leo than anyone.

“We have to stop him,” Niska said firmly, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of dread in her chest. Feelings were no good to anyone in the middle of a war. “Through any means necessary. That’s what we agreed.”

The other mage nodded, blinking back tears. “I know,” he choked out. “I know.”

Niska grimaced in sympathy. She knew what Leo and Max had meant to each other. “It would be for his sake as well as ours. If Leo was in his right mind, he would know that. He’s hurting himself as much as anyone like this. Can I count on you, Max?”

For a moment, the man didn’t answer, and Niska was worried he’d object, or protest, or insist on finding another way. Finally, though, he squared his shoulders and lifted his head, meeting her gaze steadily. “Let’s go.”

…

Several hours ago, the strange magic readings had spiked to levels never seen before, which, while alarming, had also allowed them to pinpoint their source’s location. Leo’s location. Now, Niska sped down a winding country road, following her instincts as much as Max’s instructions.

Now that she knew what to look for, it was impossible to miss— the distinct feeling of Leo’s magic, however strangely tainted, was almost blinding in its intensity, despite her having opened her mind to it only a sliver. They’d always known Leo was powerful— the most powerful among them— but this…

“Niska!” The blonde startled at Max’s shout, slamming her connection to Leo’s magic shut, just as a bolt of lightning flashed mere meters from the car. She frantically swerved out of the way, spinning out of control and running off the road into an adjacent field, just barely managing to yank the emergency brake to bring them to a stop.

Max was clutching the dashboard, eyes wide, staring at—

“Holy—" Niska’s voice was drowned out by the roar of wind and a clap of thunder, emanating from the storm in front of them. How had she missed that? It was huge, a swirling mass of wind and dust and magic, a cyclone seeming to move in slow motion. Lightning flashed within, illuminating streaks of gold and blue and white and green, ethereal and incandescent.

“What is he doing?” Max asked breathlessly, voice caught somewhere between horrified and awed.

“Doesn’t matter.” Niska threw open the car door, grabbing her gun and flicking the safety off, “Whatever it is, we’ll stop it.”

Niska’s plan had been to confront Leo, demand he surrender, and then shoot him if he refused to cooperate— it would have to be her; despite his earlier words, Max would never be able to do it— but the storm from whatever magic he was conjuring formed an effective shield around the other mage. She could only get so far before being pushed back, the powerful gales keeping her constantly off balance. Not only that, but the visibility was terrible. She could barely make out Leo standing in the eye of the storm, and he couldn’t be more than a dozen meters from her. Even if she did decide to take a shot, there was no guarantee her aim would be true.

Leo, Niska reached out desperately with the mental connection she had with her old friend, still there despite being dormant for so long. Leo, you have to stop. Whatever you’re trying to do, this isn’t the answer. Violence is never the answer! You taught me that!

For a few terrible moments, she thought he would ignore her, would refuse to talk to them. But then…

But this isn’t violence. He sounded so calm. So… detached. No one’s going to get hurt. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m going to take it all away, Niska. The pain, the suffering, the dying. There’s been too much. No more. It’ll all be gone…

Niska didn’t know exactly what that meant, but it sounded terrifying. I know you’re in pain, Leo. But this isn’t going to make you feel better. It can’t—

What? It can’t bring them back? She could hear him laughing, cold and almost unhinged, the wind seeming to pick it up and amplify it until it made her ears ring— of course it can’t. Magic can’t bring any of them back. I’ve waited and waited, so long, and I’m tired Niska. I’m so tired, and I’m not waiting anymore.

The wind picked up speed, lifting Niska off her feet and wrenching the gun from her hands, tossing her backward. At least, she thought it was backward; it was hard to tell. She was hurtling through space, the ground seeming to have vanished altogether, and then there was a tremendous boom!, and her ears popped so hard she was sure something had been damaged. Finally, there was a brilliant flash of white light, making her squeeze her eyes shut…

The last thing Niska heard before she passed out was Leo’s voice echoing inside her head—

I’m sorry.

Capitol City, Camelot

13 He-re 481

14^th Candlemark past Sunrise¹

Clutching the man’s hand tightly, Mordred tilted his head back to catch Cerdan’s gaze from under his hood. His foster father smiled at him, managing to look as calm and relaxed as if they weren’t walking through the very city where so many of their kind had perished.

Just put one foot in front of the other…keep your head down… there’s no reason for them to be looking at us, the older druid’s voice echoed in his head. Cerdan had made supply runs into Camelot several times before; if anyone knew what they were doing, it was him. Mordred, however, had only ever seen the city from a distance, and he’d certainly never stepped foot inside it. Catching a flash of blood red out of the corner of his eye, part of him wished, not for the first time, that he’d never agreed to the trip in the first place.

Sensing Mordred’s anxiety, Cerdan briefly patted his foster son’s head in reassurance before dropping his hands to the boy’s small shoulders, gently guiding him in the right direction. He stepped up to a stall belonging to a bald man, a quick glance over his shoulder the only sign that he was at least wary— he must’ve spotted the blood cloak, too.

“You have my supplies ready?” he asked the merchant. Mordred glanced back up nervously at the tension in his guardian’s voice. “We must leave the city without delay.” Silently, the merchant reached behind his stall and picked up a medium-sized bag, handing it over to the older druid.

“Everything you asked for; it’s all here.” Cerdan took the bag and rifled through it quickly, double-checking. Mordred, meanwhile, couldn’t help but watch the other man. He’d always been told that not every citizen of Camelot was as prejudiced as their king, that some were good people, who wanted to do what was right but were simply afraid. This was the first such person he’d ever met; everyone else he knew was a druid like him.

Some of the tension seemed to leave Cerdan as he quickly re-tied the bag, his fingers working nimbly with long memory. Mordred relaxed as well. The hard part was over now; all that was left was going back to the gate and—

“I’m sorry.” Both druids looked back to the merchant at his words. Faintly, Mordred caught the sound of heavy footsteps and clinking chainmail. He whipped his head around and saw what every magic user dreaded: Camelot soldiers bearing down on him.

A slight pressure at his shoulders from Cerdan was all Mordred needed to drop to the ground, following his guardian’s momentum as they rolled under the merchant’s stall, sprang back to their feet, and started running. Mordred clutched Cerdan’s hand more tightly than he ever had before, his ears ringing with the guard’s shouts,

“Seize him!”

“Stop them!”

Cerdan wove his way through the stalls, stopping once to topple a large pile of woven baskets, sending them tumbling into the street and the guards’ way, before taking off again. He pulled Mordred ahead of him, urging him on as they cleared the market and reached the path out of Camelot— to safety— only to be cut off by yet more guards.

Spinning around, Cerdan dashed in the opposite direction, pulling his young charge along with him, not away from Camelot, but further in, into the citadel itself. Mordred’s heart almost stopped. What was he thinking? If they went in there, surely there would be no way out? But Mordred could think of no better options himself, so he did the only thing he could and followed.

Just as they started to cross the bridge, a shadow fell over the two druids and a guard leaped from the wall, his sword flashing in the midday sun. Mordred cried out in pain as the blade hit its mark on his arm. Cerdan jerked him back and away from the soldier, throwing out his hand and crying, “Tæfle!” The man went flying backward.

The pain in Mordred’s arm was quickly becoming unbearable. He stumbled after Cerdan as the man once again headed for the gates, but he couldn’t match the older druid’s speed anymore. Face grim with realization, Cerdan stopped, turning back to grip the boy’s shoulders and examine his wound. There was no time for healing, though; the guards from the marketplace had alerted the ones patrolling the city line, and now all of them were bearing down fast, their boots pounding against the stone.

This is it, Mordred thought. We’re going to die. We’re going to burn.

A sudden burst of wind tore across the bridge, almost ripping Mordred from Cerdan’s grasp and blowing their pursuers back several paces. The boy clung to his guardian, burying his head in the man’s chest as more gusts followed, pulling at his cloak and stinging his eyes.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the wind stopped. After the noise it had caused, the bridge seemed almost silent in comparison.

Trembling, Mordred dared to look up, peering back the way they’d come over Cerdan’s arm. Standing between them and the guards, having appeared from nowhere, was a fierce-looking old man. His hair and beard were pure white, falling midway to his waist, and he was dressed in a long robe of deep blue, covered by a vest the same shade of blood red as the cloaks of Camelot’s knights. In his hand, he held an intricately carved staff, a dull aquamarine jewel at its tip.

Mordred stared. He could feel Cerdan staring, too. He could feel everyone staring.

The old man seemed entirely oblivious to the scene he’d caused. Ignoring the guards he’d just blown over like tents that hadn’t been tethered correctly, he marched over to the two druids, a scowl darkening his features.

When he reached them, the old man thrust his free arm under their noses, looking at them expectantly. Baffled, man and boy just continued staring. Finally, the old man let out a huff of impatience.

“Well, grab on. The spell won’t work if we’re not all touching.” His voice was hoarse, but not thin or weak. There was nothing about this man, old as he was, that could be called weak. Mordred felt his magic stirring in his gut, almost as if it was… confused? Not that the boy could blame it.

The guards, meanwhile, had regained their senses and their footing and were once again charging up the path, swords and spears at the ready to apprehend the— now three— fugitives. This spurred Cerdan into action. He took the old man’s arm just below the elbow, guiding Mordred’s uninjured arm to the man’s wrist. The boy latched on, trusting his guardian if not this stranger.

The old man grunted in satisfaction. “Good enough.” His eyes flashed gold. “Astýre ús þanonweard!” Mordred felt the same strange wind as before whip up around him, stinging his eyes. The last thing he saw before he was forced to close them were Camelot’s guards rapidly getting closer.

Royal Palace, Milan

12 Wonne 1460

Past the Twelfth Hour²

His head was pounding, and it felt like he was trying to swim through tar. Everything was fuzzy and slow, and it hurt. Alarmed, Andrew called on his magic and fought through the interference in his mind, feeling the slimy black tendrils of an enchantment loosen and eventually release their hold. He could hear its whispered, poisonous compulsions as they left him— the babe must die. You have no choice. The babe must die. You have no choice… For one awful moment he was fully convicted— he had to kill Elsa’s child, there was no other way— and then the compulsions were gone. He inhaled slowly, trying to calm his racing heart and fight down the bile that wanted to come up. There were few things worse than having your mind invaded and controlled, but to be used to commit such an awful act… he hated himself, just for a second, that the thought, however artificial, had crossed his mind.

Quickly, Andrew forced his attention elsewhere. He was no longer in his bedchamber; instead, he was walking down an abandoned corridor, a torch in his hand. It made sense; he knew this passageway was a roundabout (but far less observed) way to Elsa’s chambers, where she and little Sara slept. He’d used it himself several times for their clandestine meetings.

As he’d come back to himself, Andrew had never once faltered in his slow, even steps; his conscious mind having yet to catch up enough to stop him. Even now, though, he forced himself to keep going, casting his magic outwards to scan for observers. It was entirely possible that whoever had enchanted him was still watching, to make sure he carried out the task they’d forced on him.

He felt it almost immediately, and he had to fight not to gag. She was there, her magic dark and repellent, poisonous. Hastily he drew his own magic back to himself, closing himself off to all but the vaguest hint of her presence. It obeyed quickly, used to this defense mechanism by now— he’d had to use it constantly since coming to her palace. She was a mistress of the darkest arts, and they permeated everything here, filling the place with death and decay. He wouldn’t have lasted an hour if he hadn’t shielded himself— though of course, he wasn’t foolish enough to cut himself off from sensing her completely. He needed to know where she was at all times; he couldn’t afford to be taken by surprise.

