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Chapter Text

Uther

Dawn shouldn't have come that morning. All light should have gone out of the rest of the world the way it had gone out of Uther's.

"Uther?" said a quiet voice behind him.

The last time he'd heard Nimueh's voice they'd both been shouting, the still of night broken by a baby's wails and Uther's recriminations and Nimueh's entreaties of I didn't know! Had it only been a few hours ago? Time had lost all sense of itself. "I told you to get out," Uther said now, without looking up.

"I know." She came closer; he could feel her presence like heat against a burn. Her voice was quiet now, subdued. "You know, don't you, that I would never have willingly hurt Ygraine?"

Did he know that? A day ago he would have. Now he watched dawn light grow over the coverlet where his wife, his queen, his world lay. Forgive me, he'd whispered to her through the long hours, trapped in the flickering light of candles as they wallowed lower in their wax. Please forgive me.

She would have, too. There was never a heart as warm and loving as Ygraine's. And it had been coupled with a quick wit and lovely face and a smile that had held everything he ever wanted.

Not quite everything. He'd reached too far, and destroyed the most precious thing in his life.

"I would undo this if I could," said Nimueh, her words reaching through the silence.

The hours of vigil had brought clarity to Uther, and he believed her -- almost. Nimueh had been his Court Sorceress for many years, and he wasn't blind. She was powerful enough to still appear young after all this time, strong enough as a High Priestess to play with the threads of life and death. A day ago he would have said that her magic had helped make Camelot strong.

Now he could see that her strength was built on rot. Yes, he'd reached too far, but only with Nimueh's help. No mortal was meant to meddle with fate, and yet she dabbled in matters far beyond her understanding, seduced by the promise of power. And Uther... he had believed her assurances, disregarded her cautions. He had trusted her with the most important person in his life, who now lay still, flesh growing cold over the night.

Nothing could undo the terrible fate of his queen. But he had promised Ygraine's memory, over and over during the long lonely hours since her death, that he would spend the rest of his life atoning for his mistakes.

And he would start now. Soft footsteps told him that Nimueh had turned away; she was a proud woman, and had already apologized more than Uther would have predicted. "Nimueh," he said, standing. The footsteps stopped. Uther took a moment more to drink in Ygraine's pale face, lovely and still in the dawn light. There was a dagger at his belt, one enchanted by Nimueh herself. A precious gift, and one he would not waste. He drew a long breath and forced himself to speak softly. "I know."

When he turned it was to see hope on Nimueh's face. "Thank you, Uther." Her eyes were red and swollen. Despite the evil in her, he knew she'd loved Ygraine dearly.

Or had she? Twisted with power no mortal should have, was she capable of truly loving?

"Now that Ygraine is... gone," he said, and his voice trembled despite himself, "there is the child to consider."

In truth, he'd barely given the babe a thought since he'd seen the light slip out of Ygraine's eyes, except to rue bitterly his own desires for an heir. But just as Nimueh had known how to lead him down the dark path of his own ambitions, so too he knew how to play upon her desires. The babe was important to her for some reason she had never divulged; there had always been more in her eyes than the desire to help her king, an eagerness that he saw now was avariciousness.

Nimueh took a step toward him, a little of that eagerness showing even through her exhaustion. "I'll do everything in my power for your son, Uther. I promise you."

He held out a hand, a peace offering, and Nimueh clasped it at once. "I'll need to guard him," he said. "I won't make the same mistake again."

"He will grow to be a great king," said Nimueh, daring a small smile. "We'll both be there to guide him."

Was that what she'd wanted all along? Now that Ygraine was gone, did she see herself stepping into the place of a mother, instructing the boy in magical arts perhaps, bending his mind to her will? Nimueh had lived long already; she might well make plans that took lifetimes to come to fruition.

"Do you know where he is?" asked Uther, releasing her hand.

"Of course." Nimueh turned toward the door, and Uther used the scrape of footsteps to cover the sound of the dagger sliding free of its well-oiled sheath. A normal dagger wouldn't have had a chance against a High Priestess, but she'd assured him that this one could protect him from any magical creature.

He'd killed countless men in the campaigns that had made him master of Camelot. He'd killed a few women as well -- battle-witches and spies and traitors, whose choices condemned them regardless of their sex.

But in all his life, this was the first time he'd stabbed an unsuspecting woman in the back. The dagger drove home cleanly, angled up under her ribs, and Uther grasped Nimueh's shoulder as a pained gasp escaped her lips. Not just a woman, he reminded himself. A sorceress, full of evil. The witch who used me for her own ends and killed Ygraine.

Hot blood ran down his hand as Uther eased Nimueh's collapsing body slowly to the floor. She choked, trying to speak, and the barest flicker of gold came into her eyes, but Uther twisted the dagger and the flicker went out. "I can never atone for what I allowed you to do to Ygraine," he told her. Blood pooled beneath her, and smoke rose from the wound. The dagger grew so hot in his hand that he was forced to release it. "But I'll spend the rest of my life trying. And my son will never be corrupted by magic."

She'd gone still by the time he finished speaking. Uther stood and watched for a while, as blood soaked into the floorboards and the dagger's handle blackened as though eaten by acid. Only when the smoke stopped did he step around Nimueh's corpse and go to the door.

He didn't look back at Ygraine. There was much to do.

Chapter Text

Arthur

Arthur rode out with Morgana that morning because it was her birthday, and she claimed she'd much rather have a small picnic with friends than the elaborate feast planned for that evening, and anyway what was another illicit adventure in the grand scheme of things? At least this illicit adventure was fairly small and innocuous, unlike the last one.

"Cheer up, Arthur," said Morgana as they forged a path through the crowded streets of the Lower Town. Behind them, Merlin and Gwen chatted as they rode side by side, as relaxed and happy as though they really were going for the leisurely ride he'd told the grooms. "You worry too much."

Arthur sent her a half-hearted glare. "If I were too cheerful in your company, people would be instantly suspicious."

Morgana laughed. "True enough. In that case, you're behaving perfectly."

It was high summer, but the wind off the sea kept the heat from being stifling. They broke into a trot once out of the gates, and Arthur's mood lifted at the familiar exertion.

"Race you to the trees!" Morgana called, already urging her mount forward, and Arthur needed no more encouragement than that to follow suit. They galloped side by side down the dry road, the few travelers on it darting off to the sides to avoid them. Arthur entertained the briefest notion of letting Morgana win, as it was her birthday, and then discarded that ridiculous idea and leaned forward.

They pulled up in the shadow of the trees, breathing hard. "I told you this mare was fast," Morgana said delightedly, stroking her neck.

"If that peasant had gotten out of the way sooner, I'd have beaten you handily."

Morgana laughed again and tossed her hair, turning her mare so she could look back at where Merlin and Gwen were trotting toward them at a more sedate pace. Arthur would never have admitted it, but it was good to see Morgana happy. She'd been pensive lately, strangely quiet for the girl who'd burst into Arthur's life ten years before with her sharp tongue and quick wit. Their highly illicit excursion to Ealdor (and his father would kill him if he ever discovered it) had brightened her for a while, but then the shadows beneath her eyes had crept back.

When they finally reached the little glade they'd chosen, it was already occupied. "Ho there!" called Gwaine from where he was sprawled out on the grass. "The Ealdor company rides together again!"

"Eats together again," Gwen corrected him with a giggle. Lancelot, who was considerably more of a gentleman than Gwaine, came forward to help Gwen off her horse. No one was foolish enough to try to help Morgana.

Uther would be more than disappointed if he discovered his ward picnicking with two servants, a low-born guard and a dissolute sell-sword. Arthur's presence would only make him angrier. A year ago Arthur wouldn't have been here for precisely that reason: Uther's anger was to be avoided at all costs, not because of the consequences, but because the anger itself was tantamount to a failing on Arthur's part. What did it say that he'd become so reckless with his father's regard?

Merlin and Gwen had wrangled cold meats and cheeses, bread and ale and berries from the kitchen. It was a modest enough meal by castle standards, but in the dappled sunlight, surrounded only by the whisper of leaves and grazing horses, it tasted better than many of the feasts Arthur had endured. "Any word from your charming mother, Merlin?" asked Gwaine, holding his cup out for more ale.

"Eat more than you drink," Merlin admonished him. "And yes, I had a letter just the other day. They haven't had any trouble since we were there, and the harvest looks good. It all depends on the rains, of course."

"Please don't get him started on agriculture," said Arthur, who was savoring his raspberries. "He'll go on for hours."

Merlin scowled at him. "It's how we all eat, you arse. If the harvest is poor it'll matter even in your big fancy castle."

Arthur scoffed, but half-heartedly. The nights he'd spent in Ealdor marked the first time he'd really begun to understand how peasants lived, especially when times were uncertain. Oh, he'd stayed in villages before -- when on patrol, they sometimes bedded down for the night in a convenient village, though the general consensus was that the advantages of shelter and a hot meal were often outweighed by the smell of refuse and near certainty of lice. But even when he'd been hosted in a village, he'd been the prince; the largest, more luxurious hut was given over to his use, and the villagers brought out whatever decent food they could scrape together.

Ealdor had done no such thing, too busy preparing to fight off bandits. Arthur had slept on the floor next to his manservant and eaten tasteless pottage and watery soup. It was only after they'd gone, and Arthur had made a comment about being treated like anyone else, that Merlin had given him a condescending look and said, "Everyone in the village gave up their eggs to us."

The eggs had been the tastiest meal they'd had.

He'd been thinking about Ealdor ever since, worrying at the experience like a sore tooth. Merlin had been more than a little bewildered by the questions Arthur had thrown at him at odd times since. How often do you need to patch the walls of your cottage? he'd ask, or How many chickens would you say a family should have?

Even now, sitting at a picnic in the woods, Arthur couldn't help looking at the bread and meat and cheese and thinking of what this much food would mean to Merlin's mother. More than once he'd wished there was some way to send her a feast of her own.

She'd say it wasn't necessary. The fact that the six of them had shown up to defend Merlin's village, protecting both their harvest and their people -- Kanen had threatened to take a third of them as slaves if they resisted him -- was more than enough as far as Hunith was concerned. But Arthur couldn't help remembering the bland pottage and wishing he could do... something. It was Merlin's mother, after all.

"Arthur? Did you hear me?" said Morgana, and he came back to the present.

"Not if I can help it," he said automatically, and ducked her swat.

"What are you thinking about so hard? It isn't Uther again, is it?"

"No," he said honestly. Morgana gave him a hard look. "Not everything is about Uther, Morgana."

"It is with you," she muttered.

"I was thinking about Ealdor, if you must know," he said with dignity. "And slaves."

Gwen shivered. "I've thought of it too. If we hadn't been able to help... Hunith might not have been taken, but all the young men and women would have, like Merlin's friend Will."

"Only if they were truly desperate would they take Will," said Arthur dryly.

"You're just sore that he doesn't like you," said Merlin.

"What possible reason could he have had for disliking a man who shows up to fight off bandits for his village?" demanded Arthur.

"Because you're a posh prat?"

"Merlin..." said Lancelot, glancing between them. He'd never quite gotten used to Merlin insulting the prince, especially now that he was part of the castle guard.

"Oh, don't stop them," said Morgana sweetly. "I think their flirting is adorable."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "It's terrifying that you think we're flirting. I pity whatever poor man tries to win your heart someday."

The real question wasn't whether Arthur understood how peasants in a distant little village like Ealdor lived. But what else didn't he know? He was supposed to rule over all of Camelot one day, peasants and knights and tradesmen and merchants alike, and how well did he really understand their lives? How well could he rule if they only existed as lines in a ledger for him?

Ignorance was to be expected of peasants, many of whom never traveled further than a few miles from their village. But Arthur would one day be king. For him, ignorance was unnecessary and potentially dangerous, and there was no reason for it, not when he had the power to go wherever he pleased and speak with whoever he liked.

Well, in theory. Lately Arthur had found himself looking around at his life and the careful lines that circumscribed it and noticing that there were more barriers than he'd admitted to himself. Certainly he could speak to a shopkeeper in the Lower Town -- but the man might well stutter and tremble and scramble to say what he thought Arthur wanted to hear. And there was no way that the prince could walk into the poorest parts of town and hold a meaningful conversation. Everyone except beggar children would make themselves scarce.

Worse than that, there would be consequences later when his father found out. Uther was firmly of the opinion that when it came to peasants and the poor, they were best dealt with at a distance. There was an invisible wall between Arthur and the lowest souls in his kingdom.

And that wasn't even to mention the very real, very physical wall that stood between Arthur and Camelot harbor. He'd set foot on the docks a handful of times in his life, always accompanied by at least three knights, and every visit had been brief. His father never hesitated to send him out against bandits or marauding boars, but the docks had been strictly off-limits for as long as Arthur could remember.

They stayed as long as they could, but there was only so long that Arthur and Morgana could disappear, and they all knew it. While Merlin and Gwen packed up, Gwaine headed toward Morgana with a late daisy in his hand, but Arthur managed to intercept him. "I'd like to buy you a drink tonight," he said quietly before he could lose his nerve. "If you aren't sailing out, that is."

Gwaine's expression became speculative. "I rarely say no to a drink, and I haven't yet chosen my next ship." He cast a roguish glance over Arthur's body. "Anything in particular you'd like to do after?"

"No," said Arthur, containing his irritation. "I'd like to buy you a drink on the docks."

Gwaine's smile disappeared. "Without your father knowing, I take it?"

Arthur shrugged and thought he did a good job of keeping it casual. "It's just a drink. Nothing for him to know, really."

Gwaine pursed his lips, and not in a flirtatious way for once. For a moment Arthur thought he'd refuse; after all, if Uther's ire descended, it would go worse for the wandering rogue than the prince. But then he smiled again. "I'll meet you at the Fish Gate after dark."

Chapter Text

Lance

There was no dishonor in accepting a position in Camelot's guard. It wasn't what Lance had imagined -- ah, how naive his dreams of becoming a knight had been -- but it was honest work, and he did his best to serve the people within the citadel that he'd come to know and respect. Merlin, who was generous to a fault; the Lady Morgana, as brave and clever as any man he'd known; Gwen, sweet and strong and wise, and so many things besides. Their brief journey to protect Ealdor had bonded them together far more tightly than Lance had expected, certainly far more than most of the men he stood on watch with.

And Prince Arthur, who Merlin insisted was a prat, but who'd risked his life for his manservant and had shown such gentleness to the villagers of Ealdor... Lance had hoped to respect his lord, but understood enough of the world to know that he might not much like whoever he served. But Arthur was a good man. Not always wise, or kind, but who was?

Which was why, although he was not on duty, Lance tucked himself into a shadowed corner just on the dock-side of the Fish Gate that evening. He hadn't been able to hear Arthur's conversation with Gwaine that afternoon, but the fact that he'd had one, coupled with the way Gwaine had declined meeting Lance for a pint, told him all he needed to know. The Fish Gate was the only route to the docks that remained manned and (potentially, usually for a bribe) available for use once darkness fell. Either Gwaine would go out, or Arthur would come in.

Or, Lance admitted to himself as it grew later, he could've misjudged the matter and be facing a long, cold night alone on the docks.

The streets had quieted as decent folk found their beds. Distant sounds of talk and laughter came from closer to the water, where taverns were frequented by sailors and the drinking wouldn't abate for hours yet. The minutes dragged past and the gate guard remained slouched at his post.

It was shortly after full dark, when even the last shreds of sunset had drained from the sky, that a voice whispered in Lance's ear, "Boo."

He gasped and startled, and Gwaine burst out laughing beside him. "Gods, what's the matter with you?" demanded Lance.

The laughter cut off abruptly. "Lance? Is that you?"

"Who goes there?" called the guard from the gate, though not with any particular urgency.

"My apologies," Gwaine called back smoothly. "I thought this fellow was the one I was waiting for." He leaned close to Lance again and murmured, "Did Arthur send you?"

"No," said Lance, but there was no time for anything more, because a cloaked figure had appeared in the torchlight by the gate.

"Never mind, this'll be my lad here," murmured Gwaine, and strode forward.

Sure enough, he was back in a few minutes holding the cloaked figure's arm. "You didn't tell me Lance would be joining us," Gwaine said, his tone making that simple fact remarkably suggestive.

"Lance?" said Arthur, sounding startled. "What are you doing here?"

Lance didn't bow, because they were on the docks at night and calling attention to Arthur's status would be foolish in the extreme. Instead he gave a curt nod and said, "I guessed that you and Gwaine planned to meet tonight, and thought I'd make sure you're safe."

Gwaine wasn't a bad sort -- he'd acquitted himself admirably in Ealdor, although he hadn't taken the journey seriously enough, in Lance's opinion. There was a time for joking around, and during preparations to repel a band of mercenaries wasn't it. But he was a bit of a drunkard, and Lance didn't trust that he'd make sure that both Arthur's person and his honor were safeguarded.

"Gods, you're as bad as Merlin," hissed Arthur. "I think I can manage an evening of drinking, thank you." He shook off Gwaine's hand.

"You'll be better off pretending to be my lover," said Gwaine without a trace of shame. "It'll keep other hands off you."

"I'll take my chances," said Arthur dryly.

"Suit yourself. Off we go, then." He led the way down the street. After a moment, apparently unable to repress himself, he added, "I'd give a lot to see Morgana the worse for drink, mind you. Next time see if you can bring her along."

Lance heaved a long-suffering sigh.

He'd only rarely come to the docks himself; since Arthur had been the one to recruit him into the guard, his duties mainly kept him near the citadel. In the darkness, the briny scent of the sea was almost overpowering, mixed with the familiar city smells of smoke and stale oil and excrement. Faint sounds of music and laughter grew louder as he followed Gwaine and Arthur through the pungent night. Underneath were the ever-present sounds of waves and the creak of ships tied up at piers.

They came out of a narrow alley, and flickering light spilled onto the street ahead as the noise swelled. A sign above the door was painted with a sun over the ocean, the rays of chipped yellow paint bright enough to be visible even at night. "We'll find a place in the back," said Gwaine, leaning closer to Arthur but turning to include Lance as well. He looked even more cheerful than usual, apparently genuinely anticipating this adventure.

Lance eyed the sign dubiously, then gave the cursory look around that had become automatic on guard duty. A couple was braced against the wall opposite the tavern, and though they'd positioned themselves in a shadow, it didn't hide the frantic motions of their hips. He looked away, face heating, and kept at Arthur's heels.

Inside the air was smoky from the fire and the lamps alike, and the noise hit Lance as though he'd walked into a wall. Gwaine pushed through the throng with a wave and a smile to the woman behind the bar, and managed to flirt with two barmaids, an older woman sitting in another man's lap, and the man she was sitting on, all before squeezing them onto the bench that ran around the outside wall.

"Take your hood off," he told Arthur, but didn't give him time to respond before brushing it off. Arthur caught at it, but Gwaine just ran his fingertips lightly down Arthur's face and grinned at him. "Don't look like that, no one will recognize you. This corner is too dark."

"He's right," said Lance. Between the shadows and the smoke he could barely recognize Arthur himself. There wasn't enough room on the bench for him, but he managed to find an empty stool and dragged it to join them. Just then a barmaid arrived with three tankards, which she delivered with a wink and a shimmy aimed at Gwaine.

"They know you here, I take it," said Lance, trying to hide his disapproval.

"Of course they do! The Rising Sun is my favorite tavern in Camelot!" He handed the barmaid a coin, then held up a second one with a grin. She leaned forward, grinning just as big, and let him slip it into the shadow between her breasts. Lance just barely managed not to roll his eyes.

Arthur was looking around with poorly concealed curiosity. He also looked vaguely appalled. Gwaine shoved a tankard into his hands, and Lance lifted his own in order to blend in.

Gwaine leaned in close. "Well, lads, is it everything you hoped?"

Lance forbore to mention that he hadn't hoped for anything and was in fact only here to make sure that Arthur got home safely. It wasn't his first time in a tavern, obviously, but he'd never been in one this rowdy.

"It's different," said Arthur, tasting his ale. His eyes seemed caught on the cluster of people surrounding two men arm-wrestling on the table, the crowd around them yelling encouragement and insults and bets. Very different, Lance suspected, than anything he'd encountered at feasts in the castle. With luck Arthur's curiosity would be satisfied quickly.

An hour later Arthur himself was getting up from the same table, having just been bested, and Lance's shoulders were tight with anxiety. "Come back when you've grown out of those weedy little arms!" the sailor yelled, and Arthur only grinned and waved in the next challenger.

"Bad luck, mate," said Gwaine when Arthur made it back to their corner, and slung an arm around his shoulders. Arthur had stopped protesting Gwaine's touches after the fourth time someone had plopped into his lap with a giggle and an invitation, and now let Gwaine "stake his claim," as the man liked to put it.

Lance had no such luck, and had been getting tired of politely explaining his disinterest, until Gwaine said loudly, "his pockets are empty!" That seemed to do the trick.

"Sailors are bloody strong," said Arthur, and reached for his tankard. Gwaine had made sure it stayed full.

Lance probably shouldn't be abetting any of this. The heir to the throne was engaging in arm wrestling and dicing (only a little, because Gwaine claimed he lost too often), and listening to bawdy songs and sailors complaining about the port fees. If the king found out about any of this, Arthur would probably be flogged and Lance thrown out on his arse.

Gwaine, he suspected, would find a way to slip away like an eel.

"Ready to go yet?" Lance asked, trying to put a gentle reminder into his tone.

"Not even remotely!" said Arthur, and tilted his head back slowly as he drained his drink.

Lance gave Gwaine a pleading look.

For once the man seemed ready to be reasonable. "Easy there," said Gwaine, taking the empty tankard from Arthur. "Let's have a break, yeah?"

Lance leaned forward so he could speak more quietly. "If anyone realizes you're missing--"

"They won't," said Arthur, waving his hand a little too exuberantly, and nearly hitting Lance in the face. "You think I don't know how to sneak out of the... my room? Known since I was a boy." He perked up as someone started up another song. "I know this one!" Then his brow furrowed as the words -- considerably less polite than those used in wealthier circles -- became clear. "Maybe not."

"You will soon!" said Gwaine, and joined in singing.

Lance glared at Gwaine, taking back any thought he'd had about the other man being reasonable. He could only hope he'd still be employed on the morrow.

Chapter Text

Gwaine

Gwaine had been and done many things -- not that he was old, mind you, he's just lived an adventurous life is all -- but this wasn't a position he'd expected to find himself in.

"The taverns out here might be a little rougher than you're used to," he'd told Arthur. "But overall The Rising Sun is a good place. Just don't flaunt your title around, right? You're no one special tonight."

"Should I use a different name?" asked Arthur, which... the man kept surprising Gwaine, honestly. Most nobles wouldn't have put up with being seen as a commoner.

"No, it's a common enough name. Just try not to lord it over everyone else with how posh and perfect you think yourself."

"Excuse me!"

Hmm, maybe he'd pushed too far with that. Time for a distraction. "You looking for a tumble tonight?"

"What? No!"

