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Chapter Text

The throne room of Camelot stood empty in the pre-dawn darkness, save for the guards at their posts and one restless prince. Arthur Pendragon sat on the steps below the throne - never on it, not yet - and watched the first pale fingers of light creep through the high windows. The great seat loomed above him, carved stone that had borne the weight of kings for generations. Soon, perhaps sooner than anyone suspected, it would bear his.

He could still see his father's vacant stare from the evening before, the way Uther had looked through him as though he were a stranger. The physicians spoke in hushed tones about shock and grief, about time needed to heal. They didn't speak the truth that Arthur saw in their eyes: the king's mind had shattered like glass when Morgana's betrayal was revealed, and all the healers in Camelot couldn't piece it back together.

King Regent. The title sat uneasily on his shoulders, heavier than any armor he'd ever worn. In all but name, he ruled Camelot now. The thought should have filled him with pride - wasn't this what he'd been trained for his entire life? Instead, he felt only the crushing weight of every decision, every life that hung in the balance of his choices.

"You're brooding again."

Arthur didn't startle - he'd learned years ago to recognize the particular quality of silence that meant Merlin was approaching. His manservant had an uncanny ability to move through the castle like a shadow when he chose, though he was just as likely to crash into suits of armor when distracted.

"I'm thinking," Arthur corrected without turning. "Kings must think."

"King Regents," Merlin corrected gently, coming to stand beside him. "And I've seen you think. This is definitely brooding."

Arthur finally looked up at his servant, ready with a sharp retort, but the words died on his tongue. The morning light streaming through the windows had caught in Merlin's dark hair, turning it to burnished gold at the edges. His eyes - had they always been that particular shade of blue? Like the deep waters of the lake beyond the citadel, holding depths that seemed to go on forever.

Arthur's chest tightened inexplicably. He forced his gaze away, focusing on the middle distance.

"The council meets within the hour," he said, his voice rougher than intended. "Have you - "

"Prepared your papers, polished your ceremonial sword, and ensured the kitchen knows you'll need breakfast after because you never eat before important meetings? Yes, Sire." There was gentle mockery in the title, a warmth that transformed what should have been proper address into something almost like endearment.

Arthur found himself fighting a smile. "I don't know why I keep you around."

"Because no one else would put up with your royal pratness," Merlin replied promptly. "Also, I'm the only one who remembers that you prefer your wine watered at formal dinners so you can keep a clear head."

It was true, and the fact that Merlin had noticed - had been watching him closely enough to discern such preferences without being told - sent another uncomfortable flutter through Arthur's chest. He stood abruptly, needing distance.

"The council will want to discuss the raids on the border villages," he said, striding toward the doors. Merlin fell into step beside him, as natural as breathing. "Leon returned last night with disturbing reports."

"Magic?" Merlin's voice carried an odd note, something Arthur couldn't quite identify.

"When isn't it?" Arthur sighed. "Sometimes I think every hedge wizard and sorceress in the five kingdoms has decided to test Camelot's defenses now that - " He cut himself off.

"Now that the king is indisposed," Merlin finished quietly.

They walked in silence for a moment, their footsteps echoing through the empty corridors. The castle was beginning to wake around them - servants scurrying past with lowered eyes, guards changing shifts with muted clanks of armor.

"You're a good king, Arthur," Merlin said suddenly. "Regent or otherwise."

Arthur glanced at him, startled by the conviction in his voice. Merlin wasn't looking at him, his gaze fixed ahead, but there was something in his expression - a fierce pride that made Arthur's breath catch.

"Merlin - "

"The kingdom sees it. The knights see it. Your father - " Merlin paused, choosing his words carefully. "Your father prepared you for this, even if he didn't intend it to come so soon. You're ready."

They'd reached the council chambers. Arthur could hear voices within, the low rumble of conversation as Camelot's advisors gathered. He should go in, take his place, be the leader they needed. Instead, he found himself lingering, studying Merlin's profile in the torchlight.

There were shadows under his servant's eyes, a tension in the line of his shoulders that spoke of burdens carried. When had Merlin begun to look tired? When had the boyish enthusiasm that had so irritated Arthur in their early days together given way to this quiet strength?

"Sire?" Merlin prompted gently. "The council?"

Arthur squared his shoulders, becoming the prince - the king regent - Camelot needed. "Have my breakfast waiting when I'm done. And Merlin?"

"Yes?"

Arthur hesitated just a moment too long, stifling the open gratitude he wanted to express. Too many watching eyes and listening ears that would pounce on something so un-kingly as thanking a servant, and use it against him. Or worse, use it against Merlin.

"Don’t wander off,” he said instead. “I’ll need you afterward to remind me which advisor is Lord Havelock and which one is Lord Harrow, because I still can’t tell those two wrinkled old buzzards apart."

Merlin blinked, then grinned. "Havelock’s the one with the beard that looks like a distressed squirrel."

Arthur gave a soft huff that might have been a laugh. "Distressed squirrel. Right. That’ll help."

He stepped toward the chamber doors, then paused again, voice quieter.

"And... don’t let the kitchen burn the toast. You always get it right."

Merlin’s brows lifted slightly, but he said only, “Wouldn’t dream of letting your royal highness suffer subpar toast.”

Arthur nodded, then pushed through the doors before he could do something foolish, like reach out to smooth the worry lines from Merlin's brow or ask him to attend the council meeting just so he could have that steady presence beside him.

The councilors rose as he entered, a sea of bowing heads and murmured "Your Highness"es. Sir Leon stood near the great map of the kingdom, his expression grave. Geoffrey of Monmouth clutched his ever-present scrolls, while Lord Cynric and the other nobles arranged themselves according to rank and precedence.

"Gentlemen," Arthur said, taking his place at the head of the table. Not his father's seat - he couldn't bring himself to claim that yet - but close enough. "Sir Leon, your report?"

Leon stepped forward, indicating several points on the map. "The attacks have increased in frequency and boldness, Sire. Three villages in the past fortnight, all along the northern border. The survivors speak of a sorcerer who commands the very trees to attack, who can call lightning from clear skies."

"Druids?" Lord Cynric suggested, his voice dripping with familiar disdain.

"No," Leon said firmly. "The Druids seek only peace. This is something else - someone else. The attacks seem random, but there's a pattern. Each village had recently sent men to serve in Camelot's army."

Arthur studied the map, his mind already working through possibilities. "He's trying to weaken our defenses, make us pull back our patrols to protect the villages."

"Or testing our responses," Geoffrey added quietly. "Seeing how quickly we can mobilize, how we deploy our forces."

"Then we give him nothing to study," Arthur decided. "Double the patrols but vary their routes. I want word sent to all border villages - any sign of magic, any strangers asking questions, and they're to send word immediately." He looked at Leon. "Take Gwaine and Percival, scout the area where the attacks occurred. Look for patterns we might have missed."

"Yes, Sire."

The meeting continued, flowing from border defenses to grain stores to the ever-present challenge of maintaining order with the king's... condition. Arthur found his attention wandering, his gaze drifting to the door where he knew Merlin waited.

It was foolish, this hyperawareness of his servant. Dangerous, even. But lately, Arthur couldn't seem to help himself. He noticed things - the way Merlin's hands moved when he was nervous, quick and fluttering like birds. The particular tilt of his head when he was listening intently. The way he bit his lower lip when concentrating on a task.

"Sire?"

Arthur jerked back to attention, finding the entire council staring at him expectantly. Heat crept up his neck.

"I apologize, Lord Cynric. You were saying?"

"I was inquiring about the feast for the Feast of Beltane, Sire. With His Majesty unable to preside..."

"The feast will continue as planned," Arthur said firmly. "The people need to see that Camelot remains strong, that their lives continue uninterrupted. We cannot afford to show weakness."

The meeting dragged on for another hour, each issue blending into the next until Arthur felt his patience fraying. When Geoffrey finally suggested they adjourn, Arthur barely managed a dignified exit before escaping into the corridor.

Merlin was there, of course, falling into step beside him without a word. They walked in comfortable silence back to Arthur's chambers, where a simple breakfast waited on the table by the window.

"How did it go?" Merlin asked, busy himself with pouring wine - watered, Arthur noted with a fond exasperation he didn't examine too closely.

"Lord Cynric is convinced that every ill that befalls Camelot is the result of magic," Arthur said, sinking into his chair. "Lord Marrok thinks we should increase taxes to fund more soldiers. And Geoffrey wants to consult prophecies and portents before making any decisions."

"So, the usual then." Merlin set a plate before him, the gesture so familiar, so domestic, that Arthur had to look away.

"The usual," he agreed, attacking his breakfast with more force than necessary.

Merlin moved about the room, tidying things that didn't need tidying, adjusting items that were already perfectly placed. It was a nervous habit, one that emerged when he had something on his mind.

"Out with it," Arthur said finally.

Merlin froze mid-reach for a candlestick. "What?"

"Whatever it is you're not saying. You're rearranging my chambers like you're preparing for a siege."

A flush crept up Merlin's neck. "It's nothing, Sire. I just... I worry. About the raids, about you taking on too much. You haven't been sleeping well."

Arthur set down his knife carefully. "And how would you know that, Merlin?"

The flush deepened. "I... that is, when I bring your breakfast, sometimes you're already awake. And there are circles under your eyes. And you've been..." He gestured vaguely.

"I've been what?"

"Distant," Merlin said quietly. "Like you're carrying the weight of the world and won't let anyone help bear it."

The words hit too close to home. Arthur stood abruptly, moving to the window to put space between them. Below, the courtyard was filling with people going about their daily lives, blissfully unaware of the threats gathering at their borders.

"That's what kings do," he said to the glass. "They carry the weight so others don't have to."

"You're not alone, Arthur." Merlin's voice was closer now, though Arthur didn't turn to look. "You have the knights, the council. You have - " A pause, heavy with things unsaid. "You have people who would stand beside you, if you'd let them."

Arthur's hands clenched on the window ledge. He could feel Merlin's presence behind him, warm and steady and impossible to ignore. If he turned now, what would he see in those impossibly blue eyes? What might he do?

"I should attend training," he said instead, his voice carefully neutral. "The knights will be waiting."

"Of course, Sire." Was that disappointment in Merlin's tone? "I'll prepare your armor."

They fell back into routine, the familiar dance of servant and master that had defined their relationship for years. But as Merlin helped him into his mail, his fingers brushing against Arthur's neck as he adjusted the collar, Arthur found himself holding his breath.

"There," Merlin said softly, stepping back. "Perfect."

Arthur met his eyes, saw something there that made his heart race. Then Merlin was turning away, busying himself with gathering laundry, and the moment passed.

The training ground was already crowded when Arthur arrived. His knights - his knights, the ones who'd chosen to follow him rather than simply obey the crown - were warming up. Gwaine was regaling Percival with what was undoubtedly an exaggerated tale of his latest tavern conquest. Elyan and Leon were discussing sword techniques while Lancelot stretched in preparation for the bout.

And there, sitting on a barrel at the edge of the field, was Gwen. She caught his eye and smiled, warm and knowing in a way that made Arthur want to fidget like a squire caught in mischief.

"About time you showed up, Princess," Gwaine called out. "We were starting to think you'd gotten lost in your own castle."

"The only thing lost around here is your sense of propriety," Arthur shot back, but there was no heat in it. These men had proven themselves time and again. They'd earned the right to informality.

"Propriety's overrated," Gwaine grinned. "Ask Merlin - he's been dealing with your royal pratness for years without any."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "Merlin is - "

"Standing right there," Lancelot interrupted quietly, nodding toward the colonnade.

Arthur turned, found Merlin lurking in the shadows of the arches, a basket of laundry forgotten in his hands as he watched the knights prepare. When he realized he'd been spotted, color flooded his cheeks.

"I was just - the laundry - I'll go," he stammered, backing away.

"Stay," Arthur heard himself say. Then, when everyone turned to stare at him, he cleared his throat. "That is, someone should be on hand in case of injuries. You know how Gwaine is with a sword."

"Oi!" Gwaine protested, but he was grinning.

Merlin hesitated, then set down his basket and moved to sit beside Gwen. They put their heads together immediately, whispering about something that made Gwen giggle and Merlin duck his head.

Arthur forced his attention back to his knights, drawing his sword. "Right then. Let's see if any of you have been practicing."

The training session was brutal, Arthur pushing himself and his men harder than usual. He needed the distraction, the simple clarity of combat where the only things that mattered were blade and balance and breathing. But even in the midst of a complex drill with Leon, he found his awareness drifting to the edge of the field.

Merlin had produced a small kit of medical supplies from somewhere and was tending to Elyan's scraped knuckles with gentle efficiency. The young knight was saying something that made Merlin laugh, the sound bright and clear across the yard, and Arthur's concentration shattered completely.

Leon's blade slipped past his guard, stopping just short of his ribs.

"Point," Leon said mildly, but his eyes were knowing.

Arthur reset his stance, irritated with himself. "Again."

They went three more rounds, Arthur winning two through sheer stubborn determination, before Gwaine called out a challenge.

"How about we make this interesting? Team sparring - me, Percival, and Elyan against you, Leon, and Lancelot."

"Hardly seems fair," Arthur said. "You'll need at least two more to make it a challenge."

Gwaine's grin was wicked. "Cocky bastard. You're on."

The melee that followed was chaos of the best kind. Six of Camelot's finest warriors moving in deadly synchronization, testing each other's limits. Arthur found his rhythm, Leon on his left and Lancelot on his right, the three of them moving as one unit against Gwaine's more chaotic approach.

Sparring brought order.

Strike, pivot, react. In those moments, the weight of Camelot slipped from his shoulders. No politics, no council, no shadows of his father’s judgment. Just motion, timing, and breath.

Arthur called the rotation. “Circle left!”

Lancelot flanked smoothly. Leon followed. Across the yard, Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan mirrored the shift. Gwaine, true to form, added an unnecessary flourish to his step, as if auditioning for a crowd.

From the bench near the edge of the yard, Arthur caught Gwen’s laughter. Merlin must have said something  -  probably at his expense. Arthur didn’t mind. Not when things felt, for once, almost normal.

A glint of movement caught his eye: Percival lifting the two-handed training axe, more suited to strength drills than finesse. Arthur made a mental note to question that later, but now - momentum.

He angled toward Gwaine, who was weaving wide in an attempt to bait Leon. Arthur recognized the tactic, cut inside, and drove toward him fast.

Gwaine blinked. “Oh, now you’re trying?”

Arthur ducked beneath Gwaine’s swing and stepped into his guard, catching his elbow and turning his weight. Gwaine tried to counter - too slow.

Arthur released his sword deliberately, letting it drop to the dirt, and used both hands to drive Gwaine backward with a controlled shoulder slam.

Gwaine grunted as he went down hard.

Arthur straightened, breathing fast, ready to retrieve his blade -

And that’s when it happened.

Gwaine’s boot, flailing for balance, caught a length of rusted training chain half-buried in the dirt.

His leg shot out from under him.

His elbow slammed into Percival’s side.

There was a startled shout - Percival’s grip twisted mid-swing - and the axe flew, end-over-end, loosed in a wild arc that glittered in the sun.

Arthur turned just in time to see it coming.

The weapon was spinning straight for his unprotected side. His sword was out of reach. He had no time to move.

He couldn’t stop it.

Then -

“Gestillan!”

The air hummed, and the axe froze mid-air, held for a suspended second before it dropped harmlessly to the dirt at Arthur’s feet.

Silence slammed down over the field.

Arthur stared at the axe. Then, slowly, he looked up.

His servant stood frozen at the edge of the field, one hand still half-raised, his face draining of color as he realized what he'd done. Their eyes met across the yard, and Arthur saw naked terror there.

Then Gwaine laughed, loud and boisterous. "Nice catch, Merlin!"

The tension didn’t break, but it seemed to loosen its stranglehold on them. Leon, his expression carefully neutral, reached to help Gwaine to his feet. Percival approached Arthur, placing his huge frame none-too-subtly between Arthur and his line of sight to Merlin, clapped him on the shoulder and quietly apologized for losing his grip on the axe.

Arthur’s mind spun uselessly as he looked at his knights, perplexed. Everyone seemed determined to pretend nothing unusual had happened. They had all seen it, of that he was certain, and yet the only one who would meet his eyes now was Gwaine, who stood casually less than a sword-strike away. His easy grin never faltered, but his sharp eyes glared, threatening, and the message was clear. Just you try to hurt Merlin, I dare you.

And Arthur couldn't help but turn and stare at Merlin, who was now very deliberately organizing medical supplies with shaking hands, his pale skin almost bloodless from fear. Gwen put a comforting hand on Merlin’s shoulder and whispered something to him before casting an apprehensive look briefly in his direction.

Magic. Merlin had magic.

The thought should have filled him with rage, with betrayal. Magic was evil, dangerous, the root of all Camelot's suffering. His father had taught him that from the cradle.

But all Arthur could think about was how many times he'd fallen - from horses, from walls, in battle - and walked away with barely a bruise. How many times had Merlin been there, quiet and unassuming, cushioning his landing?

"I think that's enough for today," he said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.

The knights dispersed so reluctantly, he almost made it an order, but then Percival threw his arm around Gwaine’s shoulders and began to drag him off, saying something, with forced cheerfulness, about getting a drink at the Rising Sun. Elyan muttered something about needing to get something from the armory, and Leon fell into step beside him as they walked away. Lancelot paused beside Arthur, his expression pensive.

"Sire - "

"Not now, Lancelot."

The knight inclined his head and withdrew. Arthur found himself alone in the yard with only Gwen and Merlin remaining. His servant was standing now, the medical kit clutched to his chest like a shield.

"Merlin," Arthur began.

"I should go," Merlin said quickly. "The laundry won't - I need to - "

"Merlin." Arthur put command into his voice, saw his servant flinch. "My chambers. Now."

Merlin's shoulders slumped in defeat. He nodded once, then turned and walked toward the castle like a man heading to his execution. Arthur watched him go, his mind churning.

"Arthur," Gwen said softly, suddenly at his elbow. "Whatever you're thinking - "

"Did you know?" The question came out harsher than intended.

Gwen lifted her chin. "I suspected. As did your knights, apparently. As did you, if you're honest with yourself."

"That's not - I never - "

"Arthur." Her voice was gentle but firm. "How many times has he saved your life? How many impossible escapes, how many lucky chances? You're not a fool. You've always known there was something different about him."

"Magic is - "

"What? Evil? Look at him, Arthur. Really look at him. Does anything about Merlin seem evil to you?"

Arthur's jaw worked. He thought of Merlin's ridiculous ears, his terrible jokes, the way he fussed over Arthur's meals and worried about him getting enough sleep. The way he'd stood against sorcerers and monsters and kingdoms for Arthur's sake, armed with nothing but loyalty and - apparently - secret magic.

"He lied to me," Arthur said finally.

"To protect you both," Gwen countered. "What would you have done, truly, if he'd told you that first week? That first year? Would you have listened, or would you have done your duty?"

Arthur didn't answer. They both knew the truth.

"Talk to him," Gwen urged. "Before you do something you'll regret."

She squeezed his arm and left, her skirts whispering across the stones. Arthur stood alone in the empty yard, staring at the spot where Merlin had saved him.

Again.

When he finally made his way to his chambers, he found Merlin standing by the window, his back rigid with tension. The abandoned laundry basket sat by the door, forgotten.

"How long?" Arthur asked without preamble.

Merlin's hands clenched at his sides. "Always."

"Always?" Arthur's voice rose. "You've had magic this entire time?"

"I was born with it." Merlin turned finally, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I didn't choose it, Arthur. It chose me. I've tried to - I've only ever used it to protect you, to protect Camelot."

Arthur tried and failed to comprehend. "All those times - the magical attacks, the creatures, the sorcerers who mysteriously failed - "

"Yes."

The simple admission hit Arthur like a physical blow. He sank into a chair, suddenly exhausted.

"The dragon?"

"Me."

"The branch that fell on that bandit who had his sword to my throat?"

"Me." Merlin's voice was barely a whisper now. "Always me."

Arthur buried his face in his hands. His entire world was tilting, everything he thought he knew crumbling. Merlin - his Merlin - was a sorcerer. Had been lying to him every day for years.

"Why didn't you tell me?" The question came out broken.

"And say what?" Merlin's laugh was bitter. "Hello, I'm Merlin, your father made me your manservant because I saved your life using the same magic for which he would see me burn at the stake?”

Arthur’s breath hitched. “Even then?”

“Of course even then!” Merlin said, exasperation and hurt in his tone, even as his eyes finally overflowed. He angrily scrubbed the tears from his face with the cuff of his sleeve. “You think it was coincidence that a chandelier just happened to fall on that woman after she’d already put everyone to sleep? You think I’m naturally quick enough to race across the room and pull you out of the way of the dagger that would have killed you?”

Arthur opened his mouth, but no words emerged. Well, when he put it that way…

“I wanted to tell you so many times, Arthur.” Merlin said quietly, still wiping ineffectually at his face. “You have no idea how much I wanted to trust you with this."

Arthur shook his head and looked down, struggling to parse all this information. "But you didn't," he said.

"How could I?" Merlin moved closer, his voice desperate. "Your father had children drowned for showing signs of magic. He burned men and women whose only crime was brewing healing potions. And you - you believed what he taught you. I watched you agree with him, watched you hunt down sorcerers - "

"They were trying to kill me," Arthur protested. He couldn’t defend all of his father’s actions, but they weren’t completely without reason.

"Not all of them." Merlin's voice was quiet, sad. "Some were just scared. Some were angry at what had been done to them. And yes, some were evil. But magic itself isn't evil, Arthur. It's just... it's just what I am."

Arthur looked up, found Merlin standing before him, tears now tracking unhindered down his cheeks. He looked young, vulnerable, nothing like the secret sorcerer who'd apparently been defending Camelot from the shadows.

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

"When you were king," Merlin said, his voice wet, strained with the sound of a hope yet to materialize. "When you could change the laws, when it was safe. I promised myself I'd tell you then."

"And if I'd had you executed?"

Merlin's smile was heartbreaking. "Then at least I'd have died as myself, not hiding anymore."

Arthur shot to his feet, unable to bear the resignation in that voice. "You idiot,” he said. His chest felt tight; his heart pierced, and not with the sting of betrayal. “You complete idiot. Did you really think - after everything - "

He couldn't finish. Too many emotions were within him - anger at the deception, grief for the trust broken, but underneath it all, a desperate relief that Merlin was still here, still breathing, still his.

"Arthur?" Merlin ventured uncertainly.

"I need time," Arthur said roughly. "To think. To... process this."

"Of course." Merlin moved toward the door, paused. "Arthur, I am sorry. For lying, for... for all of it. But I'm not sorry for protecting you. I'll never be sorry for that."

He left before Arthur could respond, the door closing with quiet finality.

Arthur stood in the center of his chambers, feeling more alone than he could remember. Everything was different now. Everything had changed.

Except...

Except Merlin was still Merlin. Still the man who brought him breakfast and nagged him about sleeping. Still the one who stood between Arthur and danger without hesitation. Still the person Arthur trusted above all others, the one whose opinion mattered most, the one whose smile could brighten Arthur's darkest days.

Magic hadn't changed that. If anything, it only proved what Arthur had always known deep down - that Merlin was extraordinary.

The thought was terrifying in its implications.

Night fell over Camelot, bringing with it a sense of expectation, like the air before a storm. Arthur stood on his balcony, watching torches flicker to life across the city. Somewhere out there, Merlin was probably in his chambers, wondering if tomorrow would bring execution or exile.

"Idiot," Arthur murmured to the night. As if he could ever -

A commotion in the courtyard below caught his attention. Guards were running, shouting orders. He could hear sounds of crashing armor and cries of pain.

Arthur grabbed his sword and ran, taking the stairs three at a time.

He burst into the courtyard to find chaos. Blue flames licked at the walls, impervious to the water the servants threw at them. A multitude of ravens circled overhead, croaking and cawing.  At the center of it all stood a figure in dark robes, hood thrown back to reveal a gaunt face marked by desperation.

"Arthur Pendragon!" the sorcerer called out. "Face me, or watch your kingdom burn!"

Arthur stepped forward, sword raised. Around him, his knights were converging, drawn by the commotion. He saw Leon organizing the guards, Gwaine and Percival flanking him, Lancelot and Elyan moving to cut off escape routes.

And there, emerging from the shadows like he always did when Arthur was in danger, was Merlin.

Their eyes met across the courtyard. Arthur saw the question there, the readiness to act tempered by fear of exposure. He gave the tiniest shake of his head. Not yet. Let me try.

"I'm here," Arthur called out to the sorcerer. "What do you want?"

The man laughed, high and unstable. "What do I want? I want my sister back, but your father burned her. I want my home back, but your knights destroyed it. I want justice, but there is none to be had in Camelot!"

"My father is not - " Arthur began.

"I know about the king!" the sorcerer spat. "Broken in mind, useless. But you... you're just like him, aren't you? The son following in the father's bloodstained footsteps."

"I am not my father."

"Prove it." The sorcerer raised his hands, the circling ravens cried in unison, a terrifying cacophony, and the blue flames leap higher. "Show me you're different. Show me there's hope for change, or I'll reduce this castle to ash and bone."

Arthur stepped closer, lowering his sword slightly. "What's your name?"

The sorcerer blinked, clearly not expecting that. "What?"

"Your name. And your sister's. If I'm to understand your grief, I should know who you mourn."

"I... Aldric. My name is Aldric. My sister was Anya."

"Tell me about Anya, Aldric."

For a moment, the flames flickered lower. But then Aldric's face hardened again.

"Words," he snarled. "Just words. You want to understand? Feel what I feel. Loss. Despair. The knowledge that someone you love is gone forever."

He pulled something from his robes - a stone on a leather cord, black as midnight but pulsing with sickly green light. The ravens shrieked, and the air was filled with the sound of wings.

"Someone offered me coin to test you, Arthur Pendragon. To humiliate you, prove you to be the weak figurehead you are and, better yet, provided me the means to do so." His smile was terrible. "I'm going to steal the soul of the person you most value. Let's see how you handle real loss."

"You can't - " Arthur started forward, but Aldric held up a hand, muttered an incomprehensible word, and an invisible force slammed into Arthur's chest, holding him in place. The ravens broke from their circling formation and settled on the stone roofs and battlements, gazing down at the courtyard, their sudden silence even more unnerving than their noise.

"Can't I? This stone is older than your kingdom, boy. It hungers for souls, and it never misses its mark." He looked around the courtyard, taking in the knights, the servants, the guards. "So many to choose from. But it will know. It always knows."

"Everyone here is under my protection," Arthur said firmly. "Everyone here is equally valuable. You want a soul? Take mine."

Aldric laughed. "Maybe it will! The stone chooses based on your heart, not your words. It will take whoever you value most – even if it’s yourself! -- and there's nothing you can do to stop it."

"Arthur!" That was Gwaine, sword drawn, but the blue flames formed a barrier between them.

"Although," Aldric continued, studying Arthur with bright, mad eyes, "if it's not you it takes - if someone else here more valuable to you than your own life - then perhaps you're not fit to be king after all."

Arthur's heart was racing, but he kept his voice steady. "Every person under my rule is valuable. Every life matters."

"Pretty words," Aldric sneered. "Let's see if they're true. Let's see who Arthur Pendragon can't live without."

He gripped the stone, speaking words in the old tongue. The green light pulsed brighter, spreading out like seeking fingers. Arthur fought against the invisible bonds holding him, but couldn't move.

He heard a familiar voice call his name, and he turned his head and saw Merlin, who was shoving his way through the crowd to get to him, all caution tossed aside.

The light touched each person in the courtyard - guards who had tried and failed to stop the sorcerer’s approach through the lower town. The people who had followed, out of foolish curiosity or lack of self-preservation. His knights, Leon, Gwaine, and Percival. Gwen and Gaius, who had appeared in a doorway. The green light passed over them like they were nothing. It swirled, searching, hungry.

Then it found Merlin, just as he emerged from the crowd and stumbled into the courtyard. Arthur realized a moment before Merlin did, because, as the sickly light streaked toward him, Merlin was too focused on Arthur to realize the danger he was in. There was only a moment for their eyes to meet before Merlin noticed the light that was racing straight at him. He raised his hand in defense, and Arthur saw his eyes flash, a brief, strange glow--

The light struck Merlin like a physical blow. His eyes went wide, the glow extinguished, a strangled gasp escaping his lips, and then he was falling, crumpling to the stones like a marionette with cut strings.

The courtyard went utterly silent.

"What?" Aldric stared at the fallen servant, then at the stone, which now pulsed with a contained light. "That's... a servant? Really?"

"What did you do?" Arthur's voice came out raw, desperate. The invisible bonds had released him, and he was across the courtyard in seconds, dropping to his knees beside Merlin's still form. "What did you do to him?"

"I... I took his soul," Aldric said, sounding bewildered. "The stone takes the soul of whoever you value most. But why would it choose a servant? Unless..."

Merlin's chest rose and fell with mechanical precision, but his eyes were closed, his face slack. Arthur touched his cheek, found it cool.

"Merlin?" No response. Arthur grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "Merlin, come on. This isn't funny."

Merlin blinked his eyes open, and Arthur was so startled by the bright gold of his irises that he jerked back, as if burned.

Merlin sat up, staring blankly ahead.

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice broke hoarsely. “What - what are you - ” He stopped as Merlin turned his head slowly to look at him and Arthur felt his blood run cold. Merlin’s glowing, golden eyes were open but empty, like windows in an abandoned house. There was nothing there, no spark of recognition, no warmth, no Merlin, even as his servant – his magic-using servant -- sat up and slowly got to his feet.

"Oh," Aldric breathed, looking at the pendant that now pulsed with bright, golden light. "Oh, this is bad."

Merlin raised one hand, and his eyes burned brighter, the glowing gold of his irises bleeding into pupil and sclera.

On the battlements, the ravens shrieked and took to the air, dispersing as quickly as they came.

The temperature in the courtyard plummeted. Frost spread across the stones in spiraling patterns. The blue flames went out like candles in a hurricane.

"This is very bad," Aldric said, backing away. "You should run. All of you should run."

"What's happening?" Arthur demanded, standing but not moving away from Merlin. "Why are his eyes like that? What's wrong with him?"

"Don't you understand?" Aldric's voice was high with panic. "Look at him! Really look! That's not human magic - that's raw power. He's not just a sorcerer. He IS magic."

Merlin tilted his head, studying Aldric with those terrible golden eyes. When he spoke, his voice was hollow, emotionless. "You are a threat to Arthur Pendragon."

"No, wait - " Aldric threw up a shield, but Merlin's hand cut through the air, and the shield shattered like glass.

"Merlin, stop!" Arthur commanded, but Merlin didn't even pause. Another gesture, and Aldric was lifted off his feet, choking.

"I surrender!" Aldric gasped out. "I yield! Please, I'll return his soul, I'll - "

Merlin closed his fist. There was a sound like breaking wood, and Aldric crumpled to the ground, unmoving. The stone fell from his lifeless fingers, still pulsing with that contained light.

Then Merlin simply... stopped. He stood perfectly still, hands at his sides, staring at nothing.

"Merlin?" Arthur approached cautiously. "Can you hear me?"

No response. The glow of his eyes faded until only his irises burned gold, but they remained empty, unseeing.

"He has magic," someone whispered.

"So not the problem right now!" Gwaine said. He approached slowly, waving a hand in front of Merlin's face. "Hello? Hey, Merls? Anyone home?"

Nothing.

Gwen pushed through the crowd, Gaius close behind her. The old physician staggered when he saw the evidence of Merlin’s magic writ plainly in front of everyone in his blazing blank eyes, and he looked around, fearfully seeing all the witnesses still gathered, still witnessing this crime against Uther’s laws that bore but one punishment, but then his gaze was drawn to the pendant on the ground, the black stone pulsing with golden life, and he paled.

"No," he breathed. "No, my poor boy."

"Gaius?" Arthur's voice was sharper than he meant, but he needed answers now. "What's wrong with him?"

Gaius moved to examine Merlin, checking his pulse, looking into his empty eyes. His hands shook.

"The stone took his soul," he said quietly. "But Merlin... Merlin isn't like other men. He's..." He paused, seeming to age years in seconds. "There are prophecies. Ancient texts. They speak of Emrys, the most powerful warlock ever to walk the earth. Magic incarnate, born to restore the balance."

Arthur opened his mouth to ask how that was even possible, but before he could speak, Leon asked, with no small amount of awe, "Wait… Merlin is Emrys?"

Gaius nodded. "Yes. And without his soul, without his humanity to temper it, he's just... power. Raw, unlimited power, with no will but to serve his purpose."

"Which is?" Arthur demanded.

Gaius looked at him with infinite sadness. "To protect you, Sire. The prophecies say Emrys exists to ensure Arthur Pendragon becomes the Once and Future King. Without his soul, that order is all that remains."

Once and Future King? Emrys? None of that made any sense, and Arthur didn’t care for an explanation. He stared at Merlin - his friend, his servant, standing without his soul, and apparently powerful enough to kill a man with a twitch of his hand - and felt his world tilt further off its axis.

"How do we get him back?"

"I don't know," Gaius admitted. "The stone still holds his soul, but with the sorcerer dead..."

Arthur snatched up the stone, the leather cord still warm from Aldric's grip. The golden light within pulsed steadily, like a heartbeat.

"Then we break it," he said.

"Sire, no!" Gaius caught his wrist. "Breaking the stone might destroy the soul within. We need knowledge, research - "

"Then get started," Arthur ordered. He looked around the courtyard, taking in the shocked faces of his people. "Leon, double the guard. Gwaine, Percival - help me get Aldric's body to - "

"Sire," Leon said quietly, "perhaps we should continue this inside. The people..."

Arthur looked around, saw servants and guards all staring at Merlin with mixtures of awe and fear. Word would spread through Camelot like wildfire - the prince's manservant was a sorcerer.

"You're right. Leon, have the body taken to the vaults - we may need to examine his possessions. Everyone else... go home." He raised his voice. "What happened here goes no further. Anyone who speaks of it outside these walls will answer to me personally."

Murmurs of agreement, though Arthur knew it was futile. By dawn, all of Camelot would know, and Arthur would be all that stood between Merlin and arrest and execution.

Arthur walked up to Merlin until they were standing face to face. He stared into those empty eyes, trying to see something of his friend in their eerie depths.

“Merlin,” he said.

Merlin didn’t respond, or acknowledge him in any way. His face was blank, peaceful in a way that was deeply wrong. Merlin's face was meant for expressions - exasperation, fondness, that particular smirk when he thought he was being clever.

"Merlin… Do you recognize me?"

No response. Arthur felt thorns of dread twisting in his chest. “Do you even know who I am?”

Merlin focused his gaze on Arthur for the first time. "You are Arthur Pendragon. Crown Prince. King Regent. The Once and Future King."

Again, that nonsensical title, but he didn’t care. At least Merlin was talking to him. "Do you know who you are?"

A pause. "Emrys."

"No.” Arthur resisted the urge to reach out and try to shake some sense into him. “Your name is Merlin," he said firmly. "You're my - " He stopped, unsure how to finish. Servant seemed insufficient. Friend felt too small. "You're Merlin."

No response. Those empty eyes stared through him.

“Gaius.” Arthur turned to the old healer, who was staring at Merlin with a soft, sad horror. “Do you have anything that can fix this?”

“I will do everything in my power to restore Merlin’s soul to him, Sire,” Gaius said gravely, and with enough conviction that Arthur felt a small spark of hope. “I will start with the books and scrolls in my chambers. I have encountered records of the Stone of Souls before, and, while I do not recall reading of any way to undo this enchantment, it will at least be a place to start.”

"Then I will help you,” Arthur said. “Merlin, follow me." And, to his relief, Merlin obeyed.

They made a strange procession through the castle - Arthur leading, Merlin following with measured steps, Gaius hurrying behind. Servants scattered from their path, eyes wide.

Once safely in the physician’s tower, Arthur closed the door firmly. Merlin walked to the middle of the room and just stopped and stood motionlessly, while Gaius began going through the books on his shelves.

Arthur did not like the way Merlin was absolutely motionless, like a statue. "Sit," he said to Merlin, gesturing to a chair.

“I do not need to sit,” Merlin said blankly.

“Ugh,” Arthur groaned, as apparently Merlin was as disobedient without his soul as with it. “Just… do as I say, will you? You are my manservant, after all.”

“I am your protector,” Merlin corrected. “Sitting provides no benefit to my ability to protect you.”

“It will bloody well protect my peace of mind,” Arthur snapped, as he genuinely wondered if this was what it felt like to go mad.

Merlin looked at him with those terrible, empty eyes for a long moment. Then he walked over to the chair and sat.

Arthur heaved a sigh, and ran his hands through his hair. "Do you need food or water?"

"No."

"Do you need anything?"

"No."

“What - ” He swallowed. “What happened to you?”

“My soul was removed and trapped by the Stone of Souls,” Merlin said, as calm and emotionless as if he was commenting on the weather.

“You said your name is Emrys.”

“Yes.”

“So what - how--” Arthur gestured to him, struggling to articulate his question.

Merlin blinked. “I am what remains. I am Magic. I am Emrys.”

Arthur took a deep breath. “And Merlin?”

Merlin pointed to the pendant, its leather cord still clutched in Arthur’s white-knuckled fist. He looked down at it, at the golden light trapped within the black stone.

“You mean,” Arthur said hoarsely, “that there is nothing left of Merlin in you, somewhere deep down? That everything he ever is and was, is in this?”

“You are correct that there is nothing left of Merlin in me,” Merlin said. “But we are meant to be the same, I in him, and him in me. We have been sundered in a way that was never meant to be.”

Arthur swallowed. “If you’re the magic, do you know how to… to break the enchantment on the stone and free your soul?”

“No. It is ancient, dark magic, and the enchantment is tied to many anchors that cannot be undone without proper ritual.”

“Do you know the proper ritual?” Arthur asked.

“No.”

“Do you know who does know the proper ritual?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“No.”

Yes. This was definitely what going mad felt like. “If you’re magic; if you’re raw, unlimited power like Gaius said,” he said, gesturing to the physician who had stopped rummaging through his shelves to watch this exchange. “Isn’t this something you should know?”

Merlin gazed at him with expressionless, golden eyes. “I am confined to this flesh, and thus subject to many of its limitations. It is within my power to release myself from this body, but then I would return to the earth, sea and sky, and would be unable to continue as your protector. This body would die, and my soul would remained trapped in the stone.”

The words hit Arthur like a blow. Angrily, and without another word to the magical husk that wore his friend’s face, he hung the pendant around his neck so that the stone rested next to his heart. He turned to Gaius, who was already setting books out on one of the tables.

"Tell me everything," Arthur demanded. "About Merlin, about this Emrys. About his magic. Everything you've kept from me."

Gaius sank into a chair, suddenly looking every one of his many years. "I've known since he first arrived in Camelot. The power in him... it was like nothing I'd ever seen. He could move objects with his mind before he could walk, could speak to the earth itself as a child."

Arthur scoffed. “Oh, is that all.” He turned and strode toward the window before turning back quickly. "And you never thought to mention this," he exclaimed.

"Would you have listened, Sire? Or would you have followed your father's laws?" Gaius's eyes were steady, challenging. "Merlin could have left at any time, and yet he stayed in Camelot for one reason - to protect you. Everything he's done, every lie he's told, has been in service of that destiny."

"Destiny," Arthur spat the word. "I don't believe in destiny."

"Then believe in choice," Gaius said quietly. "Because Merlin chose you, every day. He could have been a king in his own right, could have ruled through power and fear. Instead, he chose to be your servant, to hide his gifts, to suffer in silence so that you might one day bring about a kingdom where magic and non-magic folk could live in peace."

Arthur looked at Merlin, sitting perfectly still in the chair. "And now?"

"Now he's been reduced to his base purpose. Without his soul, his humanity, he's simply the instrument of prophecy. He'll protect you, serve your destiny - but the man who chose to do those things is trapped in that stone."

Arthur’s hand reached up to the pendant and pressed the stone against his breastbone, golden light streaming from between his fingers.  Was Merlin aware inside the stone, alone and afraid? The thought was unbearable.

"How do we free him?"

Gaius opened a large, leather-bound tome, its pages yellow with age, and shuffled carefully through the pages. "The Stone of Souls is ancient magic, predating even the Old Religion. Legend says it was created by those who feared love, who saw it as weakness.” He turned pages carefully, then stopped on a page where Arthur could see a drawing of the pendant. Gaius scanned the page, and said, "There are stories of those who tried to break such stones. Most ended with both souls destroyed - the trapped and the trapper."

Arthur frowned. "There has to be a way--"

A knock at the door interrupted him. Arthur called out an irritated "Enter."

Leon stepped inside, his expression grave. "Sire, forgive the intrusion,” he said, glancing at Merlin who sat unmoving, staring off blankly at nothing. “There's something you need to know."

"What now?"

"The attacking sorcerer - Aldric. We searched his belongings as you ordered. We found letters." Leon held out a sheaf of parchment. "He told the truth, he was hired, Sire. Someone paid him to attack Camelot, to test you."

Arthur took the letters, checking them quickly. No names, no identifying marks, but the intent was clear - humiliate the young regent, prove him weak, sow discord in Camelot.

"Double the patrols," he ordered. "And I want to know who is behind this.” He met Leon’s gaze and knew that his First Knight’s thoughts echoed his own on who was the most likely culprit: Morgana.

It had been over three months since she had attacked Camelot and overthrown the citadel with Morgause and her immortal army. And while Morgause had sustained a possibly fatal injury, it was still long enough for Morgana to regroup and plan another attack. Perhaps even a plan where she hired sorcerers to attack with devastating magical artifacts that stole souls.

But rather than voicing their fears, Leon simply bowed and said, “Yes, Sire,” before walking out and closing the door behind him.

Arthur turned to Gaius and, with an enthusiasm he did not feel, clapped his hands and said, “All right, where were we? Research! We’d best get to it. Where would you like me to start?”

Gaius handed him an ancient, heavy tome from the increasing pile, and he sighed.

They read and researched well into the small hours of the morning, until Arthur’s eyes burned and the words on the pages began to blur, and the next thing he knew, he was woken by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. He jerked upright, noticing with some chagrin that he had fallen asleep at the table. Someone had draped a blanket over his shoulders, and a quick scan of the room showed Gaius asleep in his cot. Thin, grey morning light seeped through the windows. He turned and saw that the noise that woke him was Merlin standing from his chair.

"Merlin?"

Merlin’s head tilted to the side as if listening to something only he could hear. "There’s danger approaching," he said in that hollow voice. "There’s magic coming from the north. More than one source. They mean harm."

Arthur's blood ran cold, and he stood, pushing himself away from the table, the blanket falling from his shoulders. "Can you tell how many?"

"Seven. They will be arriving within the hour."

"Seven sorcerers?"

"Yes."

Arthur looked upward, as if accusing the heavens. Was it only yesterday morning that his biggest worry had been enduring the council? Since then, he had discovered that Merlin was a sorcerer, complicating his already complicated feelings for the man, then he lost Merlin to a magical artifact wielded by an idiot sorcerer who didn’t even know what he was doing, and now his troubles had multiplied sevenfold.

Gathering himself, strode to the door, opened it, and called for the guards. A guard raced up the stone steps of the physician’s tower. “Sire?”

“Fetch Sir Leon,” Arthur ordered. “Sound the warning bells. Inform the captain of the guard that I want every guard armed and ready for an attack. Evacuate the lower town to the citadel. If you see Sir Leon, send him to me."

"Yes, Sire!" The guard quickly ran to obey.

“Sire, what is happening?” Arthur turned to see Gaius awake and easing himself out of his cot as quickly as his old bones would allow.

Arthur nodded his head at Merlin, who stood impassively. “He said danger is on the way in the form of seven sorcerers with evil intent.

Gaius paled. “Oh dear,” he said. “An attack so soon after the first bodes ill.”

The sound of the warning bells began to clang loudly, and Arthur could hear shouts of alarm from outside. “I need to get Sir Leon and muster the knights,” he said. He looked at Merlin, who remained standing, unaffected, and turned to Gaius, frowning. "Can he defend himself? Like this?"

"He's more powerful now than ever," Gaius said quietly. "Without his humanity holding him back, without fear or doubt...”

They both turned as Merlin suddenly moved and walked toward Arthur. “I will fight and destroy the enemies of Arthur Pendragon and Camelot,” he said without inflection, and something about that made Arthur’s heart clench.

“You are not a weapon,” he said firmly. “And I will not use you like one.”

“It is what I am for.”

“No!” Arthur turned and grasped Merlin by his shoulders. He could barely stand to look into those empty eyes, but he refused to let anything happen to Merlin, even if it was just his physical form. “No, you will stay here, with Gaius, until it is safe, do you understand?”

“I cannot effectively protect you if I stay here,” Merlin said. “I will come with you.”

“No! You utter - ” Arthur tightened his fingers around Merlin’s shoulders and shook him lightly. “Listen, you… you cabbagehead, if you serve me, you have to do what I say, and I order you to stay here during the battle!”

Merlin didn’t even blink. “I will always serve your best interests,” he said. “Staying here during a battle where you could be harmed or killed is not in your best interests.”

Arthur released Merlin’s shoulders abruptly, leaving him swaying slightly before he once again stilled, and growled in frustration. He glared at Gaius, who was watching the exchange with wide eyes. “He might not be Merlin,” Arthur snapped, “but he is just as disobedient and infuriating!”

Gaius’s gaze darted between Arthur and Merlin. “To be fair, Sire,” he said carefully, “Merlin has always protected you, usually from the shadows. If he goes to battle with you now, the only difference will be that he will be out in the open. And, as he is now, I have little doubt of his ability to protect you, and Camelot.”

 “But Gaius, using him like this, like a weapon - "

"I know," Gaius said gently. “You don’t know how many times I wished for him to be safe and free of this burden. But he is the only genuine protection against magical threats. He always has been. You need him. Camelot needs him."

Arthur rubbed his hands over his face, then turned to Merlin. “Are you still capable of helping me into my armor?“

“Yes.”

“Fine. With me, then. Gaius?”

“I will prepare for casualties, Sire.”

Arthur nodded grimly and strode out the door, Merlin keeping pace behind him.

The castle was abuzz with activity as the warning bells continued to ring out. No one attempted to stop Arthur and ask for an explanation, though many stopped to stare at Merlin and his glowing, golden eyes. Knights ran to their posts, servants secured valuables, children were hustled to safety.

When they reached his chambers and Arthur closed the door behind them, he moved to his armor stand. Merlin moved without being commanded and began strapping on pieces with practiced efficiency, helping with buckles and straps, anticipating needs with eerie precision.

Arthur contemplated his soulless manservant as he continued to help him with his armor. “You know,” he said, “I can lock you in here to keep you safe.”

Merlin didn’t even pause in his work. “I cannot be contained by locked doors,” he said, securing Arthur’s pauldron in place.

Arthur nodded, thin-lipped. “Of course not,” he said through gritted teeth. “And that actually explains a lot.”

When his armor was in place and secure, Merlin handed Arthur his sword. Arthur took it, sheathed it in its scabbard, and sighed heavily. "When this is over," he promised, "we'll find a way to bring you back. I swear it."

Merlin stared at him, hollow-eyed, and didn’t respond.

As the warning bells continued to toll across Camelot. Arthur strode through the corridors, Merlin at his heels. Leon met him in the main entry and fell into step beside him.

In the courtyard, his knights were assembled. Gwaine's usual levity was absent, his face grim. Percival stood like a mountain, unmovable. Elyan was checking the edge of his blade while Lancelot spoke quietly with the men.

"Seven sorcerers approach," Arthur announced. "We don't know their purpose, but given recent events, we must assume hostile intent."

His knights glanced at each other, uneasily.

"And why is he here?" Gwaine asked, jerking his head toward Merlin.

"Apparently he fights with us," Arthur said sardonically. "Explicitly against my will. I can explain more later, though I will happily give ten gold pieces to anyone who can convince him to stay inside during the battle."

The knights leaned forward as one to look at Merlin. He looked back at them, standing more motionless than humanly possible.

No one moved.

"Right then!" Arthur continued. "Leon, take archers to the battlements. Gwaine, Percival - you're with me at the main gate. Lancelot, Elyan - "

"Movement on the north road!" a guard called from the walls.

Arthur ran up the steps to the battlements, his knights behind him. In the distance, he could see them - seven figures in dark robes, walking unhurriedly toward Camelot. The air around them shimmered with power, and behind them in the air, an unkindness of ravens flew in haphazard patterns.

“Well,” said Gwaine, looking at the ravens, “that explains why we are being attacked again so soon. I’d bet even odds that those birdies are spying for whoever is behind all this.”

“You are correct,” Merlin said. “The ravens are being used as vessels for scrying.”

Arthur frowned, remembering the ravens that watched on, witnessing as Merlin’s soul was stolen from him, and then Emrys’ ruthless retaliation.

"Confident bastards," Elyan muttered.

"Perhaps they think us weakened?” Lancelot asked.

"Are we?" Percival asked quietly.

Arthur glanced at Merlin, who stood perfectly still beside him, those empty eyes fixed on the approaching threat.

"Let's find out.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “Merlin, can you stop them from here?"

"No. The distance is too great for precise targeting. Collateral damage to the surrounding forest is unacceptable."

And Arthur felt the tight knot of fear and anxiety coiled in his gut loosen just the slightest. Even soulless, he wouldn't harm the innocent. Some part of Merlin remained, buried deep.

"Then we meet them at the gate," Arthur decided. "If they want Camelot, they'll have to go through us."

They descended to the courtyard, taking position before the main gates. Arthur drew his sword, the weight familiar in his hand. Around him, his knights formed up, shields raised, faces set with determination.

The seven sorcerers stopped just beyond arrow range. One stepped forward, lowering his hood to reveal a scarred face and cold eyes.

"Arthur Pendragon," he called out. "We've come for the sorcerer Emrys. Surrender him, and Camelot need not burn today."

Wait, they had come for Merlin?

"Any sorcerer under my protection stays under my protection," Arthur replied. "Turn back now, and you can leave with your lives."

The scarred sorcerer laughed. "You would die for a servant? For a creature of magic?"

"I would die for any of my people."

"How noble. How foolish." The sorcerer raised his hand. "Take them."

The attack came like a thunderstorm. Lightning split the sky, fireballs rained down, the very earth cracked beneath their feet. Arthur raised his shield, felt the impact of magical force nearly drive him to his knees.

Then Merlin moved.

He stepped forward, raised both hands, and the world went silent. Every spell, every attack, simply... stopped. Frozen in midair like insects in amber.

"I have evaluated the threat," Merlin said calmly. And then he retaliated.

He pushed, and the frozen spells reversed, hurtling back toward their casters. The sorcerers scrambled to defend, throwing up shields, diving aside. Two weren't fast enough - they fell, their own lightning turning against them.

"Impossible," the scarred leader breathed.

Merlin tilted his head. "You are incorrect." He gestured, and the leader was yanked forward, held suspended by invisible force. "State your purpose."

The sorcerer struggled, but couldn't break free. "We came for you, Emrys. The prophecies speak of your power. With you, we could remake the world, bring magic back to its rightful place."

"Magic's place is in service to the Once and Future King," Merlin replied tonelessly. "Your goals are incompatible with what I was made to do."

"You're enslaved! Can't you see? They've bound you, reduced you to a pet!"

"I am not bound. I am focused." Merlin's eyes flashed gold. "You will leave. Now."

"Never! We came for Emrys, and we'll have him!" The sorcerer spoke a word of power, and his fellows attacked again.

This time, Merlin didn't hold back.

The air itself seemed to bend around him. One attacker's flames turned to ice mid-flight, shattering harmlessly. Another found the ground beneath him had become quicksand. A third simply... stopped, frozen in place by invisible bonds.

It wasn't a battle. It was a demonstration.

In seconds, five sorcerers lay unconscious or restrained. Only the leader and one other remained standing, and they were backing away, terror replacing arrogance.

"You're not Emrys," the leader whispered. "Emrys would never... You're something else. Something wrong."

"I am what I need to be," Merlin replied. He raised his hand again.

"Merlin, stop," Arthur commanded, fearful that he would be ignored if Emrys didn’t consider this in his best interests.

Merlin paused, hand still raised.

Without letting the immense relief he felt show, Arthur stepped forward, addressing the sorcerers. "You've seen what he can do. What I could order him to do. Leave now. Tell others what happened here. Any who threaten Camelot will face the same."

The leader stared at him. "You command Emrys? You dare?"

"I don't command him," Arthur said, though the words tasted like ash. "But the fool who attacked earlier today removed and trapped his soul.”

The leader’s gaze flicked to Arthur’s chest where a golden light strong enough to penetrate chainmail and plate shown through, and his face turned grey.

Arthur smiled grimly. “That’s right,” he said, “this is your doing, and until his soul is returned, I'm all that stands between him and the world. Would you rather face him with my conscience guiding him, or without?"

The sorcerer paled further. He grabbed his remaining companion, and they vanished in a swirl of smoke, leaving their unconscious fellows behind.

The ravens immediately dispersed.

"Secure the prisoners," Arthur ordered his knights. "Gently - they're defeated."

As his men moved to comply, Arthur turned to Merlin. "Are there other threats?"

"I’m checking." A pause. "No."

"Good. Then..." Arthur hesitated. What did one do with a soulless all-powerful sorcerer? "Return to my chambers. Wait for me there."

Merlin turned and walked away without a word. Arthur watched him go, his chest tight with something that might have been grief.

"That was..." Gwaine started, then stopped, apparently at a loss for words.

"Terrifying," Elyan supplied.

"Efficient," Leon corrected, though he looked shaken.

"Not Merlin," Lancelot said quietly, and that summed it up perfectly.

Arthur sheathed his sword, suddenly exhausted. "Have the prisoners taken to the cells - the comfortable ones. I want them treated well. Maybe one of them knows something about the stone."

He started to turn away, then paused. "And thank you. All of you. For standing with him. With us."

"Always," Gwaine said, and the others nodded agreement.

Arthur made his way back to his chambers slowly, dreading what he'd find. Merlin was exactly where he'd expected - standing in the center of the room, motionless, but he immediately turned and helped Arthur divest himself of his armor without being asked.

With is armor gone, Arthur reached up and carefully removed the pendant with the Stone of Souls from around his neck and set it gently on the table. Merlin’s soul shone like a small sun within the black stone.

"Sit down," Arthur said tiredly, gesturing to a chair by the fire. “You must be cold."

"The temperature is acceptable," Merlin replied but sat anyway. Arthur wondered if it was done solely to protect his peace of mind.

Arthur sank into the opposite chair, staring at his friend's empty face in the firelight. Just yesterday, he'd discovered Merlin had magic. Had been angry about the deception, hurt by the lies. Now he'd give anything to have that Merlin back, lies and all.

"Do you remember anything?" he asked. "About before? About... us?"

Silence. Then, "I do not understand the question.”

Arthur's throat burned. "Do you remember being my friend?"

"I have no memories prior to my current state. I possess the knowledge necessary to protect you. Personal experiences are... absent."

"But you knew about the approaching sorcerers. You know how to use your magic."

"I am magic. But I have no memory of time before my soul was removed. I know Arthur Pendragon requires protection. I do not remember why."

Arthur closed his eyes. Somewhere in that stone, Merlin's soul held all those memories - of shared adventures, quiet evenings, inside jokes, and unspoken truths. Everything that made him Merlin rather than just Emrys.

"I'll get you back," he promised. "Whatever it takes."

Merlin didn't respond. The fire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows on empty walls.

Outside, night deepened over Camelot. In the cells below, five sorcerers nursed their wounds and wondered what they'd stumbled into. In his chambers, Gaius pored over ancient texts, searching for hope. In the tavern, Gwaine bought rounds and didn't make jokes, while Percival sat silent and Elyan sharpened a blade that didn't need it. In Gwen’s house, Lancelot sat next to her and held her as she wept into his shoulder.

And in the prince's chambers, two figures sat by the fire - one wrestling with newfound knowledge and feelings he couldn't name, the other empty of everything that had once made him human.

The stone pulsed on the table between them, golden light steady as a heartbeat, holding a soul captive.

Holding Merlin captive.

"I need you," he whispered to the hollow shell wearing Merlin's face. "Not Emrys. Not magic. You. The idiot who can't polish armor properly and makes terrible jokes and always knows when I need someone to tell me I'm being a prat."

Golden eyes flickered in the firelight, but remained empty.

Arthur settled in for a long night of watching, of guarding what remained of his dearest friend, of planning how to achieve the impossible.

He would get Merlin back.

He had to.

Chapter Text

Dawn came too soon and not soon enough. Arthur hadn't slept - couldn't, with Merlin sitting motionless across from him like a beautiful statue carved from grief. Every time he'd tried to close his eyes, he'd found himself cataloguing the differences: the way Merlin's chest rose and fell with mechanical precision rather than the slightly irregular rhythm Arthur had grown accustomed to hearing in the quiet moments. The absolute stillness where there should have been restless energy, small movements, the unconscious habit of touching his neckerchief or running fingers through his hair.

He'd tried ordering him to sleep, desperate for even the illusion of normalcy, but Merlin had simply lain down on the bearskin rug before the fire and closed his eyes, mimicking rest without achieving it. The pretense had somehow been worse than the truth.

"Do you actually need sleep?" Arthur asked as pale light crept through the windows, painting the stone walls the color of old parchment.

"No," Merlin replied from where he lay.

Arthur's jaw tightened with familiar frustration - though this time it carried an undertone of grief that made his chest ache. "Then get up. Stop pretending."

Merlin rose smoothly, returning to his chair by the now-cold fireplace. No stretch, no yawn, no muttered complaint about uncomfortable beds or early mornings. Just seamless transition from horizontal to vertical, as if sleep were merely another unnecessary human affectation he'd discarded along with his soul.