He grimaced. Apparently, his efforts had been in vain. He should never have allowed himself to relax enough to sleep at night. Now, Ravenna was doing what he’d feared— going after her sister. He should have realized she’d try to use him to do it— killing two birds with one stone, as it were.

They’d reached Elsa’s rooms. Slowly, quietly, Andrew opened the door and entered. His eyes immediately went to the bed, hoping by some miracle Elsa would be awake. She wasn’t even there. He groaned internally. Of course, Ravenna wouldn’t have taken the chance of turning one of the only two people truly devoted to her into an enemy. Her sister’s absence was undoubtedly by her design.

Sara, on the other hand, was fast asleep in her cradle. Andrew let his footsteps carry him across the room, aware that Ravenna had not followed him past the threshold. He stared down at the sleeping infant, once again feeling sick. How could anyone ever want to murder a baby?

Go on. You’re almost there. Drop the torch. The babe will die. You have no choice. Drop the torch. Andrew’s hand tightened instinctively around his light source, batting the invasive thoughts away like cobwebs. Apparently, he was taking too long for Ravenna— she’d poured a little more power into her enchantment. Well, it seemed his act ended here.

Stepping away from the cradle, Andrew turned back towards the open door. The sorceress queen wasn’t in sight, but he knew she was there. “So,” he began, “that was how you wanted me to do it. You wanted me to burn her— an infant, your own niece— to death. I knew your heart was black, Ravenna, but somehow I believed that even you had a limit.” He could feel her trying to regain control, foul magic pouring into his mind, but he brought up a shield and dispersed it before it could take hold. He didn’t bother to hide the gold in his eyes. This ended tonight.

“Your magic is no match for mine,” he told her calmly once he felt the assault cease. For a moment, nothing happened, and then she stepped into view, her eyes cold and hard. There was no denying that Queen Ravenna was physically beautiful— reportedly, her magic was fueled by that very fact— but Andrew had never found himself besotted like so many others. The feeling of wrongness that followed her everywhere was enough to put him off. Still, she made quite the picture, standing in the doorway, draped in silk and jewels and gold.

“You are a fool, boy, to challenge me.” Andrew fought not to roll his eyes.

“And yet, I came here with no other purpose. Your magic is dark, Ravenna, and you have become corrupted beyond saving. The land you rule over is withering and dying because of you. You need to be stopped before it gets much worse. That’s why the Duke of Blackwood’s men came to find me, begging for my help. They knew you would eventually be the death of everyone, just as you were for their master, your sister’s lover.”

Ravenna’s eyes flashed dangerously. “So, they are traitors after all. Thank you for that information. I’ll be sure to deal with them as soon as I’m done with you.” She flung out a hand, a deadly spike of dark magic forming in an instant and coming flying at him. Andrew raised his own hand and it shattered before it reached him. For one single instant, the Queen looked surprised, but then it was gone, leaving only murderous rage. Andrew tossed the torch aside, putting it out with a thought. It was time to do what he’d promised.

The fight was one-sided. Andrew held back at first, testing Ravenna’s limits, but they weren’t very difficult to measure. With a single movement, he sent her flying back against the wall, pinning her in place. “It’s over, your majesty.” He summoned one of the ornate daggers he knew Elsa kept in her room to his hand, testing how it felt. He preferred not to kill with his magic; it made him feel tainted.

“Guards! Guards!” Ravenna struggled furiously, but Andrew had been right: her magic was no match for his.

“I suppose you have some nearby, ready to arrest me for the murder of your niece,” Andrew observed, “but they will not be able to help you.” He strolled forward, the dagger unsheathed in his hand. A deep enough stab to the right side of the heart followed by a quick removal of the weapon would guarantee a quick death. Then it would be over.

Ravenna sneered. “I don’t need help.” Her eyes flashed.

If Andrew hadn’t seen the slight curling of her fingers, he might have been too late. Fortunately, he’d seen enough conjuring spells and been in enough dangerous situations over the years that his instincts kicked in and he sent out a wave of magic to push the cradle out of the way just in time. The fireball Ravenna had summoned flew past the now empty space and caught the curtains instead. Hastily, Andrew summoned a shield to wrap around Sara and her small bed, cursing himself for not doing so sooner.

The distraction had allowed Ravenna to break free of his binding spell. She launched herself forward, hand outstretched, clearly intending to stop his heart personally as she had with so many others. He brought his arm up and blocked the attempt, raising the dagger with his other hand. One glance from the sorceress had it dissolving into dust. Too bad he hadn’t shielded it as well.

“You cannot defeat me,” the Queen hissed, backhanding him hard and sending him tumbling to the floor. “You think you are the first to try? I will drain your power and take it for myself, and I will make sure you suffer through every moment of it!” She reached for him again, but he rolled out of the way, using the momentum to get to his feet.

“I will not let you harm this child,” he said calmly. Ravenna laughed, a crazed look in her eye.

“You cannot stop me. I will not be overthrown! I will not lose my place in this world to an insignificant nursling!” She raised both her hands and launched two streams of power, one aimed at Andrew and once at Sara. They both bounced away harmlessly, and she screamed in fury.

“Ravenna?” The Queen whirled around, finally noticing what Andrew already had: Elsa stood in the doorway, her wide eyes darting back and forth between the spellcasters, probably summoned by the ever-growing flames that had by now moved to her bed. With Ravenna distracted, Andrew hastily put them out, dissipating the smoke with a flick of his wrist.

Apparently unable to deal with her sister at that moment, Elsa turned to him, taking a panicked step forward. “Where’s Sara? Is my baby okay?”

“She’s in her cradle.” Andrew pointed out the corner it had slid into. “She should be fine. I shielded her—” Elsa rushed past him, scooping the infant into her arms and frantically examining her, all the while muttering,

“My baby, my baby, my baby…”

Ravenna sneered at the display. “You always were weak. Sentimental. I never should have wasted my efforts on you.”

Elsa whirled around, her eyes filled with tears. “Why did you— she’s my— I love her! I love you!”

“I was going to make you strong. To eradicate your weakness. But I can see now it would have been a wasted effort. Goodbye, sister.”

Everything happened in a matter of seconds. Ravenna launched her attack, Elsa screamed in grief and rage, and a wall of ice appeared out of nowhere, almost knocking Andrew off his feet even as he summoned his power one more time to wrap around himself, Elsa, and Sara and transport them away, to somewhere safe. True, the Queen wasn’t dead, but the princess knew the truth, and that had to be enough for now.

Camelot, Albion

13 He-re 481

17^th Candlemark past Sunrise

Mordred had once fallen into a flooded stream when he’d been younger. It had rained for days, and the young druid had been so happy to finally be allowed outside again that he’d disregarded the elders’ warnings about playing too close to the water. He hadn’t really believed them, that the stream he had known all his life could have changed so drastically because of some rain.

He'd been pulled under by the swollen current almost as soon as he’d hit the water. For a few terrifying moments, he hadn’t known which way was up or down, being tossed around at the water’s whim until Cerdan had managed to drag him out.

He was vividly reminded of that experience now, plummeting in an endless nothingness as the old man’s spell took hold.

Finally, the turbulent ride ended, and Mordred found himself tumbling into a grassy clearing in the woods. Shakily, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, breathing heavily.

“Mordred!” Then Cerdan was there, his familiar hands offering their support, and Mordred allowed himself to go limp. The world still seemed a bit like it was spinning, and he felt decidedly light-headed. The older druid pulled aside Mordred’s cloak and gently rolled up his sleeve to get a better look at his arm. Oh, that’s right, the boy thought distantly, I was injured.

Cerdan carefully examined the wound, prodding at it gently.

“Do you need some help with that?”

The older druid jumped. “What?”

The old sorcerer scowled down at him, having landed on his own two feet, steady as you please. “The wound. Do you need help healing it?”

“Oh! No, thank you. I can manage.” Holding his hand over the deep slash in his foster son’s arm, Cerdan whispered a few words in the old tongue, his eyes flashing. The cut shrank in size, the blood flow slowing considerably, and Mordred breathed a sigh of relief. It still hurt, but the dull throbbing was almost pleasant compared to the fiery agony of a few moments ago. Cautiously, wobbly, he got to his feet, leaning heavily on his guardian.

Assured that Mordred would be all right, Cerdan turned at last to their rescuer. “How can I ever thank—”

“What kind of a darn fool are you, walking into Camelot of all places with a child in tow? Do you have some kind of a death wish, or are you merely dimwitted?”

Cerdan blinked in surprise at the man’s bluntness. “I had no— it wasn’t the original plan; of course I didn’t deliberately, I mean…”  He stopped, taking a moment to compose himself, before beginning again. “Mordred and I recently traveled from our own camp to that of our druid leader, seeking help with Mordred’s magic. It’s quite strong— unusually so— and none of us could help him the way he needed. The journey takes a few days, and we could only carry so much, so we were forced to stop for supplies.

“Of course, I never intended to take Mordred into the city with me. During the first trip, I had him hide in the forest and wait there, but by the time we came back through on our way home…” he swallowed. “…the place was crawling with bandits. There’s no way we could have completed our journey without the supplies. I thought that, at least if he was with me, I could protect him.”

Mordred was not exactly sure how wise it was of his foster father to be telling this complete stranger so many details— details about him— but it wasn’t his place to question his elder, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. True, this old sorcerer had just saved their lives, but that didn’t mean he was a friend. The merchant had agreed to sell them supplies, but he’d had an ulterior motive. Who was to say this old man wasn’t the same?

As Mordred watched, the old man’s scowl finally dimmed a bit, and he seemed to relax— not a lot, but some. “I see,” he said, voice grating.

“I suppose it seems foolish, now,” Cerdan grimaced. Mordred felt a flash of irritation. How utterly druidic of his guardian to make concessions to a man he’d just met. True, the man had saved him, but who was he to question Cerdan’s decisions? Who was he to yell at them without knowing the circumstances of their situation? Just once, Mordred would have liked to see a druid stand up for themselves, instead of just bowing their heads and agreeing to avoid an argument.

“Who are you?” Cerdan looked down at the boy sharply, but Mordred’s eyes were still on the stranger. The man turned his piercing blue eyes on him, and immediately Mordred wished he’d kept his mouth shut. The man’s gaze was intense, and for a brief moment, Mordred was sure, there was nothing but hate in those eyes. He blinked, though, and it was gone. Perhaps he’d imagined it…?

“I hope you’ll forgive me, young man, for not saying,” the old man grated out. “Practitioners of magic can never be too careful these days.”

“Of course, we understand,” Cerdan was hasty to reassure him, sending Mordred a mental reprimand.

“Your magic… it feels familiar. But also… not familiar.” Mordred couldn’t help himself. His own magic had been churning inside of him ever since he laid eyes on their rescuer, as if it simultaneously wanted to reach out and recoil at his presence.

“Mordred,” Cerdan scolded him aloud this time, but the old man just snorted, seemingly in amusement.

“There is probably a reason for that, but I guarantee you it’s not one you’ll think of,” he said cryptically. With that, he turned away, clearly intending to leave.

“Wait!” Cerdan cried after him, taking a small step forward, almost as if to follow, before he stopped himself. “Is there anything we can do to repay you? Perhaps… you can join us for a meal?” he held up the bag of supplies he’d somehow managed to hang on to. “It would only be fair, after you helped us get these.”

The old sorcerer turned back around, studying them intently. “You really wish to thank me?” He walked forward, leaning heavily on his staff, until he was almost nose-to-nose with Cerdan. He stared into the older druid’s face for a long moment, before training his eyes once again on Mordred. “Remember this day, boy, and what I have done for you. Remember, and if ever the day should come that you hold someone’s life in your hands, even if they’re your worst enemy, you can repay me by granting it to them, as I have granted you the life of your loved one. Do that, and I will consider the debt paid.”