Gwaine couldn't see Arthur's face under his hood, but was pretty sure it had just flushed bright red. He grinned into the darkness. "Just some drinking, fair enough. Hand me money now, then, and let me buy all the drinks. It'll keep people from thinking you're rich." And keep Arthur from doing something stupid, like flashing gold coins around in a dockside tavern. If all went well, Gwaine might even end up a few coppers richer at the end of the night, which would be a reasonable fee for shepherding a royal around.

Arthur had surprised him again by slipping some coins into his hand without arguing.

A couple of hours later found Arthur leaning companionably against his shoulder, listening as Gwaine regaled a dozen listeners with yet another tale of his travels. "...and naturally, as a gentleman," he said, then waited through the burst of laughter, "I couldn't leave such a tender young maid to her fate. What would become of her?" He waggled his eyebrows, then moved his free hand in suggestive curves through the air. "It would have been a terrible waste."

Lance, who'd done an admirable job sulking in the background this evening, rolled his eyes so dramatically that Gwaine caught it from the corner of his eye. He'd radiated disapproval all night, and hadn't even been grateful when Gwaine had gotten rid of the whores wanting to tumble him. Instead he'd looked even more uncomfortable. Served the uptight bastard right for tagging along where he wasn't needed.

"You've moved on to more muscular pleasures," someone said through the laughter.

Gwaine tightened his arm around Arthur's shoulders and grinned. He knew Arthur only allowed it because he was too much of a gentleman to take advantage of the more than willing whores himself, but there was no point in wasting an opportunity.

"She was a lucky wench," said one of the few women at the table. She was wearing a leather jerkin and her hands were rough -- a sailor, sun-darkened and wind-weathered. There weren't many women sailors but they tended to be the nastiest fighters in a brawl, Gwaine knew from experience. "She could've been sold to the Saxons just as easy."

Arthur tensed under Gwaine's arm. "Surely not. This was in Camelot, wasn't it?" he asked Gwaine.

Everyone at the table laughed, and Gwaine made a show of squeezing Arthur reassuringly. "I took her back to her home, safe and sound," he said with all the sweetness of a lover. To the others, he said, "He's led a sheltered life."

Arthur bristled, but the others only looked amused. "The Saxons're always looking for slaves," one of them told him. "Doesn't matter where they come from, as long as no one fights for'em."

"Half the ships in the harbor have a slave or two," said someone else, chuckling at Arthur's expression. "A few are full of slaves, right this moment."

"He's a green one, isn't he?" said the woman sailor to Gwaine.

"Mmm. He makes up for it, though." Gwaine nuzzled Arthur's cheek, trying to silently convey that it would be best to drop the matter.

No such luck. "Selling slaves is illegal in Camelot," Arthur said.

Gwaine laughed, loudly. "Ah, precious! What the king's men don't know, doesn't happen, right?" He leaned closer, adding a touch of warning in his eyes. "And it's in their best interest not to know if ships have a few slaves on them. Those ships still pay the harbor fees, don't they?"

Arthur took the hint and let it go.

Honestly, the night had been full of surprises. Not Arthur's ignorance -- Gwaine hadn't realized just how naive the prince was about what went on in his own kingdom, but it didn't really surprise him. It would be more fair to say that it wearied him. But given the way Arthur had taken command on the way to Ealdor, and organized the fighting there (and done it well, not that Gwaine had told him that), he'd expected that the prince would be bossier when he went out slumming.

Instead Arthur had been content to follow his lead. Which was refreshing, and had greatly lessened the chances that they'd get caught in this escapade. Gwaine had no idea what Uther would do to Arthur if he discovered his heir out wandering the docks at night, consorting with low-life scum like himself, but when it came down to it he was far more worried about what the king might do to him.

All's well that ends well, though, and maybe it was good after all that Lance had shown up, because Arthur was a little unsteady on his feet as they made their way back out into the night.

Arthur blinked owlishly at the dark shapes of the ships tied up at the docks. "There aren't slaves from Camelot, though, are there?" he demanded in a passably quiet voice, given his state.

Gwaine sighed as he guided them along the quay. "They come from everywhere. Camelot is better than some places in that lords aren't supposed to sell their own people, but Uther is clever enough to know what he can dictate and what he can't. Why do you think there are walls around the docks?"

"Because sailors are an untrustworthy lot," said Arthur at once, like he was reciting a lesson.

"No, because of the magic."

"We were talking about slaves, not sorcerers. Are there sorcerer slaves?"

"Yes, but that isn't the point." Gwaine turned a corner and peered around carefully to make sure they were still alone. "Listen, I don't know why your father keeps you in the dark about this, but Camelot is a major port. Most ships that venture outside the Inland Sea use runes on their hulls to protect against storms and shipwreck and sea monsters."

"Sea monsters aren't real," said Arthur.

Ah, the innocence of... well, it was less due to youth and more to being a pampered prince. "Sure they aren't. Sail deep waters long enough and you'll see for yourself. The point is, Uther knows perfectly well that if he hunted down every ship with a rune or a ward, or every sailor with a protection charm, his harbor would be as empty as his coffers. The same would be true if he tried to free the slaves of every ship that came through."

"But they aren't slaves from Camelot," Arthur insisted. "They're from other kingdoms."

"Sure," Gwaine agreed, because it was easier and they weren't far from the Fish Gate now. "Why all the questions about slaves tonight, anyway?" he asked idly, taking Arthur's arm to steer him around a suspicious-looking puddle.

"Just thinking about it lately." After a moment, Arthur added, "Hunith said she'd always worried about Merlin, if slavers had come to their village."

"They're lucky Ealdor is inland," said Lance quietly. "Every peasant near the coast worries about that." He'd been trailing after them like a proper bodyguard, no doubt happy to be ushering his prince back to the safety of the palace.

"She and Merlin both seemed to think that if it'd come to it... I mean, the villagers might not have had any choice, but if they did, Merlin would be one of the first ones offered up."

Gwaine nodded grimly despite the pleasant lightness of ale that he'd been enjoying. "No father to protect him."

"They call him odd, too," said Lance. "People use any excuse, when they have to decide who stays and who goes."

"Well, he is odd," said Arthur gruffly. "But he's still..." He floundered a moment.

"Kind and generous," supplied Lance.

"Brave and loyal," added Gwaine, for once in complete agreement with Lance.

"...mine," said Arthur. "My manservant, I mean. He might be absolute rubbish at it, but he's mine." They turned the last corner, and Gwaine squinted as the flickering lantern hung at the apex of the Fish Gate came into view. "No one else can have him," muttered Arthur.

"Don't worry, he's definitely yours," said Gwaine cheerfully, patting Arthur's arm. He'd entertained a little hope at first that Merlin might be interested in being Gwaine's -- not forever, of course, Gwaine wasn't really meant for forevers, but at least for a little while. It was nice to have someone glad to see you, is all. It was comforting knowing that someone cared whether you lived or died.

But no, Merlin was Arthur's. Gwaine had no interest in fighting uphill battles.

The friendly pat seemed to remind Arthur whose arm he was leaning on, and he disentangled himself with a scowl. "I'm fine," he said, managing to stay admirably upright.

"Right you are." Gwaine exchanged a glance with Lance, who had drunk considerably less and now stepped forward, ready to take things from here. "Until we meet again."

He watched until the two of them had handed over a few coins and passed through the Fish Gate, and then turned back down the street. He didn't fancy returning to The Rising Sun and being seen to come back alone, but there were other taverns, and other ways to spend the rest of his evening. The restlessness was starting up in his gut again, the thing that kept pushing him out of every comfortable bed, kept him searching out new friends and new drinks and new adventures.

Maybe he’d start looking for his next ship tomorrow. There was no one here who would particularly mind one way or the other.

Chapter Text

Morgana

Morgana drowsed toward waking several times during the night, anticipation making her sleep restless, and finally slipped out of bed when the cracks in her shutters brightened with the coming dawn. The door to the antechamber was half-open -- Gwen never closed it all the way, not when one of Morgana's nightmares could wake her at any time. She didn't dare close it more, or open a shutter, in case the hinges creaked. Instead she moved as silently as she could, donning a simple gown and wrapping one of Gwen's own shawls over her head, and it seemed an age before she eased back the lock on her chamber doors.

If anyone saw her she’d say she wasn't sneaking out, not really. It's just that Gwen would be so tired from the feast last night, and she was so good to Morgana, she deserved a proper lie-in. Everyone knew that Morgana suffered difficult sleep; was it so surprising that she'd gotten up early and gone for a walk?

The castle wasn't entirely asleep; a scullery maid was drawing water at the well, and a yawning stableboy crossed the courtyard, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. Several of the servants who lived in town straggled in at the gate, and Morgana timed her steps so that she passed through at roughly the same time as two of them came in, so that the bored guards had other things to look at than her.

A few wispy clouds hovered high over the sleeping houses, their edges scraped with the yellow light of dawn. Morgana set off at a brisk pace, freedom singing in her blood.

She followed the scent of the sea downhill, matching the pace of servants and housewives walking through the streets, clustering around wells to fetch water and gossip. Some had small children clinging to their apron strings; some were bent and crooked with age; some were still young and supple, smiling in the new day. Morgana could see herself in none of them.

The main gate to the docks was open, carts already passing through. The square before it was busier than the rest of the streets had been, with woodsmoke already heavy in the air and journeymen bakers carrying heavy trays of bread out to sell to the sailors before they left the harbor. Morgana fell in behind a broad young man and his tray, and passed through the gate unchallenged. Getting out of the city was always the easy part.

It was one of the first things she'd learned when she'd arrived in Camelot: the king's son (and it seemed by extension, the king's ward) was not allowed to go to the docks, certainly not unaccompanied. Caught up in the grief of her father's death and being uprooted from her home, Morgana had responded like any wild animal caught in a trap -- with defiance.

Uther would be apoplectic with rage if he knew. But then, Morgana had more than one secret that would send him into a fury.

"Charity, miss? Charity?" The beggar children knew her by sight, and this was exactly why Morgana had, in one of her pockets, a handful of small coins. She handed them out indiscriminately, only making sure to save a few for John, and shooed the children away when the rest were spent.

She reached the waterfront and went left, cutting through the bustle of sailors and dockhands with practiced ease. The tide hadn't turned yet, and the loading and unloading of ships still had a desultory air. Several men whistled at her, but it was too early in the morning for more than a cursory overture.

John was in his usual spot, sitting outside an establishment that she strongly suspected was a brothel. His crutch was pinned under one leg, and he held his grimy begging bowl in his lap, blind face turned toward the sunlight. "Good morning, John," said Morgana, and she dropped the coins one at a time into his bowl.

A wide smile split his face. "Morning, miss," he said. He'd been only a child when she'd first ventured to the docks -- wobbling along on a makeshift crutch too small for him that he used both for balance and to tap his way through the streets. She'd found him fighting off a small pack of both dogs and children, amusing themselves at his expense, none of whom had been pleased when Morgana had flown at them in a twelve-year-old fury. She was lucky that neither of them had ended up bitten, or worse.

"How is Dame Hilda?" she asked now. The old woman wasn't exactly loving, but she was willing to give John a place to sleep in return for a small payment every month. The coins for that purpose were in Morgana's other pocket.

"She's fine, miss. Her joints are always happy in the warm weather, and so is she." John slipped the contents of his bowl into his pocket. "I think I found what you're looking for."

A rush of hope and fear went through Morgana. "Did you?" she said, trying to sound only curious.

John chuckled and pulled himself to his feet using his crutch, the motion smooth from long practice. "Aye, she lives near the wall. She's a good woman. Keeps to herself, mostly, but folk go to her for help sometimes. Those as need it."

"I'd be grateful if you'd show me the way, John."

He turned away without a word and began to make his way along the street with surprising speed.

Morgana followed him, keeping an eye on their surroundings. John was a young man now, but he was still a blind cripple, and she was a woman; despite the knife hidden in her skirts, she knew better than to let her guard down. Uther's guards enforced the peace on the docks only so far as was necessary to keep trade and therefore money flowing.

But it was early in the morning, the quietest time of the day, and no one bothered them as John worked his way through back alleys and tiny squares. They were nearly back to the wall when he finally stopped, reaching out to touch a weathered door. "Here," he said over his shoulder. Then he added hesitantly, "There won't be any trouble, will there, miss?"

"No," said Morgana firmly. "I'd never bring trouble to you, John. You know that."

"Aye, miss." He rapped twice at the door. Some shuffling sounds came from inside, and then it was opened by a stout woman in a plain kirtle, her gray hair braided and tucked under a kerchief. "The mistress here to see you," he said, and Morgana didn't miss that he'd avoided using the woman's name.

He didn't actually know Morgana's name. She wasn't fool enough to spread that around where anyone might take it into their head to abduct the king's ward.

The woman looked Morgana over warily. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her, because she stepped back from the door. "Come in, then," she said. "John, I've a bit of bread for you if you'll wait."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and settled himself to one side of the door, as Morgana went into the house.

The kitchen inside was cool with the morning, only a low fire burning in the hearth. "Call me Kate," said the woman, moving to close the shutters. In the gloom she lit a rushlight from the fire, and the sudden flare made shadows dance around the room. "Sit down, child. Let's see if I can help you. What do you need?"

"I... it's difficult to explain." Now that Morgana was finally here, the words she'd practiced seemed to have fled. She sat at the small kitchen table, which was at least clean.

Kate sat beside her. "Nothing I can do without you asking a question," she said, and though the words weren't unkind, they did manage to imply that Kate was a busy woman.

Morgana straightened her shoulders and lowered her voice. "I'm afraid," she said, because that was the easiest truth. "I think there's... something wrong with me. Something that I can't stop."

Kate was sitting very still, watching her. "Something that you think I can help with?" she asked softly.

"I don't know. Maybe no one can help. I thought maybe... at least some advice..."

The other woman sighed. "I take it we aren't talking about an unwanted babe."

"No! No, nothing like that."

"Of course it isn't simple." Kate reached out her hands, worn and calloused, and after a moment Morgana placed her own slim white hands into them. "You know that whatever is said in this room stays here, don't you?"

There was an odd quality to the words, a shadow of power behind them. She wasn't making a suggestion, but speaking a truth. Morgana shivered, but lifted her chin. "I understand."

For this much alone, Uther might have Kate's head.

The older woman turned Morgana's palms up, examining them carefully in the flickering rushlight. "You're strong, I see. A fighter."

"Sword calluses." They were nothing compared to a knight's, but Morgana was proud of them nonetheless. They were another precious sign of disobedience.

"That too," said Kate, sounding amused. "And clever. Maybe too clever sometimes. And yes, your fear is all over your hands."

"It is?" The ordinary woman before Morgana seemed suddenly more, infused with something she couldn't name.

"Hush, child." Kate continued to examine Morgana's hands, turning this way and that. Suddenly she froze. "Oh."

Morgana bit her lip, waiting out the silence with as much patience as she could. "What is it?" she asked when she couldn't bear it anymore.

"Poor child," said Kate, and there was real sympathy in her gaze when she looked up, but also fear. Abruptly she dropped Morgana's hands. "I can't help you."

The sudden loss of hope made Morgana's breath rush out. "Please," she said, her voice breaking. "I can pay you--"

"I can't," said the woman fiercely.

She made as if to stand, but Morgana clutched at her arms. "Please," she said again. "Just tell me what you saw."

Kate stared at her, looking torn. "It's what you see, mistress," she said at last, her voice very low. "If the world were in its right order, such as you would never ask for help from the likes of me."

"They do... the dreams, they... they mean something, then." Morgana's words were hardly more than a whisper.

The other woman shuddered. "It's beyond my ken, mistress." She tugged at her arms.

"Please, Kate," said Morgana, clutching more tightly. "I'm all alone. What can I do? Please."

After a moment's hesitation, Kate leaned forward and murmured, "You need a teacher, mistress. But there's no one in Camelot left who could manage it. No, definitely not me," she added, when Morgana opened her mouth. "I wouldn't dare even if I could, but I haven't the skill. And that's just for the fire. For the dreams, there's only one place left to go: the Isle of Avalon."

Morgana stared at her. The Isle of Avalon was nearly mythical -- it had been the home of the High Priestesses before Uther's war had killed them all. "There's no one left, though. Everyone knows that."

Kate pried Morgana's hands off her sleeves. "Sometimes what everyone knows is true, and sometimes it ain't," she said, her tone matter-of-fact now. She threw open the shutters and morning light flooded into the room, turning it into an ordinary kitchen, dried herbs hanging from the ceiling and bowls stacked in the cupboard. Tearing a piece of bread off a loaf, she held it out to Morgana. "Would you give this to John? I'm sorry I couldn't help, mistress."

"It's all right," said Morgana. She took the bread numbly, and after a moment fished one of the coins from her pocket and laid it on the table. "Thank you for listening."

John had undoubtedly heard the last exchange, because he didn't ask Morgana about her conversation with Kate when she stepped outside. Instead he tucked the bread somewhere in his shapeless shirt and started back down the street, allowing Morgana her silence.

"Have you ever thought of leaving Camelot, John?" asked Morgana abruptly as they reached the waterfront. The streets had become busier, and the dockworkers moved with more purpose against the tide's inexorable turning.

"I'd be worse than blind anywhere else, miss, where no one knew me," said John. "How could I get along?"

It had been a foolish question. Morgana stood for a moment, looking out at the ships rocking gently in the waves, ready to sail away from Camelot and Uther and fear.

Then she went to pay Dame Hilda for John's keep, because there was nothing else she could do.

Gwen was well awake by the time Morgana returned, and quietly frantic.

"Where were you, my lady?" she asked with carefully restrained panic as Morgana came in.

"You know I walk in the morning sometimes, when my sleep is troubled." Morgana toed off her shoes and unwrapped Gwen's shawl. "I'm sorry I borrowed your shawl, but I didn't want to disturb you by trying to find one of mine."

"Morgana, I walked all around the citadel." Gwen folded the shawl neatly away but somehow managed to keep stern eyes on Morgana throughout. "I couldn't find you anywhere!"

"Gwen, I'm fine," said Morgana, more sharply than she'd meant to, and then sighed at the look on Gwen's face. More gently, she added, "I knew I'd be sharp-tempered today and just wanted to take a walk early, to see if I could... settle myself, I suppose."

Gwen's eyes searched hers, but Morgana only gave her a reassuring smile. "I just worry," said Gwen at last, returning a small smile of her own. "You're dear to me, my lady. I understand wanting a little time to yourself, but you know that if there's anything, anything at all I can do--"

"I do know," said Morgana, and the decision was made before she'd even properly considered it. She couldn't tell Gwen about her visit with Kate; she couldn't share her suspicions -- now somewhat more than suspicions -- with her dearest friend in Camelot. Kate had been right to be afraid. Uther wasn't rational about certain things, and Gwen's life could be forfeit far more easily than Morgana's.

No one could know that Morgana was a witch, especially no one she loved.

Chapter Text

Merlin

The chisel bent with Merlin's next blow, and he swore as the hammer slipped, too slow to keep it from thudding against his hand. He snatched the stinging hand back to the safety of his body.

"I believe I did mention that the chain was enchanted," said Kilgharrah lazily from above him.

Merlin turned to glare up at the overgrown lizard. "So you don't want me to try?"

Kilgharrah sighed, stretching his wings. "You're wasting your time. There are few things capable of destroying that chain, and if even my own breath is insufficient, I don't see why you think you can enchant some common tools to good effect."

Merlin set the hammer down beside the ruined chisel and examined his hand, the light he'd conjured bobbing obligingly closer. "Yes, well, people keep telling me that I'm magic itself or the most powerful sorcerer in the world or that I have a great destiny. I thought all that might actually come in useful." There was a red mark on the side of his hand with a blue crescent in the center. It would be a rather spectacular bruise by tomorrow.

Kilgharrah made the rumbling noise that was his laughter, and which no longer sent shivers up Merlin's spine. "No one can bend the world entirely to their will, and even the powerful require time and practice to hone their skills."

"Yes, yes," grumbled Merlin. He picked up the tools in his good hand and stood up. It was time for him to get going anyway -- he'd pried himself out of bed early to do this work before dawn, but Arthur would expect to be woken soon. "I'll think about what to try next," he promised, heading for the stairs.

Kilgharrah twitched his leg and the loop of chain he'd laid on the stone ledge slid off. The clinks and scrapes of it slithering into the depths echoed off the walls of the cavern. "Young warlock," he said before Merlin could leave.

Merlin turned. "Yes?"

"I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf," said the dragon, and his voice was warmer than usual.

Merlin smiled. "I won't leave you trapped down here. You deserve your freedom."

Arthur was in a mood that morning. His chambers were a disgrace, his breakfast was paltry, and Merlin's voice was the most irritating thing he could imagine waking to.

"Right," said Merlin after Arthur had complained about his gloves not being properly oiled -- which Merlin had done perfectly, thank you. "What did you argue with your father about?"

"Watch yourself," Arthur warned, but he wasn't using the freezing tone that meant he was still too hurt to approach.

It was intolerable for Merlin to see Arthur like this, as though he was a dog whose master frequently beat him, then expected him to come to heel. Yet again Merlin choked down his absolute disgust with the king, and said casually, "You're always in a temper when he treats you like a child."

Arthur struggled for a few moments while Merlin made a show of rubbing oil into one of the gloves, although it was non-existent oil because there was nothing wrong with the damn thing. Then he said stiffly, "I'd like to better understand the taxation of Camelot's subjects, that's all. Not just the peasants, either, but the guilds and the harbor fees... it's all of a piece, isn't it? How am I supposed to administrate the kingdom someday if I don't know how the treasury is maintained?"

It was a topic that Merlin had some interest in, in his case because being taxed into the ground had always been a real possibility in Ealdor, bandits and bad weather notwithstanding. He narrowed his eyes at Arthur. "You've never been interested in taxes before."

"It will be important to understand when I'm king," snapped Arthur.

Merlin mulled that over while he pretended to start on the second glove. After a moment it came to him, an oddity that he'd noticed early on in his service to Arthur. "He doesn't want you asking about the harbor." Arthur's silence confirmed this. "Why not? Like you say, you'll need to deal with it once you're king."

"I have no idea!" Arthur threw himself into a chair and stared moodily at the fire. Merlin waited. Arthur would sometimes talk more if there was a silence to fill. "According to my father, it's too soon," he said at last. "I need to focus on my current responsibilities, making sure the city walls are properly manned and the patrols are organized. I shouldn't bother myself with anything else. Oh, and he heard that Sir Cador got under my guard when we were training the other day, so clearly I've been letting my swordplay slide."

That was rubbish. Arthur was one of the finest swordsmen in the land, though Merlin generally tried not to seem impressed with him lest his ego grow to consume them all. "Sir Cador is one of your father's best knights, and no one wins every bout."

"Losing a single bout might mean losing your life in battle."

Merlin rolled his eyes. He knew how much that irritated Arthur. "It's amazing, you sound exactly like the king when you say that."

"Gods, Merlin, your so-called wit is going to get you beaten someday." But the frown on Arthur's face had lightened just a little. "I was caught out by his feint. I should have seen it."

"You will next time. You've certainly stewed over it long enough." Merlin stood up and tossed the gloves into Arthur's lap. "Try those on."

"Better," said Arthur, his frown easing more. "I knew you could do it properly if you bothered."