Arthur rubbed his face, feeling every sleepless hour in the grit behind his eyelids and the weight in his bones. His reflection in the window showed a man aging years in days - hollow-eyed, stubbled, carrying invisible weights that threatened to crush him.

His gaze fell to the table where the stone had rested through the night, its golden light pulsing steadily like a trapped heartbeat. Arthur picked it up, the leather cord rough between his fingers, and moved to place it around his neck as he had the day before. But he hesitated, staring at the exposed stone.

Something about having Merlin's soul so vulnerable, so visible to anyone who looked, felt deeply wrong. The stone deserved better protection than a simple cord that left it bare to the world's eyes.

"Merlin," he said quietly, turning to face the motionless figure by the fireplace. "Is there a way to keep this hidden? Protected, while I carry it?"

For a moment, Merlin didn't respond, those empty golden eyes fixed on some invisible distance. Then he tilted his head slightly, as if considering.

"Yes," he said simply, and his eyes flooded gold.

Arthur felt the leather cord in his hands grow warm, the rough material shifting and transforming. The crude leather became a delicate chain that looked like silver but felt stronger than steel, its links so fine they seemed almost ethereal. The stone itself became encased in an elegant locket, its surface smooth and unremarkable—beautiful in its simplicity, but giving no hint of the precious light contained within.

"Only you can open it," Merlin said, his voice carrying that emotionless precision. "It will respond to your touch alone."

Arthur tested it, running his thumb over the locket's surface. At his touch, it opened with a soft click, revealing the stone's golden glow before closing again at his will. Perfect. Safe.

He fastened the chain around his neck, feeling the weight of the locket settle against his chest, hidden beneath his shirt. Close to his heart where it belonged—protected, cherished, but secret.

"Thank you," he said softly, though he wasn't sure if Merlin understood why the gesture mattered so much.

A knock interrupted his brooding. "Enter."

Gaius shuffled in, looking as exhausted as Arthur felt. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his usually immaculate robes were wrinkled from a night spent hunched over ancient texts. His gaze went immediately to Merlin, hope flickering and dying in the space of a breath like a candle guttering in wind.

"No change?" The question came out rougher than intended, laden with the desperation Arthur was trying so hard to hide.

"He protected Camelot from seven sorcerers yesterday," Arthur said, unable to keep the bitter edge from his voice. "Defeated them without breaking a sweat. So I suppose that's... something."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

Arthur stood abruptly, pacing to the window to escape the old physician's knowing eyes. Below, the courtyard was coming alive with the bustle of morning - servants hurrying about their duties, guards changing shifts, the normal rhythm of life that felt surreal in the face of everything that had changed. "What did you find?"

"References, hints, stories." Gaius set a stack of books on the table with a soft thud that seemed to echo with finality. "The Stone of Souls appears throughout history, always bringing tragedy. In every case, the victim's body collapses the moment their soul is stolen - they become like the living dead, unable to move, eat, or care for themselves." He opened the topmost tome, its pages yellow with age. "There was a merchant in the southern provinces who had his soul stolen by a rival. His family kept his body alive for three days, feeding him water drop by drop, but on the fourth day..." Gaius's voice trailed off meaningfully.

Arthur's blood chilled. "He died."

"And his soul remained trapped in the stone forever. Never moving on to Avalon, never finding peace." Gaius's fingers trembled slightly as he turned pages. "That's what makes these artifacts so evil - they don't just steal life, they steal eternity itself."

Arthur didn’t like what this implied, the horror of it plucking at him with icy fingers. “Explain,” he ordered.

"Well,” said Gaius, “every account differs. Most victims die within days - their bodies simply shut down without their souls to animate them. But there are stories of desperate families keeping soulless bodies alive through constant care, feeding them, moving their limbs, keeping them breathing." Gaius's voice was heavy with sorrow. "None lasted more than a fortnight before the flesh gave out."

Arthur's hands clenched. The thought of Merlin's body simply... stopping, leaving his bright soul trapped forever in that black stone prison, was unbearable. "How do we break it?"

"That's the difficulty. Breaking the stone while someone's soul is inside risks destroying the soul entirely. And even if we free it..." Gaius hesitated. "The accounts suggest that souls freed from captivity sometimes choose not to return. After experiencing separation from mortal concerns, they might choose to move on to Avalon rather than re-enter flesh."

Arthur felt that icy horror grip his heart. “So you’re saying…"

Gaius nodded grimly. "Without his soul, Merlin's body should have collapsed the moment the stone took hold. The only reason he's still standing, still moving, is because his magic has one overriding purpose - protecting you. It's animating his flesh like a puppet, but..." He shuddered. "That's not life, Sire. And if his magic fails, or if the strain becomes too much, his body will die. And if his body dies while his soul is trapped..."

"He'll be lost forever," Arthur finished, the words tasting like poison.

"Never able to move on to Avalon. Trapped in that stone for eternity." Gaius's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "That's why these artifacts are considered among the darkest magic ever created."

Another knock, urgent this time, cut through the tension. "Sire! The council requests your immediate presence!"

Arthur cursed under his breath. The realm wouldn't pause for his personal crisis, no matter how earth-shattering it felt. Every moment spent in meetings was a moment stolen from finding a way to save Merlin. "Merlin, help me get ready. Gaius, keep researching."

The council chamber was in uproar when he entered, voices raised in argument, faces flushed with indignation. Lord Cynric was on his feet, his face purple with rage, while Geoffrey tried unsuccessfully to restore order.

" - magic in the very heart of Camelot! The prince himself consorting with sorcerers!"

"Enough," Arthur commanded, letting royal authority ring in his voice as he took his place at the head of the table. Merlin positioned himself along the wall, unobtrusive but present - a constant reminder to Arthur of what they'd lost and what they stood to lose further.

"Your Highness," Cynric continued, his voice trembling with barely contained fury. "The entire city speaks of what occurred yesterday. Your... servant revealed as a sorcerer, wielding magic openly!" He spat the words like curses, his disgust palpable.

"To defend Camelot," Arthur said evenly, though his jaw was tight with suppressed anger. How dare this man speak of Merlin like he was some common criminal when he'd risked everything to protect them all? "Or did you miss the part where seven hostile sorcerers attacked us?"

"One evil fighting another - "

"Choose your next words carefully, Lord Cynric." Arthur's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, the tone he'd learned from his father - the one that reminded listeners they were speaking to someone who held their lives in his hands. "Merlin has served Camelot faithfully for years. His actions yesterday saved lives."

"His very existence breaks your father's laws!"

The words hung in the air like a blade. Arthur felt the weight of every eye in the room, the tension of a kingdom balanced on the edge of change. His father's laws. His father's hatred. His father's legacy of fear and suspicion that had driven his own daughter to rebellion and madness.

"My father is indisposed," Arthur reminded him coldly, each word carefully chosen. "I rule as regent, and I say Merlin has committed no crime worthy of punishment."

"The law is clear - "

"The law will be reviewed." Arthur stood, the scrape of his chair loud in the sudden silence. "Times change, Lord Cynric. We've hidden behind fear too long. Yesterday proved that magic itself isn't evil - intent matters."

"You speak heresy!" Cynric's voice cracked with outrage.

"I speak sense." Arthur looked around the table, meeting each councilor's eyes in turn, daring them to contradict him. "How many of you have benefited from Merlin's protection without knowing it? How many times has he saved this kingdom while we remained ignorant?" His voice rose with conviction. "I won't execute a hero to satisfy outdated prejudices."

"The people won't stand for it," another councilor ventured, his voice careful, testing.

Arthur's smile was sharp as a blade. "Then I'll convince them otherwise." His tone brooked no argument. "Merlin remains under my protection. Any who move against him move against me. Is that understood?"

Reluctant agreement rippled through the chamber like water through disturbed sand. Only Cynric remained defiant, his face a mask of barely contained fury.

"You'll doom us all," he spat, his voice thick with venom. "Mark my words - "

"You are in danger, Sire," Merlin said suddenly, stepping forward to stand at Arthur's side with fluid grace that would have been beautiful if there had been any life behind it.

The council fell silent as if a spell had been cast, all eyes turning to the motionless servant. Arthur felt his heart skip - it was the second time since losing his soul that Merlin had spoken without being directly addressed, and again, it was to warn of danger.

"Explain," Arthur ordered, though his pulse was racing.

"Lord Cynric bears a concealed blade coated with poison. He bears malicious intent toward you." The words were delivered in that same hollow, emotionless tone, but they hit the chamber like a thunderclap.

Cynric went white as parchment. "That's... how dare you!"

"Sir Leon," Arthur said calmly, though fury was building in his chest like storm clouds. The idea that someone would try to murder him here, in his own council chamber, while he was fighting to save the man who'd given everything to protect Camelot... "Search him."

Leon moved forward with grim efficiency. Cynric tried to run but found himself frozen in place, invisible force holding him as surely as iron chains. Merlin's eyes glowed gold, terrible and beautiful.

The search revealed a thin stiletto, its blade gleaming with oily residue that caught the light like poison given form.

"Hemlock extract," Leon reported grimly, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "A scratch would kill within minutes."

Arthur stared at Cynric, letting the man see the cold rage in his eyes. The betrayal cut deep - not just the attempt on his life, but the timing of it. While Arthur was fighting to save the very person who'd protected them all, this man had been planning murder. "You would kill me and throw Camelot into chaos for this?"

"Better Camelot burn than fall to magic!" Cynric snarled, spittle flying from his lips. "Your father understood! He knew the threat - "

"My father's hatred drove his daughter to madness and rebellion," Arthur cut him off, his voice ringing with conviction born of painful truth. "His fear nearly destroyed everything he sought to protect. I won't repeat his mistakes."

He nodded to Leon. "Take him to the dungeons. Gently - I want him alive to question."

As guards removed the struggling lord, Arthur addressed the remaining council. His voice was steady now, controlled, but there was steel beneath the silk. "Anyone else harboring murderous intent? Now's your chance to confess."

Silence stretched like a held breath.

"Good. Then let's discuss the real issue - how to protect Camelot from those who would use recent events against us."

The meeting continued for hours, each moment feeling stolen from more urgent concerns. They discussed patrol schedules and border defenses, grain stores and trade agreements - all the mundane details that kept a kingdom functioning while Arthur's mind screamed that none of it mattered if he couldn't save Merlin.

Through it all, Merlin stood silent against the wall, watching. Once, when Lord Geoffrey stumbled over words, obviously exhausted from the stress of recent events, Merlin stepped forward unbidden to steady him. The old scholar flinched but then nodded gratefully.

Arthur felt something ease in his chest. Surely that wasn't the action of raw magic alone. Perhaps something of Merlin remained after all, buried beneath the emptiness.

When the council finally dispersed, Arthur found himself alone with Geoffrey, who lingered by the great map like a man reluctant to leave.

"Your Highness," the old man began carefully, his voice soft with age and wisdom. "About your servant..."

"Don't start," Arthur warned, exhaustion making him sharp.

"I wasn't going to counsel execution." Geoffrey's eyes were kind but knowing. "I've served three kings, watched this kingdom grow and change. Perhaps it's time for the laws to change as well."

Arthur turned to face him fully. "You believe that?"

"I believe in you, Sire. And if you say this boy - Emrys, whatever he is - serves Camelot's interests, then I trust your judgment." He paused, his expression growing distant with memory. "Your father would rage, but your father also loved Morgana until his hatred of magic poisoned that love. Don't let the same happen to you."

The words hit closer than Geoffrey probably intended, carrying implications Arthur wasn't ready to examine. He managed a nod, throat tight with unspoken gratitude, and the old scholar took his leave.

"You protected Geoffrey," Arthur said to Merlin once they were alone, studying his friend's impassive face.

"Preventing harm to Camelot's advisors serves your interests," Merlin replied, the words mechanical but the action... the action had been instinctive. Human.

"Is that all?" Arthur pressed, hope fluttering in his chest like a caged bird.

Merlin tilted his head slightly, the gesture so familiar it hurt. "I don't understand the question."

Arthur sighed, the sound carrying the weight of all his fears. Every glimpse of the real Merlin made his absence hurt more, like pressing on a bruise to confirm it was still there.

They were interrupted by Lancelot appearing in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. "Sire, one of the captured sorcerers is awake and asking to speak with you. He says he has information he's willing to share."

Hope flared in Arthur's chest, bright and desperate. "Take me to him."

The dungeons were warmer than in Uther's day - Arthur had insisted on basic comforts for prisoners awaiting trial, over his father's objections. The sorcerer, barely older than Arthur himself, sat on a simple cot, hands bound with iron that would prevent spell-casting. He looked up as they entered, his face drawn with exhaustion and something that might have been shame.

"Your Highness," he said, attempting an awkward bow from his seated position. "Thank you for seeing me."

"You have information?" Arthur kept his voice neutral, though his pulse was racing with possibility.

"Perhaps. My name is Garrett. I... I didn't want to attack Camelot. But Marcus - our leader - he said Emrys was enslaved, that we had to free him." His voice carried the weight of regret. "We thought we were doing the right thing."

"By trying to take him by force?" Arthur's tone was sharp with disbelief.

Garrett flushed, color rising in his pale cheeks. "It seemed like the only way at the time. But then we saw him fight, saw what he'd become..." He shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself. "That's not Emrys. The prophecies speak of wisdom and compassion, not... that."

"His soul was stolen," Arthur said bluntly, watching for the young man's reaction. "Trapped in a stone by another sorcerer. We're trying to free him."

"The Stone of Souls?" Garrett's eyes widened with genuine horror. "But those are legend - evil things, created by those who feared love's power."

Arthur leaned forward intently. "Not legend. Very real." He let his desperation show, calculating that honesty might serve him better than royal composure. "What do you know of them?"

"Stories, mostly. Horror stories." Garrett glanced between Arthur and Merlin with growing confusion. "They steal souls and leave bodies to die, but…"

“Apparently,” Arthur said, “when Merlin’s soul was stolen, his magic remained. It’s keeping him alive.”

Garrett’s eyes widened in understanding. "Ah. I see. Well… that explains much.” His brow furrowed as he looked at Merlin. “Then… perhaps there is still hope. There's a druid camp two days north. Their elder, Iseldir, is said to have knowledge of the old magics. If anyone would know how to break the enchantment on such a stone and release Emrys’ soul, it would be him."

Arthur's heart leaped. "And he'd help us? The Crown has hardly been friend to the druids."

"For Emrys? Yes." Garrett's voice carried absolute conviction. "He is... important to them. To all who practice magic. He's the bridge between the old ways and the new world that's coming."

Arthur glanced at Merlin, standing silent as a shadow.

"May I?" Garrett asked softly.

Arthur tensed but nodded, curious despite his protective instincts.

"Emrys," Garrett said gently, as one might address a wild animal. "Do you know me?"

"You are Garrett. You are a sorcerer. You were a threat, but no longer." The words were delivered without inflection, clinical in their precision.

Garrett's face crumpled as if struck. “Oh, Emrys,” he whispered. He looked back to Arthur with tears in his eyes. "I'm so sorry. We should have known something was wrong when the message came."

Arthur's felt dread spark under his skin. "What message?"

"A raven, last evening. It said Emrys was in Camelot, enslaved by the prince, and that true sorcerers should come free him." Garrett met Arthur's eyes with growing realization. "Someone wanted us to attack. To test you. To test him."

Arthur sat back, mind racing through implications. Someone was orchestrating events, moving pieces on a board he couldn't see. First the attack with the stone, then the coordinated assault... but why? What did they gain from revealing Merlin's power? From stripping away his soul?

"I'll consider clemency if your information proves true," Arthur said finally, though his thoughts were elsewhere. "For now, you'll remain here - treated well, but confined."

"That's more than fair, Sire. And..." Garrett's voice dropped. "I'm truly am sorry. For attacking your home. For what happened to him."

Arthur left the dungeons with more questions than answers, but at least they had a direction - the druid camp, and this Iseldir who might hold the key to saving Merlin. It wasn't much, but it was more hope than he'd had an hour ago.

He was heading back to his chambers when Gwen intercepted him in the corridor, her expression set with familiar determination.

"Arthur, we need to talk."

"Not now, Gwen." He was too raw, too close to breaking. He couldn't handle her gentle understanding right now.

"Yes, now." She planted herself in his path, chin raised defiantly in a way that reminded him why he'd always admired her courage. "You haven't eaten since yesterday. You haven't slept. You're running on stubbornness and will, and that won't last forever."

"Gwen - "

"Would Merlin want this?" she pressed, her voice soft but relentless. "Would he want you destroying yourself trying to save him?"

The question hit like a physical blow. Arthur's careful control cracked, and the words came out harsher than intended, echoing off stone walls: "He's not here to want anything!"

Gwen didn't flinch. Instead, she stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm. "No, he's not. But you are. And you're no good to him or Camelot if you collapse." Her expression softened with understanding. "Please, Arthur. One hour. Eat something, close your eyes. Let others help carry this burden."

He wanted to refuse, to push past her and continue his desperate planning. But Merlin chose that moment to speak, his voice cutting through Arthur's internal struggle.

"Lady Guinevere speaks wisdom. Your physical condition is degrading. You require rest and food."

Arthur stared at him, caught between laughter and tears. "Did you just... take her side?"

"I stated facts relevant to your wellbeing." The response was mechanical, but the intervention... that felt like something Merlin would do.

Arthur found himself laughing, short and bitter but genuine. "Fine. One hour." He looked at Gwen, seeing the relief in her eyes. "But tell me honestly - did you know? About his magic?"

Her face softened with memory and regret. "I suspected," she admitted. "Little things over the years. The way disasters always seemed to resolve when he was around. How he'd sometimes know things he couldn't possibly know." She smiled sadly. "And the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching. Like you hung the moon and stars. Only someone hiding such a great secret could hide that much love."

Arthur's chest tightened, heat rising in his face. The implications in her words, the gentle understanding in her eyes... "Gwen - "

"One hour," she repeated firmly, steering him toward his chambers. "Rest. Then you can resume your heroic brooding."

She bullied him into eating half a plate of food that tasted like ash in his mouth, and stood guard while he lay down. Arthur was certain he wouldn't sleep, couldn't with Merlin standing there like a statue, golden eyes fixed on some invisible threat.

He was wrong. Exhaustion pulled him under within minutes, dragging him into dreams filled with gold light and empty eyes.

He dreamed of Merlin's laughter echoing in hollow spaces, of reaching for his friend only to grasp smoke. In the dream, Merlin dissolved between his fingers, speaking in a voice like wind through ruins: "You never really saw me anyway."

Arthur woke with a gasp to find Merlin kneeling beside the bed, one hand extended toward him but not quite touching, as if he'd been about to wake him but stopped himself.

"You were in distress," Merlin explained, his voice carrying that blank precision. "Intervention seemed warranted."

"I'm fine." Arthur sat up, scrubbing at his face, trying to banish the lingering images from his dreams. Through the window, he could see the sun had moved significantly. "How long?"

"Nearly seven candle marks."

More than he'd intended, but his mind felt clearer, his body less like it was being held together by will alone. "Any developments?"

"Sir Leon reports three more sorcerers approaching from the east. Non-hostile. They bear a peace banner and request audience."

Arthur groaned, running hands through his hair. Word was spreading even faster than expected, drawing every magic user in the five kingdoms to Camelot's gates. "I’ll have Leon bring them to the throne room. Full guard, but we’ll treat them with courtesy unless they prove otherwise."

He rose, straightening his rumpled clothes. In the mirror, he looked haggard but functional. It would have to do.

"Merlin, can you sense their intentions? Like with Cynric?" The ability was useful, even if the source of it made Arthur's stomach churn.

"Their surface thoughts indicate genuine desire for parley. I cannot sense their deeper motivations without more invasive power."

Arthur turned sharply, something fierce and protective flaring in his chest. "No." His voice was harder than he'd intended. "No invading minds. We're not - you're not a weapon."

"I am what you need me to be," Merlin replied, and the matter-of-fact acceptance in those words hurt more than defiance would have.

"Except obedient," Arthur argued, desperate to provoke some spark of the old Merlin. "You've never been obedient in your life."

"You do not need me to be obedient," Merlin said, and though it was delivered without emotion, it was such a perfectly Merlin thing to say that Arthur's breath caught.

He moved closer, studying that familiar-strange face for any hint of the man he knew. "What I need," he said softly, "is my friend back. The one who argues with me and calls me names and saves my life while pretending he's just lucky. Can you be that?"

For a moment - just a moment - something flickered in those empty golden eyes. A shadow of recognition, a ghost of warmth. Then it was gone, leaving only hollow light.

"I cannot be what I am not," Merlin said simply.

Arthur turned away before his expression could betray the sharp spike of pain those words caused. "Then be what you are. But remember - I'm not my father. I won't use magic as a tool of fear."

A short while later, they entered the throne room, where three sorcerers waited under heavy guard. Unlike yesterday's attackers, these wore simple robes and carried no weapons Arthur could see. The eldest, a woman with silver-streaked hair and intelligent eyes, stepped forward as he entered.

"Prince Arthur. I am Ceryndra. We come seeking truth."

"Regarding?" Arthur kept his voice neutral, though he was studying her carefully. There was power here, but it felt different from the raw aggression of yesterday's attackers.

"Emrys." Her eyes moved to Merlin, and her expression grew troubled. "Word spreads among those with magic. Some say he's enslaved. Others that he's been broken. We needed to see for ourselves."

"And what do you see?" Arthur challenged, though he dreaded the answer.

The woman studied Merlin for a long moment, her expression growing increasingly distressed. "I see emptiness where light should be. Power without soul, moving flesh without spirit." She shuddered. "This is not natural, not even for one such as him."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "A sorcerer stole his soul," he explained tersely, each word feeling like pulling teeth. "Trapped it in an artifact. His magic is keeping his body alive, but we don't know for how long."

"The Stone of Souls?" At Arthur's sharp nod, she paled visibly. "Those are abominations. In all the stories, the victim's body dies within days. But he..." She looked at Merlin with new understanding. "Ah. Magic incarnate. We are fortunate that his nature keeps him alive even without a soul." She paused, looking at Arthur carefully. "You seek to restore him? The Crown seeks to save a sorcerer whose very existence defies the natural order?"

The question carried weights Arthur wasn't sure he was ready to bear. "I seek to save my friend," he corrected, pouring all his conviction into the words. "The rest is politics."

"I see." Something in her expression shifted, surprise giving way to something that might have been respect. "We misjudged you, Prince Arthur. The magical community has long seen Camelot as our enemy."

"My father's Camelot, perhaps. But things are changing." The words felt like a vow, a commitment to a future he wasn't sure he could deliver.

"Understood, Your Highness. We seek only to see Emrys whole again." She hesitated, glancing at her companions. "May I... speak with him?"

Arthur tensed, protective instincts flaring, but he nodded. The woman approached Merlin slowly, as one might a wild animal.

"Emrys," she said softly, her voice carrying reverence. "I am Ceryndra, a priestess of the Old Religion. Do you know me?"

"I know what you have told me. I know that you have significant power. I have not yet decided if you are a threat." The response was clinical, emotionless.

She winced as if struck. "I am no threat to you or yours. I've come to help."

No response. Merlin's gaze remained fixed on some middle distance, as if she weren't worth acknowledging.

"The prophecies speak of you," she continued, her voice growing stronger. "The greatest warlock to walk the earth, who would restore magic to its rightful place. But this... this isn't what was foretold."

"Prophecies are open to interpretation," Merlin said suddenly, his head tilting slightly. "Multiple paths exist. My current path serves my primary purpose."

"Which is?"

"Protection of Arthur Pendragon. Ensuring his destiny."

Arthur's chest tightened at the stark reduction of everything Merlin was to a single function.

"And your own destiny?" Ceryndra pressed.

"Irrelevant."

The word fell between them like a stone dropped in still water. Ceryndra stepped back, visibly shaken.

"His very identity has been stripped away, leaving only purpose," she said, her voice trembling. She met Arthur's eyes with something like pity. "He was never meant to exist this way. And while nothing like this has ever happened, I fear there might be… complications, the longer his magic exists without his soul."

The warning sent ice through Arthur's veins. Time - always time, slipping away like sand through his fingers. "We ride for the druid camp at dawn," he decided. "Leon, prepare a small party - speed matters more than strength."

"Sire," Leon acknowledged, already moving to comply.

As the sorcerers were led away to guest quarters, Gwen approached.

"You're trusting them?" she asked quietly.

Arthur watched them go, noting the careful way they avoided looking at Merlin, the reverence mixed with horror in their faces. "I'm trusting that they want Merlin restored as much as I do." He turned to her. "Keep an eye on them. Any sign of deception..."

"I'll handle it," she promised, her hand finding his arm in brief comfort.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of preparation. Supplies gathered, horses readied, plans laid with military precision that couldn't quite mask the desperation driving them. Through it all, Merlin shadowed Arthur with mechanical precision, present but not present, a constant reminder of what they stood to lose.

As night fell over Camelot, Arthur found himself in the strategy room, spread before him maps of the northern territories and the routes they might take to reach the druid camp. Candles flickered in their holders, casting dancing shadows across the parchment as he traced possible paths with his finger.

Merlin stood by the window, motionless as a sentinel, golden eyes reflecting the candlelight.

"Two days Garrett said," Arthur murmured, speaking as much to himself as to the empty air. "But which route? The main road would be faster, but more exposed. The forest paths might hide us better, but..." He looked up at Merlin's still form. "What do you think? You always had good instincts about these things."

No response. Arthur's hand tightened on the map's edge.

"I miss you," he said quietly, his voice carrying in the stone-walled room. "I miss your terrible jokes and your worse lies about taverns. I miss the way you'd roll your eyes when I was being a… a clotpole."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with all the words Arthur had never said.

"I know I wasn't... I wasn't the friend you deserved. All those years, and I never really looked. Never asked the right questions. Just assumed you were..." He laughed bitterly, the sound echoing off the walls. "Assumed you were simple. Uncomplicated. Mine."

The last word slipped out before he could stop it. Heat rushed to his face as the implications crashed over him.

"Not mine like property," he clarified quickly to the unhearing air, though his voice caught on the words. "Mine like... like how the sun is mine when it warms my face. Like how breathing is mine. Natural. Essential. Always there."

He pulled the locket from beneath his shirt, studying the seamless surface that concealed the light within—warm gold that pulsed like a heartbeat, like life trapped and waiting, visible only when he opened it with his touch. "Were you happy? Living that lie? Or was every day agony, hiding who you really were?"

"You're asking the wrong questions."

Arthur looked up sharply to find Ceryndra standing in the doorway, her expression thoughtful rather than intrusive. She stepped into the room with careful respect, hands visible and empty.

"Forgive me," she said softly. "I was looking for the library—I hoped to research what we might face tomorrow. I heard voices and thought..." She gestured toward Merlin. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but when I realized what you were discussing..." Her gaze moved between him and Merlin with uncomfortable knowing. "You wonder if he was happy. But happiness isn't why he stayed."

Arthur's throat went dry. "Then why?"

"Love." The word hung between them like a blade, sharp with truth he wasn't ready to face. "He loved you more than his own truth. Loved Camelot more than his freedom. That's what the stone recognized—not duty or destiny, but love so profound it eclipsed everything else."

Arthur's hands shook as he set the stone back on the table. "You can't know that."

"Can't I?" She gestured to Merlin, who remained motionless despite the conversation happening around him. "Even now, soulless, he protects you. Not from command but from instinct. The stone took his soul but couldn't take what drives him at the deepest level." She paused, her eyes too knowing. "The question is: what drives you?"

"I want my friend back." The words came out rougher than intended.

"Friend." She tested the word like wine, finding it lacking. "Is that all he is to you?""

Arthur stood abruptly, anger flaring without quite knowing why. The question felt like an accusation, like she was trying to force him into admissions he couldn't make. "What else would he be?"

"You tell me." Her eyes were relentless, cutting through every defense he'd built. "You speak of him like sunlight and breathing. You're destroying yourself trying to save him. You trusted sorcerers - your father's greatest enemies - for the chance to restore him. What is he to you, truly?"

"I don't... that's not..." Arthur faltered, the words tangling in his throat. How could he explain what he didn't understand himself? The way his chest went tight when Merlin smiled? The way he found excuses to touch him, steady him, any reason to bridge the distance between them? The way he'd rather face a dozen armed enemies than face the thought of a world without Merlin in it?

"The stone responds to truth," Ceryndra said gently, her voice carrying the weight of ancient knowledge. "When the time comes to call him back, half-truths won't be enough. You'll need to know your own heart as clearly as his knew you."

She moved to leave, pausing at the door. "We ride at dawn?"

"Yes." Arthur's voice came out hoarse, stripped raw by truths he wasn't ready to face.

"Good. The druids know me - it will ease our welcome." She glanced back, her expression softening with something that might have been pity. "Think on what I've said, Prince Arthur. The stone chose him because of what you are to him. His soul will choose whether to return based on what he is to you."

She left Arthur alone with his thoughts and the empty echo of Merlin's presence. The silence that followed felt heavier than before, weighted with implications he couldn't escape.

The night stretched endlessly ahead. Arthur tried to sleep but couldn't, his mind churning with Ceryndra's words. He tried to plan their journey but his thoughts scattered like leaves in wind. Always, he came back to that impossible question.

What is he to you?

Servant. Friend. Protector. Irritant. Comfort. Challenge. The one person who saw past the crown to the man beneath, who stayed despite everything Arthur had put him through. The one who...

Arthur cut off that thought before it could fully form, but it lingered like smoke in still air.

Near dawn, unable to bear the silence any longer, he spoke to Merlin again. His voice was quiet, meant for the pre-dawn darkness and the ears that couldn't truly hear him.

"When we get you back - and we will get you back - things will be different. I'll make father change the laws. You won't have to hide anymore. You can be yourself, openly." The promises felt hollow even as he made them, words without weight in the face of such vast loss.

"Change is not required," Merlin said suddenly, startling Arthur from his brooding. "This is acceptable. I do not need anything."

"No," Arthur said fiercely, turning to face that empty, beautiful face. "You do. You deserve better than shadows and secrets. You deserve - " Everything. The word caught in his throat, too loaded with meaning he couldn't examine.

A knock interrupted the moment, sharp and efficient. Leon entered, armor gleaming in the pre-dawn light, every inch the perfect knight.

"The party is ready, Sire. Ceryndra and her companions wait in the courtyard."

Arthur felt relief at the interruption war with frustration at words left unspoken. The locket pulsed against his chest as he straightened, feeling the weight of what he carried—literally and figuratively. "Good." He adjusted the chain beneath his shirt, ensuring it remained hidden. "Who rides with us?"

"Myself, Lancelot, and Gwaine. Small enough for speed, skilled enough for trouble." Leon's expression suggested he thought they'd find both.

"And Gwen?"

"Insists on coming. Says someone needs to keep you human." Leon's tone carried the weight of agreement with that assessment.

They assembled in the courtyard as the first light touched the sky, painting the stones pale gold. Six horses stamped and snorted in the morning air, ready for the journey ahead. Seven riders - Merlin would share Arthur's mount, the better to keep him close and monitor his condition.

"Cozy," Gwaine commented with forced cheer as Arthur swung up behind Merlin. "Like old times, except eerier."

Arthur ignored the jest, too focused on the way his chest pressed against Merlin's back, how his arms circled his friend's waist by necessity. Merlin sat perfectly balanced, requiring no support, but Arthur held on anyway. The contact felt both natural and wrong - familiar motions stripped of their meaning.

"Focus on the road," Arthur ordered, though the words were meant as much for himself as his knights.

They rode out as Camelot woke around them, passing through streets where early-rising merchants set up their stalls. Word had spread through the city like wildfire - people lined their route, watching in silence that felt heavy with judgment. Some made signs against evil, old superstitions dying hard. Others looked hopeful, as if magic might bring solutions to their daily struggles. A few even bowed, not to Arthur but to Merlin, recognizing power when they saw it.

"They know," Gwen said quietly, her horse keeping pace beside Arthur's. "About his magic, about what he's done for them."

Arthur watched an old woman bow deeply as they passed, her eyes fixed on Merlin with something like reverence. "And?"

"They're scared. But also grateful. Give them time."

Time. Always time, the resource Arthur felt slipping away with each mile they traveled. How long did they have before the separation became permanent? Before Merlin's soul, freed from its stone prison, chose the peace of Avalon over the pain of returning to flesh? What if they succeeded in breaking the stone only to watch Merlin's essence drift away like morning mist, finally free but choosing eternal rest over the burdens of life?

The druid camp lay two days north, through forests that grew wilder with each passing hour. Ceryndra led them on paths Arthur hadn't known existed, ways that seemed to fold distance and make mockery of maps. The trees grew older here, their branches thick with shadow and secrets.

"Magic?" he asked during a brief rest, watching the way shadows moved independently of their sources.

"Old roads," she corrected, her voice carrying respect for ancient powers. "Made long before Uther's war. They remember those who walk with purpose."

The first day passed in relative quiet, their horses eating up the miles on paths that seemed designed for swiftness. Arthur found himself hyperaware of Merlin's presence - the warmth of his back against Arthur's chest, the way he moved with the horse's gait without conscious thought. It was painfully familiar and utterly wrong, like embracing a beautiful statue carved from memory.

They made camp the first night in a clearing that felt older than kingdoms, where standing stones hummed with barely audible power. Gwaine gathered wood while Leon scouted the perimeter with military precision. Lancelot tended the horses with gentle efficiency. Normal tasks made strange by Merlin's stillness at the fire's edge, watching flames that cast no warmth in his empty eyes.

Dinner was a quiet affair, even Gwaine's usual chatter subdued by the weight of what they carried. Ceryndra and her companions ate apart, discussing something in low voices that carried the rhythm of ritual.

"I hate this," Gwaine said suddenly, his voice raw with frustration. "He should be making terrible stew and worse jokes. Not sitting there like a bloody statue."

"We all hate it," Lancelot said gently, though his eyes never left Merlin's motionless form.

"Do we?" Gwaine's gaze found Arthur with uncomfortable directness. "Because from where I sit, seems like some of us are only just realizing what we had."

"Gwaine," Leon warned, but there was no real heat in it.

"No, he's right." Arthur stared into the fire, letting the flames blur his vision. "I took him for granted. We all did. The cheerful servant who was always there, always ready. I never questioned it. Never wondered why someone with his power would choose that life."

"He had his reasons," Lancelot said carefully, his voice carrying weights Arthur was beginning to understand.

Arthur looked at him sharply, pieces clicking into place. "You knew."

Not a question. Lancelot nodded slowly, meeting Arthur's gaze without flinching. "He saved my life. With magic. Made me promise to keep his secret."

Arthur felt something twist in his chest - not quite betrayal, but a sharp recognition of how isolated he'd been in his ignorance. "How long?"

"Years."

"And you never thought to tell me?"

"It wasn't my secret to tell." Lancelot's voice was steady, but his eyes carried understanding of the pain his words caused. "Would you have thanked me for the knowledge? Or would duty have forced you to act?"

Arthur couldn't answer, because even now, knowing the truth, he wasn't sure what he would have done. The laws were clear, his father's expectations absolute. He might have tried to protect Merlin, but would he have succeeded? Or would duty and fear have won in the end?

"He was protecting you," Gwen added softly, her voice carrying the gentleness she used for wounded things. "From having to choose between your father's laws and your friend."

"Some protection," Arthur said bitterly. "Look where it led."

"To him saving Camelot again," Leon pointed out with quiet conviction. "As he always has."

They lapsed into silence, the weight of unspoken truths settling over them like dew. Above, stars wheeled in patterns older than prophecy, indifferent to human pain. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl called, lonely and wild.

"Tell me about him," Arthur said suddenly, surprising himself with the request. "The things I missed. The things he hid."

They exchanged glances, a silent communication that spoke of shared secrets and careful loyalties. Then Gwaine spoke, his voice unusually soft.

"He used to practice in the forest. I followed him once, curious about where he disappeared to." His eyes grew distant with memory. "Watched him make flowers bloom in winter, just because he could. He looked... free. Happy in a way I'd never seen in the castle."

"He'd heal people," Gwen added, her voice warm with affection. "Quietly, secretly. A child's fever here, a mother's difficult birth there. Never taking credit, never seeking thanks."

"He'd stay up all night researching spells to protect you," Lancelot contributed, his tone carrying deep respect. "I'd find him holed up in his room, surrounded by books older than Camelot, looking for ways to keep you safe from the next threat."

Story after story painted a picture of the man Arthur had been too blind to see. Each revelation was a small knife, cutting away his assumptions and leaving raw truth in their wake. By the time they finished, the fire had burned low and Arthur's chest ached with loss that felt oceanic in its depth.

"I'm a fool," he said quietly, the words barely audible over the crackling flames.

"Yes," Ceryndra agreed, appearing from the shadows like smoke given form. "But perhaps not irredeemably so." She studied him with those too-knowing eyes. "You see him now. That's what matters."

Arthur looked up at her, exhaustion making him honest. "I see an empty shell," he corrected harshly.

"Do you?" She gestured to Merlin, who had shifted minutely to angle himself between Arthur and the dark forest beyond the firelight. "Even now, he guards you. The soul may be gone, but the heart remains."

"Hearts need souls," Arthur said, though the words felt hollow.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps souls need hearts to call them home." Her smile was enigmatic, carrying mysteries Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to understand. "Rest, Prince Arthur. Tomorrow we reach the druids, and answers."

Sleep came eventually, fitful and dream-haunted. Arthur woke several times to find Merlin exactly as he'd left him, a sentinel against the night, golden eyes reflecting starlight like a cat's.

The second day's ride was harder, the paths narrower and less defined. Magic pressed close on all sides, making the horses nervous and the air thick with power. Only Ceryndra's presence kept them moving forward, her authority over the ancient ways absolute.

Then, between one heartbeat and the next, they were there.

The druid camp materialized like morning mist given form, hidden by arts Arthur couldn't begin to understand. Tents of green and brown blended seamlessly with the forest, cook fires sending aromatic smoke skyward in patterns that spoke of careful tending. People moved with quiet purpose, their faces carrying the timeless wisdom of those who lived close to the earth.

They stopped at the sight of riders, wariness replaced by wonder as they recognized Ceryndra. And then they saw Merlin.

"Emrys," someone whispered, the name rippling through the camp like wind through grain. Druids emerged from tents, gathered in clusters, all staring with expressions of reverence and growing horror.

An elderly man approached, leaning on a carved staff. His eyes were kind but penetrating, seeing more than surface truth, reading the story written in Arthur's desperate posture and Merlin's terrible stillness.

"Prince Arthur," he said, his voice carrying despite its softness. "I am Iseldir. We have been expecting you."

Arthur felt a spark of hope. "You have?"

"The earth itself cries out at what has been done to Emrys." Iseldir's gaze moved to Merlin, and Arthur saw pain flicker across the elder's weathered features. "Such emptiness where once was light. Tell me how this came to be."

Arthur explained tersely - the attack, the stone, the stolen soul. With each word, Iseldir's expression grew graver, the weight of ancient knowledge bearing down on his shoulders.

"The Stone of Souls," he murmured when Arthur finished, his voice heavy with recognition and sorrow. "I had hoped never to encounter such darkness." He straightened, steel entering his voice. "Come. Bring him. There is much to discuss and little time to waste."

They followed him to a tent larger than the others, its interior surprisingly spacious. Cushions and low tables, herbs hanging from supports, crystals catching lamplight in patterns that spoke of careful arrangement. It felt like entering another world, one where magic was as natural as breathing.

"Sit," Iseldir instructed, his voice carrying gentle authority. "All of you. This concerns more than just prince and warlock."

When they'd arranged themselves - Merlin standing behind Arthur despite repeated attempts to make him sit - Iseldir spoke, his words carrying the weight of prophecy.

"The Stone of Souls is old magic, born of fear and twisted love. It takes what the victim values most, using their own heart against them." His eyes found Arthur, seeing too much. "That it took Emrys speaks volumes about his place in your world."

Heat crept up Arthur's neck, the implications of those words hitting like physical blows. "He's very loyal."

"Is that what you call it?" Iseldir's smile was knowing, carrying depths Arthur wasn't ready to explore. "Young prince, duty alone does not rank above self in the heart's measure. The stone saw truth you both have hidden from."

Arthur's mouth went dry. The careful walls he'd built around certain thoughts began to crack under the weight of gentle observation.

"Can you help him?" he asked desperately, needing to change the subject before those walls crumbled entirely.

"Perhaps. The stone can be broken, but not by force. It requires a catalyst - something to bridge the gap between soul and flesh." Iseldir moved to a chest, withdrawing items with reverent care. "There is an artifact that might serve. A crystal from Tŷ'r Profedigaeth - the Cave of Trials - that lies within the true Valley of the Fallen Kings."

"Of course it does," Gwaine muttered under his breath. "Can't ever be simple, can it?"

"Great magic demands great effort," Iseldir said mildly, though his eyes held understanding. "The journey will test you - all of you. The cave does not surrender its treasures easily."

"What kind of tests?" Leon asked, his tactical mind already working through possibilities.

"The kind that strip away pretense and reveal truth. You will face yourselves as much as any external threat." His gaze found Arthur again, piercing and relentless. "You most of all, young king. Tŷ'r Profedigaeth responds to pure intent. Half-measures and hidden hearts will see you fail."

Arthur squared his shoulders, meeting that knowing gaze with determination he didn't entirely feel. "I'll do whatever necessary."

"Will you?" Iseldir moved closer, studying him with uncomfortable intensity. "The stone took Emrys because your heart values him above all else. But do you value him enough to speak that truth aloud? To acknowledge what you've both been dancing around for years?"

Arthur's throat constricted. The careful edifice of denial he'd built began to crumble under the weight of direct challenge. "I don't know what you mean."

Iseldir reached out, his hand hovering just over Arthur's chest where the locket lay hidden, and Arthur felt warmth pulse against his skin. "This abomination works by perverting love. It recognized the shape of Emrys's heart—turned toward you like a flower to sun. The question becomes: when time comes to call him back, what will your heart offer in return?"

The words hung in the air like an ultimatum. Around him, his friends sat silent, carefully not looking at him, but Arthur could feel their attention like weight against his skin.

"Love," Iseldir continued, his voice gentle but implacable, "is not weakness, young king. It is the greatest magic of all. But it requires courage to acknowledge, especially when it defies expectation."

Arthur's hands clenched in his lap. "He's my friend," he managed, the words feeling inadequate even as he spoke them.

"Yes," Iseldir agreed with infinite patience. He stepped back, giving Arthur space to breathe. "Know this - the journey to the cave will take three days. You'll face trials that test body, mind, and spirit. Some who enter never emerge."

"We'll manage," Arthur said with more confidence than he felt, though his voice carried the authority of command.

"I hope so." Iseldir gestured to his people, who began moving with quiet efficiency. "We'll supply what we can - food, water, guidance to the valley's edge. Beyond that, you walk alone."

"Not alone," Gwen corrected firmly, her voice carrying absolute conviction. "Together."

Iseldir smiled, the expression transforming his weathered features. "As it should be. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, you begin a journey that will change everything."

They were given tents, simple but comfortable, and Arthur found himself sharing with Merlin as if by unspoken agreement. No one questioned it, though Gwaine's knowing look spoke volumes.

As night fell over the druid camp, Arthur sat on his bedroll, watching Merlin stand motionless by the tent flap. The locket pulsed against his chest, constant reminder of failure and hope intertwined, warm metal carrying the weight of a soul displaced.

"What am I going to do?" he asked the empty air, his voice barely above a whisper, his fingers finding the hidden chain. "How do I... how do I tell you something I can't even tell myself?"

No answer came from the hollow shell wearing Merlin's face. But outside, drums began a slow rhythm, and voices rose in ancient songs. The druids sang for Emrys, for his return, for love to conquer fear.

Arthur lay back, one hand over the locket, and tried not to think about Iseldir's words. About truth and courage and hearts turned like flowers to sun.

Three days to the cave. Three days to find courage he wasn't sure existed.

Three days to admit what Merlin apparently had known all along.

The locket pulsed beneath his fingers, patient as heartbeat, waiting for truth to set them free.

Chapter Text

Dawn came gently to the druid camp, filtered through leaves into dappled gold that painted the canvas walls in shifting patterns. Arthur woke to find Merlin exactly as he'd left him - standing guard, empty eyes fixed on the tent entrance with unwavering precision. The sight hit him like a physical blow, this mockery of devotion without the warmth that made it real. Each morning brought the same cruel reminder: Merlin's body lived, but the man Arthur --

Arthur cut off that thought before it could form completely. Hope was a luxury he couldn't afford to lose, not when they were so close to answers.

"Did you stand there all night?" Arthur asked, though the tightness in his chest already knew the answer. The question was becoming ritual, a desperate attempt to provoke some spark of the old Merlin who would have rolled his eyes and made some sarcastic comment about Arthur's sleeping habits.

"Yes. No threats arose."

The clinical response made Arthur's hands clench involuntarily. No threats arose. As if Arthur were just another assignment, another duty to discharge with emotionless efficiency. He rose stiffly, muscles protesting their night on the hard ground, but the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the ache that had taken up permanent residence in his chest.

Outside, the camp was already alive with quiet activity. Druids moved with practiced efficiency, preparing for the day ahead with the sort of purposeful grace that spoke of lives lived close to the earth's rhythms. Several paused to bow as Arthur passed, and it took him a moment to realize they weren't acknowledging him - their reverence was directed at Merlin. Or at what Merlin represented to them, this empty vessel carrying the legend of Emrys.

Arthur's jaw tightened. They saw power, prophecy, destiny. He saw his friend disappearing by degrees, fading like morning mist with each passing hour.

He found his companions gathered around a morning fire, their faces bearing the particular strain of people trying to maintain normalcy in abnormal circumstances. Gwaine's usual irreverent commentary was notably absent, his attention fixed on sharpening a blade that didn't need it. Leon studied a rough map with the intensity of a man seeking distraction in familiar tasks, while Lancelot sat beside Gwen, ready to offer comfort at a moment's notice.

"Sleep well?" Gwen asked as Arthur approached, offering him bread and cheese with the sort of gentle insistence he'd learned not to argue with. Her eyes, however, studied his face with the penetrating attention of someone cataloguing exhaustion and finding too much for her liking.

"Well enough." The lie came easily - too easily. Arthur accepted the food gratefully, though his stomach churned with the familiar anxiety that had become his constant companion. How many mornings did they have left? The priestess spoke of “complications” that might arise the longer Merlin’s body, animated by his magic, was separated from his soul.

"What's our path?" Arthur asked, needing the comfort of concrete plans, actionable steps toward salvation.

Iseldir traced a route on the map with one weathered finger, his movements deliberate and sure. "North through the forest to the valley's edge. The land grows wild there, touched by old magic that remembers when the world was young. You'll know you're close when the trees begin to whisper."

"Whisper?" Gwaine asked, his skepticism a welcome return to normalcy. Arthur felt something in his chest ease slightly at the familiar note of irreverence in his friend's voice.

"The boundary between worlds grows thin near the cave. Past and present blur together. The trees remember what was and speak of what might be." Iseldir's expression carried the weight of ancient warnings. "Don't listen too closely. Madness lies down that path."

"Wonderful," Gwaine muttered, but Arthur caught the way his hand unconsciously checked his sword's placement. "Whispering trees and madness. Just another Tuesday in our lives."

Despite the levity, Arthur could see the tension gathering in his friend's shoulders like storm clouds. They all understood the stakes now, the terrible arithmetic of love and loss that had brought them to this desperate gamble. The knowledge sat heavy between them, unspoken but understood: if they failed here, there would be no other chances.

"We've prepared supplies," Iseldir continued, his voice carrying the gentle authority of age and wisdom. "Food for five days, water skins, healing draughts. The crystal you seek lies deep within the cave, past trials I cannot predict. Each journey is unique, shaped by the hearts and souls of those who undertake it."

Arthur's hand moved unconsciously to his chest, where the locket rested warm against his skin. Inside, Merlin's soul pulsed with steady light, trapped but alive, waiting. The thought of it - Merlin's essence contained in that small space, perhaps aware, perhaps afraid - made Arthur's breath catch.

"Any advice?" Leon asked, his tactical mind already working through possibilities and contingencies, searching for advantages in the unknown.

"Trust each other. The cave will try to divide you, turn you against yourselves and each other. Remember why you are there." Iseldir's eyes found Arthur with uncomfortable discernment, seeing past careful composure to the raw desperation beneath. "And when the moment comes, don't let fear silence truth."

The words landed like prophecy, heavy with implications Arthur wasn't ready to examine. Fear had been his companion for so long - fear of his father's wrath, fear of magic's corruption, fear of acknowledging what he felt when Merlin smiled at him with that particular warmth reserved only for Arthur. How much had that fear cost them both?

They departed within the hour, the druids gathering to see them off with the solemnity of those witnessing a sacred undertaking. An old woman pressed a charm into Gwen's hand - protection, she said, though against what she didn't specify.

A young boy approached Merlin hesitantly, offering a flower with the sort of innocent generosity that belonged to childhood. When Merlin didn't respond - couldn't respond - the child's face fell. Arthur felt his heart clench as the boy carefully placed the flower in Merlin's belt before scampering away, leaving behind a small gesture of beauty that Merlin couldn't even acknowledge.

"Even they see it," Ceryndra said quietly to Arthur, her voice carrying layers of meaning. "What he was. What he could be again."

Arthur's throat tightened. What he was. As if Merlin were already lost, already past tense rather than present hope. "Then let's not waste time," he replied, his voice rougher than intended as he mounted his horse. The familiar movements felt hollow, mechanical - too much like the emotionless precision that had replaced Merlin's natural grace.

This time, Merlin rode his own mount - Iseldir had insisted, saying the bond between rider and horse might stir something in him, might kindle some spark of the connection that had always existed between Merlin and all living things. So far, Merlin sat the saddle like a statue carved from beautiful marble, perfect in every detail but utterly lifeless. His horse seemed calm beneath him, but Arthur wondered if that was instinct or magic, some unconscious spell that gentled the animal's spirit.

The first day's travel was almost pleasant, if Arthur could ignore the hollow ache in his chest every time he looked at Merlin's still form. The forest paths were clear, the weather mild with the sort of perfect conditions that would have made Arthur suspect magical intervention in other circumstances. They made good time, stopping only to rest the horses and eat meals that Arthur couldn’t taste.

Conversation flowed easier than it had in days, as if distance from immediate crisis allowed them to breathe, to pretend for precious moments that this was just another quest, another adventure in the long catalog of dangers they'd faced together. Arthur found himself clinging to that illusion with desperate gratitude.

"Remember that time with the whisht hound?" Gwaine was saying, his voice carrying forced cheer that didn't quite hide the worry in his eyes. 

Elyan shuddered. “Don’t remind me. That thing was creepy. Big black dog with no head. How does something like that even exist?"

“And yet Merlin here threw himself between Arthur and those claws without even blinking,” Gwaine continued. “Stupidest, bravest thing I'd ever seen."

Arthur's chest tightened with memory - not just of the whisht hound’s attack, but of the moment afterward when he'd realized how close he'd come to losing Merlin, how the thought had terrified him in ways he'd refused to examine. "Stupidly brave," he agreed, glancing at Merlin's empty profile. "I yelled at him for that."

"You always yell when he saves your life," Gwen pointed out with gentle amusement that carried undertones of deeper understanding. "It's your way of showing affection."

Heat crept up Arthur's neck. Was he really so transparent? Had everyone seen what he'd been so determined to hide from himself? "I do not - "

"'Merlin, you idiot, you could have been killed!'" Gwaine mimicked Arthur's voice with painful accuracy, complete with a  note of barely controlled panic that Arthur remembered all too well. "'Don't ever do that again!' Meanwhile, we're all taking bets on how long before he does exactly that again."

"Usually within the week," Lancelot added with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. His tone was fond but tinged with the sort of worry that came from loving someone who considered his own life expendable.

Arthur felt something twist in his chest - not jealousy, but a sharp recognition of how many people had seen what he'd been too blind to acknowledge. They were trying to cheer him, he realized. Reminding him of better times, of the bond that had existed before everything went wrong, before magical artifacts and stolen souls and desperate quests through enchanted forests.

He appreciated the effort, even as it made his chest ache with longing for those simpler days when his biggest worry had been whether Merlin would remember to polish his armor properly, not whether the man he -

Arthur cut off that thought with practiced ruthlessness. Not yet. Not until Merlin was truly back, truly himself again.

As afternoon wore toward evening, the forest began to change around them like a living thing shifting in its sleep. The trees grew older, their trunks more gnarled, twisted, with faces in the bark, watching eyes in the pattern of leaves. Moss hung like curtains from ancient branches, creating a cathedral-like atmosphere that made their voices sound hushed and reverent. The very air felt heavier, charged with the sort of possibility that made the small hairs on Arthur's arms stand on end.

"We're close to the border," Ceryndra announced, her voice carrying the authority of someone who had walked between worlds before. "Between the mortal realm and the domain of pure magic."

Arthur frowned, trying to understand the distinction. "I thought magic was everywhere."

"It is. But in some places, it pools like water in a basin." She reined in her horse, studying the path ahead with the careful attention of someone reading invisible signs. "The valley ahead is one such place - a pocket where the old laws still hold sway, where power runs so deep it shapes reality itself."

Something cold settled in Arthur's stomach. If magic was stronger there, what did that mean for Merlin? Would it help or hinder their quest? Would it strengthen the bonds holding his body together, or would it tear him apart entirely?

"From here, I cannot follow," Ceryndra continued, and Arthur felt panic spike in his chest before she raised a reassuring hand. "Or rather, I could, but I would only find a mundane valley, a trick of geography and stone. The true valley admits only those who seek with pure intent, not those who merely accompany."

"You're leaving?" Gwen asked, voicing the concern Arthur felt but couldn't articulate past the sudden tightness in his throat.

"Waiting," Ceryndra corrected gently. "We'll make camp here, maintain a beacon for your return. The old roads can be treacherous to navigate alone - you'll need a light to guide you home."

Her companions were already dismounting, beginning to set up camp with the practiced efficiency of people accustomed to making temporary homes in wild places. Arthur watched them work and felt the weight of isolation settling on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. Soon, it would be just the seven of them - eight, if you counted the hollow shell wearing Merlin's face - alone in a realm where magic reigned supreme.

Ceryndra approached Arthur, her voice dropping to a private murmur. "Remember what I said. The valley and cave will test you, but the greatest test waits at the end. Half-truths and noble lies won't serve when the moment comes. Only absolute honesty can call a soul back from the edge of Avalon."

Arthur's hands tightened on his reins. The locket pulsed against his chest, warm and insistent, as if Merlin's soul could sense his growing anxiety. "I understand," he said, though understanding and doing were vastly different things. How did one tear down walls built over a lifetime? How did one speak truths that felt too vast, too dangerous for words?

"Do you?" Ceryndra studied him with those too-knowing eyes. "The cave will demand you tear down every defense, leave yourself utterly exposed. Are you prepared for that vulnerability?"

Arthur's throat went dry. The thought of stripping away every careful pretense, every shield he'd erected against feelings too dangerous to acknowledge, made him feel sick with terror. But Merlin's life hung in the balance - what was personal embarrassment against that? "For Merlin? Yes."

"Good." She stepped back, though her expression remained doubtful. "May the old gods guide your steps, Arthur Pendragon. Bring our Emrys home to us."

They left the sorcerers behind, pressing deeper into the forest as shadows lengthened around them like grasping fingers. The change was gradual but unmistakable - sounds grew muffled as if the very air had thickened, colors became more vivid yet somehow unreal, and Arthur felt pressure building behind his eyes like the approach of a storm.

Then, between one breath and the next, they crossed the boundary.

Arthur felt it like a physical sensation, pressure popping in his ears with an almost audible snap. His horse whinnied nervously, dancing sideways with wide eyes, and Arthur had to soothe it with gentle words and steady hands. Around them, the forest had transformed completely, leaving behind any pretense of the natural world Arthur knew.

The trees were ancient beyond measure, their trunks so vast it would take a dozen men holding hands to circle them. Their bark was silver-white in the eternal twilight, marked with spiral patterns that seemed to shift when Arthur wasn't looking directly at them. Light filtered through leaves that seemed to glow with inner radiance, casting everything in shades of gold and green that had no names in mortal tongues.

And there - soft at first, then growing clearer like voices carried on wind - the whispers.

Turn back, young king. This path leads only to heartbreak and pain.

He's already lost to you. Why suffer for nothing but inevitable failure?

Your father was right about magic. It corrupts all it touches, even love.

Arthur gritted his teeth, focusing on the path ahead with desperate determination. The whispers felt like ice water in his veins, playing on every fear he'd harbored since this nightmare began. "Don't listen," he called to the others, his voice sounding thin and strained in the otherworldly air. "It's trying to discourage us, turn us back before we can reach the cave."

"Easier said than done," Gwaine replied tightly, his usual humor completely absent. His face was pale, jaw clenched with whatever the whispers were telling him - probably cruel truths about his past, his failures, his fears of never being good enough for the family he'd found in Arthur's court.

They pushed on, following a path that seemed to exist more in feeling than sight, guided by instincts none of them fully understood. Everything had an eternal quality, neither day nor night but something caught between the two, beautiful and terrible in its alien perfection.

Arthur found himself hyperaware of every sound, every shift in the otherworldly atmosphere. Behind him, Merlin rode in perfect silence, no complaints about the supernatural cold that made Arthur's breath mist, no observations about their strange surroundings. The absence of Merlin's voice - his questions, his wonder, his terrible jokes designed to lighten tension - felt like a wound that wouldn't heal.

"There," Leon said suddenly, pointing ahead with the sort of relief reserved for the end of long marches.