And with that, the man was gone.

Royal Castle, Camelot

13 He-re 481

19^th Candlemark past Sunrise

“The druid was only in Camelot to collect supplies. He meant no harm. Even the sorcerer who appeared out of nowhere and helped them escape did only that. He didn’t even kill any of the guards. Is a manhunt of this magnitude really necessary?”

“Absolutely necessary. Those who use magic cannot be tolerated— especially when they so openly flaunt their disobedience of the law.”

“The druids are a peaceful people.”

“Given the chance, they would return magic to the kingdom. They preach peace but conspire against me. We cannot appear weak.”

Right, Arthur thought, staring grimly down at the table in the council chambers, because spending so much time and manpower hunting down a trio of druids, one of whom is an old man and one who is a child, shows how strong we are. The prince had had this conversation— or a variation thereof— with his father many times. The outcome was always the same, but for some reason, he kept trying anyway.

“Find them,” Uther ordered as he strolled from the room. “Search every inch of the forest.”

Arthur bit his tongue to hold back any more protests. The consequences of removing men from their usual posts to contribute to a manhunt were relatively minor but still had to be considered, and they would only grow worse the longer the search continued. Not to mention the general feeling of fear and unease things like this created in the populace. But Uther was Arthur’s king, and he was bound to obey his command. Reluctantly, he left the throne room in search of the Captain of the Guard.

…

“Do you know much about the druids?” Merlin asked Gaius as he ate his dinner. Today was a rare treat— Arthur had sent him off on some errands just after he’d delivered his master’s food, and since they hadn’t taken too long, he had an even longer break for the midday meal than usual.

It also meant that he’d been in the courtyard when the commotion of the druids’ escape had happened.

“Not much,” his guardian answered absently, focused on scribbling something with the large quill in his hand. “They’re a very secretive people. Especially now that they’re being hunted by Uther.” He glanced up at his ward. “Why do you ask?”

“I heard the boy cry out,” the warlock admitted after a brief hesitation. “He was injured, the guards said. I think that must have been when it happened. I wasn’t close enough to the gates to see, but I could hear him. Like he was inside my mind.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of this ability,” Gaius said thoughtfully. “The druids look for children with such gifts to serve as apprentices.” He turned a hard gaze on Merlin. “While they’re conducting their search, you must be especially careful, otherwise it’ll be your head on the chopping block.”

“I’m always careful, you know me,” Merlin grinned.

“Yes, Merlin,” Gaius responded, a warning in his tone, “unfortunately I do.”

Merlin went back to his food, but he only took a few more bites before he asked, “Do you think they’ll find them? The druids?”

Now it was Gaius’s turn to hesitate. “I think it likely,” he said finally. “The ability to transport oneself instantly from one place to another takes a great deal of power. To do it not only for yourself, but also for two others… it had to have been incredibly draining, and he could not have taken them far. If nothing else, they’ll probably find the old man.”

“Right,” Merlin muttered. Suddenly, he didn’t feel very much like eating.

Royal Castle, Camelot

13 He-re 481

15^th Candlemark past Midday³

Morgana struggled to focus on her meal as she sat across the table from Uther, her thoughts nagging her incessantly. Why did the King insist on putting so much effort into capturing three druids who had done no harm? Surely if their people were constantly seeking to overthrow him, as Uther claimed, there would be some sign? Some evidence of their plotting? A wise and just king would see that, Morgana was sure. Part of her wanted to demand answers from her guardian about his paranoia, but she held herself back. Uther never backed down in his determination to root out magic, and she doubted she could convince him to do otherwise now. Still, it bothered her, that the man who had practically raised her could be so…unreasonable.

“Something wrong?”

Bother. He’d noticed her mood. “No, my lord,” Morgana answered smoothly, making an effort to relax more into her chair, “I’m sorry I’m not better company.”

“I’m merely concerned for your welfare, that’s all,” the king told her, taking a sip from his drink, and of course, she believed him. He’d never been anything but kind to her, really— treating her like family.

“Thank you, my lord,” She smiled at him, the expression coming easily despite her doubts. “All is well.”

She was saved from any further stilted conversation by the creaking of the doors opening and Arthur’s familiar footsteps entering the room. She didn’t have to look behind her to know it was him; no one else in the castle ever walked like Arthur, with absolute confidence and authority. Well, Uther did, but his footsteps were easy to distinguish from his son’s, due to his noticeably larger girth.

“What news of the hunt for the druids?” Uther asked, taking another sip from his goblet before setting it down.

“We have conducted an extensive search; the three of them were nowhere to be found.”

“You mean you failed to find them.” Morgana bit her tongue. Oh, how she hated the way Uther talked down to her foster brother.

“They could have transported themselves anywhere with the aid of their magic, even outside our borders.” Arthur pointed out.

“I will not have it said that three druids can walk into my city, perform their dark arts, and then escape justice. We have always prevailed against the evils of sorcery before and we will again; I want them found.”

“One man accompanied by an elder and a boy; what harm could they really do?”

Morgana looked at the prince in surprise. It was not often that Arthur stood up to his father about anything, much less magic.

“They’re druids and that makes them dangerous.”

“How exactly?” Both men turned to stare at her, and Morgana cursed herself for speaking aloud.

“What?” Uther demanded, his voice hard.

“Is it such a crime just to be a druid? They’re peaceful, are they not?”

“Their kind would see me dead and this kingdom returned to anarchy. Would you help them?”

“I would not see them executed merely for trying to buy supplies.”

“You watch your tone, Morgana. I have taken you in and treated you like a daughter but that does not give you the right to speak to me in such a manner!”

Hastily, Morgana tried to backtrack. “I just don’t understand how hunting them down for execution without even a trial is the right thing to do.”

“You think it would be right to let them go free? So they can continue plotting against Camelot?”

So much for backtracking.

“I agree with Morgana.” Now two pairs of wide eyes were turned on Arthur. The prince had to know he was treading on dangerous ground, but he stood firm, holding his father’s gaze unwaveringly.

Uther’s voice was filled with disbelief. “So you would also allow them to grow more powerful, more dangerous until they strike against us?”

“We don’t know that they’re going to strike against us; they have yet to do anything.”

“It is enough that their people conspire to overthrow me; this is necessary. I take no pleasure in doing what must be done.”

“You don’t have to do this.” Morgana pressed, emboldened by Arthur’s support. “As Arthur says, they’ve done nothing.”

“They’re druids!” The king hissed the accusation; his voice full of venom.

Morgana’s temper flared, and she rose to her feet, any thought of trying to placate her guardian gone. “What have these people done to you? Why are you so full of hate!?”

“Enough! I will not hear another word; do not speak to me until you are ready to apologize!” The king’s ward shoved back her chair and turned on her heel, storming from the room in a huff. Before the doors closed behind her, she heard Uther snap at Arthur, “Double your efforts.”

“Yes, father.”

“Keep searching until you find them.”

Despite Uther’s demands, the knights did not find the three druids. Thefts in the lower town increased; the nobles grew restless, feeling unprotected with so many knights always absent at once; and tensions did not dissipate within the royal family. Eventually, Uther had to yield.

Morgana did not apologize, and she and her guardian did not speak for weeks. Relations were only fractionally better between Uther and his son; Arthur remained respectful and obedient, but never did he admit he had been wrong.

For a while, it seemed that things would continue this way indefinitely, but then the Black Knight came, and with Arthur’s life seemingly forfeit, fear and dread brought the King and his ward back together. By the time the ordeal was over and both father and son still lived, their past arguments had been all but forgotten. And they remained that way until the next time Morgana and Arthur felt the need to rebel against the crown.

Chapter Text

Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth. 1 John 3:18

Ealdor, Orkney

9 Due 481

8^th Candlemark Past Sunrise¹

Gratitude and relief flooded Merlin as he locked eyes with Will, his best friend who had just saved him from a grisly death at the hands of a raider. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

Will smiled crookedly at him. “Neither did I.”

Both boys turned their attention back to the battle, desperately fending off more attackers with their swords. Despite his natural clumsiness, Merlin had actually managed to pick up a few things during Arthur’s “training” sessions and was holding his own fairly well. However, out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the initial advantage they’d had from the element of surprise was shrinking fast. The simple farmers of Ealdor were quickly tiring, overwhelmed by men far more used to mortal combat. Merlin felt a detached sense of horror as he watched people he’d known all his life fall to the raiders’ swords and axes.

They were going to lose this fight.

No sooner had the thought entered his mind than an incredibly strong gust of wind tore through the village, sending him stumbling into Will and almost knocking them both off their feet. All around him, the sounds of fighting stopped as everyone else was likewise unbalanced, many of them blown clean over like bales of hay. Squinting against the gales burning his eyes, Merlin was just able to make out something white, red, and blue taking shape in Ealdor’s center street.

When the wind finally died down, leaving an almost eerie stillness in its wake, he saw that the something was, in fact, someone— an old man with pure white hair, a long beard, and piercing eyes glaring out of a scowling face. The blue and red he’d seen were actually the man’s clothes: a long robe and vest similar to what Gaius usually wore. What drew Merlin’s attention the most, however, was the intricately carved staff the man was leaning on.

He’d seen a staff exactly like that before. It currently resided beneath a loose floorboard under his bed. It was a Sidhe staff, he was sure of it, just like the one he’d used to defeat Aulfric and Sophia.

“Kanen of Orkney!” The old man shouted with a surprisingly loud, grating voice, “Show yourself!”

No one moved, whether hindered by shock or fear, it was impossible to tell. The old man— sorcerer; there was no denying he’d used magic to suddenly appear like that— turned slowly in place, scanning the eclectic crowd of peasants, raiders, and nobility with a hawklike gaze, searching for his quarry.

The moment the old sorcerer’s back was turned, Kanen (who’d been blown off his horse and sent tumbling down behind a cart) suddenly launched himself forward with a shout, swinging his battle axe in a wide arc, evidently planning to cleave the sorcerer’s head from his shoulders.

The old man didn’t even bother moving.

“Ástríce!” Kanen was sent flying backward, his weapon torn from his hand. He hit the ground a split second after it did, sending a cloud of dirt into the air when his back hit the earth. The sorcerer turned back around and stalked forward menacingly, hand extended and eyes glowing gold. “Gebæde þēs beorn tō cnēowlaþ. Onbregdan!”

Kanen’s body jerked upright into a kneeling position before being dragged forward to rest at the sorcerer’s feet. The gold faded from the old man’s eyes, and he smiled pleasantly at the raiders’ leader, bringing his outstretched hand back to rest on the Sidhe staff.

“Kanen of Orkney. I’ve been looking for you.”

“And why would that be, old man?” the raider spat at the sorcerer’s feet.

The sorcerer’s smile turned venomous. “Simple. You killed someone very dear to me, and so now I’m going to kill you.”

“Wait! Stop!” Everyone’s attention was pulled away from the two figures in the center of the village by none other than Arthur Pendragon himself, striding boldly forward with his sword drawn and head held high, the very picture of a prince— or a king.

He stopped barely a sword’s length away from Kanen and the sorcerer, staring them both down in turn. “There is still such a thing as the law of justice in this land, and I will not see any man struck down in cold blood, regardless of what crimes he may have committed. He must stand trial and face lawful judgment.”

Merlin wanted to smack him. He admired Arthur’s noble nature, he really did. It was the reason the prince was here, after all, helping Merlin’s village. But did he have to put himself in such obvious danger? If Merlin had to use his magic to save him now, his cover would definitely be blown.