He hadn't actually done anything, but Merlin knew better than to admit that. "Right. Enjoy your hunt." He began stacking Arthur's dishes back on the tray, careful of his bruised hand.

"I'm sure I will. And so will you, since you're coming with us."

"Oh no I'm not. You distinctly told me that you'd never take me hunting again, remember?"

Arthur smiled with the special delight he reserved for tormenting Merlin. "Fetch my crossbow and meet me in the courtyard."

On the bright side they only had to ride a little way into the forest before leaving the horses with a groom. "Do stop complaining," said Arthur, loading his crossbow. "Trust me, none of the horses like you any more than you like them."

Merlin rubbed his backside, eyeing the mare he'd ridden that day. He could have sworn she glared back. "They have nothing to complain about."

"Of course they do. You're an abysmal rider."

"The only horse in my village was an old swaybacked plow horse that died when I was eight."

"From despair of you, I'm sure." Arthur fastened the quiver of bolts to his belt. "Come on, Merlin." He strode away.

Merlin looked around at the three huntsmen who'd accompanied them, all of whom were watching him with thinly veiled amusement. "You could leave me here and just hunt with... you know, huntsmen," he called after Arthur.

"Come on, Merlin."

Hunting involved a great deal of creeping through the woods, trying not to make any noise, which Merlin had a hard time being very enthused about when he wasn't particularly keen on Arthur killing anything in the first place. It was true the meat wouldn't be wasted, but it was also true that the castle larder wasn't exactly empty; hunting for sport was one of those ridiculous things that only a nobleman would do. But Arthur was always happier outside of the castle (specifically away from his father, but even Merlin had enough self-awareness not to say that) and so Merlin did his best to make less noise than usual. He trailed after the prince, carrying his bag and, very soon, several grouse.

"You're right to ask about the harbor," he said quietly after a couple of hours, following Arthur down a loamy hillside. They'd spread out, so none of the huntsmen were near enough to hear him.

"Hush," said Arthur. But after a moment, he said, "I know how much it contributes to the treasury. The gods know I've sat in enough council meetings."

"Everything that gets shipped in or out of the harbor is taxed. Plus there are the harbor fees."

"How do you know that?"

"Everyone knows." At Arthur's look of disbelief, Merlin narrowed his eyes. "What, you think only nobles care about where their money goes? Ordinary people do too."

"Since when do you have to worry about harbor fees?"

"I don't, you dollophead, but people talk." Largely about how Uther and his port officials extorted every penny they could squeeze from the merchants wanting to sell in Camelot. "The guards search all the carts coming into the city, too."

"I know that, idiot. We can't allow just anything to enter the city."

"Did you know they sometimes take bribes to pass a shipment through?"

"They had better not," said Arthur, a little too loudly. There was a rustle in the brush ahead, and Merlin caught a fleeting glimpse of a large shape slipping away. Arthur swore and glared at Merlin, which seemed more than a little unfair, since it had been his own fault.

They were nearing the bottom of the hill when one of the huntsmen froze and made a sudden gesture. Arthur paused as well, crouching down, and Merlin took the hint and joined him.

"I don't see anything," he whispered after a few moments.

"Tracks," Arthur breathed back. His irritation from the morning had melted away; he was entirely focused on the terrain ahead, his body poised to attack. "Girard says it's big."

Merlin glanced at the huntsman and the incomprehensible hand signals he was making. "Are you sure? It looks like he's saying it has three arms."

"You're utterly incompetent." Arthur nudged Merlin with his elbow. "Right, wait here for the count of twenty, then go down into that gully and flush it out."

"What, me?"

"Yes, you! You're the only person too incompetent to shoot it!"

"But it's big! It could be dangerous!"

"Let's hope so."

"But-- wait, Arthur!" Merlin hissed, but it was too late. Arthur rose from his crouch and, still hunched over, melted away into the forest.

"Right, just sneak up on the big animal in the forest," Merlin muttered to himself. "Sure, it might be a boar or a bear or a wolf or something, and will tear you to shreds and leave you to bleed out and die, but why worry?"

He hadn't been counting, but by now he had a pretty good sense of how long it took Arthur to get impatient with him, so he let that be his guide for when to start moving down the hill. At the very bottom was a steeper edge into the small, overgrown gully Arthur had gestured toward, and Merlin lowered himself gingerly over it.

There was no sign of Arthur or the huntsmen. Leaves swayed gently above him as the trees dreamed away the summer day.

Was Arthur watching him right now, hidden behind a clump of brush? Were crossbows ready to keep whatever beast this was from tearing him apart? Or was he as alone as he felt, drifting through the deep green sea of foliage?

Then he rounded an outcropping of stone and stopped abruptly.

The beast was pure white, with long delicate limbs and wide eyes, and a single straight horn protruding from its head. Merlin stood staring, hardly daring to breathe. There were stories of such creatures, but he'd never been certain they were real, and had certainly never expected to see one. Magic seeped into the air and land around the unicorn like light streaming out from a candle, serene and lovely and sweet.

It turned its head toward him and blew a soft breath, looking completely at ease. Merlin took a step toward it, then another. The unicorn stretched out its head in interest, and he took a few more steps. He'd never seen anything so beautiful, never imagined anything so pure. When it whuffled softly at his palm, the warmth of its breath against his skin was nothing to the warmth of its magic surrounding him.

The sudden crack of a stick broke him out of his reverie, and Merlin's breath caught again, this time at the thought of the hunters surrounding the gully. "Go!" he whispered to the unicorn. It only looked at him calmly. "Please go, they're going to kill you!"

The unicorn blew another breath into his hand.

Merlin caught movement in the corner of his eye, and looked up to see Arthur sighting along his crossbow. "Arthur, don't!" he cried.

They arrived back in Camelot with Arthur jubilant, the huntsmen excited, and Merlin, according to Arthur, sulking like a little girl.

"You didn't see it, Gaius," Merlin told his mentor miserably, stealing away to the physician's chambers for a few minutes. "I can't describe it, but it was the purest, most... most good thing I've ever felt. When it died, I felt like something beautiful had been taken out of the world."

Gaius' face was grave. "Killing a unicorn is supposed to be a serious offense against the gods. Ill fortune is said to follow."

"Arthur said he'd mount the horn as a trophy," said Merlin with revulsion, and then had to leave again, because Arthur's good mood had extended to giving Merlin more chores to do before dinner that evening.

"Don't tell me you're still upset about the unicorn," Arthur said later as Merlin helped him into a clean shirt.

"I don't think you should have killed it."

"Should I have braided flowers into its hair? Maybe found some nice clover for it to eat?"

Merlin didn't answer. He'd just noticed that the bruise on his hand from that morning had disappeared. It was the same hand that the unicorn had nuzzled.

Chapter Text

Morgana

Morgana had long since let Merlin know that he was always welcome to come to her when he needed to vent about Merlin. She was unsurprised to see him the day after the unicorn was killed.

"How has he managed to survive this long as such an idiot?" he ranted as he paced. "Who looks at a glorious, beautiful creature like a unicorn and thinks ah, what a perfect thing to slaughter and take as a trophy?"

Morgana smiled at him. It was always a pleasure to hear Arthur taken down a peg, even behind his back; she was truly, deeply grateful for the accident that had left Merlin as Arthur's manservant, even knowing that Merlin himself was considerably less than grateful. He'd never had nearly as many reservations around her as most people, and since Ealdor they'd disappeared entirely.

She needed that. Sometimes the distance between her and the people around her, distance created by differences in rank or perspective or (often) intelligence left Morgana feeling unmoored, like a ship drifting through Camelot harbor without anchor or oars. Some of that was probably inevitable given her status, but it had become gradually worse lately, and not from any reason she could admit to.

She wasn't sure how long it had been happening, how on particularly difficult days the feelings underneath her dreams bled into the daylight as well, casting shadows over the world. Often they were just twists of meaning that wove themselves into the people around her, adding confusing layers to a nobleman's words or a maidservant's hasty curtsey. It was as though the world was buzzing with whispers of understanding, too muffled for her to really comprehend.

Sometimes, on particularly bad days, she'd see phantoms of... possibilities, perhaps? She wasn't sure what they were, only that if Uther knew that his ward was seeing visions like hers, he'd have her in the dungeons in a trice.

Perhaps not. Perhaps he'd think her enchanted and confine her to her room while he searched for any charlatan in the kingdom who claimed they could cure her. She might be spared immediate execution and have time to go fully mad.

"Unicorns are magical, though," Gwen was saying with careful doubt. Her hands had stilled on her mending.

"I wish you could have seen it, Gwen," said Merlin, suddenly wistful. "I've never been near something as pure and... good as the unicorn. Only a heartless monster could have wished it ill."

"Careful, Merlin," said Morgana.

"I know -- don't worry, I won't say any such thing around the king."

"You shouldn't say it around Arthur either. I know he's your friend, but it isn't safe." She hadn't used to be so cowardly. It was different now that when she thought of the pyre, she couldn't help but imagine being the one on it.

Merlin scoffed. He'd sprawled in a chair, too familiar now to stand on ceremony. "He most certainly isn't my friend, and I'm careful, I promise. But Morgana, someone has to say it to him! Otherwise he'll grow up to be exactly like his father, and he could be so much more!"

"I agree, but it's better to keep such sentiments behind your teeth. I can get away with saying that to him, discreetly; you might regret it."

"I just don't understand how he can be so noble one moment and then so abysmally stupid the next!"

Morgana sighed. "You know I'm not impressed by Arthur's stupidity, and he certainly has some impressive moments of it. But," and she lowered her voice, "as frustrating as it is, it also isn't... surprising."

"Everyone makes mistakes. I don't expect him to be perfect! But it's as though he genuinely can't see what's right in front of his--"

"He can't," cut in Morgana. "He can't see past his need to make Uther proud of him."

"I see that, but--"

"No, you don't." This time Morgana's voice was sharper, and Merlin clamped his mouth shut, taking the hint. "You don't know how much it matters, because you weren't around when he was a child. Even I only saw part of it, but what I did see..." She shook her head. "Uther has been dangling his affection in front of his son for so long that Arthur honestly doesn't know anything else."

"I'm not sure the king does it intentionally," murmured Gwen.

"Nor am I." It cost Morgana something to admit that. It was easier if she could view Uther as calculating, but the truth was that his obsession with eradicating magic didn't feel calculated at all. She had even felt an occasional spark of pity for him when she'd first arrived -- he was buried so deeply in his own anger and fear, his heart walled with cold.

But those moments had been few, and long ago. Uther wasn't the one suffering for his madness.

"Sometimes I honestly can't tell whether the king loves Arthur," said Merlin, watching Morgana carefully.

Did Uther love his son? That was a complicated question, and Morgana had been more certain of her thoughts on the matter before she'd begun seeing phantoms of need and grief and thick regret, tangled in the folds of the king's fine clothes like cobwebs. "I think he does? At least in his way. But if it comes to a choice between caring for Arthur and stamping out magic, I'm nearly certain that Arthur would lose."

She'd debated it countless times over the years. What would be the breaking point that would push Uther to compromise, perhaps to make use of magic himself? Or at least to overlook its use?

"That isn't even the question, though! Arthur would do anything for his father, he'd break his own spirit trying to be what Uther wants! The king could be proud of Arthur for a hundred reasons!"

"You aren't the least bit fond of Arthur, though," Gwen put in slyly, and Morgana suppressed her smile when Merlin scowled.

"Sometimes," he said with heavy emphasis, "he isn't entirely unbearable." He sagged back in the chair. "What's infuriating is that he could be so much better. He wants to be better; I can see it in him! And instead he keeps... keeps..."

"Dancing to Uther's tune?" suggested Morgana.

"Incessantly."

Morgana smiled, rubbing her forehead where fatigue had taken up residence. There was something about Merlin, a lightness that lifted her heart -- his insouciance, perhaps, or his inexhaustible kindness. "If you have any brilliant ideas for how to cure him of that habit, I promise I'm listening."

There was a pause, and when she looked up again Merlin said, "Thank you, Morgana. I'm sorry to have bothered you. You must be tired--"

"I'm fine," said Morgana, more sharply than she'd intended. And then, because neither of the other two could hide their concern, was forced to add, "I didn't mean it that way. Only... I'm not fragile. I can manage a few restless nights."

It was more than a few restless nights; they all knew it, and no one said it.

Merlin took his leave shortly after, and as soon as he was gone Gwen said, "Would you like to walk in the gardens for a while, my lady?"

Morgana would not, in fact, like to walk in the gardens, where who knew what phantoms might appear to her weary mind. But the exquisite care that Gwen offered was too precious to be brushed aside. "Thank you, Gwen. That would be lovely."

Gwen, who always knew when Morgana's day was particularly trying, sent her a laughing glance as she set aside her mending. "You haven't heard about Sir Bernard's latest humiliation yet, have you?"

"That arrogant pig? Why, what's happened?"

"Apparently he drank rather heavily in a tavern last night and received a very thorough rebuke on the practice field this morning."

The confusing whispers of the world receded before Gwen's sly look. Morgana had never deserved Gwen, and never could. "Did he really? Go on, tell me every detail."

And for a while Morgana was able to talk and giggle with her closest friend as though her cares had fallen away. Until they went out into the gardens, and the lush greenery was overlaid with visions of dry, cracked earth, poisoned and desolate, a curse bearing down on them as inexorable as night.

So she wasn't really surprised when word came of the grain rotting in the fields, and fountains spewing sand instead of water. And as the shadows curled into every crevice of Camelot, as fear and hunger began to rise toward desperation, she watched death loom over the land and was helpless beneath it.

Chapter Text

Gwen

"I can't decide if I should tell you to stay with me, or stay with your lady," said Gwen's father two days later, as she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. Even after a couple days of hunger, Tom's face was pinched. "You might be safer in the castle if everyone starts to panic."

"I'll be fine," said Gwen. She'd struggled with the same choice, but for different reasons than he no doubt imagined. Morgana's sleep had been even more restless lately, and sleeping in the antechamber to her mistress' room felt like the only thing Gwen could do for her. But with famine overtaking the kingdom, and desperation mounting as stores of food and water became scarce... Well, Tom had been known to make rash decisions before, and Gwen hated to leave him alone. "I'll just see how things are at the castle," she told her father. "If I'm not home by nightfall, don't wait up for me."

People were queued up all through the main courtyard, the line snaking its way out the gate and into the street. Gwen hurried up the steps, and wasn't even cheered when she saw Lance on guard at the main entrance. Normally catching sight of him was enough to lift her heart, but not when his presence was because the guard had been tripled.

She didn't intend to pause near the great hall, but Morgana's voice echoing out of the room caught her attention. "What difference will a few days make at this rate?" she was saying, the words edged with despair.

"It might make all the difference in the world," came the king's stern voice, as Gwen's steps slowed. "When we destroy whatever sorcerer has cast this curse, this madness will come to an end. But not if the men capable of hunting him down have been incapacitated by hunger!"

"It was the unicorn, Father." Arthur sounded unutterably weary. "And given that it was my doing--"

"We don't know that. In any case, we will not bow before the evils of sorcery, no matter where it came from."

"And in the meantime we let children starve in our streets?" demanded Morgana.

It hurt Gwen to hurry onward, but there was no point doing otherwise. Morgana's arguments with Uther could be as violent as a wolf struggling against a trap, and they were always as futile.

Gwen was in her lady's chambers, embroidering one of Morgana's gowns and trying not to think about her painfully empty belly, when her mistress stormed in. She stood heaving for a moment, then strode over to the bed and punched the mattress several times, hard.

"It's unconscionable," said Morgana at last. She turned to Gwen, her eyes blazing with fury. "He intends to bar the gates, Gwen! He'll let them all starve, and hoard our few remaining foodstuffs for his knights!"

Gwen sighed, and Morgana deflated as well, because neither of them were surprised by the king's decision. Only one of them had the luxury of raging against it. "I've shared what I could on my way here, my lady," she said quietly.

"Of course you did." Morgana sat on the bed like a puppet folding in half. Dark smudges lay under her eyes. "There's nothing I can do, Gwen," she said more quietly. "And I hate it."

A tap on the door saved Gwen from answering. When she answered it was to find Merlin, looking wan and anxious. "Are you all right?" he asked. "I mean, I know no one is really all right, but... are you?"

"We're as well as can be expected," said Morgana. "Uther," and the name was laden with bitterness, "intends to wall us up in the castle and let the common folk starve."

Merlin winced. "There are a lot of common folk," he said, and they all knew what he meant. If it came to it, there was no telling what desperation might make people do. He stepped in and closed the door behind him, then said with sudden fire, "I know it's petty to say this, but I told him not to shoot the unicorn! Why does the prat always reach for a weapon first thing?"

"It was a creature of magic," said Morgana, in a passable rendition of Uther's accents. "And Arthur killed it," she added bitterly. "Because Uther would have wanted him to."

Gwen bit her lip. There was something brittle in Morgana's face, something that Gwen had seen before when it came to Arthur. There's nothing I can do, and I hate it.

Morgana stood up and brushed her hands together with the brisk motion that meant she was finished with speaking of vulnerable things. "Gwen, I haven't eaten yet this morning, and I suspect neither have you. Would you fetch some breakfast for us? We can take it out into the courtyard with us."

Gwen paused in setting aside her embroidery. "The courtyard? But all the people... Oh." She smiled at her lady, and the rush of love that went through her was nearly painful.

"That's a good idea," said Merlin, catching on. "Come on, Gwen, I'll get mine and Arthur's at the same time."

The guards weren't happy with Morgana and Gwen stepping out the front doors with a basket of food. "One of you can accompany us, then," said Morgana at her most imperious, and beckoned unerringly for Lance.

Gwen flushed despite herself. Her heart felt at war with itself some days, pulled between the familiar love she bore her lady and the new possibilities she felt around Lance. But if Morgana suffered from a similar uncertainty, she never showed it.

He fell in behind them, but soon Gwen was walking at his side, having convinced Morgana that she should be the one to hand out their precious bits of food to whatever children they could find in the queue. "Your lady is kindness itself," said Lance in a low voice as they watched her tear off a piece of bread for a little boy.

"Yes," said Gwen, although the truth wasn't nearly so simple. Morgana was kindness, yes, but also fierce loyalty and determination and cleverness like a blade. She looked along the line of people waiting for aid which the king would never give, and said quietly, "If this curse continues, I'll need to find a way to get Morgana out of Camelot."

Lance turned toward her, startled. "What do you mean?"

"There will be trouble." He knew it too; Gwen could see the tension in his stance. "And Morgana is the king's ward."

"The people love her."

"People who are desperate enough don't love anyone they don't know." Gwen held his gaze until Lancelot looked away. Morgana was offering a piece of cheese to a pregnant woman. "Will you help me, Lance? If it comes to that?"

He was quiet for a long moment. "I've sworn an oath to the king."

"The king cares for Morgana. He'll want her to live."

"He'll protect her. His knights will--"

"His knights will be faint with hunger and thirst. We all will." Gwen laid a hand on Lance's arm. "But someone will say there must be plenty of food in the castle, and the rumor will spread, and they'll come in searching... Please. We don't have long. If something hasn't changed by tomorrow..." She trailed off.

"Will you go with her?" asked Lance gravely.

Would she walk away from the only life she'd ever known? But then, what life would exist here, if there were no crops in the fields? "Yes," she said, already thinking of who else she could save -- and then caught herself. If they had to flee, it would need to be a quick and stealthy journey. She couldn't gather together everyone she loved.

She couldn't leave her father, though. She'd have to talk to him tonight.

"By ship would be the fastest way, but everyone who can afford passage will already be securing a place," said Lance, still sounding doubtful.

"It's a pity Gwaine took his leave," said Gwen. "He might know which captain to approach." Now that she'd voiced her thought aloud, the details of the journey nagged at her. How would they survive long enough to get out of Camelot? Where could they go that Morgana would be safe?

"He'd already have run," said Lance, with less generosity than Gwen had ever heard from him. When she stared, he said apologetically, "He doesn't have much respect for nobles. And I don't think he's the sort to stick things out."

"He fought in Ealdor with us."

"Yes, well... he's fond of Merlin. But I think he saw it as an adventure. I'm not sure he'd be reliable if things were serious."

"Right." Gwen gave her head a shake, brushing the thought away. It didn't matter anyway, for he wasn't here.

Morgana came back then, her empty basket at her side. "I spread it out as well as I could, but there are so many of them," she said, her eyes haunted.

"It's still a help," said Gwen firmly. And if there was a selfish reason for it as well -- having Morgana seen giving out food from her own hands could only make her more beloved -- well, that was all for the better. "You should come inside and rest, my lady. You've had no breakfast; you must conserve your strength."

"Then so must you," said Morgana with a smile. "Thank you for your service, Lancelot," she added as they walked back toward the front steps.

"It's an honor, my lady," said Lance, and when he met Gwen's eyes he nodded slightly, a promise.

Chapter Text

Arthur

Arthur had, in his darker moments, imagined many ways he might fail his people. But it had never occurred to him that a single crossbow bolt might condemn them all to starvation.

"It's unconscionable," he hissed, pacing back and forth in his chambers. Morgana had used the word earlier about his father, and it was the one that kept coming back to him. "Killing an entire kingdom because of one man's actions!"

Merlin said nothing. He wasn't even bothering to pretend to work anymore, just sat at Arthur's table with his head pillowed on his arms.

"Stop brooding," Arthur snapped. "It isn't you who caused this! What reason do you have to brood over it?"

"I'll starve too," said Merlin calmly.

That struck somewhere deep in Arthur's gut. Merlin was already too thin, a ragged scarecrow of a figure with no muscle on him, which Arthur made sure to point out routinely. He wouldn't last long now that the stores had rotted away. Because Arthur had failed a test, apparently. Because he'd tried to discipline a scoundrel, which wasn't what this sorcerer Anhora — the Keeper of the Unicorns, a ridiculous title if Arthur had ever heard one — wanted.

"The man was a thief. He was taking advantage of the situation to enrich himself." Even as he said the words, Arthur knew he was trying to convince himself more than anyone.

"Is that why you attacked him?"

"I didn't know it was a test!" Arthur stopped, bracing his hands against the wall. He wanted to rage, to fight, to attack. He wanted to go out and slay monsters.

But the only monster here was him. He'd been told he'd be tested. After he'd spared the thief the first time, water had come back to the wells. Even Merlin had been clever enough to put the two together, but Arthur had been so certain that he was dealing with a cagey sorcerer who had nothing to do with the thief that he'd ignored all the signs.

And no, when he'd discovered that the thief really was reprehensible, Arthur still hadn't attacked -- not until his pride was wounded. What did that say about him?

"It still isn't fair to make thousands of people starve because of just one," said Arthur to the wall.

"Ah, but that one is royalty," said Merlin. There was still no inflection to his voice, none of the usual bite and sass. It was as though he'd already withdrawn from what was to come. "And every decision a king makes affects all his people, whether they like it or not."

Arthur turned. Merlin hadn't moved from where he was awkwardly slumped against the table, but there was that spark that sometimes showed, the one that made him seem less like a bumbling idiot and more like... Arthur had no word for the strange depths he sometimes glimpsed in his servant. He still hadn't decided if it was only a trick of his imagination.