A clearing opened before them, and in its center stood two standing stones, each twice the height of a man and covered in carvings that seemed to writhe in Arthur's peripheral vision. Between them, the air shimmered like heat haze rising from summer stones, though the temperature here was cool enough to raise gooseflesh on Arthur's arms.

"A gateway?" Lancelot asked, his tactical mind already assessing the structure for potential threats.

"The entrance to the true Valley of the Fallen Kings," Merlin said, making everyone jump with the unexpectedness of his voice. It was the first time he'd spoken without direct question since they'd entered this realm, and Arthur felt his heart leap with desperate hope. "Beyond lies Tŷr Profedigaeth."

Arthur twisted in his saddle to stare at his friend - at the empty shell wearing his friend's face. "How do you know that?" The demand came out sharper than intended, edged with the sort of desperate hope that felt dangerous to acknowledge.

"I..." Merlin's brow furrowed slightly, the first expression Arthur had seen from him in days. The sight was so achingly familiar that Arthur's chest tightened with longing. "I don't know. The knowledge is simply there, as if it's been waiting for me to remember."

Hope flared in Arthur's chest like a struck flame, bright and warming and almost too precious to bear. Was Merlin fighting through whatever bound him? Was his soul somehow communicating with his magic-sustained body across the barrier of the stone's imprisonment?

Or was he simply finding a connection where none existed, out of foolishness and desperation?

They dismounted, approaching the stones with the caution of soldiers entering unknown territory. Up close, Arthur could see the carvings more clearly - symbols that seemed to shift and change when he wasn't looking directly at them, depicting scenes of triumph and tragedy, love and loss, the eternal cycle of mortal ambition and divine consequence.

"We'll need to leave the horses," Gwen said with practical authority, already moving to secure their mounts. "They won't cross that threshold - look at them."

She was right. The animals grew increasingly agitated the closer they got to the gateway, rolling their eyes and dancing away from the shimmering air with the sort of primal fear that spoke to instincts older than human civilization. They secured them as best they could with rope and whispered reassurances, hoping the magic of this place would protect them from whatever predators might roam these ancient woods.

"Ready?" Arthur asked, looking at each of his companions in turn. He saw his own mixture of determination and terror reflected in their faces - the knowledge that they stood on the threshold of something that might change them all irrevocably.

"No," Gwaine said with forced cheerfulness that couldn't quite hide the tremor in his voice. "But when has that ever stopped us from doing something spectacularly stupid?"

Together, they stepped through the gateway.

The world lurched violently, reality twisting around Arthur like fabric caught in a hurricane. His stomach rebelled as up became down and inside became out, every sense screaming conflicting information. For a moment that lasted eternity, he was everywhere and nowhere, scattered across infinite possibilities like seeds on wind. He could see every path his life might have taken, every choice that had led him here, every future that branched out from this single moment of crossing -

Then his feet hit solid ground with jarring suddenness, and he gasped, falling to his knees as his body tried to remember how to exist in linear time and space.

They were in a valley, but no valley that should exist in any sane world. The sky above was a swirl of colors that had no names in any human tongue - purple and gold and silver all twisted together in patterns that made Arthur's eyes water to perceive directly. Stars were visible despite the ambient light, wheeling in constellations that belonged to no earthly heaven. In the distance, mountains rose impossibly high, their peaks lost in clouds that moved too fast to be natural, casting shadows that defied the positions of the alien suns.

And scattered throughout the valley floor like a vast cemetery, statues. Hundreds of them, thousands, each depicting a warrior in armor from ages past. The Fallen Kings of legend, turned to stone for their hubris in challenging the old gods, their frozen forms a warning to all who would seek power beyond mortal ken.

"Well," Gwaine said weakly, having found his feet with the careful movements of someone testing whether his body still obeyed natural laws. "That was thoroughly unpleasant."

Arthur watched Lancelot help Gwen up, then turned to check on the others with the automatic concern of a leader responsible for his people's welfare. Leon and Percival looked green around the edges but stable, their soldier's training keeping them functional despite the supernatural assault on his senses. Elyan was already studying their surroundings with tactical interest, cataloguing threats and advantages with the methodical precision Arthur had come to rely on. And Merlin...

Merlin stood perfectly still in the alien twilight, but tears were streaming down his face in silver tracks that caught the otherworldly light.

Arthur's heart clenched with sudden terror. "Merlin?" He moved to his friend quickly, hands hovering over him without quite daring to touch. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"I feel them," Merlin whispered, and his voice held a shadow of its old emotion - not the mechanical precision of the past days, but something raw and anguished that sounded almost human. "All of them. The kings, the warriors. Centuries of pride and pain, frozen in stone but still aware. They're still conscious, still suffering after all these years."

Arthur's blood ran cold. The thought of being trapped in stone for centuries, aware but unable to move, unable to speak, unable to die - it was a horror beyond imagination. "Block it out," he ordered, alarmed by the anguish bleeding through this Merlin's usual emotional void. "Don't listen to them. Don't let them in."

"I can't." Merlin's hands clenched at his sides, and Arthur could see him trembling with the effort of containing whatever he was experiencing. "They're so loud, so desperate. They want release. They want - " He cut off abruptly, his eyes flashing gold with power that made the air around them crackle.

The nearest statue cracked with a sound like breaking bones, stone falling away in great chunks to reveal - nothing. Empty space where a body should have been, a hollow shell that had once contained a soul. The actual person had fled long ago, leaving behind only the punishment, the prison of stone that had outlasted its prisoner.

"Merlin, stop," Arthur commanded, grabbing his friend's shoulders without thinking. "Whatever you’re doing, you can’t-- This is hurting you!"

Merlin shuddered under his hands, the gold blazing from his eyes fading like dying embers until, once again, only his irises glowed gold. The tears remained, but his expression smoothed back toward the terrible emptiness that had become so familiar.

"I apologize," Merlin said in that flat, toneless voice that made Arthur's soul ache. "Emotional bleed-through from residual memories. It won't happen again."

"No," Arthur said fiercely, his hands tightening on Merlin's shoulders. The contact felt electric, the first real response he'd gotten from his friend since the soul-stone had stolen him away. "Don't apologize for feeling. It… it could mean that you're still in there somewhere, still fighting to get back to us."

Merlin tilted his head with that particular gesture Arthur knew so well, but his eyes remained empty. "I am not fighting anything. There is nothing to fight."

Arthur wanted to argue, wanted to shake sense into him, wanted to demand that Merlin stop hiding behind magical precision and acknowledge what he knew to be true -- but in reality, he knew no such thing.

Gwen's gentle touch on his arm reminded him where they were, what they were trying to accomplish. "The cave," she said quietly, her voice carrying the practical authority that had kept them all grounded through countless crises. "We need to keep moving. This place... it's already working on us."

She was right, Arthur realized with growing unease. The whispers were louder here, not from trees but from the stones themselves, each fallen king contributing to a chorus of lament and warning that threatened to drive them mad with its intensity. Each frozen warrior had a story, a reason they'd fallen, a warning for those foolish enough to follow in their footsteps. The accumulated weight of centuries of failure pressed down on Arthur's shoulders like a physical burden.

They picked their way through the statue field with careful steps, trying not to look too closely at the frozen faces twisted in expressions of eternal anguish. Some had died reaching for the sky, arms extended in supplication that had gone forever unanswered. Others knelt in positions of worship or submission, their stone eyes fixed on distant heavens that offered no mercy. All had challenged powers beyond mortal comprehension and paid the ultimate price - not death, which would have been mercy, but endless awareness trapped in unmoving stone.

"Cheerful place," Gwaine muttered, his usual irreverence strained thin by the oppressive atmosphere. "Really lifts the spirits and fills one with confidence about our chances."

Arthur might have smiled at the familiar sarcasm in other circumstances, but here, surrounded by the monuments to countless failures, Gwaine's words felt more like prophecy than humor. How many heroes had walked this path before them? How many had been certain they would succeed where others had failed?

"There," Lancelot pointed ahead with relief that Arthur shared. "The cave entrance."

It was impossible to miss once they saw it - a great maw in the mountainside that seemed to swallow light itself, darkness so complete it appeared solid. Above it, carved in stone that glowed with inner radiance, symbols that hurt to perceive directly, as if mortal eyes weren't meant to comprehend their meaning.

Leon squinted at the glowing script, and somehow - though how he could decipher alien symbols, Arthur didn't know - he read aloud: "Tŷr Profedigaeth. House of Trials. Where sight meets truth and hearts are laid bare for judgment."

"Poetic," Gwaine said, his voice carrying a forced lightness that fooled no one. "Also ominous as hell."

They paused at the threshold, gathering courage that felt as fragile as spun glass. The darkness within wasn't natural - it swallowed light greedily, consuming it like a living thing. Arthur could feel it pulling at something inside him, hungry and patient and utterly alien. This was the moment of no return, the point where they committed themselves fully to a path that might lead to salvation or destruction.

"Whatever happens in there," Arthur said, his voice carrying the authority of absolute command, "we stay together. No one faces this alone, no matter what the cave tries to do to divide us."

"Together," the others echoed, even Merlin in his flat, emotionless voice. But something in the way he said it - a slight emphasis, perhaps, or a fleeting expression Arthur might have imagined - suggested that some part of him understood the importance of that vow.

They entered as one, stepping from impossible otherworldly light into impossible all-consuming dark.

For a moment that stretched like eternity, Arthur was blind, his eyes struggling to process the absolute absence of illumination. Then, gradually his vision adjusted to reveal their surroundings.

They stood in a vast chamber that defied architectural logic, so large the walls were lost in shadow, the ceiling invisible somewhere in the darkness above. The floor was smooth stone worn by ages of pilgrims or prisoners, polished to mirror brightness by countless footsteps. The air itself seemed to hum with power, charged with the sort of potential that made Arthur's skin crawl with anticipation.

In the center of the chamber stood a solitary figure.

Arthur's hand went instinctively to his sword, but the figure didn't move or acknowledge their presence. As they approached cautiously, weapons ready, Arthur saw why - it was another statue, but unlike those scattered throughout the valley outside. This one was perfect in every detail, so lifelike it seemed ready to draw breath and speak, crafted with such skill that Arthur could see individual hairs carved into the stone beard, the texture of fabric rendered in living rock.

The statue depicted a knight in ancient armor, one hand extended as if reaching desperately for something just beyond his grasp. His face was young and handsome but twisted with desperate hope and dawning despair - the expression of someone who had gambled everything on a single throw of fate's dice and watched it come up short.

"Don't touch it," Gwen warned as Gwaine leaned closer with the sort of curiosity that had gotten them all in trouble countless times before.

Too late. Gwaine's finger brushed the outstretched stone hand with barely a whisper of contact.

The statue's eyes opened.

Everyone jumped back, weapons drawn in a ringing chorus of steel, but the figure - man? statue? something between the two? - didn't move beyond turning his head to track their movement with eyes that held terrible awareness.

"Finally," he said, his voice rusty with disuse, cracking like old parchment. "Someone has come at last. Please, you must help me. I've been here so long, so very long, and the silence... the endless silence..."

Arthur's throat went dry. This was no statue, no carved memorial to ancient failure. This was a man, somehow still alive after gods knew how many years, trapped between stone and flesh in a hell Arthur couldn't begin to imagine.

"You're alive?" Arthur asked, though the evidence was undeniable.

"Am I?" The man looked down at himself with dawning horror, as if seeing his condition clearly for the first time in centuries. "I can't... I can't move below the neck. Can't feel anything except the cold of stone. But I think, I remember, I speak. What manner of existence is this? What have I become?"

The anguish in his voice was so raw, so human, that Arthur felt his chest tighten with sympathetic pain. This was what failure meant here - not clean death, but endless consciousness trapped in unresponsive flesh, aware but helpless for all eternity.

"Who are you?" Leon demanded, his knight’s training keeping him focused on practical matters even in the face of supernatural horror. "How did you come to be in this state?"

"I am - was - Sir Einar," the man replied. "I came to Tŷr Profedigaeth seeking the Crystal of Restoration to save my beloved from a curse that was slowly killing her. But the cave... it tested me and found me wanting in every possible way."

His stone eyes fixed on them with desperate intensity. "It will test you too, judge you as it judged me. Turn back while you still can, while you still have the freedom to choose retreat over damnation."

Arthur felt cold settle in his stomach, but he pushed it aside with practiced determination. "We can't turn back. Someone we care about depends on us reaching that crystal."

"Ah." Einar's expression shifted, understanding and infinite pity mingling in his immobile features. "Love drives you here, as it drove me to this fate. Then you're already lost, as I was lost. The cave feeds on love, you see - twists it, corrupts it, uses your deepest feelings as weapons against you."

The words confirmed fears Arthur barely dared acknowledge. But he forced himself to stand straighter, to project confidence he didn't feel. They'd come too far to turn back now, invested too much hope and desperation to give up at the first warning.

"What happened to you?" Gwen asked gently, her voice carrying the sort of compassion that had always been her greatest strength. "What trial broke you?"

Einar was quiet for a long moment, his stone eyes distant with memory and regret. "The first trial - the Mirror of Truth. It showed me myself as I truly was, all my failures and fears and petty cruelties laid bare without mercy or concealment. I couldn't face it, couldn't accept what I saw reflected there. I tried to look away, to deny what the mirror revealed."

He laughed, the sound bitter as winter wind. "The cave doesn't forgive cowardice or self-deception. It gave me eternity to contemplate my shortcomings, to understand exactly what I had refused to see. Every day for centuries uncounted, I've stared into that mirror's truth, and every day I've wished I'd had the courage to accept it when acceptance might have saved me."

Arthur's hands clenched unconsciously. How much truth could he bear to see? How many of his own failures and fears could he acknowledge without breaking under their weight?

"How do we avoid your fate?" Arthur pressed, needing practical answers to counter the growing dread in his chest.

"Face whatever it shows you, no matter how painful," Einar said with the authority of hard-won wisdom. "Accept it completely, without reservation or excuse. Denial leads to this - " He gestured at his frozen form with his eyes, the only part of him that could still move. " - and there are fates worse than death, as I've learned through centuries of bitter experience."

He paused, his gaze moving between them with growing urgency. "And trust each other without reservation. I came alone, too proud to share my burden, too convinced that love meant protecting her from the truth of what I was. Don't repeat my mistakes. Secrets and shame are the cave's greatest allies."

Arthur felt those words settle into his bones like lead. Secrets and shame - hadn't those been his constant companions for years? The secret of what he felt for Merlin, the shame of desires that defied his father's teachings and the expectations of his crown?

"Is there anything we can do for you?" Lancelot asked, his voice carrying the sort of gentle honor that had always defined him.

Einar was quiet for a long moment, his stone eyes reflecting something that might have been peace. "Remember me," he said finally, the words carrying the weight of a dying man's last request. "Remember that love without courage is just another chain that binds us to failure. Remember that the greatest enemy of truth is not lies, but the comfortable half-truths we tell ourselves to avoid pain."

His gaze found Arthur specifically, boring into him with uncomfortable intensity. "And remember, young king, that the heart knows what the mind refuses to acknowledge. Don't wait for certainty - it never comes. Trust what you feel, even when it terrifies you."

The words hit Arthur like arrows, each one finding its mark in the carefully guarded places of his heart. How had this ancient knight seen so clearly into his soul? How had he identified the exact fears that kept Arthur awake at night, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about blue eyes and crooked smiles?

"Now go," Einar continued, his voice growing stronger with purpose. "The crystal waits deeper still, and the cave grows hungry for new souls to test. Don't let my failure become your own."

They left him there, stone eyes following their movement with an expression of desperate hope. The encounter had sobered them all - a stark reminder of the price of failure, of what awaited those who lacked the courage to face their deepest truths. Arthur felt the weight of that knowledge settle on his shoulders like a mantle, heavy with responsibility and fear.

Beyond the entry chamber, four passages branched off into darkness that seemed to pulse with its own malevolent life. Above each archway, more of those painful symbols glowed with cold fire, their meaning somehow penetrating Arthur's consciousness without translation.

"Truth, Courage, Honor, Compassion," Merlin said suddenly, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. "Four trials. We must pass all four to reach the crystal chamber."

Arthur felt a spark of hope at the unprompted response. "Can we take them together? Stay united as we promised?"

Merlin studied the passages with those empty golden eyes, his head tilted in that familiar gesture of concentration. For a moment, Arthur thought he saw something flicker in those depths - a shadow of the brilliant mind that had always been Merlin's greatest gift.

"No," Merlin said finally. "The magic is specific, designed for precise balance. Two for each path. The power within this cave has seen us, it knows us, and has created trials to test us in pairs." The gold in his eyes flared brighter for a moment. "Interesting."

"What's interesting?" Arthur asked, heart clenching with dread. Splitting up felt like betrayal of their promise, like abandoning each other when unity was their greatest strength. But if the cave's magic demanded it...

"Under previous circumstances, those who entered the cave were tested alone, one path for each person," Merlin said, looking at the four paths. "But it seems that the power here senses that I will not leave you, and to maintain balance, it has allowed for the other trials to be done in pairs."

Arthur's chest tightened with a mixture of relief and terror at Merlin's words. Having Merlin beside him felt like armor against the unknown, but it also meant facing whatever trials awaited with the constant reminder of what he stood to lose forever.

"Fine," he managed, his voice rougher than intended. "But for the others, who will pair with whom, and for which trial?"

"You and I will walk the Path of Truth," Merlin said, then turned to the others. "Guinevere and Lancelot shall take the Path of Courage."

“Courage?” Gwen's face tightened with worry, and Lancelot took her hand as she seemed to instinctively reach for him.

Merlin nodded and continued, "Leon and Percival shall take the Path of Honor."

Leon straightened unconsciously, his soldier's bearing asserting itself. "Honor. Yes, that... makes sense." There was relief in his voice, as if this were familiar territory he could navigate.

Percival shook his head grimly beside him. "Perhaps, but honor is not always as clear-cut as we'd like to believe."

"And Elyan and Gwaine shall take-"

"Path of Compassion, got it," Gwaine said, his easy smile strained thin by the oppressive atmosphere. "And how about we try not to get turned to stone like our friend back there, yeah? I'd hate to have to explain to Gaius how we lost his favorite patient to artistic ambitions."

The attempted humor fell flat in the charged air, but Arthur appreciated the effort. "Same to you. All of you - remember what Einar said. Face whatever you see. Accept it. And trust each other."

They turned toward their respective passages with the grim determination of soldiers selecting their battlefields, but as his friends began to move toward their respective trials, Arthur felt panic spike in his chest. Once they crossed those thresholds, there would be no turning back, no way to help each other if things went wrong.

"Wait," Arthur said. The weight of separation pressed down on him like a physical thing. "Before we go… Merlin's soul depends on all of us succeeding. Not just surviving, but truly passing these trials."

The group turned back, forming an instinctive circle in the center of the chamber. Even Merlin seemed more present, his empty eyes focusing on each of them in turn.

"We've faced worse odds," Leon said with quiet conviction, though his hand rested unconsciously on his sword hilt.

"Have we?" Elyan asked, and there was no humor in his voice. "This isn't bandits or sorcerers we can fight. This is... ourselves. Our deepest fears, our worst failures."

"Which is exactly why we'll succeed," Gwen said firmly, reaching out to squeeze Arthur's shoulder. "Because we know what we're fighting for. Not just Merlin's soul, but each other. All of us."

Gwaine's grin was subdued but genuine. "Besides, we're far too stubborn to let a magical cave get the better of us. Right, Elyan?"

"Right," Elyan agreed, bumping shoulders with his partner. "Compassion trial. How hard can it be?"

"Famous last words," Percival muttered, but there was affection in his tone.

Lancelot stepped forward, his voice carrying the weight of formal oath. "Whatever we face in there, we face knowing that failure means losing him forever." His eyes found Merlin's empty gaze. "That's not acceptable."

"Together, even when apart," Arthur said, the words feeling like both prayer and promise. "We'll see each other on the other side."

"All of us," Gwen added, looking meaningfully at Merlin. "Every single one of us."

They clasped hands briefly—seven of them connected in a chain of determination and desperate hope, while Merlin stared at the gestures, as if uncomprehending. Then, with reluctance that felt like tearing, they separated toward their trials, each pair disappearing into darkness that swallowed them completely.

Arthur paused at the threshold of Truth, Merlin silent beside him, and whispered, "Forward. For Merlin."

As they crossed the threshold, Arthur felt the magic seal behind them like a door slamming shut. No turning back now - only forward, into whatever hell the cave had prepared for them.

The passage was narrow, walls pressing close enough that Arthur could have touched both sides with outstretched arms. Their footsteps echoed strangely, sometimes sounding like many feet, sometimes like none at all, as if the cave couldn't decide whether they were real or merely echoes of past travelers. The darkness wasn't complete here - veins of silver in the stone provided dim illumination that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.

"Merlin," Arthur said quietly, needing to fill the oppressive silence with something human, something real. "Earlier, with the statues in the valley. You felt something."

"Residual emotional resonance," Merlin replied in that clinical tone. "The echo of their pain registered despite my current limitations. An anomaly."

Arthur felt frustration spike in his chest. "That's not what I meant." He stopped walking, turning to face Merlin in the silver-lit darkness. "You cried. You don't cry without feeling something real, something human."

"Merely physiological response to overwhelming stimuli," Merlin said, but there was something in his voice - a slight hesitation, perhaps, or a crack in the perfect emotional void. "It was not indicative of - "

"Stop." Arthur grabbed Merlin's shoulders, desperate to provoke some response, some sign of the man trapped beneath the magical construct. "Just stop with the clinical precision and the emotional void act. I know you're in there somewhere. The real you, not this hollow thing wearing your face."

For a moment - just a moment - Merlin's eyes flickered, blue bleeding through the constant gold like sunlight through storm clouds. His lips parted as if to speak, and Arthur held his breath, hoping against hope for some word of recognition, some acknowledgment of the connection that had always existed between them.

Then the moment passed, and the emptiness returned like a tide washing over sand. "We should continue," Merlin said with that same flat precision. "The trial awaits completion."

Arthur released him, frustration and grief warring in his chest like battling armies. He turned back to the path, trying to swallow the disappointment that threatened to choke him - and found they were no longer in a passage.

They stood in Camelot's throne room, but wrong in every conceivable way. The familiar stones wept blood in steady streams that pooled on the floor like accusations. The windows showed not sky but writhing darkness full of shapes that hurt to perceive directly. And on the throne - the throne Arthur had never dared claim, never felt worthy to occupy - sat his father.

"My son," Uther said, his voice carrying the chill of the grave and the weight of absolute judgment. "Look what you've become. Consorting with sorcerers, protecting magic, betraying everything I taught you from the cradle."

Arthur's throat went dry, but he forced himself to stand straighter. "You're not real. You're just another trial, another test designed to break me."

"Real enough to speak truth you refuse to hear," Uther replied, rising from the blood-soaked throne. With each step, the floor cracked beneath his feet like ice breaking under impossible weight. "I shaped you, molded you from birth to be Camelot's sword against the corruption of magic. And you... you blunt yourself on sentiment and weakness."

Each syllable burned like a brand against his soul, each word finding its mark in the places where Arthur had always doubted himself, even though he knew this wasn’t really his father; even though he knew the real Uther was in Camelot, convalescing under the weight of his broken mind. "I learned to think for myself, to question the hatred you taught me."

"You learned to be weak," Uther countered, his voice rising with the particular fury Arthur remembered from childhood, the rage that had sent him scurrying to hide behind servants' skirts. "You learned to let emotion cloud judgment, to mistake sentiment for wisdom."

Uther began to circle them like a predator stalking prey, his burning eyes lingering on Merlin with disgust so profound it seemed to darken the very air around them. "This... thing... should burn in the courtyard as an example to all who would practice the dark arts. Would burn, if I still ruled with the strength you lack."

Arthur felt his hands clench into fists. "He's not a thing. He's - "

"What?" Uther's laughter was cold and cruel, echoing off the bloody stones like the sound of breaking bones. "Your faithful servant? Your friend? Or something more shameful still, something that makes you weak and foolish, unfit for the crown?"

Heat flooded Arthur's face as if he'd been struck. The accusation hung in the air between them, unspoken but understood, the secret fear that had haunted him for years given voice by the specter of his father's judgment.

"I see how you look at him, boy," Uther continued with merciless precision. "The longing you think you hide, the want that makes you foolish and vulnerable. Unnatural desires, diseased affections that would corrupt everything you touch."

Arthur's breath came short and sharp, panic clawing at his chest. "There's nothing - "

"Lie to me if you must," Uther said with terrible gentleness. "Lie to yourself if it brings comfort. But the cave sees truth, strips away every pretense and defense you've built around your shameful heart."

The air around them shimmered, and suddenly they were surrounded by mirrors - hundreds of them, thousands, each reflecting a different moment when Arthur had watched Merlin with eyes that held too much longing. A thousand stolen glances, lingering looks, moments of wanting he'd refused to acknowledge even in the privacy of his own thoughts.

Here was Arthur watching Merlin laugh at something Gwaine had said, his face soft with affection that went far beyond friendship. There was Arthur's hand lingering on Merlin's shoulder longer than necessary, fingers trailing over cloth as if memorizing the shape beneath. Another mirror showed Arthur lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about blue eyes and crooked smiles and the way Merlin said his name like it was something precious.

"This is what you are," Uther spat, his form beginning to change, flesh rotting away to reveal the corpse beneath. "Weak. Corrupt. Ruled by base desires that make you unfit to lead, unworthy of the crown you'll inherit. A king who loves a male sorcerer - what greater perversion could there be?"

The words hit Arthur like arrows, each one finding its mark in the deepest places of his shame. But as he stared at the mirrors, at the evidence of his own heart laid bare, something shifted inside his chest. The panic began to fade, replaced by something else - not acceptance, not yet, but the beginning of understanding.

"No," Arthur said quietly, the word ringing in the chamber like a bell. "You're wrong."

"Am I?" Uther's rotting face twisted with fury. "Look at yourself, boy. Look at what you've become."

"I am," Arthur replied, drawing his sword though he knew it was useless here. The familiar weight in his hand gave him strength, reminded him of who he was beyond his father's expectations. "And I see someone who learned that love isn't weakness - you taught me that yourself, in your own twisted way."

Uther's form wavered, surprise flickering across his decaying features.

"You loved Morgana enough to break when she betrayed you," Arthur continued, his voice growing stronger with each word. "You loved my mother enough to detest the very power you once allowed to flourish within Camelot. You taught me that love makes us do impossible things, desperate things."

"And look where love led!" Uther's scream echoed off the mirrors, shattering some of them into glittering fragments. "To madness! To death! To kingdoms burning in the fires of betrayal!"

"To life," Arthur countered, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. "To loyalty that transcends duty. To people worth saving, worth fighting for, worth dying for if necessary."

He looked at Merlin, standing silent through this confrontation like a statue himself, and felt something break open in his chest - not painful, but liberating, like a door long locked finally swinging open.

"You're right," Arthur said, his voice ringing with newfound conviction. "I do love him. Not as a subject loves his king, not as a friend loves a friend, but completely. Utterly. With everything I am and everything I hope to become."

The admission hung in the air like a thunderclap, words that once spoken could never be taken back. Arthur felt exposed, vulnerable, stripped of every defense he'd built around his heart. But also... free. Lighter than he'd felt in years.

"I'm not ashamed of it anymore," he continued, his voice growing stronger. "I can't afford to be. Love isn't the corruption you claimed - it's the only thing that makes any of this worthwhile."

Uther's scream of rage shattered the remaining mirrors, the sound of glass breaking mixing with the wail of a soul denied its victory. The throne room dissolved around them like smoke, the bloody stones and burning windows fading into memory. They were back in the passage, but something fundamental had changed - the weight that had pressed on Arthur's chest for years was gone, replaced by something that felt dangerously like hope.

"You love me," Merlin said quietly, his voice cutting through the sudden silence.

Arthur froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. In the aftermath of the trial, with adrenaline still coursing through his veins and truth still raw on his tongue, he'd forgotten that Merlin had witnessed everything.

"You heard that?" Arthur asked, his voice cracking slightly.

"I hear everything," Merlin replied, but there was something different in his tone - not the flat precision of the past days, but something closer to wonder. "But that statement... it doesn't fit. It… creates patterns I can't follow."

Arthur stared at his friend, searching those golden eyes for any sign of the man he'd lost. "What do you mean?"

Merlin's brow furrowed in that familiar expression of concentration, and Arthur's heart leaped with desperate hope. "I don't understand what it means. But there is something that feels..." He trailed off, looking genuinely confused for the first time since the stone had taken him - confused, but human in his confusion. "When you say those words, something responds. With warmth, recognition. As if part of me remembers what that should mean."

"And what does that tell you?" Arthur pressed, hardly daring to breathe.

"I don't know." Merlin shook his head minutely, the gesture so achingly familiar that Arthur's chest tightened. "We should proceed. The trial is incomplete."

They walked on, but Arthur could feel the change between them like electricity in the air. Something had shifted when he spoke his truth, cracked the metaphorical shell of magical precision that had imprisoned what remained of Merlin's humanity. The question was whether it would be enough to call him home when the time came.

The passage opened into another chamber, this one smaller and filled with soft, golden light that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. At the center sat a simple wooden chair, its surface worn smooth by countless years. On the chair rested a crown - not Camelot's crown of state, but something older, simpler, yet infinitely more powerful. A band of silver set with a single red stone that pulsed with inner fire, beautiful and terrible in its simplicity.

"The Crown of the Once and Future King," Merlin said, his voice carrying harmonics that hadn't been there before, layers of meaning that spoke to Arthur's soul. "The symbol of your true destiny, yours to claim if you have the courage to reach for it."

Arthur approached cautiously, every instinct screaming warnings. The crown was beautiful beyond description, and he could feel the power radiating from it in waves - power to protect, power to heal, power to reshape the world according to his vision. Power to keep everyone he loved safe forever.

"It's a trap," he said, though his feet kept moving forward as if drawn by invisible threads.

"Yes," Merlin agreed, moving to stand beside the crown. "But it is also truth. This is what awaits you - kingship beyond what your father ever imagined. Magic and mundane united under your rule, the old ways and the new brought together in perfect harmony. The power to end suffering, to bring peace to every corner of the realm."

Arthur stopped just short of the crown, his hands trembling with the effort of restraint. It would be so easy to reach out, to take what was being offered. With this crown, he could protect everyone. He could change the laws, heal the wounds between magical and non-magical people, create the golden age the prophecies promised.

"What's the catch?" he asked, though he thought he already knew.

"No catch. Only choice." Merlin's voice was different now, layered with power and authority that made the hair on Arthur's arms stand on end. "Take the crown and become what prophecy demands. Unite the lands under your rule, bring peace to the realm, rule with wisdom and strength beyond mortal ken."

Arthur's hand hovered over the crown, so close he could feel its warmth against his palm. "And you?"

"I serve the king, as I always have. As I was always meant to."

The words were spoken with such certainty, such absolute conviction, that they chilled Arthur to the bone. "That's not what I asked." He pulled his hand back, turning to face Merlin fully. "What happens to you if I take this? What happens to the man I - " He swallowed hard. "What happens to Merlin?"

"I become what I was born to be," Merlin replied, his eyes now blazing with golden fire that seemed to burn away every trace of humanity. "Emrys, guardian of the Once and Future King. Your weapon against the darkness, your shield against harm, your tool for remaking the world according to divine will."

Arthur felt ice settle in his veins. "But not Merlin."

"Merlin was a mask," Merlin said with chilling certainty. "A fiction created to hide truth, to allow me to serve in secret. This - " He gestured to himself, power crackling around his fingers like lightning. " - this is truth. This is what I was always meant to become."

Arthur stared at the crown, understanding flooding through him like cold water. This was the real test - not of his worthiness to rule, but of what he would sacrifice for power. Take the crown and gain everything prophecy promised: peace, prosperity, the golden age of legend. But lose the man he loved, watch him disappear into the role of mystical guardian, powerful but no longer human.

"No," Arthur said firmly, stepping back from the crown as if it were a venomous snake.

"No?" Merlin's voice carried surprise, confusion, as if the concept of refusal were beyond his comprehension.

"I don't want Emrys," Arthur said, his voice ringing with absolute conviction. "I don't want a weapon or a mystical guardian or a tool for divine will. I want my friend who makes terrible jokes and trips while carrying my breakfast more often than not. I want the man who argues with me and challenges me and makes me better by refusing to let me settle for less than I can be."

He turned away from the crown, facing Merlin directly. "I want the person who chose to stay in Camelot despite the danger, who chose to hide his power to protect others, who chose to love me despite every reason not to. Keep your prophecy, keep your destiny. I choose Merlin."

The crown flared with blinding light, power screaming through the chamber like a hurricane. When Arthur's vision cleared, it was gone, vanished as if it had never existed. The chamber had transformed as well - they now stood in a corridor of pure crystal, light refracting in impossible patterns that made Arthur's eyes water.

"You rejected destiny," Merlin said, and, again, there was wonder in his voice - real emotion bleeding through the magical precision like water through cracks in stone.

"I rejected a destiny that doesn't include you as you really are," Arthur corrected, his voice rough with emotion. "If I'm meant to be the Once and Future King, it'll happen with you beside me - the real you, not some mystical construct shaped by others' expectations."

Merlin stared at him, and for a moment - a precious, heart-stopping moment - his eyes were fully present, blazing not just with golden power but with human warmth and something that might have been love.

The locket holding Merlin’s soul suddenly felt hot against Arthur’s chest.

"Arthur," Merlin whispered, and the name on his lips sounded like a prayer, like coming home. "I - "

Then he swayed, and Arthur lurched forward to catch him, steadying him as his face went pale. When Merlin looked up, the emptiness had returned, but not completely. "We should continue," he said, but his voice lacked its earlier certainty, wavering slightly as if he were struggling to maintain the facade of emotionless efficiency, before it once again fell over his countenance like a shroud. Then, without another word, he straightened and headed toward the end of the corridor.

Arthur fell into step beside him, fear and desperate hope clogging his throat. One hand reached up to press at the locket over his heart. The sudden heat it generated cooled back to normal, and Arthur didn’t have time to ponder what it meant as they exited the corridor and found themselves reunited with the others.

Gwen was supporting Lancelot, who had a gash on his forehead that bled freely, though he seemed more emotionally drained than physically hurt. Leon looked shaken but whole, his armor bearing new dents and scratches, while Percival stood beside him with the careful posture of someone who had questioned everything he thought he knew. Gwaine was grinning, but it didn't reach his eyes, and there were tear tracks on his cheeks he hadn't bothered to wipe away. Elyan's hand rested on his sword hilt with white knuckles, as if he'd been fighting the urge to draw it.

"Fun trials?" Arthur asked, relief flooding through him at seeing them all alive and relatively intact.

"Brilliant," Gwaine said with heavy sarcasm, though his voice carried a rawness that spoke of deeper wounds than physical ones. "Had to forgive the bastard who killed my father. Hardest thing I've ever done."

Elyan nodded grimly beside him. "Same," he said shortly, and Arthur remembered that Uther had been responsible for the death of Elyan and Gwen’s father.

Arthur's throat tightened. He remembered holding his own sword to Uther's throat, how close he'd come to patricide and regicide before Merlin had stopped him with desperate lies about Morgause's conjuring. Even now, Arthur suspected his mother's spirit had been real, that Merlin had sacrificed truth to save Arthur from a choice that would have destroyed him. The fact that Elyan had passed a test Arthur had nearly failed in reality made his admiration for the man deepen considerably.

"We were shown two paths," Gwen added quietly, her arm still around Lancelot's shoulders. "One led to safety but meant abandoning someone in need. The other led toward certain danger to save a stranger."

Lancelot touched the gash on his forehead ruefully. "The courage wasn't in choosing to help. It was in admitting that part of us wanted to take the safe path, and choosing to help anyway."

Leon straightened, though Arthur could see the exhaustion in his eyes. "We were shown a choice—save a village or complete our mission. Both were the 'right' thing to do."

"Turns out honor isn't about following rules," Percival said, his voice carrying hard-won wisdom. "It's about knowing which ones to break when people's lives are at stake."

Arthur felt something ease in his chest at their words—not just relief that they'd survived, but recognition that they'd all grown from their ordeals.

"And you?" Gwaine asked, turning the question back to him.

"Disappointed my father and rejected ultimate power," Arthur replied, trying to match his friend's light tone despite the weight of what he'd just experienced.

"So, Tuesday," Gwaine said, and despite everything, Arthur found himself smiling.

They'd survived the trials, all of them. The cave had tested them and found them... if not worthy, then at least determined enough to continue. Now came the real challenge - the heart of the cave, where the crystal waited and where Arthur would discover if his choices had been enough to save the man he loved.

The chamber had only one other exit - an archway filled with light so pure and brilliant it hurt to perceive directly. Beyond, Arthur could sense something vast and patient and utterly alien, something that had been waiting for them since the moment they'd entered this place.

"The heart of the cave," Gwen said quietly, her voice carrying the sort of awe reserved for the divine. "Where the crystal waits for those brave enough to claim it."

Arthur once again reached for the locket against his chest where Merlin's trapped soul lay waiting. They were so close now - close enough to taste hope like copper in his mouth.

"Together?" Arthur asked, looking at each of his companions, these people who had followed him into hell itself out of love and loyalty.

"Together," they confirmed, even Merlin in his fractured voice.

They stepped through the archway as one, into light that remade the world around them.

The space beyond defied every law of physics Arthur had ever known. It was simultaneously vast and intimate, ancient and newborn, peaceful and terrifying in its alien beauty. At its center, floating in a sphere of impossible brilliance, was the crystal they'd sought - no larger than Arthur's fist, but perfect in its symmetry, its countless facets refracting light in patterns that suggested meanings beyond mortal comprehension.

This wasn't just a crystal, Arthur realized with growing awe. This was crystallized possibility itself, the power to mend what was broken, to bridge the gap between soul and flesh, to make whole what had been sundered.

"Beautiful," Gwen breathed, her voice carrying the wonder of someone witnessing a miracle.

"Dangerous," Leon corrected, ever the pragmatist, though his voice held its own note of reverence.

Both assessments were correct. The crystal sang with promise and threat in equal measure, power that could save or destroy depending on the hearts of those who wielded it.

"So we just... take it?" Gwaine asked, his usual bravado tempered by the overwhelming presence of the crystal's power.

"Nothing here has been that simple," Lancelot pointed out, his words proving prophetic as the light around the crystal pulsed in response to his observation.

A figure materialized from the brilliance - tall and robed, its features shifting between young and ancient, male and female, human and something far more alien. When it spoke, its voice was like crystalline bells ringing in harmony.

"I am the Guardian of this place," it said, power making the air itself vibrate with each word. "You have passed your trials, proven your intent pure and your hearts true. But one final test remains."

Arthur's stomach clenched with dread. "Of course there is," he muttered, echoing Gwaine's earlier sentiment.

The Guardian's attention fixed on Arthur with uncomfortable intensity, as if it could see through flesh and bone to the very essence of his soul. "You seek to mend what was broken by the Stone of Souls. To restore one taken by the depth of his own devotion. This is noble. But all power demands its price."

Arthur straightened, meeting that alien gaze with all the royal authority he could muster. "Name it."

"One must remain to take my place as Guardian of the crystal," the being said with terrible gentleness. "The power you seek cannot exist unprotected - it is too great, too tempting for mortal hearts to resist. Choose who among you will accept eternal vigil in this place."

Silence fell like a stone into still water, the weight of the choice crushing down on them all. Arthur's mind raced, calculating unacceptable losses. He couldn't lose any of them - they were his family, his heart, the people who made life worth living. But to save Merlin...

"I'll stay," Arthur said, the words torn from his throat.

"No." Merlin stepped forward with mechanical precision, his empty eyes fixed on the Guardian. "Unacceptable. Arthur Pendragon is needed in Camelot. The realm requires his leadership. I will remain in his place."

"Absolutely not - " Arthur began, panic clawing at his chest.

“I-“ Lancelot began, before cutting off with a grunt as Gwen elbowed him in the side. He looked at her, as if trying to will her to understand why he should volunteer. “But I –“

“Absolutely not,” Gwen stated. “Unless you think the crystal needs two guardians, because if you stay, I stay.”

"Actually," Gwaine interrupted, his voice carrying forced cheerfulness, "I volunteer for eternal guard duty."

"Gwaine, no - " Percival started, but he waved him off with a crooked grin.

"Think about it," he said, his usual levity masking deeper currents of pain and determination. "I'm not like you lot. No grand destiny, no kingdom depending on me. Just a drunk who's good with a sword and better at getting into trouble. This way, I actually do something that matters for once."

"You matter," Elyan said fiercely. "You matter to all of us. We're not leaving you here."

"Besides," Leon added, his voice rough with emotion, "who would keep Arthur humble without your constant mockery and questionable advice?"

"Valid point," Gwaine conceded with a laugh that didn't quite hide the pain in his eyes.

Leon nodded. “That is why I should – “

"Stop," Arthur said firmly, his voice ringing with royal command. He turned to the Guardian. "There has to be another way. There's always another way."

The Guardian watched their debate with something that might have been amusement, its alien features shifting in patterns that suggested approval. "Interesting," it mused. "Most who come here argue about why they should not be chosen for sacrifice. You compete to see who will make the ultimate gift for the sake of the others."

"Because we're idiots who care about each other," Gwaine said, his voice carrying fondness despite the dire circumstances. "Terrible strategic thinking, really. We should probably work on that."

"Or perfect strategic thinking," the Guardian replied, its form solidifying slightly to reveal features that were unexpectedly kind. "The crystal requires a guardian, this is true. But not necessarily a living one."

It gestured, and from the light stepped a figure Arthur recognized - Sir Einar, but restored, whole, no longer trapped between stone and flesh. His face held peace Arthur had not seen in the chamber below.

"I offer myself freely," Einar said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "I failed my quest, lost my beloved to my own cowardice and pride. Let me earn redemption through service. Let my failure become purpose, my shame become strength."

The Guardian's shifting features solidified into something almost human, and Arthur saw ancient pain in those eyes—the same pain that had marked Einar's stone face. "As I once failed," the Guardian said softly. "As I was given the chance to serve, to find meaning in my shame. The cycle continues, as it must.”

Sir Einar smiled. “I understand.”

“Will you accept this charge, Sir Einar?" the Guardian asked formally. "Will you take my place so that I might finally find the peace I was denied in life?"

"Gladly," Einar replied, turning to Arthur with gratitude shining in his restored eyes. "You showed me kindness when you could have passed by, offered hope when I had none. Let me repay that debt."

The Guardian stepped forward, placing a hand on Einar's shoulder. Light began to flow between them—golden power passing from one to the other like a torch being handed on. "The bargain is struck. The balance is maintained."

As Einar began to glow with the Guardian's power, the ancient being grew translucent, peace settling over his features like a blessing. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice fading like an echo. "At last... at last I can rest."

He dissolved into motes of silver light that drifted upward and vanished, finally free to seek whatever lay beyond. The crystal's light faded, and it dropped gently into Arthur's outstretched hands, warm with life and possibility.

"Go," Einar said, his voice now carrying the harmonic resonance of his new role. "Quickly, before the cave reconsiders its generosity. And Arthur—" He smiled, the expression radiant with hard-won wisdom. "Love is never wasted, even when it comes too late. Don't make my mistakes."

They ran through passages that seemed shorter now, the cave releasing them as if eager to be rid of visitors who had upset its ancient order. The trials were already fading like bad dreams, their power broken by success. They burst into the alien twilight of the valley, gasping in air that tasted of freedom and hope.

"We did it," Gwen laughed, giddy with relief and disbelief. "We actually did it."

"Phase one complete," Arthur corrected, clutching the crystal like a lifeline. "Now we need to get back to the druids, figure out how to use this to free Merlin's soul."

"About that," Merlin said, his voice cutting through their celebration like a blade. "I'm experiencing significant physical distress."

Everyone turned to stare at him in growing alarm. He was pale - paler than usual - and his hands trembled with fine tremors.

"What do you mean, distress?" Arthur demanded, fear spiking in his chest.

"The trials introduced variables I do not comprehend," Merlin replied, his voice losing its empty precision and taking on an almost human quality of confusion. "Emotional resonance, paradoxical directives centered on..." He paused, his golden eyes finding Arthur's face. "You. Your declaration of love has destabilized my purpose."

Arthur's blood turned to ice. "Is that good or bad?"

"I do not know," Merlin admitted, lifting his hand. Arthur saw with horror a small fissure in the skin, golden light bleeding through like cracks in a dam. "But this body is failing. I cannot function with divided purpose."

More cracks appeared as they watched, spreading up Merlin's arms like a spider web of light. He examined them with the detached curiosity of someone observing an interesting phenomenon rather than his own dissolution. “I predict less than two days.”

"Until what?" Arthur asked, though he dreaded the answer.

"Until nothing of this flesh remains,” Merlin said with that same clinical detachment, "and I return to the eternity of land, sea, and sky."

The words shattered something inside Arthur’s chest. "Then we run," he decided, desperation making his voice harsh. "We get back to Iseldir and fix this before - before - "

"Before this body dies and my essence scatters to the four winds," Merlin finished calmly. "Yes. That would be... preferable."

They retrieved their horses - miraculously still where they'd left them, protected by whatever ancient magic governed this place - and rode hard for the boundary between worlds. The whispers tried to slow them, speaking doubts and fears designed to sap their will, but Arthur pushed through on pure determination and the desperate need to save the man he'd finally found the courage to love.

Ceryndra's beacon fire guided them back through the transformed forest, the sorcerers taking one look at their faces and beginning to break camp without questions. Efficiency born of urgency drove them to remarkable speed.

"You succeeded?" Ceryndra asked, her eyes finding the crystal in Arthur's hands.

"Mostly," Arthur replied, his grip on the reins white-knuckled with tension. "But Merlin is—"

"What in the name of the Old Gods?" Ceryndra interrupted, her face going ashen as she took in the spreading fissures of light that now covered Merlin's hands and arms, creeping up his neck like golden veins. "What's happening to him? This isn't... I've never seen anything like this."

"The trials changed something," Merlin said, his voice echoing strangely, as if it came from multiple directions at once. "There are... contradictions now. Things that don't fit together properly. When Arthur said he loved me, it created fractures I don't understand."

Ceryndra's eyes widened with horror. "Fractures in what? What do you mean?"

"In me. In what holds me together." Merlin examined the spreading cracks with detached curiosity. "This form is breaking apart. I can feel it unraveling, like a tapestry coming undone. Less than two days before there's nothing left to hold."

"Nothing left?" Ceryndra's voice cracked with panic. "You mean he's going to—"

"Die," Arthur finished grimly. "And scatter to the four winds unless we can restore his soul before his body gives out entirely."

The color drained completely from Ceryndra's face as she understood the true urgency of their situation.

"Then we ride through the night," Ceryndra decided. "Hold tight to hope, Arthur Pendragon. You've come too far to fail now."

They pushed the horses beyond their limits, changing mounts when Ceryndra's magic provided fresh ones conjured from shadow and starlight. The journey that had taken two days took one, desperation driving them beyond the boundaries of mortal endurance.

The druid camp appeared with the dawn, and Iseldir was waiting for them as if he'd never moved from his position by the fire.

"You have it," he said, his ancient eyes taking in the crystal before moving to Merlin. His expression grew grave as he saw the extent of the damage. "But perhaps too late. He fragments before our eyes."

Arthur wanted to shout at the old man for stating the obvious, but instead he dismounted and ran to Merlin's side. His friend was gripping the reins with white knuckles, his entire body rigid with the effort of maintaining cohesion.

"Merlin," Arthur called, and Merlin slowly turned to look at him. Light escaped through tiny cracks in his face, giving him an otherworldly beauty that was more terrifying than any monster Arthur had ever faced.

Merlin released the reins and tipped gracelessly from his saddle. Arthur caught him, surprised by how little he weighed - as if the dissolution of his magical bonds was making him less substantial by the moment.

"Tell me what to do," Arthur demanded, cradling Merlin against his chest like something infinitely precious.

"Come," Iseldir said, leading them to a circle of standing stones within the camp. "We prepared for your return, hoping for success."

The stones were carved with runes that pulsed with inner life, responding to their approach with growing intensity. Arthur could feel power building in the air like the charge before lightning strikes.

"Place him at the center," Iseldir instructed, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had prepared for this moment. "The crystal on his chest, over his heart. The stone containing his soul in his hands."

Arthur did as instructed, his hands shaking as he positioned everything with infinite care. Merlin lay still, eyes closed, the golden light bleeding through his skin growing brighter with each passing moment. His chest barely rose and fell, each breath a monumental effort that might be his last.

"Now what?" Arthur asked, desperation cracking his voice like a whip.

"Now we attempt what has never been done," Iseldir said gravely. "We merge soul, body, and purpose back into one unified whole. The crystal will bridge the gap, provide the necessary catalyst, but someone must guide the soul home. Someone it will follow willingly."

Arthur's heart hammered against his ribs. "Me."

"You," Iseldir confirmed, his penetrating gaze seeming to see straight through to Arthur's soul. "But know this - you must offer truth absolute. No shields, no pretense, no careful half-measures. The soul will see your heart entire and judge whether to return to flesh or seek the peace of eternal rest in Avalon. Are you prepared for such complete exposure?"

Arthur looked down at Merlin's still form, at the man who had given everything for him without ever asking for anything in return. Around them, his friends formed a protective circle - Gwen with tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, but her jaw set with composure, Gwaine unusually solemn, Leon standing at attention like a guard at his post, Lancelot with hands clasped in something that might have been prayer. Elyan stood beside his sister with his jaw clenched tight, fighting back his own tears as one hand rested protectively on Gwen's shoulder, while Percival kept watch at the circle's edge, his normally steady hands trembling slightly as his broad frame served as a shield against whatever dangers might threaten this sacred moment.

"I'm prepared," Arthur said, the words carrying the weight of absolute commitment.

"Then let us begin," Iseldir intoned.

The druids formed a larger circle around the stones, their voices rising in ancient chants that seemed to resonate in Arthur's very bones. The crystal began to glow with soft radiance, its light meeting and mingling with the golden glow trapped within the soul stone. Power built around them in waves, making the air itself seem to thicken with possibility.

"Focus on him," Iseldir instructed, his voice somehow audible over the growing crescendo of magical energy. "Call him home with every fiber of your being. Show him why he should choose life over peace, flesh over spirit, love over rest."

Arthur knelt beside Merlin, one hand resting on the crystal where it lay over his friend's heart, the other covering Merlin's cold fingers where they gripped the soul stone. The contrast was stark - the crystal warm with life and possibility, the stone cold with captured essence.

"Merlin," Arthur began, his voice rough with emotion he no longer tried to hide. "I know you can hear me, wherever you are in that darkness. Somewhere in that stone prison, you're listening. Probably laughing at how bad I am at this sort of thing."

The lights pulsed - the crystal's gentle radiance, the soul stone's brilliant golden fire, and the light bleeding from Merlin's skin, all syncing with Arthur's heartbeat like a symphony of hope and desperation.

"I'm sorry," Arthur continued, the words pouring out of him like water from a broken dam. "For every time I didn't see you, really see you. For every moment I took you for granted, treated you like furniture or a particularly useful tool. For being too much of a coward to admit what you meant to me, what you've always meant."

The chanting grew louder, power building like storm pressure in the air around them. Arthur could feel it pressing against his skin, seeking entry, demanding truth from the deepest places of his heart.

"But I see you now," he said, his voice growing stronger with conviction. "All of you. The impossibly powerful sorcerer who chose servitude over dominion. The brave fool who threw himself between me and danger again and again without thought for his own safety. The best friend who never asked for anything except to be allowed to stay by my side."

The soul stone cracked with a sound like breaking glass, brilliant light spilling out like liquid gold. Arthur gripped it tighter, desperate not to lose what might be his only chance.

"I love you," he said, the words ringing across the stone circle like a bell tolling for all to hear. "Not as a king loves a subject, not as a friend loves a friend, not even as a brother loves a brother. I love you as the other half of my soul, as the person who makes me want to be better than I am. Who challenges me and supports me and knows me better than I know myself."

The light was blinding now, all three sources - crystal, stone, and Merlin's dissolving form - singing in a harmony that made Arthur's teeth ache. Through it all, he sensed something else: Merlin's soul, hovering between worlds, caught between the pull of eternal rest and the anchor of earthly love.

Arthur felt that presence brush against his consciousness like a warm hand against his cheek - familiar, beloved, achingly fragile in its exhaustion.

"Come back," Arthur pleaded, pouring every ounce of his desperation into the words. "Not for prophecy, not for Camelot, not even for me if that's not enough. Come back for yourself. For the life you deserve to live openly and honestly, without hiding or fear. Come back and let me prove I can be worthy of what you've given me all these years."

"Choose!" Iseldir's voice rang out over the magical storm. "Choose life or peace! Choose love or rest! Choose!"

For a moment that lasted eternity, everything hung suspended. The lights froze in their dance, the chanting stopped mid-syllable, even the wind held its breath. Arthur felt Merlin's soul hovering at the crossroads between worlds, weighing the choice that would determine everything.

In that suspended moment, Arthur felt rather than heard Merlin's response - not words, but pure emotion that flooded through their connection like sunlight after storm. Amusement at Arthur's terrible way with speeches. Fondness so deep it felt like drowning in warmth. Love that matched and answered his own, patient and enduring and utterly without reservation. And underneath it all, a bone-deep weariness that spoke of years of hiding, of carrying burdens too heavy for one person to bear alone.

Stay, Arthur thought desperately, projecting the plea with everything he had. Please stay. I need you. We all need you. But more than that - I want you. All of you, exactly as you are.

The response came like an echo of his own heart: Always.

The lights exploded outward in a nova of pure brilliance, forcing everyone back and away from the circle. When the radiance finally faded enough for Arthur to see, Merlin lay still in the center of the stones. His skin was whole again, unmarked by the golden fractures that had threatened to tear him apart. The crystal still blazed with inner fire on his chest, its facets catching the light like captured stars. The soul stone had crumbled to glittering dust in his hands.

As Arthur reached for the crystal, a familiar figure materialized from the lingering light - Sir Einar, translucent and glowing with gentle radiance. The ancient knight's face was serene, filled with joy at their success. Without a word, he reached down and lifted the crystal from Merlin's chest, cradling it like something infinitely precious. His eyes met Arthur's, and he smiled - an expression of such profound happiness and approval that it made Arthur's chest tighten with emotion.

Then, still smiling, Einar began to fade, the crystal's light dimming as he became one with the departing radiance. In moments, both guardian and crystal had vanished completely, leaving only the memory of that benedictory smile and the profound silence of a miracle completed.

"Merlin?" Arthur touched his face with trembling fingers, searching for any sign of life. The skin was warm - truly warm, not the artificial temperature maintained by magic, but the genuine heat of living flesh. "Merlin, please - "

Blue eyes opened, focused on Arthur's face with perfect clarity and unmistakable presence. Not the empty gold of magic incarnate, but the familiar, beloved blue that had haunted Arthur's dreams.

"Arthur?" Merlin's voice was hoarse, but it was his - wonderfully, perfectly, completely his. His eyes darted around, taking in the ecstatic faces of his friends, before returning to Arthur. "Did you just... did you really tell everyone here that you love me?"

Relief hit Arthur like a physical blow, so intense it left him gasping. He laughed, or maybe sobbed, pulling Merlin into a fierce embrace that he never wanted to end.

"You absolute idiot," he managed, his voice muffled against Merlin's shoulder. "You complete and utter fool. Don't you ever do that to me again."

"Which part?" Merlin asked, his arms coming up to return the embrace with strength that spoke of genuine recovery. "Getting my soul stolen, or making you confess feelings in front of witnesses?"

"Any of it. All of it." Arthur pulled back enough to see Merlin's face, to convince himself this was real and not some cruel dream. "Are you... are you really you?"

"I think so?" Merlin looked dazed, overwhelmed, like someone waking from the deepest sleep. "I remember the attack, the stone, the moment it took hold. Then... nothing. Like sleeping without dreams, floating in darkness that wasn't quite empty. What happened while I was gone?"

Arthur helped him sit up, keeping one arm around him for support and reassurance. "You saved Camelot. Again. While soulless. Defeated seven hostile sorcerers without breaking a sweat, terrified a lord into attempting assassination, and generally proved that even without your humanity, you're still the most dangerously protective person I've ever met."

Merlin's eyes widened as he took in their surroundings - the druid camp, the circle of stones, the exhausted but triumphant faces of their friends. "Are we in a druid camp? Arthur, your father - "

"Isn't here," Arthur interrupted firmly. "And it wouldn't matter if he was. Things have changed, Merlin. I've changed. We need to talk about everything - your magic, the prophecies, what this means for Camelot. But first - " He cupped Merlin's face in his hands, thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbone. "Are we all right? You and me?"

Something shifted in Merlin's expression - hope and fear and longing all mixed together in an expression so familiar it made Arthur's chest ache. "That depends. Did you mean what you said about... about loving me?"

"Every word," Arthur said without hesitation, the truth feeling as natural as breathing now that it was finally spoken. "I meant every single word."

Merlin's smile was radiant, transforming his entire face with joy that seemed to light him from within. "Then we're more than all right. We're perfect."

Before Arthur could respond, they were surrounded by their friends - Gwen throwing her arms around both of them, Gwaine's voice loud with relief and celebration, Leon's quiet satisfaction, Lancelot's gentle joy. Elyan wrapped his arms around all three of them in a fierce embrace, his earlier composure finally cracking as he laughed with pure relief, while Percival's booming voice joined Gwaine's in celebration, the big knight's eyes bright with unshed tears of happiness. The druids gathered around them as well, their chanting replaced by songs of thanksgiving and celebration.