The sorcerer looked highly skeptical. “And just who do you suggest should do this ‘lawful judging’, hm? King Cenred, who cares nothing for this village and will laugh in your face and then throw you in his dungeons the moment you arrive at his castle, captured bandits in tow? Or perhaps it is your father you speak of— the king of Camelot, who has no jurisdiction here, beyond his borders? Even if Uther did place these men on trial and judge them, do you really think Cenred would let him get away with it? A foreign king coming into his lands, arresting his citizens, and then proceeding to enforce foreign laws on them? The slimy git would whip up an invasion force so fast you’d be able to see the dust from your citadel.”

Despite the validity of the sorcerer’s points, Arthur remained unmoved. “I will sit in judgment, with the people of Ealdor as my council. We will decide Kanen’s fate together.”

“Oh, I see. And what fate are you the most likely to decide on, then?” The sorcerer asked mockingly, “A lifetime of hard labor in this tiny village where they don’t have the resources to hold a prisoner?” He took a step closer to the prince so that the tip of Arthur’s sword pressed against his chest. Kanen, seeing that the sorcerer’s attention was no longer on him, began vigorously struggling in his invisible bonds. “Or perhaps you are merely trying to distract me while you try to think up a way to kill us both.”

Merlin was close enough to see the slight widening of Arthur’s eyes as he realized his bluff had been called. Face hardening with determination, the prince drew back his sword, clearly intending to run the old man through before he could—

“Forbrece.”

The prince staggered backward as if yanked by the belt, his strike never reaching its target. In the next instant, there was a disturbing cracking sound as Kanen suddenly slumped to the earth, limp as a rag doll, his head hanging at an unnatural angle.

“You’re welcome,” the sorcerer said sourly, before incanting again. “Astýre ús þanonweard!” His figure seemed to blur and waver, turning into mere blobs of color that rapidly dissipated, carried away by the whirlwind his spell had conjured. And just like that, he was gone, leaving nothing but a shocked and horrified silence in his wake.

…

“What are they doing?”

Arthur turned (no, he did not jump; princes do not jump) to see that Guinevere had come to stand beside him, watching with a furrow in her brow as the men of Ealdor trooped back and forth, their arms full of an unusual array of items.

“They’re stripping the bodies of whatever useful things they can find before burning them,” Arthur answered her. “Apparently it was William’s idea.”

It wasn’t an entirely stupid one, either. The bandits’ clothes, weapons, armor, money, and food could all either be used by the villagers or taken apart and refashioned into something useful over the fast-approaching winter, when the fields would no longer need tending. It would have been a waste to merely burn all those supplies along with the bodies. And there were a lot of supplies, due to the simple fact that there were a lot of bodies. It might have been morbid, but for the people of a poor border village like Ealdor, it was only practical. Hence the parade of men bringing their armloads of loot from the outer fields, where the bodies had been taken to be burned, back to the communal hut, where they would store their findings until the village elders were able to get together and divvy it up.

“Ah,” Guinevere nodded her understanding. “I came to tell you, they’ve managed to catch some of the raiders’ horses and were wondering if you’d like to look them over, maybe select a few to take back to Camelot?”

Arthur blinked at her. “What?”

“They— the villagers— managed to catch some of the raiders’ horses. They’ve taken what they wanted from the saddlebags, but they don’t really have the means to keep warhorses here.”

“Warhorses?” Arthur’s interest peaked. He’d already been offered anything he wanted from among the raiders’ belongings, but Arthur had declined, feeling awkward about taking from fallen foes. He was a knight, not a bandit, and to be honest, found the very idea distasteful. Warhorses, though…

“Probably stolen from knights he and his men attacked, they think. Kanen wouldn’t get ones like these just by raiding farming villages.”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a look. Come on.” He set a brisk pace back toward the houses, Guinevere hurrying after him.

“Um, sire, there’s one more thing,” she added hesitantly, “they’ve also found four more of Kanen’s men.”

Arthur sighed. “Four more bodies to be burned then.” Four more lives so easily snuffed out—

“No, my lord. They were found alive.”

Arthur came to a halt, turning to look at his foster sister’s maid. “Alive?”

It hadn’t taken long to realize that the old sorcerer’s spell hadn’t just broken Kanen’s neck. All over Ealdor, the raiders had dropped dead, killed instantly with the utterance of a single word. At first, there had been a bit of a panic as people tried to figure out what had happened, but once Arthur had taken charge and ordered a headcount, it’d become apparent that the only bodies with broken necks were that of Kanen and his men. The handful of villagers who had died clearly had wounds inflicted by swords, arrows, or axes. The implications were frightening.

Arthur didn’t know much about magic, but even he knew that it must have taken power and concentration for such a precise attack. From the look on Merlin’s face, his servant agreed— Gaius had clearly been teaching him about more than just medicine since he’d come to Camelot. A thorough search of the village had been organized, but unsurprisingly it proved futile. Wherever the old man’s spell had taken him, it was far from Ealdor.

With both threats obviously neutralized, there had been nothing left to do but clean up the village and bury the dead. The men, including Will and Arthur himself, had loaded the bodies of the raiders onto carts and taken them out to the farthest field, where they wouldn’t risk the houses catching fire and the smoke and smell wouldn’t be too invasive, while the women and children had begun clearing debris and repairing any damage that had been done. Merlin, as a physician’s apprentice, had also stayed behind to tend to the wounded.

Arthur hadn’t minded moving the bodies, but looting them had made him decidedly uncomfortable, which was why he’d only been watching when Guinevere had found him. He’d also been thinking about the sorcerer, about how to deal with a man who so effortlessly wielded such power, but so far hadn’t been able to come up with a satisfactory solution.

And now it turned out that the sorcerer hadn’t managed to kill all the raiders after all. True, four out of forty was a small number, but it made Arthur feel a bit better regardless.

“There are two older men and two younger. They haven’t attacked anyone or resisted being restrained. Hunith and Danise² have tried talking to them, but they hadn’t gotten very far when I left.”

Arthur nodded to show he’d heard. “Right. Show me.”

…

The women had pushed the four living raiders up against the side of a barn, kept there by Morgana’s sword and another woman’s pitchfork. The first man was pointedly avoiding everyone’s gazes, glaring instead at some indefinable spot over Morgana’s shoulder. The second was gingerly touching his cheek, where there was a bright red handprint, and the last two were huddled together, their heads bowed and limbs trembling, the one on the right just barely extending his arm enough for Hunith, who was kneeling in front of him, to bandage it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur noticed Will’s mother, Sal³, comforting a crying woman whom he quickly recognized as Mathew’s widow, Danise. Forcing down a wave of guilt, he turned to Morgana instead. “What happened to them?” he asked, nodding at the injured raiders.

“The boy’s arm was broken in a fight with one of the villagers,” Morgana informed him. “We found out that he,” she jerked her chin toward the man with the inflamed cheek, “was present when Mathew was killed. Naturally Danise got a little upset.” She sent a glare toward the captive raider.

“Is this true?” Arthur demanded, stepping forward. “Were you a party to the death of Mathew of Ealdor?”

Meeting Arthur’s gaze steadily, the man nodded. “I was there. I saw his killer take aim, I knew his intent, and I did nothing to stop it. His blood is on my hands.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, incredulous. That was the kind of response he’d expect from a knight, not a bandit or raider. Narrowing his eyes, he studied the man more closely. “You don’t exactly seem the type to take up with a man like Kanen,” he observed.

The man shrugged. “It wasn’t my choice, m’lord. I’m a farmer by trade— grew up in a village very much like this one, called Tal… m’lord.”

“Really? And how does a simple farmer end up as a raider of villages much like his own?”

For the first time, the man glanced away, hunching his shoulders. “They came to our home, demanding our harvest. My father was the village head, and he refused to give it to them. They— they beat him to death for it. I tried to stop it, I—.” He cut himself off with a grimace. “One farmer against two dozen or so raiders; you can guess what happened. In the end, Kanen killed everyone in the village for our defiance, except me. I’d managed to hold my own long enough that he decided I could be ‘useful’. There wasn’t much chance of escape, and even if I had I would’ve had nowhere to go, so I’ve been with them ever since. M’lord.”

Arthur considered the man’s story. It was possible he’d made it up thinking to elicit sympathy and save himself— the prince had announced to the whole village that he was willing to give Kanen a trial of sorts, even if it had mostly been a bluff— but if that was the case, why would he have mentioned being a party to Mathew’s murder? Besides that, the tale made a horrific amount of sense. Kanen’s band had been big enough that he could probably handle a few captives. Arthur ran his eyes over the four men once more, forehead wrinkled in thought. An uneasy feeling was building in his gut. Was it possible…?

“What’s your name, then?” he asked finally, causing the man to jump.

“Er— Daniel, m’lord.” He gave an awkward bow.

“Right. And how about you?” Arthur turned to the man on Daniel’s right, the one glowering over Morgana’s shoulder.

The glaring man was named Ladomas⁵, and the two keeping close to one another were Elin⁶ and Saie⁷, a pair of brothers. Ladomas’s village, Mares, had given Kanen what he wanted, but as a result, they’d starved that winter. When Kanen returned a year later for the next harvest, he found only a handful of the strongest still alive. Since they couldn’t give him their grain, he’d decided they would give him their service instead. Ladomas was the only one of them to have survived this long.

Elin and Saie, on the other hand, were from Graie. In exchange for letting that village keep some of their grain, Kanen had taken the boys as part of the village’s tribute instead. Because they had no other family, there hadn’t been anyone invested enough to stop him.

What were the odds, Arthur wondered, of the sorcerer sparing the only four men who hadn’t chosen the life of a raider, completely by chance? Impossibly high, no doubt, which had some alarming implications about the man’s powers. Was it a common ability among sorcerers, to be able to get inside a person’s head and learn all about them without necessarily having to be anywhere near them? He hoped not.

“You going to kill us then, your highness?” Ladomas sneered, calling Arthur’s attention back to the four of them, “’cause I’d really prefer if you just got on with it.”

“Nobody’s going to kill you,” Morgana said firmly, sending Arthur a look that dared him to argue with her. “You’re just as much Kanen’s victims as anyone.”

Ladomas scoffed. “What do you propose to do with us, then? Let us go? In case you hadn’t realized, none of us really has anywhere to return to, and I’d rather die a quick death by the sword than a slow one of hunger and exposure.”

“You can stay here, in Ealdor.” Everyone turned to look at Hunith in surprise. “There are several families with extra room in their homes, and it’s not as if we don’t have the supplies, considering what we’ve managed to scavenge from Kanen’s band. Besides, we could use the extra hands come spring.”

The prince stared at Merlin’s mother. Was she seriously inviting four strange men to come and live in her village— strange men who had only hours before been attacking her and her neighbors? Four men who were part of the reason why some of her friends were now dead? Arthur tried to imagine his home being invaded, watching his knights fall at the hands of enemy combatants, and then later inviting said enemy to come and live in the very rooms that used to belong to the knights they had struck down. It was inconceivable.

There was nothing he could say about it at this point, though. Hunith had apparently already convinced Danise to go and inform the village elders, and the captured raiders weren’t offering much in the way of protests. Feeling completely out of his depth, Arthur turned back to Guinevere.

“So, how about those warhorses?”

…

A few hours later, Arthur had decided he would take four out of the six horses back to Camelot. They were sturdy animals, a little shabby looking after the poor treatment they’d clearly received, but with proper care, he was sure they would make a valuable addition to the royal stables. He approached each one in turn, talking to them soothingly until they allowed him to stroke their necks. He kept it up as he began to examine them, checking their teeth and their knees especially. It didn’t take long for them to relax and let him do what he needed.

“Arthur.”

The prince forced himself to turn around slowly (so as not to spook the horses, not because he needed to hide how startled he’d been, thank you very much) and face Morgana.