"Yes," he said now, because there was nothing to fight and he was hungry and the pacing was wearing him out. "Everything my father and I do affects our people."

Merlin looked up at him. Still calm. Almost assessing. "I talked to Anhora," he said.

"You what? How? When?"

"It wasn't difficult, I went out into the forest and shouted for him. He's willing to give you another chance."

Hope flared in Arthur's chest. He reined it in; this was a sorcerer he was dealing with, and obviously a powerful one. "What exactly did he say?"

"That you should go to the Labyrinth of Gedref. I don't suppose you know where that is?"

"Yes, of course I... Gods, Merlin, why didn't you tell me this right away?"

Merlin unfolded himself at last. He was still watching Arthur, and now he looked weary. "I wanted to... that is..." He sighed. "Arthur, your heart hasn't led you astray in any of this. You know that, right?"

His father would say that his heart did nothing but lead him astray. "This isn't a matter of my heart, Merlin. This is about duty."

"No, it isn't. This is about you caring for your people enough to do what's right for them. Even if it means sacrificing your pride."

"My life has always been in service to my people." Arthur shook himself. "I know my duty better than you do, Merlin. Now hurry up and help me into my armor."

"We aren't telling my father about this," he told Merlin under his breath as he saddled his horse, waving away a listless stableboy who was trying to help. The horses at least had been able to graze, so were doing better than the humans in the castle. If he couldn't lift this curse, the animals within Camelot wouldn't starve, only the people.

Would the land stay ruined for humans forevermore? Or would the curse eventually wear away, when the name of Camelot was only remembered in cautionary tales?

"I'm not likely to tell him anything," muttered Merlin, which was treason but they were both hungry and tired, and Arthur had the weight of his kingdom on his shoulders, so he let it pass.

"If I don't come back--" Arthur began.

"If you'd just let me come with you, you wouldn't have to say stupid things like if I don't come back," snapped Merlin.

"Shut up, Merlin, and listen to me." It wasn't that Arthur doubted his own skills, but who knew what kind of bizarre challenge a sorcerer would devise for him? This entire thing could just be an elaborate trap designed to rid the world of Prince Arthur of Camelot, but if there was any chance that he could save the thousands of people within Camelot who'd be starving in a matter of days, he had to take it. He glanced around again to make sure the damned stableboy hadn't come back and lowered his voice still more. "If I don't come back and things don't improve, get Morgana out of the city. She'll be a target."

"You might be a target, and you just want to ride out alone--"

"Shut up." Why had he put up with such an insolent fool for this long? But he knew why, and it had to do with the way Merlin was watching him, the annoyance that was born from worry. For whatever reason Arthur had never been able to fathom, Merlin cared about him -- about Arthur, not the prince or his own status as the prince's manservant, but simply Arthur. It made no sense. Nothing about Merlin ever made sense. "Just take care of her, do you understand? My father will try to subdue any unrest, but eventually his own guards will turn on him. No man stays loyal in the face of hunger."

"I will," said Merlin, and then caught himself and scoffed, "Like you know anything about real hunger. You've never lived through a hard winter as a peasant; this is nothing, trust me."

Arthur gripped his manservant's shoulder. "I do trust you. I wouldn't leave Morgana's care to anyone else." That was quite enough sappiness to be getting on with, though, and he gave Merlin a shove to counteract any accidental affection he may have shown, then led his horse out of the stables.

He kept thinking about it as he rode toward the Labyrinth of Gedref. Interspersed with ignoring his aching belly, he rolled the words over and over in his mind: I do trust you. It wasn't a prince's luxury to be able to trust; his father had made that clear often enough over the years.

But he did. Gods help him, but he trusted Merlin far more than he should, and that... well, according to his father, he would come to regret it.

Much later, after fumbling through the labyrinth, after sitting down to a new test that put Merlin (who'd blatantly disobeyed him) on the other side of a table, after drinking poison so that Merlin wouldn't, Arthur woke. He felt groggy and uncomfortable -- so groggy and uncomfortable that it took him several moments to remember he wasn't supposed to have woken at all.

"There you are," came a familiar voice, and then Merlin was bending over him. His manservant laid his hand against Arthur's brow, and Arthur was too disoriented even to protest.

"What happened?" he managed.

The words had come out jumbled, but fortunately Merlin seemed to understand. "It wasn't poison, just a sleeping potion. How do you feel?"

Relief was the first thing Arthur felt, followed closely by anger at having been tricked. But the relief was overwhelming, especially when he was able to sit his horse again, and they rode back into Camelot to find grain flourishing in the fields once more. It seemed he had at last been deemed worthy, at least by a sorcerer.

There was another emotion, though, which he didn't dare name, but which refused to be crushed. He let Merlin distract him with idle chatter through the long ride back, and then reported to his father, and checked in on the storerooms and supplies, which had been magically replenished. But the emotion was still there, lurking in the back of his mind; it kept him awake for hours that night, and then prodded at him the next morning through training, and into the afternoon.

At last he saddled a horse. "I'll only be an hour," he told Merlin, who showed his usual ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time by turning up in the stables. "No, you aren't coming with me; I'll take a groom."

"Why?" asked Merlin, and had the gall to appear hurt.

"I'd have thought you'd be glad to be rid of me, given the way you complain," said Arthur, leading his horse out of the stables.

"At least take a guard instead of a groom," said Merlin.

In the end Arthur took Lancelot, and it was utterly ridiculous to watch Merlin reluctantly accept that substitution, as though Arthur, who'd won more tournaments than he could remember, might not be safe without his weedy manservant by his side. Lance at least was a skilled fighter, and had the advantage that he kept a respectful silence as they rode out.

They didn't go far. There was a tiny lake, hardly large enough for the name, deep in the forest. It was too overgrown and muddy for anyone to care about, and Arthur wouldn't have bothered remembering its existence had they not chanced upon it years ago during a hunt with his father. Uther had looked at the little lake with something wistful in his eyes and said, "Ygraine swam there once." And then turned away, as though the memory had burst free unbidden, hurting him as it did.

Arthur had been thirteen and had known not to ask any questions.

But ever since then he came here sometimes. To think, mostly; sometimes to talk, even though nothing but the leaves and mud could hear him.

Arthur left his horse with Lance a little way away and walked halfway around the tiny lake until he reached the large rock that he'd taken to sitting on. When he sat there he felt all alone in the world. A whispering breeze wrapped itself around him and made the lake ripple as though in welcome.

"Hello, Mother," he whispered.

She wasn't there, of course. It had never felt as though she were there. But there was nowhere else that he felt closer to her.

He sat silent for a long time. Above him, the blue of the sky deepened. They'd need to ride back soon to avoid being caught by dusk.

At last he said, very quietly, "I was disappointed to wake." He added quickly, as though there were truly someone to reassure, "Not entirely. Not even mostly. But there was some small part of me that... It's just that I'd at last done something I felt truly certain of. Sacrificing myself for my people felt right. And Father might not approve -- he surely wouldn't -- but it didn't matter, because I didn't have to worry about his approval anymore."

Damningly, that was the part that made his heart ache most.

A bird called somewhere in the trees, one high note and three low. The lake reflected blue sky above, ringed with the dark shadows of trees.

"That's all, I suppose," Arthur said at last. And then, because it helped preserve the fiction that someone had heard him, had caught his words to their heart and held them close, he said, "I hope you're well, Mother."

Chapter Text

Gwen

The king threw a feast to celebrate the lifting of the curse. Gwen's belly was already full by the time it started; no one but the cruelest master would have forced their servant to wait until afterwards and scavenge the leftovers from the tables, and Morgana was never cruel. Well, not to Gwen.

Her mistress looked beautiful. Saying so was pointless, of course -- Morgana always looked beautiful. She'd looked beautiful and triumphant when she was grubby from travel and streaked with sweat in Ealdor after the battle. She looked beautiful and fragile when waking up in the morning after a bad night, disheveled and haunted. She looked beautiful and soft when she relaxed in her room with Gwen and their stitching. Stitching, they always called it, instead of the more accurate gossiping.

Right now she looked beautiful and untouchable, clothed in a rich gown with her hair carefully coifed, adorned with jewels at her throat and a flawless smile on her lips. Gwen couldn't see the smile from where she stood behind her lady ready to serve her, but she knew it was there. With any luck the king wouldn't say anything to drive it away.

King Uther stood once the initial hunger was sated -- and that had taken longer than usual, after the past few days. "To Prince Arthur, for breaking the curse!" he called out to the hall. "Another sorcerer has been foiled by the sword."

The cheer was the loudest and most heartfelt Gwen had ever heard in the hall. Even the most arrogant lord had been rapidly humbled by the lack of water.

The prince bowed his head in acknowledgment. There was something different about him this time, something quieter than Gwen was used to. Usually he basked in his father's praise like... well, like it was water and he was parched. But now, when a nearby nobleman pressed for details of his triumph, he waved it off. "I'd rather enjoy this fine meal tonight," he said. "I think we're all grateful for the plenty."

When Morgana turned her head to look at him, Gwen had a glimpse of the fine, frozen smile she wore, as well as the watchful look in her eyes.

"What do you think Arthur is hiding?" her lady asked that evening, as Gwen was readying her for bed.

"He was surprisingly modest, wasn't he?"

"Mmm. Uther will have had the whole story out of him, I'm sure, but he isn't exactly spreading it around."

"Perhaps there's something embarrassing about it," Gwen suggested, tying off Morgana's braid. She loved how her lady's hair slipped through her fingers, and always gave a final stroke to the tail of the braid. "Perhaps the sorcerer stumbled and knocked his own head on a stone, and the prince was simply lucky."

Morgana's mouth tightened before she smoothed her expression.

"You don't think there was any sorcerer, do you," said Gwen, and it wasn't really a question.

"I don't know whether there was a sorcerer. I do think that the unicorn's death was not coincidental to the curse."

Most people didn't know what Gaius had told the council about the legends of unicorns, but most people didn't have Morgana feeding them gossip from the highest levels of the court. Gwen let herself brush her hands over her mistress' hair one more time, as though chasing down errant strands. "What do you think Arthur did, then, to lift the curse?"

"He certainly isn't telling me anything. Perhaps Merlin knows."

Which meant that whichever of them saw Merlin next -- and it was very likely to be Gwen -- they were to pry information out of him if at all possible. Merlin was generally happy to talk, especially if his gossip was in any way embarrassing to Arthur, but this time when Gwen caught him outside the kitchen he only shifted awkwardly. After peering around cautiously, he stepped closer and said, "The Keeper of the Unicorns said Arthur proved himself worthy."

"But how did he prove himself?" Gwen asked.

Merlin looked uncomfortable and shrugged. "Does it matter, as long as the curse is lifted?" And slipped away.

It meant nothing to Gwen, but when she told Morgana, her mistress pursed her lips. "So Merlin was there," she murmured. "I rather thought he'd gone after Arthur."

Still, they could make nothing else of it, and Gwen supposed Merlin was right -- the important thing was that the curse was lifted.

Morgana

There was a scrap of parchment on Morgana's dressing table several days later, when she came in after dinner. She picked it up as Gwen lit some candles.

Woods by the postern gate path after dark. Help will come. K

"What's that?" asked Gwen, coming up behind her.

"Oh! Nothing," said Morgana, and folded it into her hand. At Gwen's questioning look, she just smiled and shook her head. "Something I'd forgotten about, that's all. I'm too tired to worry about it tonight, though. I think I'll just wash up and go to bed."

"Are you sure? You seemed quite well at dinner tonight."

"I haven't forgotten to be grateful there's dinner to be had," said Morgana. She waited until Gwen went to turn down the bed, and then tossed the parchment into the banked fire. It curled and smoked and blackened.

It could be a trap, of course. Even assuming that Kate wanted to help her -- and she hadn't seemed to -- how would she have gotten a note into Morgana's chambers? For that matter, Morgana had never given her name... but she was well-known in the city, Kate might have seen her... Even so, slipping out of the citadel alone after dark would be foolish, especially to meet someone she barely knew.

"You ought to go home tonight, Gwen," said Morgana as her maidservant began to extinguish the candles she'd just lit.

"I don't mind staying."

"I know. You're so good to me." Morgana held out a hand, and Gwen, holding the last candle, came to squeeze it. "I feel quite peaceful tonight. I don't think there will be any dreams."

"Oh, your draught! I'm sorry, just let me--"

"I already took it," Morgana broke in. She smiled reassuringly at Gwen's confusion, and said, "You hardly have a chance to see your father; don't think I haven't noticed. Go home and enjoy your evening."

Morgana crept along the postern gate path by feel and memory, moving soundlessly through the darkness. The young moon had already set, and the stars were veiled by a thin layer of clouds, sweeping past on their own business.

She shouldn't have burned the note. She should have left it somewhere obvious enough that if she didn't return, there would have been a clue as to what had happened to her.

The forest grew before her, a black wall against the sky, blotting out what few stars managed to peek through. Morgana slowed as she neared it and wrapped her dark cloak more tightly. A dog barked somewhere back in the town, then stilled. Other than that and the wind, she could hear nothing.

She'd laid one careful hand on the nearest tree trunk when someone whispered, "Mistress? Is that you?"

Morgana searched the darkness, but her eyes were useless. "Kate?"

A new voice answered her, low and melodic, a woman's voice but one used to command. "Hello, Morgana." There was movement at last as someone stirred in the deep shadows. "I've so looked forward to meeting you."

"I wish I could say the same," said Morgana, with all the cool reserve she'd learned in Uther's court. Her heart pounded, and she stood very still, straining her eyes. "Show yourself, please."

"Within sight of Camelot? You ask much, dear sister. It would be safer to go further into the forest."

Carefully, Morgana slid her hand to the dagger she'd belted at her waist. "I'd like to know who I'd be walking into the darkness with."

"You can trust her, mistress," came Kate's breathless voice.

But the new voice overrode her. "Very well. For you, sister, I dare much. Leoht."

And suddenly there was a light, a tiny ball of white that hovered in the air, illuminating the nearby trees, Kate's frightened face, and someone else in a long cloak and hood. One pale hand pushed back the hood to reveal tightly braided hair and kohl-darkened eyes that gleamed with faint gold. "My name is Morgause, and I promise I intend no harm." She smiled, the smile of a creature not entirely tame. "I only want to teach you about your gift, Morgana."

Much later that night, deep in the forest, Morgana whispered "leoht" for the umpteenth time. But this time a tiny spark of light appeared in her hand, and a frisson of delight went through her as her magic connected with the spell.

"I did it!" she said, breathless with awe and excitement. "Morgause, I did it!"

"Feel it, sister," said Morgause, smiling back at her. "That is true power, and it is yours to claim."

Chapter Text

Merlin

The king swept into Arthur's chambers without knocking one day in early autumn, and Merlin froze where he sat at Arthur's desk. The small part of his mind that wasn't busy being terrified thought, rather hysterically, that failing to knock at Arthur's door was his thing.

"Arthur, there's a matter that needs--" Uther broke off abruptly at the sight of Merlin poring over ledgers. "What in the world is he doing?" he demanded of Arthur.

Telling the king that Merlin routinely helped Arthur with sums, that he was in fact considerably better at that task than the prince, would not go well.

Fortunately Arthur could be rather quick on his feet, not that Merlin would ever tell him that. "A learning experience," he said, clasping his hands behind his back. "Since Merlin had the audacity to imply that I might have made a mistake in my calculations..." He paused to smirk at Merlin, who couldn't even scowl back with the king in the room. "...he's getting the chance to add up all those bushels of grain himself."

Uther's frown had relaxed, but only slightly. "I wasn't aware there was a question of grain stores before the council," he said, and strode over to the desk to peer down at the ledgers. His frown deepened again, and Merlin held his breath. "These are from years ago."

"Yes, it appears that grain production has been falling, slowly but steadily, for at least the last decade," said Arthur. He would have appeared relaxed to anyone who didn't know him as well as Merlin. "At first I thought it must be an error, or perhaps inaccurate reports, but--"

"I could have spared you the trouble of investigating," said Uther, turning away from the desk. Merlin gratefully began to breathe again. "We had higher yields when sorcerers defiled the land with their magic."

"They... made the land more fertile?" asked Arthur, his respectful mask falling away in simple surprise.

"Among other things. Clearing away pestilence, healing oxen, sometimes bringing rain when needed." The king swept all that away with a hand.

"But Father, why would they do all that? If magic is evil--"

"Don't." Uther's voice became harsh. He walked forward to put a hand on Arthur's shoulder and said in a tone that allowed no argument, "That is how they seduce you, Arthur. That's why some of our neighbors persist in allowing the rot of magic within their borders. Sorcerers promise their aid, extend a helping hand... and then, when you trust them, turn against you." Even from the desk, Merlin could see how tightly Uther's fingers gripped Arthur's shoulder. "Never mistake the help of a sorcerer for kindness. It's always strategic, calculated to fulfill their own evil desires."

"I understand, Father."

"Good." Uther gave him a small shake, then let go. "Next time ask me before you waste your morning digging through old ledgers."

Merlin clenched his jaw, because it hadn't been two days since the king had berated Arthur for relying too much upon the help of others when he ought to rely on himself. But Arthur only said tonelessly, "Yes, Father."

"Now, the matter which brought me here," said Uther. "Druids have been spotted in the Darkling Woods; a woodsman brought report of a large band of them. I want you to deal with them."

Merlin had been sitting as still and small as he could, trying to be invisible. Possibly that was why he noticed the tiny changes in Arthur's body, as though the prince were suddenly trying to do the same. "Surely not," he said, sounding a little strangled. "Druids haven't dared come so close to Camelot for years."

"That we know of," said Uther grimly. "They're magic-users, every one. Never underestimate their perfidy."

"Were they seen to use magic? By all accounts druids are peaceful people--"

"Need we have this discussion again?" asked Uther, and there was a silky quality to his question that made the hair on Merlin's arms stand up as though to flee.

Arthur bowed his head. "No, Father, of course not. I'll ready a troop of men at once. We'll leave in the morning."

"See to it," said the king, and swept out as abruptly as he'd come.

"They might not be druids," said Arthur later that day, after he'd heard the woodsman's report and spoken with the men who'd accompany him the next day. He stood staring out the window, his brow creased as it had been ever since Uther had given his orders.

Merlin, tidying away Arthur's half-eaten lunch, said nothing. A big band of them, the woodsman had said, nervously twisting his hood between rough hands. Not just men, neither. Women and children too, all in those patched-up robes.

A sick feeling had taken root in his belly, and he had no more appetite than Arthur.

"Have you ever met druids?" Arthur asked, still facing the window. "They aren't hunted in Essetir, are they?"

"No, they aren't," said Merlin. "They're careful there, of course. If Cenred hears of a powerful magic-user, no matter who they are, he takes them for himself. And since they don't pay taxes or tithes, he doesn't care a whit if slavers take the rest, and the slavers know it."

The specter of slavery had been a much more immediate worry for him when he lived in Ealdor than the threat of being burned at the pyre. Oddly, his fear of burning was greater. It captured the imagination more, he supposed. With the benefit of hindsight, both had been unlikely as long as he kept his head down and his magic to himself -- slavers tended to stay near the coast, which Ealdor was nowhere near, and the pyre was only used for executions in Camelot.

And now here he was in Camelot. A familiar feeling swept over him, the desire to run, to lose himself in the woods, to escape far from all the people that might look on him with disgust and fear for what he'd been born as.

It was as impossible now as it had been when he was small. Even if he could have abandoned the people he held dear -- and he couldn't -- there was nowhere in the world where he wouldn't have to hide what he could do. He might be killed in some places or enslaved in others, but he would never be safe.

"Have you met druids, then?" he asked Arthur to distract himself from his thoughts.

Arthur's mouth twisted. "Met? No."

There was something so bitter in the words that Merlin hesitated, hands on the tray. "Er... seen them, then?" he asked cautiously.

"That will be all, Merlin."

"Right." He picked up the tray and went to the door, then hesitated again. "Gaius asked for my help this afternoon, gathering herbs for a tincture. Is it all right if I send someone else with your dinner?"

"Yes, fine," said Arthur, still without turning.

Whatever was worrying him, it was significant enough that he hadn't even bothered complaining about Merlin's terrible service as a manservant. Merlin closed the door behind him with his elbow and started for the kitchen. Normally he'd try to coax Arthur to talk about it, but right now he had very little time.

Not if he wanted to warn the druids before they were all slaughtered.

Fortunately he had several advantages over Arthur and his men. As a single, unarmored rider it was easier for him to pick his way through the forest. As a warlock, he could create lights to help him keep moving even when darkness grew under the trees.

And then there was the little matter of finding the druids. He simply got close enough using the woodsman's directions, and then asked the voices in his head for guidance.

"We appreciate your warning, Emrys," said Aglain, their leader, when he met up with them mid-morning. He'd greeted Merlin with courtesy bordering on reverence, which was a bit nerve-wracking. Even more unsettling was the way everyone in the camp stared at him, the children openly and the adults trying to be more discreet. "We knew the risk of coming into Camelot, and will be as quick with our errand as we may."

"I'm not sure you understand properly," said Merlin. There was a woman nursing a babe who couldn't be more than a few months old, and the sick feeling that had been living in his belly since the day before had grown. Hard travel and only a few hours of sleep, snatched mostly out of kindness to his horse, had left him feeling scratchy and dull. "Arthur doesn't want to hurt you, but the king ordered him out here, and some of the knights coming with him are ones that don't have any trouble killing druids. If they find you, they won't spare anyone." He cast a significant glance at the young mother, who bit her lip.

"We'll do everything we can not to be found," Aglain assured him.

"Why are you even here?" asked Merlin, trying not to sound as frustrated as he was. "There must be safer places in Albion!"

Aglain smiled sadly. "Our calling is to serve the Triple Goddess and all her creatures. There are sacred places within Camelot which must be renewed and kept in balance with the rest of Albion in order to care for the land."

"I'm sure the land can take care of itself for a while. Anyway, you won't be able to renew anything if you're dead."

The druid was quiet for a moment, and Merlin had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of being weighed. A voice in his head said, To serve well means to give freely and generously of oneself, even at great cost. Merlin looked around to find a dark-haired boy watching him with an eerily solemn expression.

To serve well also means knowing when you're being asked to do something stupid, he told the boy, thinking of Arthur.

A small smile touched the boy's lips, transforming his face from ageless to shy.

"Given that they already know we're here, it would be best to send at least the young ones away," said a druid aloud, which was when Merlin realized that they'd all been discussing the matter between them and shutting him out. "They should be able to hide in the hills."

"I need to go to the grove," said the young mother with obvious trepidation. "No other of us is aligned properly with the earth."

"You're joking, right?" said Merlin, but she only averted her eyes.

An hour later he was leading his horse, now carrying an old man and two small children, north into the hills. There are fewer of them now, said the dark-haired boy walking at his side. His name was Mordred. Perhaps they'll be able to evade the knights.

"Yes," said Merlin aloud. It wasn't the first time he'd spoken with druids in his head, but it always felt uncomfortably intimate. After a moment he burst out, "But that babe! How can they--?"