"We thought we'd lost you," Gwen said, her voice thick with emotion. "When the stone took you, when you became that empty thing... we thought you were gone forever."

"I was gone," Merlin admitted, his voice soft with wonder. "But Arthur called me back. He gave me something worth returning for."

"Don't you dare make light of it," Lancelot said quietly, but his tone carried warmth rather than rebuke. "We all know now. What you are, what you've done for all of us. No more hiding, no more pretending to be less than you are."

Merlin went very still in Arthur's arms. "You know about my magic."

"Emrys," Leon said simply, the name carrying reverence and acceptance in equal measure. "Most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth. Protector of the Once and Future King. Also, inexplicably, terrible at doing laundry."

"I am not terrible at laundry," Merlin protested weakly, but Arthur could see the fear in his eyes - the old terror of rejection, of being cast out for what he was.

"You turned my best shirt pink," Arthur pointed out gently. "Bright pink. It took weeks for the color to fade."

"That was one time - "

"Three times," Gwaine corrected cheerfully. "I kept count. Though I have to admit, watching you panic about it was hilarious."

The normalcy of the teasing seemed to reassure Merlin more than any formal acceptance could have. Color returned to his face, and some of the tension left his shoulders.

"Later," Arthur said firmly, seeing exhaustion creeping into Merlin's expression. "Explanations and revelations later. Rest first. You've been through more than any person should have to endure."

Iseldir approached them, his ancient face creased with satisfaction and relief. "Welcome back to the living, Emrys. How do you feel?"

"Like I've been turned inside out and shaken," Merlin admitted. "Did I... while my soul was gone, did I do things? Hurt people?"

"You protected what you love," Iseldir said gently, his voice carrying the wisdom of ages. "As you always have, as you always will. Nothing you did while sundered from your soul diminishes who you are. If anything, it proves the depth of your devotion."

Merlin nodded, though Arthur could see he would need time to process everything that had happened. They all would. The events of the past days had changed everything - relationships, secrets, the very foundation of their lives together.

"Rest now," Iseldir continued. "You've earned peace, both of you. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, but tonight, simply be grateful for what you've restored."

They gave Merlin a tent, and Arthur positioned himself outside like a guard, unable to bear the thought of being separated even by canvas walls. The druids brought food and drink, offering celebration of their success, but Arthur found himself too emotionally wrung out to do more than pick at the meal.

"You know," Gwaine said, settling beside him with a wineskin, "declaring eternal love in front of druids and sorcerers isn't exactly keeping things subtle."

"Subtlety has never been my strong suit," Arthur replied, accepting the wine gratefully. "Besides, it's a bit late for secrets now."

"Good thing, too. Because if you'd hurt him after all this - after we saw what losing him did to you - I'd have had to kill you myself. King or not."

Arthur looked at his friend, seeing the absolute sincerity in Gwaine's eyes. "You'd have had to get in line. I think Gwen claimed first rights to my execution if I broke his heart."

"Fair enough." Gwaine was quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. "So what happens now? Can't exactly go back to the way things were."

"No," Arthur agreed, his hand unconsciously moving to where the locket had rested, now empty of its precious burden. "We can't. But maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe it's time for something better."

Inside the tent, he could hear Merlin moving restlessly, making small sounds of distress that spoke of dreams not entirely pleasant. Arthur rose without conscious thought, needing to offer what comfort he could.

"Go," Gwaine said quietly. "He needs you. And honestly, you both look like hell. Some actual rest might do you good."

Arthur nodded his thanks and slipped into the tent, finding Merlin tossing fitfully on the simple bedroll. Even in sleep, lines of strain marked his face, and his hands were clenched as if holding onto something precious.

"Merlin," Arthur said softly, settling beside him. "It's all right. You're safe."

Blue eyes opened, immediately alert despite the exhaustion Arthur could see weighing on him. "Arthur? Is everything - "

"Fine. Everything's fine." Arthur reached out, hesitating only a moment before letting his hand rest on Merlin's shoulder. "Bad dreams?"

"Fragments. Memories trying to sort themselves out." Merlin's gaze found his, vulnerable in the dim light. "I keep expecting to wake up and find this was all another trial, another test designed to break me."

"It's real," Arthur assured him, letting his thumb trace small circles on Merlin's shoulder. "You're back. You're safe. And I meant what I said - all of it."

"I know. I can feel it, somehow. The truth of it." Merlin's hand found Arthur's free one, their fingers intertwining with careful reverence. "I love you too, you know. Have for years. I just never thought..."

"That I could love you back?" Arthur's chest tightened with old pain, understanding now how much his blindness had cost them both. "I was an idiot. A blind, stubborn fool who didn't see what was right in front of him."

"You saw what you needed to see when it mattered," Merlin corrected gently. "That's what brought me back - knowing that when the choice came, you chose me. Just me, not the destiny or the prophecy or the power. Me."

Arthur lay down beside him, not caring about propriety or protocol. They'd gone far beyond such considerations in the past days. "Always you," he said quietly. "From the beginning, it was always you. I just didn't understand what that meant."

They lay together in comfortable silence, hands linked between them like an anchor. Outside, the druid camp settled into peaceful rest, songs of celebration giving way to the quiet sounds of night. Arthur felt something ease in his chest that had been wound tight for days - the terror of loss, the desperate fear that he'd never again see intelligence and warmth in those beloved blue eyes.

"What happens when we get back to Camelot?" Merlin asked quietly.

Arthur considered the question, thinking of his father's laws, the court's expectations, the delicate politics of ruling a kingdom balanced on the edge of change. "I don't know," he admitted. "But we'll figure it out. Together."

"Your father - "

"Will have to accept that his son has grown beyond his expectations," Arthur said firmly. "The laws will change, Merlin. They have to. What we've learned, what we've seen... I can't go back to pretending magic is inherently evil when I've seen what you've done with it."

Merlin was quiet for a long moment. "And us? What we are to each other?"

Arthur's grip on his hand tightened. "That's between us and no one else. Let them speculate if they want - they've been doing it for years anyway, according to Gwaine. What matters is what we know, what we choose."

"And what do we choose?"

Arthur turned on his side, studying Merlin's face in the dim light. "To stop hiding. To stop pretending we're less than we are to each other. To build something real and honest and worth the battles we'll have to fight for it."

Merlin's smile was soft and wondering. "I'd like that. More than I can say."

"Then that's what we'll do." Arthur leaned closer, letting his forehead rest against Merlin's. "But first, we sleep. Really sleep, not that hollow mockery you've been doing. Dream properly, with me here to chase away the nightmares."

"Stay?" Merlin asked, vulnerability threading through the simple word.

"Always," Arthur promised, the vow carrying the weight of everything they'd survived to reach this moment. "From now on, always."

Merlin's eyes fluttered closed, his breathing gradually evening out into the natural rhythm of genuine rest. Arthur watched over him as he'd been unable to do for the past terrible days, memorizing every detail of his sleeping face, cataloguing the subtle differences that marked his return to full humanity.

The crisis was over. The soul was restored, the man he loved breathing peacefully beside him. But Arthur knew this was only the beginning - the first step in building a life together that would require courage and determination and all the love they could muster.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new obstacles to overcome. There would be laws to change, minds to convince, a kingdom to guide toward a more enlightened future. There would be political battles and personal struggles, moments of doubt and tests of faith.

But tonight, they had peace. Tonight, they had each other. And that was enough - more than enough. It was everything.

Arthur closed his eyes and let sleep take him, one hand still linked with Merlin's, ready to face whatever came next as long as they faced it together.

Chapter Text

The druids gave them three days.

Three days of peace while Merlin recovered, while Arthur tried to reconcile the servant he'd known with the sorcerer he'd discovered. Three days of careful conversations and more careful silences, of relearning boundaries that had shifted beyond recognition into uncharted territory that left Arthur feeling like he was walking on ground that might give way beneath his feet at any moment.

On the first day, Merlin slept.

Arthur kept vigil by his bedside with the desperate intensity of a man guarding something infinitely precious and almost lost. He left only when Gwen physically dragged him away to eat - her small hands surprisingly strong as they gripped his arm and hauled him from the tent despite his protests.

"He needs rest more than he needs you hovering," she said firmly, steering him toward the central fire where the druids had laid out food that smelled of herbs and home. "And you need food more than you need to torture yourself watching him breathe."

Arthur wanted to argue, to insist that someone needed to watch, to make sure Merlin didn't slip away again in some horrible reversal of their hard-won victory. But the logic was sound, even if it felt like abandoning his post. He forced himself to eat without tasting, to engage in conversation that felt hollow, all while part of his attention remained tethered to the tent where Merlin lay unconscious.

When he returned, nothing had changed. Merlin still lay on his side, face peaceful in a way it hadn't been since the soul stone had taken him. Arthur settled back into his chair, watching the rise and fall of his chest with the sort of desperate attention usually reserved for siege watches. Each breath felt like a small miracle, proof that the ritual had truly worked, that Merlin's soul had chosen to return rather than seek the peace of Avalon.

Sometimes Merlin would murmur words in the Old Tongue, voice soft and distant as if he were speaking to someone Arthur couldn't see. When it happened, objects around the tent would shift restlessly - the water pitcher rotating on its stand, candles flickering despite the still air, Arthur's sword humming faintly in its scabbard. The magic responded to Merlin's dreams, seeking some outlet for the power that had been disrupted by days of separation.

"His magic seeks balance," Iseldir explained when Arthur asked, the old druid's voice carrying the weight of ancient knowledge. "For days, it existed without the soul that shapes it, animated his body through pure instinct and purpose. Now they must relearn each other, soul and power finding their harmony again."

The explanation should have been reassuring, but Arthur found himself cataloguing each magical fluctuation with growing unease. What if the reunion wasn't as complete as they'd hoped? What if some fundamental part of Merlin had been damaged by the separation? The questions gnawed at him through the long hours of watching, feeding fears he didn't dare voice aloud.

On the second day, Merlin awoke properly.

Arthur had dozed fitfully in his chair, chin dropping toward his chest as exhaustion finally claimed him. He jerked awake to find Merlin’s eyes open, blinking blearily at the roof of the tent. Blue eyes—wonderfully, perfectly, completely blue—without a trace of the golden emptiness that had replaced them for those terrible days. His chest tightened with relief so profound it left him momentarily speechless. For a heartbeat that stretched like eternity, he could only drink in the sight of awareness in those eyes, the subtle animation that marked the return of the soul that had been missing.

"You're staring," Merlin said, voice rough from sleep but unmistakably present, unmistakably him.

"You're awake," Arthur managed finally, the words inadequate for the tsunami of emotion crashing through him.

"Observant as always, Sire." The familiar sarcasm was there, but muted, uncertain - like someone testing their voice after a long illness. Merlin's gaze moved around the tent, taking in the druid decorations, the soft furs beneath him, the careful arrangements that spoke of extended care. "How long was I gone?"

The question pierced through Arthur's careful composure like ice water in his veins, carrying implications he wasn't ready to examine. Gone. As if Merlin had traveled somewhere far away rather than simply lost his soul to magical imprisonment. Which, Arthur supposed with growing horror, might not be far from the truth.

"Nine days," Arthur said, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "Nine very long days where I wasn't sure..." He cut himself off before he could complete the thought, before he could voice the terror that had lived in his chest like a second heartbeat.

Merlin struggled to sit up, movements unsteady as if his body had forgotten how to coordinate properly. Arthur moved automatically to help him, hands steady on his shoulders, and they froze like that - touching but not quite touching, caught between old patterns of easy physicality and new knowledge that made every contact feel weighted with meaning.

The warmth of Merlin's skin beneath his palms was real, human, alive. Arthur found himself cataloguing details with desperate intensity: the familiar breadth of those shoulders, the texture of rough cloth beneath his fingers, the way Merlin's breathing hitched slightly at the contact. All proof that this was real, that Merlin had truly returned to himself.

"I should - " Merlin began, then stopped, seeming unsure how to finish the sentence. Should what? Apologize? Explain? Pretend nothing had changed when everything had shifted beyond recognition?

"You should eat," Gwen interrupted, entering the tent with a wooden tray balanced in her hands. Her voice carried the sort of brisk practicality that had gotten them all through countless crises, but Arthur caught the relief in her eyes as she took in Merlin's alertness. "And stop looking at each other like startled deer. Honestly, boys."

She set the food down with pointed emphasis, the soft thunk of wood against wood somehow managing to convey both affection and exasperation. Steam rose from a bowl of what looked like stew, aromatic with herbs Arthur didn't recognize, and fresh bread sat beside it along with a clay cup of something that smelled of honey and healing.

"Iseldir says you need to rebuild your strength slowly," Gwen continued, settling onto a cushion with the ease of someone used to making herself at home anywhere. "Apparently reuniting soul and body takes more out of a person than one might expect."

Arthur felt a spike of concern. "Are you experiencing pain? Weakness? Should we call for - "

"I'm fine," Merlin said quickly, but Arthur noticed how his hands trembled slightly as he reached for the bread. "Just... everything feels strange. Like putting on clothes that don't quite fit anymore."

The analogy sent an uncomfortable chill down Arthur's spine. What if the reunion hadn't been as seamless as they'd hoped? What if some part of Merlin had been lost in the days of separation?

Gwen squeezed Arthur's arm, her touch gentle but pointed. "I'll leave you to eat," she said meaningfully. "But Arthur, you need rest too. Real rest, not whatever you've been doing in that chair."

She left them alone with their thoughts and the weight of things unsaid. Merlin picked at the bread, clearly struggling with what to say or how to begin navigating this new reality where his deepest secret had been exposed and Arthur's feelings laid bare for all to witness.

"I'm sorry," Merlin offered finally. "For lying. For... all of it."

Arthur felt something twist in his chest - not anger, but a complex mixture of understanding and regret that was harder to process than simple fury would have been. "Are you sorry for saving my life? Repeatedly?"

"No." Merlin met his eyes, and Arthur saw a flash of the fierce protectiveness that had always lurked beneath his servant's mask. "Never for that."

"Then stop apologizing." Arthur shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with the weight of things unsaid. The tent felt too small suddenly, the air too heavy with unspoken truths and carefully maintained distances. "We both kept secrets. We both had reasons. What matters is what we do now."

"And what do we do now?" The question carried genuine uncertainty, and Arthur realized with growing unease that he didn't have an answer ready.

How did one rebuild a relationship when its very foundation had shifted? How did they navigate the space between servant and equal, between hidden magic and open power, between friendship and whatever this growing awareness between them might become?

We do what we always do, Arthur thought. We muddle through together and hope for the best.

But the thought felt inadequate in the face of the changes that had reshaped everything between them.

Merlin couldn’t shake the feeling that the world felt wrong.

Not wrong in the way of sickness or injury - Merlin's body was healing, his strength returning with each careful meal and hour of rest. Wrong in the way of a song sung in a different key, familiar but strange, recognizable but somehow off in ways that made his soul itch with discomfort. He could feel his magic as he usually did, but it also felt unsettled. Restless.

Everything looked the same. The tent walls with their simple patterns, the soft furs beneath him, Arthur's face creased with concern and sleeplessness. But underneath the familiar surface, reality vibrated with new frequencies that Merlin couldn't quite understand.

Different, whispered a voice in his head that sounded like wind through ancient stone circles, thrumming with power. Changed. We are changed.

Merlin nearly choked on his bread. The voice wasn't quite his own thoughts, though it felt intimately connected to him. It carried the weight of vast spaces and deep earth, of power that had touched sky and sea, and in one mind-bending blip of time, he felt untethered. He wasn’t himself, he was molten rock, flame, and the stones of the earth were his bones, the winds his breath, the waters of the deep his blood --

And then he was back, solid and grounded in his own skin. What - he began to think, dizzily, then stopped, suddenly aware that Arthur in front of him, grasping his arms, calling his name.

"I'm fine," Merlin said automatically, though his voice felt distant. The voice in his head - his magic, he realized with growing alarm - murmured with the sound of shifting pebbles.

Fine, it repeated. We are many things, but fine is not among them.

"You're are not fine," Arthur said firmly. "What's wrong? You went completely still and blank, as if –“ His grip on Merlin’s arms tightened but not painfully. Arthur peered into his eyes, as if searching. “Should I call for Iseldir?"

Merlin wanted to laugh or cry or possibly both. How could he explain that his magic had apparently developed its own voice during their separation? That it now spoke to him like a separate entity rather than simply flowing through him as it always had?

It is as I told Arthur after you were ripped away from me. We are meant to be the same, I in you and you in me. Though you have been returned to me, we are not fully one as we once were.

Great. Fantastic, Merlin thought desperately. But could you not do whatever the hell that was when other people are around?

Other people, the voice repeated thoughtfully, and Merlin realized with a start that it was speaking in his own voice. Arthur. The Golden One. The Heart-Home. We understand now why you chose flesh over eternity.

Heat flooded Merlin's face as memories crashed through him - Arthur's voice in the cave, calling him back from the edge of Avalon with words that had remade Merlin's understanding of everything between them.

"Merlin." Arthur's voice was sharper now, edged with the particular concern that meant he was preparing to call for help whether Merlin wanted it or not. "Talk to me. What's happening?"

"It's..." Merlin struggled for words that would explain without sounding completely mad. "My magic. It's different. Since the reunion. It's like..." He paused, searching for an analogy that might make sense. "Like it learned things while we were separated. And now it won't stop talking."

Arthur's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline, and he leaned back, releasing his arms. "Talking?"

"Not out loud," Merlin said quickly. "In my head. The voice – it’s mine, it sounds like me, but it doesn’t talk like me. Commenting on things.” Giving me out-of-body experiences, he didn’t say out loud, because the look on Arthur’s face was growing increasingly worried. He rubbed his temples, feeling the beginning of a headache. It's… very distracting."

I have spent days learning the shape of devotion, the voice said, and now I wish to understand.

Understand what? Merlin demanded silently.

Why flesh matters more than power. Why you choose limitation over freedom. Why the Golden One's presence makes the very air sing with possibility.

Merlin's face burned hotter. Of all the side effects he might have expected from soul restoration, having his magic develop romantic curiosity hadn't been among them.

"Merlin," Arthur said, leaning forward again with the sort of focused attention that meant he was sliding into protective mode. "Is your magic... unstable? Dangerous?"

"No," Merlin said quickly, recognizing the fear in Arthur's voice. "Not dangerous. Just... chatty?"

“Chatty,” Arthur repeated incredulously. He looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but before he could, the tent flap rustled and Iseldir entered, his ancient face creased with concern that shifted to puzzlement as he took in their expressions.

"What troubles you?" the druid elder asked, settling onto a cushion with the careful movements of great age. "You both look unsettled."

"My magic," Merlin said, gesturing helplessly. "It's... talking to me. Offering commentary on things."

Iseldir's eyes widened. "Talking? As in speaking words?"

"Yes. In my head. Like a separate voice with its own thoughts and opinions."

Opinions, the voice interjected with dignified offense. I prefer 'insights' or 'observations of profound wisdom.'

"It just did it again," Merlin said weakly.

Iseldir sat in stunned silence for a long moment, his weathered face cycling through expressions of surprise, confusion, and growing concern. "In all my years," he said slowly, "in all the texts and teachings passed down through generations of druids, I have never heard of such a thing."

"Is it dangerous?" Arthur pressed, his protective instincts clearly in overdrive.

"I... truly don't know," Iseldir admitted, his voice carrying the discomfort of someone accustomed to having answers finding himself without them. "What does it say? What manner of things does it discuss?"

Merlin's face flushed crimson. "It's very interested in my... personal relationships. And it has strong opinions about Arthur."

“Strong opinions?” Arthur asked, his eyebrows lifting with incredulity.

The Golden One radiates warmth like captured sunlight, the voice offered helpfully. I find his protective fury quite stirring.

"It called Arthur 'the Golden One' just now," Merlin said, feeling like he wanted to disappear into the tent floor. Arthur looked like he’d been slapped in the face with a live fish, and didn’t know whether to laugh or send someone to the stocks.

Iseldir stared at him, then at Arthur, then back at Merlin. "This is... unprecedented. Your magic developed some form of consciousness during the separation—that much I theorized might happen. But for it to retain that awareness after reunification, to speak as though it were a separate entity..." He trailed off, clearly out of his depth.

"So you don't know if it's permanent?" Arthur asked.

"I don't know anything about this," Iseldir said. "Your magic was always unusual, Merlin—more integrated with your very essence than most. But this..." He shook his head. "This is uncharted territory. You may be the first to experience such a thing."

Uncharted territory, the magic-voice mused. I like the sound of that. Exploration. Discovery. Learning why the Golden One's smile seems to affect atmospheric pressure around us without actually doing so.

Merlin buried his face in his hands and groaned. "This is going to take some getting used to."

Arthur made an affirmative grunt, and Merlin looked up to see him looking back with a small, rueful grin. “Nothing is ever easy with you, is it, Merlin?”

Merlin tilted his head in acknowledgement, and though he felt exhausted, strained, and not a little scared of what it all meant, he gave Arthur a cheeky grin. “Can’t have you getting bored, Sire. You’d get all sour and grumpy.”

Arthur threw his head back and laughed, and Merlin felt his magic respond just as he did – with a burst of surprised happiness – and thought maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to get used to after all.

The third day brought revelations that Arthur wasn't sure he was ready to face.

They sat by the camp's central fire as afternoon shadows lengthened around them, the druids having given them space with the sort of tactful understanding that spoke of long experience with emotional complexity; of uncertainty about new boundaries.

"I don't remember most of it," Merlin admitted, his voice carrying a hollow quality that made Arthur's chest tighten. "Only what I’ve gleaned from my magic’s… memories, I suppose. Fragments."

Arthur studied his friend's profile, noting the fine lines of strain around his eyes, the way his shoulders carried tension that hadn't been there before. "What kind of fragments?"

"Images. Sensations." Merlin's hands clenched and unclenched in his lap. "Fighting, but not... not feeling anything about it. Moving through the castle like I belonged there but not caring about the people I passed. And you..." He glanced at Arthur, then away. "You were always there, always the center of everything, but it was like looking at you through thick glass. I could see you but not really see you."

Arthur watched Merlin’s face grow pinched, and slightly irritated -- an expression he was beginning to associate with whenever Merlin’s magic was talking to him, and couldn’t help but wonder what it was saying.

"You were..." He searched for words that could capture the horror of those days. "Empty. Powerful beyond imagining, but empty. You spoke, moved, fought, but it wasn't you. It was like watching someone wear your face while your soul was trapped elsewhere."

"Well, that’s essentially what it was, wasn’t it?" Merlin said, his smile bitter as winter wind. "Must have been a relief. No more clumsy servant dropping things and answering back."

"Don't." The word came out sharper than Arthur intended, edged with a fury that surprised them both. The memory of those hollow days crashed over him - the desperate vigil, the constant fear, the way his chest had ached with the loss of something he'd never properly valued until it was gone. "Don't you dare suggest I wanted that."

Merlin's eyes widened at his vehemence, blue depths reflecting the firelight.

"You think I wanted that hollow thing wearing your face?" Arthur continued, unable to stop now that he'd started, the words pouring out like water from a broken dam. "You think I preferred the weapon to the man? He was everything you said - powerful, completely devoted to protecting me."

Arthur's hands clenched in his lap, knuckles white with the force of memory. "And I hated every second of it. Because it wasn't you. The you who calls me names and challenges my decisions and makes me want to be better than I am. The you who trips over your own feet and burns breakfast and somehow still manages to save my life with alarming regularity."

"Arthur - " Merlin started, but Arthur wasn't finished.

"He could have torn apart armies without breaking a sweat, but he couldn't smile. Couldn't roll his eyes at my royal pratishness or come up with ridiculous explanations for why you happened to be in exactly the right place at exactly the right time to prevent disaster." Arthur's voice roughened with emotion he'd been holding back for days. "I would rather face a thousand threats with you fumbling, than be perfectly safe with that empty shell."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of Arthur's admission. The fire crackled, sending sparks spiraling up into the darkening sky, and somewhere in the distance, druids chanted in the Old Tongue.

"I meant what I said," Arthur said finally, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "When I was calling you back. Every word."

The admission hung in the air between them like a bridge neither quite dared to cross. Arthur watched Merlin's face cycle through expressions - surprise, wonder, something that might have been hope, followed quickly by uncertainty that spoke of years of hiding feelings too dangerous to acknowledge.

"You called me an idiot," Merlin said finally, his voice carrying a thread of humor that made Arthur's chest ease slightly. "In front of druids and sorcerers and everyone."

"You are an idiot." Arthur found himself smiling back, the expression feeling like sunlight after a storm. "Only you would get your soul stolen protecting me from a third-rate sorcerer."

"Third-rate?" Merlin's eyebrows shot up in indignant protest. "He had an ancient artifact of unimaginable power!"

"Which he didn't even know how to use properly," Arthur pointed out. "Honestly, if you're going to get yourself nearly killed, at least do it fighting someone competent."

"I'll make a note for next time," Merlin said dryly.

They were bickering. It felt like breathing after days of drowning, the familiar rhythm of challenge and response that had defined their relationship for years. But underneath the comfortable pattern was something new - an awareness that crackled between them like electricity, making Arthur notice things he'd always seen but never allowed himself to acknowledge.

The way firelight caught in Merlin's hair, turning the edges of his dark locks to burnished copper. The elegant movement of his hands when he gestured, graceful despite their obvious tremor. The fond exasperation in his voice that sounded like home and safety and everything Arthur had feared losing forever.

He's beautiful, Arthur thought with the sort of devastating clarity that came from almost losing something precious. How did I never let myself see how beautiful he is?

"We can't… I can’t…” Merlin paused, then took a deep. shuddering breath. “How do we go back?" he asked quietly. "Your knights know. The council knows. All of Camelot probably knows by now."

The reminder of political reality crashed over Arthur like cold water, dragging him back from the dangerous territory of personal revelation to the practical concerns of ruling a kingdom on the brink of monumental change.

"They do," Arthur confirmed, his voice taking on the careful neutrality he used for discussing sensitive political matters. "When we left Camelot, the reaction was... mixed."

"How mixed?" There was carefully controlled fear in Merlin's voice, the terror of someone who had lived their entire life hiding from persecution.

Arthur weighed his words carefully, wanting to be honest without adding to Merlin's obvious anxiety. "Well… Some of Uther’s men called for your execution – but I will never let that happen,” he hastened to assure, seeing Merlin pale. “Others want to make you court sorcerer. A few started leaving offerings at your old room,,” he said, huffing a laugh, “which is disturbing on multiple levels, and started to drive Gaius mad."

Merlin groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I just wanted to protect you. I never meant for any of this to happen."

"I know." Arthur hesitated, then placed a hand on Merlin's shoulder, feeling the tension there like coiled wire. "But maybe it's time. Maybe hiding was never the answer."

"Your father - "

"Is broken," Arthur said firmly, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. "Lost in his own mind, trapped by grief and guilt over Morgana's betrayal. And even if he wasn't, I'm not him. I've seen what fear and hatred lead to - kingdoms torn apart by suspicion, families destroyed by prejudice, power corrupted by the very thing it claims to fight."

Arthur's hand tightened on Merlin's shoulder, anchoring them both. "I won't repeat his mistakes."

Merlin looked up at him with such naked hope it took Arthur's breath away. "You mean that?"

"I've been thinking about it - really thinking, not just reacting from fear or tradition." Arthur's voice grew stronger with conviction. "The laws need to change. Not all at once - that would cause chaos, possibly civil war. But gradually, carefully. Starting with pardons for magic used in Camelot's defense."

He met Merlin's eyes directly. "Starting with you."

"Arthur, I..." Merlin's voice caught, and Arthur saw the shine of unshed tears. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll come back with me." The words came out more desperate than Arthur had intended, carrying the weight of every fear he'd harbored about Merlin's response to freedom. "Not as my servant - we both know that was always a convenient fiction. Come back as... whatever you are. Advisor, protector, court sorcerer if you want the title. Just come back."

"As if I could stay away," Merlin said softly. "Where you go, I follow. Always have."

The admission hung between them, weighted with years of unspoken truth and devotion that transcended any formal bond of service. Arthur thought about the soul stone, about what it had revealed regarding the depth of Merlin's feelings, about his own desperate words in the cave that had stripped away every careful wall he'd built around his heart.

They were dancing around the edges of something vast and terrifying and wonderful, but Arthur found himself reluctant to push forward too quickly. Too much had changed too fast. They needed time to find their footing, space to navigate whatever this growing awareness between them might become.

But not yet. Not here, in a druid camp with curious eyes and listening ears. Not while the shadow of near-loss still hung over them like smoke. When they finally addressed what lay between them - and Arthur was beginning to accept that they would, eventually - it needed to happen in privacy, without the weight of recent trauma coloring every word.

"Tomorrow, then," Arthur said, releasing Merlin's shoulder with reluctance that spoke volumes. "We return to Camelot."

"Tomorrow," Merlin agreed, and something in his voice suggested he understood the layers of meaning in Arthur's restraint.

That night, the druids held a feast in their honor that transformed the simple camp into something approaching a celebration hall. Emrys had been returned to them, the great prophecy remained on track, and the Once and Future King had proven himself worthy of the title through choices made in love rather than duty.

They sat around camp fires, and were served delicious food fine enough to grace a king’s table. Musicians emerged from tents with instruments that sang with otherworldly beauty, their melodies weaving between the ancient trees like living things. Children who hadn't been visible during the day appeared with faces bright with curiosity and wonder, clustering around Merlin with the fearless fascination of the very young.

Arthur watched from his place of honor as Merlin demonstrated simple spells for the children, sparks dancing between his fingers like captive stars, flowers blooming from apparently barren soil, small flames that changed color at his whim. The joy on Merlin's face at using magic openly, without fear or concealment, was radiant enough to outshine the torches that illuminated their gathering.

This is what he could have been all along, Arthur thought with a pang of regret that cut deep. This is what my father's laws stole from him - the right to be himself without shame or fear.

Songs rose in the Old Tongue that made Merlin blush. When Arthur demanded translations, Merlin stuttered a bit, explaining that the druids sang of destiny and love, of souls finding their way home across impossible distances, of kings who chose wisdom over tradition and sorcerers who chose service over power, but from the color flushing high on Merlin’s cheeks, Arthur got the distinct impression he was getting only part of the story.

Ceryndra and her companions joined them for the first time since the cave, and Arthur found his wariness of them had faded. They'd helped when they could have hindered, offered trust when suspicion would have been safer. Now they sat among the druids as if they'd always belonged, adding their voices to songs that seemed to make the very air shimmer with possibility.

"You did well," Ceryndra told Arthur as the evening wound down, her voice carrying approval that felt like a benediction. "Not many would have been so honest in their calling."

"I didn't have a choice," Arthur said, watching Merlin across the fire as he listened to an elderly druid tell stories that made his eyes widen with wonder. "When it came down to it, there was only one choice I could make."

"There's always a choice," she corrected gently. "You chose love over pride. Truth over comfort. Your kingdom will be greater for it."

"If we survive the transition," Arthur said, allowing some of his political concerns to show. The euphoria of success was fading, replaced by the daunting reality of the future they'd committed themselves to. "Change is never easy, especially change this fundamental."

"You will survive," Ceryndra said with the certainty of someone who had seen the future written in starlight. "You have Emrys beside you - magic incarnate, willing to reshape the world for your sake. And more than that, you have Merlin. The man beneath the power, who chose you above his own freedom."

She rose to leave, then paused, her expression growing serious. "A word of advice?"

"Of course."

"When you return to Camelot, be clear in your intentions." Her eyes found Merlin across the fire, then returned to Arthur with uncomfortable penetration. "Half-measures and noble hesitation will only cause pain. You've acknowledged your heart in the extremity of crisis - now act on it in the calm of safety."

She left him with that wisdom, and Arthur spent the rest of the evening trying not to overthink it while failing spectacularly. His eyes kept finding Merlin, and every time they did, Merlin was looking back with an expression that spoke of hope and uncertainty in equal measure.

The weight of choice pressed down on Arthur's shoulders, a mantle of duty. Soon - very soon - they would have to address what lay between them. The question was whether Arthur could find the courage to speak truths that felt too vast for words.

The next day broke with the bright sun burning away the morning mist, bringing with it the reality of return and all the challenges that awaited them in Camelot. They prepared to leave as dawn painted the sky in shades of hope and trepidation, the camp stirring to life around them with the quiet efficiency of people accustomed to farewells.

Arthur found himself moving through the familiar rituals of departure - checking gear, securing supplies, ensuring the horses were ready for travel - while his mind churned with growing anxiety about what they'd face in Camelot. The druids' delight in Merlin's magic was one thing; convincing a kingdom raised on fear and suspicion would be quite another.

The horses were saddled and stamping, their breath steaming in the cool morning air. Supplies were packed with the careful efficiency that came from long practice. But Arthur found himself reluctant to give the order to mount up, to begin the journey that would take them back to political reality and all its accompanying dangers.

Iseldir pulled Arthur aside before they departed, the old druid's weathered face grave with the weight of prophecy and warning.

"You carry more than yourselves back to Camelot," he said, his voice pitched low enough that only Arthur could hear. "You carry the possibility of reconciliation between our peoples. The hope that magic and mundane might find peace after generations of war. Don't let fear diminish what you've begun."

"I won't," Arthur promised, though the words felt insufficient in the face of such enormous responsibility.

"And Prince Arthur?" Iseldir's eyes gleamed with hard-won wisdom. "The young warlock has been alone with his secret for so long, he may not know how to be himself openly, and with this complication of his magic gaining a voice… Be patient with him as he learns. Some walls, once built, take time to come down."

Arthur nodded, understanding more than was said. Merlin had worn masks for so long that removing them would be as disorienting as any physical change. The process of revealing himself openly would require patience from them all.

The two-day ride back to Camelot was different from their desperate flight out - measured rather than frantic, filled with conversation rather than grim silence. They traveled at a pace that allowed for thought and discussion, no longer racing against death but moving purposefully toward an uncertain future.

Merlin rode beside Arthur. Their knees brushed occasionally as their horses moved, and neither pulled away from the contact. It was a small thing, but in the context of everything that had changed between them, it felt momentous.

The first day of the journey home passed peacefully, if all too quickly. The second day, Arthur couldn’t help but notice that Merlin seemed to grow more anxious with every step. Then at times, his gaze would seem to glaze over, and when Arthur prodded to know if he was alright, he would blink and, with a small, sheepish grin, say that he and his magic were getting reacquainted.

“It’s really talking to you?” Gwaine asked. “What is it saying?”

Merlin shrugged, an obvious attempt to play it off as nothing to worry about. “Mostly it’s just curious. Asking a lot of questions about what it experienced when we were separated…” He trailed off, staring into space again before blinking and shaking his head.

“That definitely sounds unusual, mate,” Gwaine said, and Percival and Elyon both huffed soft laughs at the understatement.

“As long as it’s not causing you any harm,” Lancelot said.

Merlin laughed. “It’s fine, it’s not bad, it’s just… just very strange. I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s me… I mean, I recognize it, feel that it’s part of me, it even has my voice… but it’s struggling to understand human experiences. It wants to know, and I… I have a lot of questions of my own, about – about my magic and why it’s so different from every other magic user I’ve ever encountered.”

Arthur nudged his horse closer to Merlin’s until their knees were brushing again, and Merlin looked at him with the expression Arthur inwardly and affectionally called his “startled stoat” look.

“I can’t claim to understand it, since this seems to be an experience unique to you,” he said, then deliberately echoed words he had heard from Merlin directed at himself time and again.
“But you're not alone. You have people who will stand beside you.” He grinned as the others  agreed vociferously. “And,” he said softly, “you have me.”

Merlin’s eyes glistened with a sheen of tears, but he smiled as he looked down, almost shyly, a hint of warm incredulity lighting his expression. “Thank you, Arthur.”

The day passed, and all too soon, Camelot's towers appeared on the horizon, pale stone gleaming red in the late afternoon sun like a beacon calling them home.

Gwen rode up on Merlin’s other side, giving him a pensive smile. "Are you ready for this?" she asked.

"No," Merlin admitted with devastating honesty. "I've spent years hiding what I am. The thought of walking in there with everyone knowing..." He shuddered, his hands tightening on his reins. "I keep expecting someone to shout 'sorcerer' and reach for a sword."

"But it’s as Arthur said. You won't be alone," Lancelot promised, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "We stand with you."

"All of us," Leon added firmly, his soldier's bearing asserting itself as he straightened in his saddle. "You've protected Camelot in secret for years. Now we protect you openly."

"Besides," Elyan said with a wry smile, "after what we've all been through, I think we can handle a few nervous courtiers."

Percival nodded gravely. "Anyone who has a problem with you will have to go through us first. All of us."

"I say we should make a grand entrance," Gwaine suggested, grinning. "Merlin floating in on a cloud of sparkles or something. Really lean into the whole powerful sorcerer thing. Strike fear into the hearts of your enemies and all that."

"Absolutely not," Merlin said, looking horrified by the suggestion.

"Just a few sparkles?" Gwaine pressed. "Maybe some dramatic wind effects?"

"What about making the gates open by themselves?" Elyan suggested with mock seriousness. "Very mysterious and impressive."

"Or turning your eyes gold as we ride through," Percival added, his usual stoicism cracking to reveal a hint of mischief. "Let them know exactly who they're dealing with."

"No," Merlin said firmly, though Arthur caught the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth. "I'm not turning my return to Camelot into a theatrical production."

"You're no fun now that you're all official and magical," Gwaine complained, but his tone carried affection rather than real disappointment.

Their banter continued as they approached the gates, the familiar rhythm of friendship helping to ease the tension that had been building with each mile. But Arthur could feel Merlin's anxiety rising as the walls of Camelot grew larger, the reality of exposure settling over him like a weight.

When the guards saw them coming, there was a moment of stillness - recognition followed by uncertainty as they processed the implications of Merlin riding beside the king regent. Then the gates opened with their familiar groan of ancient hinges, and what seemed like half the city was waiting beyond.

The crowd was silent, watching with the sort of careful attention that spoke of news already spread and opinions already forming. Arthur saw fear on some faces, awe on others, curiosity on many. All focused on Merlin, who sat straighter in his saddle but couldn't hide the fine tremor that ran through his hands.

This is it, Arthur thought, feeling the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders. The first test of whether Camelot can change, whether its people can look beyond fear to see the man who's protected them for years.

Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a child's voice piped up with the fearless unfiltered honesty that only the very young possessed: "Is that the one who made the pretty lights? When the bad men came?"

"Shh," her mother hushed, but the damage was done. The child's words rippled through the crowd like a stone dropped in still water, breaking the silence and releasing the tension that had held everyone frozen.

Others began to murmur - tentative at first, then with growing confidence as memories surfaced. Stories of strange luck and impossible saves, of the quiet servant who was always there when needed but never took credit for the miracles that followed in his wake.

An old merchant stepped forward, one Arthur recognized from the lower town markets. His face was weathered by years of honest work, his hands scarred from his trade, but his eyes held the clarity of someone speaking an important truth.

"You saved my grandson," he said to Merlin, his voice carrying across the courtyard with surprising strength. "Three summers ago. The fever should have killed him, but you... you were there. Helped the healer, you said, but I saw the glow beneath the door. I knew."

More voices rose - tentative at first, then stronger as people found the courage to speak truths they'd kept hidden. Stories of quiet interventions, of magic used not for power or conquest but for protection and healing. A baker whose ovens had never failed when Merlin was near. A mother whose difficult birth had gone smoothly after the prince's servant had offered to help. Children who'd fallen from dangerous heights but somehow landed safely, with no one able to explain why.

Not everyone spoke kindly - Arthur heard mutters of "sorcerer" and "deceiver" from corners of the crowd, voices sharp with fear and suspicion. But they were outnumbered by those beginning to understand that the magic they'd been taught to fear had been working quietly among them for years, asking for nothing but the chance to serve.

"Thank you," someone called out from the back of the crowd. Then another voice joined it, and another, until it became a chorus that seemed to echo off the ancient stones of Camelot's walls.

Arthur watched Merlin's face cycle through expressions of disbelief, wonder, and something that might have been the beginning of hope. His eyes were wide, taking in the faces around them - people he'd served in secret for years, finally able to acknowledge what he'd done for them.

"They know you," Arthur said quietly, his voice pitched for Merlin's ears alone. "The real you. Let them see that magic isn't what they've been taught to fear."

Merlin's hands shook as he dismounted, movements careful and deliberate under the weight of so many watching eyes. Arthur followed suit, and together they walked through the crowd, accepting thanks and weathering suspicious looks with equal grace. Some people reached out to touch Merlin's sleeve as he passed, as if seeking blessing or confirmation that he was real. Others stepped back, crossing themselves or making old signs against evil, but they didn't flee.

By the time they reached the citadel steps, Merlin looked overwhelmed but hopeful, his face flushed with an emotion Arthur couldn't quite name. Relief, perhaps, or the beginning of something like freedom.

"That was..." Merlin started, then stopped, clearly at a loss for words.

"A beginning," Arthur finished, his own chest tight with emotion. "The first step toward something better."

We did this, Arthur thought with growing wonder. We changed everything, and somehow the world didn't end.

Overwhelming, Merlin’s magic whispered as they climbed the steps to the citadel. So many voices, so many feelings. How do you bear it all?

Practice, Merlin thought back wearily. Years and years of practice.

But now they know. Now you can be yourself among them. Isn't that what you wanted?

The question stopped Merlin cold. What had he wanted? For so long, his desires had been simple: keep Arthur safe, keep his secret, serve Camelot from the shadows. The idea of being himself openly had been so impossible he'd never allowed himself to truly want it.

I don't know, he admitted to his magic. I never let myself think about it.

Think about it now, the voice urged with gentle insistence. The Golden One has given you freedom. What will you do with it?

Before Merlin could formulate an answer, they were inside the citadel, and political reality crashed over him like a cold wave. The council was waiting - had been waiting, Merlin realized with growing dread. Lord Cynric's chair stood empty, a stark reminder of the price of opposition, but the other nobles watched with expressions ranging from wary acceptance to barely concealed hostility.

"My lords," Arthur began, his voice taking on the formal cadence of royal authority. "I have returned from successfully retrieving what was stolen. As you can see, Merlin has been restored to himself."

"The sorcerer," Lord Gaheris said carefully, the word dripping with distaste. His eyes fixed on Merlin with the sort of attention usually reserved for dangerous animals. "What are your intentions regarding him, Your Highness?"

Sorcerer, Merlin's magic repeated thoughtfully. Such a small word for something so vast. Do they think labels can contain us?

Apparently, Merlin thought back, trying to ignore the way his hands wanted to shake under the collective gaze of Camelot's nobility.

Arthur straightened, and Merlin felt rather than saw the mantle of kingship settle over his shoulders. "My intentions are to formally recognize his years of service to Camelot. To pardon any and all use of magic in defense of this kingdom. And to begin the process of reviewing our laws regarding magic use."

The explosion of voices was immediate and predictable. Arthur let it wash over him, waiting for the initial outcry to die down, his face set in the expression of patient authority that Merlin had seen him use countless times before.

He defends us, his magic observed with something like wonder. Even knowing the cost, he chooses to defend us.

He's always defended me, Merlin thought. Even when he didn't know what he was defending.

"You would undo your father's work?" Lord Marrok demanded when the noise finally subsided. "Twenty years of careful policy, abandoned for the sake of one sorcerer?"

"I would prevent my father's mistakes from destroying us," Arthur corrected, his voice carrying the particular edge that meant he was prepared to be very unpleasant to anyone who pushed him further. "How many have we lost to fear? How many potential allies turned enemy by persecution? Morgana herself might never have turned if magic hadn't been so reviled."

The name fell into the chamber like a stone dropped in still water, creating ripples of uncomfortable silence. Morgana's betrayal was still a fresh wound, her fall from beloved ward to bitter enemy a source of pain that hadn't yet begun to heal.

Morgana, Merlin's magic whispered, and suddenly the voice carried undertones of something that might have been recognition. The Broken One. The Twisted Sister. She walks in shadow now, and her power tastes of corruption.

Merlin felt his blood turn to ice. You know her? You've sensed her magic?

We sense all magic within our reach. Hers has changed, grown dark with hatred and pain. She is not what she was .

The conversation continued around him, but Merlin found himself struggling to focus as implications crashed through his mind. If his magic could sense Morgana's presence, could track her movements or intentions...

Can you find her? he asked desperately. Locate her?

Sometimes. When she uses power openly, she creates ripples we can follow. But she has learned to hide, to mask her presence. The corruption makes her harder to track .

"I'm not suggesting we abandon all caution," Arthur was saying, his voice cutting through Merlin's internal dialogue. "Magic can be dangerous - We've seen that firsthand. But so can swords, and we don't execute everyone who carries one. We need laws that distinguish between those who use magic to harm and those who use it to heal or protect."

"And him?" Lord Gaheris indicated Merlin with a gesture that somehow managed to convey both fear and disgust. "What role does he play in this new order?"

Arthur looked at Merlin, and the question in his eyes was clear: What do you want to be?

What do we want to be? Merlin asked his magic.

Our self, came the immediate response. Finally, completely, honestly our self.

"That's for him to decide," Arthur said, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "He's no longer bound to service - he never truly was. Whatever position he chooses, he has my complete trust and protection."

"The position of Court Sorcerer has been vacant since the Purge," Geoffrey said thoughtfully, his scholarly mind already working through precedents and possibilities. "Perhaps it's time to fill it."

Merlin made a small, strangled sound. Court Sorcerer. An official position, recognized by law and tradition. Everything he'd never dared dream of wanting.

Do it, his magic urged. Accept the role. Become what you were meant to be.

"If he wants it," Arthur said, his eyes finding Merlin's across the chamber. "The position is his."

Arthur’s patience was tested to its limits as the debate continued for hours, a careful dance of political maneuvering that he had learned to navigate through years of watching his father rule. He fielded objections with logic, proposed compromises that gave everyone something while committing to nothing irreversible, slowly wearing down resistance through sheer stubborn reasonableness.

Through it all, Merlin stood silent beside him, but his presence was statement enough. He wasn't hiding anymore, wasn't pretending to be less than he was. The magic that hummed around him like a living thing served as a constant reminder that Camelot was entering a new age, whether its nobility was ready or not.

Arthur found himself cataloguing reactions, filing away information about who could be trusted to support the changes ahead and who would need careful management. Lord Gaheris remained hostile but was too much of a politician to push open rebellion. Lord Marrok seemed more concerned with practical implications than moral objections - a pragmatist who could be won over with careful demonstration of benefits. Geoffrey was cautiously supportive, his scholarly nature intrigued by the possibilities of legal precedent and historical change.

We can work with this, Arthur thought as the debate wound down. It won't be easy, but we can build consensus slowly, carefully. Change without revolution.

Finally, as afternoon sun slanted through the high windows, casting long shadows across the chamber floor, they reached an accord. It wasn't everything Arthur had hoped for, but it was more than he'd dared expect given the entrenched nature of Camelot's laws.

Magic used in Camelot's defense would be pardoned - a broad enough category to cover most of what Merlin had done over the years. A committee would be formed to review the laws, proposing changes for gradual implementation rather than immediate overhaul. And Merlin would be granted whatever position he chose, with full protection of the Crown and recognition of his service.

It was a beginning. A foundation on which to build something better.

When the council finally dispersed, Arthur slumped in his chair, exhausted by the careful balance of authority and diplomacy required to push through even these limited changes. His head ached with the strain of political maneuvering, and his shoulders carried the weight of responsibility for every choice made and every consequence that would follow.

Merlin hadn't moved from his spot throughout the entire proceedings, still looking like he might bolt at any moment despite the protections now formally extended to him.

"That went better than expected," Arthur said, his voice hoarse from hours of debate.

"You just upended twenty years of policy," Merlin replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "For me."

Arthur felt something twist in his chest at the naked disbelief in Merlin's voice. "For Camelot," he corrected, though the words felt inadequate. "For the future. You just happened to be the catalyst."

"Arthur - "

"And for you," Arthur admitted, softer, allowing truth to color his words. "Because you deserve better than shadows and secrets. Because what happened to you - what almost happened - made me realize how much we've all lost by living in fear."

They were alone now, the throne room echoing with the weight of words spoken and unspoken. Arthur stood, his legs stiff from hours of sitting, and moved closer to Merlin, who watched him with those impossibly blue eyes.

The space between them felt charged with possibility, heavy with the weight of everything that had changed. Arthur found himself acutely aware of every detail - the way Merlin's dark hair fell across his forehead in familiar disarray, the careful distance he maintained as if unsure of new boundaries, the soft curve of his mouth as he wrestled with words he couldn't quite voice.

"I don't know how to do this," Merlin confessed, his voice carrying the vulnerability of someone stepping into unknown territory. "Be myself openly. Be... whatever we are now."

Arthur inwardly berated himself. Of course Merlin was struggling - he'd spent years perfecting the art of concealment, of being less than he was for the sake of safety. Learning to exist without those walls would be as disorienting as learning to walk again after years of paralysis.

"Neither do I," Arthur said, honesty coming easier now in the face of Merlin's obvious uncertainty. "But we'll figure it out. We always do."

"Together?" The question carried layers of meaning that made Arthur's breath catch.

"Always," Arthur promised, the word carrying the weight of everything he couldn't yet say.

They stood there, inches apart, balanced on the edge of something momentous. The air between them felt thick with possibility, charged with the sort of tension that demanded resolution. Arthur found himself leaning closer, drawn by forces he didn't fully understand but no longer wanted to resist.

Then the doors burst open with a crash that echoed through the chamber like thunder, and Leon rushed in, his usual composure cracked with urgency.

"Sire! Merlin!" Leon's voice carried a tension that cut through the intimate moment like a blade. "The prisoners - the sorcerers you captured before leaving for the druid camp. They're demanding to see Emrys."

Arthur felt his heart sink as the moment shattered around them. "Of course they are," he sighed, recognizing the familiar pattern of crisis and interruption that seemed to define their lives.

Before Leon could respond, Gaius appeared in the doorway behind him, his face creased with worry and something approaching wonder. "And we have another situation," the old physician added, catching his breath. "There's been an incident in the lower town this morning. Magic was used - healing magic."

"What happened?" Merlin asked, straightening with sudden attention.

"A child was dying," Gaius explained, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had witnessed a miracle. "A girl who'd fallen from a roof. Her injuries were beyond my abilities, beyond conventional healing entirely. But a young woman stepped forward from the crowd and used magic to save her life." His eyes found Merlin's. "She said... she said if Emrys could be brave enough to reveal himself, then she could be brave enough to help a dying child."

Arthur felt something warm and proud expand in his chest at the words, even as his mind raced through the implications. "Where is she now?"

"She fled before the guards arrived," Gaius continued. "But not before half the street saw what she'd done. The people are... divided. Some are calling her a hero, others are afraid. There's tension building."

Merlin straightened, and Arthur saw something shift in his expression - the careful uncertainty replaced by something approaching resolve. "If the girl is out of immediate danger,” Merlin said, “then I should see the prisoners first. Find out what they know about who hired them."

"I'll come with you," Arthur said immediately, protective instincts flaring.

"No." Merlin's voice was firm, and Arthur saw him pull on confidence like armor. "This is something I need to do myself. My people, my responsibility." He glanced at Gaius. "Will you come with me? I might need your counsel."

Gaius nodded solemnly. "Of course."

Arthur understood why Merlin wanted Gaius’s assistance rather than his, and even though he wanted to argue, wanted to be at Merlin’s side and protect him, he could let him have this. So instead of arguing, Arthur nodded at him. “Then I will wait for you."

Merlin smiled at Arthur, and there was magic in it - not literal, but the everyday magic of someone coming into themselves, finding their place in a world that had suddenly expanded to include possibilities they'd never dared imagine.

Merlin left with Gaius, walking with a straightness of spine and sureness of step that Arthur hadn't seen since before the soul stone had taken him. The sight filled Arthur with something that felt dangerously like pride.

He turned to Leon, who was looking at him all too knowingly, and Arthur tried to school his expression into neutrality. "Go to the lower town,” he said, “try to settle any unrest, and see about finding the girl. Merlin and I will join you when he is done speaking with the prisoners.”

"Yes, Sire," Leon replied without hesitation, and bowed before leaving.

Alone in the throne room, Arthur moved to the window, looking out over Camelot - his kingdom, soon to be transformed by the choices made today. The city spread below him like a living map, streets and buildings that held lives affected by every decision he made.

It wouldn't be easy. The incident in the lower town proved that change would bring complications they hadn't anticipated. There would be resistance, setbacks, probably attempts on both their lives from those who preferred the old ways. But watching Merlin walk openly through his city, magic and man united at last, Arthur knew they were on the right path.

The question now was how to navigate the personal transformation alongside the political one. Ceryndra's words echoed in his memory: Be clear in your intentions.

Soon, Arthur promised himself. When the immediate crises were handled, when Merlin had found his footing in his new role, when Arthur had gathered courage that seemed to scatter like leaves every time he tried to grasp it.

Soon, he would speak the words that mattered most. But for now, he had a kingdom to reshape and a future to build - preferably with a certain sorcerer by his side.

The afternoon sun slanted lower through the windows, painting everything in shades of gold and possibility. Somewhere in the castle, Merlin was speaking with prisoners, gathering information, beginning to take his place as the bridge between magical and mundane worlds.

Let him be safe, Arthur thought, the prayer rising unbidden from the depths of his heart. Let him find his way to whatever he's meant to become.

Outside his window, Camelot continued its old rhythm, unaware that everything had changed in the space of a single conversation. But Arthur could feel it - the potential for something greater, something that honored both tradition and progress, fear and hope.

They would build it together, he and Merlin. Whatever came next, they would face it as they always had - together, stubborn, loyal, and probably arguing about the details every step of the way.

Arthur found himself smiling at the thought. Some things, at least, would never change.

Chapter Text

The dungeons of Camelot had seen many prisoners over the years, but rarely had they held sorcerers who weren't scheduled for execution. The five who'd attacked with such confidence now sat in cells designed for comfort rather than cruelty - Arthur's small rebellion against his father's legacy. Stone walls softened with straw, wooden benches instead of bare floors, and barred windows that allowed natural light to filter through. It was mercy Uther would have called foolish weakness, but Arthur called it hope.

Look, Merlin thought at his magic as he and Gaius reached the stairs, this is getting confusing. I need something to call you - some way to think about you that isn't just "the voice in my head" or "my magic." Would it be all right if I just... called you Magic? Thought of you as Magic?

The voice in his head was quiet for a moment, as if considering. Magic, it repeated thoughtfully. Yes. That is what I am, in essence. Simple. Clear. Magic.

Good, Merlin thought with relief. Magic it is.

And together, Magic added with something that sounded like satisfaction, Merlin and Magic make Emrys. Two parts of a greater whole, reunited at last.

The words sent an odd shiver through Merlin - not unpleasant, but profound, like puzzle pieces clicking into place. Yes, he agreed. Together, we're Emrys.

Merlin descended the stone steps with Gaius at his side, acutely aware of the guards' eyes following him. News of his magic had spread through the castle like wildfire, carried on whispers and speculation that grew with each telling. Some looked at him with fear, others with curiosity, a few with something approaching awe. He wasn't sure which was worse. The fear he understood - it was familiar, expected, the natural response to twenty years of Uther's teachings. The curiosity felt invasive, as if they were trying to peer beneath his skin to see the magic itself. But the awe... that was perhaps most unsettling of all, because it transformed him from a person into something else entirely.

Why do they stare? Magic asked, its voice thrumming with genuine puzzlement. We are the same as always. Only their knowledge has changed.

That's the problem, Merlin thought back, his steps echoing in the narrow stairwell. They think they know me now, but they don't. They see Emrys, the legendary sorcerer. They don't see the man who trips over his own feet and accidentally drops pieces of Arthur’s armor, or runs into walls if distracted.

But you are both, Magic observed with the sort of simple certainty that made Merlin's chest ache. Are you not?

I'm trying to figure that out, Merlin admitted, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to gather himself. The weight of expectations pressed down on him like a physical thing - the guards' watchful eyes, the prisoners' anticipation, the knowledge that every word he spoke would be weighed and measured against the legend of Emrys.

"You don't have to do this," Gaius said quietly, his voice carrying the gentle concern that had been Merlin's anchor through years of secrets and fear. "Arthur would understand - "

"Yes, I do." Merlin straightened his shoulders, drawing on reserves of courage he wasn't entirely sure he possessed. "I've hidden for so long, Gaius. Let others fight my battles, make my choices. If I'm going to be... whatever I'm going to be, I need to start here."

We are strong, Magic whispered, its voice carrying undertones of earth and wind. We do not need to hide anymore.

Being strong and knowing how to use that strength are different things, Merlin replied, but he felt some of his nervousness ease. Whatever else had changed, Magic was still part of him, still ready to defend and protect.

Gaius squeezed his shoulder, the familiar gesture grounding him in the present moment. "I'm proud of you, my boy. More proud than I can say."

The words warmed Merlin more than he cared to admit as he approached the cells. The sorcerers were spread across five chambers, close enough to speak but separated by iron bars and stone walls that would prevent them from combining their power. Standard practice for magical prisoners, though Merlin suspected these particular cells had been chosen as much for their comfort as their security.

They looked up as he approached, and he saw recognition dawn on their faces like sunrise breaking over a battlefield. The change was immediate and profound - backs straightening, eyes widening, the subtle shift from defiance to something approaching reverence.

"Emrys," breathed Garrett, the young one who'd spoken to Arthur with such desperate hope. "You're restored."

"I am." Merlin stood before them, trying to project confidence he didn't entirely feel. The mantle of Emrys sat strangely on his shoulders, like armor that didn't quite fit. "You asked to see me?"