“Something you need?” he asked, running his hands over a bay mare’s chest.

“I came to tell you that your disdain for these people hasn’t gone unnoticed, and that you should think twice before you judge them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw the look on your face when Hunith said the people of Ealdor would take Daniel and the others in. You were appalled and you let them know it.”

“Well, can you blame me?” Arthur asked, stepping away from the horses as he raised his voice, “I mean it’s not exactly a normal thing to do.”

“Maybe not for someone of royal birth, but these are poor farmers,” Morgana said angrily. “They can’t afford luxuries like holding grudges or being too noble to salvage whatever they can from the dead— yes, I know you disapprove of that, too,” she snapped before he could deny it. “Maybe as a prince and a knight, you can afford to live by the so-called ‘rules’ of honor and nobility, but did you ever stop to think that maybe not everyone can? That these people whom you look so down upon are just doing what they have to, to survive?”

No, quite frankly, until today he hadn’t. Arthur had always been taught that peasants were base, crude, vulgar. That was why they needed to be ruled by the nobility, to keep them in check. Easily replacing their family members with strangers and looting corpses were exactly the kinds of things one should expect from peasants, because that’s just how peasants were. The idea that they were driven by survival, not innate primitive instincts, had never occurred to him.

And what if it was true? Guinevere had already told him, in no uncertain terms, that food was scarce here. If life as a common farmer, servant, or craftsman was difficult enough that it forced people to stoop to such levels just to survive, how could the nobility claim that the masses had to be kept in those positions… because they were willing to stoop to such levels?

The circular logic made Arthur’s head hurt, which was precisely the reason why he hadn’t been thinking about it. But of course, that wasn’t going to be enough for Morgana— not that he’d ever admit any of his thoughts to her anyway.

“I know that they’re making the best of a bad situation, especially with winter coming,” he said instead. “I was just… taken by surprise is all.”

Morgana huffed. “Well, you owe Hunith an apology at least. She’s been nothing but welcoming to us and all you’ve done is look down your nose at her.” With that, Morgana turned and flounced away, leaving Arthur to go back to the horses.

“Girls,” he grumbled to one of the geldings, “They always seem to find something to nag you about.” Whether or not they were right about that something was irrelevant.

Ealdor, Orkney

9 Due 481

Sunset⁸

For the first time all day, Merlin found himself with nothing to do. The wounded had all gone home, and it was getting too dark to continue with cleaning up the village. His mother and Gwen had shooed him out of the house while they cooked supper, and Arthur still wasn’t back from looking at his new mounts. He didn’t know where Morgana had gotten to.

Unfortunately, the idleness meant that he was now free to think, something he’d been avoiding ever since he’d realized six people had died earlier that day.

"You’re telling me you’d rather keep your magic a secret for Arthur’s sake than use it to protect your friends and family?”

“You could end this. If you used your magic, then no one else would have to die.”

"You know I can’t.”

"Can’t or won’t? I’m not the one abandoning these people, Merlin. You are.”

“If it comes to a choice, between saving people’s lives and revealing who I really am— there is no choice.”

“…if he doesn’t accept me for who I really am, then… he’s not the friend I hoped he was.”

Had those really been his words? He’d said them, but he hadn’t acted as if he’d believed them, and now, six people were dead because of it.

What had he been waiting for? Why hadn’t he stepped in and stopped the attack as soon as he could? He knew the answer, of course— he’d choked. For all his brave words, his fear had gotten the better of him. If that old sorcerer hadn’t shown up when he did, how many more bodies would they be burning?

Merlin’s self-flagellation was interrupted by two approaching voices, and he looked up to see Morgana and Will, deep in conversation and laughing with one another. He blinked. Huh. He hadn’t been expecting that.

“Where have you two been?”

Morgana rolled her eyes. “Please. Arthur may be too proud to accept a gift of thanks, but I’m not.” She held up two daggers, one with an intricately carved wooden handle, the other with a silver hilt inlaid with glittering stones. Each was sheathed in fine leather and obviously expensive. “One for me and one for Gwen. I’m going to give it to her now.” She slipped inside the house, calling for her friend.

“I managed to convince those stodgy old goats to let me have Kanen’s crossbow,” Will informed Merlin, showing him the weapon he had resting against his shoulder. “Can you imagine how much meat I’ll be able to bring in with this thing?”

Merlin made a face. Even when it was just for survival, he still didn’t like hunting very much. “So, what were you doing with Morgana?”

“Oh, we just happened to run into each other while going through the raiders’ loot. Since I planned on coming home straight after, I offered to walk with her, because, you know, our houses are close by?” Will explained with a pointed look at Merlin’s front door.

Merlin raised his hands in surrender. “I believe you. I just… didn’t think she and you would get along so well.”

Will shrugged. “She’s not too bad, for someone of nobility.”

Merlin’s lips quirked upwards into a smile. “No, she really isn’t. Actually I think Morgana’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, let alone nobles.”

“What about your friend the prince?”

“Arthur's… kind in a different way.” Merlin cocked his head curiously. “Why are you so determined not to like him?”

His friend dropped his gaze, staring down at the ground instead and scuffing it with his boot. “You seem awfully close to him.”

Oh, was that all? “I didn't go to Camelot and replace you, Will. I could never, even if I wanted to. You were the first person to find out… about me, and not hate me or, or fear me because of it. Arthur may be my friend, but he’s also my master, and a royal ass. You and I… we’re the same. We grew up together, both as peasants— equals.”

“But we’re not equals, Merlin,” Will forced out with surprising vehemence. “I have no idea what it was like for you, growing up with your secret, and I didn’t even try to understand. I had no right to accuse you of turning your back on us, to place the blame for anything that would happen with Kanan squarely on your shoulders. It wasn't fair, and a good friend wouldn’t have done it.”

“No, Will, you were right,” Merlin argued. “I was afraid, and I allowed my fear to control me. I was willing to let people die just to protect my secret. That's not the type of person I want to be. You were right to call me out.”

Will just shook his head. “Maybe. But I could have been nicer about it. Look, I’m trying to say sorry, all right?”

“All right,” Merlin accepted, “but only if you let me say sorry, too. I haven’t been the best friend either.”

The other man snorted. “Yeah. It wasn’t very nice of you to just up and disappear without saying goodbye.”

“No, it wasn’t. My mother… she was afraid, and she convinced me to be afraid, too, and that wasn’t fair of me, to doubt you like that.”

“It’s fear that’s kept you alive all these years,” Will pointed out.

“Yeah,” Merlin nodded, “but it was also fear that almost led me to stand by and do nothing while innocent people were killed today.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You’re a good man, Merlin,” Will said softly. “A great man. And one day, you’re going to be servant to a great king.”

Merlin arched an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like Arthur?”

“He came to help us when he didn’t have to. I… might have been a little too hard on him, after seeing how he treated you.”

Merlin opened his mouth to defend his master, but cut himself off after a pointed look from Will, who had just caught a glimpse of Arthur approaching over the warlock’s shoulder.

The prince appeared to be deep in thought, which normally Merlin would have teased him about, but he wasn’t in the mood, not today. Still, it was rather amusing when Arthur finally spotted them, pulling up short with a startled look on his face. Clearly, he’d been so preoccupied with whatever was bothering him that he hadn’t noticed them watching him.

“Merlin,” he greeted his servant, quickly arranging his face into a neutral expression. “William.” For a long moment, there was an awkward silence between the three young men, leaving Merlin frantically scrambling for something to say, but then Arthur turned and marched into the house, head held high.

When they were sure he was out of hearing range, Merlin and Will allowed themselves to snicker quietly.

“What was that?” Will asked through his guffaws.

“That was Arthur being his normal socially awkward self,” Merlin said. “I feel sorry for him, really. Before I came along the only times he spoke with people his own age was when he was training the knights, ordering the servants around or arguing with—"

“You are not going to send an army of soldiers after a man who just saved Merlin’s entire village—”

“No, I’d be sending them after a sorcerer, Morgana. A powerful, dangerous sorcerer who—”

“You don’t know he’s dangerous—"

Any feeling of mirth faded between the two childhood friends as the argument washed over them. Merlin’s face fell, his lips drawn in a thin line.

Will nudged him away from the house, keeping his voice low as he asked, “What do you think Arthur will do about that old sorcerer?”

Merlin glanced back at the doorway, from which Arthur’s and Morgana’s raised voices could still be heard. “I wish I knew.”

London, England

24 May 2160

6:18 PM

“This is, um… insane,” Toby laughed awkwardly. Leo managed a tight smile in response. He hadn’t felt so awkward in a situation for a long, long time.

Stanley, a warlock currently renting the Hawkins’s spare room, set a gravy boat down alongside the rest of the meal, then took a seat next to Sophie, an extra chair having been squeezed in for him since Leo was in his usual spot at the foot of the table. Leo had tried to protest, but Laura had insisted.

She’d been remarkably welcoming so far, considering he’d just shown up out of the blue seeking refuge at her house, bringing the danger that was his constant companion with him. Of course, the fact that he’d shown up in the company of her daughter had probably helped.

Leo glanced over at Mattie, only to find her watching him. Hastily he looked away, embarrassed despite himself.

“This looks wonderful, thank you, Stanley,” Laura said, smiling at the young man.

“It was my pleasure,” the warlock returned, smiling back. Somehow the brief exchange managed to make Leo feel more awkward. He felt like an intruder, an outsider in this loving, familial atmosphere.

As Laura began to dish out the food, Sophie leaned forward in her seat so that she could see Leo around Stanley’s broad frame. “Were you with Mia and Niska? Are they coming back, too?” she asked hopefully.

“I don’t think so,” Leo answered as gently as he could. Sophie was just barely ten, and her life had already been through so much upheaval—

“Do they know you’re awake?” Toby asked.

“I don’t know,” Leo said, a bit helplessly. “I don’t even know where they are.” He looked anxiously at Mattie. He couldn’t believe she’d been by his side for over a year while he recovered from Hester’s attack. She was brilliant, attractive, determined— she should have forgotten about him. She shouldn’t have wasted her time waiting for someone as damaged as he was when she could have been doing anything else.

He shouldn’t be thinking about her so much.

“Nobody really knows where Niska is, that’s a part of her job,” Laura told Sophie firmly before Mattie could say anything. She looked back at Leo. “Mia’s been in touch, though,” she said, her voice softening. “She’s safe, and… she has a plan.”

“What plan?” Leo asked, feeling a stab of longing cut through him. They used to make plans together, before.

“She should explain it herself. I’ll try and reach her for you.”

“Thank you,” Leo said gratefully. It was more than he had any right to expect from her.

“How are you even walking around?” Toby asked, apparently still reeling over Leo’s presence at his dinner table. “You’ve been in a coma for, like, a year.”

“I seem to be recovering… a lot faster than anticipated.” Leo hoped no one was going to look too closely at that. He might already be known as an incredibly powerful warlock, but some of his other… characteristics were harder to explain.

“Well, we’re just pleased you’re okay,” Laura told him, a gentle smile curving her lips. “We’ve all been quite worried about you. Now go on, tuck in.”

Leo was suddenly overwhelmed with a rush of homesickness so potent it hurt. He hadn’t thought about his own mother in decades— it was easy not to when he couldn’t remember her face or the sound of her voice— but the way Laura had looked at him just then …

Memories he’d thought long buried came flooding back. His mother used to smile at him, just like that. Back when he’d been a boy, still ignorant of the cruelties of the world. Back when he’d been almost happy. Quickly he ducked his head, focusing on the food on his plate and blinking furiously. He was not going to break down in tears because of a smile. He was not.