"We all do what we must," said the old man on the horse. "No choice is without risk. The land ails without its caretakers."

Merlin didn't answer. The land might ail, but he couldn't stop thinking of the baby's dark eyes.

He couldn't stay with them, of course. Gaius would have explained away Merlin's absence that morning -- hopefully with the story that he was gathering more herbs, not carousing at the tavern -- but if he were gone too long it would be suspicious, especially if someone realized the druids had been warned. So once they were up in the hills where they ought to be able to lose themselves, Merlin turned back toward the castle.

He wouldn't be able to make it back before the next morning at the earliest; they'd traveled slowly that day, but there had still been little true rest for either himself or the horse over the last two days. Merlin picked his way carefully around the area that the knights and Arthur would no doubt be scouring, stuffed his satchel full of (mostly useless) herbs by moonlight, and rode wearily into Camelot in the late morning.

"Any word?" he asked Gaius once they were safely behind the physician's doors.

"None. But if you succeeded in diverting the druids, Arthur may spend days looking for them." Gaius sorted through the herbs, tying the less useless ones into bundles for drying.

"Some of them still went on, to do whatever ritual they were planning." Merlin had been rubbing his hair dry after a quick wash. He tossed aside the drying cloth and pulled on a clean shirt. "I tried, Gaius, I swear I did, but they said the land was ailing and they needed to take care of it."

"The Old Religion held that the land needed to be tended as carefully as any garden, just in a different way." His mentor's frown etched deep lines of worry into his face. "In theory it was for the benefit of all the Triple Goddess' creatures, but I always suspected it was more to do with bending the land toward human use. Wilderness will take care of itself, but may be inhospitable to men." He sighed heavily. "They take their role very seriously."

"Or maybe they're all just mad," muttered Merlin. "Right -- I need to keep busy until Arthur gets back, or I'll keep thinking about..." About a young mother, and a babe with dark eyes, and the serenity in Aglain's face as he refused to flee.

Gaius paused in his work to lay a hand on Merlin's shoulder. "You did everything you could, my boy."

That didn't feel true. It felt even less true when the knights returned the next day, and Arthur's face was set as hard and cold as stone.

"Merlin," said Arthur that night as Merlin was blowing out the last few candles.

"Yes, my lord," said Merlin. He was poised with his hand behind the final candle, wanting nothing more than his bed. His body was still worn down by the long nights of traveling rather than sleeping.

"There weren't enough druids."

"What?"

"There weren't nearly as many as the woodsman had said. And there were only two women and one... child." Arthur was turned away from him in the bed, and the tiny hitch before the last word was filled with some emotion Merlin couldn't read.

"The woodsman was mistaken, then?" asked Merlin. He'd managed to keep his voice admirably steady.

"Or maybe the druids knew they'd been spotted. My father is sending out a few men to try to track down any others."

"All right." When nothing else was forthcoming, Merlin blew out the last candle and made his way toward the door in the darkness.

Just before he reached it, Arthur said, "My father is aware that you left Camelot the night before I did."

"I was gathering herbs for Gaius."

"Yes, Gaius confirmed as much." Another long silence. "That will be all, Merlin."

Chapter Text

Gwen

Gwen found Merlin in the laundry, empty at this hour except for a fuming manservant. As soon as he caught sight of her he said, "Arthur decided he needed this exact shirt for tomorrow, the bloody prat."

"I'll help," said Gwen, coming inside. Arthur had been in a mood lately, and Merlin was bearing the brunt of it.

"I know he's upset -- he has been ever since riding out after those druids! But why can't he just talk about it, like a normal person? Instead he has to thrash people in the name of training them, and become a complete arse to everyone, and make my life harder by, apparently, grinding his shirt into the mud--"

"Gently," Gwen admonished him. The shirt wouldn't stand up for long under scrubbing like that.

"Sorry." Merlin stepped back, letting Gwen lift the linen out of the bucket and examine it. "I haven't seen you lately," he said, more kindly. "Nor Morgana. How have you been?"

"I'm fine," said Gwen. "So is Morgana." She plunged the shirt back into the water, applied a little soap, and picked up the scrub brush. When Merlin didn't say anything, she bit her lip. "I think we're fine. I'm nearly certain we're fine."

"Have you argued?" asked Merlin when she said nothing more.

He and Arthur argued all the time, so of course he would ask that. It wasn't the way Morgana and Gwen were together. "No. She's been... happy. Which is good, I want her to be happy." Gwen rinsed the shirt, then finally stopped and looked around the empty laundry. She lowered her voice. There was no one else she could imagine trusting with this. "Can I tell you something and... and you won't say anything, will you? Not even to Arthur?"

"I'm happy not to talk to Arthur just now," grumbled Merlin. "Of course you can, Gwen. I'd never reveal your secrets."

Gwen leaned toward him, and it was as though the words, now loosed, couldn't spill out quickly enough. "Morgana snuck out the other night! And I don't think it was the first time, and I don't know where she went but I found pine needles in the hem of her gown, and she has been happier lately! She hasn't even dreamed much; I haven't been woken by one of her nightmares in ages! Which I'm glad of, obviously, but Merlin... Where is she going? And why wouldn't she tell me?"

Merlin frowned. "Are you certain? You've said that sometimes she walks when she can't sleep--"

"Not like this! Not slipping out wearing her oldest clothes, and being gone for hours! She hardly made it back before dawn this last time!"

"She must be meeting with someone. Perhaps she has a lover? She could have met someone unsuitable?"

"I suppose," said Gwen in a stifled voice. She began wringing out Arthur's shirt, her strong hands squeezing the water out in streams. Morgana wasn't the sort to be easily cowed; even if she'd become attached to someone unsuitable, even if she'd decided to keep the attachment from Uther, surely she'd have talked to Gwen. Wouldn't she?

"Here, let me," said Merlin, and she realized she was twisting too hard. "You don't really think she's sneaking out to meet a lover, do you."

"No. Oh Merlin, I don't know what she's doing, but I--" Gwen stopped, looked around again and said, even more quietly, "You know I'd never say anything against Morgana, don't you? I'd never want to harm her, not in any way."

"Of course."

"Just as you wouldn't harm Arthur. Don't think I haven't noticed how you take care of him, for all that you complain about him." She was wringing her hands now as though they were another shirt that needed squeezing out.

Merlin laid a hand on hers, which helped calm her a little. "He's a prat, but he has a good heart underneath it all. And you're even luckier, because Morgana has a good heart without all the prattishness."

"Yes." Gwen took a long breath. "Her dreams have tormented her for so long, and they've been getting worse. She said once that she'd do almost anything for a peaceful night's rest. And now suddenly they're better... Merlin, what if she somehow found a way to... to stop them with... magic?" The last word was barely a breath.

Merlin stared at her. "You think Morgana is sneaking out to... what? Meet a hedgewitch?"

"Or someone more dangerous." Gwen's hands twitched despite Merlin's grip. "When I mentioned the pine needles in her hem, she was so defensive. I'm sure she knows that even she couldn't get away with consorting with a sorcerer. If the king found out--"

"Morgana's brave but she's very far from foolish."

She might be desperate, though. The dreams had been getting so bad, and sometimes Morgana would get a haunted look even during the day, as though she wasn't free of them even awake. "I don't know what to do," Gwen whispered. "I'd do anything for her, you know that, but if the king found out and thought I knew... And what if something happens to her? Sneaking out alone at night is bad enough, but supposing she trusts this... this person, and it turns out they shouldn't be trusted..."

"No, you're right," said Merlin in sudden decision. "But we don't know what's happening yet, do we? I'll talk to her, Gwen."

"You don't have to--"

"Of course I will."

"But what if I'm wrong?" Gwen asked miserably. "What if she really is meeting a lover, or... or sneaking out to practice sword-fighting, or..."

"I'll follow her then, and see where she's going. How often do you think she's sneaking out?"

Gwen gave him an exasperated look. "Merlin, you aren't exactly sneaky yourself. She'd realize you were behind her in a moment."

Merlin's smile held no humor. "I'm better at sneaking out of the citadel than you might think."

In the end they went together. Gwen told her mistress that she wanted to spend the night with her father -- "He has a cough that I'm worried about," she said, and tried not to look guilty -- and Merlin met her near the postern gate, as that was closest to the forest.

They had a long enough wait that Gwen began to second-guess the significance of the pine needles, before finally a cloaked figure slipped out and headed for the woods. Gwen knew her lady well, and could recognize Morgana simply by the way she walked. Her heart sank; for all that she'd decided to follow Morgana, some part of her had also hoped her mistress would stay safely tucked up in bed.

Merlin, Gwen realized as they followed, was much more stealthy than she'd given him credit for. Considering how Arthur complained about his abilities as a hunter, she'd assumed he couldn't move quietly even in the day, much less in the darkness. But he took the lead, and Morgana appeared completely unaware of their presence.

It turned out not to matter. They were picking their way into the pitch dark of the forest when, with a sudden whispered word, bright balls of light sprang into existance, and Gwen and Merlin were exposed to both Morgana and a blond woman Gwen had never seen before.

"Gwen?" said Morgana in confusion, whipping around at Gwen's gasp. "Merlin? What are you doing here?"

"Following you, sister," said the other woman -- a sorceress, her eyes edged in gold. Gwen stood frozen, terror rooting her feet.

"We just wanted to be sure Morgana was safe," said Merlin, surprisingly steady in the face of obvious magic.

Gwen drew on that courage a little and managed to add, "You are safe, aren't you, Morgana?"

"Of course I am! Why wouldn't I be?"

Gwen's eyes flicked helplessly to the ball of light hovering in the air.

"I will not allow you to harm Morgana," said the sorceress, and though she didn't move, threat hung suddenly in the air.

"No!" Morgana caught the woman's arm. "Gwen would never hurt me, and neither would Merlin. I trust them with my life."

"Think carefully, sister. One word in Uther's ear would end you. I know you've seen people burn."

Morgana paled visibly even in the faint light. But Gwen said, "I'd give my life for Morgana, and she knows it! Morgana, we just didn't know what was going on! Coming out here at night, all alone--"

"You should have talked to me! Why did you talk to Merlin instead of me?"

"She knows I only want to protect you too," said Merlin. "Anyway, you didn't talk to her."

"And none of you talked to me," said a familiar voice, and Arthur stepped out of the trees.

This must be what stepping off a cliff would feel like -- a pause with the world spread out around and below you, as lovely as ever, and the certainty of death hovering just a hair away before it swoops in inexorably and obliterates you. Gwen's heart clenched in terror so hard that she went light-headed. For one wild moment she thought or hoped that she must be dreaming, and would wake up in a moment to her father rousing her.

"Arthur Pendragon," said Morgause, the only person there who wasn't gaping at Arthur in fear. Then, because there was always a way to make things worse, she added, "You look very like your mother."

Arthur paused. He was holding his drawn sword, but it was lowered, implying that he hadn't yet decided to attack. Then he said, ignoring Morgause entirely, "Are you all right, Morgana?"

Morgana lifted her chin. "I'm fine, as you can see. Aside from the fact that multiple people who I thought I could trust apparently decided to sneak around after me!"

"Technically I was following Merlin," said Arthur mildly. "But you're a fool if you don't see that every one of us is standing here because we care about you."

It was a more vulnerable thing than Gwen had ever heard from him. Morgana looked taken aback, but rallied. "Are you going to save me from the evil sorceress, then? The only person who was willing to help me?"

Arthur stood quietly for so long that Gwen's breath steadied. "No," he said at last. When Morgana arched an eyebrow he sent her a look of annoyance. "I'm not entirely blind, Morgana. You've been sleeping better lately. This... person... has done something to help with your dreams, hasn't she?"

"I have," said Morgause at once. She was watching Arthur with single-minded focus. Gwen shivered, suddenly at least as afraid for Arthur as of him. Morgause looked like a hawk who'd spotted a vole.

"Nothing else was helping, was it?" Arthur said, still to Morgana.

"What do you care?" asked Morgana bitterly. "Don't pretend you aren't your father's son, Arthur, standing beside him at executions, riding out to slaughter druids--" She cut off at the small movement Arthur made, as though she'd burned him. "You did," she said again, but less forcefully.

"Yes. I did." Another pause. Arthur's shoulders were tense, his hand white-knuckled on his sword. "They didn't resist, only tried to talk to us, to reason with us. One of them was a mother with a new babe."

"And is she dead now?" asked Morgana in a choked whisper.

"Yes." His voice was empty. "Cador would have killed the babe too, but I gave her to the first peasant family we found on our way back." He looked down at his blade, bathed in moonlight. "Father wasn't happy about it."

Even Morgana winced at that. They all knew what it meant when Uther wasn't happy about something. The silence Arthur had been laboring under since riding out to find the druids took on new meaning.

"You don't agree with Uther on the subject of magic?" asked Morgause. Unlike Morgana, she sounded as calm as though they were discussing the weather.

"I... cannot say," said Arthur slowly. When Morgana opened her mouth, he raised his hand. "It's been pointed out to me that I only know my father's views on magic. No one dares say anything against him. Except you, of course."

"Not that you ever listen to me," said Morgana with a valiant attempt at hauteur.

"Sire, what are you going to do?" Gwen burst out. She'd never thought to find herself caught between her prince and her lady, but now that she was here she knew exactly which one she'd protect.

Arthur swallowed. "This is... helping you?" he asked Morgana.

"Yes. Arthur, you don't know what it means to me!"

He nodded and, for the first time, spoke directly to Morgause. "Thank you for helping Morgana," he said stiffly. "If you harm her, I'll come for you myself."

"Arthur!" Morgana hissed.

But it was Morgause's turn to raise a hand. "I wish no harm on Morgana. You have my word." She tilted her head to the side. "And you, Arthur Pendragon... I am pleasantly surprised by you. I think you may be an honorable man."

Arthur stiffened further. "I didn't realize that was in doubt."

"I'd like to offer you a boon," Morgause went on, as though he hadn't spoken. "You recognize your ignorance on the subject of magic, which is good. I can help alleviate that ignorance."

"That's very generous of you," Arthur grit out. "But I must decline."

"Think carefully." Morgause's voice was soft like a cat's paw, the claws concealed. "Your ignorance may not be of your own making, but if you choose to prolong it, no one else bears that responsibility."

Arthur considered her. Then, to Gwen's surprise, he inclined his head courteously. "My lady, with all due respect, I can't imagine you're less opinionated on the subject of magic than my father is. While it may benefit me to hear your perspective, I intend to first consult sources which have less obvious reason to sway me to their own opinions."

It took Gwen a moment to pick through the words -- Arthur was using his courtly manners, the ones that generally only appeared for visiting nobles.

A small smile curved Morgause's lips. "A not unreasonable approach," she said more evenly than before. "My offer will not stand forever, though."

Merlin

Merlin tried to turn toward his room when they got back to the castle, but Arthur's hand latched firmly onto his jacket.

"How long have you known that Morgana was sneaking out to visit a sorceress?" Arthur demanded once they'd reached the safety of the prince's chambers. They were illuminated only by the firelight, but Merlin could still see the ferocious angle of his brows.

"I didn't!" When Arthur scowled, Merlin scowled right back. "I didn't know. Gwen was worried that Morgana might be meeting someone, and I said it must be a lover, and Gwen said--"

"I can't stomach your babble right now, Merlin," snapped Arthur. "Do you know what my father would do if he discovered you aiding Morgana in leaving the city in the middle of the night--"

"I wasn't aiding her in anything! I was helping Gwen, who was worried--"

"And she should be!" Arthur visibly bit back further words. He unbuckled his sword belt with angry movements and tossed it at Merlin. His jacket followed, and then the prince slumped into a chair, staring moodily at the fire. "Do you think I should have killed that sorceress?"

Merlin wasn't sure Arthur could have killed Morgause, but he wasn't about to say it. "I thought you acted with admirable restraint, actually," he said, dumping sword and jacket on the table. Arthur glared at him but didn't comment on it. "Morgana has seemed much better lately."

"I know."

Moving slowly, Merlin dared to sit in the chair opposite Arthur. "Do you think you made a mistake?"

"How would I know that? That's the whole trouble, I have no way of knowing..." Arthur rubbed his hands over his face. After a moment he said, "If I can't trust my father's judgment, where does that leave me?"

"No one's judgment is perfect," said Merlin, feeling slightly dizzy. Arthur had struggled with his father's decisions plenty of times, but this was the first time he'd said aloud that Uther might be wrong.

"He's my king," said Arthur, still to the fire. "I've sworn my allegiance to him. My life and sword are his."

The fire spat suddenly in the hearth. Around them, the sleeping castle lay still as death.

"I disagree with you all the time," said Merlin at last.

"That isn't the same. I told you, I've sworn--"

"I might not have formally sworn myself to you in some ceremony," Merlin broke in. "But it doesn't matter. My life is yours, Arthur. I'll serve you until the day I die." He wasn't sure when this knowledge had solidified -- sometime around when Arthur had thanked a sorceress for her help, or perhaps when he said that he'd saved that druid babe from slaughter. Arthur finally met his eyes. "But I'm not your slave, and I'll tell you when I think you're wrong. And a good king has to be willing to hear that too."

"Careful, Merlin."

"I mean it." Merlin leaned forward. "You'll be a good king, Arthur. A great one."

Chapter Text

Uther

There'd been something different about Arthur lately. Uther hadn't noticed at first -- or rather, he'd noticed his son becoming more thoughtful, more interested in some of the tedious parts of ruling. It had surprised Uther but pleased him, except for how Arthur began asking about things that were better left to older and wiser heads. Uther knew his son, and knew that explaining the distasteful necessity of certain choices would be... frustrating. Arthur was still young enough not to understand the inherent ruthlessness of ruling.

Still, the more Arthur grew toward the role he'd one day fill as king of Camelot, the more Uther was pleased.

What did not please him was the increasing tendency of his son to argue with him.

"I understand your displeasure, sire," Arthur was saying now. "But if the blacksmith truly had no idea that the man he was dealing with was a sorcerer--"

"Even if he didn't know at first, the fact remains that sorcery was practiced in this kingdom -- in the town itself! -- and those responsible must pay." That was the only way to stamp out magic: swift, decisive punishment. The punishment would already have been carried out had Arthur not insisted on arguing about it.

"His name is Tom," said Arthur. Outwardly he still seemed calm, but Uther knew his son well, could see how badly he wanted another outcome than execution. "By all accounts he's a good man, if a bit foolish at times. We can't blame him for being afraid when he realized he'd had dealings with a sorcerer."

"Yes," said Uther impatiently. "We can. And we must. He ought never to have been mixed up in those dealings in the first place."

"How was he to know?" Now the calm facade was cracking. "He had no reason to--"

"You keep assuming he was innocent of wrong-doing. We have no proof that he didn't know very well what he was about."

"We have no proof that he did! Everyone who knows him agrees that he was likely taken in."

"Then he should have reported the matter immediately," snapped Uther.

"He was afraid, Father, and it's hardly a surprise! He was afraid he'd be executed for something he never intended to do, and if you kill him you'll only be teaching others that they need to hide!"

The sunlight caught in Arthur's hair, brightening it to the shade of Ygraine's. He was so like her -- fierce and determined and with that stubborn gentleness beneath, that tender core that had pulled Uther to her from the beginning. Sometimes it felt as though a fragment of Ygraine lived on in her son. Sometimes love threatened to swallow Uther whole.

But that wasn't what he needed from this boy, from his heir. He'd promised to spend the rest of his life atoning for the mistake that had taken Ygraine from him, but magic had turned out to be more pernicious than he'd ever expected. He needed an heir who would carry on the work long after Uther was gone, who would be as relentless and determined in stamping out evil as Uther himself had been. A soft heart would only be a hindrance.

It should have been Arthur slaying that druid babe, or at least ordering it killed. Arthur hadn't even admitted to his failing with the babe until Uther had taken Sir Cador's report and confronted him about it. It should have been Arthur who went out with another group of men to track down the rest of the druids who'd somehow fled.

There would be questions about Arthur's loyalty at this rate. Uther couldn't have that.

"Arthur," he said, searching for patience within himself. He reached out to clasp the boy's shoulder. "I know it isn't easy, making these decisions. But lenience only encourages the pestilence of magic to spread. Better to cut it off at the root."

But this time Arthur didn't bow his head and acquiesce. "You've been cutting at that root for twenty years," he said quietly, and there was something in his expression Uther couldn't place but didn't like. It certainly wasn't admiration. "Maybe it's time to rethink your approach."

Your approach, not our approach. Uther dropped his hand and said coldly, "I learned the lesson of magic's evil at great cost. I have no intention of forgetting it."

"We aren't talking about magic's evil, but about a man's foolish mistake!"

"That's enough!" It was all he could do not to strike the boy. "What would your mother think, to see you defending a man for the same dark arts that took her life?"

And there, that obstinate set of Arthur's jaw -- that too was painfully familiar. "From what I've heard, my mother had no thirst for blood."

Uther's hand was moving before he knew it, the palm cracking hard and final against Arthur's face. His hand stung with the impact, and it was a long moment before Arthur lifted his head to meet his eyes.

"You're dismissed," said Uther. It was all he could say without giving in to the need to shout, to strike again, to see his son on his knees and penitent.

He'd fallen into that need before. It had always been ugly, Ygraine's eyes staring up at him from a bruised face, wounded and watchful and each time somehow further away from him.

Chapter Text

Morgana

Of all the indignities she'd suffered under Uther Pendragon -- and Morgana was well aware that others suffered far worse -- the most humiliating was being locked in her room like a child.

It wasn't unwarranted. Left to herself, Morgana wanted to believe that she would have taken up the first sword she could find and fought for Tom's freedom with everything she had. Uther didn't know about the battle in Ealdor, had no idea that his ward had killed her first man that day, felt the give of flesh, seen the blood run bright and final down his side. She remembered vividly that moment of horror, the realization that this was not a practice bout and she had just ended a man's life.

She'd gone to Ealdor for Merlin, but once the battle had started she was fighting for her life -- and Gwen's and Arthur's and Hunith's and all of them, because to falter now was to die. So the moment of horror was only a moment, and in the next moment it was time to parry and strike again. A sweet, gentle woman like Uther wanted her to be would have carried that first man's death as a stone on her shoulders; Morgana carried it, yes, but as a token talisman.

She wasn't fool enough to think that ragged bandits were the same as trained castle guards, and she didn't want to fight men who had traded courteous nods and respectful smiles with her for years. But the anguish in Gwen's face was something that couldn't be borne, not by anyone with a heart. Certainly not by Morgana.

Uther, of course, barely noticed it.

"I shouldn't have bothered yelling," she snarled to her empty room as she paced back and forth, leaning into her anger so she could pretend the tears weren't dripping down her face still. Caged and helpless, as she always was. "I should have stabbed him when I had the chance." She'd known it was hopeless, that no persuasion or cajoling would move Uther, and berating him was even more useless -- he never listened even to his councilors, much less Morgana, and the more he felt attacked the more he hardened. I will not discuss this with you if you insist of behaving like a hysterical woman, he'd told her, and it was lucky for him that Morgana had not had a blade in her hand.