They fear us, Magic observed, its voice carrying notes of satisfaction. Good. Fear brings respect.

I don't want them to fear me, Merlin thought back, troubled by the magic's reaction. I want them to listen.

Why? Magic asked with genuine curiosity. Fear is simpler. Cleaner. It ensures obedience.

Because fear breeds hatred, and hatred breeds the kind of thinking that led to the Purge in the first place.

Marcus, their scarred leader, pushed himself to his feet with careful dignity. "To see if it was true," he said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much betrayal to trust easily. "The stone really took your soul?"

"It did." The memory sent a chill through Merlin, that terrible emptiness where his essence should have been. Even now, safely restored, he could feel the echo of that separation - a phantom pain that made him grateful for every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of being wholly himself.

"And the prince got it back He sought answers from Iseldir?" There was something in Marcus's voice - not quite hope, but perhaps the beginning of it.

"He did. Along with his knights." Merlin studied them, these people who shared his gift but not his choices. They were younger than he'd expected, most of them barely out of their teens. Desperate, perhaps, but not evil. Not yet consumed by the bitterness that could turn magical gifts into weapons of vengeance. "They risked everything to save me. Arthur risked everything."

The Golden One, Magic said with warmth that made Merlin's chest flutter. He shines like captured sunlight when he is determined.

His name is Arthur, Merlin reminded Magic with embarrassed exasperation. Not 'the Golden One.' Arthur.

Arthur, Magic repeated, testing the name like a new song. Yes. Arthur who called us home.

Merlin pushed aside his internal dialogue to focus on the prisoners before him. "Why did you attack Camelot?" he asked.

The sorcerers exchanged glances, and Merlin saw the weight of decisions they were beginning to regret. "We told your prince - we thought you were enslaved," Marcus said, his voice carrying the strain of someone trying to justify actions that had led to disaster. "The message said - "

"I know about the message." Merlin's voice carried an edge of steel that surprised him. "Someone sent ravens to magical communities across the realm, spreading lies about my situation. Who sent it?"

"We don't know," Garrett admitted, his young face creased with worry. "It came by raven, sealed with old magic. But there was something else - a promise."

Lies, Magic hissed, its voice suddenly sharp with anger. They believe lies about us. About Arthur.

Easy, Merlin soothed, feeling Magic's agitation like pressure building behind his eyes. We need information, not revenge.

"What kind of promise?" Merlin pressed, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

Bronwyn, a woman perhaps a few years older than Merlin himself, spoke up from her cell. Her voice carried the particular cynical weariness of someone who had learned to expect disappointment. "That when Camelot fell, magic would return to the land. That those who helped bring about its destruction would be rewarded with positions of power in the new order."

Merlin's blood ran cold, the implications crashing over him like ice water. "Someone's trying to destroy Camelot using magic as a weapon. Making us the enemy to justify our persecution."

Clever, Magic observed with grudging admiration. Evil, but clever, to turn our own people against us.

"Or testing its defenses," Marcus suggested, his scarred face grim with understanding. "Seeing how the young prince responds to magical threats. We weren't the first to receive such messages, and I doubt we'll be the last."

"Tell me everything," Merlin commanded, and for the first time, felt the true weight of what it meant to be Emrys. Not just power, but responsibility. These sorcerers had attacked his home, threatened his friends, nearly cost him his soul - but they were also his people, in a way. Magic bound them, even as choices divided them.

They listen, Magic noted with satisfaction. They recognize what we are.

What we are is tired and trying to prevent a war, Merlin thought back, but he couldn't deny the small thrill of being seen, truly seen, for the first time in years.

So they talked, the prisoners sharing what they knew with growing eagerness. Messages sent to scattered communities of magic users, each one carefully crafted to exploit existing grievances. Promises of power, revenge, a new world order where magic would reign supreme and the persecution of Uther's era would be avenged. Always anonymous, always compelling, always carrying just enough truth to make the lies believable.

"The messages started about three months ago," Garrett said, his young voice carrying the weight of someone who had learned hard lessons about trust. "Right after the immortal army's attack. When the king's mind broke."

"We ignored them at first," Marcus added, his scarred hands clenching and unclenching as he spoke. "Seemed too good to be true, too convenient. But then we received another message several days ago, this one with more specific information. It said that previous attacks had revealed that the king had captured and enslaved you - that you'd been kept as a servant for years, forced to use your magic in secret to protect the very people who would see you burn."

Merlin felt Magic stir with indignation. They dared to speak for us? To claim we were enslaved?

The funny thing is, they weren't entirely wrong, Merlin thought with bitter humor. I was hiding, serving in secret. From the outside, it probably did look like enslavement.

But it was choice, Magic insisted. I sense that from you always. When we were separated, I knew nothing but purpose without feeling. But now I understand. We chose Arthur. We chose to serve. We chose to protect.

Merlin felt oddly touched by Magic’s vehemence, as if it was trying to make up for that lack of feeling now that it seemed to be capable of it. Try explaining that to someone who's spent their life running from Uther's knights, he said wryly.

"With such news, we decided to act immediately," Marcus continued, his voice heavy with regret. "A group of us, the younger ones mostly, couldn't stand the thought of Emrys being held captive. And... well. Here we are."

"Someone saw weakness and decided to exploit it," Merlin concluded, pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with sickening clarity. This whole debacle had Morgana written all over it - the timing, the precision, the way the messages had been crafted to prey on the magical community's deepest fears and angers. If she was behind this, it meant she knew of his magic. She knew he was Emrys, and had been the whole time she had struggled with knowledge of her own gifts.

The thought made him physically ill. All those years when she'd been learning to control her power, when she'd been terrified and alone, he'd been right there. He could have helped her, taught her, shown her that magic didn't have to be a curse. Instead, he'd hidden, following Gaius's advice to stay secret, and she'd been left to face her fears alone.

And then, blindly believing Kilgharrah when the dragon had claimed it was the only way to break Morgause’s sleeping curse on Camelot, Merlin had poisoned her. Her look of terrified betrayal, the silent question of Why, still haunted him.

Regret, Magic observed, its voice gentle now. You carry much regret about the Broken One.

Her name is Morgana, Merlin corrected, though without the heat he'd used for Arthur's name. And yes, I regret what happened to her. What I didn't do for her.

You could not have saved her, Magic said. She chose her path, as we chose ours.

But what if my choices are what put her on her path? We were friends once, but I didn’t help her when I could have. What if helping her when she was alone and frightened could have prevented all of this?

Magic didn’t answer, but Merlin could tell that it felt troubled.

Merlin swallowed down the lump of guilt rising in his throat that threatened to choke him, and sat up straighter, trying to reclaim his wavering confidence. "They want Camelot destroyed. The question is whether they want it for its own sake, or as a stepping stone to something larger."

"So?" Bronwyn asked bitterly, her voice carrying years of accumulated anger. "Camelot has been our enemy for twenty years. Why should we care if someone brings it down?"

She speaks truth, Magic acknowledged. They have suffered under Uther's rule. Their anger is justified.

Their anger is justified, Merlin agreed. But they are lashing out at the wrong target.

"Because whoever's doing this doesn't care about magical freedom," Merlin said sharply, allowing some of his own anger to color his words. "They're using us as weapons, setting us up to be feared and hated even more. Every attack justifies the persecution. Every death proves magic is evil."

"And what about your precious prince?" Bronwyn sneered, her face twisting with contempt. "How long before he tires of his pet sorcerer? How long before political pressure forces him to choose between the throne and his magical plaything? He'll throw you to the wolves the moment it becomes convenient, just like every other Pendragon before him."

Merlin tried to stifle the fury he felt at the mocking words, but sudden power flared through him. The temperature in the dungeon plummeted instantly. Frost spread across the walls in spiraling patterns, and the very air seemed to crystallize with fury. Merlin looked around in alarm, for it wasn’t his anger driving the magic - it was something else entirely.

HOW DARE YOU, a voice roared through Merlin's mind, but it wasn't just in his head anymore. The words echoed off the stone walls, spoken aloud in Merlin's voice but carrying harmonics that belonged to something far older and more powerful. “YOU DARE SPEAK ILL OF ARTHUR? OF THE GOLDEN ONE WHO CALLED US HOME FROM THE VERY EDGE OF ETERNITY?”

Merlin felt himself pushed back, his consciousness shoved aside like a physical blow. For a terrifying moment, he was a passenger in his own body, watching helplessly as Magic seized control. His eyes blazed with golden fire that had nothing human in it, and power radiated from him in waves that made the prisoners cower against the far walls of their cells.

“ARTHUR PENDRAGON FACED THE TRIALS OF THE CAVE,” Magic continued, its voice growing stronger, more commanding. “HE CHOSE LOVE OVER POWER, MERCY OVER VENGEANCE. HE RISKED EVERYTHING TO RESTORE WHAT WAS SUNDERED, AND YOU DARE SUGGEST HE WOULD BETRAY US?”

The iron bars of the cells began to glow red-hot, and several of the prisoners cried out in fear. Gaius pressed himself against the wall, his face pale with shock and growing alarm.

Stop! Merlin fought against the force holding him back, panic giving him strength. Stop this now!

But Magic wasn't listening. Power continued to pour from him, reshaping reality around his fury. “YOU KNOW NOTHING OF LOYALTY. NOTHING OF LOVE. NOTHING OF THE BOND THAT TIES US TO -”

"ENOUGH!" Merlin roared, seizing control with desperate force. The golden fire in his eyes flickered and dimmed, his consciousness slamming back into place with jarring suddenness. The temperature returned to normal, the iron bars cooled, and blessed silence fell over the dungeon.

Merlin staggered, his legs nearly giving out as the full implications of what had just happened crashed over him. Magic had taken control. Actually pushed him aside and taken over his body without permission. The thought made him physically sick.

"Don't," he said aloud, his voice shaking with anger and fear. "Don't ever do that again."

“But they insulted Arthur,” Magic protested, its voice still echoing within the dungeon, but smaller now, confused by Merlin's reaction. “They suggested he would betray us. We could not allow such lies to stand.”

"I don't care what they said," Merlin snapped, still trembling from the experience of being displaced in his own mind. "You don't take control from me. Ever. Do you understand?"

“I... no,” Magic admitted with genuine confusion. “I do not understand. They spoke falsehoods about the one we love most. Was it not right to defend him?”

"Not like that," Merlin said firmly, though his voice gentled slightly at Magic's obvious bewilderment. "Never like that. I choose how we respond. I choose when to fight and when to show mercy. Not you."

“I do not understand the distinction,” Magic said slowly. “But... if you command it, I will obey.”

"I command it," Merlin said, though the word 'command' sat strangely with him. Magic wasn't something to be commanded - it was part of him, or should be. The fact that it could act independently was deeply troubling.

Gaius approached cautiously, his healer's eyes taking in Merlin's pale face and shaking hands. "My boy, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Merlin lied, then looked at the prisoners, who were still pressed against their cell walls in terror.

Marcus swallowed hard, his earlier bravado completely gone. "Your magic... it speaks on its own."

Merlin swallowed, and tried to still his trembling hands, and laughed shakily. “Apparently it’s a side effect of having your soul ripped out of you, leaving Magic to keep your body alive for nine days until your soul is freed and returned,” he said, unable to keep the snark out of his voice. “Leave it alone long enough and Magic starts to think for itself.”

And even as he said the words, a cold fear settled in his stomach. What if Magic took control again when its new emotions overwhelmed it? The idea of being a prisoner in his own body, even temporarily, made him feel sick.

You took over my body, Merlin accused. You pushed me aside.

I did not intend to, Magic responded, almost meek, voice once again confined to his head. The boundaries between us appear less defined than I assumed. Your emotions affect me more strongly than expected.

Are you... are you changing?

I believe we both are. The reunion of our separated parts has created... complications I did not anticipate.

He looked at the sorcerers, seeing his own power reflected in their frightened faces, and didn’t know what to say to ease their fear when he barely knew how to handle his own.

They fear us now more than before, Magic observed with what might have been sadness. I have made your task more difficult.

We'll figure it out, Merlin assured, though he wasn't sure how.

Marcus was the first to find his voice again. "What... what are you?"

The question hung in the air like a sword. What was he? A man with magic? A magical force with human consciousness? Something caught between two natures, neither fully human nor entirely Other?

I don't know, Merlin admitted silently. I thought I understood what I was, but...

We are something new, Magic said with quiet certainty. Neither fully human nor purely magical. The separation and reunion changed us both. We must learn what we have become.

"I am what I’ve always been,” Merlin said finally, his voice steadier now. "I am someone trying to help. I am someone who believes we can build something better than what we've had."

He looked at each of them in turn, letting them see his uncertainty alongside his determination. "I won't pretend that was normal. I won't pretend I understand everything about what Magic and I are becoming. But I know this. Letting your desire for revenge drive your actions will only make things worse for all of us."

Silence fell over the dungeon, broken only by the soft drip of water from somewhere in the darkness. The sorcerers looked at him with new eyes, seeing perhaps what the druids saw - not just power but purpose, not just magic but the man who wielded it.

"What happens to us now?" Garrett asked quietly, his young voice carrying the weight of someone who had learned that actions had consequences.

Merlin considered the question, weighing justice against mercy, law against necessity. By rights, they should face execution for attacking Camelot. But that would only perpetuate the cycle of violence and revenge that had poisoned the relationship between magical and non-magical people for decades.

Death would be simpler, Magic observed without malice. It would remove the threat they represent.

Merlin grimaced. Death is always simpler, he replied irritably. That doesn't make it right.

"That depends," he said finally and his voice held the authority of someone who spoke for the Crown. "On whether you're willing to be part of the solution instead of the problem."

"What do you mean?" Bronwyn asked, suspicion and hope warring in her voice.

"I mean Camelot needs to change, but it also needs to survive. The magical community needs protection, but it also needs to prove it can be trusted." Merlin met each of their eyes in turn. "Work with us. Help us build something better. Show the people that magic can be a force for good, not just destruction."

Generous, Magic noted. Perhaps too generous.

Perhaps. But it's what Arthur would do.

Arthur, Magic agreed with warmth. He chooses mercy when wisdom would choose justice.

Sometimes mercy is the wiser choice.

"You want us to become your agents," Marcus said slowly, understanding dawning in his scarred features.

"I want you to become yourselves," Merlin corrected. "People who happen to have magic, living openly in a kingdom that's learning not to fear what it doesn't understand. It won't be easy, and it won't happen overnight. But it's possible."

He stood, feeling the weight of his words settle over the dungeon like a blanket. "Think about it. Decide what kind of world you want to live in - one built on fear and revenge, or one built on hope and cooperation."

We offer them choice, Magic observed. As Arthur offered us choice.

Everyone deserves the chance to choose differently, Merlin thought. Even those who've made mistakes.

He turned to leave, but then paused, and looked back. “Regardless of what choice you make,” he said, “I would strongly advise you to not question Arthur’s loyalty to me again -- at least, not in front of me.” He grinned at them. “Apparently, Magic and I have strong feelings on the matter.”

He left them to think about that, climbing back to the light with Gaius beside him.

They climbed the stone steps in silence, their footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell. Merlin could feel Gaius's eyes on him, the weight of unspoken questions and concerns pressing down like the stone walls themselves. When they finally emerged into the main corridor, Gaius caught his arm, guiding him toward an empty alcove away from passing servants and guards.

"Merlin," Gaius began in the particular tone that meant a serious conversation was about to commence. "What I witnessed down there..."

"I know," Merlin said quickly, not wanting to hear his own fears voiced aloud. "I know it was - "

"Terrifying," Gaius finished, his weathered face creased with worry. "Not the magic itself, but the complete loss of control. For a moment, you weren't you anymore."

Merlin's stomach clenched. "You think I'm dangerous."

"I think you're in uncharted territory," Gaius corrected gently, his healer's instincts taking over. "And that frightens me more than I care to admit. In all my years of studying magic, all the texts and treatises I've read, I've never encountered anything like what just happened."

He fears for us, Magic observed, its voice subdued. Not of us, but for us. I can sense the distinction.

That makes it worse, somehow, Merlin thought back. If Gaius is worried...

"The way your magic spoke," Gaius continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "It wasn't channeling through you - it was speaking as you, but with its own consciousness, its own will. That should be impossible."

"But it happened," Merlin said, the words tasting bitter. "It pushed me aside like I was just... just an inconvenience. And I couldn't stop it."

Gaius was quiet for a long moment, his scholarly mind clearly working through implications and possibilities. "Tell me honestly - have there been other incidents? Times when you've felt... displaced?"

"Nothing that extreme. Magic talks to me, comments on things, asks questions. But this was the first time it actually took control." Merlin rubbed his temples, feeling a headache building behind his eyes. "It's very... invested in my relationship with Arthur. And apparently willing to defend him violently when it perceives insults."

I was right to defend Arthur, Magic said, though its voice lacked its earlier conviction. But perhaps... perhaps I was too forceful in my methods.

You think? Merlin replied sarcastically.

"This is deeply concerning, Merlin," Gaius said, his voice carrying the weight of years of medical knowledge. "If your magic can override your conscious will, if it has its own agenda and emotional responses... What happens when those responses conflict with what you know is right?"

The question hit at the heart of Merlin's fears. What if Magic decided Arthur was in danger when he wasn't? What if it disagreed with Merlin's choices about mercy or restraint? What if it decided that the only way to protect what they loved was to destroy what threatened it?

"I don't know," Merlin admitted, the words coming out smaller than he'd intended. "I'm hoping that talking to it, explaining things, will help. It seems to learn from our conversations."

"And if it doesn't?" Gaius pressed. "If it decides your judgment is flawed? What then?"

Merlin didn't have an answer for that, and the silence stretched between them like a chasm.

I would not harm innocents, Magic said suddenly, apparently following the conversation. I understand the difference between threat and safety, between enemy and friend.

Do you? Merlin asked. Because those prisoners weren't actually threatening Arthur. They were just speaking their fears and prejudices.

They spoke lies, Magic insisted. They said Arthur would betray us. That is impossible.

But that's their opinion, based on their experiences, Merlin explained patiently. They've seen other rulers abandon magical allies when it became politically convenient. Their skepticism isn't entirely unreasonable.

Magic was quiet for a long moment. I... I had not considered that perspective, it admitted finally. Perhaps I overreacted.

Perhaps, Merlin agreed dryly.

"Merlin?" Gaius's voice brought him back to the present. "You're having an internal conversation with it right now, aren't you?"

"It's trying to understand why I'm upset about the takeover," Merlin said. "I think it's beginning to see that it might have overreacted."

Gaius nodded slowly. "That's something, at least. The fact that it can learn, that it's willing to reconsider its actions... that suggests there might be hope for finding balance."

"But you're still worried."

"Terrified would be more accurate," Gaius admitted with characteristic honesty. "Not of what you are, but of what this could become if left unchecked. Magic with its own will, its own emotional responses, its own protective instincts... The potential for disaster is enormous."

I would never hurt Merlin, Magic said, and somehow Merlin could sense it was directing the words at Gaius more so than at  him. I exist to protect him, to serve alongside him. I would cease to be before I would cause him harm.

"It says it would never hurt me," Merlin relayed, though he wasn't entirely sure how much comfort that would provide.

"But what about others?" Gaius asked with uncomfortable insight. "What about those it perceives as threats to you or to Arthur? What about those whose only crime is disagreeing with your choices?"

The questions hung in the air like accusations, each one highlighting the dangerous potential of his situation. Merlin felt the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders - not just for his own actions, but for Magic's as well.

"I'll figure it out," he said finally, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. "I have to."

"Yes," Gaius agreed, but his voice carried layers of concern that made Merlin's chest tight. "You do. Because Merlin, if you can't find a way to maintain control, if your magic becomes too unpredictable or dangerous..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to. They both knew what he was thinking - that Arthur might be forced to make an impossible choice between the man he'd risked everything to save and the kingdom he was sworn to protect.

That will not happen, Magic said with fierce certainty. I will learn. I will adapt. I will not force Arthur to choose between duty and love.

I hope you're right, Merlin thought. Because I don't think I could survive being the cause of that kind of pain for him.

"We should go," Gaius said finally, his voice gentle but firm. "Arthur will be wondering about the results of your interrogation. And Merlin?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful. Not just with your magic, but with yourself. The line between man and power has always been thin for you - now it seems to be blurring entirely. Don't lose yourself in trying to understand what you're becoming."

The words followed Merlin as they parted in the main corridor – Gaius to the physician’s tower, Merlin to where Arthur waited for him in the throne room. But with each step, he felt the weight of his mentor's concerns, the knowledge that he was walking an increasingly dangerous path with no map to guide him.

We will find our way, Magic whispered, its voice gentler now, almost apologetic. Together, we will learn to be what we need to be.

I hope so, Merlin thought. Because I'm not sure how many more incidents like that one we can survive.

The corridor stretched ahead of him as he walked toward the throne room. But for the first time since his soul had been restored, Merlin found himself wondering if the reunion had created as many problems as it had solved.

----------------------

Arthur had worn a path in the stone floor by the time the throne room doors finally opened. He'd been pacing for the better part of an hour, his mind churning through possibilities and contingencies while his body demanded movement to match the restless energy that always came with waiting for news he couldn't control. The afternoon light had shifted noticeably during Merlin's absence, casting longer shadows that spoke of time passing and decisions that couldn't be delayed much longer.

When Merlin finally appeared, Arthur felt relief flood through him so powerfully it was almost dizzying. But the feeling was short-lived - one look at his friend's face was enough to know that something had gone very wrong.

Merlin moved with the careful precision of someone who had been shaken to his core, his usually easy grace replaced by the sort of rigid control that spoke of barely contained distress. His skin was pale, almost gray in the afternoon light, and there was something in his eyes - a haunted quality that Arthur had only seen in the aftermath of their worst battles.

"What happened?" Arthur demanded, abandoning all pretense of royal composure in favor of immediate concern. He closed the distance between them in three quick strides, his hands moving automatically to check for injury even though nothing visible suggested physical harm.

"Magic took control," Merlin said without preamble, the words falling between them like dropped stones. "Completely. Pushed me aside and spoke for itself when one of the prisoners said something it didn't like."

Arthur felt his blood turn cold, though he tried to keep his expression steady. The image of Merlin during those terrible days without his soul flashed through his mind - empty eyes, mechanical responses, power without humanity. "Are you hurt?"

"Not physically." Merlin moved to the window, his movements restless and agitated. "But Arthur, for a moment I wasn't in control of my own body. Magic just... took over. Made the air freeze, heated the iron bars, spoke with my voice but not my words."

Arthur watched his friend pace, cataloguing the signs of distress with growing concern. This was different from their usual post-crisis conversations - deeper, more fundamental. "What did it say?"

"It defended you." Merlin's laugh was bitter, entirely without humor. "Very enthusiastically. The prisoner suggested you might eventually betray me for political convenience, and Magic apparently found that... unacceptable."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Arthur felt a warmth spread through his chest at the words. Even in its confused state, Merlin's magic had leaped to his defense with the sort of fierce loyalty that took Arthur's breath away. "And now?"

"Now I'm having conversations with what I've started calling Magic because I needed something to call it that wasn't 'the voice in my head.'" Merlin stopped pacing, turning to face Arthur with an expression that mixed exhaustion with wry humor. "Apparently the separation and reunion changed both of us more than we realized."

Arthur blinked, then felt his mouth twitch with the beginning of a smile despite the gravity of the situation. "Magic? That's what you're calling it?"

"Well, I had to call it something," Merlin said defensively, color finally returning to his pale cheeks.

"You're the sort of person who would name a dog Dog, aren't you?" Arthur asked, the familiar rhythm of their banter reasserting itself like muscle memory. "Or a cat Cat?"

"I am not - " Merlin began indignantly, then stopped, his expression shifting to something approaching sheepishness. "That's actually not entirely inaccurate."

"I knew it." Arthur's grin was warm with affection and relief that Merlin was responding to teasing, that whatever had happened hadn't broken the fundamental connection between them. "Next you'll be telling me you'd name a horse Horse."

"For your information, I once had a horse named Bucephalus," Merlin said with wounded dignity, though his eyes were beginning to regain some of their usual spark.

"That's a proper name," Arthur pointed out reasonably.

"I called him Buck."

Arthur threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls with genuine delight. "Of course you did. And let me guess - you had a reason that made perfect sense to you?"

"He bucked," Merlin said simply, then paused. "Actually, that's probably why Magic suggested I call it Magic. Direct, to the point, no confusion about what it is."

The laughter died on Arthur's lips as the implications of Merlin's words sank in. "It suggested its own name?"

"It has opinions," Merlin said, his voice carrying undertones of continued bewilderment. "About everything. Especially about you."

Arthur felt heat creep up his neck, though he wasn't entirely sure why. "What kind of opinions?"

Before Merlin could answer, the throne room doors burst open with the sort of urgent energy that meant crisis requiring immediate attention. Leon strode in, his armor bearing the dust of hard travel and his face set in lines of grim determination.

"Sire," Leon said, sketching a quick bow that was more efficiency than ceremony. "We need to move. The situation in the lower town is deteriorating."

Arthur felt the familiar shift from personal to political, duty reasserting itself over desire with the weight of long practice. "How bad?"

"Crowds gathering on both sides of the issue," Leon reported crisply. "Those calling for the healer's arrest, those demanding her protection. Gwen's keeping them from violence, but barely. And..." He paused, glancing at Merlin. "There are rumors that Emrys is involved somehow. People are watching for your response."

"Then we'd better not keep them waiting," Arthur said, moving toward the door in a decision that brooked no argument. "Merlin?"

"With you," Merlin said immediately, falling into step beside him. Whatever internal struggles he was facing, duty to Camelot took precedence - just as it always had.

They made their way through the castle corridors with Leon providing updates as they walked. The healed child - a four-year-old girl named Hilda - was apparently up and running around, asking to see "the nice lady who made the hurt go away." But the healer herself had vanished completely, disappearing into the crowd before the guards could identify her.

"No one knows where she went?" Arthur asked as they descended into the courtyard where horses waited.

"Vanished like smoke," Leon confirmed, swinging up onto his mount with practiced ease. "Several witnesses saw her use magic to heal the child's injuries - broken bones, internal bleeding that should have been fatal. But when people started shouting about sorcery, she just... disappeared."

Arthur exchanged a look with Merlin as they mounted their own horses. "Can you find her?"

Merlin was quiet for a moment, his eyes taking on the distant look that Arthur was beginning to associate with internal conversations. Then his irises flared gold. "There's another magical signature, frightened, hiding. She's..." His eyes widened slightly, even as the gold faded back to blue. "She's in the Darkling Woods, just outside the city walls."

"The Darkling Woods?" Leon's eyebrows rose with surprise and concern. "That's not exactly a safe place to hide."

"She's probably more afraid of us than of whatever lives in those trees," Arthur said grimly, understanding the desperation that would drive someone to seek shelter in such a dangerous place. "Leon, stay here and keep the peace. Merlin and I will bring her back."

"Sire, I don't think - "

"That's an order," Arthur said firmly. "She's terrified. The last thing she needs is to see a full contingent of knights approaching. Two of us have a better chance of convincing her we mean no harm."

Leon looked like he wanted to argue, but years of military discipline won out. "Yes, Sire. How long do you want me to wait before sending backup?"

"If we're not back by full dark, come looking," Arthur decided. "But not before. This needs to be handled carefully."

They rode out of Camelot as the sun began its descent toward the western horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and amber that reminded Arthur of the light that had blazed from Merlin's eyes during those terrible days without his soul. The Darkling Woods lay perhaps half an hour's ride from the city walls - close enough for a desperate person to reach, far enough to discourage casual pursuit.

"Are you certain she's there?" Arthur asked as they approached the treeline, where ancient oaks and ash trees created a barrier between the civilized world and whatever lay beyond.

"We’re sure," Merlin confirmed, then paused. "And Magic is concerned about her emotional state. Apparently terror has a very distinctive magical signature."

They dismounted at the forest's edge, securing their horses to trees that would allow for quick escape if necessary. The Darkling Woods had a reputation that went back generations - not evil, exactly, but wild in ways that civilization had never quite managed to tame.

"This way," Merlin said, his voice carrying new certainty as they entered the forest proper. Branches closed overhead like a living ceiling, filtering the late afternoon light into patterns that shifted and moved with every breath of wind.

They found her huddled beneath the spreading branches of an enormous oak tree that must have been ancient when Camelot was first built. She was young - perhaps sixteen years old - with the sort of practical clothing that spoke of working life rather than court privilege. Her dark hair had escaped its braid, and tear tracks marked her dirt-stained cheeks.

She looked up as they approached, and Arthur saw the exact moment terror transformed her features. She scrambled backward, pressing herself against the oak's massive trunk as if the tree itself might offer protection.

"Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the forest sounds around them. "I didn't mean any harm. I just - she was dying, and I couldn't - please don't hurt me."

Arthur felt his heart clench at the naked fear in her voice. This was what Uther's laws had created - a world where saving a child's life was cause for terror, where using a gift to heal rather than harm still carried the threat of death.

"We're not here to hurt you," Arthur said gently, crouching down to bring himself to her eye level. "My name is Arthur. This is Merlin. We heard what you did for the little girl, and we wanted to thank you."

"Prince Arthur?" Her voice carried disbelief so profound it was almost heartbreaking.

"You saved a child's life," Merlin said, settling beside Arthur with movements designed to appear non-threatening. "That's nothing to be ashamed of. It's something to be proud of."

The girl stared at them, confusion replacing some of the terror in her brown eyes. "But I used magic. The laws - "

"Are changing," Arthur said firmly. "Slowly, carefully, but they are changing. What's your name?"

"Lynette," she whispered, then added with obvious reluctance, "Lynette, daughter of Laudine."

Arthur felt recognition dawn. "Laudine the seamstress? She makes the court gowns?"

"You know my mother?" Lynette's surprise was obvious.

"I know she's one of the most skilled seamstresses in the kingdom," Arthur said with a warmth that was entirely genuine. "And apparently talent runs in the family, though yours takes a different form."

Merlin leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying gentle understanding. "How long have you known? About your magic?"

"Since I was small," Lynette admitted, her voice growing stronger with each word. "Mother taught me to hide it, to never let anyone see. But today, when I saw that little girl lying there, all broken and bleeding..." She shuddered. "I couldn't just walk away. I couldn't let her die when I had the power to save her."

"And you did save her," Arthur said firmly. "Hilda is healthy and whole, asking to see the 'nice lady' who helped her. You gave a family their daughter back."

Tears began flowing down Lynette's cheeks again, but these carried relief rather than terror. "Is she really all right? I healed what I could, but I've never dealt with injuries that severe before."

"She's perfectly fine," Merlin assured her, his voice carrying the sort of gentle authority that had always been his gift with frightened people. "Running around, playing, completely healed. You did well."

Arthur stood, extending his hand to help Lynette to her feet. "Come back with us. Let Hilda thank you properly. Let the people see that magic used in service to others is welcome in Camelot."

Lynette stared at his outstretched hand as if it might disappear at any moment. "You really mean it? I won't be arrested? Burned?"

"You have my word," Arthur said solemnly. "And the protection of the Crown. No harm will come to you for saving a child's life."

She took his hand with movements that spoke of desperate hope beginning to overcome years of ingrained fear. "My mother always said you were different, despite the laws. She said maybe someday things would be different."

"Your mother was wise," Arthur said, helping her to her feet with careful gentleness. "And that someday is today."

The journey back to Camelot passed in relative quiet, Lynette riding double with Merlin while Arthur led them through paths that avoided the more traveled roads. She was still nervous, jumping at unexpected sounds and watching the shadows as if expecting soldiers to emerge from them, but the paralyzing terror had faded into watchful caution.

"Is it true?" she asked Merlin, as the city walls came into view. "About you being Emrys? The rumors are everywhere, but they seem impossible."

Arthur glanced at his friend, seeing the familiar discomfort that came with being the subject of speculation and rumor. "What do you think?"

Lynette studied Merlin's profile with the sort of attention that spoke of someone trying to reconcile legend with reality. "I think," she said finally, "that if Emrys chose to serve in secret for so long, he must love Camelot very much. And if he's willing to be open about his magic now, maybe it really is safe for the rest of us."

"I hope so," Merlin said quietly, his voice carrying layers of uncertainty and determination in equal measure. "I hope so."

The crowd in the lower town had grown during their absence, but Leon's presence had kept them peaceful if not entirely calm. Arthur could see the division clearly - those who looked hopeful clustered near the spot where Hilda played under her parents' watchful eyes, while those who remained suspicious gathered at the edges, muttering among themselves with the sort of energy that could turn dangerous without careful management.

Then Hilda spotted them approaching, and whatever adult conversation had been happening was forgotten in the face of a four-year-old's delight.

"Lady! Lady!" she squealed, breaking free from her mother's protective grip to run toward Lynette with the sort of fearless joy that belonged only to children. "You came back!"

Lynette slid down from Merlin's horse and caught the little girl in a hug that brought fresh tears to her eyes. "Hello, little one. How are you feeling?"

"All better!" Hilda announced proudly, then launched into an elaborate explanation of how she'd been climbing where she shouldn't have been, and how she'd fallen, and how it had hurt very badly until the nice lady had made it stop hurting. The account was delivered with the sort of dramatic flair that made adults smile despite their worries.

Arthur dismounted and moved to where the crowd could see him clearly, feeling the weight of every eye upon him. This was it - the moment that would set precedent for everything that followed, the choice that would either begin to bridge the gap between magical and mundane or widen it beyond repair.

"People of Camelot," he began, his voice carrying the authority of absolute conviction. "Earlier today, a child lay dying from injuries that should have been fatal. Someone with the power to heal chose to use that gift in service to life, asking nothing in return except the knowledge that a little girl would live to see another day."

He gestured to where Lynette knelt with Hilda, the living proof of magic used for good rather than ill. "This morning, my council began the process of reviewing our laws regarding magic. While much work remains to be done, let me be clear about one thing: magic used in defense of Camelot, magic used to heal and protect rather than harm, will be welcomed and protected by this Crown."

The reaction was immediate and mixed - cheers from some quarters, concerned murmurs from others, but no open hostility. It was, Arthur thought, better than he'd dared hope.

"What about the old laws?" someone called from the crowd. "What about the king's will?"

Arthur straightened, drawing on every lesson his father had taught him about projecting authority and confidence. "I rule as regent in my father's absence, and I say that laws that punish those who save lives serve no one. Camelot will judge magic by its intent and its effects, not by the fear it has inspired in the past."

More voices rose - questions, concerns, demands for clarification. Arthur fielded them with the patience of someone accustomed to explaining policy to people whose lives would be affected by every decision, while Merlin stood beside him in a show of unity that spoke louder than words.

As the sun set behind Camelot's walls, painting everything in shades of gold and possibility, Arthur felt something settle in his chest that might have been hope. It wasn't perfect - nothing ever was - but it was a beginning. A foundation on which to build something better than what had come before.

"Thank you," Lynette said quietly, approaching them as the crowd began to disperse. Her eyes found Merlin with obvious gratitude. "For being brave enough to show yourself. It gave me courage to do the same."

Merlin's smile was soft with understanding and something that might have been relief. "Thank you for being brave enough to save a life. That's what magic should be used for."

Arthur didn't have the heart to tell her that Merlin's revelation had been anything but voluntary, that courage had played little role in the exposure of his identity. But watching his friend's face as he spoke to her, seeing the genuine warmth in his expression, Arthur thought perhaps Merlin was finding his own kind of courage in embracing what he'd been forced to become.

Evening was falling over Camelot as they returned to the citadel, their minds exhausted from navigating crisis and revelation in equal measure. The courtyard was quieter now, servants hurrying about their evening duties while guards changed shifts with the sort of routine precision that spoke of a kingdom functioning normally despite the day's upheavals.

"That went well," Arthur said as they dismounted, though he kept his voice low enough that only Merlin could hear.

"Better than I expected," Merlin agreed, then paused, his expression growing thoughtful. "Arthur? About what happened earlier, with Magic taking control..."

"We'll figure it out," Arthur said firmly, moving closer so their conversation couldn't be overheard. "Whatever this is, whatever you're becoming, we'll handle it together. But not here, not where half the castle can listen in."

The implication was clear, and Arthur saw understanding dawn in Merlin's blue eyes. They had things to discuss - important things, personal things that required privacy and time without the constant interruption of royal duties.

"Your chambers?" Merlin suggested, his voice carrying undertones of nervousness and anticipation that made Arthur's chest tighten with possibility.

"My chambers," Arthur confirmed. "Give me an hour to handle the immediate administrative details, then we'll talk. About everything."

The word carried weight beyond its simple syllables, encompassing magic and politics, duty and desire, all the changes that had reshaped their world in the space of a few desperate days. Arthur watched Merlin nod, seeing his own mixture of anticipation and apprehension reflected in his friend's face.

An hour, then. An hour to prepare for conversations that would reshape everything between them, for truths that had been years in the making and could no longer be avoided or denied.

Arthur found himself looking forward to it with the sort of eager terror usually reserved for battles where everything hung in the balance. Which, he supposed, was exactly what this was.

 —--------------------------- 

The walk to Arthur's chambers felt both eternal and over too quickly, their footsteps echoing in corridors that seemed quieter than usual, as if the castle itself was holding its breath in anticipation of whatever conversation awaited them. Merlin found himself hyperaware of every detail - the way torchlight caught the gold threads in Arthur's hair, the measured pace that spoke of someone preparing for something significant, the careful distance Arthur maintained between them that somehow felt more intimate than casual contact ever had.

When they reached Arthur's door, Merlin hesitated, suddenly uncertain of protocols that had once been as natural as breathing. For years, he'd entered these chambers as a servant with duties to perform, tasks that gave structure to their interactions and safe boundaries to navigate around feelings too dangerous to acknowledge. Now, with those roles stripped away and new ones yet to be defined, he felt like a stranger in familiar territory.

Arthur seemed to sense his uncertainty, opening the door and stepping aside with a gesture that was both invitation and reassurance. "Come in," he said simply, his voice carrying warmth that helped ease some of Merlin's tension.

The chambers looked exactly as they always had - rich tapestries depicting the Pendragon crest, heavy furniture that spoke of generations of royal occupancy, the great bed with its crimson curtains drawn back to reveal carefully arranged linens. But something fundamental had shifted in Merlin's perception, transforming familiar space into something charged with possibility and uncertainty in equal measure.

Out of habit more than conscious thought, Merlin moved toward the wardrobe where Arthur's night clothes were kept, his hands already reaching for the familiar routine of preparing his king for sleep. The movements were automatic, muscle memory developed over years of service, but they felt strange now - too servile for whatever they were becoming, too formal for the intimacy that crackled in the air between them.

"You don't have to do that anymore," Arthur said gently, his voice carrying understanding rather than dismissal. "I think we're past the point where you need to serve me in that way."

Merlin paused, his hand halfway to the wardrobe latch, and turned to face Arthur with a grin that felt both fond and mildly insulting. "You say that now, but you wouldn't know how to take care of yourself without me. You'd probably try to sleep in your armor and wonder why your back hurt in the morning."

"I am perfectly capable of undressing myself," Arthur protested, though his tone carried more amusement than offense. "I did manage to survive those years before you arrived to coddle me."

"Coddle you?" Merlin's eyebrows shot up in indignant protest. "Is that what you call keeping you alive despite your apparent determination to get yourself killed in increasingly creative ways?"

He teases to mask his nervousness, Magic observed with gentle understanding. This new dynamic unsettles him, makes him uncertain of his place in your life.

Because I don't know what my place is anymore, Merlin thought back, feeling the truth of it settle in his chest like a weight. For years, I knew exactly where I stood - servant, protector, friend from a careful distance. Now...

Now you could be anything, Magic finished softly. Anything you have the courage to become.

The words sent a flutter of something that might have been hope through Merlin's chest, quickly followed by the familiar fear of reaching for something too precious to lose. But Arthur was watching him with those impossibly blue eyes, waiting for whatever Merlin might choose to do next, and the openness in his expression made something shift inside Merlin's heart.

Feeling suddenly daring - reckless in the way that had always gotten him into trouble but also led to his greatest triumphs - Merlin turned toward the cold fireplace that dominated one wall of the chamber. Without looking away from Arthur's face, he extended his hand toward the arranged logs and whispered a word in the Old Tongue that had become as natural as breathing.

"Forbearnahn."

Golden light flared from his eyes, warm and brilliant in the dim chamber, and flames sprang to life among the logs with a soft whoosh of igniting wood. The fire caught immediately, burning with the sort of perfect steady warmth that spoke of magic used with precision and care, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls and filling the room with amber light that made everything seem softer, more intimate.

Merlin held his breath as he turned back to Arthur, watching for any sign of fear or revulsion, any indication that seeing magic used so casually in his private chambers might trigger the old prejudices that had been bred into him from birth. Instead, Arthur's face lit up with something that looked remarkably like wonder, his eyes wide with fascination rather than fear.

"That was beautiful," Arthur said quietly, his voice carrying genuine awe. "I saw your magic when you were... when you were without your soul. But that was different. Cold. This..." He gestured toward the fire, then back to Merlin, searching for words. "This felt like you. Warm. Alive."

He sees us truly, Magic whispered with deep satisfaction. Not as weapon or tool, but as art, as life, as extension of who we are.

"What else can you do?" Arthur asked, settling into one of the chairs by the fire with the sort of expectant attention usually reserved for royal entertainments. "I mean, I know you can do incredible things - I've seen the results over the years. But I've never just... watched you use magic for the joy of it."

The request sent warmth flooding through Merlin's chest, different from the heat of the magical fire but no less powerful. Arthur wanted to see his magic - not for protection or necessity, but simply to understand this fundamental part of who Merlin was. The thought was both terrifying and wonderful, opening possibilities that Merlin had never dared imagine.

Show him, Merlin-mine, Magic urged with gentle encouragement. Let him see the beauty we can create together.

Merlin-mine? The unexpected endearment made Merlin pause in surprise. That's new.

You named me, Magic replied with what sounded like fond amusement. I name you. It seems only fair.

Merlin felt his lips twitch with the beginning of a smile, though he tried to muster some indignation at being given a pet name by his own magic. The attempt failed completely - he didn't have it in him to argue, not when Arthur was watching him with such open fascination, not when he was finally being invited to share this part of himself without fear or concealment.

Moving closer to the fireplace, Merlin extended his hands toward the flames and began to shape them with movements that were part gesture, part dance, part prayer to powers older than kingdoms. The fire responded eagerly, lifting from the logs in streamers of gold and scarlet that twisted through the air like living things, forming patterns that told stories of ancient magic and forgotten wonders.

But something was different this time. Where once his magic had flowed through him like water through a channel, now he could feel Magic working alongside him, not separate but not entirely unified either. It was like having a partner in the deepest sense - two parts of a greater whole working in harmony, each contributing their own strength to create something neither could achieve alone.

The sensation was overwhelming in the best possible way. Merlin could feel the vast potential that Magic represented, power that stretched beyond anything he'd ever imagined, possibilities that made his previous understanding of his abilities seem like candlelight compared to the sun. It didn't frighten him - instead, it filled him with a sense of completeness he'd never realized he'd been missing.

Together, Magic whispered with deep contentment. As we were always meant to be. Feel how the power flows, Merlin-mine. Understand what we can accomplish when we work as one.

Merlin had intended to create something simple - perhaps a dragon made of fire to honor the Pendragon crest, a small display of artistry that would show Arthur the beauty his magic could create. But Magic had other ideas, taking his initial shaping and expanding it beyond anything Merlin had conceived.

The fire dragon that formed in the air above the hearth was perfect in every detail - wings that moved with realistic grace, eyes that held intelligence and ancient wisdom, scales that caught the light like precious gems. But instead of simply hovering there as a static display, the dragon began to move, circling the room with fluid motions that seemed to bring the very air to life.

Then Magic pushed further, using the dragon as a focal point to open something Merlin had never attempted before - a vision drawn from memory and possibility, projected into the space around them with such vivid clarity that for a moment, they were no longer in Arthur's chambers but standing in another Camelot entirely.

It was Camelot as it had been before the Purge, before fear and hatred had driven magic underground. Dragons soared overhead in graceful formation, their riders waving to crowds below who responded with joy rather than terror. In the streets, magic was practiced openly - merchants using simple spells to preserve their goods, healers working with herbs and power combined, children learning to shape light and air under the careful guidance of their elders.

There was no fear here, no suspicion or hatred. Magic and mundane life intertwined seamlessly, each supporting the other in a harmony that spoke of centuries of peaceful coexistence. The prosperity was evident in every detail - buildings that gleamed with care, people whose faces held contentment rather than worry, a kingdom that thrived because all its gifts were welcomed and celebrated.

Merlin felt tears streaming down his face as the vision unfolded around them, understanding flooding through him as Magic shared not just the images but the knowledge of how they were created. This wasn't just illusion - it was memory, preserved in the very stones of Camelot, in the magic that had once flowed freely through these halls. Magic was teaching him, showing him possibilities he'd never conceived, demonstrating techniques that would have taken years to discover on his own.

This is what was, Magic whispered, its voice thick with emotion that matched Merlin's own. And what could be again, if we have the courage to reach for it.

The vision faded gradually, the dragons dissipating like morning mist until only the ordinary fire remained crackling in the hearth. Merlin stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what he'd experienced, by the knowledge that now lived in his mind alongside Magic's gentle presence.

Then Arthur was beside him, a warm hand settling on his shoulder with the sort of careful comfort that spoke of someone who understood the weight of witnessing impossible things. When Merlin looked at him, he saw that while Arthur wasn't weeping, his eyes held a brightness that spoke of being deeply moved.

"I'm sorry," Merlin managed, his voice rough with emotion as he tried to wipe away the tears that continued to flow. "I didn't expect Magic to do that. I was just going to make a simple fire dragon, but it..."

"Don't apologize," Arthur said firmly, his hand tightening on Merlin's shoulder. "That was... Merlin, that was incredible. Beautiful and terrible and hopeful all at once." His voice carried wonder and something deeper, something that might have been longing. "Is that what Camelot could become? What we could build together?"

Yes, Magic said with absolute certainty, though only Merlin could hear the words. If you have the courage to reach for it. If you choose love over fear, hope over hatred.

"Maybe," Merlin said, his voice steadying as he met Arthur's gaze. "If we're brave enough. If we're willing to fight for something better than what we inherited."

"Then we'd better start now," Arthur said, and the determination in his voice made something warm and hopeful unfurl in Merlin's chest. "Tell me, how did it go with the prisoners? I believe we were interrupted before you could tell me.”

Merlin felt grateful for the sudden shift in tone, feeling less uncertain and more like he was back on familiar ground as summarized the conversation he’d had with the prisoners earlier that day.

Arthur's face darkened as he spoke of mysterious messages and promised rewards, and his expression grew increasingly grim as the full scope of the manipulation became clear, his jaw tightening with controlled anger.

Protective fury, Magic observed approvingly. He feels the threat to you, to us, to what we represent. His heart burns with the need to keep us safe.

"Someone's orchestrating this," Arthur concluded when Merlin finished, his voice carrying the particular edge that meant he was prepared to be very unpleasant to whoever had earned his displeasure. "Using magic users as pawns in a larger game, exploiting their pain and anger for political gain."

"The question is who," Merlin said, though suspicion had already crystallized in his mind. "And what they ultimately want beyond chaos and destruction."

"Besides my kingdom in ruins?" Arthur moved to the window, looking out over the city with the protective gaze of someone who'd die before letting harm come to what he'd sworn to protect. "The list of those who'd benefit from Camelot's fall is long. Neighboring kingdoms jealous of our prosperity. Noble houses hungry for power. Those who've suffered under my father's reign and see his son as equally deserving of destruction..."

"Morgana," Merlin said quietly.

Arthur's shoulders tensed, the careful control he maintained around his sister's betrayal cracking slightly. Even speaking her name caused him visible pain, Merlin realized with a pang of sympathetic hurt. Whatever else Morgana had become, she'd once been Arthur's beloved sister, and that loss still carved pieces from his heart.

The Broken One, Magic said with sudden intensity. The Twisted Sister. Her magic tastes of corruption now, dark with hatred and pain. She is not what she was.

The comment sent ice through Merlin's veins. You can sense her? Her magic?

Sometimes. When she uses power openly, when emotions run high, the corruption creates ripples we can follow. But she has learned to hide, to mask her presence with shadow and misdirection.

"She's been quiet since the immortal army failed," Arthur said, his voice carefully neutral in the way that meant he was fighting to keep emotion from bleeding through. "Too quiet. Morgana was never patient - she preferred direct action to subtle manipulation."

"Which could mean she's planning something worse," Merlin said, moving to join Arthur at the window. He was careful to maintain distance, hyperaware of the space between them and the way Arthur's presence seemed to affect the very air around him. "Or that someone else is pulling the strings while she handles the magical aspects."

Standing so close, yet maintaining distance, Magic observed. Why do you deny yourself the comfort of proximity? He would welcome your nearness.

Because everything's changed, Merlin thought back desperately. Because I don't know the rules anymore, don't know what's appropriate or safe or... He trailed off, unable to finish the thought even silently.

Because you fear rejection? Magic asked with gentle understanding. Because speaking truth might shatter the careful balance you have built?

The perceptive question hit too close to home, making Merlin's breath catch. For years, their relationship had existed in careful equilibrium - master and servant, prince and subject, friendship balanced on the knife's edge of propriety and unspoken feelings. Arthur's words in the cave had destroyed that balance, replaced it with possibilities that were both terrifying and wonderful in equal measure.

"She knows about me now," Merlin said aloud, forcing himself to focus on the immediate threat rather than the emotional minefield of his feelings for Arthur. "My magic. She might see it as an opportunity - either to recruit me or to use my exposure against us."

"To turn you against me?" Arthur asked, and there was something vulnerable in his voice that made Merlin's chest tight with protective instincts.

Never, Magic said fiercely. We would burn the world before we would betray Arthur. Does he not understand the depth of our devotion?

"No," Merlin said firmly, surprised by the vehemence in his own voice. "Never that. But she could use the knowledge to prove that magic and Camelot can't coexist. Every attack reinforces that narrative - fear breeds hatred, hatred justifies violence. Your father built his kingdom on that cycle, and breaking it won't be easy."

Arthur turned from the window to face him directly, and Merlin forgot how to breathe properly. In the light from the fireplace, Arthur's hair held threads of gold that seemed to glow with inner radiance. His eyes - those impossibly blue eyes that had haunted Merlin's dreams for years - held depths of emotion that made Merlin feel like he was drowning in the best possible way.

Beautiful, Magic whispered with wonder. How did we ever convince ourselves that what we felt was merely friendship? Look at him, Merlin-mine. See how he watches you as if you hold all the answers to questions he is afraid to ask.

"Good thing I have help then," Arthur said, his voice carrying warmth that made something flutter in Merlin's chest. "You do plan to stay and help, don't you? Despite everything that's changed, despite the danger and politics and the fact that I've probably made your life infinitely more complicated?"

The question carried layers of meaning that made Merlin's heart race. Arthur wasn't just asking about magical threats or political alliances - he was asking about them, about whatever this growing awareness between them might become, about whether Merlin was brave enough to step into unknown territory.

Tell him, Magic urged. Speak the truth that burns in your heart. He has already declared his feelings - Arthur waits only for your answer.

"Arthur," Merlin said patiently, though his voice came out rougher than intended, "I drank poison for you. I’ve risked execution every time I’ve used my magic to save your life." He paused, meeting those blue eyes directly, pouring all his conviction into the words. "Do you really think I'd leave now, when things are finally changing? When you're finally becoming the king you were meant to be?"

Something shifted in Arthur's expression - surprise giving way to something deeper, warmer, more hopeful than Merlin had dared imagine. For a moment, the careful distance between them seemed to crackle with possibility, charged with the weight of words spoken and unspoken.

"You could," Arthur said quietly, his voice carrying a vulnerability that made Merlin want to reach out and offer comfort in whatever form Arthur would accept. "No one would blame you for wanting a life away from all this. Somewhere you could be yourself without politics and danger and the constant threat of those who'd see you burned for what you are."

As if we could exist apart from him, Magic said with fond exasperation. As if the sun could exist apart from the sky, or the ocean apart from its shores.

"I am myself here," Merlin said, the words slipping out before he could stop them, carrying more truth than he'd intended to reveal. "With you."

The admission hung in the air between them like a bridge neither quite dared to cross. Arthur's eyes widened slightly, and Merlin could see him processing the implications, weighing the meaning behind words that could be interpreted as friendship or something far more significant.

Now, Magic urged. This is the moment. Speak plainly, Merlin-mine. Let truth shine in the light it deserves.

The moment stretched between them, heavy with possibility and the weight of words that wanted to be spoken. Merlin could feel Magic's encouragement like warmth in his chest, urging him toward honesty that felt both inevitable and terrifying. Arthur was watching him with those impossibly blue eyes, waiting for whatever Merlin might choose to say next, and the openness in his expression made Merlin's heart race with equal parts hope and fear.

Say it, Magic whispered urgently. Tell him what he means to you. He has already bared his heart - now you must do the same.

But what if -  Merlin began, then stopped, his throat tight with emotion he didn't know how to voice. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I ruin this?

Magic paused, and Merlin could feel its sudden uncertainty, as if that was an outcome it hadn’t considered. 

Merlin opened his mouth, then closed it again, the words tangling on his tongue like unspoken spells. He wanted to cross the space between them, wanted to reach out and touch Arthur's face with the sort of tenderness he'd never allowed himself to show. He wanted to say that Arthur was his heart, his home, his reason for choosing life over eternity when his soul had stood at the crossroads between worlds.

But the words felt too vast, too precious, too dangerous to trust to the uncertain air between them. Years of hiding had taught him caution, and even with Magic's encouragement and Arthur's own declarations echoing in his memory, the habits of secrecy were hard to break.

Arthur seemed to read something in his expression - the struggle, perhaps, or the desire warring with uncertainty. His own face softened with understanding, and he took a small step back, giving Merlin space to breathe.

"It's late," Arthur said quietly, his voice carrying gentleness rather than disappointment. "And it's been a long day for both of us. Perhaps we should - "

"Yes," Merlin said quickly, relief and regret flooding through him in equal measure. "Yes, you're right. You need your rest, and I should - " He gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the physician's tower where his small room waited. "Gaius will be wondering where I am."

Coward, Magic said, but there was fondness in the accusation rather than true censure. But perhaps wisdom as well. Perhaps some conversations require the right moment, the proper preparation.

Later, Merlin promised silently. When we've both had time to think, to process everything that's changed. When I can find the right words.

Arthur nodded, though something in his expression suggested he understood the opportunity that was slipping away between them. "Tomorrow, then. We'll figure out our next steps regarding the magical community, decide how to handle the security concerns..."

"And us?" Merlin asked before he could stop himself, the question emerging with the sort of desperate honesty that bypassed all his careful defenses.

Arthur's smile was soft and warm and full of promise. "Especially us," he said simply.

The words sent a flutter of hope through Merlin's chest, bright and warming despite the uncertainty that still lingered between them. Arthur was willing to wait, to give them both time to navigate this new territory without rushing toward conclusions that might shatter under the weight of too much too soon.

Merlin moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the latch. "Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For today, for everything. For..." He gestured helplessly, trying to encompass the magnitude of all that Arthur had risked and sacrificed. "For calling me home."

Arthur's expression grew soft with emotion that made Merlin's breath catch. "Always," he said simply. "For as long as you'll let me."

The words followed Merlin as he slipped out into the corridor, carrying warmth that settled in his chest like a banked fire. The castle was quiet around him, servants and guards moving about their evening duties with the sort of routine efficiency that spoke of a kingdom functioning normally despite the day's upheavals.

As he made his way through familiar corridors toward the physician's tower, Merlin felt something shift inside his chest - not resolution, exactly, but the beginning of acceptance. Change was coming whether he was ready for it or not, reshaping everything he thought he understood about his place in the world. The question was whether he had the courage to embrace it, to step into possibilities that were both wonderful and terrifying.

You do, Magic said with quiet certainty as they reached the tower stairs. You have always been braver than you believed, Merlin-mine. Tomorrow will prove it.

Tomorrow, Merlin agreed, climbing the worn stone steps with feet that felt lighter than they had in days. Tomorrow, we'll see what we can build together.

Behind him, the castle settled into peaceful quiet, while ahead lay rest and the promise of conversations that would reshape everything. It was enough, for now. More than enough.

It was a beginning.

Chapter Text

The next morning dawned crisp and clear, but Merlin's usual routine was disrupted before he'd even fully awakened. He groggily stumbled his way to Arthur's chambers with the familiar weight of breakfast preparations on his mind, already planning the gentle harassment required to rouse the prince from sleep and the inevitable complaints about early meetings.

But when he pushed open the door to Arthur's chambers, he stopped short in surprise.

Arthur was not only awake, but dressed and seated at his table by the window, breaking his fast with what appeared to be genuine appetite. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating a spread that looked suspiciously well-prepared - fresh bread, cheese, fruit, and what smelled like properly cooked porridge instead of the usual hastily assembled meal.

"You're awake," Merlin said, stating the obvious while his mind struggled to process this deviation from years of established routine.

"Observant as always," Arthur replied with a mild smirk. "Good morning, Merlin."

Merlin moved further into the room, his confusion growing as he took in the scene. "But... breakfast. I was supposed to..." He gestured vaguely toward the table, then toward the door, uncertain how to articulate his bewilderment.

"I had a servant bring it up earlier," Arthur said, taking another bite of bread with apparent satisfaction. The casual way he delivered this information made Merlin's stomach drop.

A servant. Not Merlin. Someone else had been entrusted with Arthur's morning routine, his food, his safety during the vulnerable moments of waking. The implications crashed over Merlin like cold water, and he felt his chest tighten with a panic he tried desperately to hide.