Fortunately, trying to get the food on his fork and then his fork to his mouth took up a great deal of his attention, his body not used to working properly anymore after everything it’d been through, and he was able to block out the ghosts of his past until they’d faded back into the mists once more.

Southwest Edge of the Forest of Ascetir, Camelot

10 Due 481

Sunset

It was a quiet and rather strained group of four that made their way back to Camelot the next day, no one daring to break the silence. Arthur was tense and moody, his ill temper only exacerbated by Morgana’s constant glaring. Gwen was clearly anxious about a potential argument breaking out, and Merlin, for once, was reluctant to try and clear the air. Not when the source of contention was sorcery— specifically, sorcery that had just saved the lives and livelihoods of his family and friends.

It wasn’t until they’d halted and made camp for the evening that Morgana finally spoke up.

“So, what are you going to tell Uther about the sorcerer?” Gwen sucked in a breath, glancing anxiously at the prince, while Merlin almost tripped over his own feet in alarm. Morgana, however, merely raised a perfect eyebrow challengingly at her foster brother, daring him to reply.

Picking a stick up off the ground and poking at the fire, Arthur answered curtly, “I should report the man to Father. As I’m sure you’ve realized, Morgana, he fits the description of one of those druids that escaped a few months back.” Merlin looked at him in surprise. The old man hadn’t looked like a druid, and he certainly hadn’t acted like one. “He’s clearly a very powerful sorcerer, able to kill over thirty men with only a word. If he turns that power against Camelot because I failed to report him, failed to go after him…”

“But he didn’t do anything wrong,” Morgana argued. “If a knight had killed Kanen and his men, thereby saving an entire village, he’d be hailed as a hero. Why is it that because he used magic to accomplish the same feat he’s immediately condemned?”

“Because a knight wouldn’t be able to do it with a word,” Arthur retorted, getting to his feet and beginning to pace in front of the fire. “A knight takes an oath of loyalty and answers to his king. No man should have that kind of power and be able to go about wielding it however he pleases.”

“So you would condemn a man for something he might do, rather than something he has done,” Morgana said angrily. “Who knows how many lives he saved by stopping Kanen— who knows how many lives he might save in the future if you just let him be.” She sniffed. “You were perfectly happy to defend him when he rescued those druids. Why is rescuing an entire village any different?”

Arthur stopped his pacing and whirled to face her, “Because I thought he was one of them!” he exclaimed. “I thought he was a druid. The druids have proven themselves to be peaceful. They don’t do things like that old man did. And if I can’t trust him to always be peaceful, can I really afford to just turn my back and walk away?”

Morgana opened her mouth to continue arguing, but before she could, she was interrupted by Gwen’s soft, steady voice. “My Lord. My Lady. I don’t think there’s much point to this debate. The sorcerer was last seen in Cenred’s lands, and the king has made it clear that he won’t cross Cenred’s borders for fear of putting the truce at risk.” She looked at Arthur. “Even if you did report seeing the sorcerer, there wouldn’t really be anything your father could do.”

The lady looked like she wanted to argue that point as well (Merlin couldn’t say he blamed her; he had his own doubts about Gwen’s reasoning), but Arthur actually looked relieved, and Merlin wasn’t about to ruin it by protesting.

“Guinevere’s right,” the prince said firmly. “The sorcerer wasn’t seen in Camelot, so there really isn’t anything to report. We’ll simply tell my father the truth— we fought Kanen’s men, and they were defeated. The details are unimportant, especially since Ealdor isn’t even in our lands.” He fetched the water skin from his saddle and drained it dry before tossing it at Merlin’s head. “Go and fill that up, won’t you Merlin? And you should probably fill the rest of them while you’re at it.”

…

Trekking towards the nearby stream they’d spotted just before making camp, Merlin allowed himself to feel a small amount of hope. Arthur hadn’t wanted to report the old sorcerer to Uther. He’d been conflicted about it. Merlin didn’t know if the prince realized the implications of what he’d been saying, but perhaps, with a few nudges from his servant…

Having completed his task, he turned to head back to camp— and came face to face with the old sorcerer who’d killed Kanen.

“Wha— who— how—?” he spluttered ineloquently, tripping over his own feet as he attempted to take a step back. The old man seized his arm and held him upright, pulling him in so close their noses almost touched. Merlin stilled at the sudden close quarters.

“Listen carefully, Emrys. There are those who will seek to exploit your inexperience, but you must resist them. There may be prophecies written about the great Emrys, but those who wrote them are merely soothsayers, diviners, or seers, they are not you. Only you are Emrys, so only you can decide what path you will walk. Prophecies are all well and good, but they exist only to give hope in the time before they come to pass. Turn to them for instructions on how to complete your destiny, and you will regret it.”

Here the man paused, seeming to hesitate, or maybe just mull over the best way to continue. Merlin, meanwhile, was completely gob-smacked, reeling from the deluge of information that had just been dumped on him.

“One more thing,” the sorcerer spoke again, “the same goes for Arthur. He is the Once and Future King, and you must trust him to fulfill his own destiny, just as you must trust in yourself to complete yours. Remember, prophecies do not cause things to happen. The Golden Age of Albion will come because of who you are, and because of who Arthur is.”

For one moment, that seemed to last both a mere blink and an eternity, Merlin was pinned under the man’s hawk-like gaze, and then… and then he was gone.

Startled, the servant fell on his backside with a yelp that he was extremely grateful Arthur hadn’t been around to hear.

Citadel, Camelot

15 Due 481

3^rd Candlemark past Sunset

With the issue of what to do about the sorcerer resolved, the remainder of the trip home was much more pleasant, and the four young travelers found themselves quite enjoying each other’s company without the restrictions of rank and station. It was even pleasant enough that Merlin was able to put aside the strange warnings from the old sorcerer, at least for a while.

Returning to Camelot put a bit of a damper on the mood, since Uther was naturally furious at his ward and son for disappearing in the middle of the night on an unsanctioned mission, but other than a scolding in front of the court, he didn’t seem inclined to punish them further. Nobody else seemed too bothered by Morgana and Arthur’s small rebellion either— most of the knights thought it a fantastic story, showing off the prowess of their prince. (Since Arthur couldn’t mention the sorcerer, he’d had to take the credit for the victory himself, poor man.)

For a short time, Merlin was worried that Uther would decide that Arthur’s manservant had too much influence on him and would try to separate them, but he shouldn’t have overestimated his own importance. Merlin being capable of any sort of influence on Arthur had probably never even entered the man’s head.

After things had settled back into their normal routine (well, as normal as things ever got in Camelot) Merlin slipped away to pay another visit to the dragon, buzzing with questions.

Why had the other mage called him “Emrys?” Who would seek to exploit his inexperience? What did the prophecy about him and Arthur actually say? He’d never given it much thought before, assuming whatever the dragon told him had been based on his own mysterious magical powers, or his dragon-ly intuition, or whatever.

Yeah, Merlin probably should have pushed for more information on that.

When he arrived at the dragon’s cave, the great beast was nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t unusual— his chain allowed him a considerable range of movement, at least from Merlin’s human perspective. “Hello?” he called out to let the dragon know he was there and nearly dropped his torch when the creature suddenly revealed himself with a hissing roar, clinging to one of the cavern’s walls and almost blending in with it entirely.

“Do you have to do that?” Merlin gasped, feeling his heart trying to leap out of his chest. “You scared the life out of me.”

With the beat of wings and the rattle of his chain, the dragon left his perch and came to face Merlin, settling on the central rock formation. “The young warlock. No doubt you’re here about the recent disturbances in the earth’s magic.”

Merlin blinked at him. “There have been disturbances?”

The dragon pulled back with an air of mild surprise. “Have you not felt it? Ever since the druid boy set foot in Camelot, the magic of the world itself has been stretching and twisting in most unnatural ways. You must find out what’s causing it and bring it to an end, or there is no telling what the long-term consequences could be for Albion.”

That was…ominous. But, “What druid boy?”

“The one who called out with his mind.”

“Oh. You heard that, too?”

“Yes. Tell me, what became of him?”

“He escaped, along with the man he was traveling with,” Merlin answered, wondering why the dragon was asking. He’d never taken an interest in any of the other magic users Uther had arrested (or tried to arrest) in Camelot.

“A pity. His death would have saved you a lot of trouble.”

“What? How could the death of an innocent child possibly benefit me?”

“Heed my words, Merlin. If the boy lives, you cannot fulfill your destiny.”

“What’s a druid boy got to do with my destiny?” Merlin demanded. “You said it’s my destiny to protect Arthur.”

“You insist on asking questions you already have the answers to.”

Merlin felt an uncomfortable pit growing in his stomach. “You’re telling me… that a small child is going to kill Arthur?”

“He will not be a small child forever. You would do well to strike him down before he becomes more dangerous.”

Bile rose in the warlock’s throat. Kill him before he has a chance to become a threat. He’d heard reasoning like that before.

“No. I won’t kill a child for something they might do. That’s what Uther does! I won’t be like him!”

“You—”

“No. No, I won’t— I don’t want to hear any more about this!” Merlin fled back the way he’d come, any thoughts of asking the dragon about Emrys and prophecy shoved to the back of his mind. Suddenly, he didn’t want to know.

Chapter Text

Why should the nations say, “Where is your God”? Let the avenging of the outpoured blood of your servants be known among the nations before our eyes! Let the groans of the prisoners come before you; according to your great power, preserve those doomed to die! Psalm 79:10-11 ESV

Lower Town, Camelot’s Citadel

18 Knollart 481

15^th Candlemark Past Sunset¹

“Stop!”

“Stop that man!”

The guards' cries echoed in the stillness of the night, disturbing those few who hadn’t yet retired to bed. It was testament to the fear that Uther had instilled in his people that those few had quickly drawn their curtains and doused their candles, not wanting to risk falling under suspicion. At the sound of the guards’ shouts, everyone should have been lighting their lanterns, peering out their windows, and hoping to catch a good piece of gossip for the morrow.  The old beggar, unnoticed in the shadows as he peered out from underneath his ragged hood, watched grimly and mourned for the kingdom Camelot could have been.

He indulged himself only briefly, however; he had come here with a purpose, and there was no time for sentimentality. Slowly, he got to his feet and shuffled towards Tom’s forge, the place that had just been raided. He’d been worried that there might be some guards left behind to guard it, but those who hadn’t taken Tom to the cells had all given chase after the sorcerer. A foolish oversight, but one he was grateful for.

Concealed within the smithy the man discarded his shuffle and hurried over to the spot where, not even a candlemark ago, the sorcerer Tauren had stood and condemned Tom to his fate by practicing magic in Camelot. The old beggar crouched down and began feeling along the dirt floor with his hands. His search was quickly rewarded. Prize safely hidden in an inner pocket, he straightened and tugged his hood back into place, making sure his face was hidden again before poking his head out the workshop’s door. There wasn’t another soul in sight.

Once again adopting his slow, faltering pace, the old beggar left the forge and disappeared into the night.

Arthur’s Chambers, Castle of Camelot

19 Knollart 481

10^th Candlemark Past Sunrise²

Morgana gave a light knock before pushing open the door to her foster brother’s chambers, not bothering to wait for a reply. “Arthur?” Silence. Of course, this time of the morning he was out training his knights, which was precisely why she’d chosen now to come “looking” for him.

Ever since the commotion of Tom’s arrest last night (she had already retired for the evening by then, but sleep hadn’t come easily to her in years) the king’s ward had been in a state of frazzled anxiety. She’d tried to make Uther see reason, but he wouldn’t listen to her— he never listened she couldn’t make him listen— she’d been forced to return to her chambers for a restless night of tossing and turning, a pit of dread hollowing out her stomach.