Some small, honest part of herself acknowledged that she couldn't have killed Uther. Not even then; not even for Gwen. She ought to be harder, but he was still the man who'd greeted her gently when she arrived in Camelot, who'd indulged her early tantrums, who'd told her -- when she was ready -- stories of her father and mother, what great friends they'd been to him. Nor could she face what such a deed would do to Arthur; for all that she believed he'd truly be better off without his father, Arthur still loved the king dearly. Seeing him fall, especially by Morgana's hand, would hurt him too deeply.

Morgause would have no such reservations. They didn't speak of much except magic, but the sorceress never concealed her loathing for Uther Pendragon.

Morgana's steps slowed as she heard the guards shift outside her door, the low murmur of voices. She moved to the middle of her room and straightened her shoulders. Uther wouldn't come see her so soon; he believed that a woman needed time to calm herself from her hysterics. Merlin wouldn't be allowed in without the presence of Gwen to provide necessary propriety. It was probably Arthur, come to lecture her, which would be both infuriating and a relief. She needed someone to slice at with words, since she apparently couldn't bring herself to use a sword.

But it was Gwen who slipped through the door, closing it softly behind her.

"Gwen..!" said Morgana, the fury smothered at once with guilt. She held out her hands.

"My lady," said Gwen. Her face was swollen from weeping, strands of her hair loose around her face, her gown crumpled. She took two tentative steps into the room and then paused. "Morgana," she whispered.

Morgana pulled her into her arms, holding tightly as though that could assuage the devastation in her friend's face. "I should have been there," she said into Gwen's hair, feeling the other woman curl into her. "I shouldn't have yelled so much; I could have at least been there to hold you--"

"No, I didn't want you to see. No one should have to see that."

"You shouldn't have had to see that." Morgana cradled Gwen's head with one hand. She'd assumed that her maidservant would go home, perhaps help to prepare her father's body for burial -- Uther had allowed him the quick death of the axe, at least, instead of a pyre. That she'd come here instead, that she wanted Morgana's comfort more than the solitude to grieve, was an unexpected honor.

I will find a way to stop this madness, she vowed, as shudders worked through Gwen's body, and the thought was both a plea and a vow. I will find a way to end the tyranny of Uther Pendragon.

Morgana wanted to turn Arthur away when he showed up at her door, or possibly to rage and scream and claw at him. But she did neither of those things, because for the first time Uther's madness had claimed someone who wasn't just a faceless peasant. This time the king had executed Gwen's father.

Her fury had steadied in the hours since the execution. It was not reduced, only colder and more focused.

So she let him in without a word, and watched as he walked to where Gwen sat, shoulders bowed. There were no tears on her face at the moment; they came and went, as they had done every since she ran to Morgana with the news that her father had been arrested for consorting with a sorcerer. Tom had already been dead, then, and they both knew it. The axe was just a formality.

"I'm sorry, Gwen," said Arthur softly.

Perhaps the fury wasn’t quite steady, because what right did he have to say that? "Now do you see?" Morgana burst out. She could hardly stand to look at Arthur; Gwen's pain was a tangible weight on her skin.

Arthur was quiet for a long moment, standing in front of Gwen as though waiting for something. Too kind-hearted for her own good, Gwen said in a broken tone, "Thank you for arguing on my father's behalf, Your Highness."

"Don't thank him!" snapped Morgana bitterly, and would have said more, the words hot and bitter on her tongue, longing to be spat out.

But Arthur said heavily, "Don't thank me, please. I was unsuccessful."

Morgana closed her mouth abruptly. She'd seen how slowly he'd walked, but hadn't realized until that moment how pinched Arthur's face was. The red mark on his cheek was painfully familiar.

"You tried," whispered Gwen.

Arthur trudged to the window and stood for a while looking down into the courtyard. The fury seeped in slow drops down into Morgana's belly, simmering like banked fire. She went back to kneel beside Gwen, catching her friend's hands in hers, trying to impart what warmth she could. Arthur had tried, she could give him that much -- but Tom was still dead, and Gwen was still sitting hunched over, as though some of her own life had drained away with the headsman's axe.

Arthur's failure may have hurt him, but not nearly as much as it had hurt Gwen. And she'd seen this struggle in him before. In a few days, a month or two at most, he'd have talked himself back into believing whatever Uther told him, clinging to the safety of his father's words.

"It'll be me one of these days," Morgana said into the silence. "Sooner or later Uther will find out... what I've done," and she'd nearly told him about her own magic, what was wrong with her, "and it'll be my head on the block."

"No," said Gwen, stifled and fierce.

"He doesn't love me enough to spare me. I don't think he knows how to love."

The words had been aimed at Arthur, as sharp as she could make them. But to Morgana's surprise, he didn't argue. Instead, still staring out the window, he said, "Could you arrange a meeting for me, Morgana? I'd like to see if Morgause is still willing to talk."

Chapter Text

Gwaine

Gwaine arrived back in Camelot to find that all sorts of things had happened in his absence. None of them astonished him until he finally, after several days of trying, managed to talk to Merlin.

"You aren't serious," he said to Merlin that evening. He'd finally slipped directly into the citadel to see if Merlin was about, but had expected to end up disappointed yet again. Instead he found himself ensconced on one of the Court Physician's benches with a hearty bowl of stew. "Arthur is seeking out a so--"

"Mind your tongue," cut in Gaius, who seemed considerably less pleased to see him than Merlin was. Gwaine had even brought a flask of wine as a gift, but it hadn't sweetened the older man's view of him.

Gwaine inclined his head, although the door was closed and they were speaking in low tones. This was Camelot; paranoia was warranted. "There have to be less dangerous ways to learn whatever he wants to know," he said. "How did he even get in contact with this woman?"

Merlin flicked a sidelong glance at Gaius. "Never mind that," said Gaius with a sour look on his face. "Merlin shouldn't have told you about it. The less we talk about it the better."

He went back to his stew, and Merlin, after a tense moment, did as well.

It was decent stew, though not more interesting than the conversation; but Gwaine could tell when his questions weren't welcome. He'd try to get Merlin alone sometime to pry more details out of him. "Poor Gwen," he said instead. "How's she holding up then?"

"As well as can be expected," said Gaius, shaking his head.

"The forge is being taken over by her father's apprentice," said Merlin in a subdued voice. "Which means that Gwen will need to move out of the cottage. She sleeps in Morgana's chambers often enough anyway, but it's... a change."

"Aye, less independence." It probably wouldn't bother Gwen as much as, say, Morgana, but still.

"She may find it easier not to be surrounded with quite so many reminders of her father," said Gaius wearily.

Gwaine would've given Gaius a piece of his mind, venerable old man or not, but his face was full of genuine sympathy. So he moderated his tone from biting to merely firm. "Being cut off from your home doesn't make things easier, when you've lost someone you love."

Gaius arched an eyebrow. That was a neat trick; Gwaine should try to learn it, save it for when he was himself old and venerable.

Ah, who was he kidding? He'd never make it to old age.

"Listen, see if you can bring Gwen down to the market sometime," he told Merlin. "We'll treat her with some flowers and sweets, wander about a bit, maybe take her mind off things for an hour."

"I'm not sure it's possible to take her mind off it," said Merlin, but his eyes had lit with the hope of being useful to his friend, in whatever tiny way, and his smile was warmer than it had been all evening.

Whether Merlin had a hand in it or not, Gwaine did in fact see Gwen in the market the next day -- accompanied by Lancelot.

He straightened from where he'd been loitering near a pie-seller, nibbling to make the pie last longer. A quick bite to finish it, a brush of his fingers, and he picked up the posey he'd bought earlier (and that would have gone to some girl on the docks if Gwen hadn't shown). Lance wasn't wearing the surcoat and mail of a guard; he must be off-duty, which made it all the more likely that Gwaine could tempt them both into spending a little time with him.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said, sliding smoothly in front of Gwen while she waited for her turn at a baker's stall.

"Gwaine!" she said. Her smile was genuine, if a little weaker than usual. Sadness lingered in the creases of her eyes, but she hitched her smile up bravely. "I didn't know you were in Camelot!"

"Just got in a few days ago," he said. He spared a moment to aim a smile at Lance as well. The other man was too polite not to return it, though with markedly less enthusiasm. Gwaine kept half his attention on Lance, noting the stiffening shoulders, as he held out the posey to Gwen. "This is for you, loveliest of ladies."

"Oh, I... thank you, but--"

"Now, none of that," said Gwaine, dropping the flirtatious tone. He took Gwen's hand gently and pressed the flowers into it. "I heard what happened. I know a few flowers can't mend a wounded heart, but at least I can give you my sympathy."

Gwen's lip trembled, but only for a moment. She lifted her chin. "Thank you," she said simply, and closed her fingers around the stems.

"I lost my father too, years ago," he told her, stroking his thumb soothingly along her hand. But that was far more than he'd meant to say; as lovely a lady as Gwen was, he wasn't about to make himself vulnerable just for a pretty face. More briskly, he added, "Now what can your paramour and I--" Lance choked at the phrase, and Gwaine gave him a dazzling grin. "--do to make your day a little lighter?"

Gwen laughed, and it was only a little watery. "Just being near friends is enough for me, I promise."

"Ah, but being near friends is even better with a few sweetmeats! Let me treat you both once you've bought your bread." He winked at Gwen and let her step up to the baker's counter, then sidled closer to Lance. "How has she been?" he murmured.

Lance hesitated, then said reluctantly, "As well as can be expected. You heard how it happened?"

"The gist of it, aye." Gwaine shook his head. "Not the first innocent lost to this madness, and not the last either."

Another hesitation, and this time Lance closed his mouth over whatever he might have said. He wasn't currently wearing the surcoat, but he was still employed by the king.

In other circumstances Gwaine might have poked more at that uncomfortable little truth, but Gwen had already made her purchases and today was about her, not the undeniable pleasure of needling a well-meaning but uptight country lad. "All ready?" he asked Gwen instead.

"You don't need to buy me anything, truly," she said.

Gwaine set a hand on Lance's shoulder, and the other man twitched. "My lady, please believe me when I say that treating two of the most beautiful people in Camelot," and he trailed his fingers down Lance's arm, meeting the other man's startled expression with an appreciative smirk, "is no hardship at all." He swept Gwen's hand up in his own and brushed the barest of kisses onto her knuckles before Lance could gather himself enough to protest.

Just because today was about Gwen didn't mean that Gwaine had to completely ignore his own amusements.

Chapter Text

Arthur

They left early in the morning a few days later. It was still warm during the day, but the nights were getting colder with encroaching autumn. Arthur wrapped himself in his cloak against the chill and wrapped himself in the memory of Tom's death against his own uncertainty. There had been no reason for that death; foolishness shouldn't be punishable by execution. He couldn't forget the hollow expression on the man's face as he'd knelt before his king. Desperate and yet already resigned.

Uther, as far as Arthur could tell, had already forgotten the matter. He was busy planning how to catch out one of his lesser lords who he suspected of underreporting his harvest each year.

"Morgause will be waiting for you in the woods tomorrow," Morgana had told Arthur last night. "Further away than where she met me. A secret place. She says..." She hesitated. "...that you should ride your gray destrier, and he'll take you where you need to go."

"My horse will know where to go," said Arthur, and couldn't help the note of disbelief.

Morgana bristled. "That's what she said. You're the one who wanted to meet with her."

She was still bitter that she wouldn't be going along, but they had no idea how long this would take and Arthur wouldn't risk an alarm being raised. He could ride out with just Merlin by his side under the guise of hunting and be gone for days. Morgana didn't have the same luxury, at least not without a cadre of knights and servants to attend her, and it rankled her. "All right," said Arthur, raising his hands in surrender. "I'll let my horse follow his nose." And probably end up wandering all over the countryside like a fool, but what better option did he have?

"Are you sure we shouldn't take someone else with us?" asked Merlin as he readied Arthur's saddlebags later. Night had fallen, but the quiet in Arthur's chambers felt uneasy for no reason he could name. "Lancelot, maybe?"

"You really need to let go of your infatuation with that man," said Arthur without turning away from the fire, where he'd been sipping at a goblet of wine. "He and Gwen would already be married if he wasn't so damn chivalrous."

"I just think that having another set of eyes watching for treachery wouldn't be the worst idea. Tactically speaking."

"Since when do you know anything about tactics?" It wasn't the worst idea, but it also wouldn't work, not if Arthur wanted to keep anyone else from deciding to tag along. The prince going hunting alone was one thing (and Merlin didn't count in that regard any more than a horse or a hound would); the prince going hunting with a single guardsman was something else entirely. "I don't have a good reason to take him along, and he's already known to be a favorite of mine. If he and Gwen weren't so obviously mooning over each other, half the court would assume he was warming my bed."

"Really?" Merlin sounded genuinely startled.

Honestly, it was ridiculous how naive Merlin could be. Must be the country bumpkin in him. "Yes, Merlin, really. I thought servants kept abreast of all the court gossip?" Arthur drained his wine and set the goblet aside. When he closed his eyes, the firelight painted colors on the inside of his eyelids. "Of course, the other half of the court assumes that you're warming my bed," he added, just to hear Merlin choke and sputter behind him.

In the pale early light, trotting along the deserted road, Arthur could be more honest about his reasons for going alone. Simply by seeking Morgause out, he was betraying his father and one of his father's most deeply-held beliefs. No matter what was said today, the act of riding out to meet a sorceress would be a failure in Uther's eyes. He couldn't bear more people knowing about it than absolutely necessary.

Maybe he shouldn't do this. For all he knew, he could be riding into a cleverly-prepared trap.

But then he thought of Tom, and Gwen's sunken eyes and unsmiling face over the last few days, and he couldn't turn back.

"Morgana was worried this morning," said Merlin, an hour into their ride. Arthur's horse had turned off the road without prompting, taking them deep into the woods. The further they went, the more tension crawled up Arthur's spine. His horse would listen to him if Arthur took the reins, but when left to his own devices he moved steadily toward some unknown destination.

It was eerie, and Arthur's voice was sharper than usual when he said, "You didn't see Morgana this morning."

"Gwen did. She was in the kitchen early; she said Morgana had a difficult night." There was a pause, but Arthur didn't turn around, just listened to the creak of leather and the slow plodding hoofbeats. "Morgana said there's a darkness looming."

"How poetic," said Arthur. The last thing he needed to think about at the moment was his own fears about Morgana. If Uther was right about magic, and even coming into contact with magic could twist someone, then a person Arthur cared about was being corrupted before his eyes. Morgana might be utterly infuriating sometimes but she was also brave and compassionate, even he could admit that. She was the closest thing to a sister he had, and one of the few people who would stand up to Uther. She and Merlin were the only people he could remember who'd ever told Arthur that his father's constant disappointment in him was unwarranted.

He didn't want her to be corrupted by magic. Morgana was strong, but strength could be turned in on itself.

But if Uther was wrong, and the magic that was helping Morgana sleep better was benign, then his almost-sister had been suffering needlessly for years.

"Gwen says Morgana is nervous about today," Merlin went on, because sometimes he refused to notice Arthur's unspoken but perfectly clear desire to leave a topic alone. "She's afraid of things going badly when we get back."

"When we get back?" After Arthur met with a powerful sorceress somewhere that only his horse knew how to find? Once he was back in Camelot, the precarious part was over.

"That's what Gwen said. Morgana told her to tell me to tell you--" Honestly, it's like they were children playing a game of whispers-in-the-dark. "--that you should be careful on your return."

"I'll bear that in mind," drawled Arthur.

Merlin hesitated, then said, "We should listen to Morgana. She's--"

"She's very clever, yes. I've known her a great deal longer than you have, Merlin."

This time the words were snapped hard enough that even Merlin took the hint.

Merlin

The meeting with Morgause would have been more comfortable if the sorceress hadn't made them ride through a pond and a waterfall in order to arrive at the ruins of an old temple. Now Merlin was soaked and chilled (thank goodness for the woolen cloak Arthur had gifted him) and, frankly, a bit annoyed at the whole thing. It was a great deal of drama to go through for a conversation.

It was also, he had to admit, a clever way to give her time to escape should it turn out that Arthur was bringing a cadre of guards intent on her capture or death. She hadn't seemed afraid when he'd confronted her before, but that didn't mean she was a fool.

"Arthur Pendragon," said Morgause, standing there cool and unruffled and not at all dripping. "Morgana tells me that you have questions for me. You've decided that I can help you learn about magic after all?"

Merlin did his best to stay invisible in the background. This place had once been steeped in magic, almost drowned in it. The echoes of it were still strong enough to raise the hairs on his arms, and he didn't trust the altar that Morgause had placed herself near.

Arthur should have looked a bit ridiculous, standing there in his sodden armor. But sometimes Merlin thought there was something shining through him, a bit of nobility that made him look like he'd stepped out of a tale, something golden and bright. It wasn't all he was -- there was still the Arthur who complained about eating mutton stew and liked to knock Merlin down in the name of training and had to grit his teeth to read the reports his father sent him -- but it was there, a flicker of something that Merlin had no name for. Kingship, perhaps.

"I didn't think about it, for a long time," he said abruptly. "My father... I've been taught all my life that magic is evil. He's kept me away from anything that might tell me otherwise. And now..."

"Now?" prompted Morgause when Arthur didn't continue. She still looked outwardly calm, but there was a tension in the air, like that which gathered before lightning.

"If magic isn't evil," said Arthur slowly, the words clumsy in his mouth, "then why does my father hate it so fiercely? There must be a reason. He spends all his time and energy on stamping out magic. If he's wrong, he must have some reason for being so."

There had been just a hint of question at the end of his voice, the sound of a son wanting to believe that his father wasn't cruel, just misguided.

Morgause was quiet for a moment. "I have some idea," she said at last. "I wasn't there, but I was told, by one of the other High Priestesses..." Uncharacteristically, she paused, then sighed. "I suspect you will not believe me."

"If you speak the truth, I'll listen," said Arthur at once.

"Mmm. But the truth can be far more painful than the sweet seduction of lies." She tilted her head, studying him. "I think instead I will offer you a boon. As a High Priestess, I have the ability to bring someone to you -- not for long, for a few minutes only -- even after they've passed beyond the veil between worlds. I think there is someone who will be able to answer your questions, someone you've long wished to meet."

Arthur hadn't relaxed once during this conversation, his body held alert and ready for battle. But at those words he might have turned to stone. Only his jaw moved jerkily as he managed to say, "My mother?"

"She would be glad of the chance to meet you," Morgause said, laying another gentle hook into Arthur's need.

"That can't be safe," said Merlin despite himself.

Neither of them looked at him. And Merlin wondered, not for the first time, why Morgause didn't recognize him as Emrys. The druids had known him at once; Morgause was a High Priestess, apparently, and clearly had powerful magic. Why hadn't she been able to see through his peasant's garb in the same way?

Or maybe she had, and was playing a deeper game than he knew.

"You want to enchant me?" asked Arthur with deep skepticism.

"No. Allowing Ygraine through the veil will lay no magic on you." Morgause's smile was secretive, a challenge. "There is no danger in this, unless you fear what she might tell you."

And that might be true, but... "What do you get out of it?" said Merlin, since Arthur wasn't asking the obvious question.

"The truth," said Morgause, fire peeking through the cracks of her control for the first time. "Uther lies about me and mine every day. And because of his crown, nobles follow his lead -- even those who once knew better." She brought herself back under control with obvious effort. "Perhaps they thought it would be a short-lived madness. Perhaps they merely wanted to save their own skins. Who can say? But now an entire generation has grown up believing his lies, because to do otherwise is to risk death. You, Arthur Pendragon, are the first of that generation, and someday you will lead them. But will it be toward brutality, like your father? Or toward mercy?"

Arthur said nothing. Merlin couldn't speak either; he wanted to push back on Morgause, if only because of the cool calculation lurking in her eyes whenever she looked at Arthur. But he couldn't think of anything to say when she was, frankly, right.

The prince was quiet for so long that Morgause eventually broke the silence. "Well? Will you let your mother give you the answers you seek?"

At last Arthur lifted his head. "Yes."

Chapter Text

Arthur

Arthur glanced at Merlin, but he stood firm, only slightly wide-eyed, as the sorceress began to cast her spell. There was never any telling with Merlin; sometimes he seemed as wary of magic as Uther, and sometimes he seemed completely unbothered by it.

A wind rose, slowly building as Morgause's chanting continued, and the hair on Arthur's neck prickled. There was something unearthly about it, some scent or sensation that whispered of things beyond the world he knew.

Why was he allowing this? This sorceress could do anything to him; he could die here, his father never to know what had happened to him, his body rotting away in solitude. Well, he'd probably have Merlin's corpse at his side, but that was basically the same thing. Or he could be ensorcelled and placed under Morgause's will, or turned into something nasty, or--

One moment the three of them were alone, and the next someone else was there: a woman with golden hair, not so many years older than Arthur, her hands folded at her waist. Arthur stared into eyes as blue as his own, and all thoughts of Morgause's potential perfidy fled.

"Arthur," said his mother, and it was everything he'd wanted.

When she hugged him, she was warm, as warm and living as anyone he'd ever felt, even through his hunting leathers. And he'd never felt a hug like this before. No, that wasn't quite true -- Hunith's embrace had been similar, when she'd held him after the battle at Ealdor and told him she was glad Merlin had found him as a friend. But Ygraine held him as though he was the most precious thing she'd ever known.

"Those moments I held you in my arms were the best moments of my life," she told him, one hand still on his cheek as though she couldn't bear to let him go. And he believed her, because the love shining in her face was soaking into his soul, filling in empty places he hadn't even been aware of.

But he had a reason for being here, and couldn't simply bask in the warmth of his mother's presence. "Mother, why does my father hate magic so much?" he asked, and didn't know what to hope for. She was only speaking to him through the use of magic, but there must be a reason for his father's hatred of it. She had loved Uther once, hadn't she? Surely she wouldn't have loved someone who could be misled so badly about the harms of magic.

Ygraine was reluctant to speak of it, but in the end she did. The warmth of her touch slipped away, and the ground seemed to disappear from beneath his feet. Because it was one thing to entertain the possibility that magic wasn't wholly evil, to recognize how it was helping Morgana, to be grateful for how it was allowing him to see his mother. But it was another entirely to discover that he himself had been born with the aid of magic, and that his mother's death -- the reason for the Purge, the motivation for hundreds of deaths -- had come about, not because magic was the force of evil he'd always been taught, but through his own father's greed.

"Bring her back," he told Morgause as soon as his mother faded away.

"I cannot," she said. "There is a limit to what even I can do."

Arthur stood silent for a moment. The day was bright and unhurried around him, but within him tension had gathered, the precursor to rage.

He had to keep his head, though. This could be a trick, designed to undermine his loyalty to his king.

"Are you all right?" asked Merlin, his voice cautious.

No, of course he wasn't. "You saw that, didn't you?" Arthur demanded. "You heard my mother."

"Yes."

Arthur rounded on him. "It can't be true. My father wouldn't use magic to create me and then turn on it when it went wrong."

Merlin fidgeted. "Er..."