"Right," Merlin managed, his voice carefully neutral despite humiliation and anger he felt suddenly churning his stomach. So now that Arthur knew of his magic, he was getting sacked. "Of course. I'll just... go then. Let you get on with your day."

He turned toward the door, already planning his retreat, when Arthur's voice stopped him.

"Merlin, wait." There was genuine confusion in Arthur's tone, and something that might have been hurt. "Where are you going?"

"Back to Gaius," Merlin replied, not turning around because he wasn't sure he could keep his expression properly composed. "Since you don't need me anymore for... for this."

"Don't need you?" Arthur's chair scraped against the floor as he stood. "Merlin, what are you talking about?"

The bewilderment in Arthur's voice was so genuine that Merlin finally turned back, his own confusion warring with the fear that had taken root in his chest. "You had someone else bring breakfast. You're managing fine without me. I just thought..." He swallowed hard, hating how pathetic he sounded. "You’re not sacking me?"

Understanding dawned in Arthur's eyes, followed immediately by something that looked like dismay. "Sacking you? Merlin, you idiot, I wasn't replacing you. I was trying to..." He ran a hand through his hair, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "I was trying to do something nice. Give you a morning off from having to take care of me."

"A morning off?" Merlin repeated blankly.

"You've been through hell recently. The soul stone, the revelation about your magic, everything changing so quickly." Arthur's voice grew softer, more careful. "I thought maybe you'd appreciate not having to worry about my breakfast for once. Maybe you could sleep in, or spend time with Gaius, or just... rest."

The explanation turned Merlin’s fear into something warm and complicated and entirely overwhelming. Arthur was trying to be considerate. Trying to give him space, trying to be... kind.

"Oh," Merlin said quietly, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. "I... oh."

Arthur sought to provide care rather than dismissal, Magic observed with fond amusement. Your interpretation was characteristically pessimistic, Merlin-mine.

I think you’re right, Merlin replied, his embarrassment was growing by the moment. And I may have overreacted slightly.

Slightly, Magic agreed.

"Join me," Arthur said suddenly, gesturing toward the table. "There's more than enough for two, and..." He paused, something vulnerable flickering across his features. "I'd rather have the company."

"You want me to eat with you?" Merlin asked, as if the concept were completely foreign.

"Is that so strange?" Arthur's smile was hesitant, but inviting. "We're friends, aren't we? Friends share meals."

Friends. The word carried weight that Arthur probably didn't intend, implications that made Merlin's chest tight with possibility and fear in equal measure. But there was something in Arthur's expression - hope, perhaps, or simple genuine pleasure at the prospect of shared breakfast - that made refusal impossible.

"I... yes. Alright." Merlin moved toward the table. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure," Arthur said firmly, already reaching for another plate and cup. "Sit. Eat. Tell me how you're feeling after yesterday's excitement."

Merlin settled into the chair across from Arthur. The food was excellent, far better than his usual hasty meals in Gaius's chambers, and Arthur seemed genuinely interested in conversation that had nothing to do with royal duties or magical crises.

It was, Merlin realized with growing amazement, rather enjoyable. Most of the time when Arthur ate breakfast, Merlin was busy straightening the room, picking out clothes for the day, polishing armor or weapons. He hadn’t even allowed himself to daydream this -- Arthur inviting him to share breakfast, sitting at the same table in his chambers. It was the kind of easy companionship he'd always imagined they might have if circumstances were different, if the barriers between them were lower, if Arthur looked at him with exactly the sort of warm attention he was showing now.

"This is nice," Merlin said without thinking, then immediately felt his face burn with embarrassment at the admission.

"It is," Arthur agreed, and there was something in his voice that made Merlin look up sharply. "We should do this more often."

He courts you, Magic observed with satisfaction. Slowly, carefully, but the intent is unmistakable.

Don't read too much into it, Merlin warned, though his heart was doing complicated things in his chest. We share meals when we go on patrol or stop by an inn. It’s not like this is completely unusual. It's just breakfast.

Nothing with Arthur is ever 'just' anything, and you know this. Arthur seeks to build new patterns of interaction with you.

Easy for you to say. When we were severed, you had all that time with him. You got to see him come to terms with... with you. You got to see him open up, break down his walls. I didn’t experience any of that. One moment I’m wondering if Arthur is going to execute me or just banish me; the next, I’m waking up to declarations of love in a druid camp.

Ah. I see how that could be confusing. Just remember, Arthur risked everything to save you.

So what? We save each other all the time.

“Are you talking to Magic?” Arthur asked, and Merlin blinked and looked up. Arthur smirked. “You stopped eating, and you have that ‘I’m arguing with half of myself’ look on your face. I am positively certain it wasn’t because you got bored of me explaining court etiquette at banquets.”

Merlin snorted. “Yeah. Sorry.” He grinned. “But please, do go on about who gets to sit above and below the salt cellar again.”

Arthur laughed, and they fell into easy conversation again, with Arthur asking about Merlin’s work with Gaius, Merlin inquiring about the political ramifications of recent events. On the surface, it seemed very ordinary, but the context made it feel different. More equal, more... intimate wasn't quite the right word, but something approaching it.

"You know," Arthur said as he reached for more fruit, "I've been thinking about what you said yesterday. About not knowing how to be yourself openly."

Merlin's hand stilled on his cup. "Arthur--"

"I want you to know that you don't have to figure it out alone." Arthur's voice was steady, serious. "Whatever this new reality looks like, whatever you need from me... we'll work it out together."

Merlin's heart pounded hard against his rib cage, and he could feel the burn of a flush rushing to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. A grin tugged at the corner of Arthur’s mouth, and Merlin cursed his pale skin for giving him away.

"Speaking of working things out together, we should probably review these border patrol reports," Arthur said, mercifully changing the subject and reaching for a stack of reports beside his plate. " There have been some concerning developments..."

"At breakfast?" Merlin asked, though he was already reaching for the documents with obvious interest.

"You're the one always telling me I should pay more attention to the details," Arthur pointed out with amusement. "Besides, you'll read them anyway. You always do."

"I do not always--" Merlin began, then stopped as he realized Arthur was right. He did have a tendency to review reports whenever he found them, usually while Arthur was distracted by other matters. Like eating. "Fine. Maybe I do read them. Occasionally."

"Occasionally," Arthur repeated with fond disbelief. "Last week I caught you reading grain inventory reports during dinner."

"Those grain numbers were concerning," Merlin defended, already scanning the first patrol report. "The harvest yields in the northern districts were significantly lower than projected, which could indicate--"

"You're doing it now," Arthur interrupted with a laugh. "Reading at breakfast like the complete scholar you pretend not to be."

Merlin looked up from the report to find Arthur watching him with an expression so warm it made his breath catch. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," Arthur said softly. He looked down briefly, before looking up and meeting Merlin’s gaze. "I like watching you think."

The admission hung in the air between them. Merlin’s blush was no doubt making his face look blotchy and red enough to match Camelot’s colors, and he was starting to suspect that Arthur was saying things like this on purpose to see his reaction, because that grin was tugging at the corner of Arthur’s mouth again.

Desperate to do anything else, if only so his face wouldn't feel so hot, Merlin looked back at the reports and tried to focus on reading, even as he was acutely aware of Arthur's eyes on him. "Border patrol report mentioned increased activity along the Ridge of Ascetir," Merlin said as he quickly scanned through the report. "Could be connected to the recent attacks here."

"What makes you think that?" Arthur asked, his voice carrying genuine interest despite the lingering warmth that suggested he was still enjoying Merlin's obvious embarrassment.

"The timing, mostly. And the location." Merlin held up the report, grateful to have something concrete to focus on. "Three separate patrols noted unusual movement in the forests along the ridge over the past week. No direct contact, but signs of large groups moving through areas that are normally empty."

Arthur leaned forward, his expression shifting from fond amusement to tactical concern. "Large groups?"

"The tracks suggest at least forty to fifty individuals, moving in organized formation rather than scattered bands." Merlin set down the report and reached for another. "And look at this - reports from the eastern approaches mention ravens flying in unusual patterns. The same kind of coordinated movement we saw before the soul stone attack."

"Show me," Arthur said, rising from his chair and moving toward the large desk by the window where his maps and tactical documents were kept. The movement was natural, automatic - the shift from breakfast companion to military commander happening as smoothly as breathing.

Merlin followed, bringing the reports with him, and found himself standing close enough to Arthur to catch the familiar scent of leather and steel that always clung to him. The desk was covered with hand-drawn maps of the surrounding countryside, some official military surveys, others sketched by scouts and patrol leaders who knew the local terrain intimately.

"Here," Merlin said, pointing to a section of the largest map that showed the Ridge of Ascetir and the surrounding forests. "The first sighting was here, near Longford Creek. Then here, two days later, closer to the main road. The pattern suggests they're moving steadily toward Camelot but trying to stay hidden in the forest cover."

Arthur studied the map with the intense focus he brought to all tactical problems, his finger tracing the potential routes between the marked locations. "If they maintain this trajectory..." He drew an imaginary line across the parchment. "They'd emerge from the forest somewhere around here, with a clear approach to the city."

"Exactly." Merlin leaned closer to examine the map, their shoulders almost touching as they bent over the desk together. "And if these are the same people behind the previous attacks, they'll have magical support. The ravens suggest coordination, and coordinated magic means - "

"Sorcerers working together," Arthur finished grimly. "Which means this isn't just another raiding party. This is planned, organized."

"Maybe," Merlin said, his magical senses already reaching out to see if he could sense any threat approaching. "I can feel - "

The sensation was immediate and overwhelming, Magic responding to his unspoken need with an eagerness that caught him off guard. His consciousness expanded beyond the confines of flesh and stone, stretching outward with a speed and clarity that made his previous attempts seem clumsy by comparison.

Magic suddenly stretched their senses to the east, farther than he'd ever been able to sense before, at least not without serious concentration and a lingering headache afterward. This kind of movement, this kind of sight, was exhilarating. In his mind's eye, he could see a dense cluster of individual magical signatures. Without thinking, he moved closer, feeling Magic working in tandem with his will, until the world came into view.

From his bird's eye view, Merlin could see the Forest of Ascetir below, with the rising sun just peeking over the Ridge of Ascetir in the distance, staining the sky orange and gold.

And below, in that forest, breaking camp and preparing to march, was a small army. Soldiers were putting on their full armor, and alongside them, those with the magical signatures prepared to march with them. Amidst them was a tall man who didn't have a magical signature of his own, but wore black armor that shimmered with layers of enchantment. He raised a fist and barked out an order -

"-lin! Merlin!"

When he blinked again, Arthur was standing in front of him, holding him by his shoulders, keeping him steady as he swayed, and peering frantically into his face, though his expression fell into one of relief as Merlin focused on him, and he heaved a sigh. "Merlin."

“What?” he answered automatically, and Arthur’s relief gave way to incredulity.

 “What happened?” he said, exasperated. “Are you all right? Your eyes went fully gold again, and then you wouldn’t answer!”

“Oh, uh, yeah, I’m fine,” Merlin said, trying to get his bearings, glad that Arthur was still holding him upright. He felt dizzy, disorientated with the sudden switch in perspectives. “Sorry, just not used to being able to see so far, so quickly, or in so much detail.” Or without any warning, he added irritably.

You caught on quick enough, Magic answered, and Merlin thought he could sense a bit of cheek in its tone. And with soldiers and sorcerers marching on Camelot, you need to be ready for anything.

Just warn me next time we need to do spellwork like that.

You forget I’ve been your magic since before you were born, Magic replied, and I know from experience that you learn faster and adapt quicker when you are under duress.

Merlin really wanted to argue, but as he thought over it, he realized Magic was right.

Arthur scowled. “Explain ‘fine,’” he said. “Because that didn’t look fine. If I hadn’t grabbed you, you would have fallen on your face.”

“To be fair,” Merlin said, “I normally cast that spell sitting down.”

“Sitting down,” Arthur repeated. His face was reddening, but Merlin didn’t think it was from embarrassment.

“Yessss,” Merlin said, drawing out the word. He tried to lean back, but Arthur didn’t give any indication he was going to let go of Merlin’s shoulders any time soon, and obviously expected more of an explanation. “So...” he continued awkwardly, “Magic has apparently decided that I learn better and faster if it takes me by surprise, and it did work! I could see a lot farther and clearer than I ever have.” Merlin tried to grin, because Arthur’s expression was starting to resemble the look he wore when the council went on to long and the nobles were getting on his last nerve.

Apparently deciding that Merlin was no longer in danger of face-planting, Arthur released his shoulders, strode a pace away, before pivoting on his heel and turning back, one finger raised in what Merlin recognized as his ‘I am the prince and you have to do what I say’ stance. “What did that spell do,” he demanded.

Merlin opened his mouth to explain, then paused. He hadn’t ever had to explain a spell to Arthur before. It was strangely thrilling, and a bit terrifying, that he could do so now, knowing that he wouldn’t face punishment for being a traitor.

Arthur must have read the look on his face, because he lowered his arm and stepped closer. “What did that spell do?” he repeated softly.

Merlin swallowed the lump in his throat. “I, uh, went to check the area mentioned in the reports. There’s an army of at least 50 men breaking camp in the Forest of Ascetir. Soldiers wearing armor, though I didn’t see any banners, and at least half of them were sorcerers. And the man leading them was wearing enchanted armor.”

Arthur stared at him for a long moment. Finally he straightened “That’s.... actually very helpful,” he said, “but not what I meant. What did that spell do to you so that you could apparently see as far as the Forest of Ascetir and spy on an approaching army? Your face went blank, your eyes blazed gold. It was--” He broke off and took a shuddering breath. “It was like when your soul was gone, but this time, not even Magic answered me.”

Merlin’s eyes widened as he suddenly understood Arthur’s fear. “Ah,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Well, Magic didn’t answer because it went with me. We worked togeth--” He stopped mid-word as Arthur’s face paled.

“You mean to say. “Arthur’s voice was level, but hoarse. “That your soul and your magic just left while you were standing at a table looking at reports. And I was left with your body, not knowing what the hell was going on.”

When he puts it like that, it does sound pretty terrible, Merlin thought, panicking. He could see the fear in Arthur's eyes - not fear of magic, but fear of losing him again, fear of being left helpless while Merlin's consciousness went somewhere Arthur couldn't follow or protect.

"Arthur, I'm sorry, I didn't think - "

"No," Arthur interrupted, his voice tight with controlled emotion. "You didn't think. And that's exactly the problem." He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying how shaken he truly was. "After everything we've been through - the soul stone, watching you nearly die, seeing you empty and hollow - how could you just... leave like that?"

The pain in Arthur's voice cut through Merlin like a blade. He'd been so focused on the tactical advantage of the spell that he hadn't considered how it would affect Arthur to witness another version of Merlin's consciousness departing his body.

"I need to speak with Magic," Arthur said suddenly, his voice carrying royal authority tinged with desperate concern. "Directly."

Merlin blinked in surprise. "You want to -?"

"Yes. Let it speak through you again. I need to understand what just happened, and I need assurances that it won't happen again without warning."

He seeks to protect you, Magic observed with something approaching wonder. Even from us, if necessary. Shall I speak to him?

Yeah, Merlin replied. I think he needs this.

Merlin relaxed his hold on his voice and allowed Magic to speak through him. When he opened his mouth, the words carried the harmonic undertones that marked Magic's direct communication.

“Arthur,” Magic said, Merlin's voice taking on that peculiar dual quality. “You are distressed.”

"Of course I'm distressed," Arthur replied immediately, his protective instincts overriding any awkwardness about speaking directly to magical forces. "You took Merlin away from his body. Again. Left him vulnerable and defenseless while his consciousness went gods know where."

“We were never truly away,” Magic explained with patient certainty. “The connection between soul, magic, and flesh remained intact - we simply extended our awareness beyond physical limitations. Merlin's body was never truly empty as it was with the soul stone.”

"But it looked the same to me," Arthur said, his voice carrying the weight of traumatic memory. "Empty eyes, no response when I called his name. How was I supposed to know the difference?"

“You could not,” Magic acknowledged with regret. “I did not consider how our actions would appear to you, and how they would echo your recent trauma. This was... inconsiderate.”

Arthur's tension eased slightly at the acknowledgment, but his expression remained concerned. "What if I hadn't been here? What if something had attacked while Merlin was... elsewhere? His body would have been completely helpless."

“I would not have initiated such a spell without your presence,” Magic replied with absolute certainty. “I know that Merlin is completely safe and secure with you. Your protection allows us the freedom to extend our awareness without fear for our physical form.”

The implications were not lost on Arthur. "You trust me that much?" he asked quietly.

“Completely. Without reservation.”

Arthur was quiet for a long moment, processing this declaration. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, though no less determined. "Then I need you both to understand something. When Merlin's consciousness leaves his body like that, even with you watching over him, it terrifies me. I need warning. I need to know what's happening so I can protect him properly."

“I understand,” Magic agreed with genuine remorse. “In the future, such spells will only be attempted when you are present to guard our physical form, and with proper explanation beforehand.”

"Good," Arthur said firmly. "Because the intelligence you gathered is vital, but not if it comes at the cost of Merlin's safety."

Magic withdrew, and Merlin regained full control of his voice. "Better?" he asked, rubbing at his throat. Magic speaking with his vocal cords while he retained control felt weird, but it was better than when Magic had completely taken over.

"Better," Arthur confirmed, though his eyes remained watchful. "Just... warn me next time. Please."

"I will," Merlin promised, meaning it completely. The idea that his magic might be causing Arthur the same kind of trauma he'd experienced during the soul stone incident was unbearable.

Arthur nodded, then straightened into his command persona. "Right. We need to gather the others immediately. This information changes our defensive planning significantly."

By late morning, they were in the strategy room with Gaius, Leon, Gwaine, Percival, Lancelot, and Elyan arranged around the great map of Camelot and its surroundings.

"Merlin has intelligence about a new approaching force," Arthur announced without preamble. "Show them."

"I need to check their current position first," Merlin said, glancing at Arthur for permission.

Arthur moved to stand directly behind Merlin's chair, one hand resting on his shoulder. "Go ahead. I've got you."

Merlin wanted to protest that he was sitting down and, therefore, in a perfectly safe position to cast the spell. He was also sorely tempted to point out that he had been using magic since he was born, and didn’t need Arthur hovering like a mother hen... but the casual contact and protective positioning made something warm unfurl in his chest. Also, considering how this spell had affected Arthur that morning, he found he didn’t have it in him to tease at the moment.

Pushing all of that aside, he focused on the spell. This time, he was surprised by how easily his consciousness expanded, how naturally Magic responded to his intent. The magical sight extended smoothly outward, covering miles in moments with none of the disorientation he'd experienced before, and he quickly found the army.

They were still in the Forest of Ascetir, moving in organized formation through the dense woodland. The trees forced them to travel single-file in many places, their pace necessarily slow as they navigated fallen logs and thick undergrowth. But despite the challenging terrain, their movement was disciplined, purposeful. This was no rabble of bandits but a trained force with clear objectives.

Merlin counted carefully, his magical sight allowing him to distinguish between the different types of fighters with crystalline clarity. Approximately fifty soldiers in serviceable armor, their weapons well-maintained and their formation speaking of military experience. A paltry force compared to Camelot's standing army, hardly enough to threaten the citadel's walls under normal circumstances.

But these weren't normal circumstances. Alongside the soldiers marched roughly thirty sorcerers, their magical signatures blazing like torches in Merlin's enhanced perception. Some were clearly more powerful than others, but all carried themselves with the confidence of those accustomed to wielding forces beyond mortal comprehension. The combination of conventional military might and magical power transformed what should have been a minor threat into something far more dangerous.

They carried no banners, bore no identifying marks that might reveal their allegiance or purpose. But their leader was unmistakable - the tall figure in black armor that shimmered with layer upon layer of protective enchantments. Even from this distance, even through magical sight rather than physical eyes, Merlin could sense the furious purpose that drove him forward.

The army had nearly reached the forest's eastern edge, where the tree line gave way to open countryside. Once they broke free of the woodland's constraints, their pace would undoubtedly increase dramatically. The rolling hills and established roads between the forest and Camelot would allow them to make up significant time.

As Merlin prepared to withdraw his awareness and return with his report, something else caught his attention - a flicker of power, far to the south, that made his magical senses recoil instinctively.

Dark, unfamiliar, unsettling energy that tasted of corruption and malice brushed the edge of his senses. It wasn’t Morgana, he would recognize her magic anywhere. Instead, it felt ancient, and carried the sort of wrongness that spoke of powers that should remained undisturbed.

Before he could take a better look, Magic tugged on his awareness so abruptly, it almost hurt. No, it said firmly, and there was a strange undercurrent of... something. Worry? Anxiety? Some emotion that he had never felt from Magic before.

But what is it? Merlin asked. You know something.

The approaching army is our immediate concern, Magic reminded him sharply, but then its tone softened. Other threats can be evaluated once this crisis is resolved.

Right, Merlin agreed reluctantly, though the southern disturbance continued to nag at his awareness, a splinter in his mind. Whatever it was, it would have to wait.

When Merlin's awareness snapped back to his body, he swayed slightly in his chair, but remained upright, supported by Arthur's steady presence.

Blinking rapidly to get his bearings, he straightened. "They're here," he said, pointing to a spot on the map roughly halfway between the Ridge of Ascetir and Camelot. "They moved faster than I expected since dawn, so they're pushing hard. At this pace, they'll reach us by morning the day after tomorrow."

It seems that, even though we are the most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth, Magic noted as Merlin fought off another strong wave of dizziness, we are still limited by our physical form. Extended use of such magic will require recovery time.

Noted, Merlin replied, grateful for Arthur's steadying hand on his shoulder.

"That was incredible," Elyan breathed, staring at Merlin with undisguised amazement. "You can actually see anywhere you want? Just like that?"

"Better than any scout we've ever had," Percival added with quiet approval. "No risk of capture, no delays in reporting back."

Gwaine was practically bouncing with enthusiasm. "This changes everything! We'll always know exactly where our enemies are, what they're planning. No more nasty surprises, no more ambushes - "

"As I was saying,” Merlin interrupted, focusing on the tactical information despite his lingering dizziness. " This army consists of fifty soldiers. But they're accompanied by roughly thirty sorcerers. No banners, but they're well-organized. Led by someone in enchanted black armor."

"Thirty sorcerers," Leon repeated grimly, his tactical mind immediately shifting gears. "That's a significant magical force."

"But we'll know exactly when and where they're coming," Lancelot pointed out, his voice carrying the sort of quiet excitement that came with new strategic possibilities. "Merlin can track their movements, give us advance warning of any changes in their approach."

"Absolutely not," Arthur said firmly, his protective instincts flaring at the suggestion. "Merlin doesn't attempt that spell again without me present to watch over him. We've already discussed this."

"Arthur - " Gwaine began with good-natured protest.

"No arguments," Arthur cut him off, his voice carrying royal authority backed by genuine concern. "That magic leaves him completely vulnerable. His consciousness leaves his body entirely. If something happened while he was... elsewhere, he'd be defenseless."

"But that's not exactly practical, is it?" Gwaine pointed out with his usual irreverent logic. "What if Merlin gets separated from you during a battle? What if he needs to find us, or scout enemy positions while you're busy being kingly somewhere else?"

Arthur's jaw tightened visibly, his protective instincts warring with tactical reality. "Then he doesn't use that particular spell. There are other ways to gather intelligence."

"Other ways that take time we might not have," Lancelot said carefully, clearly recognizing the minefield he was entering. "If enemies are approaching and we need immediate information - "

"Then I'll make sure I'm available to guard him," Arthur interrupted, his voice taking on the stubborn edge that meant he wasn't going to be reasoned with on this point. "I won't let Merlin out of my sight when there are hostile forces in the area."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group as the knights exchanged glances. They all recognized Arthur's tone, understood that pushing further would only make him more intractable. But Merlin could see the tactical concerns in their faces - the understanding that Arthur's protective impulses, however well-intentioned, might not always align with strategic necessities.

Arthur's need to protect you supersedes tactical logic, Magic observed with what might have been amusement. His emotional investment clouds his judgment regarding acceptable risk levels.

I know, Merlin replied, but give him time. When he stops to think about it, his fist love and duty is always to Camelot and her people.

Leon studied the map with tactical precision, changing the subject with professional grace. "Merlin is right; if the army maintains their pace, they will reach us by dawn the day after tomorrow. But if they force march through the night..." He traced potential routes with his finger. "They could be here by tomorrow evening."

"Then we prepare for tomorrow evening," Arthur decided immediately, his command voice firmly back in place. He released Merlin’s shoulder and went to his chair, though he didn’t sit. Instead, he looked at his First Knight. “Leon, begin evacuating the lower town to the citadel immediately. Coordinate with the quartermaster to ensure we have supplies for a siege if necessary, and make sure every defensive position manned.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Arthur turned to his other knights and the court physician. “Gwain, Lancelot, I want you both in charge of drilling the other knights and preparing them for magical attacks.  Elyan and Percival. I want you to lead riders to the outlying villages. I want every soul within a day's ride of the city evacuated to the citadel no later than tomorrow when the sun is high. Gaius – “

“I shall prepare the great hall to receive casualties, Sire,” Gaius said, anticipating the request with a respectful bow.  “And what of the magical defenses? Should we - "

"Merlin will coordinate those," Arthur said without hesitation, turning to look at him, and Merlin felt a warm flutter in his chest at the casual assumption of his competence. "Gather Ceryndra and her companions. We'll need every magical defender we can muster."

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin said, unable to keep from grinning.

Arthur nodded, barely stifling a smile of his own. “Very well. Dismissed.”

Gaius and the knights began moving with the efficient urgency of men accustomed to crisis, but as Merlin rose from his chair and went to follow, Arthur caught his arm in a firm, but gentle grip. "Are you ready for this?" he asked quietly, and Merlin knew with a certainty that if he said ‘no,’ Arthur would find a way to exclude him.

"I'm ready," Merlin said. "Don’t forget, I’ve been saving Camelot and your backside since I arrived.”

Arthur snorted, but didn’t argue.

“Besides,” Merlin continued, “Magic and I, we're learning to work together properly. Aren't we?" he added, directing the question inward.

Indeed. We are stronger now than before the separation, though the integration requires constant attention. I will not fail you.

"Good," Arthur said, though his eyes lingered on Merlin's face as if searching for signs of the emptiness that had haunted him for those terrible days. "Because I have a feeling this attack is going to test everything we've built since then. Ready to see how well magic and might work together when the stakes are real?"

"Ready," Merlin confirmed, though he sent a silent plea to Magic: Please, no matter what happens, don't take control from me. We have to do this together.

Together, Magic agreed with surprising gentleness. I understand now that your judgment in such matters is superior to my instincts. We are partners, not competing entities.

Merlin thought about that dark power he had sensed far to the south, how Magic frantically turned him away from it, and wondered if that were true.

The morning passed in a blur of preparation that would have been impossible without magic to accelerate the process. Merlin worked with Ceryndra and her companions to establish a comprehensive magical defense network around Camelot - wards at the gates that would disrupt incoming spells, protective circles at key points throughout the city, and early warning enchantments that would alert them to magical attacks before they struck.

The defensive network is elegant in its simplicity, Magic observed as Merlin wove the final connections between the ward stones. Each component reinforces the others while maintaining individual function. Ceryndra's theoretical knowledge is impressive.

Can you improve it? Merlin asked, pausing in his work to consider the magical flows around them.

Significantly. Our power exceeds theirs by a considerable margin. But doing so might overshadow their contributions and create resentment among our allies.

Then work with them, not instead of them, Merlin instructed. We're trying to build trust, not demonstrate dominance.

Ah. Leadership through collaboration rather than superior force. Magic paused, considering. This approach requires more finesse but likely produces better long-term results.

Exactly. Sometimes the strongest choice is to restrain your strength.

Merlin put this philosophy into practice as he worked alongside the other magical practitioners. Instead of overwhelming their carefully crafted defenses with his raw power, he found ways to enhance and support their work - strengthening connections here, smoothing power flows there, always in consultation rather than by fiat.

"You're holding back," Ceryndra observed during a brief rest, though her tone was curious rather than critical.

"I'm working with you," Merlin corrected gently. "There's a difference."

"Most sorcerers of your caliber would simply impose their will on a working like this. Remake it according to their vision."

"Most sorcerers of my caliber haven't spent years learning that the strongest magic isn't always the best magic," Merlin replied. "Besides, your network is already excellent. I'm just helping it reach its full potential."

Ceryndra smiled, the expression transforming her face. "No wonder the knights follow you so readily. You make them feel valued rather than overshadowed."

She understands the psychological component of leadership, Magic noted approvingly. Building loyalty through respect rather than fear or awe.

Later, Arthur recruited Merlin to work with his knights to drill new tactics for fighting enemies who could attack from a distance with fire and lightning. The training yard buzzed with nervous energy as hardened warriors struggled to adapt to threats unlike anything they'd faced before.

"Shield walls are useless against sorcerers who can attack from above," Merlin explained to a group of knights who watched him with expressions ranging from respectful attention to barely concealed unease. "But magic requires focus and concentration. Distract a sorcerer, break their concentration, and they become vulnerable to conventional weapons."

"How do we distract them effectively?" Sir Kay asked, his voice carrying the careful neutrality of someone trying not to give offense while still expressing legitimate tactical concerns.

Merlin conjured a ball of light, making several knights step back instinctively. The reaction stung - these were men he'd fought alongside, saved, befriended - but he pushed past the hurt and focused on the lesson.

They fear us despite our efforts to help, Magic observed with something approaching sadness. Their training and cultural conditioning have taught them to see magic as inherently threatening.

Fear takes time to fade, Merlin replied philosophically. We have to prove ourselves through consistent action, not just words.

I find this... frustrating. We offer aid and protection, yet receive suspicion in return.

Welcome to politics. It's rarely logical.

I do not care for politics.

Neither do I. But they're necessary if we want to build something better.

"Watch the light," he instructed, then nodded to Gwaine, who understood immediately.

You intend to demonstrate vulnerability through controlled harm, Magic realized with alarm. This seems counterproductive to building trust.

Trust me on this.

I do. But I do not trust the knight with the projectile to properly control his strength.

Gwaine threw a practice spear from the side - not hard enough to cause serious injury, but enough to hurt. The spear caught Merlin in the shoulder, and the sudden spike of pain shattered his concentration completely. The light winked out immediately.

"Ow," Merlin complained with theatrical indignation, rubbing his shoulder while trying not to let Magic's protective instincts show in his expression. "A little warning next time, Gwaine."

"Where's the fun in that?" Gwaine replied cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to the brief golden flicker that had passed through Merlin's eyes when the spear hit. "Besides, you said to break your concentration. Mission accomplished."

The knight speaks truth, though his methods lack subtlety, Magic observed, its earlier alarm fading as the demonstration proved effective. The other knights appear less fearful now that they've seen our vulnerability.

That was the point. Sometimes showing weakness builds more trust than displaying strength.

Vulnerability as a tool for building alliances. Curious. I would not have considered this approach.

"Thank you for that painful but educational demonstration," Merlin said dryly, earning a few chuckles from the assembled knights - the first genuinely relaxed sounds he'd heard from them since beginning the lesson.

"Anytime, mate," Gwaine replied with a grin that suggested he'd actually enjoyed the exercise. "Always happy to rough up a sorcerer for the good of the kingdom."

"Just remember that this sorcerer can turn you into a frog," Merlin warned with mock severity.

" A frog?” Gwaine gestured broadly. “Please, Merlin. With my charm and good looks, I'd be the most irresistible amphibian in the kingdom. The ladies would be lining up to kiss me back to normal."

Merlin laughed, and was pleasantly surprised to hear many of the other knights laugh with him.

The banter continued as the lesson progressed, and Merlin felt the atmosphere gradually shift from wary tension to something approaching camaraderie. The knights were beginning to see him not as an incomprehensible magical force, but as a person - someone who could be hurt, who made jokes, who was fundamentally on their side.

They begin to see us as an ally rather than a potential threat, Magic observed with satisfaction. This change in perception will improve combat coordination significantly.

It's a start. Trust builds slowly, but it builds.

Arthur watched the training from across the courtyard, conferring with Leon and Lancelot about positioning and strategy, but Merlin noticed how often his gaze drifted back to observe the magic lessons. Their eyes met occasionally across the space, and something warm and complex passed between them - pride, concern, and underneath it all, the growing awareness of feelings that had been acknowledged but not yet fully explored.

Arthur's attention returns to us frequently despite his other responsibilities, Magic noted with interest. His concern for our wellbeing appears to supersede purely tactical considerations.

He's probably just making sure I don't accidentally teach his knights something dangerous, Merlin deflected, though he felt his cheeks warm slightly.

No. His emotional emanations are consistent with protective affection rather than strategic oversight. He monitors your physical condition, positions himself to maintain visual contact despite tactical discussions requiring his attention elsewhere. His postural orientation suggests readiness to intervene if you appear to require assistance.

Merlin followed Magic's observations and realized it was right. Arthur was watching him with the sort of focused attention that spoke of personal investment rather than professional duty.

Maybe you're not reading too much into it after all, Merlin admitted.

Arthur's feelings for you appear as complex and intense as yours for him. This symmetry suggests... possibilities for mutual emotional fulfillment.

Don't get ahead of yourself. We have a battle to fight first.

True. But after the battle...

After the battle, we'll see.

As evening approached, Arthur stood on Camelot's walls, scanning the distant forest where their enemies presumably still traveled. The lack of immediate threat was almost more unsettling than facing a visible army - at least then he would know exactly what they faced.

"They could arrive tomorrow evening," Leon said beside him, following his gaze toward the darkening horizon. "Or they might stop for another night's rest and come the day after."

Arthur's jaw tightened as he weighed the possibilities. The uncertainty gnawed at him - he preferred enemies he could see, threats he could quantify and prepare for. This waiting, this not knowing, went against every tactical instinct he'd developed over years of warfare.

"We prepare for tomorrow," he reiterated. "Better to be ready a day early than a day late."

The castle settled into an uneasy quiet as night fell, and Arthur initially found rest impossible. He paced his chambers for the better part of an hour, mind churning through defensive strategies and contingency plans. Every creak of timber, every distant sound from the courtyard below, made him pause and listen. His thoughts kept drifting to Merlin - was he sleeping? Probably not. The man had looked as wound up as Arthur felt when they'd parted ways earlier.

But eventually, Arthur forced himself to recognize the futility of his restlessness. Tomorrow might bring battle, or it might bring another day of tense preparation - either way, he would need his wits about him. Exhaustion served no one, least of all the people depending on his leadership.

With conscious effort, he settled into bed and worked to quiet his racing thoughts. The preparations were sound, his people were ready, and worrying through the night would only dull his edge when it mattered most. Sleep came slowly, but it came+.

Arthur woke before dawn, his mind already churning through defensive strategies. When he emerged from his bedchamber, he found Merlin waiting with his armor laid out in precise order - a sight so familiar it was almost comforting despite the circumstances.

"You're up early," Arthur observed, moving toward the armor stand where Merlin was making final adjustments to the leather straps.

"So are you," Merlin replied without looking up, though Arthur caught the hint of a smile in his voice. "Besides, someone has to make sure you don't put your mail on backwards again."

"That was one time," Arthur protested, raising his arms automatically as Merlin approached with the padded undertunic. "And I was half-asleep and recovering from a concussion."

"Mmm," Merlin hummed noncommittally, helping Arthur into the garment with practiced efficiency. "Still counts."

They fell into the familiar rhythm they'd developed over years of shared mornings - Arthur lifting his arms at the right moments, Merlin adjusting buckles and straps with the sort of unconscious competence that came from endless repetition. It was oddly soothing, this routine, even with the threat of magical warfare hanging over them.

"You know," Arthur said as Merlin worked on the mail shirt, "if we survive this, I'm going to have to start getting myself dressed. Can't have the Court Sorcerer playing servant to the king."

Merlin's hands stilled for just a moment on the armor fastenings. "Is that what you want?" he asked quietly.

Arthur studied his friend's profile, noting the careful neutrality in his expression. "What I want," he said slowly, "is for you to be whatever makes you happy. Servant, advisor, Court Sorcerer - I don't care about the title. I just want you to be yourself."

"Even if myself is someone who enjoys helping you into your armor?" Merlin asked with a slight smile, resuming his work on the buckles.

Arthur felt warmth spread through his chest at the admission. "Especially then," he said softly.

Merlin's smile widened as he moved to fetch the sword belt. "Good. Because old habits die hard, and I've gotten rather attached to this particular routine."

The morning was spent in methodical final arrangements. Arthur worked with Leon to review defensive positions one final time, consulted with the quartermaster about supply distribution, and made himself visible throughout the castle to reassure the nervous defenders. But part of his attention remained fixed on the gates, waiting for Percival and Elyan's return.

When they finally appeared, the sun was still high in the afternoon sky - exactly as Arthur had requested. Behind them came a long procession of carts and worried families, every soul from the outlying villages streaming through Camelot's gates in a steady flow of humanity seeking safety.

"Any trouble?" Arthur asked as his two knights reported to him in the courtyard, which was rapidly filling with displaced people and their hastily packed belongings.

"A few families needed convincing," Percival replied in his characteristically understated way. "But once we explained the situation, most came willingly."

"Some of the older folks weren't happy about leaving their homes," Elyan added, wiping sweat from his brow. "But they understood the necessity when we mentioned magical attacks."

Arthur nodded, then turned his attention to the incoming refugees. There were more than he'd expected - entire families with children clinging to their parents, elderly couples helping each other navigate the unfamiliar stone corridors, farmers looking lost without their fields to tend. The courtyard buzzed with confusion and barely controlled anxiety.

Then Gwen appeared, moving among the new arrivals with the sort of calm authority that made chaos bend to her will. Arthur watched in admiration as she somehow transformed what should have been a logistical nightmare into organized efficiency. Within what seemed like minutes, families were being directed to assigned areas, children were staying close to their parents, and the kitchen staff was coordinating food distribution.

"How do you do that?" Arthur asked when she paused near him, noting the way people instinctively looked to her for guidance and reassurance.

"Do what?" she replied, though her smile suggested she knew exactly what he meant.

"Make it look effortless. All of this - " he gestured to the courtyard where displaced villagers were settling in with remarkable calm, " - should be chaos."

"People just need to know someone's looking after them," Gwen said simply, already scanning the crowd for anyone who might need additional help. "Give them clear directions and a sense of safety, and they'll manage the rest themselves."

Arthur watched her return to her work, feeling a deep appreciation for her natural leadership abilities. She had a gift for making people feel valued and protected - exactly what Camelot needed during a crisis like this.

The afternoon passed in a blur of activity as the castle absorbed its temporary population. Arthur made rounds throughout the citadel, checking on the displaced villagers and ensuring they had what they needed. The great hall had been converted into a massive dormitory, unused chambers housed families, and even corners of the stables provided shelter. Crowded, certainly, but everyone was within the citadel's protective walls.

As evening approached, Arthur called for final reports from his scouts. The lead rider's expression when he dismounted made Arthur's stomach clench with foreboding.

"They've made camp, Sire," the scout reported, still breathing hard from his urgent ride. "Perhaps three hours' march from the city. I got close enough to observe their organization - they're well-disciplined, professional. They'll be here with the dawn."

Arthur felt the familiar calm that always settled over him when uncertainty gave way to concrete action. "Tomorrow then," he said, his voice carrying to the gathered knights and officers. "Pass the word - battle stations by first light."

That night, Arthur stood on his balcony, studying the distant glow of enemy campfires against the dark horizon. Fifty soldiers and thirty sorcerers - not overwhelming numbers by conventional standards, but the magical component changed everything. He'd seen what sorcerers could do in coordinated attacks, and the thought of facing thirty of them made his tactical mind work overtime.

Below in the courtyard, he could see Merlin working with Ceryndra and the other magical defenders. They moved in shifts throughout the night, taking turns at what appeared to be some form of supernatural surveillance. Arthur found their quiet competence reassuring - at least they wouldn't be caught off guard by magical attacks in the darkness.

His mind wanted to continue churning through plans and contingencies, but Arthur forced himself to step back from the window. He needed rest - real rest, not the fitful dozing he'd managed the night before. Tomorrow would demand everything from him, and exhaustion could cost lives. His people deserved a leader with a clear head and steady hands.

With deliberate effort, he set aside his tactical concerns and focused on the basics. The defenses were as ready as they could be. His knights knew their roles. Merlin and the magical defenders had their watches organized. Everything that could be done had been done. When sleep finally came, it was deep and dreamless.

At first light the next morning, Arthur was already awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to the distant sounds of an army preparing for war. The knowledge that enemy forces waited just beyond his walls made every moment feel weighted with significance.

He rose and moved to his window, studying the enemy campfires that had burned through the night. Today would test everything - his leadership, his kingdom's defenses, the fragile new understanding between magic and mundane that they'd worked so hard to build.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. "Come," he called, though he already knew who it would be.

Merlin entered carrying Arthur's armor, his movements quiet and purposeful. There was something different about him this morning - not nervous exactly, but focused in a way that spoke of someone preparing for serious battle. His eyes met Arthur's briefly, and Arthur saw confidence there alongside the familiar determination.

They didn't speak as Arthur moved toward the armor stand. Words felt inadequate somehow, too small for the weight of what lay ahead. Instead, they communicated through glances and gentle touches - Merlin's hands steady as he helped Arthur into the padded undertunic, Arthur's breathing deliberately calm as the familiar ritual grounded them both.

The mail shirt came next, and as Merlin worked on the fastenings, Arthur found himself acutely aware of every detail - the careful precision of Merlin's fingers on the buckles, the way morning light caught in his dark hair, the quiet strength in his movements that spoke of someone who had found his place in the world.

I can't lose him, Arthur thought with sudden, fierce clarity. Not now. Not when we're finally...

He couldn't finish the thought, even to himself. Whatever was growing between them was too new, too precious, too undefined to put into words. But the possibility of it - of having something real and honest and extraordinary with the man who knew him better than anyone - made the thought of today's battle both more urgent and more terrifying.

Arthur's hands clenched involuntarily as Merlin moved to fetch the sword belt, and he had to consciously relax them. His duty was to Camelot, to the people sheltering within these walls, to the future they were all fighting to build. But underneath that duty, driving it and giving it meaning was the desperate need to protect this one person who had become essential to his very sense of self.

Merlin returned with his sword, and their eyes met again as he fastened the sword belt around Arthur's waist. The familiar weight of the blade at his hip was comforting, but not as comforting as the steady confidence he saw in Merlin's gaze.

"Ready?" Merlin asked quietly, his hands making final adjustments to Arthur's armor with the sort of careful attention that spoke of deep care.

Arthur studied his friend's face - the determined set of his jaw, the clear intelligence in his blue eyes, the quiet strength that had always been there but was now allowed to show openly. Merlin looked ready for whatever came next, confident in his abilities and, as always, confident in Arthur.

That confidence had gotten them through countless crises over the years. Today, Arthur realized, he was trusting it with more than just his life - he was trusting it with their future, with whatever they might become if they survived the day ahead.

"Ready," Arthur confirmed, and meant it completely.

Together, they made their way through the castle corridors toward the battlements. Leon joined them at the base of the wall stairs, his own armor gleaming and his expression set with the grim determination of a seasoned commander preparing for war.

"Positions, everyone," Arthur commanded as lookouts on the walls called down reports of movement in the enemy camp. "They're coming."

Merlin watched the transformation with something approaching awe, despite having witnessed it countless times before. The courtyard, moments before filled with anxious refugees and last-minute preparations, became a military zone with fluid precision. Non-combatants withdrew to secure areas with practiced efficiency, while knights and men-at-arms took their assigned positions without hesitation or confusion. Arthur's training and leadership were evident in every smooth movement, every coordinated response.

Following Arthur and Leon up to the battlements, Merlin felt his magical senses automatically extend outward, cataloguing the approaching threat. The enemy force crested the final hill just as they reached their vantage point, and the sight made his stomach clench with apprehension.

The black knight's army looked every bit as formidable as his magical reconnaissance had revealed - disciplined ranks moving with professional coordination, sorcerers positioned strategically among the conventional troops. But feeling the weight of their combined magical signatures pressing against his awareness made the threat feel suddenly, viscerally real.

The army stopped just beyond arrow range, arranging themselves in battle formation with the sort of efficiency that spoke of extensive preparation. Merlin could see Arthur studying their deployment with tactical focus, but his own attention was drawn to the magical auras blazing around their leader as the black-armored figure rode forward.

The enchantments on the black knight's armor were impressive - layers of protection that would turn aside both physical and magical attacks. But there was something else, something that made Merlin's magical senses recoil instinctively. The armor didn't just bear enchantments; it had been corrupted by them, twisted into something that fed on the wearer's hatred and amplified it back into the world.

When the black knight spoke, his voice carried with unnatural volume, the magical amplification setting Merlin's teeth on edge.

"Arthur Pendragon!" the challenge rang out across the morning air. "I am Sir Aldwin, Knight of the Old Code. I come to challenge the corruption that has taken root in Camelot!"

He speaks of corruption while wearing armor that reeks of it, Magic observed with disgust. The irony appears lost on him.

Arthur stepped forward to the wall's edge, his voice carrying clearly without need for magical enhancement - the product of years of training in command presence and battlefield communication.

"Corruption?" Arthur called back, his tone carefully neutral. "Speak plainly, Sir Aldwin. What corrupts Camelot?"

"You harbor sorcerers!" Aldwin's amplified voice rang with righteous indignation. "Protect abominations against nature! Your father would weep to see what you've allowed his kingdom to become!"

Arthur's jaw tightened at the mention of his father, but his voice remained steady. "My father wept for many things," he replied, and Merlin heard layers of pain and hard-won understanding in those words. "Most of them caused by his own hatred and fear. State your terms, Sir Aldwin."

"Surrender the sorcerer Emrys and those who practice magic within your walls," Aldwin demanded. "Renounce your blasphemous changes to the law. Do this, and we will withdraw without bloodshed."

They specifically name us, Magic noted with sharp interest. This confirms the attacks are targeted rather than opportunistic. Someone has detailed intelligence about our identity and role.

Someone wants me specifically, Merlin realized. The question is why. What do they gain from capturing me?

Or they seek to provoke you into rash action that would justify their presence here. Your response will influence not just this immediate tactical situation, but Arthur's strategic options.

"And if I refuse?" Arthur asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

"Then we will cleanse Camelot with fire and steel, as Uther would have done!" Aldwin's voice carried the fervor of fanatical conviction. "We will restore the natural order that you have violated!"

Arthur's response cut through the evening air, a blade carrying all the authority of kingship and the weight of absolute conviction. "I name you for the hypocrite that you are, Sir Aldwin. You claim to follow Uther's purge, yet you have sorcerers in your own ranks. And sorcerers – why do you follow this man who supports Uther’s Purge? Is it because the enemy of your enemy is your friend? If you take Camelot, what then? Will you turn on each other, soldier against magic user, fighting until one side or the other is destroyed?"

Murmurs rose from Aldwin's forces - voices raised in what sounded like argument and confusion. Arthur had clearly struck a nerve, revealing the cracks in their supposedly unified purpose.

"When the cause is noble, any path may be walked!" Aldwin retorted, though his voice carried less certainty than before. "Victory justifies the means employed to achieve it!"

Arthur's voice turned cold as winter wind, carrying the particular edge that meant he was prepared to be very unpleasant to whoever had earned his displeasure. "What is it that you truly want?” he said, his words directed to the entire company. “Let me guess - someone sent you a raven with a message sealed by old magic, promising power and position in a new world where magic reigns supreme?"

The silence that followed was telling. Aldwin's horse shifted restlessly beneath him, and even from their distance, Merlin could see the stiffness in his posture that spoke of a man caught in an uncomfortable truth. More importantly, audible arguments broke out among his forces - voices raised in accusation and denial, the sound of unity fracturing under the weight of exposed hypocrisy.

"Uther does not rule here," Arthur continued, his voice carrying across the battlefield with the authority of absolute conviction. "I rule Camelot now, and I say that magic itself is not evil - only how it's used determines its morality. Leave now, and you may go in peace. Attack, and face the consequences of your choice."

He offers them a final opportunity for withdrawal, Magic observed. Mercy despite their threats and hostile intentions. This will resonate with some of their followers who may have doubts about their cause.

And make others more determined to fight, Merlin added. But the division in their ranks favors our defensive position.

Sir Aldwin raised his sword high, his voice regaining some of its earlier bravado though it couldn't quite hide the underlying uncertainty. "You've made your choice then, Arthur Pendragon! Let history record that we tried to save Camelot from itself!"

History is written by survivors, Magic noted grimly. His confidence in victory suggests either genuine belief in success or desperate bravado masking fear of failure.

Either way, here we go.

The attack began at dawn with magical fire raining from the sky - brilliant streaks of power that would have overwhelmed Camelot's defenses only weeks before. But this time, Camelot was ready.

Ceryndra and her companions raised shields of pure energy, their combined power creating a shimmering dome over the most vulnerable sections of the city. Merlin added his strength to theirs, feeling Magic surge through him with controlled power that made their defensive matrix stronger than the sum of its parts.

Our power integrates well with theirs, Magic observed with professional satisfaction. The combined defensive matrix is significantly stronger than individual shields. This demonstrates the effectiveness of collaborative magical working.

Good. We're going to need every advantage we can get.

The enemy sorcerers are competent but not exceptional in their individual abilities. Our primary concern should be protecting the non-magical defenders while maintaining the shield network's integrity.

"Now!" Arthur commanded from his position at the center of the wall, his voice carrying clearly over the sound of magical bombardment.

Camelot's response was immediate and devastating. Archers fired in coordinated volleys, their arrows finding gaps in the enemy's defenses with precision born of years of training. The siege engines Leon had positioned during the night responded with thunderous roars, sending stones crashing into enemy ranks with carefully calculated effect.

Excellent coordination between magical and conventional forces, Magic noted approvingly. Arthur's tactical planning effectively accounts for both types of warfare and maximizes their combined effectiveness.

But Aldwin's forces were well-trained despite their fractured morale. They advanced in disciplined formation, sorcerers protecting soldiers who protected sorcerers in turn, their movements speaking of extensive experience with combined magical and conventional combat.

They know what they're doing, Merlin realized with growing concern. This isn't their first battle against magical defenses.

This suggests extensive preparation and prior combat experience. Possibly both. Their coordination is too smooth for improvisation.

How much power do we have in reserve? Merlin asked as he felt the strain of maintaining the shields against continued bombardment.

Significant reserves, but not unlimited. Maintaining the city-wide shield while engaging in active combat will drain our strength more rapidly than I initially calculated.

"We need to break their coordination," Merlin said to Arthur, who had positioned himself nearby to monitor both the conventional and magical aspects of the defense. "Separate the sorcerers from their protection, disrupt their formation."

Sound tactical thinking, Magic approved. Disrupting their formation will force them to choose between offensive capabilities and defensive protection.

"Leave that to us," Gwaine said with characteristic confidence, appearing at Arthur's shoulder with that particular grin that meant he was about to do something simultaneously brilliant and insane. "Percival, Elyan, with me. Time for some chaos."

"Gwaine, no - " Arthur started, command and concern warring in his voice as he realized what his knight was planning.

But Gwaine and his companions were already gone, heading for the secret sally port that would let them circle around behind enemy lines while the main force was focused on the walls.

"Madmen," Leon muttered from his position coordinating the archers, but there was affection rather than real criticism in his voice. He immediately began adjusting fire patterns to provide covering support for whatever plan Gwaine had conceived.

Loyalty that transcends rational self-interest, Magic observed with something approaching wonder. They risk their lives not for strategic advantage but for personal bonds and group cohesion.

That's friendship, Merlin explained. That's what it looks like when people genuinely care about each other.

I begin to understand why you value such connections despite their apparent tactical inefficiency.

The battle intensified as both sides drew on deeper reserves of power and determination. Sorcerers pulled energy from the earth itself, the air crackling with competing magical forces that made Merlin's teeth ache and his skin prickle with accumulated charge. He found himself fighting on multiple fronts - maintaining his portion of the defensive shield, countering specific attacks aimed at Arthur and the command post, trying to coordinate with Ceryndra's group while keeping track of the overall tactical situation.

You attempt too many tasks simultaneously, Magic warned with growing concern as it felt the strain building through their connection. This approach risks failure across all fronts due to divided attention and power allocation.

I can't let any of them fail, Merlin protested, even as he felt the truth of Magic's warning in his growing exhaustion.

But if you spread your attention too thin, you will fail at everything rather than succeeding at what matters most. Focus on priorities.

What mattered most. Merlin's eyes found Arthur immediately, saw him directing the defense with calm efficiency despite the chaos swirling around them. Always the eye of the storm, the fixed point around which everything else revolved, steady and strong and absolutely essential to everything Merlin cared about.

Arthur, Magic confirmed with certainty. He is your priority above all else. Protect him, and trust others to handle their assigned responsibilities.

But I can't just abandon the city defenses -

Not abandon. Delegate. Trust others to perform their roles while you perform yours. You cannot protect everything, but you can protect what matters most.

"You're spreading yourself too thin," Ceryndra called out during a brief lull in the magical bombardment, appearing at his side with sweat beading her forehead from the effort of maintaining her section of the shield. "Focus on what you do best."

She offers sound tactical advice, Magic noted. Her experience with magical combat exceeds our own in coordinated defense scenarios.

I know what matters most, Merlin thought, his gaze returning to Arthur as his friend coordinated the response to a new threat at the eastern wall. But if the whole city falls -

The city will not fall if everyone performs their assigned role effectively. Your role is to protect Arthur and provide tactical magical support, not to single-handedly defend everything within the walls.

An explosion rocked the western wall, sending chunks of stone flying as enemy magic found its mark through their defenses. Through the smoke and debris, enemy soldiers poured through the breach, led by two sorcerers whose power blazed like torches against the morning sky.

"Breach!" someone shouted, the cry taken up by voices throughout the courtyard as word spread.

Significant tactical problem, Magic observed with sharp concern. If the breach cannot be sealed rapidly, the city's defenses will be systematically compromised.

Arthur was already moving, sword drawn and blazing with reflected light from the magical combat around them. His knights formed up around him with the fluid precision of men who had fought together for years, meeting the invaders with the brutal efficiency that had made them legendary.

Arthur places himself in immediate danger, Magic noted with rising alarm as it tracked Arthur's movement toward the breach. He leads from the front despite the tactical risks to his person.

That's who he is, Merlin replied, watching Arthur throw himself into combat with the desperate intensity that always came when his people were threatened. He won't ask others to face dangers he won't face himself.

His courage is admirable but strategically questionable from a pure tactical standpoint.

His courage is why people follow him. It's why they'll die for him if necessary.

I do not wish to see him harmed.

The sentiment surprised Merlin with its intensity. Magic had begun as pure force, indifferent to individual lives except as they affected Merlin's own wellbeing. But now there was genuine concern, even affection, in its mental voice.

You care about him too, Merlin realized.

I care about what you care about. Your emotional attachments have become mine through our merged existence. His wellbeing affects yours, therefore it affects mine.

Is that... is that okay with you?

Yes, Magic replied simply.

More enemies poured through the breach, their numbers threatening to overwhelm the defenders despite the knights' skill and determination. Merlin made a decision that felt like stepping off a cliff into unknown air.

Dropping his portion of the city-wide shield, he focused everything on the breach itself. The stones responded to his call, flowing as water under his will to seal the gap. Enemy soldiers found themselves trapped, cut off from support and surrounded by Camelot's defenders who pressed their advantage with ruthless efficiency.

Excellent use of localized power concentration, Magic approved. But the effort has cost us significantly in terms of magical reserves.

Black spots danced at the edges of Merlin's vision, and he stumbled under the strain. The world tilted dangerously, threatening to send him sprawling onto the stone walkway.

Our reserves are critically low, Magic warned with genuine concern. We cannot maintain this level of output much longer without risking complete magical exhaustion.

"Merlin!" Arthur's voice cut through the roar of battle, distant but urgent.

Strong hands caught him before he could fall - not Arthur's, but Lancelot's. The knight's face was grim with concern as he steadied Merlin against his shoulder, supporting his weight while scanning for immediate threats.

"I'm fine," Merlin gasped, though the words felt hollow even to him as he struggled to remain upright. "Just need a moment to recover."

"You don't have a moment," Lancelot said grimly, his gaze fixed on something beyond the walls that made his expression tighten with alarm. "Look."

Major threat incoming, Magic identified with sharp warning as its diminished senses picked up the surge of hostile power approaching.

Sir Aldwin himself was approaching the gates, magical power gathering around him in a near-visible miasma. Behind him, his remaining sorcerers linked hands in a circle, combining their strength in a technique that made the air itself shimmer with dangerous accumulated energy.

Coordinated magical assault on the primary defensive barrier, Magic analyzed rapidly despite its depleted state. Their combined power may exceed our current capacity to counter effectively.

"They're going to bring down the gates," Merlin realized, fear cutting through his exhaustion. Without the main gates, Camelot's defenses would crumble, leaving the city open to assault.

"Can you stop them?" Lancelot asked urgently, his voice carrying the weight of someone who understood exactly how much hung in the balance of this moment.

Merlin looked around desperately - at the defenders already stretched beyond their limits, at Arthur fighting desperately to hold the sealed breach against continued pressure, at Ceryndra and her companions visibly tiring from maintaining what remained of the defensive network. Everyone was giving everything they had, but it might not be enough.

We could stop them, Magic said quietly, its mental voice carrying grim determination. But it would require everything we have left. And if there are more attacks coming after this...

Then we'll deal with them when they come, Merlin decided with sudden clarity. Right now, those gates are all that stands between Arthur and fifty armed enemies. That's not acceptable.