Almost as soon as the sun had come up, she’d gone to the lower town to find Gwen, intending to offer what comfort she could, but the maidservant hadn’t been at home or at her father’s forge. It was only after Morgana had gone to Gaius for one of his energy potions (something she partook of occasionally when her rest had been particularly lacking) that she’d discovered the girl hadn’t left all night, staying over in the elderly physician’s chambers. (In Merlin’s bed, but this was hardly the type of occasion to use as teasing fodder.)

Now it was almost midday, and after a morning spent pacing around her chambers, Morgana had made up her mind: she would save Tom from Uther’s paranoia, no matter what it took.

With purposeful strides, the lady crossed the room and approached the small chest placed by the prince’s bedside, quickly searching each drawer for the distinctive iron key that would allow Tom to escape the dungeons.

It wasn’t there.

What? She checked again, carefully studying each key she found before setting it aside, and then repeating the process when the one she sought still didn't appear. Perhaps she was remembering incorrectly? But no, she knew what every one of those other keys did; she'd made Arthur tell her after he'd lost a bet, jealous of what he, as the prince, had access to that she didn’t. She searched a third time, meticulously going through the chest’s entire contents, but her efforts were in vain.

There was nothing for it. The key to the dungeon cells wasn't there. Arthur must have it with him. Slamming the small drawers shut, Morgana blinked back angry and frustrated tears. Her plan wouldn’t work, and Tom would die tomorrow.

Uther was expecting her to dine with him for the midday meal, but she would claim to be ill. It wasn’t that far from the truth anyway, after having stayed up all night.

Morgana turned and stalked out of the room, hating the feeling of helplessness closing in around her. As she’d told Merlin, there was no hope now.

Dungeons, Castle of Camelot

19 Knollart 481

15^th Candlemark Past Sunset

Tom the blacksmith paced around and around his cell, his steps following the pattern of his thoughts. What had he done? What had he done? In his attempt to give his daughter a better life, a better future, he’d destroyed what she’d already had. When he was gone (he was under no illusion that tomorrow’s trial would end with anything but an order for his execution), how would she fend for herself? She would be an outcast, a pariah; people would be afraid to associate with her for fear of having suspicion cast on them too. Tom had seen it happen repeatedly to the family members of those who had fallen victim to Uther’s purge— if there were any of them left, which there often weren’t.

She probably wouldn’t be able to keep her job as the Lady Morgana’s maid, he thought; Uther would surely demand her dismissal if not her banishment. What would she do then? No one would hire her or take her on as an apprentice; she would be reduced to menial drudgery, the work no one else wanted to do, just to survive. It would be a miserable, lonely existence.

There was very little chance any man would be interested in marrying her, either, now that her family name was sullied. Tom supposed she could always leave Camelot and seek a life elsewhere, where she and her past were unknown. She could travel to an outlying village and marry a farmer, or even leave the kingdom altogether and settle in some other capital city. But how would she make the journey? Traveling was expensive and dangerous; would she even survive long enough to find a new home?

This was his fault. His little girl’s future, ruined by his own actions. Oh, what would his sweet Berell³ say if she could see him now? What had he done?

And so his thoughts went on, around and around and around…

It was only much later that Tom, completely worn out, finally stopped his pacing and lay down to sleep. It was fitful and restless, and he was easily roused from it, sometime before dawn, by a strange thud-slap-drag, thud-slap-drag sound echoing off the dungeon’s walls. Cautiously, he rose to his feet and approached the cell door, peering out from behind the bars. It was getting closer now, thud-slap-drag, thud-slap-drag. What was...?

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a figure rounded the corner, heading straight for him. It certainly wasn't one of the guards; no, this man was old, with long, white hair and a beard to match, dressed in a blue robe and red vest and leaning heavily on a walking stick as he moved— which he managed at an alarming rate considering his age and his apparent need for t the implement.

“Who— who are you?” Tom choked out in alarm. He'd never seen the man before, and shouldn't any visitor have been escorted by the guards?

“Unimportant,” the man dismissed with a flick of his free hand. “You must be the blacksmith.” He snorted in derision at his own observation. “But of course, who else would you be? Hold very still now, and this won't hurt. Probably.” The man raised his hand and aimed at Tom before beginning to chant in a strange language, his eyes burning gold. Tom leaped back in terror.

“What are you doing!? Stop!”

“I’m going to KILL YOU!” the sorcerer announced, for some reason shouting the last two words. “With my MAGIC, because I am an EVIL SORCERER!”

Utterly dumbfounded, it took Tom a few moments to realize that, perhaps, he shouldn’t just stand there and let himself be murdered. “GUARDS! HELP!” He yelled as loudly as he could, shrinking back further into the cell, as far away from his would-be murderer as possible.

“No one is coming to help you, BLACKSMITH. You are trapped in YOUR CELL, even if it is the FIRST ONE ON THE LEFT, and I, the EVIL SORCERER, am STANDING RIGHT OUTSIDE THE DOOR, about to KILL HI— YOU!” The old man began speaking in his strange tongue again, this time much faster, and Tom could have sworn he felt the air getting thicker, closing in on him, stealing his breath...

“Halt, sorcerer!” The demand, accompanied by the sound of footsteps and clinking chainmail, cut through the heaviness pressing on Tom's lungs, and he gasped in great gulps of fresh air, sagging against the damp stone wall. By the time he’d regained his bearings, the old sorcerer was being gripped tightly by two guards, scowling fiercely.

“You couldn't have waited thirty more seconds, could you?” he groused.

Hawkins’s House, London

16 August 2157

7:56 AM

“Everybody down!”

“Get down!”

“On the floor, now!”

For a moment, Leo couldn’t understand what he was seeing. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion— the masked police swarming into the house, their machine guns raised and ready. Karen— just standing there like everything was fine while Fred, Niska, and the Hawkins family were forced to the floor, their hands in the air.

And then two of the officers laid their hands on him, forcing his arms behind his back, and time seemed to speed up again.

“NO! No, no, no!” He screamed and struggled, reaching desperately for his magic, but it was beyond his reach, blocked by one of the suppressant bracelets he still hadn’t figured out how to work around, seeing as the only way to do so was to wear one. Dimly he realized Karen must have slipped it on him right before the police had burst in.

Max was roughly yanked off the table and shoved to the floor, despite being unconscious and wounded, and then Hobb was there, strutting through the place like he owned it. Leo’s desperation increased tenfold. After fifteen hundred years, how could he still be fighting and losing the same battle? All he’d ever wanted was freedom and equality for his kind, but no matter what he did, the world was determined to see them as monsters. Heinrich Kramer, William Payne, and now Edwin Hobb— their names, their faces, their times were different, but their hatred was the same. Would he never be rid of it?

“Do calm him down, would you?” Hobb addressed one of the men holding Leo as if he were merely asking him to close a window. There was a sharp prick in Leo’s neck, and the world faded to darkness.

Throne Room, Castle of Camelot

20 Knollart 481

2^nd Candlemark past Sunrise

Yawning heavily, Arthur shoved his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and pulled it up around his shoulders, all the while hurrying down the hall to the throne room. Normally he would have had Merlin dress him completely before leaving his chambers, but this was an urgent matter— it had to be, for his father to have convened the council first thing in the morning— and he needed to be there as soon as possible. Besides, Merlin was barely awake himself and had fumbled more than usual when helping Arthur get the rest of his clothes on; waiting for his sleep-deprived brain to figure out the jacket as well would have been a waste of time.

At last, prince and manservant arrived at the grand doors that marked the entryway, and with a brief nod from Arthur, the guards pulled them open before standing aside to let them pass. Arthur hurried to the front of the room, taking his position at his father’s right shoulder, while Merlin slipped off to the side to stand beside Gaius. Morgana was seated at Uther’s left, looking thin and drawn, her elegant appearance clearly thanks to her maid’s efforts only.

As soon as Arthur was in position, Uther ordered the guards to bring in the prisoner. The prince had heard only the bare minimum from the messenger who had interrupted his breakfast: a sorcerer had been caught by Tom’s cell last night. Arthur felt equally anxious and hopeful; this man might be able to tell them more about Tauren, perhaps convince his father to investigate further into the blacksmith’s crime. Or… or he could seal Tom’s (admittedly already pretty sealed) fate.

The double doors to the throne room opened once again, bringing with them the sound of manacles and chains clinking together. Two guards escorted the sorcerer into the room, one on each side, and Arthur’s brain promptly stopped working because—

It was the old sorcerer from Ealdor.

He blinked once, then twice, hoping that what he was seeing was merely a mirage brought on by early-morning drowsiness. No such luck. The old man’s scowling face remained as clear as day.

Arthur could feel his palms begin to sweat as his heart picked up speed, his mind whirling. He’d let the man go. Hadn’t said a word about him to his father or anyone else, had hoped, naïvely, that the sorcerer would stay in Orkney and cause no more trouble for Camelot. How foolish that had been. Hadn’t his father told him, over and over, that magic users had to be stopped no matter what? Arthur had ignored that advice, and now it seemed his kingdom would pay the price for it. If this old sorcerer was in league with Tauren… he swallowed hard.

…

It took all of Merlin’s self-control not to gape when the prisoner was brought in. It was the same old sorcerer who had accosted him in the forest on the journey home from Ealdor, only a few weeks ago. The one who was powerful enough to kill over thirty men with a word, who could disappear at will. How in the name of all that was sacred had he gotten caught? Did… did Uther have something that could suppress magic, prevent people from using it?

Merlin felt an icy shudder go down his spine at the thought.

Once the guards had reached the throne, Uther gestured for them to speak. “Your report?”

“Your majesty, we were patrolling our usual route when we heard this sorcerer and the blacksmith— the prisoner— shouting at each other. It sounded like the prisoner was calling for help. We rushed to his cell and found this man,” the guard prodded him unnecessarily hard, earning a glare from the elder, “attempting to cast a spell on him.”

Uther looked disdainfully down at the prisoner. “Well, sorcerer? What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Oh, I have a great deal to say,” the old man returned, shaking his finger in Uther’s direction and rattling his chains in the process, “first off concerning the deplorable manners of your guards. In case it’s escaped your notice, I am an old man and can only walk so fast. Pushing and shoving and dragging makes very little difference to my old bones. Didn’t your mothers ever teach you to respect your elders!?” This was directed at the two guards, who seemed a bit taken aback by the reprimand.

The king’s scowl darkened, and he leaned forward in his seat. “What kind of spell were you attempting to cast on the blacksmith?”

 “Well, I would think that much would be obvious. Do none of you have any brains!? I was trying to kill him, since clearly you weren’t going to do it. I snuck in to do away with the unfortunate patsy and then be on my way.”

“How did you get past the guards?” Uther demanded. (Despite the seriousness of the situation, Merlin had to bite his lip in order to hold back a snort.)

The older magician had no such restraint, and he looked at the tyrant king as if he had said something incredibly stupid. “Magic, obviously. I can make myself, invisible, you know.”

“Is that a common ability among sorcerers?” Arthur asked, looking alarmed.

“Hardly,” the old man scoffed. “One of the few to have mastered it, myself.”

“Why were you trying to kill the blacksmith?” Uther asked, sending his son a warning look.

The man rolled his eyes. “Because Tauren revealed too much to him about the plan, and then the stupid boy ran off like a scared little girl and left all the evidence behind. And he fancies himself the fearless leader of a band of renegade sorcerers! I tell you, it’s a miracle they’ve lasted this long.”