"I know you don't like him." For a long time he'd thought Merlin was simply afraid of the king, which was reasonable for any peasant suddenly thrust into the company of his betters. But eventually he'd seen that there was more beneath Merlin's fear -- disapproval, maybe even something stronger. "I know he's... stern, even harsh sometimes, but he wouldn't... he couldn't punish an entire people for his own mistake. And why did my mother need to die?" He fired that last question at Morgause.

"There must always be a balance," she said calmly. There was an infuriating edge of sympathy to the words. "If a life is given, another must be taken. Uther knew that. Nimueh would have made it clear. Perhaps he thought that some other life would be taken, one he held less dear."

Arthur looked back at Merlin, knowing even as he did that he was seeking a port in this storm, and that it was futile. Merlin was stupidly loyal, but he was also out of his depth. "My father wouldn't have... he wouldn't have."

Merlin bit his lip. "I know the Purge started after your mother's death," he said carefully. "And that magic was allowed before that, even celebrated. Gaius told me that Nimueh was Court Sorceress before the Purge, and that... on the day you were born, and Ygraine died, that... Uther killed her."

"Because she betrayed him," said Arthur, hating the way his voice cracked. "She was responsible for my mother's death."

"She must hold some blame, yes," said Morgause. "She cast the spell that allowed your mother to conceive." She smiled at Arthur’s disbelief, a small, bitter smile. "You think I don't blame her? Her choices cost Nimueh her life, but those of us who remained -- we've suffered too, and greatly. But she cast the spell at your father's request, and despite all the warnings she gave him. An honorable man would acknowledge his own responsibility."

"Careful," said Arthur, and then caught himself. It was pure habit to defend his father, to stamp down any word of discontent about Uther's rule. He'd done it as long as he could remember, for more reasons than he cared to examine too closely.

Morgause lifted an eyebrow, as though aware of the struggle in his heart. "You disagree?"

Of course he didn't disagree. An honorable man acknowledged his own mistakes, didn't hold others to blame for them. But when had he ever seen his father admit to his own fault? The closest he came was to say, when someone had disappointed him, that he ought to have detected the weakness in their character and not placed so much trust in them.

Arthur had been on the receiving end of that criticism. Not in public -- Uther recognized the political value of a united front between him and his son -- but absolutely behind closed doors.

"So the executions," he said in a voice that didn't sound like his own. "The girl who was accused of healing her brother. The man whose crops grew too well. The old woman wearing a charm for luck. The druids--" His voice caught and died, because that memory was all too fresh.

"Sorcerers are human," offered Merlin quietly. "They can use their magic for ill, just like any man."

And there had been sorcerers executed who'd killed or stolen or enchanted their neighbors. But they'd been executed for having magic, not for what they'd done with it. "None of those things I just mentioned, though," said Arthur, a little stronger now, "involved anything nefarious. None of them."

He'd stood on the balcony overlooking those executions, ridden out himself against the druids. His father's hatred hadn't just destroyed people who didn't deserve it -- it had made Arthur himself into a monster.

The other two were silent. Merlin chewed on his lip nervously.

Arthur recognized the feeling spreading through his limbs. It was the energy that came before battle, the rising tide of determination that presaged driving into an enemy with all the strength and skill he'd developed, turning his body into a weapon. His voice was steady again when he nodded toward the sorceress and said, "Thank you for your assistance." Then he headed for his horse.

Merlin scrambled after him and had the good sense to keep his mouth shut until they'd plunged back through the waterfall and returned to dry land. Then he said warily, "Arthur, what are we doing?"

"We're going home," said Arthur. "I need to speak with my father." He kicked his horse into a canter, the fires of rage in his chest growing hotter.

Lies. Not just ordinary lies either, but lies so deep and twisted that no amount of truth could wash them clean.

Merlin was yammering again, probably about Morgana -- he kept bringing her up, and Arthur wished he'd just stop. Stop talking, stop following, stop... everything. Everything should stop while Arthur dealt with the root of the lies that had been poisoning him his entire life, without his ever knowing.

Gods, he was a fool. How had he been this blind for this long?

No one stopped him. He was a weapon pointed at the heart of Camelot, but he was also the prince, and no one gainsayed him as he rode into the citadel and dismounted, tossing his reins to a groom. Merlin, who'd showed an impressive ability to babble at him for the entire hours-long ride given how poor of a rider he was, had kept his mouth shut once they reached the gates to the Lower Town, but now he slid inelegantly to the ground and ran to catch up. "I just want to know what you're planning," he panted as he fell in at Arthur's side. "Are you sure this is wise? Morgana said to be careful. Maybe we should talk to Gaius first, he always has good advice."

"Merlin, shut up," snapped Arthur. He didn't want to think about his manservant right now. He wanted to let the rage flow through his limbs, pure and uncomplicated.

He shoved open the doors to the great hall and found his father standing with several lesser nobles, their conversation broken by Arthur's entrance. Uther raised his eyebrows in the beginnings of displeasure. "Arthur?" he said, which was an invitation to explain himself before that displeasure became discipline.

"I know what happened to my mother," said Arthur, and was unsurprised when his father dismissed the nobles at once.

It was always going to come to this. Since the moment he'd felt his mother's arms around him, they'd been heading this direction: father and son, swords in hand, facing each other with Camelot's banners hung high on the walls above them. "You've been lied to," Uther grunted as he essayed an attack against Arthur.

Arthur was young and still practiced his swordwork every day; Uther was more experienced but spent little time on the field lately. And as for the other factor -- sometimes, his father had told him after a particularly humiliating defeat when Arthur was a squire, a battle can be won by the person who wants the victory more.

Did Arthur want his father to die? Did Uther want his son to die? He wasn't sure of the answer to either question.

"I've been lied to by you," said Arthur once he'd beaten back Uther's attack. "Tell me it isn't true. Tell me you had no part in my mother's death."

"I was deceived--"

"You knew a life would be demanded," Arthur snapped. "You just didn't know it would be hers."

His father's hesitation told him everything he needed to know, and he attacked again, driving the other man back. He couldn't let the rage and pain free; battles were lost that way, when emotion became stronger than reason. But he could let it fuel the power of his sword arm, let it sharpen him like a blade forged in fire. He twisted his sword around his father's and tore it from his hand, flung it across the room, kicked the man so that he stumbled backward and fell.

"Arthur, look out!" Merlin called from where he hovered near the door, and it broke through Arthur's single-minded focus so that he turned to meet the two guards who'd come up behind him. They were far less well-trained than any knight, and tentative on top of it, clearly uncertain how to deal with this battle between king and prince. Arthur wasn't fresh, but he beat both of them back without difficulty, disarming one and sending the other to his knees.

More people were gathering at the door; Arthur heard Morgana's shrill voice saying something about blood, Merlin trying to keep someone out, someone else demanding to know what the hell was going on. Arthur cracked a guard's head with his pommel, when suddenly Merlin and Morgana and other voices all cried out, and he whirled back just in time to see his father plunging a dagger toward his unprotected neck.

The dagger jerked to the side. Arthur gaped along with his father for a split second, but someone at the door cried out again, and he turned his head--

--to see Morgana, hand outstretched, gold fading from her eyes. Gwen and Merlin stood staring at her in horror.

There was a terrible moment where no one moved, and the entire world held its breath. Then Uther gasped out "Guards!" and Arthur jolted back into motion, driven this time by terror rather than rage.

He flung himself forward against his father. The angle was all wrong, he couldn't get his sword up in time, but that wasn't the point; he had to stop his father from ordering Morgana's death. They went down in a tangle of limbs, his sword biting into the edge of Uther's arm -- not enough to kill him, hardly even enough to slow him down -- and Uther gave a cry of pure rage.

The remaining guard, apparently taking Uther's shout as an order to subdue the prince, yelled as he crashed against Arthur's back, crushing them both to the floor again. Arthur reared back with all his strength. He couldn't get his sword free, but as Uther's dagger swung clumsily toward his face he knocked it aside and delivered a solid punch to his father's jaw.

Then men were dragging him off the king, pulling his sword out of his hand, as Uther, dazed, staggered to his feet. "Hold him!" snapped Uther, the words a little less crisp than usual, his hand cradling his jaw. "Take him to the dungeon! And find Morgana! Where did she go?"

He'd failed. Even knowing what he now did about his father, he'd failed to kill him, and Arthur didn't know what to feel about that.

But as he was forced toward the door, arms pinned by men on either side, there was no sign of Morgana or Merlin or Gwen. And that at least was a fragment of relief.

Run, he thought at Morgana. Find somewhere safe.

Chapter Text

Gwen

Gwen was thinking faster than she could ever remember, as though the world had slowed to a crawl while she darted through it, a silver-quick fish flashing through dull human hands.

"Go, help the king!" she gasped out to the guards at the front gate. "Some of his men have betrayed him!" And with one startled glance at Morgana's white face, they succumbed to her urgency and went.

Of course they did. Gwen was well-known and respected, and Morgana was above reproach.

She ran down the street clasping Morgana's hand. Her lady hadn't spoken, and Gwen couldn't pause to look at her, but she could feel the stunned terror keeping Morgana mute.

She wanted to get clothes and money from her house, but it was too far and in the wrong direction. The misdirection she'd thrown the guards wouldn't last long; at best she'd sown a few minutes of confusion as men challenged each other and tried to understand what was going on.

She needed to get Morgana out of the city before she saw her mistress' head on a chopping block the way her father--

No, there was no time to remember that. Footsteps pelted behind her, coming closer even through the noise and bustle of the street, everyone turning to look at the two women fleeing from the castle. Gwen darted down an alley in the direction of the docks. Reaching hands were easy for a fish to evade, but there would be a net of men and swords soon, and that was another matter entirely.

She ran faster, her legs beginning to ache with the strain, Morgana panting at her side.

"Gwen!" someone gasped, and they were close, getting closer with every footfall. Morgana made a strangled sound of panic.

Then something hit her, fabric catching on her shoulder: a slightly damp cloak in a familiar shade of dusty blue. Relief slowed her just enough for a hand to catch her arm.

Merlin pulled them forward a few steps and shoved them sideways into a tiny cleft between buildings, bundling the cloak in after them when it tried to fall. "Get to the docks!" he panted. "The Green Berth! Gwaine is there!"

He disappeared, and Gwen fumbled to cover Morgana with the cloak in the narrow space until more footsteps sounded -- heavier ones this time, several sets, underlaid by the jungle of chain mail. That had been faster than she'd expected; the guards were in the alley, and all they'd have to do would be to turn their heads...

"Gwen, wait!" Merlin called, his voice echoing from the other end of the alley, and the guards sped up, rushing past Morgana and Gwen where they stood frozen like mice in a hole. Clever Merlin, to pretend that he was still chasing them.

Gwen turned back to Morgana, tugging the cloak into place properly so it covered her fine gown. Thank goodness Merlin was so tall. "Keep your face hidden," she whispered as she pulled the hood up.

"Gwen, no. You should go, you can't be caught with me..." A fine tremor ran through Morgana's body, and her eyes were haunted. She avoided watching the executions when she could, but she still knew what awaited her.

"We'll do this together," said Gwen firmly. When Morgana seemed about to protest, she added, "I've already been seen running away with you, so don't argue."

A quick glance up and down the alley, and then Gwen led her lady out, Morgana's slim hand cold within her own.

Gwaine

Unrest seeped through the city like fog. Gwaine sauntered along the quay, ears pricked for news, his easy stride belying the sharp eye he was keeping on his surroundings. He'd been in enough sticky situations to feel the start of something, rising like the smell of day-old fish.

Was it his imagination, or were the guards patrolling the waterfront moving a little more purposefully than usual? There hadn't been any warning bells earlier, but he'd learned not to ignore his instincts when it came to trouble. Regardless of whether it was trouble he himself had caused.

It might be time to move on. He'd barely gotten into port, and had hoped to meet up with more than Merlin... but then, most of the people he might call friends in Camelot probably hardly remembered him. One shared adventure didn't mean much to folk fancy enough to live in a castle. Merlin was the exception to every rule.

He spent half his attention on the ships currently docked, watching for signs of imminent departure. The tide would turn before evening, and he couldn't be the only one alert to the tension creeping over the city. Any captain with more than a few hidden runes on their hull would be looking to make an exit if they could. When Uther got nervous, things got dicey in Camelot harbor.

"Aye, we'll be gone with the tide," said a quartermaster a bit later. He cast a jaundiced eye on a couple of guards on the quay, now moving with far more purpose than the usual lazy stroll. The quartermaster turned that same suspicious eye on Gwaine. "No particular reason you're in a hurry to leave, is there?"

Gwaine shrugged. "The wind seems to be shifting in Camelot, that's all. I'm a cautious man."

"No warning bells," the quartermaster said, nodding sagely, and then named his price for Gwaine's passage.

The lack of bells was the odd thing. Uther wasn't shy about ringing the warning bells to put his people on high alert, to make every man look suspiciously around him. The Goddess help you if Uther believed that sorcery had happened under your nose and you hadn't reported it.

Gwaine kept his expression unconcerned and his hands loose at his sides as he made his way back to the Green Berth. He had a little time to kill, but the sense of unrest was getting heavier, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He might be better off staying indoors.

But where was the fun in that? No, he'd collect his things, settle his account, and wander a bit to see what rumors he could hear.

"I told you what kind of house I kept," snapped Lily, the landlady, as soon as she saw him in the inn. She was a solid, no-nonsense woman -- she had to be, to run an inn in one of the busiest ports in Albion. Now her brow was drawn down in a ferocious scowl.

Gwaine, with no idea what this was about, gave her his most charming smile. "I have nothing but praise for your--" he began.

But Lily apparently wasn't in the mood. "If you hadn't paid for a private room I'd have turned them out," she said loudly. The common room was crowded but subdued, full of people savvy enough to keep their heads down, and the words carried. She set down two plates of stew on a table, then herded Gwaine toward the stair. "I don't care what doxies you take up with while you're in port, they don't darken my door, you understand?"

"There must have been some mista--"

"Next time you'll be tossed out on your ear, and your girls with you!" Lily leaned close to him at the base of the stairs and hissed in a very different tone, "Get her out of here." Then she marched back into the common room.

Interesting. Gwaine sketched a half-bow in her direction, grinned around at the snickers from the other patrons, and took himself upstairs.

Half of taking charge of any situation was not to show surprise. Gwaine opened the door to his room without hurry and smiled at the two women seated on the narrow bed. "Good day to you lovely ladies," he said cheerfully.

"Gwaine, thank goodness," said Gwen. She was clasping Morgana's hands tightly in her own. "We're sorry to intrude," she added as Gwaine closed the door, the courtesy in bizarre contrast to the tension in her expression. "But something's happened, and I need to get Morgana out of the city. Can... can you help us?"

Morgana said nothing, only stared at him with wide eyes the color of a bruise.

Guards searching the streets, but no warning bells. Unrest flowing down from the castle like foul air. And now Morgana and Gwen sitting in a cheap inn near the waterfront, trying not to look afraid, with Morgana wrapped in a cloak far too rough for her. "This is the deadly kind of trouble, isn't it?" asked Gwaine conversationally.

Gwen bit her lip. "I'm sorry, I know it's a great deal to ask--"

"Don't be silly, my fair maiden." Gwaine lifted her hand and brushed a kiss over the knuckles. "Trouble is what I'm good at."

Lance

Lance didn't see eye to eye with all the guards in Camelot. There were some fine men, and many more decent enough in their way, but a few seemed to have been hired in spite of -- or perhaps because of -- their taste for brutality.

He was glad, then, to have ended up paired with Brock for today's endless and futile search. Brock was an older man who took his duties seriously but didn't feel the need to throw his weight around. He'd had some kindly words for Lance early on, when Lance had still been struggling with releasing his dreams of knighthood.

And if they did find the two women they were looking for, and if those women really were Lady Morgana and Gwen... well, Brock wasn't the sort that would let any harm come to them. Lance's muscles were wound tight with the need to find them, to keep them safe -- and the opposite hope that they were never found.

Why would they have run? Surely the castle was the safest place for Lady Morgana, and she'd never let Gwen come to harm.

"They'd have been in a hurry," Brock told the chandler's apprentice, while Lance opened cupboards and peered into the pantry. "Two women, one in a fine gown."

"There's been no one, sir, not for hours," said the boy with what looked like genuine confusion. "There was that man what run through the square, sir, but he weren't no woman."

By this point Lance had gathered from the other guards that it was Merlin's trail they were following, Merlin who'd run after Lady Morgana and Gwen when they'd dashed out of the castle. Details were still sketchy on what exactly had happened, but rumors were plentiful: Lady Morgana had gone mad and attacked the king. The king had attacked her. Someone else had attacked the king and Lady Morgana had run away in fright. (No one gave much credence to that idea.) A sorceress enchanted to look like Lady Morgana had attacked both the king and the prince, and the prince's absence when he would normally have been leading the hunt meant that he'd been wounded. Or killed. Or the prince was the one enchanted, and he'd tried to kill his father...

"Waste of time, this," muttered Brock as they stepped out into the waning afternoon.

"We could go further, but it doesn't seem likely we'll find them this way," agreed Lance more diplomatically. It was best not to say such things about the king's orders.

"If someone's found a place to go to ground in the city, we'll never root them out." Brock took the lead along the street and knocked on the next door, only to find another guardsman already busy there. Every man in the castle and city guard had been mustered. "But they won't get out the gates, not even once the king opens them again."

"They say there are... things... that can make one person look like another."

"They say all sorts of things." But after a fruitless search of a weaver's house ("You lot have been through twice already!") Brock said, "Even looking like someone else, wouldn't be easy to find a place to stay in Camelot just now. Folks'll be looking hard at anyone they don't know. I reckon they got out already."

"They closed the gates, though, and ran down everyone nearby on the road." There'd been more than a little complaint about that, merchants and chapmen and travelers herded back into the city like strayed sheep.

Brock stood still a moment, his eyes roaming up and down the street. Lance did the same, his fingers wrapped tight around his sword, wishing that this was a battle he could fight and win rather than a hunt where he didn't know what to hope for.

"They could use a few more men on the docks, I expect," said Brock. "It's the best way out of the city."

"Yes," said Lance reluctantly. He'd already come to that conclusion, but kept it behind his teeth. Merlin hadn't run toward the docks but toward the main gates, so the search had been concentrated in that direction. But somewhere between the castle and the main gates people had stopped talking about two women running with a man after them and had only mentioned the man. And Lance knew how clever Merlin was, not to mention Morgana. "They closed the gates to the docks too, though."

"Easier to lose yourself there. Might as well have a look."

Brock had been in the guard long enough that no one would question him following his own nose at this point, with the search going stale. Lance fell in beside the older man as they headed for the walls around the harbor. "You don't really think we're looking for Lady Morgana, do you?" he asked quietly. "I've heard the king dotes on her."

The man shot him a shrewd glance. "Heard that from her pretty maidservant, I suppose?" He chuckled, but it ended in a sigh. "I don't reckon there's anyone the king wouldn't hunt down if the mood took him. He's not a man to cross."

"He'd never harm her, though."

"Lad, I do my best never to guess what any noble might or might not do. It's best to leave them to their world and let them leave us to ours."

"I suppose that's wise," said Lance, but knew he'd never manage it. Gwen wouldn't have run unless there was good cause, and the fact that every man available had been turned out for this hunt didn't bode well for anyone caught. And if they were caught, it would be Lance's duty, by the oath he'd sworn to the king, to bring them back to the castle, to drag them to the dungeons, to watch any punishment that might be ordered...

If the king decreed a punishment, surely it was because his laws had been broken.

But Lance had seen enough of the world to know that a law could be both a shield and a weapon.

"His Majesty shows mercy sometimes, doesn't he?" Lance asked once they'd passed through the dock walls. People were clustered on both sides waiting to be allowed through to conduct the ordinary business of their day. No one but guardsmen were permitted to pass yet.

Brock made a noise that might have been a cough. He scratched under his helmet. "I suppose," he said doubtfully.

Lance's heart sank further.

It nearly stopped entirely when, halfway down the docks, his gaze caught on Gwaine standing on board a ship that was just casting off. There were two hooded forms beside him, and that… That was Gwen. He'd know her form anywhere. Which meant that the taller, slightly stooped figure beside her must be Morgana.

"What is it?" said Brock, and Lance cursed himself as an idiot. The other guard followed his gaze. "Hang on... Is that...?"

And it turned out that there was no agonizing decision to make. The ship was already drifting away from the dock as Brock stepped forward, and Lance moved faster than he'd ever done before, clapping a hand over the older man's mouth and choking him out in the quick, ruthless way that he should never have learned because it was dishonorable, and now he was turning it on a friend.

Then he pushed off his helm and ran down the dock. The ship was moving too quickly, slipping smoothly away, he wouldn't make it, people were yelling...

He leaped, and one hand closed on the ship's rail. A swing and a pull, and Lance caught it with his other hand and started to haul himself up.

"What do you think you're doing?" bellowed a brawny man in front of him.

"Should I push him off?" That was Gwaine's voice, and the other man was looking at Lance with all too considering of an air.

"No!" Gwen pushed between them. She grabbed Lance's shoulder to help him up. "He's a friend!" Once Lance was on board, she turned and, clearly settling herself, said "Captain, he's with us."

The Captain turned a face of such patent disbelief on her that Gwen bit her lip.

Gwaine sighed and turned his own smile on the captain. "Bit difficult to go back now, I suppose," he coaxed. "Given all the attention you might get from Camelot's guard."

The look on the captain's face darkened.

Lance cleared his throat. "I'd like to pay for passage, Captain."

Chapter Text

Arthur

It was not the first time that Arthur had found himself in the dungeons, but it might very well be the last.

In the past the guards had been cautiously friendly -- wary of his father's displeasure, certainly, but tacitly acknowledging that the displeasure would pass and Arthur would be their commander once more.

This time they barely looked at him, even as hours stretched to days. He didn't blame them. Would he be the prince of Camelot at the end of all this? Would he be banished? It seemed absurd that his father might have him executed, but there had been a terrible hardness to the king's expression the one time he'd visited, and Arthur honestly wasn't certain what his father saw when he looked at his son. Was he simply another traitor now?

Did Uther regret the bargain he'd made all those years ago, trading his beloved wife for a son who was never good enough? Probably.

It had taken only minutes once Arthur was behind bars, the guards retreating out of earshot as though simply to hear his curses was treason, for him to realize that he had only one course open to him: he'd have to lie. The truth wouldn't help him, and more importantly, it wouldn't help his people. He'd tell his father that he'd been ensorcelled, enchanted, ensnared; he'd gone out hunting just as he'd said, been waylaid by a sorceress, and by some madness had been unable to resist the webs of deceit she'd spun in his mind. He was horrified by his actions. He could never humble himself enough to his father to make up for his betrayal.

Somewhat to his surprise, the actual lying hadn't been difficult. He'd guarded his thoughts from his father more and more lately, and familiarity had bred comfort with deception. He remembered all too clearly the hero-worship he'd had for his father, only a few years previously; it was easier than he'd expected to remember how appalled he would've been at this fictitious turn of events, and behave accordingly. Moreover, the turmoil he was struggling with was real: the revelations from his own mother's lips would have been enough on their own, but joined by the memory of Morgana with her hand outstretched, her eyes flashing golden...