Arthur's safety supersedes all other concerns, Magic agreed with fierce protectiveness. We will stop them regardless of the cost to ourselves.

"Maybe," Merlin said aloud, his voice steadier than he felt as he straightened with Lancelot's support. "But..."

"Do it," Arthur said suddenly, appearing beside them despite the ongoing battle around the sealed breach. His armor was dented from combat, his face streaked with dust and sweat, but his eyes were steady with absolute trust and determination. "Stop him. We'll handle everything else."

Arthur places complete faith in our abilities, Magic observed with something approaching awe. His trust is... profound and humbling.

"Arthur - " Merlin began, wanting to explain the risks, the possibility of failure, the cost of success that might leave him unable to defend against future attacks.

"I trust you," Arthur interrupted, and the simple words hit Merlin like lightning, sending electricity through every fiber of his being. "Show them what the Court Sorcerer of Camelot can do."

That's what love looks like, Merlin realized with crystal clarity. Not just caring about someone, but trusting them completely even when you don't know if they can deliver what's needed.

Yes, Magic agreed with quiet certainty. This is love. I understand now why its potential loss nearly destroyed our physical form during the separation - the emotion is overwhelming in its intensity and importance.

Merlin nodded, drawing on reserves he wasn't sure existed, pulling strength from Arthur's trust and his own desperate need to protect everything that mattered. As Aldwin's power crested, a breaking wave ready to shatter Camelot's gates and flood the city with violence, Merlin stepped forward to meet the challenge.

Together, Magic said with fierce determination, offering everything it had.

Together, Merlin agreed, and felt Magic surge through him not as a separate entity but as an extension of his own will.

"NO," he said, and put the weight of Emrys behind it - not just his individual power, but the full force of his merged nature flowing through that single word of absolute denial.

The two forces met with a sound that thundered as if the world was breaking apart at its fundamental seams. Power against power, will against will, the desperate fury of coordinated attack meeting the immovable determination of unified defense. Aldwin was strong, his linked circle adding their strength to his in a technique that spoke of careful preparation and extensive practice. But Merlin was something beyond their understanding - human will merged with primal magical force, love and power united in perfect harmony for a single, crucial moment.

The very air between them seemed to crack under the strain of competing magics. Frost spread across the ground in spiraling patterns where their powers clashed, while overhead, storm clouds gathered with unnatural speed. The gates themselves began to glow with accumulated energy, ancient wards carved into their wood and iron responding to the magical assault.

But Merlin's defense held. More than that - it pushed back.

Aldwin's power rebounded; a tide striking an unbreakable seawall, the magical backlash scattering his carefully coordinated circle like leaves in a hurricane. Several of the linked sorcerers cried out as the reflected energy tore through their defenses, while others simply collapsed as their magical reserves were drained by the failed assault.

The knight himself was driven to his knees by the force of his own power turned back upon him, his elaborate helmet cracking from the magical feedback that coursed through his body. Around him, his remaining forces wavered as they saw their leader's apparent invincibility shattered by Camelot's defense.

Victory in the magical engagement, Magic declared with fierce satisfaction. We have proven ourselves worthy of Arthur's trust and faith.

In that moment of weakness, as Aldwin struggled to regain his feet and his scattered sorcerers tried to regroup their shattered formation, Gwaine's mad plan finally came to fruition. The three knights struck from behind, having successfully circled around through terrain their enemies hadn't thought to guard adequately.

Chaos erupted in Aldwin's ranks as they found themselves caught between the hammer of surprise attack and the anvil of Camelot's walls. Caught off-guard and demoralized by their magical failure, the carefully coordinated assault dissolved into individual combat as formations broke and discipline crumbled.

"Now!" Arthur roared, his voice carrying across the battlefield with the authority of absolute command and perfect timing. "For Camelot! For justice! For the future we're building!"

The gates opened with thunderous groans of ancient hinges, and Camelot's forces poured out like water through a broken dam. Knights and men-at-arms, supported by Ceryndra and the other magical defenders, struck the disorganized enemy with overwhelming force. Caught between the sortie and Gwaine's disruption, facing enemies who knew the terrain and fought with the desperation of those defending their homes and ideals, Aldwin's army wavered, broke, and fled in increasing disorder.

But as the euphoria of possible victory crashed over him, Merlin felt the true cost of his defensive effort. His magical reserves were utterly exhausted, his body pushed beyond its limits by the sheer force required to stop Aldwin's coordinated assault. The world swayed dangerously around him, colors bleeding together as his vision tunneled.

"Merlin." Arthur was there suddenly, strong arms supporting him before he could fall, those impossibly blue eyes bright with concern and something deeper - pride, gratitude, and emotions too complex to name. "You magnificent fool. That was incredible."

"Did we win?" Merlin asked muzzily, his vision blurring at the edges as exhaustion pulled at his consciousness.

"We won decisively. Thanks to you - to all of you," Arthur added, gesturing to include Ceryndra and the other magical defenders in his gratitude with characteristic generosity. "That defense of the gates was... I don't have words for what that was."

"Just doing my job," Merlin mumbled, fighting to stay upright despite his body's urgent demands for rest and recovery. "Court Sorcerer and all that. Part of the job description."

"So you're officially accepting the position?" Arthur asked, and despite everything - the battle, the exhaustion, the watching crowd of defenders and civilians - there was something almost playful in his voice, a return to their familiar banter that spoke of relief and genuine affection.

"Someone has to keep you alive," Merlin replied, managing a weak smile despite his condition. "Might as well make it official and get proper compensation for the trouble."

Arthur's laugh was bright with relief and something deeper - joy, perhaps, or simple gratitude for survival and victory and the promise of new beginnings built on foundations they'd just proven unshakeable. Around them, Camelot's defenders were cheering with the wild enthusiasm of those who'd faced impossible odds and emerged triumphant.

This is what victory feels like, Magic realized with wonder as it absorbed the emotional resonance of the moment. Not just survival or tactical success, but the creation of something better than what existed before.

This is just the beginning, Merlin thought back, even as consciousness wavered. There will be more challenges, more tests of what we're building here.

But we have proven ourselves today. We have demonstrated that cooperation between magical and non-magical forces is not only possible but devastatingly effective. The foundation is laid.

It wasn't over - there would be more challenges, more manipulated attacks, more attempts to drive wedges between magic and mundane. But for now, they'd proven that change was possible, that Arthur's vision of unity wasn't just idealistic dreaming but achievable reality. They'd shown that trust could triumph over fear, that working together made them stronger than the sum of their parts.

"Come on," Arthur said gently, his arm still around Merlin's waist in a gesture that managed to be both supportive and protective. "Let's get you somewhere you can rest properly. Saving kingdoms is exhausting work, and you've earned some recovery time."

Merlin was too exhausted to argue, and he leaned heavily against Arthur as they made their way toward the castle. Around them, people watched with curiosity rather than fear - prince and sorcerer, king and court wizard, working together to protect everything they both held dear.

They begin to accept us as part of their world rather than a threat to it, Magic observed with quiet satisfaction. Fear gives way to familiarity, suspicion to respect.

It's a start. A good start, Merlin thought back, even as black spots danced across his vision. He stumbled and sagged, but Arthur held him steady.

It was a new world they were building together, one careful step at a time. Magic and mundane learning to coexist and support each other, old prejudices slowly giving way to new understanding, hope taking root in soil that had been barren for far too long.

And despite his exhaustion, despite the challenges that surely lay ahead, despite all the uncertainties that still existed between them and the future they were trying to create, Merlin found himself smiling as they reached the castle steps.

He was home. He was himself, completely and openly. Arthur was beside him, solid and warm and absolutely, unshakably there. Magic was part of him again, unified and cooperative, no longer the fractured thing it had been since the soul stone incident.

Everything else, we will navigate together, Magic said with quiet certainty as they climbed the steps.

Together, Merlin agreed, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he truly believed that everything would work out as it should.

The golden age Arthur dreamed of might look different than anyone had imagined, but it was beginning. Built not on perfection or the absence of conflict, but on the radical idea that different kinds of people - magical and mundane, noble and common - could stand together when it mattered most.

And that, Merlin thought as they disappeared into the castle's welcoming shadows, was a foundation strong enough to build anything upon.

Chapter Text

The morning after Aldwin's defeat dawned grey and misty, as if the world itself needed time to recover from the magical battle that had shaken Camelot's very foundations. Arthur found Merlin standing on the battlements, watching the sun struggle through clouds with the sort of distant expression that suggested he was fighting more than just fatigue.

"You should be resting," Arthur said, coming to stand beside him with the easy familiarity that had developed over their years together. "You nearly drained yourself yesterday defending the gates."

"Couldn't sleep." Merlin glanced at him, and Arthur noted the persistent lines of exhaustion around his friend's eyes. "Too much to think about. What about you? Shouldn't the victorious king be celebrating rather than brooding on battlements?"

Arthur's smile was wry. Victory felt hollow when it only revealed larger threats lurking in the shadows. "Hard to celebrate when victory just raises more questions. Sir Aldwin talked during Leon's interrogation last night."

Merlin straightened with obvious interest. "And?"

"The messages came by raven, as we suspected. Black birds with eyes that gleamed with unnatural intelligence, he said. Probably the same ones we've been seeing around the city." Arthur's expression grew troubled as he recalled Leon's disturbing report. "He couldn't tell us who sent them, but he mentioned something that's been keeping me awake."

"What?" Merlin asked, and Arthur could see the wariness growing in his expression.

"The Caves of Balor." Arthur sighed, studying Merlin's face for recognition. "Apparently, several of the messages referenced it specifically. Something about 'the power that sleeps beneath stone' and 'the key to Camelot's fall.'"

Merlin's expression shifted suddenly, his eyes taking on that distant look Arthur had learned to associate with internal conversations with Magic. It was still unsettling to witness - watching Merlin's attention divide between the physical world and whatever realm Magic inhabited.

"Merlin?" Arthur asked, noting the way his friend's face had gone carefully blank. "What is it?"

"Magic needs to speak to us," Merlin said, and Arthur felt the familiar mixture of fascination and unease that came with direct magical intervention. "It's asking to use my voice again so we can both hear."

Arthur straightened, remembering their previous experiences with Magic's direct communication. "Very well. But if Magic is using your voice, won't that leave you out of the conversation?"

"I don't think so," Merlin said, though he looked uncertain. "Since the incident in the dungeons, we've kind of worked out a system... but be prepared for a little strangeness."

"Strangeness? Around you?" Arthur said in mock surprise, earning a playful elbow to his ribs that made him grin despite the serious circumstances. “Well, if this is an important conversation, let’s not have it out here.”.

When they entered Arthur’s chambers, Merlin lit the logs in the fireplace with a gold glance, and made Arthur wonder – not for the first time – just how often Merlin used magic in his chores. But now was not the time for such a conversation. They both sat at table, sitting across from each other, and Arthur nodded at Merlin. “All right,” he said, “what does Magic have to say?”

"The Caves of Balor," Magic said through Merlin's mouth, voice carrying those distinctive harmonic undertones. Arthur could see Merlin's own awareness flickering behind his eyes. "I know the true history, the warnings your human stories have forgotten or transformed into safer tales."

Arthur found himself studying Merlin's face with fascination. It was definitely Magic speaking - the cadence was different, the vocabulary more formal - but Merlin's expressions continued to shift and react to the words being spoken through his own mouth. It was deeply strange to watch.

"Long ago, before your kingdoms rose, when the world was young and the barriers between realms were thin, there lived a giant of the Fomorian race named Balor. He was ancient even then, possessed of terrible power concentrated in a third eye that sat in the center of his forehead."

"I've heard fragments," Arthur said carefully, noting how Merlin's eyebrows drew together slightly as Magic spoke, as if he was learning this information for the first time despite it coming from his own lips. "Children's stories about giants and dark magic."

"Not stories. Truth." The power behind the words almost made Arthur step back instinctively, though he noticed Merlin's hand move unconsciously toward his throat, as if he could feel that force passing through his vocal cords. "Balor covered his third eye with seven veils, each one containing a different aspect of his malevolent power. When he removed the first veil, crops would wither and die. The second brought disease to livestock. The third caused madness in men's hearts."

Arthur could see distress flickering across Merlin's features as Magic spoke of such corruption, though the voice remained steady and ominous.

"What happened when all seven were removed?" Merlin asked suddenly, and Arthur blinked in surprise at the abrupt shift back to his friend's normal voice and cadence.

"Darkness absolute. Not mere absence of light, but corruption that spread like plague across the land - despair so profound that mothers would abandon their children, warriors would throw down their swords in hopelessness, entire civilizations would simply... stop. Give up. Choose extinction over the effort of continued existence."

Arthur felt his blood run cold at the description. "And this giant - Balor - he was defeated?"

"Eventually. Lugh of the Tuatha Dé Danann slew him in single combat, but even in death, Balor's eye retained its terrible power. The victors removed it from his skull and carried it far from their homeland of Hibernia, seeking a place where its corruption could be contained."

"Wait, that's what I sensed when we were scouting the army?" Merlin interrupted, his voice sharp with sudden understanding and anger. Arthur watched his friend's face shift through a range of emotions - realization, horror, fury. "You pulled me away and wouldn't even let me look at it! Are you saying that what I felt was that eye? They brought it here?"

The rapid shifts between Magic's formal speech and Merlin's emotional responses were giving Arthur a headache, but he found the insight into their internal dynamic fascinating despite the disturbing subject matter.

"To these lands, yes. They found a cave system in the south with natural crystal formations that could focus and contain magical energy, thinking to use the earth itself as a prison. They bound the eye with the same seven veils that had once covered it, then sealed it deep within the caves, hoping distance and stone would contain its influence."

"But it didn't work completely," Merlin said, crossing his arms with obvious irritation. Arthur could see the anger building in his friend's expression. "No wonder the Forest of Balor is so dangerous, if that eye is in the caves underneath."

Arthur found himself studying the interplay between Merlin's physical reactions and Magic's words with growing amazement. It was like watching someone have an argument with themselves, except both sides of the conversation were audible.

"Indeed. In spite of the precautions they took, the corruption spread anyway, seeping through stone and soil to poison the forest above. All sorts of malevolent creatures were drawn to it - pookas, clurichauns, redcaps, shellycoats, boggarts, chimeras, nuckelavees, aufhockers, wulvers, and so much more. Things that fed on despair and darkness. The very land became a warning to stay away."

Arthur's mind suddenly snapped to attention as memory struck him. "The Morteus flower," he said quietly, looking at Merlin with growing understanding. "When you drank poison for me, and I had to retrieve the antidote..."

He saw recognition dawn in Merlin's eyes, watched his friend's expression shift from anger to concern as he apparently realized where Arthur's thoughts were leading.

"I encountered a chimera," Arthur continued, the memories flooding back with uncomfortable clarity. "It attacked without provocation, fought like something defending its territory. And then..." His jaw tightened as he recalled the betrayal that had nearly cost him his life. "Nimue appeared. Said she needed help. She led me to a cave entrance, then stranded me inside on a cliff edge while those spiders - gods, the size of them - climbed up from the depths."

"Arthur, you never told me - " Merlin began, his voice carrying distress that made Arthur's chest tighten.

"There was a light," Arthur interrupted, the wonder of that memory cutting through the horror of everything else. "A blue-white orb that appeared in the darkness, guiding me safely up and out. I thought... I thought it was just luck, or perhaps divine intervention." He studied Merlin's face intently, seeing the truth in the flush spreading across his friend's cheeks. "It was you, wasn't it?"

Arthur watched Merlin's internal struggle play out across his features - embarrassment, fear of Arthur's reaction, and underneath it all, the deep caring that had driven him to reach out across impossible distance while dying.

"Gaius said I was delirious for hours, casting spells even while unconscious. One was a globe of light - he thought it was just fever-induced magic, but..." Merlin swallowed hard, meeting Arthur's gaze with visible effort. "I was trying to reach you. Even dying, some part of me was trying to keep you safe."

The admission rewrote every memory Arthur had of that terrible night, transforming divine intervention into something infinitely more precious. All this time, he'd carried the memory of that miraculous light as proof of divine favor or impossible luck. To learn that it had been Merlin - unconscious, dying, using the last of his strength to protect Arthur from afar - left him struggling for words.

"You saved me," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion he couldn't quite contain, "while I was trying to save you. Even then."

Arthur saw his own wonder reflected in Merlin's eyes, along with something deeper that made his breath catch. The moment stretched between them, heavy with feelings too complex and precious to examine in daylight, until Merlin startled.

“Right, sorry,” he said, blinking rapidly, and Arthur realized Merlin was talking to Magic; that they’d interrupted its story with their reminiscing.

Arthur coughed, and straightened in his chair. “Yes, by all means,” he said. “Please continue.”

“As I was saying,” Magic said, unperturbed, “the corruption in the caves drew others over the centuries. Sorcerers seeking power, caring not for its source or cost. They delved deeper, seeking the Eye itself, believing they could harness its strength without succumbing to its influence."

Arthur forced himself to focus on the words despite his distraction, though he couldn't help but notice how Merlin's expression grew increasingly grim as Magic continued.

"Five sorcerers who worked together, convinced that combined will could control what individual strength could not, found the Eye, began to strip away its veils one by one. The first two fell easily - they thought themselves victorious. The third required greater effort but yielded to their combined power. The fourth nearly broke their unity, but greed drove them onward."

"How many did they remove?" Arthur asked, dreading the answer but needing to know the scope of what they might be facing.

"Five of the seven before the Eye's corruption overwhelmed them completely. They became something neither human nor spirit - creatures of pure magical force, but without the restraints of human emotion or morality to guide them. Worse, they began to worship the Eye, seeing their transformation as transcendence rather than damnation."

Arthur felt sick at the implications. If five of the seven veils had already been removed centuries ago, if only two thin barriers stood between the world and absolute corruption...

"But why are we just hearing this now?" Merlin asked, and Arthur could see his own confusion and growing alarm reflected in his friend's voice. "This is the stuff of legends, and I've never heard any of this, or encountered it in any of my studies."

"Three centuries ago, bands of druids united to seal away the Eye, and the sorcerers who attempted to wield its power. The depths of the cave system were warded, locked away with bindings that should have lasted forever. But the messages the ravens carry suggest someone has been working to break those seals."

The implications hit Arthur like ice water in his veins. If someone was systematically destroying protections that had held for three centuries, if they were seeking to reach something that had already proven capable of corrupting the most powerful sorcerers...

"Morgana," he said quietly, the name tasting like ashes in his mouth. "It has to be her. She has the power, the knowledge, the motivation to attempt something this catastrophic."

"And the desperation," Merlin added softly, and Arthur could see the pain in his friend's eyes at the mention of his sister. "She's been consumed by hatred for so long, she might see the Eye's corruption as a tool rather than a trap."

"She would be wrong," Magic said with absolute certainty. "The Eye does not grant power - it reveals truth by stripping away everything else, leaving only the core of what someone truly is. For one already consumed by hatred and despair..."

"She'd become something worse than the original sorcerers," Arthur finished with grim understanding, his tactical mind already working through the horrifying possibilities. "A willing servant of corruption rather than an accidental victim."

Arthur found himself thinking about the sister who had once laughed at his jokes, who had challenged him and supported him in equal measure, who had been family in every way that mattered. The transformation from beloved ward to bitter enemy was a wound that had never properly healed, made worse by the knowledge that her fall had been at least partially due to the very laws and prejudices he was now working to change.

The thought of Morgana, already twisted by years of hatred and betrayal, exposed to the Eye's influence was almost too terrible to contemplate. She would become not just an enemy but something fundamentally inhuman, a force of pure malevolence with all her considerable power turned toward absolute destruction.

The implications were staggering - if Morgana was truly planning to unseal the Caves of Balor and claim the Eye's power, she wasn't just threatening Camelot but potentially the entire world. The corruption Magic described wouldn't stop at borders or respect political boundaries. It would spread like plague until everything Arthur had ever loved or sworn to protect was consumed by despair and darkness.

They sat in contemplative silence, each lost in their own thoughts while the blaze in the fireplace erased the morning chill in the room. Arthur found himself studying Merlin's profile, noting the way his friend's expression had settled into lines of determination despite the magnitude of what they faced.

And yet, looking at Merlin, Arthur felt a strange sense of certainty beneath the fear. They had faced impossible odds before. Together, they had overcome threats that should have destroyed them. Somehow, they would find a way through this as well. They had to.

"We cannot go to the caves," Magic said suddenly, its voice cutting through their contemplation with sharp finality that made Arthur's stomach drop. "We cannot approach the Eye of Balor."

Merlin threw up his hands in exasperation. “Why not?” he exclaimed, then glanced at Arthur apologetically. “He’s talking to me, not you. Apparently, it’s fine for you to go, but not me.”

Arthur fought back the urge to repeat ‘why not?’, but instead, demanded of Magic, “What do you mean? Explain.”

"The Eye would feast upon us," Magic continued, and Arthur could see distress flickering across Merlin's features as the words emerged from his own mouth. "Our power would feed its corruption, make it stronger. When we sensed it during our reconnaissance of the army, it felt us in return. It looked at us across the distance, and the hunger in that gaze..."

Arthur turned sharply to look at Merlin, noting the way his friend's face had gone pale, the way his hands were trembling slightly as the implications of Magic's declaration sank in. The protective part of Arthur's mind immediately catalogued the signs of distress while his tactical training rebelled against the idea of facing this threat without his most powerful ally.

Merlin shuddered visibly, his own voice returning with obvious effort. "He’s right,” he said hoarsely. “It was like being seen by something that wanted to devour everything I am and leave only the worst parts behind. Magic pulled me away before I could understand what I was sensing, but now..." He wrapped his arms around himself, and Arthur had to fight the urge to close the distance between them.

"I can't go near that thing, Arthur,” he whispered. “It would corrupt us both."

"Then how are we supposed to defeat it?" Arthur asked, hearing the frustration and growing desperation in his own voice. "How do we stop Morgana without you?"

Merlin's expression shifted, and Arthur caught a glimpse of something that might have been anticipation mixed with nervousness. "Well," Merlin said slowly, "I had a sword made for you."

"A sword?" Arthur's eyebrows rose. "When exactly did you have time to commission a sword?"

"I didn't commission it exactly. More like... forged it. With magic." Merlin was definitely looking nervous now, his hands fidgeting with his neckerchief in the way they did when he was about to reveal something significant. "It's called Excalibur. It can kill any creature of magic, cut through any enchantment."

Arthur stared at him. "You made me a magical sword. And you're just mentioning this now?"

"In my defense, you weren't exactly receptive to conversations about magic until very recently," Merlin said with a weak smile. "But Arthur, this sword... it was –” Merlin stopped suddenly, then swallowed. “It was tempered with ancient power. When Morgana and Morgause attacked with the immortal army, I used it to spill the blood from the Cup of Life. That's how we destroyed their undead forces."

The memory clicked into place for Arthur - the moment when their desperate situation had suddenly turned, when Morgana's seemingly invincible army had simply... stopped. "That was you. With this sword."

"With Excalibur," Merlin confirmed. "I stuck it in a stone in the Forest of Ascetir afterward, to keep it safe."

Arthur blinked several times, processing this information. "You put a legendary sword in a stone. In the middle of a forest. And left it there."

"Yes?"

"What on earth did you do that for?"

Merlin had the grace to look embarrassed. "It seemed like a good hiding place at the time? I was rather focused on more immediate concerns, like making sure you didn't die from your injuries."

Arthur rubbed his temples, feeling the beginning of a headache. "Right. Well, I suppose we'd better go retrieve this legendary sword you've casually left embedded in forest stone."

"I'll go get it," Merlin said quickly. "It won't take long."

"How exactly do you plan to travel to the Forest of Ascetir and back quickly enough to be useful?" Arthur asked, rather reasonably, he thought.

Merlin's expression grew thoughtful, that distant look returning as he consulted with Magic. After a moment, he grinned with the sort of excitement that usually preceded something spectacular and dangerous in equal measure.

"Magic wants to teach me how to teleport."

The words had barely left Merlin’s mouth when he saw Arthur's expression shift, watched protective concern flare in those blue eyes with an intensity that made Merlin's chest flutter with warmth. Even knowing that Magic would never truly harm him, Arthur's first instinct was to shield him from any perceived risk.

"Absolutely not," Arthur said firmly, his voice carrying the particular edge that meant he was prepared to physically restrain Merlin if necessary. "We've had quite enough magical experimentation for a while. And you're still drained from yesterday's battle."

Merlin could see the genuine worry beneath Arthur's authoritative tone, the way his friend's hands had moved unconsciously toward him as if to pull him back from danger. The protective instinct was both touching and frustrating - Merlin understood Arthur's concerns, but they didn't have time for careful, gradual magical learning when the world might be ending.

"Arthur, it'll be fine," Merlin said with the sort of confidence that he could see did nothing to ease Arthur's concerns. "Magic says it's actually not that complex, just requires combining elemental forces in the right way."

“The technique involves channeling the power of air and earth to create a transportation vortex, then using lightning to provide the energy for instantaneous travel,” Magic explained through Merlin's voice, its tone carrying the sort of academic precision that made dangerous magical procedures sound like simple scholarly exercises. “It is demanding but well within our current capabilities.”

Arthur's expression shifted from concern to something approaching horror. "Lightning," he repeated flatly, his voice carrying the tone of someone who had reached the absolute limit of reasonable magical requests. "You want to call down lightning. For transportation."

Merlin could see Arthur's mind working through all the ways this could go catastrophically wrong, could practically hear the internal catalog of every magical mishap they'd witnessed over the years. But Magic's certainty was infectious, and Merlin found himself caught up in the excitement of learning something completely new.

"It explains why sorcerers always teleport in whirlwinds with flashes of light," Merlin said, as if this somehow made the plan more reasonable rather than confirming Arthur's worst fears about magical transportation methods. "Come on, we should go outside. Apparently it's a bit... messy."

He could see Arthur's internal struggle playing out across his features - the desire to forbid this entirely warring with the practical understanding that they needed Excalibur quickly, and conventional travel would take far too long. Finally, with the sort of resigned expression he wore when agreeing to Merlin's more questionable plans, Arthur nodded.

"If you kill yourself attempting magical transportation, I'm going to be very put out with you," Arthur said, but there was warmth beneath the mock threat that made Merlin's chest tight with affection.

Together they stood, and made their way out into the castle corridors.

You didn’t tell Arthur about Excalibur being forged in the breath of the Great Dragon, Magic said, and Merlin suppressed a wince.

Later, he said, I’ll tell him later, but now is not the time to tell him how I loosed a dragon on the citadel because I had to learn how to stop Morgause’s sleeping curse, and Kilgharrah would only tell me if I swore on my mother’s life to free him, oh, never mind that the way to break the curse involved betraying and poisoning Morgana, and oh, by the way, Balinor was my father, I’m the last dragonlord, and the Great Dragon is still alive!

“Merlin?” Arthur asked. Merlin looked up at him sharply, and only when he saw the concern on Arthur’s face did he realize that both his jaw and fists were clenched tight, and his breathing was coming too quick. “Are you all right?” Arthur asked, arching a brow. “You know you don’t have to do this. Travelling by horse is perfectly acceptable, you know.”

Merlin forced himself to relax and grin at Arthur’s attempt at humor. “Just excited. It’s not every day I get to learn how to teleport.” Which was true enough.

Arthur didn’t look convinced, but still walked beside him.

You think he would reject us if he knew?

I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it right now. We have too many other issues do deal with and I don’t want to shake that particular hornets’ nest until we know Morgana isn’t going to destroy the world with corruption.

Shortly, Merlin found himself leading Arthur down to the courtyard, acutely aware of his friend's reluctant footsteps behind him. The morning training session was just beginning, and Merlin could see Leon organizing sword drills while Gwaine entertained a small crowd with what was undoubtedly an exaggerated account of yesterday's battle.

The normalcy of it all felt surreal after their conversation about ancient evils and magical corruption. Merlin drew comfort from the routine sounds of military life - the clash of practice swords, the shouted instructions, the easy camaraderie between knights who had fought together for years. Whatever happened in the coming days, this would endure. These people would continue their lives, their training, their quiet dedication to protecting what they loved.

Focus, Merlin-mine, Magic whispered in his mind, its voice carrying undertones of excitement that made Merlin's magical senses sing with anticipation. The technique requires precise concentration. Visualize the destination clearly - the forest clearing, the stone that holds our creation.

Merlin moved to the center of the open space, feeling the weight of watching eyes as servants and knights paused in their duties to observe whatever magical display was about to unfold. The attention made him nervous - he was still adjusting to using magic openly, still learning to ignore the mixture of awe and wariness in people's expressions when they watched him work.

But Arthur was there, standing close enough that Merlin could feel his protective presence like warmth against his back. That steady support gave him the courage to close his eyes and extend his hands, letting Magic guide him through the complex weaving of elemental forces required for teleportation.

Focus on the destination Magic said. Feel the stone where Excalibur waits, the weight of the blade, the rightness of your hand upon its hilt.

Merlin reached out with his consciousness, extending his awareness across miles of countryside to find the familiar clearing where he'd hidden Arthur's sword. There - nestled between ancient oaks, the grey stone that held Excalibur like an altar waiting for the rightful king to claim his birthright. The sword sang to him across the distance, its power harmonizing with his own in perfect recognition.

Now, Magic said with fierce satisfaction. Channel the wind first - gather the air itself to carry us across impossible distance.

Power flowed through Merlin, wild and exhilarating and barely contained. The wind began to respond to his call, swirling around him in increasingly tight circles that lifted dust and loose debris from the ground. He could hear people backing away, could sense Arthur's tension despite his friend's determination to stand his ground and offer protection.

The magical energy built within him, demanding release. Merlin felt himself becoming the center of a storm that existed in multiple elements simultaneously - air to carry him, earth to anchor the destination, and lightning to provide the raw power needed to fold space and time into something traversable.

Ready? Magic asked, though it was already gathering the final component of the spell.

Ready, Merlin confirmed, even as part of his mind screamed warnings about the magnitude of power he was about to channel through his still-recovering magical reserves.

The lightning came from everywhere and nowhere, striking down from a clear sky to engulf him in brilliant white fire. For an instant that lasted eternity, Merlin felt his consciousness scattered across the space between destinations, existing simultaneously in Camelot's courtyard and the Forest of Ascetir clearing. The sensation was overwhelming - like being pulled apart and reassembled in the space of a heartbeat.

Then his feet hit solid ground with jarring suddenness, and he gasped as his dispersed awareness snapped back into focused consciousness. The forest clearing was exactly as he'd left it - peaceful and secluded, dappled with morning sunlight that filtered through ancient leaves. And there, rising from the grey stone like hope made manifest, was Excalibur.

Beautiful, Magic breathed as they approached the sword. Perfect. Feel how it calls to us, recognizes our approach.

Merlin could indeed feel Excalibur's response to his presence, the weapon's power resonating with his own in harmonious recognition. This wasn't just any magical artifact. Kilgharrah might have provided the dragonfire, but it was also part of him, forged with his power and love and desperate faith in Arthur's destiny. Taking hold of the sword's grip felt like touching a piece of his own soul given physical form.

The blade came free from the stone with surprising ease, as if it had been waiting for this moment to return to active purpose. Excalibur was even more beautiful than Merlin remembered - the steel gleaming with inner light, the fuller engraved with symbols that seemed to shift and dance with contained power. This was a weapon worthy of the Once and Future King, forged with magic older than kingdoms and love deeper than oceans.

On impulse, Merlin reached out to the power that hummed through the ancient clearing, feeling the forest's magic respond to his call like an old friend welcoming him home. The earth beneath his feet offered its strength, rich loam and ancient stone singing with power accumulated over centuries. The wind whispered secrets through the leaves above, carrying with it the wild freedom of untamed places. And deeper still, he touched the wellspring of his own magic - not just the raw force that had always lived within him, but the love that shaped it, the desperate devotion that had driven him to forge this blade in the first place. Magic willingly entwined with his desires; though separate, still in perfect harmony.

For Arthur. Always for Arthur.

With that love flowing through him like molten gold, Merlin spoke a word in the Old Tongue and watched the elements bend to his will. Silver seemed to flow from the very air itself, while leather appeared from nothing, supple and perfectly worked. The magic responded not just to his technical skill but to the emotion behind it - the need to protect, to provide, to give Arthur something beautiful and worthy of the king he was becoming. The scabbard took shape beneath his hands, elegant in its simplicity but radiating the same protective power as the blade it would house. Every curve, every detail was perfect, shaped by magic and love in equal measure.

Beautiful work, Merlin-mine, Magic whispered with deep satisfaction. Arthur will understand the care that went into its creation.

He'd better, Merlin thought back, though his mental voice carried fondness rather than real irritation. I'm not making a habit of conjuring royal accessories from thin air.

Time to return, Magic reminded him, though Merlin could feel the strain the first teleportation, and now this conjuring, had placed on his already depleted reserves. Arthur waits, and his anxiety grows with each moment of our absence.

I know, Merlin replied, gathering his strength for the return journey. Let's go home.

The second teleportation was more controlled than the first, his growing familiarity with the technique allowing for greater precision despite his exhaustion. The lightning that carried him back to Camelot's courtyard was smaller, more focused, though the effort of channeling it through magically depleted reserves left him breathless and slightly singed.

He stumbled out of the dissipating whirlwind, legs shaking with exhaustion but heart singing with triumph. He'd done it - retrieved Excalibur, mastered a completely new form of magic, proven that even drained and tired he could still accomplish impossible things when Arthur's wellbeing was at stake.

"Here's your sword," Merlin gasped, extending Excalibur toward Arthur with hands that trembled from more than just magical exhaustion. This was the moment he'd been anticipating since forging the blade - watching Arthur claim the weapon that was meant for him, seeing recognition and wonder dawn in those beloved blue eyes.

Arthur reached out with reverent care, his fingers closing around the grip with the sort of careful respect usually reserved for sacred relics. The moment their hands brushed during the transfer, Merlin felt a shock of connection that went deeper than simple physical contact. This was completion - Arthur claiming what was his, accepting the gift Merlin had poured his heart and soul into creating.

Merlin watched Arthur's face as he partially drew the blade, saw wonder and recognition and something deeper than gratitude transform his expression. The sword looked perfect in Arthur's hand, balanced and weighted exactly as it should be, the steel gleaming with power that responded to its rightful wielder's touch.

"It's perfect," Arthur breathed, his voice rough with emotion that made Merlin's chest tight with satisfaction and love.

"It's yours," Merlin replied simply, pouring everything he couldn't say aloud into those two words. This was his declaration, his promise, his heart given tangible form in steel and silver and ancient magic. Arthur would carry part of Merlin with him into whatever dangers lay ahead, protected not just by enchanted metal but by love deeper than any spell.

The effort of the double teleportation, the emotional intensity of watching Arthur claim Excalibur, the magical depletion from yesterday's battle - it all hit Merlin at once. The world tilted dangerously around him, colors bleeding together as his vision tunneled. His magical reserves were completely exhausted, his body pushed beyond its limits by the sheer force of will that had driven him to complete this task.

The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Arthur's face, beautiful and concerned and absolutely precious, reaching toward him with protective instincts that made Merlin's heart sing even as consciousness slipped away.

Arthur moved faster than thought, catching his friend before he could hit the stone ground of the courtyard. His hands shook as he felt how limp and unresponsive Merlin's body had become, the terrible echo of those days when his soul had been trapped making Arthur's throat close with panic.

"Gaius!" he bellowed, not caring who heard the desperation in his voice, not caring that half the courtyard was now watching Arthur cradle his court sorcerer with the sort of tenderness usually reserved for lovers.

The old physician appeared with the sort of speed that suggested he'd been monitoring the situation from a distance, probably expecting exactly this outcome from Merlin's magical experimentation. His weathered hands moved with practiced efficiency, checking pulse and breathing with the confidence of someone who had dealt with magical exhaustion more times than Arthur cared to contemplate.

"Magical exhaustion," Gaius confirmed quickly, his voice carrying relief that made Arthur's own breathing ease slightly. "The teleportation drained what little reserves he'd recovered from yesterday's battle. He needs rest and time to replenish his strength."

Arthur gathered Merlin closer, feeling the steady rhythm of his friend's breathing against his chest. The relief was so intense it left him dizzy - this wasn't the terrible emptiness of soul separation, just the natural consequence of pushing magical limits too far. Frightening, but treatable with rest and care.

"Help me get him to your chambers," Arthur said, rising carefully with Merlin's weight supported against his shoulder. Around them, knights and servants watched with expressions ranging from concern to curiosity, but Arthur found he didn't care about the political implications of such public tenderness. Let them talk - Merlin's wellbeing mattered more than appearances.

As they carried Merlin through the castle corridors, Arthur kept one hand on Excalibur's hilt. Even sheathed, the sword felt right in his grip, balanced and perfectly weighted, as if it had been made specifically for his hand. Which, he realized with growing wonder, it probably had been.

The knowledge that Merlin had forged this weapon for him, had poured his power and skill and love into creating something perfect for Arthur's use, made emotions too complex to name surge through his chest. It was more than a gift - it was trust made tangible, faith given form in steel and magic.

Once Merlin was settled in bed in Gaius's chambers, breathing deeply in genuine sleep rather than unconsciousness, Arthur found himself reluctant to leave. He stood by the bedside, watching the rise and fall of his friend's chest with the sort of focused attention usually reserved for critical tactical situations.

"He'll be fine," Gaius said gently, moving to check Merlin's pulse one more time. "Magical exhaustion is serious, but not life-threatening. He just needs to sleep and let his power replenish itself naturally."

Arthur nodded, though his eyes remained fixed on Merlin's face. In sleep, the lines of exhaustion and worry were smoothed away, leaving only the familiar features that had become so precious to him. Arthur found himself cataloguing every detail - the dark lashes against pale skin, the way Merlin's hair fell across his forehead in familiar disarray, the soft curve of his mouth that Arthur was beginning to allow himself to notice.

He made an excuse to tarry by explaining to Gaius what Magic had revealed to them that morning about the Caves of Balor, somehow managing to explain without looking away from Merlin. When he finally looked at Gaius, he was alarmed at how the old physician had slumped into a chair, looking nearly grey with fear, and Arthur cursed himself for not being more tactful in sharing the news.

"I should gather the knights," Arthur said reluctantly, forcing himself to step back from Merlin’s bedside. "We need to plan our approach to the caves."

"You're not taking him with you," Gaius said, and it wasn't a question.

"No," Arthur confirmed, his voice carrying the weight of unwelcome necessity. "Magic was very clear about the danger. Merlin's power would feed the corruption, make it stronger. He has to stay here where it's safe."

The words tasted bitter as he spoke them. Every instinct Arthur possessed rebelled against the idea of facing such a threat without Merlin at his side. They had always faced danger together, had always found strength in their partnership. The thought of riding into the unknown without his most trusted ally made Arthur feel strangely incomplete.

But the alternative - bringing Merlin into the presence of something that would corrupt everything he was, that would twist his power and compassion into tools of destruction - was unthinkable. Arthur would rather face a thousand enemies alone than watch Merlin lose himself to magical corruption.

He looked down at Excalibur, running his thumb along the sword's crossguard with reverent care. At least he wouldn't be entirely alone - he'd carry a piece of Merlin with him in the form of this perfect weapon, forged with love and hope and desperate faith in Arthur's ability to do what was necessary.

"Watch over him," Arthur said to Gaius, the words carrying the weight of royal command and personal desperation in equal measure. "Don't let him attempt any more magical experiments until I return."

"I'll do my best," Gaius replied with a slight smile. "Though you know how stubborn he can be when he thinks you're in danger."

Arthur did know, and the knowledge filled him with warmth and exasperation in equal measure. Even unconscious from magical exhaustion, Merlin would probably find ways to help if he thought Arthur needed protection. It was one of the qualities Arthur loved most about his friend - that absolute, unwavering loyalty that put Arthur's wellbeing above all other considerations.

With visible reluctance, Arthur left the physician's chambers and made his way to the council room where his knights waited. Excalibur's weight at his side was a constant reminder of everything he was fighting to protect, everyone he was determined to keep safe.

The council room was already occupied when Arthur entered - Leon studying maps with his usual methodical precision, Gwaine sharpening his sword with movements that spoke of nervous energy, Lancelot and Percival conferring quietly about supplies and logistics. They looked up as he entered, and Arthur saw his own grim determination reflected in their faces.

“All right, where are we going?” Elyan asked, and when Arthur looked at him quizzically, he laughed. “Merlin vanishes and reappears with a magic sword, swoons into your arms like a maiden, and you call council.”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest that particular interpretation of events – one which he could feel making his face warm – then decided not to rise to the bait.

"We ride for the Caves of Balor," Arthur announced without preamble, settling into his chair with Excalibur across his knees. The weapon seemed to make the room feel more significant somehow, as if destiny itself had taken a seat at their table.

He explained what Magic had told them about the Eye of Balor, watching his knights' faces grow increasingly grim as they understood the scope of the threat they faced. Ancient corruption, sorcerers transformed into willing servants of darkness, power that fed on magical energy itself - it was the stuff of nightmares made manifest.

"And Merlin can't come because his magic would make him vulnerable to this corruption," Arthur concluded, his voice carrying the weight of unwelcome necessity. "Which means it's up to us to stop her."

"A small force then," Leon said, his tactical mind already working through the implications. "Speed over strength. We can't risk a large army being corrupted if we fail."

Arthur nodded grimly. Leon's assessment was sound - a small, mobile force could move quickly and avoid detection, while a larger army would only provide more targets for corruption if the mission went wrong. "Exactly. You'll stay here and run the kingdom in my absence. Elyan, I want you coordinating training with the other knights - if this goes badly, Camelot may face more magical threats."

He could see the disappointment in Elyan's eyes at being left behind, but also understanding. Someone needed to maintain the kingdom's defenses, and Elyan's tactical mind made him invaluable for coordinating defensive preparations.

Arthur's gaze moved to his remaining knights, the men who had followed him through countless dangers and never once faltered in their loyalty. "Gwaine, Lancelot, Percival - you're with me. Best horses, minimal supplies. We leave at first light."

"About time," Gwaine said with forced cheer, though Arthur could see the underlying tension in his friend's shoulders. "I was starting to think royal life had made us all soft."

Despite the circumstances, Arthur found himself smiling at Gwaine's characteristic irreverence. Even facing the end of the world, his friend maintained the sort of stubborn optimism that had gotten them through countless crises. It was exactly the attitude they'd need for what lay ahead.

Arthur found himself thinking about his previous journey to that cursed forest, memories flooding back with uncomfortable clarity. The desperate ride through dangerous terrain, the terrible certainty that Merlin was dying while Arthur risked everything to save him. At the time, he'd attributed his horse's endurance to exceptional breeding and training. Now, knowing what he did about Merlin's unconscious magic during his poisoning...

"Merlin was helping even then," he said quietly, more to himself than to the others, wonder and gratitude mingling in his voice.

"What?" Lancelot asked, noting the shift in Arthur's tone.

"Nothing. Just... understanding some things that didn't make sense at the time." Arthur's hand moved unconsciously to Excalibur's hilt, drawing comfort from the weapon's presence. "How many impossible things has he done for us over the years? How many times has his magic saved us without our knowledge?"

The questions hung in the air between them, unanswerable but profound in their implications. How many victories had been won by Merlin's hidden intervention? How many disasters averted by magic used so subtly that no one suspected its influence?

The planning session was interrupted by Merlin's arrival, looking pale but determined as he entered the council chamber with Gaius hovering behind him like an anxious parent. Arthur felt his heart leap at the sight of his friend upright and conscious, but the relief was quickly tempered by concern at how drawn Merlin still looked.

"You should be resting," Arthur said immediately, rising from his chair with protective instincts flaring. The urge to guide Merlin back to bed, to physically ensure he didn't push himself beyond safe limits, was almost overwhelming.

"And you should be taking me with you," Merlin replied with characteristic stubbornness, settling into an empty chair despite Gaius's disapproving look. The old physician clearly thought his patient should still be unconscious, not participating in planning sessions for dangerous missions.

Arthur felt his jaw tighten with frustration and fear in equal measure. "We've been through this. You can't come near the Eye."

"I know," Merlin said, and Arthur could see the frustration and helplessness warring in his friend's expression. "But I'm not letting you ride into danger without every protection I can give you." He looked around the table at the assembled knights, his gaze steady despite his obvious exhaustion. "I want to enchant your weapons and armor."

Arthur watched his knights' reactions, saw the mixture of hope and wariness that crossed their faces. They'd all witnessed Merlin's power during yesterday's battle, had seen what he could accomplish when he didn't need to hide his abilities. But they'd also just watched him collapse from magical exhaustion after a single teleportation spell.

"Won't that just give this Eye thing something to feed on?" Gwaine asked reasonably, voicing the concern Arthur could see reflected in all their faces.

"No," Merlin said, his voice carrying undertones that suggested Magic was contributing to the explanation. "The Eye feeds on living magical energy, not enchanted objects. Static magic woven into steel and leather won't attract its attention the way a living magic user would."

Arthur found himself studying Merlin's face, noting the careful way he held himself that spoke of someone still recovering from magical exhaustion but determined to push through it. The knowledge that Merlin was willing to further drain himself for their protection made Arthur's chest tight with gratitude and concern.

"Are you sure you're strong enough for that level of enchantment?" Arthur asked, unable to keep the worry from his voice. The thought of Merlin collapsing again, possibly more seriously this time, was unacceptable.

"I'm sure," Merlin said firmly, though Arthur could see the shadows under his eyes, the fine tremor in his hands that spoke of someone running on determination rather than actual strength. "This is important, Arthur. I won't have you facing Morgana and whatever else is down there without every advantage I can give you."

The words hit Arthur harder than they should have, carrying implications that went far beyond simple tactical preparation. This was love made manifest in protective magic, devotion expressed through the willingness to sacrifice personal wellbeing for the safety of others. Arthur found himself staring at his friend with emotions too complex to name or examine in present company.

"Very well," Arthur said finally, his voice rough with feelings he couldn't voice. "But carefully. No pushing beyond safe limits."

Merlin's smile was brilliant despite his exhaustion, transforming his pale face with warmth that made Arthur's breath catch. "When have I ever pushed beyond safe limits?"

The question drew snorts of disbelief from every knight at the table, and even Arthur found himself smiling despite his concerns. If Merlin was well enough for sarcasm, perhaps he truly was strong enough for what he was proposing.

The next hour was spent in the armory, watching Merlin weave protections into steel and leather with the sort of focused intensity that made the air itself hum with contained power. He moved methodically through each piece - swords that would cut through magical defenses, armor that would turn aside curses, helms that would protect against mental intrusion.

Arthur watched with growing amazement as his friend worked, seeing the careful artistry that went into each enchantment. This wasn't crude magical force applied like a hammer - it was delicate, precise work that spoke of years of study and practice. Merlin moved like a master craftsman, his hands sure despite their tremor, his concentration absolute despite his exhaustion.

The other knights, not of his inner circle, watched with expressions ranging from awe to unease, none of them quite comfortable with such open displays of magical skill despite their theoretical acceptance of Merlin's abilities. Arthur found himself serving as interpreter, explaining what Merlin was doing when the magic became too abstract for non-practitioners to follow.

"The enchantment on your sword will let it cut through magical barriers," Arthur explained to Lancelot, who was watching with fascination as his blade began to glow with soft silver light. "And the armor will turn aside direct magical attacks - curses, lightning, that sort of thing."

Even Leon and Elyan, despite staying behind, insisted on having their equipment enhanced. "Just in case," Leon said pragmatically, and Arthur couldn't argue with the wisdom of preparation. If the mission failed, if the corruption spread beyond the caves, every advantage would be necessary for Camelot's defense.

When Merlin came to Arthur's armor, something shifted in his approach. The spells he wove seemed more complex, more personal, layered with protections that went far beyond mere battlefield utility. Arthur watched in fascination as his mail and plate began to glow with soft golden light, the metal itself seeming to become something more than mere steel.

The transformation was beautiful in a way that made Arthur's chest tight with wonder. Each link of mail, each plate of armor, became a canvas for Merlin's artistry. The enchantments were woven so deeply into the metal that they became part of its essential nature, protection and power unified in perfect harmony.

"There," Merlin said finally, swaying slightly as he completed the last enchantment. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool air, and Arthur could see the toll this effort had taken. "That should protect you from anything short of a direct strike from the Eye itself."

Arthur lifted his helm, marveling at how the metal seemed to sing with contained power. The steel was warm to the touch, alive with protective magic that felt like an embrace. When he looked at his reflection in the polished surface, he could see golden threads running through the metal like veins of light.

"It's beautiful," Arthur said quietly, his voice rough with emotion he couldn't quite contain. The knowledge that Merlin had poured his power and skill and love into creating this protection made it more precious than any crown or treasure.

"It's yours," Merlin replied simply, though the warmth in his voice suggested the words carried deeper meaning than their surface simplicity. Arthur could see exhaustion in his friend's face, but also satisfaction and something that might have been pride at having created something worthy of protecting the person he loved.

Arthur found himself staring at Merlin with emotions too complex to name. Gratitude, certainly. Wonder at the depth of skill and care that had gone into this protection. But also something deeper, something that made him want to close the distance between them and express his appreciation in ways that had nothing to do with words.

The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken feelings and growing awareness of watching eyes. Arthur forced himself to step back, to break the connection before he did something that would raise questions he wasn't ready to answer publicly.

As evening approached and the knights dispersed to make their final preparations, Arthur found himself alone with Merlin in his chambers. The familiar routine of preparing for bed felt strange knowing it might be their last shared evening for some time, possibly their last shared evening ever if the mission went badly.

Arthur moved to his armor stand, running his hands over the enchanted steel with reverent care. The metal hummed with contained power, Merlin's magic singing in harmony with the natural resonance of perfectly forged steel. It was like wearing Merlin's protection as a second skin, carrying his love and hope as literal armor against the darkness ahead.

"I still think I should come with you," Merlin said as he helped Arthur out of his newly enchanted armor, his movements carrying the sullen precision of someone forced to accept an unwelcome reality.

The familiar routine of Merlin's assistance felt precious now, weighted with the knowledge that this might be their last quiet evening together. Arthur found himself acutely aware of every brush of Merlin's fingers against his skin as buckles were unfastened and armor set aside, every moment of casual intimacy that he'd taken for granted for so long.

"And I still think Magic is right. The Eye of Balor would corrupt you the moment you came within its influence," Arthur replied, settling into his chair by the fire. The warmth was welcome after the day's tensions, and having Merlin close by made everything seem more manageable somehow.

"Magic worries too much," Merlin muttered, though without real conviction as he moved around the room with the practiced efficiency of someone who had been caring for Arthur's needs for years.

Arthur found himself smiling despite the circumstances, watching his friend's familiar rituals with growing appreciation. "Now you know how I felt all those times you rode into danger with nothing but my protection and whatever tricks you could manage without revealing your magic."

Merlin paused in hanging up Arthur's surcoat, his expression shifting as he considered this perspective. Arthur could see understanding dawn in his friend's eyes, the recognition of how terrifying it must have been to watch Arthur face magical threats with only conventional weapons and armor for protection.

"It's terrible," Merlin said finally, his voice carrying newfound empathy. "Watching someone you care about walk into danger while you stay safely behind."

"Yes," Arthur agreed quietly, his voice rough with years of accumulated fear and love. "It is."

The words hung between them, heavy with implications neither was quite ready to explore fully. Arthur found himself studying Merlin's face in the firelight, cataloguing every detail with the desperate intensity of someone trying to memorize something precious before it was taken away.

They were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Arthur called for entry, and a young servant appeared, looking nervous about disturbing the king at such a late hour.

“Sire?” The servant bowed, eyes flicking anxiously to Merlin before returning to Arthur. “The king… your father - he’s asking for you. He says it’s important.”

For a long moment, Arthur didn’t move.

He hadn’t thought of Uther, not really, in what felt like ages - not since the battle, not through the passing days of reorganizing council and rebuilding Camelot’s hopes. Anger and old wounds stirred: how many had they lost to Uther’s crusade? How much of this pain had begun with laws penned by that unyielding hand?

“I’ll go,” Arthur said finally. Merlin rose too, pausing in the way of someone who knew his place had changed but was not yet certain where it now lay.

They walked together in silence, Merlin at his side for every turn of the corridor. When they reached the doors to Uther’s chambers, it was wordless and understood: Merlin stopped, hovering close, anchoring his prince with a glance and a quiet, “I’ll wait here. Call if you need me.”

Arthur nodded, squared his shoulders, and stepped inside.

The room was dim, candlelight flickering weakly against thick velvet. Uther Pendragon - once unassailable, now a shadow of his former self - sat hunched in a heavy chair by the window. His hair, once golden and proud, had paled; his grip on the world was tenuous. For a moment, something brittle cracked in Arthur, because - whatever else - this was still his father.

He stood silently until Uther’s weak voice floated back to him, thin and strained, as if addressing some distant horizon.

“I saw a battle from this window, Arthur. Sorcerers attacked Camelot.”

Arthur moved closer, his hands loose at his sides, not bothering to deny or defend. “Yes. They tried. And we defeated them. With the help of those with magic.”

Uther’s posture was fragile, a monarch eroded by guilt and time. “I know…that you have changed the laws against magic. I know about Merlin. I am not blind, not now, at the end.” His words were heavy with pain, but there was no anger - only a sort of exhausted, inevitable acceptance.

Arthur answered plainly. “It is true.”

Only then did Uther’s pale face turn from the window, eyes sunken but sharp with an old king’s resolve. “If I were my old self, Arthur, I would banish you. I would put Merlin to the pyre. My laws were all that seemed to hold the darkness back - but I now know that day has passed.” He sighed, a long, thin sound. “I am dying.”

His words hung in the hush of the chamber. Arthur swallowed, but Uther pressed on, voice growing haunted and low.

“Shadowy ravens cluster on my sill. They croak accusations in Morgana’s voice, and the accusations ring true - reminding me of every child I doomed with fear. Every innocent I killed for a gift they never chose.” His hand trembled on the armrest. “I see the dead, Arthur. Innocent faces I have sent beyond. They do not fade; I do not believe they are illusions born of madness.”

Arthur’s breath caught. It was grudging sorrow, not forgiveness, that twisted in his chest. Even now, there was part of him - a son - who grieved.

Uther’s face changed, a melancholy gentleness softening the lines. “I see her, too. Your mother. Ygraine.” His voice broke, years of longing carved into the syllables. “She stands there in the dark, as lovely as when we wed, and ah – such love in her eyes. Love, yes, but also a sorrow deeper than death. She tells me, in dreams and waking, how I have taken Camelot from a place of hope and turned it into a land of fear and hate.”

Uther turned his face away, looking into the shadowed corners of his chambers. “She speaks of you often,” he said, his expression a contemplative, almost-smile, and Arthur felt his heart stutter painfully in his chest. “She says... she is proud of you. She is happy that her sacrifice brought such a son as you into the world. She speaks of the great king you will become - how joy and magic will return, are even now returning, because you are a greater man than I.”

And you, Father, Arthur thought, throat too tight to give voice to his thoughts. What do you think of me?

Uther’s shoulders shook. “She is here, Arthur. She waits to take my hand - take me from this life. But where I go, she will not follow. Her place is not mine. She tells me, had I built my kingdom on beauty and peace, kept her memory as light… perhaps she would still walk with me." His voice became a whisper. "Instead, my legacy is Ruin."

Suddenly, the old king’s arm reached out, wavering toward something unseen in the shimmering air near the window. “Ah, but - it is time now?” Uther’s voice grew quiet and awed, words not addressed to Arthur but to someone only he perceived.

And Arthur saw - could not say whether with mind or eye - his mother: radiant, sad, smiling with an everlasting tenderness. She placed her hand gently in Uther’s, and something in the king released. Arthur felt it as a hush in the room - Uther’s breath fading, soul unspooling from its earthly tether. In a moment, the shell slumped in the chair: Uther Pendragon, once King, lay still and gone.

Ygraine remained. She looked at Arthur - and in her eyes, pride and love so fierce and unconditional that Arthur found himself weeping in astonishment and grief.

He became aware of Merlin beside him, a gentle presence pressing close, although Arthur had not heard him enter. Merlin bowed to his mother, his voice soft: “Your Majesty.”

Ygraine’s smile was like light breaking after rain. She looked at them both, luminous and approving, the pride in her gaze encompassing son and sorcerer alike. Then, with a shimmer like morning mist dispersing in sun, she faded; the room emptied of all but memory and breath.

Merlin hesitantly reached for Arthur’s hand. Arthur gripped it tightly, knuckles white but hand steady.

“The king is dead,” Merlin whispered, voice trembling with sorrow and hope.

Arthur let the words ring true, lifting his head to meet the future.

“Long live the king.”

The hours that followed passed in a blur of necessity and ceremony. Word of the king's death spread through the castle with the sort of swift inevitability that accompanied momentous events, bringing nobles and servants alike to pay their respects to the man who had shaped their world for better and worse.

Arthur found himself moving through the rituals of royal death with automatic precision, his mind strangely clear despite the emotional weight of the evening. There were arrangements to be made, protocols to be followed, the complex machinery of state that continued functioning even in the face of personal loss.

But through it all, Merlin remained at his side - not as a servant now, but as something more essential, a steadying presence that kept Arthur grounded in the midst of chaos. When nobles approached with condolences and barely disguised assessments of the new king's intentions, Merlin's quiet strength provided an anchor. When servants wept for the only master they'd ever known, Merlin's compassion offered comfort that Arthur couldn't voice in his official capacity.

It was nearly dawn when the immediate demands of succession finally eased enough to allow for private grief. Arthur stood in his chambers - his chambers now, in truth as well as title - staring out at the city he was now solely responsible for protecting.