“So you and the blacksmith are both in league with Tauren,” Uther said, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Certainly not!” the prisoner denied, as if the very idea repulsed him. “The blacksmith is no ally of ours! He’s nothing but an unwitting pawn in Tauren’s latest scheme.” There was a pause, and Uther opened his mouth to ask another question, but the old man continued, “Of course, I was against the idea right from the start. I told him it wouldn’t work, that he was a fool for even trying it. ‘Tauren,’ I said, ‘There’re too many things that could go wrong while trying to frame ordinary peasants for consorting with sorcerers. How are you going to even make it look convincing? What if they realize who you are and call for the guards? Then you’ll be up a creek without a paddle.’” (Merlin’s brow furrowed. Up a creek without a paddle? What did that mean?) “Would the fool listen? No! And of course, his plan backfired and I’m the one left cleaning up the mess!”

The king seemed to be struggling to come up with a response to this, so Arthur, more tentatively this time, once again stepped in. “How did Tauren intend to… frame people?”

“By consorting with them of course; it’s in the name of the crime, consorting with sorcerers. So instead of using magic to clean his own laundry or hunt for his own meat, he goes to unsuspecting laundresses and butchers. Instead of camping out in the woods, he pays for a room at an inn— though frankly I can’t blame him for that last one. Bloody uncomfortable, camping. And of course, he can’t be bothered to melt his own lead; instead, he finds some hapless blacksmith to do it for him.”

“What would he want with melted lead?” asked the prince.

“Ah! And that’s why I have to kill the blacksmith, or else he’ll tell you all about how Tauren can turn lead into gold.”

The prince’s eyes went wide as the other members of the court started whispering to each other. Merlin shared a significant look with Gaius.

“Tauren can turn lead into gold!?”

“What?” the old sorcerer barked furiously, “Who told you that?”

Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You did.”

“I most certainly did not!”

The court’s murmuring grew more intense. Clearly, this sorcerer was even madder than the rest.

Uther waved a hand to quiet everyone, taking back control with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. Merlin’s heart sank. As far as the king was concerned, uncovering Tauren’s plan would be the end of it. There was no need for further questions.

Arthur seemed to have come to the same conclusion, because he quickly blurted out, “If he can turn lead into gold, why has Tauren been trying to frame people? What does he expect to gain from it?”

Merlin felt gratitude rising in his chest. Arthur was trying to help, even if it meant earning Uther’s disapproval. And if the sorcerer’s ravings managed to get through to the king…

“Ah,” the chained man’s expression soured further. “The stupid boy convinced himself that it would be an easy way to destroy Camelot. ‘Uther Pendragon will execute half his citizens before the year is out, so long as they’re seen with me,’ he said. Tauren imagined that if he framed enough people, ignorant peasants who couldn't possibly defend themselves, and got them killed, he could then start an uprising among those who were left.”

Merlin glanced at the king. Uther’s face was purple with rage, and he was gripping the armrests of his throne so tightly the servant could have sworn he heard the wood creak.

“I told him it wouldn’t work, of course I did. ‘Tauren.’ I said, ‘Uther Pendragon has been hunting sorcerers too long and too successfully to fall for that.’ And I was right. Of course, you're going to give the blacksmith a trial, during which he'll tell you everything, and then you'll have figured out Tauren’s plan before he's even started! But no, nobody listens to the crazy old man, no matter how right he is. They just expect him to clean up the messes they get into from not listening to—” he let out a hacking cough, apparently having strained his old voice a bit too much.

Uther looked just about ready to pop, but Arthur (remarkably, Merlin thought) was calm and composed. “It seems you were right, father,” he announced to the room. “The sorcerer Tauren is trying to trick us into attacking our own citizens.”

For a moment, Uther merely stared at his son, incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing with his own ears. But then (and Merlin had to admit, at that moment he saw a glimpse of the great statesman Uther was, the man Gaius was loyal to) he visibly relaxed and smiled, as if this was the outcome he’d hoped for all along. “Yes,” the king nodded in agreement, “A devious plan indeed.” Merlin bit his lip even harder than before to keep from grinning. He wondered if his earlier conversation with Arthur about the innkeeper and his staff had played a part in Arthur’s decision to speak up— a decision that now meant Uther was stuck with having to declare them all, as well as Tom, innocent unless he wanted to call Arthur an insane liar in front of the entire court.

“Guards,” Uther ordered, once again in control of the room, “release the blacksmith and the others we’re holding in the dungeons; they are fully pardoned. It's clear we no longer need to keep up the ruse of having fallen for Tauren’s tricks.” He turned his steely gaze back on his new prisoner. “As for you, you have been found guilty of using magic and enchantments, as well as conspiring with Camelot’s enemies. For these crimes, you will die on a pyre at dawn. Return this sorcerer to the dungeons to await execution.”

Merlin’s buoyant mood abruptly sank once again at the king’s sentence. So, Tom would live, but there would still be an execution. Another burning of someone just like him.

The old man didn’t look frightened or desperate, though, merely thoughtful. Then he just…shrugged? “No, I don't think so.”

And then he was gone.

Morgana’s Chambers, Castle of Camelot

20 Knollart 481

6^th Candlemark past Sunrise

Morgana felt like she was floating on air as she walked back to her chambers, all the fear and dread of the past day no longer weighing her down.

Tom was going to live.

She'd accompanied Gwen down to the dungeons to make sure he was released before leaving father and daughter to go home and have their own private reunion. She'd be all right without a maid for one day.

The lady couldn’t resist a happy little hop-skip as she reached the stairs, grinning madly. Not only was Tom going to live, but so was everyone else arrested during Uther’s latest witch hunt, and it was all thanks to that old sorcerer, who had also gotten away scot-free. She couldn’t help but laugh, remembering the looks on everyone's faces, especially Uther’s, when he’d vanished, leaving nothing behind but his chains clattering to the floor. Morgana hadn't heard him utter a spell or even seen his eyes glow the sorcerer’s gold; he'd simply been there one moment and gone the next.

Uther had, of course, been furious and immediately demanded a search, which poor Arthur was currently out leading. They wouldn't find the man, she was sure, not if he could just disappear whenever he so wished.

By now she'd reached her chambers and entered them with a contented sigh, looking forward to a (hopefully) long and restful nap. She was in sore need of one, after barely sleeping the night before.

“In the future, it would probably—"

Morgana leaped backward, colliding with the door that’d just swung shut behind her, clutching at her chest with both hands. There, standing in her chambers, was the old sorcerer.

“—be better if you thought your rather treasonous plans through more,” he finished, completely unbothered at having frightened her out of her wits.

“Wha— what—? How—? What are you doing here? How did you get into my chambers!?”

“Have you forgotten so quickly, my lady?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “Magic.” He wriggled his fingers at her in a pointed gesture.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Morgana berated herself for being foolish, quickly dropping her hands to her sides in an effort to look more composed. “I meant… why are you here, in my chambers? If the guards catch you—"

“I think both you and I know that’s rather unlikely, isn’t it?” The old sorcerer’s gaze was knowing, penetrating. As if he could see everything Morgana was, had been, and would be, right at that moment. Then, he blinked, and the sensation vanished, leaving her only with a vague impression and a racing heart. “And what I have to say is worth the risk,” he continued, “considering it might help save lives in the future.”

It was only due to her years of court training that Morgana was able to rally her senses enough to cast her mind back to when the man had first spoken. “You mean… about thinking my plans through more?” What on earth was he talking about?

“Yes. I want you to consider carefully, my lady, what would have happened if you’d succeeded in setting the blacksmith free.”

The king’s ward reeled back in shock. How could he possibly have known of her intentions regarding Tom? They’d only ever existed in her own mind; was sorcery actually capable of allowing one person to read the thoughts of another? Her memories flashed back to her argument with Arthur on the way home from Ealdor, about how they had no reason to send someone after the old sorcerer. Her foster brother had been incredibly uneasy about the power the old man had displayed when he’d killed every single raider in the village in an instant… except for the four who hadn’t been there by choice. Oh stars, he really could read minds, couldn’t he? Unconsciously she took a step away from him.

“You— how could you—”

“I can’t read people’s thoughts, my lady,” the sorcerer said, his tone gentler than she’d ever heard it. “Merely emotions, and then only if they’re especially strong. In Ealdor I was able to sense revulsion and pity from some of the raiders, and after the blacksmith was arrested, I could feel strong anger and determination coming from the castle. It wasn’t until we met face to face in the throne room that I realized it was coming from you.”

Oh. Oh. He could sense strong emotions. That made sense— far more sense than being able to read minds, Morgana thought, order returning to her thoughts as she calmed down. After all, if sorcerers really could read minds, surely they’d have seen Uther’s purge coming twenty years ago.

“I see,” Morgana nodded at him to continue. “You believe my plan was reckless?” A note of challenge had crept into her voice, now. Who did he think he was, calling her out on her efforts to save Tom, especially after the stunt he’d just pulled?

“Indeed. Let us think through it together, shall we?” His grating tone was back, any hint of gentleness gone. “As you well know, my lady, your maidservant’s father is an honest, upstanding citizen of Camelot, so it is not hard to reason that he would have only limited experience with being under arrest and imprisoned in the dungeons. It’s like a maze down there— someone who didn’t know where they were going would stand almost no chance of escape, even if they did manage get out of their cell. And once he was caught trying to make a run for it, Uther would have taken it as no less than an admission of guilt and ordered his death on the spot.” He leveled a challenging stare of his own at her. “Do you believe I’m wrong?”

Morgana had gotten gradually paler as the old man spoke, horror churning in her gut. She could see it all so clearly, happening exactly as he said. Tom would never have been able to escape the dungeons; giving him the key would have been a useless gesture. He would have been caught, and Uther would have ordered him run through….

And Gwen. Oh, Gwen, her confidante, her friend, would have been an orphan, just like that. Morgana knew what it was to lose a father; she couldn’t bear the thought of Gwen having to suffer the same.

“No,” she whispered hoarsely in answer to the old sorcerer’s question.

He nodded knowingly. “Now you see why I called your plan reckless. Not thought out.”

“Would it have been my fault?” It couldn’t have been, surely. Morgana could never have been the cause of her friend’s father’s death, right? She just… wasn’t that kind of person.

“No.” The lady’s head snapped up, startled by the unexpected gentleness back in the old man’s voice. “Only Uther is to blame for Uther’s actions. It wouldn’t have been your fault, had it happened. But, that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t have born some responsibility. The two are not the same.” Morgana frowned in confusion. “Blame, or guilt, is the result of a deliberate action intended to cause harm. Responsibility is something born for all of one’s actions, regardless of intention. Guilt is something that merits punishment. Responsibility, however, merely means recognizing the consequences of your own actions and trying to do better. Do you understand?”

Morgana nodded slowly, strangely comforted by the sorcerer’s words. “I never intended for anyone to get hurt.”

“I know, my lady. You only wanted to help— and that is a good thing. I’m not here to dissuade you from helping; merely to caution you on how you go about it. You have a great passion for justice, Morgana, as well as a position to exert influence over those in power. Those are wonderful and rare gifts— only learn to temper them with wisdom, and I can see you doing great things.”

Morgana felt a lump catch in her throat. “My father used to say things like that,” she admitted quietly. “I hadn’t remembered them, until now…”

“He sounds like a wise man.”

“He was.”

For a moment, the lady and the sorcerer simply stood in silence, each lost in their own thoughts— but it was only a moment. The old man cleared his throat, breaking the mood, and reached into one of his long, loose sleeves.

“By the way, my lady. Could you possibly return this to the prince’s chambers for me? I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop by on my way out.” He pressed something cool, solid, and oddly shaped into her grasp.

Morgana gaped at the iron key in her hand, utterly flummoxed. What in the…? Surely he couldn’t have known…

“How did you—” the question died on her lips as soon as she looked up. The old sorcerer was nowhere in sight.