I can never forgive myself for the harm I've caused, he told Uther, but he was thinking of the lives he'd taken in his father's name. I swear to you, I know who my friends are, he said, but he was thinking of how willing his father had seemed to cut him down, and how a sorceress had stopped the blow.

Uther had gone away unappeased, but at least the groundwork for their reconciliation had been laid. It would be difficult politically for him to cast his heir aside, in addition to whatever love he might hold for his son. Surely he would make an effort to restore Arthur to his good graces. Wouldn't he?

There would be punishment in any case. This stay in the dungeons was only the beginning. Would he be flogged? Would Uther demand some kind of public penance? Perhaps he'd merely be put in the stocks for a few days. He could ask Merlin for tips on how to bear it.

"I'm sorry," someone whispered in the darkness, and Arthur, who'd been nearly asleep on the cold stones of his cell, jerked back to wakefulness.

"Who's there?" he whispered back. He hadn't heard a guard approaching, and they were never stealthy about it.

"It's me," said the shadow on the other side of the bars, and there was just enough light from the torch around the corner at the guard station for Arthur to catch a glimpse of tousled hair and a familiar profile.

"Merlin?" Arthur rolled to his feet and padded over to the bars as softly as he could. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to see you," said Merlin miserably. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I went after Morgana and left you alone with your father--"

"Don't be an idiot, I'm glad you did." Damn propriety, anyway -- he lifted one hand to wrap it gently around where Merlin's fingers were gripping the bars. "Is she all right? No one will tell me anything."

"They haven't found her. They think she may have stowed away on a ship." A little quirk to Merlin's lips, then, just the faintest hint of humor in the darkness. "Lance has disappeared as well. And Gwaine, although no one but me has noticed that."

"Thank the gods." Morgana was a formidable woman -- more formidable, apparently, than Arthur had even known -- but a single woman alone wouldn't be safe. "And Guinevere?"

"Gone as well."

"Good. My father saw her protect Morgana."

For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Merlin said, "Here, I brought you something," and withdrew his hand from under Arthur's. He dug out a cloth-wrapped bundle that turned out to contain bread and cheese and an early apple, and handed over a waterskin as well. "It was all I could get, sorry. I'm doing my best to keep your father from noticing me."

"Sensible," said Arthur, and bit into the day-old bread. It was coarse, clearly from the servant's hall, but he'd never tasted a finer loaf. "Surprisingly sensible," he added around his bite, because it wouldn't do for Merlin to get too comfortable.

"You're a prat," Merlin returned, but there was a hint of fondness in the hushed undertone they'd been using. After another pause, he said, "Uther was talking about sending out knights to look for Morgana, but the Council managed to talk him out of it. Said she might go anywhere, and trying to track her down would be long and costly. Better to send word to all his allies and let them search their own ports."

"She's too clever to make herself known in any port. And even if she weren't, Gwaine would be."

"I know. Arthur..."

Arthur swallowed the bite of apple he'd just taken. It was still a bit unripe, but not enough to make him sick. "What is it?"

"The king is... more angry than usual."

Arthur snorted softly. "His heir challenged him to a duel and his ward used magic against him. I dare say he is."

"I'm not sure what he intends for you." Merlin's eyes were visible as faint gleams, searching through the gloom for Arthur's face. "I might be able to help you escape, if you--"

"I won't run." It was Arthur's turn to pause. He rolled the apple in his fingers, looking toward the faint light where the guards would be sitting. "I shouldn't have challenged him," he said at last. "Not that he didn't deserve it, but... I'm not sure I could have killed him anyway, even if he hadn't had help. When it comes down to it... he is still my father."

"I wasn't sure if I should try to stop you," said Merlin in a small voice.

Even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked. Arthur opened his mouth to say as much, but as he did so a door opened down the hall, accompanied by voices and footsteps and the jingle of armor. He glanced that direction and, by the time he looked back, was glad that see that Merlin had disappeared somewhere.

The boy was a constant mystery -- clumsy as a newborn foal usually, and then sometimes unexpectedly sneaky. But thank the gods this was one of the sneaky moments, because that was Uther's voice saying, "No, there's no point waiting."

Arthur tucked the remaining bread beneath his thin blanket and managed to be back before the bars, standing straight and unbowed, by the time his father arrived.

"You're lucky I haven't killed you," said Uther, facing Arthur through the bars. The bruise spreading over his face was impressive; it had grown since Arthur had last seen it, coloring around the edges.

"I know, sire," said Arthur. He didn't want to humble himself to this man, but his choices were now, thanks to his failed attempt to kill his king, extremely limited. "I can't apologize enough, my lord. I don't know what came over me."

Uther had been all too willing to believe that Arthur had been ensorcelled. That didn't mean he forgave such a grievous trespass. Maybe if Morgana hadn't been exposed as a witch and then escaped, he'd have been in a more forgiving mood. Now he snapped his fingers and gestured, and a guard stepped up beside him. One hand was clasped around a boy's arm -- ragged, dark-haired, no more than eight years old. His eyes were wide with terror. "Magic is an insidious force, but given the severity of your crime," said Uther, the words pointed, "I require more than an apology."

"Sire?" Arthur had known there would be penance required, probably for a long time, but had no idea what a boy might have to do with it.

"This child is a druid. He was captured when Sir Cador hunted down the remainder of the band you failed to exterminate."

"We saw no signs of other--"

"The woodsman who brought the report was quite clear," said Uther sharply. "I was disappointed to have to entrust the mission to someone other than my son, but given your previous failure, it seemed necessary." He gestured to the door of Arthur's cell, and another guard fumbled a set of keys out. "You will begin to make amends for your failure by killing this druid."

Arthur stared at him, appalled. "My lord... this is a child. Has anyone seen him do magic?"

"This is a druid!" Uther yanked up the boy's other arm and pulled down the sleeve to reveal a tattoo, one Arthur had seen on other bodies. The boy let out a pained whimper, but said nothing. "And if you are loyal to me, you'll do as I say."

The door to his cell creaked open. Arthur stood staring at the boy, whose frantic blue eyes stared back.

He'd expected some demand of fealty. He'd expected that it would be difficult, even dangerous. His father's trust, as much as he'd ever had it, wouldn't easily be regained.

But this? Killing an unarmed child, simply because he bore a druid mark? This was a punishment as much as a test. Uther had never forgiven the babe that Arthur had handed to peasants rather than destroy.

"Sire, I am a knight," said Arthur carefully. "And the knight's code is clear about protecting those weaker than oneself. What you ask of me--"

"I am your lord," said Uther, stepping closer. "And I've given you an order."

"You are my lord," Arthur agreed. He met Uther's gaze through the bars. "But I cannot follow this order, sire. To do so would be to violate the code you yourself swore me to."

There was no surprise in Uther's face. He made another gesture to the guard with the keys, and the cell door swung closed again, the lock clunking into place.

He'd never expected Arthur to comply. Would he kill the boy himself, then? Make Arthur watch, and then order his son's execution? A few days ago Arthur would never have believed his father capable of sending him to the block, but now...

"He shall rot in here beside you, then, until you come to your senses," said Uther, and the boy was pulled away from Arthur's cell, hurried to the side where another key grated in another lock. Uther lowered his voice. "If I cannot trust your loyalty, you are worth nothing to me. Think carefully on your decision, because my patience will only stretch so far."

Chapter Text

Uther

Late autumn rain tapped at the windows, and Uther stared at the fire as though watching it would increase its warmth. The past two months had been hard -- losing Morgana, dealing with his son's intractably stubborn nature, managing the uncertainty that infected any kingdom when cracks showed in the royal family.

He was tired. Age weighed on every man, no matter his station or the urgency of his cause.

"I've never seen my son like this before," said Uther. He spoke quietly, despite the fact that his chambers were empty save for him and Gaius. Even his manservant had been sent away. "Are you quite sure he isn't enchanted?"

"My lord, I've examined him in every way I know," said Gaius gravely. "There is no sign of enchantment."

Uther sighed, leaning back in his chair. Only long years of trust allowed him to accept Gaius' words -- that and the knowledge that Arthur was part of Ygraine. She, too, tended to dig her heels in when she believed she was in the right.

It was late, and they sat in the warm pool of light before his fire, each nursing a goblet of spiced wine. Shadows draped the room, letting mystery collect in the corners of his familiar chambers, enclosing them in a soft shelter of confidences. The castle lay asleep around them, and beyond that the town too was smothered in darkness, a nighttime breeze creeping through the streets and alleys, testing the shutters of every window.

Arthur would be asleep in his cell, without even a breath of wind to visit him. It had been two months, and he'd shown no signs of bending. "I have to get through to him," Uther said, and didn't bother to hide his weariness.

Gaius' frown deepened, the lines of his face becoming more somber. It was a strange thing, remembering him in his youth, spry and straight-backed and energetic. The years had been somewhat harsher on him than on Uther himself. But then, Uther had his purpose to keep him strong.

Now his old companion said, clearly choosing his words carefully, "Youth is ever impetuous, my lord. But Arthur is not unreasonable. You yourself have committed him to knighthood; he seems to truly believe that what you ask of him is beyond the bounds of the knight's code."

"A knight's duty is to his lord," said Uther sharply. "His code should require him to obedience before all else."

"As you say, sire," said Gaius. "And yet Arthur is in a unique position, for someday he expects to lead the very men he trains with now. And a leader doesn't have the luxury of obedience."

"Are you saying this defiance is my fault, for preparing him to lead?"

"Of course not." Wisps of white hair floated around Gaius' face with how vigorously he shook his head. "I remember you at that age, sire, being very certain in your own convictions. Arthur takes after you a great deal." He eyed Uther with a small smile. "Sometimes when a father and son are too alike, it can cause strife between them."

Uther bit back the words he wanted to say and forced himself to pause, to reflect. Yes, he'd been certain of himself at Arthur's age -- he'd needed to be, because Camelot was still beset by foreign invaders. There had been no time for him to indulge in weakness, and especially not in the kind of sentiment that Arthur seemed prone to. If they were alike, it was only in the raw material. Arthur was still untempered iron that hadn't yet known the heat of forge and battle; Uther had been hardened by fire and loss.

He'd had the advantage at that time that the enemy he faced was obvious. All these years later, he was still at war, but magic was a far more devious foe than any army. "Given how often he's seen the evils of magic, it's astonishing that he can hold any mercy for the druid boy," he said aloud.

"His kindness is a strength, my lord."

"Perhaps. In any case it isn't something that can be easily expunged." Uther sighed. When he allowed himself moments like these, sitting before the fire with an old friend, that was when the weariness of old age became impossible to ignore. His bones didn't hold the strength they once did; they longed to rest, to sit in sunlight reminiscing, or to luxuriate in warm furs and good wine and stories that had taken on the golden glow of bygone days.

It was precisely why he so rarely indulged in such evenings.

"I think," he said slowly, "that Arthur has become too comfortable. Too certain of my support."

Gaius made an odd noise, and when Uther looked at him he cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon, sire. A sip of wine gone wrong. You were saying?"

"He's been my heir apparent all his life, and known it. It was one thing when he would indulge in youthful exploits like teasing a servant or two -- that's understandable. But lately he'd become more serious, and I thought it a good thing, a sign of maturity." He sighed again. "No, he's clearly come to believe that his position is secure, and why wouldn't he? I've been lax with him."

"I wouldn't say that of you at all, my lord," said Gaius at once.

Uther waved him away. "No, old friend, don't try to exonerate me. I've asked a great deal of him in some ways, but in others I've let him become complacent. He must understand that he serves at my pleasure, and that if he wishes to succeed me, he must be willing to engage whole-heartedly in our war. For we are at war," he added, glaring into the fire. "Our enemy is subtle and conniving, though, and Arthur... in some ways, he's all too trusting."

There was a silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Uther turned his goblet in his hands, watching the light play against the polished brass. A familiar longing rose up; what would he give to be sitting here with his wife instead? Ygraine's counsel had sometimes been too gentle, but somehow conversations with her had left him feeling certain of himself, more secure in what he knew to be true.

If magic hadn't taken her from him, how many years would they have lived and loved and ruled together?

"Would you like me to speak with him again, sire?" asked Gaius at last.

"No, I won't subject you to that. The dungeon isn't a pleasant place." Uther drained his goblet, pushing the ghost of Ygraine firmly away. She wasn't here, and he'd do well to focus on stamping out the cause. "This is something I must deal with myself."

Chapter Text

Arthur

"Good morning," Arthur said when he heard stirring in the cell next to his.

The druid boy didn't speak. He never spoke, even when Arthur shared his meager food or told long, ridiculous stories. Sometimes he could eke out a laugh, a few times he'd gotten the boy to make a quiet, questioning sound or a barely-there scoff. But there were no words.

Arthur had stopped pushing. The boy might be mute for all he knew, so he satisfied himself with scraps, as he'd always done with his father.

There was a rhythm to their mornings nonetheless. They woke early, because the cells were cold no matter the season. Food usually arrived an hour or two later, Arthur's portion noticeably larger and better seasoned, though after the servant had gone he always tried to sneak a little bit to the cell next door. Then a change of the guard, another meal, a long stretch of monotony that was the afternoon, a final meal (and that was one more than most prisoners would have gotten), another change of the guard... And then the faint sounds of castle life, barely discernible down here, faded into nothing as night fell.

Every few days there would be a break in the routine when a servant came in to empty out his waste bucket. Arthur made sure to treat them courteously, indulging himself in imagining what Merlin would say if he were there, how annoyed he'd be at Arthur being more polite to another servant than he'd ever been to his own manservant.

It was never Merlin who brought the meals, but Arthur had long since given up expecting that.

Throughout the day, Arthur stretched and moved, putting his body through its paces, doing imaginary sword and mace drills, sometimes even practicing the motions of archery. He talked to the boy when he could find something to say and tried not to miss Merlin's endless chatter. Funny how much it had annoyed him, once. Now he'd give anything to listen to that babble for an hour.

"Arthur." His father's voice broke Arthur out of his concentration midmorning.

Still, he finished the last few movements of the drill before standing up straight and inclining his head. "Father."

There was no warmth in Uther's face. He'd been down a handful of times. Never to talk, of course -- only to order and shame and berate. And he didn't try to talk to Arthur now, only demanded, "Have you reconsidered your position?"

"I regret my actions toward you, Father," said Arthur, and if there were caveats to that statement, he kept them inside his own head, as always. "I want to serve you and Camelot, to keep the kingdom and all its people safe."

Uther's eyes used to narrow at that, but he'd heard the words so many times that he no longer reacted. They'd already argued about whether the druid boy was as a citizen of Camelot, about whether not having seen him do any magic exonerated him from his heritage, about how strictly the knight's code (which Arthur had memorized long before he held a real sword) required him to protect those weaker than himself.

They were caught like two stones wedged together. Uther demanded a show of loyalty, and Arthur had offered him many options, but refused to do the one thing his father wanted, which was to kill an unarmed and helpless child.

There was no sound from the druid boy's cell. He never moved or made a sound when anyone else was near.

Arthur had spent two months in the dungeons now, far longer than he'd ever spent there before. The soul-crushing boredom of it all would have been enough to wear him down if the stakes were lower, or if he still trusted his father, or if he didn't spend his nights remembering the tiny dark-eyed babe who had cried and cried until Arthur had found a peasant to take it.

"You disappoint me again," said Uther. The words hurt less than they used to. Arthur's internal flinch was mostly habit at this point. Then the king nodded to one side and a guard stepped forward to unlock the cell.

Arthur tried to keep his face calm and knew that he was only partially succeeding. "Father?"

But Uther only turned away. By the time Arthur stepped out of the cell, a guard holding each arm, his father was gone.

"Where are we going?" Arthur asked as they walked away from the cell that had become home. Neither guard answered. He couldn't help looking over his shoulder, and caught just a glimpse of the dark-haired druid boy watching him leave, still mired in his perpetual silence. He tried to smile reassuringly but wasn't sure the boy would have seen it before they turned the corner.

Months of captivity had left him unprepared for the sounds of the castle as they emerged into the main corridor -- voices, footsteps, the everyday bustle of life that he'd always taken for granted. Arthur kept his head up and his shoulders straight as they walked. His clothes were worn and filthy, and there'd been barely enough water to occasionally wash his face. But years of dealing with the court and his father had taught him the importance of never relinquishing pride if he could help it.

It was only when they turned away from the main courtyard, and a rush of relief went through him, that he admitted to himself the truth -- he'd been afraid he was walking to his own execution.

Not death, then, he assured himself, feeling a bit lightheaded. Nor, as they passed the great hall, was he apparently going to be lambasted before the court. He was being taken to his chambers, perhaps?

But no, they passed that turning by.

It would have been beneath his dignity to beg for information from his guards, which was the only reason he didn't. They led him to the southeast side of the castle and up three flights of stairs before he began to understand.

He still didn't quite believe it until they'd climbed another four flights of stairs, distance gradually drowning out the sounds of the castle again. He knew this tower like he knew every tower in Camelot -- it was one of the oldest, built long before the curtain wall had been, and no longer important as a vantage point. It was, however, an excellent place to isolate someone.

Had Uther finally realized the folly of keeping his son right next to the boy he was supposed to kill? Had he decided that rumors of Camelot's king keeping his only son in the dungeon would be politically disadvantageous? Had he -- Arthur's skin tightened on his back -- prepared some punishment for his disobedient heir that he wanted to keep private? He was breathing hard from the climb, but fear also wended its way between his ribs.

Another guard was standing by the door at the top of the tower. Arthur didn't recognize him; apparently his father had used the last two months to recruit guards who had never trained with him, and therefore would have no loyalty to him. The door was currently standing open, but it had been fitted with a bar on the outside, which he was quite sure hadn't been there before.

"Right, I'll be back in a few," said a familiar voice, and Arthur's heart leapt. Merlin appeared in the doorway, his sleeves rolled up and carrying a bucket of water. Arthur had never been so glad to see the idiot in his life.

He was nearly certain that there was a spark of happiness in Merlin's eyes too, but then he frowned and gave a tiny shake of his head. "What, he's here already? I'm not finished!"

"His Majesty said you could clean until the prince arrived," said the guard, not meeting Arthur's eyes.

"It's seven bloody flights of stairs!" snapped Merlin. "And who knows how many years since this place has been properly cleaned!"

Arthur's entourage had halted uncertainly on the stairs. But the guard by the door shook his head. "His Majesty's orders," he said stubbornly.

Merlin huffed in annoyance. "Fine, but it's only half-scrubbed."

"Are you trying to pretend you're a capable servant for once?" asked Arthur, unable to keep quiet any longer. "I'm not still saddled with you, am I?"

Merlin scowled at him, but Arthur knew him well enough to see the humor behind it. "I honestly don't know why I bother with you," he said, then turned to the guard. "I'll be back with a washbasin for the prince."

"His Majesty didn't say--"

"Look at him! He'll get the room all dirty just by stepping in it!"

"You've already had your grubby peasant hands all over it," said Arthur. He crowded to the side for Merlin to pass by, the servant bumping his shoulder as he passed. It might have been an accident, but it might have been the first friendly touch he'd had in two months. "These are to be my new chambers, I take it?" he asked the guard as Merlin's footsteps echoed away down the stairs.

For the first time the guard looked uncomfortable. "I'm not to speak to you, Your Highness. His Majesty's orders."

"Right." For the briefest moment, Arthur considered his options -- seizing a sword from the guard in front of him, kicking the one behind down the stairs, lunging up to take the one by the door...

And then what? He'd never make it out of Camelot, only have killed a few good men and set the rest of his men against him.

No, his father was playing a long game with him. He'd have to do the same, as much as it pained him.

The tower room was small -- it had been a lookout, not a living space, and was too distant from the rest of the castle to have been worth repurposing.

There was no hearth, but the brazier still stood in the center of the room, and someone (probably Merlin) had cleaned out the remnants of old ash. It wouldn't be nearly enough to heat the room in winter, especially given the flimsy state of the shutters. An armful of wood had been dumped beside it, but no fire was laid.

Blankets had been tossed against the wall on top of a mattress stuffed with straw -- a bed fit for a freeman, at least, if not a prince, and better than what he'd had in the dungeon. The screen from Arthur's chambers blocked the view of the garderobe, and a small table and two stools completed the room. He eyed the second stool fatalistically. Whoever would be sitting in here talking to him, it was unlikely to be an enjoyable experience.

The view from the windows was exactly as he remembered it: part of the main courtyard, a corner of the training grounds, the citadel walls, the town, the harbor... it had been a good vantage point before the expanding walls had provided guards with better ones that required climbing fewer stairs. He'd found Morgana here once, soon after she'd arrived in Camelot, and had known without being told that the window she'd chosen was the one looking over fields and forest toward her old home.

"Right, here you are," said Merlin breathlessly behind him, and Arthur turned, his heart lifting again. But his manservant only set down a bucket of water, a basin and a rag, hardly glancing at Arthur as he did so. "I'll see whether I can bring a less filthy change of clothes at some point," he added. The guard was already tugging him toward the door.

"Hang on," said Arthur, frowning at the guard. "I have a few orders to give my servant."

"His Majesty's orders, Sire," said the guard, avoiding his eyes. "In and out, no talking."

Merlin flicked Arthur a warning look, but the sinking in Arthur's stomach made him say, "And how is Merlin supposed to know what I want, then? Because I promise you, he isn't nearly a good enough servant to figure it out himself."

But the guard only shoved Merlin out and closed the door. After a moment, there came a scraping sound as the bar was lowered into place.

A breeze shuffled through the room, then faded away. Arthur hadn't thought it was possible to be more alone than he'd been in the dungeons.

What a fool he'd been.

His father arrived that afternoon, interrupting Arthur's very important brooding while he watched the ships in the harbor.

He heard low voices outside the door first, and shuffling sounds, and went to the middle of the room, standing straight and proud. A few minutes more -- that many stairs would wind anyone -- and then the bar scraped and the door was pushed open.

"Arthur," said the king, coming in. He glanced around the room and frowned at the screen by the garderobe, but refocused on his son. "Have you reconsidered?"

"I won't kill an unarmed child," said Arthur, which was less diplomatic than he usually managed; but then, he'd been relying on his father being unwilling to keep his heir apparent in the dungeons. The fact that Uther was apparently extending his punishment into the indefinite future set tight iron bands around Arthur's chest. He forced himself to step forward, extending a hand. "Father, let's talk this out. There must be some agreement we can come to."

"Agreement?" snapped Uther. "There are no agreements between us! I am your lord, and you will obey me!" He slapped Arthur's hand aside, his voice dropping to a deadly growl. "You show your loyalty -- or lack thereof -- in obedience. And that obedience must be absolute. If I cannot rely on your obedience, I cannot rely on you."

Arthur searched the king's face. There was no hint of regret in the king's face, and no wavering of his resolve.

"We both know that word will get out you're keeping me confined," said Arthur, lowering his voice in case the guard could hear. "That isn't a strong position for Camelot."

"I have spent my entire life making Camelot strong," said Uther. "Nothing -- nothing at all -- would induce me to turn this kingdom over to someone willing to destroy it."