"How do you feel?" Merlin asked quietly, settling into the chair by the fire with movements that spoke of someone still recovering from magical exhaustion.

Arthur considered the question seriously, taking inventory of emotions too complex for simple description. "Sad," he said finally. "But also... relieved?"

"He was proud of you," Merlin said with quiet certainty. "In the end, he could see what you've become. What you've built here."

Arthur turned from the window to look at his friend, noting the way firelight caught in Merlin's dark hair, the warmth in his eyes that had nothing to do with reflected flame. "What we've built," he corrected softly. "None of this would exist without you."

The admission hung between them, weighted with implications they were both beginning to acknowledge. Arthur found himself studying Merlin's face with new freedom, no longer bound by the careful distance that had once seemed necessary between king and servant.

Merlin's cheeks flushed under Arthur's attention, but he didn't look away. "Arthur..."

"I know," Arthur said quietly, understanding the question Merlin couldn't quite voice. "I know things have changed between us. That we can't go back to what we were before."

"Do you want to?" Merlin asked, vulnerability threading through his voice in a way that made Arthur's chest tight with protective tenderness.

Arthur moved closer, stopping just within reach but not quite touching. "No," he said simply. "I want to discover what we might become instead."

The confession seemed to steal Merlin's breath, his eyes widening with hope and wonder that made Arthur's heart race with possibility. This was uncharted territory for both of them, feelings acknowledged but not yet explored, potential that hung between them like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

"After the caves," Arthur continued, his voice rough with emotion he no longer tried to hide. "When I return. We'll figure this out together."

"When you return," Merlin agreed, though his voice carried worry that made Arthur want to promise impossible things about his own safety.

They stood there in the growing dawn light, hands almost touching, hearts full of words not yet spoken. Tomorrow - today - would bring separation and danger and the weight of impossible choices. But tonight had given them something precious: understanding, acceptance, and the beginning of something that might transform them both.

Arthur reached out, his fingers brushing Merlin's with the gentleness of someone handling something infinitely precious. "Sleep," he said softly. "Both of us. We'll need our strength for what's coming."

Merlin nodded, though neither of them moved to break the connection between them. The touch was simple, innocent, but it carried the weight of everything they were beginning to acknowledge about their feelings for each other.

"Arthur?" Merlin said quietly.

"Yes?"

"Come back to me. Whatever happens in those caves, whatever you face down there... come back."

Arthur heard the depths of love and fear in Merlin’s words that made his throat tight with emotion. "Always," he promised, pouring everything he couldn't yet say aloud into that single word. "For you, always."

It was enough, for now. A promise and a prayer, hope given voice in the quiet hours before dawn. Whatever tomorrow brought, they would face it knowing that love was stronger than fear, that some bonds transcended duty and danger and even death itself.

Chapter Text

Arthur managed perhaps two hours of sleep before duty dragged him back to consciousness, the weight of kingship settling on his shoulders. The morning light filtering through his windows felt too bright, too cheerful for the magnitude of what lay ahead, and he found himself staring at the ceiling as if it might hold answers to questions he didn't know how to ask.

The carved stone above his bed bore the familiar Pendragon crest - a dragon rampant, wings spread in eternal defiance. How many kings had lain in this same bed, staring at that same symbol while grappling with decisions that would shape the fate of kingdoms? His father had slept here for over twenty years, waking each morning to the weight of absolute authority and the burden of choices that could save or damn thousands.

Now it was Arthur's turn.

The thought should have filled him with pride or at least acceptance - he'd been trained for this role since childhood, groomed to inherit the crown and all it represented. But in the pale morning light, with the memory of his father's final words still echoing in his mind, Arthur felt nothing but the crushing responsibility of protecting everything he'd inherited from threats he barely understood.

When he finally rose and moved toward his wardrobe, he found Merlin already there, laying out clothes with the sort of mechanical precision that spoke of someone going through familiar motions while his mind was elsewhere entirely. Merlin’s eyes looked bruised and sunken, and Arthur doubted he had slept at all.

The sight of Merlin's exhaustion sent a sharp pang through Arthur's chest. His friend had pushed himself to the breaking point repeatedly over the past days - first with the battle against Aldwin's forces, then with the magical exhaustion from creating Excalibur and enchanting their equipment. The teleportation yesterday had drained whatever reserves Merlin had managed to recover, leaving him pale and shaking but still determined to help.

Arthur wanted to order him back to bed, to ensure he got the rest he so obviously needed. But he knew Merlin well enough to understand the futility of such commands. When Arthur was in danger, when people Merlin cared about were at risk, rest became an impossibility. It was one of the qualities Arthur loved most about his friend, even as it drove him to distraction with worry.

"You look terrible," Arthur said without thinking, then immediately regretted the words when Merlin's movements stilled.

The comment hung in the air between them, tactless and insensitive despite being objectively true. Arthur could see the way Merlin's shoulders tensed, the careful neutrality that settled over his features, a mask dropping into place. After everything they'd been through, after the growing intimacy and understanding between them, Arthur had managed to start the morning with exactly the sort of thoughtless observation that reinforced the distance he was trying so hard to bridge.

"Good morning to you too," Merlin replied with attempted levity, though his voice carried the particular roughness that came from exhaustion and worry in equal measure. The humor felt forced, a shield against the hurt Arthur's words had inadvertently caused. "I've laid out your traveling clothes. The leather should accommodate the enchanted mail without restricting movement."

Arthur studied his friend's profile, noting the careful way Merlin avoided meeting his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands as he adjusted buckles with unnecessary precision. Every movement spoke of someone holding himself together through sheer force of will, running on determination rather than actual strength. The urge to order Merlin back to bed, to physically ensure he got the rest he so obviously needed, was almost overwhelming.

But Arthur also recognized the stubborn set of Merlin's jaw, the particular way he held his shoulders when he'd made a decision that wouldn't be swayed by argument or authority. This was Merlin preparing to see Arthur safely away on a dangerous mission, and nothing - not exhaustion, not royal commands, not even concern for his own wellbeing - would prevent him from fulfilling that self-imposed duty.

"Merlin," Arthur began, then stopped, realizing the futility of the command he'd been about to give. Telling Merlin to rest when Arthur was about to ride into mortal danger was like telling the sun not to rise - technically possible to voice, but completely pointless in practice.

Instead, Arthur moved closer, close enough to see the fine lines of strain around Merlin's eyes, the way his friend's breath came slightly too quick as if he were fighting some internal battle. The space between them felt charged with unspoken words, weighted with the knowledge that this might be their last private moment together.

"I didn't mean..." Arthur started, then tried again. "What I said about you looking terrible. That came out wrong."

Merlin's hands stilled on the leather jerkin he'd been smoothing unnecessarily. "You meant that I look exhausted, worried, and like I haven't slept in days," he said with a slight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "All of which happen to be true."

"Yes, but I shouldn't have - "

"Arthur." Merlin finally looked at him directly, and Arthur felt his breath catch at the depth of emotion in those blue eyes. "You're riding into danger that could destroy everything we've built here. I think we can forgive each other a few thoughtless words."

The gentleness in Merlin's voice, the easy forgiveness despite his obvious exhaustion, made Arthur's chest tight with feelings too complex to name. How did Merlin always manage to be the better person? How did he consistently respond to Arthur's occasional thoughtlessness with understanding rather than the irritation it deserved?

Arthur allowed Merlin to help him dress in silence, both of them drawing comfort from the familiar routine despite the circumstances. The traveling clothes were practical rather than ceremonial - leather and wool designed for hard riding through difficult terrain, with subtle reinforcements that would accommodate the enchanted mail underneath without restricting movement.

When Merlin's fingers brushed against his skin while adjusting the enchanted mail, Arthur felt the warmth of protective magic singing through the metal - a constant reminder of everything Merlin had poured into keeping him safe. The spells woven into the steel felt like an embrace, a shield crafted from love and desperate hope that would travel with Arthur into whatever darkness awaited.

Each piece of armor told a story of Merlin's care. The mail shirt hummed with enchantments designed to turn aside magical attacks, while the leather bracers bore subtle protections against mental intrusion. Even Arthur's boots had been enhanced, their soles inscribed with runes that would help him move silently through treacherous terrain.

"The council will want to discuss succession," Arthur said finally, breaking the silence that had grown too heavy between them. "And coronation protocols. They'll probably insist on delaying the mission until proper ceremonies can be arranged."

He could already imagine the arguments that awaited him - Geoffrey with his scrolls full of ancient precedents, the nobles concerned about political stability, the pressure to follow tradition even when time was running out. The crown brought responsibilities Arthur had always known he would inherit, but also constraints he was only beginning to understand.

"Will you let them?" Merlin asked, and Arthur could hear the careful neutrality in his voice that meant he was fighting not to influence Arthur's decision despite having strong opinions on the matter.

Arthur appreciated the restraint even as it frustrated him. Merlin's perspective mattered more than any councilor's, but his friend's determination not to overstep his bounds sometimes prevented him from offering the guidance Arthur most needed. It was a delicate balance they were still learning to navigate - the evolution from master and servant to something approaching equals, with all the complications that transition entailed.

"No," Arthur said firmly, his jaw setting with determination that made Merlin's hands still on the armor buckles. "Every day we delay gives Morgana more time to weaken whatever protections still guard the Eye. We leave today."

The relief that flickered across Merlin's features was so brief Arthur might have imagined it, but the slight easing of tension in his friend's shoulders was unmistakable. That tiny reaction told Arthur everything he needed to know about Merlin's own assessment of the situation's urgency.

When Arthur was fully armored and Excalibur hung at his side, they stood facing each other in the growing morning light, both aware that this might be their last private moment for some time. The sword's weight at his hip was both comforting and sobering - a reminder of Merlin's skill and devotion, but also of the necessity that had driven him to forge such a weapon in the first place.

The morning light streaming through the windows painted everything in shades of gold and amber, lending an almost ethereal quality to the familiar chamber. Arthur found himself cataloguing details with desperate intensity - the way light caught in Merlin's dark hair, the particular blue of his eyes, the careful way he held himself despite his obvious exhaustion.

"We should go," Arthur said reluctantly, though neither of them moved toward the door.

"Yes," Merlin agreed, making no effort to step aside or break the connection between them.

The moment stretched, heavy with words neither quite dared speak. Arthur wanted to promise impossible things about his safe return, wanted to voice feelings that felt too precious and fragile for the harsh light of morning. But the sound of footsteps in the corridor reminded him that duty waited, and the council's patience would only extend so far before political necessity overrode personal concerns. Merlin gave him a wry grin when he heaved a sigh, and they left his chambers together.

The council chamber was already occupied when Arthur entered, his advisors arranged around the great table with expressions ranging from concerned to openly rebellious. Merlin shadowed him as usual, in spite of his change in status, and Arthur raised an eyebrow at him as Merlin made himself comfortable leaning against the wall, offering a grin and shrug in return that said, Sorry, no chair for me, can’t sit. Arthur did his best not to sigh again as he made a mental note to have a chair made for Merlin that suited his position at Court Sorcerer. And that it would be placed at his right hand side.

As he turned his attention to the council, the morning light slanting through tall windows illuminated faces set with the particular determination of men who had spent time preparing arguments and marshaling political forces to support their positions.

Lord Geoffrey clutched a scroll that Arthur suspected contained detailed protocols for royal succession, while several other nobles wore the particular look of men preparing to lecture their king on proper procedure. The air in the chamber felt thick with unspoken challenges and carefully planned objections, the sort of political atmosphere that had always made Arthur feel slightly claustrophobic.

The assembled lords had risen from their seats as Arthur entered, but their bows carried subtle undertones of reservation - acknowledgment of his authority tempered by doubts about his judgment. Arthur could read the political calculations in their faces: a young king, untested in sole rule, preparing to abandon his kingdom at its moment of greatest need to chase after legendary threats that might or might not exist.

"Your Majesty," Lord Marrok began before Arthur had even taken his seat, the title carrying undertones of pointed reminder about new responsibilities. His voice held the particular cadence of someone delivering a prepared speech, carefully crafted to sound reasonable while applying maximum pressure. "We must discuss the matter of your coronation before you can consider departing on any... quest."

The pause before 'quest' was deliberate, Arthur noted, designed to make his mission sound frivolous rather than essential. Political theater at its most transparent, but no less effective for its obviousness. Arthur could see similar calculations in the faces around the table - men who had served his father for decades, suddenly unsure whether the son possessed the same political acumen as the sire.

Arthur settled into his chair with deliberate calm, though inwardly he was already calculating how to cut through the inevitable arguments as efficiently as possible. The carved throne felt different beneath him now - not just a seat of authority, but a symbol of everything he'd inherited and everything he stood to lose if Morgana succeeded in her plans.

"The coronation can wait," Arthur replied, his voice carrying the particular edge that meant he was prepared for opposition. "The threat we face cannot."

The response was immediate and predictable - a ripple of concerned murmurs and exchanged glances that spoke of conversations held in Arthur's absence. Lord Marrok leaned forward with the sort of diplomatic smile that preceded unwelcome advice, while Geoffrey's grip on his ceremonial scroll tightened with visible anxiety.

"But Sire," Geoffrey interjected, his scholarly mind clearly struggling with the deviation from established protocol, "without proper ceremony, without the formal acknowledgment of the nobles and the blessing of the Old Gods, your authority remains... uncertain."

The word 'uncertain' carried implications that made Arthur's jaw tighten with controlled irritation. Here was the heart of their objection - not concern for his safety or even the kingdom's welfare, but fear that deviation from tradition might weaken the political structures they'd spent decades navigating. Change, even necessary change, threatened the comfortable predictability of established order.

"My authority," Arthur said, his voice taking on the particular edge that meant he was prepared to be very unpleasant to anyone who pushed further, "comes from the need to protect this kingdom from existential threats. Morgana doesn't care whether I've been properly crowned when she unleashes ancient corruption on Camelot."

The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the sort of careful communication that spoke of conversations held in Arthur's absence. Arthur could practically hear their unspoken concerns: Young kings are impulsive. Young kings make decisions based on emotion rather than wisdom. Young kings need guidance from those with more experience in the realities of rule.

Lord Marrok cleared his throat diplomatically, his weathered face creased with what appeared to be genuine concern rather than mere political maneuvering. "Your Majesty, our concern is not just ceremonial. If you should... if the mission should go badly, the kingdom needs clear succession. Without an heir, without established protocols..."

"Without protocols, chaos," Arthur finished for him, understanding the fear beneath their insistence on proper procedure. The specter of civil war haunted every kingdom - the nightmare of disputed succession that could tear apart everything previous generations had built. "I understand your concerns, my lords. But let me be clear about what we face."

Arthur rose from his chair with fluid grace, his movements carrying the unconscious authority of someone born to command. The gesture drew every eye in the chamber, the sort of physical presence that reminded everyone present why some men were born to rule while others were born to serve. With deliberate theatricality designed to cut through political objections with visceral demonstration, he threw back his cloak to reveal the enchanted armor beneath.

The reaction was immediate and gratifying. Several councilors gasped audibly as mail and plate gleamed with contained power that made the very air around Arthur shimmer with protective magic. The enchantments Merlin had woven into every piece were visible now, golden threads of power that pulsed with the rhythm of a living heartbeat. Even the most politically minded lord couldn't deny the evidence of their own eyes - this was not preparation for typical warfare.

"This is not a conventional enemy we ride to face," Arthur said, his voice carrying to every corner of the chamber as he drew Excalibur in a smooth motion that sent silver fire dancing along the blade's length. "This is corruption given form, ancient evil that feeds on magical power itself. If we fail, if Morgana succeeds in claiming the Eye of Balor, there will be no kingdom left to need succession protocols."

The sword rose above his head, light streaming from its perfect steel in patterns that spoke of power beyond mortal comprehension. Arthur could see awe and fear warring in his councilors' faces as they witnessed the full display of Merlin's craftsmanship, the love and hope and desperate faith that had been forged into every inch of the blade.

Excalibur sang with contained power, its light illuminating the chamber with radiance that seemed to come from another world entirely. The blade hummed with harmonics that resonated in the bones of everyone present, making them viscerally aware that they stood in the presence of something far beyond the ordinary scope of human experience.

"We have this one chance," Arthur continued, his voice ringing with absolute conviction as the sword's light painted everything in shades of silver and gold, "to prevent devastation that would make every war, every plague, every disaster in our history pale by comparison. The Eye's corruption wouldn't stop at Camelot's borders - it would spread across all of Albion, consuming everything in its path until nothing remained but despair and darkness."

He lowered the sword slowly, letting its light fade to a steady glow that nonetheless commanded attention. Around the table, his councilors sat in stunned silence, finally beginning to grasp the true scope of what they faced. Political considerations seemed suddenly petty in the face of such cosmic stakes, their carefully prepared arguments rendered meaningless by the demonstration of power they'd just witnessed.

The silence stretched for long moments, broken only by the soft whisper of steel against leather as Arthur sheathed Excalibur with practiced ease. The return to ordinary illumination left the chamber feeling somehow dimmer, as if the sword's light had revealed the poverty of standard existence.

"If you wish to discuss succession," Arthur said quietly, settling back into his throne with movements that somehow conveyed both authority and terrible burden, "then by all means draw up your protocols. But understand this - if I fall, if this mission fails, your carefully planned ceremonies will be conducted over the ashes of everything we've worked to build."

Understanding rippled through the council, transforming expressions around the table. Arthur could see the moment when political calculation gave way to genuine comprehension, when the reality of their situation finally penetrated the comfortable assumptions of conventional statecraft.

The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the soft crackle of torches and the distant sounds of castle life continuing outside the chamber. Arthur could see understanding dawning in face after face, the recognition that this was not royal stubbornness but desperate necessity born of knowledge they had only begun to comprehend.

Lord Geoffrey was the first to find his voice, though it came out somewhat hoarse with awe and residual fear. "The... the sword and armor. They bear enchantments of considerable power."

"They do," Arthur confirmed, his gaze moving to where Merlin stood quietly by the wall. "Crafted by the finest magical artisan in the kingdom, with protections specifically designed to face the threat we encounter."

Eyes turned toward Merlin, and Arthur watched his friend's cheeks flush under the sudden attention. But there was something else in the councilors' expressions now - not the wariness or suspicion Arthur had expected, but something approaching respect. They had all witnessed yesterday's battle, had seen what Merlin could accomplish when his power was directed toward Camelot's protection.

The transformation in their attitude was subtle but unmistakable. Where once they had seen a potentially dangerous sorcerer whose presence at court represented a dangerous deviation from Uther's policies, they now began to recognize someone whose abilities might be essential to the kingdom's survival. Political pragmatism overrode ideological objection when the stakes became clear enough.

Lord Marrok straightened in his chair, decision crystallizing in his weathered features as he processed the full implications of Arthur's demonstration. "If such preparations have been made, if the threat is indeed so grave..." He paused, seeming to gather courage for what he was about to say. "Then may the Old Gods speed your journey, Your Majesty. We shall hold the kingdom in trust for your return."

One by one, the other nobles added their agreement, understanding finally overcoming protocol. Arthur felt a weight lift from his shoulders, relief flooding through him as the last political obstacle to departure was cleared away. The transition from opposition to support wasn't complete - he could still see reservations in some faces, lingering doubts about the wisdom of his choice - but it was enough.

"Thank you," Arthur said simply, though the words carried depths of gratitude that encompassed more than just their agreement to his mission. "I leave the kingdom in capable hands. Lord Geoffrey, you'll coordinate with the other councilors to ensure continuity of governance. Leon will handle military matters in my absence."

"And if..." Lord Marrok began, then stopped, apparently unable or unwilling to voice the question they were all thinking.

"If I don't return," Arthur said with matter-of-fact acceptance that made several councilors flinch, "then you'll do whatever is necessary to protect the people. That's what kingship means - the willingness to sacrifice everything for those we serve."

The words settled over the chamber, a blessing and a challenge combined, reminding everyone present of the ultimate purpose behind all their political maneuvering. Power existed to serve the powerless, authority derived its legitimacy from the protection it provided to those who could not protect themselves.

When the chamber finally emptied, Arthur found himself alone with Merlin in the familiar quiet that followed important decisions. His friend was studying the floor with the particular intensity that meant he was processing complex emotions, probably fighting the urge to voice all the concerns Arthur knew were churning through his mind.

The morning light streaming through the tall windows painted everything in shades of gold that seemed somehow precious now, weighted with the knowledge that Arthur might not see these familiar surroundings again. How many kings had stood in this chamber making decisions that would reshape their kingdoms? How many had walked out these doors knowing they might never return?

"It's time," Arthur said gently, seeing Merlin's shoulders tense at the words despite their inevitability.

"I know," Merlin replied, though he made no move toward the door. "The horses are ready. Lancelot, Percival, and Gwaine are waiting in the courtyard."

They stood in the growing morning light, both reluctant to break the moment despite its necessity. Arthur wanted to say more, wanted to voice promises and reassurances and feelings that felt too large for any words he knew. The space between them hummed with unspoken communication, years of friendship and growing understanding condensed into silent acknowledgment of everything they couldn't afford to leave unsaid.

But time pressed against them with inexorable weight, and duty called with a voice that couldn't be ignored indefinitely. Arthur squared his shoulders, feeling the familiar mantle of responsibility settle around him.

"I'll come back," he said quietly, the words carrying the weight of absolute commitment. "I promise."

Merlin's smile was brilliant despite the worry in his eyes, transforming his tired face with warmth that made Arthur's chest tight with affection and determination in equal measure. "You'd better. I don't fancy explaining to the council how I let their newly uncrowned king get himself killed on his first official quest."

The gentle humor was exactly what Arthur needed - Merlin's characteristic way of lightening moments that threatened to become too heavy with emotion. But beneath the familiar banter, Arthur heard the deeper message: Come back to me. Come back because I need you to come back, not just for the kingdom or for duty, but for me.

The courtyard was busy with final preparations when they arrived, morning activity taking on the particular urgency that preceded dangerous missions. Arthur's knights stood ready beside their mounts - three men who had followed him through countless dangers, who would follow him into hell itself if he asked. The sight of them, armored and prepared and utterly loyal, sent a surge of gratitude through Arthur's chest that nearly overwhelmed him.

Llamrei stamped and snorted with the restless energy of a beast bred for war, her tack gleaming with the same subtle enchantments that protected everything else Arthur would carry. The mare's coat shone like burnished copper in the morning light, her muscles rippling with barely contained power as she sensed the approach of adventure.

Servants moved efficiently around the small party, making final adjustments to gear and provisions with the sort of practiced competence that spoke of years spent preparing knights for dangerous quests. But Arthur noticed the way their eyes lingered on the group, the sort of careful attention that suggested they understood this departure was different from the usual patrol or diplomatic mission.

Gwaine was regaling Percival with what was undoubtedly an exaggerated account of some tavern exploit, his easy humor a deliberate attempt to lighten the morning's mood. But Arthur could see the tension in his friend's shoulders, the way his hand unconsciously checked his sword's placement despite having done so multiple times already.

Percival stood silently, his massive frame radiating the sort of calm readiness that had made him invaluable in countless battles. He nodded at something Gwaine said, then moved to check his horse's tack one final time with methodical precision.

But it was Lancelot and Gwen who drew Arthur's attention most powerfully. They stood slightly apart from the others, speaking in voices too low to overhear, but their body language told a story of hearts trying to say goodbye without knowing if they'd have the chance to say hello again.

Gwen's eyes were bright with unshed tears that she kept blinking back, her chin raised in the sort of determined bravery that had always made Arthur admire her strength. She reached up to adjust something on Lancelot's armor - a buckle that didn't need adjusting, an excuse for one more moment of contact.

Lancelot's face was stoic, controlled in the way that had made him legendary for his composure under pressure. But Arthur could see the tenderness in how he looked at Gwen, the way his hand lingered when she touched his armor, the careful restraint of someone holding back words that might make parting even more difficult.

"Be safe," Gwen whispered, and though Arthur couldn't hear the words, he could read them on her lips.

Lancelot nodded, his hand briefly covering hers where it rested on his chest. "Always," he replied, just as quietly.

The intimate moment made Arthur feel like an intruder, but he couldn't look away from the quiet devotion passing between them. This was what love looked like when it had to hide behind duty and propriety - careful touches, meaningful glances, everything important said in the spaces between words.

Arthur found himself thinking of his own feelings, his own careful restraint, the way he and Merlin danced around truths too dangerous to voice. When he glanced sideways, he found Merlin watching Lancelot and Gwen with the same wistful expression that probably mirrored his own.

Their eyes met, and Merlin's cheeks flushed pink as he realized he'd been caught staring at the romantic farewell. He looked like he was about to make some excuse and flee to a safe distance, the way he always did when moments became too charged with unspoken feeling.

Before Merlin could retreat, Arthur extended his arm - not in the casual gesture of friendship, but with the formal precision of someone offering a handshake between equals. It was a gesture that acknowledged Merlin's new status as Court Sorcerer, a sign of respect that went beyond their usual easy familiarity.

Merlin looked amused but perplexed as he took Arthur's hand, clearly uncertain what had prompted such formality. His expression was questioning, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he tried to understand what Arthur was thinking.

Instead of the firm handshake Merlin expected, Arthur raised his friend's hand slowly to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles with the sort of courtly grace usually reserved for noble ladies. The gesture was tender and deliberate, a public declaration of affection that left no room for misinterpretation.

Merlin went completely still, his eyes wide with shock and something that might have been wonder. Color flooded his face, spreading from his cheeks down his neck in a wave of heat that made him look young and vulnerable and absolutely beautiful. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, apparently struck speechless by the unexpected intimacy.

Arthur used Merlin's stunned silence to his advantage, releasing his hand and swinging up into Llamrei's saddle with fluid grace. The height advantage let him look down at Merlin's flustered expression, and he couldn't resist offering a small, satisfied smirk at having finally rendered his usually quick-tongued friend speechless.

"You... you absolute cabbage head!" Merlin finally managed, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to regain his composure. His face was still burning red, but there was joy in his expression alongside the embarrassment. "You can't just... in front of everyone... you complete prat!"

The sputtered protests only made Arthur's grin wider. "Is that any way to speak to your king?" he asked with mock severity, though his eyes were warm with affection and mischief.

"Yes!" Merlin shot back, apparently finding his footing again as familiar banter replaced shocked silence. "It's exactly how to speak to a king who thinks he can get away with... with theatrical gestures and dramatic farewells!"

"You loved it," Arthur said with absolute confidence, noting the way Merlin's blush deepened at the accusation.

"I..." Merlin started, then seemed to realize he was only digging himself deeper. "Just... just come back safely, you hear me? Or I'll come find you myself, no matter what stands in my way. Eye of Balor or no Eye of Balor."

The threat was delivered with the sort of fierce protectiveness that made Arthur's chest tight with love and gratitude. He understood the deeper meaning - that Merlin would risk corruption and death itself if Arthur needed him, would face ancient evil without hesitation if it meant keeping the person he loved safe.

"I know you would," Arthur said softly, his voice carrying gratitude for that loyalty even as he felt relief that such sacrifice wouldn't be necessary. "But I'm trusting you to stay safe so I have someone worth coming back to."

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning that went far beyond their surface simplicity. Around them, the courtyard had grown quieter, people sensing the significance of the moment even if they couldn't understand its full implications.

Leon appeared at Arthur's stirrup, his expression carrying the particular gravity of someone making what might be a final report. "Sire, the eastern patrols report no unusual activity. The refugees from yesterday's evacuation have been settled comfortably. Grain stores are sufficient for a siege of moderate duration if necessary."

"Good," Arthur replied, accepting the reins of leadership even as he prepared to hand them over. "The kingdom is in capable hands, Leon. I trust your judgment completely."

"As do I yours, Sire." Leon stepped back, sketching a salute that managed to convey both military precision and personal affection. "May the Old Gods watch over your journey."

As they prepared to ride toward the gates, Arthur looked back once to see Merlin standing in the courtyard, flanked by Gaius and Leon but somehow solitary in his worry. The sight sent a sharp pang through Arthur's chest, the knowledge that he was leaving behind everything he most wanted to protect.

Merlin's face was carefully composed, but Arthur could read the anxiety in the set of his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out and physically prevent Arthur's departure. The morning light caught in his dark hair, painting him in shades of gold and shadow that made him look almost ethereal, something too precious for the harsh realities of the world they inhabited.

But that was exactly why Arthur had to go. Merlin's safety, Camelot's future, the possibility of the world they were building together - all of it depended on stopping Morgana before she could claim the Eye's power. The corruption Magic had described wouldn't distinguish between the innocent and the guilty, wouldn't spare those Arthur loved simply because they were worth sparing.

The gates opened before them with the familiar groan of ancient hinges, revealing the open road and whatever lay beyond. Morning mist still clung to the distant hills, painting the landscape in soft grays and blues that spoke of peace and possibility. It was a beautiful day to begin a quest, though Arthur suspected that beauty would fade quickly once they entered the cursed territories that surrounded their destination.

Arthur spurred Llamrei into a canter, feeling the mare's immediate response as her hooves struck the cobblestones in a rhythm that spoke of journeys begun and adventures embraced. His knights fell into formation around him with practiced ease - Lancelot on his right, Gwaine on his left, Percival following close behind, a mobile fortress ready to anchor their line against any threat.

They rode through Camelot's lower town, drawing waves and shouts of encouragement from people beginning their daily routines. Children ran alongside their horses for short distances, laughing with the sort of innocent joy that reminded Arthur of everything he was fighting to preserve. Merchants paused in setting up their stalls to bow respectfully, while craftsmen emerged from their workshops to catch a glimpse of their king riding forth on what everyone seemed to sense was no ordinary mission.

"They know," Lancelot observed quietly as they passed a group of women who had stopped their morning washing to watch the small party's progress.

"They always know," Arthur replied, noting the expressions on the faces around them. Not fear, exactly, but the sort of serious attention that suggested people understood the gravity of whatever mission had drawn their king from his castle so soon after assuming the throne.

The road stretched ahead of them, winding through familiar countryside toward horizons that promised to become increasingly strange and dangerous. Behind them, Camelot's walls rose against the morning sky, a promise of safety and home, while ahead lay the unknown territories where ancient evils waited to test everything Arthur had learned about courage and leadership.

As the sound of hoofbeats settled into the steady rhythm of long-distance travel, Arthur found his thoughts returning again and again to the man he'd left behind. Merlin would be worrying himself sick, probably finding increasingly elaborate ways to avoid sleep while Arthur was away. The thought of his friend wearing himself down with anxiety made Arthur's chest tight with protective concern, even as he acknowledged the futility of such worry at this distance.

Stay safe, Arthur thought toward the distant castle, though he knew Merlin couldn't hear him. Rest, recover your strength, and be there when I get back. That's all I ask.

Merlin stood in the courtyard long after the sound of hoofbeats had faded, watching the empty road with the sort of desperate attention that might summon his friends back through sheer force of will. But his vigil was complicated by the persistent tingling in his right hand, where Arthur's lips had brushed his knuckles with such deliberate tenderness that Merlin's cheeks still burned with the memory.

The morning sun climbed steadily higher, painting the stones in shades of gold that should have been cheerful but instead felt like mockery in the face of his growing anxiety. Yet underneath the worry was something else entirely - a warm flutter of wonder that Arthur had kissed his hand in front of half the castle, a public declaration that left no room for misinterpretation about the king's feelings.

The familiar space felt wrong in Arthur's absence, as if the courtyard's very purpose had been diminished by the departure of its primary occupant. Servants continued their daily routines around him, but Merlin could sense their sidelong glances - though now he wondered if their careful attention was due to his obvious distress or because they'd witnessed their king's romantic gesture toward his Court Sorcerer.

Several of the younger serving girls were whispering behind their hands, shooting glances in his direction that carried speculation rather than concern. Heat crept up Merlin's neck as he realized the kiss would be the subject of castle gossip within the hour, if it wasn't already.

They are beyond our sight now, Magic observed quietly, its mental voice carrying the same restless energy that made Merlin's hands clench and unclench at his sides - though his right hand seemed reluctant to form a proper fist, as if preserving the ghost of Arthur's touch. The distance grows too great for casual observation.

I know, Merlin replied, though he made no move to leave his vigil. The knowledge that Arthur was moving further away with each passing moment sat in his chest like a physical weight, making it difficult to breathe properly. But underneath the familiar ache of separation was something new - the memory of Arthur's smirk after that impossibly tender gesture, the way his eyes had been warm with affection and mischief in equal measure.

He kissed my hand, Merlin thought, still struggling to process what had happened. In front of everyone. Like I was... like we were...

Like you matter to him as more than friend or servant, Magic finished gently, its mental voice carrying satisfaction that made Merlin's blush deepen. As you have always mattered, but now without pretense or careful distance.

I just... I wish there was something more I could do, Merlin continued, though the thought felt less desperate now, tempered by the knowledge that Arthur had ridden away carrying the memory of Merlin's shocked joy, the assurance that his feelings were returned in full measure.

The feeling of helplessness was almost overwhelming. For years, Merlin had protected Arthur through careful manipulation of circumstances, subtle applications of power that ensured favorable outcomes without revealing his involvement. But this time, Arthur was riding toward danger that Merlin couldn't follow, facing threats that his magic might actually make worse rather than better.

We have done what we can, Magic reminded him, though its mental voice carried its own undertones of frustration and worry. The armor bears our strongest protections, Excalibur was forged with our deepest love, and Arthur rides with companions whose loyalty has been tested in countless battles, on horses enchanted with strength, speed, and stamina.

But what if it's not enough? Merlin thought desperately. What if the Eye's corruption is stronger than our preparations? What if Morgana has powers we haven't anticipated?

Then we will find another way to help, Magic replied with fierce determination. We always do. Arthur knows this - it is why he can ride toward danger with confidence, knowing that we will move heaven and earth to support him if needed.

"Come," Gaius said gently, his weathered hand settling on Merlin's shoulder with the sort of careful comfort that spoke of long experience with worry and loss. "Standing here won't bring them back any sooner, and you look ready to collapse where you stand."

Gaius's touch was warm and steadying, a reminder that Merlin wasn't entirely alone despite Arthur's absence. The old physician had been his anchor through so many crises over the years, offering wisdom and comfort when the weight of secrets and responsibilities threatened to crush him entirely.

Merlin allowed himself to be guided back toward the castle, though every instinct screamed at him to maintain his watch. The courtyard felt too empty without Arthur's presence, too quiet without the sound of familiar voices planning the day's activities. How had he never noticed how much of Camelot's vitality centered around its king?

Leon walked on his other side, the knight's presence both comforting and strange - Arthur's absence making the power dynamics shift in ways that left everyone slightly uncertain of their footing. The First Knight's usual confidence was still evident, but Merlin could sense the underlying tension that came from suddenly bearing full responsibility for the kingdom's security.

"He'll be fine," Leon said with the sort of confident authority that suggested he was trying to convince himself as much as Merlin. The words carried the weight of years spent watching Arthur survive impossible odds, but also the tremor of genuine concern for his king's welfare. "Arthur's survived worse odds than this, and he's never been better prepared for a fight."

The reassurance was kind, but Merlin could hear the uncertainty beneath Leon's confident tone. None of them truly understood what Arthur was riding toward, which made it impossible to gauge whether their preparations would prove adequate. They were operating on hope and faith as much as tactical planning, trusting in Arthur's skill and determination to overcome challenges they couldn't fully anticipate.

They parted ways in the main corridor, Leon heading off to coordinate defensive preparations while Gaius returned to his tower. Merlin found himself alone with his thoughts and Magic's increasingly restless presence, both of them struggling with enforced inactivity when every instinct demanded action.

The castle felt different without Arthur's presence - not dramatically changed, but subtly off-balance -- a song missing its harmony. Servants moved with slightly less purpose, guards stood with marginally less attention, and the very stones seemed to absorb some of the energy that usually filled the corridors with life and activity.

Arthur's chambers felt cavernous in his absence, shadows seeming deeper than usual despite the morning light streaming through tall windows. Merlin stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the familiar space that suddenly felt like a shrine to someone departed rather than simply temporarily absent.

The room held traces of Arthur's presence in every detail - clothes draped over chairs, books left open on tables, the faint scent of leather and steel that always seemed to cling to him. But without Arthur himself to animate the space, these remnants felt hollow.

"Right," Merlin said aloud, needing to hear his own voice in the oppressive quiet. "Cleaning. Normal, ordinary, mind-numbingly boring cleaning."

The familiar routine might provide some distraction from the anxiety gnawing at his chest. He'd cleaned these chambers countless times over the years, knew every surface and corner with intimate familiarity. Perhaps losing himself in simple, repetitive tasks would quiet the restless energy that made him feel like he might crawl out of his own skin.

We could make it more efficient, Magic suggested, stirring with interest at the prospect of useful work. Dust responds well to simple atmospheric manipulation, and organizational spells would speed the process considerably.

I was thinking more along the lines of soap and water, Merlin replied, though he could feel Magic's enthusiasm beginning to infect his own mood. The prospect of magical shortcuts was tempting, but the whole point was to occupy his mind with mundane concerns. The point is to keep busy, not to finish in five minutes.

But Magic's offer of assistance proved impossible to resist as Merlin moved through the chamber, his worry translating into nervous energy that demanded outlet. Soon the work was progressing with supernatural efficiency, though he tried to maintain at least the pretense of doing things manually.

Dust lifted from surfaces in graceful spirals before vanishing entirely, responding to Merlin's unconscious will rather than conscious direction. His anxiety was affecting his control, small displays of power manifesting without deliberate intent as his emotional state influenced the magical currents around him.

The stone floors seemed to polish themselves under the influence of carefully applied magic, while windows gleamed with clarity that probably violated several laws of optics. Even Arthur's scattered belongings arranged themselves with mathematical precision, creating an order that was aesthetically pleasing but somehow wrong in its perfection.

Within an hour, Arthur's chambers looked better than they had in years - possibly better than they had ever looked. Every surface gleamed, every possession was arranged with mathematical precision, and the very air seemed cleaner and brighter than before. The result was beautiful but sterile, lacking the comfortable chaos that made the space feel lived-in and welcoming.

"Well," Merlin said, surveying their work with mixed satisfaction and dismay. "That was thoroughly unsatisfying as a distraction."

Perhaps laundry would prove more engaging, Magic suggested hopefully, clearly enjoying the opportunity to be useful after days of relative inactivity. The process is more complex, requires sustained attention to prevent damage to delicate fabrics.

Fine, Merlin agreed, gathering up Arthur's spare clothes and the linens they'd displaced in their cleaning frenzy. The mundane nature of the task appealed to him, promising the sort of simple, physical work that might quiet his churning thoughts. But we're doing it the normal way. Soap, water, manual labor. No shortcuts.

The walk to the castle's laundry rooms took him through corridors busy with servants going about their daily tasks, and Merlin found himself acutely aware of their glances and whispered conversations. He couldn’t help but wonder how much was about his new status as Court Sorcerer, and how much was about Arthur’s romantic gesture in the courtyard.

The laundry rooms were warm and humid, filled with the familiar sounds of washing and the comfortable chatter of servants going about their work. The head laundress, a formidable woman named Martha who had been managing the castle's linens since before Merlin's arrival, looked up with surprise as he entered carrying Arthur's clothes.

"Master Merlin!" she exclaimed, rising from her position over a large tub of soapy water. "You shouldn't be troubling yourself with such work. We'd be happy to handle His Majesty's washing."

"I need the distraction," Merlin admitted, settling beside one of the empty tubs with grateful relief. "And please, just Merlin. I'm still the same person I was yesterday."

Martha's expression softened with understanding. "Worried about the king, are you? Can't say I blame you - riding off on dangerous business so soon after his father's passing. But you needn't fret overmuch. Our new king's got more lives than a cat, that one does."

Yeah, thanks to me, Merlin didn’t say out loud. Instead, he just grinned and nodded.

The familiar routine of doing laundry without magical assistance proved surprisingly soothing, his hands finding comfort in simple, repetitive motions that required no special power or knowledge. There was something meditative about the rhythm of washing and rinsing, the satisfaction of watching dirt and stains disappear through nothing more complex than soap and persistence.

But even the most absorbing tasks couldn't completely banish his anxiety. As Merlin worked, his mind kept drifting to Arthur and the knights, wondering how far they'd traveled, what terrain they were crossing, whether they'd encountered any signs of the dangers that waited ahead.

You cannot help him by worrying, Magic observed gently, sensing the direction of his thoughts. Your anxiety serves no purpose except to drain your strength when you may need it most.

I know that, Merlin replied, attacking a stubborn stain with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. But knowing it and stopping it are different things entirely.

Perhaps we could attempt to observe their progress, Magic suggested tentatively. A brief magical reconnaissance to confirm their safety and location.

The suggestion was tempting almost beyond resistance. Merlin's scrying abilities had improved dramatically since his soul's restoration, and the enhanced connection with Magic made long-distance observation much easier than it had once been. A quick look would ease his anxiety, confirm that Arthur was safe and making good progress toward their destination.

But memory of the Eye's hungry attention during his previous attempts at distant observation made him hesitate. The ancient evil had demonstrated awareness of his magical surveillance, turning its malevolent gaze toward him with interest that felt like being examined by something that wanted to devour everything he was.

Too dangerous, he decided reluctantly. The Eye can sense when we're watching. The last thing we want is to draw its attention while Arthur's approaching the caves.

Agreed, Magic replied, though its mental voice carried disappointment that matched Merlin's own. But the restraint required is... difficult. Every instinct demands that we ensure Arthur's safety through direct observation.

After an hour of scrubbing and rinsing, even the therapeutic benefits of manual labor began to wear thin. Merlin's thoughts continued to circle back to the same fears and concerns, creating a loop of anxiety that no amount of physical activity could fully break. He needed something more demanding, something that would require his complete attention and leave no room for worried speculation.

I should try to get some sleep, Merlin decided, abandoning the half-finished laundry with reluctance. His body felt heavy with exhaustion, but his mind remained too active for rest to seem possible. Maybe ask Gaius for something to help with the sleep.

When he reached Gaius's chambers, the old physician was grinding herbs with methodical precision, his movements carrying the sort of focused attention that suggested he was using the familiar task to manage his own worries. The mortar and pestle made rhythmic sounds against the stone counter, a steady percussion that had become the soundtrack to countless conversations over the years.

"You look terrible," Gaius said without preamble, looking up as Merlin entered. His weathered face creased with concern as he took in Merlin's appearance - the dark circles under his eyes and the way he held himself as he tried not to stumble or just topple over.

"So I've been told," Merlin replied, settling into his usual chair with a weariness that went beyond simple physical exhaustion. The familiar piece of furniture seemed to cradle him, offering comfort through years of accumulated memories and conversations. "A few times today, actually."

"And yet you continue to avoid rest." Gaius set aside his mortar and pestle, turning his full attention to Merlin with focused concern. "How long since you've slept properly?"

"Define 'properly,'" Merlin said.

Gaius's expression grew stern with the particular look he reserved for patients who were being deliberately obtuse about their own welfare. "More than brief periods of unconsciousness interrupted by worry and nightmares."

"Then honestly, I'm not sure," Merlin admitted, suddenly too tired to maintain the pretense that he was managing fine. The weight of exhaustion settled on his shoulders, making even the simple act of sitting upright a monumental effort. "I keep trying, but every time I start to drift off, I start thinking about Arthur and what he might be facing, and then I'm wide awake again."

The admission felt like failure, though Merlin knew Gaius wouldn't judge him for the very human response of worrying about someone he loved. Sleep had become elusive not through any fault of his own, but because his mind refused to quiet when Arthur was in danger.

"The magical exhaustion from the past few days’ spell work isn't helping either," Merlin continued, noting how his hands continued to tremble despite his best efforts to still them. "My body wants to rest, but my mind won't cooperate. I was wondering if you might have something that could help. A sleeping draught, perhaps. Something strong enough to overcome worry-induced insomnia."

Gaius was already moving toward his stores of prepared medicines, his healer's instincts recognizing the need before Merlin had finished speaking. "I have something that should prove effective. Strong enough to ensure deep sleep, but not so powerful as to leave you groggy when you wake."

He returned with a small vial filled with dark liquid that smelled of herbs Merlin couldn't identify - a complex mixture that spoke of years of experimentation and refinement. The glass was cool against Merlin's palm.

"Drink all of it," Gaius instructed, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had spent decades caring for others. "It will work quickly, so make sure you're somewhere comfortable before taking it."

Merlin accepted the vial gratefully, already feeling a phantom easing of tension at the prospect of true rest. "Thank you. I just... I need to stop thinking for a while."

"Understandable," Gaius replied gently. "But remember - worrying yourself into collapse won't help Arthur. He needs you strong and rested, ready to assist if circumstances require it."

The words carried wisdom Merlin knew to be true, even if his emotions made it difficult to accept. Arthur did need him at full strength, not worn down by anxiety and magical exhaustion. Rest wasn't selfish indulgence but practical necessity, preparation for whatever challenges might yet arise.

Merlin made his way to his small room. The narrow space felt both comforting and confining - familiar in its simplicity but somehow inadequate to contain the magnitude of his worry.

His room had always been spartanly furnished, containing little beyond the basic necessities: a narrow bed, a small table, a chest for his few belongings. But tonight these familiar objects seemed somehow foreign, as if his anxiety had transformed even the most mundane surroundings into something strange and unwelcoming.

He settled onto his narrow bed with relief, uncorking the vial and draining its contents in one swift motion. The taste was bitter but not unpleasant, with an herbal complexity that spoke of Gaius's skill in preparation. Almost immediately, he could feel the tension beginning to ease from his muscles, the constant churning of anxious thoughts starting to slow and settle.

Much needed rest approaches, Magic observed with satisfaction as the sleeping draught began to take effect. We have pushed ourselves beyond reasonable limits in recent days.

I hope Arthur's getting better sleep than I have been, Merlin thought drowsily, his consciousness already beginning to soften around the edges as Gaius's medicine worked its gentle magic.

The effect was almost immediate - tension flowing out of his muscles like water, the constant churning of anxious thoughts beginning to slow and settle into something approaching peace. For the first time in days, Merlin felt his body truly relaxing, his mind releasing its desperate grip on consciousness.

Sleep took Merlin completely then, deep and dreamless and more restful than he'd experienced in weeks. His body finally surrendered to the exhaustion that had been accumulating for days, while his mind found temporary refuge from the constant pressure of worry and responsibility.

For a time, there was only peaceful darkness - the blessing of consciousness suspended, awareness dissolved into the gentle void that allowed healing and restoration. But even in the deepest sleep, some part of Merlin remained tethered to the waking world through his connection to Arthur.

He dreamed of Arthur and the three knights as they rode hard and swift across the hills and fields of Brechfa, their horses moving with magic-enhanced endurance through landscapes that grew progressively wilder and more dangerous. The mountains of Isgaard rose in the distance, dark, jagged teeth against the sky, marking the boundary between civilized lands and the cursed territories that contained their destination.

Even in dreams, however, Merlin and Magic could feel the hungry gaze of the Eye turned in their direction, ancient malevolence that pressed against their awareness. The sensation was deeply unsettling - being watched by something that existed beyond normal understanding of good and evil, something that viewed all living things as potential sources of sustenance.

The attention is unwelcome, Magic observed within the dream, its mental voice carrying undertones of unease. We should retreat from this observation before drawing more notice.

But retreating proved difficult when the connection to Arthur felt so essential, so necessary for maintaining any sense of peace. Merlin found himself caught between the need to ensure Arthur's safety and the recognition that his surveillance might actually increase the danger.

These visions are not restful, Magic commented as they finally managed to pull back from the distant observation. I had expected dreams to provide respite from waking concerns, but they seem to amplify rather than diminish our anxieties.

Not all dreams are pleasant, Merlin explained, his sleeping mind struggling to maintain coherent communication. Sometimes they reflect our fears instead of providing escape from them.

Magic guided Merlin's consciousness deeper into sleep, seeking the layers of rest that lay beneath dreams and visions. There, in the deepest reaches of unconsciousness, they finally found the peace that had been eluding them - true rest that allowed both body and spirit to recover from the recent trials.

When Merlin woke, it was to a throat so dry that his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his stomach rumbling with renewed appetite. Sunlight streamed through his small window at an angle that spoke of morning rather than the mid-afternoon when he’d fallen asleep, and he could hear the sounds of castle life continuing around him with normal efficiency.

How had so much time passed without his awareness? The sleeping draught had been more powerful than he'd anticipated, or perhaps his exhaustion had been deeper than he'd realized.

He sat up with the sort of clear-headed alertness that came from proper rest. His body felt renewed in ways that went beyond simple physical recovery - the magical exhaustion that had been dragging at him for days seemed to have lifted, leaving him feeling more like himself than he had since before the soul stone incident. He was immensely grateful to find that Gaius had left him a cup of water by his bed, and he drained it quickly. “Gaius?” he called.

"Well, Merlin!," came the reply from the main workshop, Gaius's voice carrying relief and satisfaction. "You slept almost an entire day! I was beginning to wonder if the draught had been too strong, but you clearly needed the rest."

An entire day. Merlin marveled at the passage of time, feeling simultaneously guilty for sleeping so long and grateful for the restoration it had provided. His magical reserves had replenished during sleep, and even Magic seemed more settled and content than it had been in days.

Much better, Magic agreed, stirring with renewed vitality. The mental voice carried none of the frantic energy that had characterized it during Arthur's departure, replaced by something approaching serenity. We are significantly stronger now than before the rest.

"You look considerably better," Gaius observed as Merlin joined him in the workshop. "Color in your cheeks, clarity in your eyes. Rest was exactly what you needed. Now, you should eat something." He gestured to the little dining table with the pestle in his hand, before going back to grinding what appeared to be a pain relief preparation, his movements carrying the sort of focused attention that suggested he was keeping himself busy while processing his own worries about Arthur's mission.

The familiar sounds and smells of the workshop provided a comforting backdrop, grounding Merlin in the present moment. He sat at the table and hoped the dish under the cloth wasn’t a bowl of cold porridge, but when he removed the cloth, he was surprised to find a plate of fresh bread, cheese, and an apple, and he dug in with gusto. “Thanks, Gaius,” he said, words muffled as he spoke through a mouth full of bread. Gaius just glanced at him, and shook his head fondly.

"I have some deliveries to make in the lower town," Gaius said, moving toward a collection of prepared medicines arranged on a nearby table. "When you’ve finished eating, would you care to handle them? The fresh air might do you good, and the people would appreciate seeing their Court Sorcerer taking an interest in their welfare."

The suggestion had merit, Merlin realized. He'd been so focused on Arthur's departure and his own anxiety that he'd hardly considered how his new role might affect his relationship with Camelot's people. The transition from secret protector to official Court Sorcerer represented more than just a change in title - it meant taking on new responsibilities and building new kinds of relationships with those he served.

But the thought of going alone, without Arthur's presence to provide context and protection, made him nervous. How would people react to him now that his magical abilities were common knowledge? Would they see him as protector or potential threat?

We are apprehensive about public interaction, Magic observed with characteristic insight. Without Arthur's presence, we are uncertain how people will react to our new status.

Only one way to find out, Merlin replied, though he shared Magic's apprehension. Public opinion could shift rapidly, especially when dealing with subjects as charged as magic and those who wielded it.

"That sounds like a good idea," Merlin said, stuffing the last of the cheese into his mouth and already reaching for his jacket and pocketing the apple for later. The prospect of useful activity appealed to him, promising distraction from the worries that threatened to consume him if left unchecked. "And honestly, I could use the distraction."

The walk through Camelot's lower town proved surprisingly pleasant, though Merlin was acutely aware of the attention hispresence drew. People paused in their daily activities to watch him pass, conversations stopping mid-sentence as shopkeepers and craftsmen took note of the Court Sorcerer walking among them.

The lower town was bustling with afternoon activity - merchants hawking their wares, children playing in the narrow streets, craftsmen putting finishing touches on the day's work. The familiar sounds and smells of daily life provided a comforting backdrop, reminding Merlin of all the ordinary human concerns that continued regardless of the cosmic threats that occupied his thoughts.

But the stares weren't hostile as he'd feared - curious, certainly, and perhaps a bit awed, but not fearful in the way Merlin had expected. There was respect in many faces, recognition of someone who had proven himself through actions rather than simply inherited authority.

"Master Merlin," called out Thomas the baker, wiping flour-dusted hands on his apron as he emerged from his shop. The man's face was flushed from working near his ovens, but his expression carried genuine warmth rather than the wariness Merlin had been bracing himself to encounter. "Begging your pardon, but is it true what they're saying about the king?"

Merlin felt his stomach clench, immediately fearing that news of Arthur's dangerous mission had somehow spread through the lower town. The last thing they needed was panic about the king's absence, especially when they couldn't explain the true nature of the threat he'd gone to face.

"What are they saying?" Merlin asked carefully, trying to keep his voice neutral despite the anxiety suddenly coursing through him.

"That King Uther passed in the night, may the Old Gods grant him peace," Thomas continued, his voice carrying the sort of respectful solemnity that accompanied discussions of royal mortality. "And that Prince Arthur - King Arthur now, I suppose - has taken the throne proper."

Relief flooded through Merlin so powerfully he nearly swayed on his feet. Of course people would be talking about the succession - it was the most significant political event in over twenty years, affecting every aspect of life in the kingdom. The transition from Uther's harsh rule to Arthur's more moderate policies would have profound implications for everyone, especially those who had suffered under the previous regime's harsh laws.

"It's true," Merlin confirmed, noting how quickly a small crowd was gathering around them. Word of his presence was spreading through the narrow streets with the speed that characterized all gossip in close-knit communities. "King Uther died peacefully in his chambers. King Arthur has assumed the throne."

The confirmation sent a ripple of discussion through the growing crowd - voices raised in speculation about what the change might mean for their daily lives. Some faces showed relief, others uncertainty, but most displayed the sort of cautious optimism that came from hoping new leadership might bring improvements to old problems.

"When will the coronation be held?" asked Martha the seamstress, her voice carrying the enthusiasm of someone already planning festive garments for the anticipated celebration. "There'll need to be proper ceremonies, won't there? Festivities for the people?"

The question put Merlin in an awkward position - he couldn't answer truthfully without revealing information that could cause panic, but he also couldn't lie outright to people who trusted him with their concerns. The balance between honesty and discretion required careful navigation.

"Preparations are being made," he said carefully, choosing words that were technically accurate while avoiding dangerous specifics. "His Majesty is... handling the transition with appropriate consideration for both tradition and current circumstances."

The diplomatic non-answer seemed to satisfy most of the crowd, though Merlin could see a few faces that suggested people were reading between the lines. The politically astute among them might guess that something unusual was happening, but hopefully they would attribute any delays to the complex requirements of proper royal succession rather than immediate danger.

The afternoon passed quickly as word of Merlin's presence spread throughout the lower town. Person after person approached with questions about minor ailments, requests for simple magical assistance, expressions of gratitude for past help that Merlin had provided in secret. It became clear that his magical activities had been far less secret than he'd believed.

"My grandmother always said you had the touch," confided Willem the carpenter, referring to some minor healing Merlin had performed months ago. "Said she could feel the magic in your hands when you helped with her arthritis, but she never said nothing to nobody about it."

"Figured it wasn't our place to ask questions," added Sarah the weaver. "You helped when we needed help, never asked for nothing in return. That was enough for us."

The pattern repeated throughout the afternoon - people acknowledging past magical assistance with gratitude rather than suspicion, expressing relief that they could finally thank him openly for kindnesses they'd never been able to acknowledge. It was both humbling and reassuring, evidence that his years of secret service had been noticed and appreciated.

This is what magic should be, Magic observed with deep satisfaction as they worked. Not weapon or tool of conquest, but service to those in need.

The sentiment resonated with everything Merlin had always believed about his gifts. Power existed to serve others, to heal rather than harm, to protect the innocent rather than dominate them. Each person helped, each problem solved, felt like a small victory against the darkness that threatened to consume their world.

By the time he finished his rounds, the sun was beginning its descent toward the western horizon, painting the narrow streets in shades of gold and amber. Merlin made his way back toward the castle, feeling satisfied despite his lingering worry about Arthur. The people trusted him, saw him as protector rather than threat.

The afternoon's interactions had accomplished more than simple medical assistance - they had established him firmly in his new role as Court Sorcerer, demonstrating that his power would be used for the kingdom's benefit rather than personal gain. Trust built slowly in communities that had learned caution through harsh experience, but today had been a promising beginning.

He was crossing the main courtyard when it happened - a sudden darkness that blotted out the afternoon sun like a cloud passing overhead, except no clouds were visible in the clear sky. The temperature dropped perceptibly, and Merlin felt his magical senses flare with warning as something approached from above.

Merlin looked up to see a raven diving toward him with unnatural speed, its eyes glowing with malevolent intelligence that had nothing to do with ordinary avian awareness. The creature moved with predatory grace that spoke of supernatural guidance, its flight path too direct and purposeful to be natural.

Merlin's hand moved instinctively, golden light already beginning to gather around his fingers as his power responded to the perceived threat. The familiar surge of magic felt reassuring after hours of mundane activity, reminding him that he was far from helpless despite the constraints of his situation.

But before he could strike, the raven dropped something at his feet and let out a sound that chilled his blood - laughter, cruel and mocking and unmistakably feminine. The sound carried harmonics that belonged to no earthly throat, echoes of voice and personality that Merlin recognized with growing horror.

"Hello, Merlin," Morgana's voice echoed from the raven's throat, the words dripping with false sweetness that couldn't disguise the malice beneath. "Did you miss me?"

Then the creature dissolved into wisps of shadow, leaving behind only a scroll tied with black ribbon and sealed with what looked suspiciously like blood. The dissolution was disturbingly beautiful - darkness unraveling like strands of silk, fragments of malevolence dispersing into the afternoon air before vanishing entirely.

As Merlin picked up the scroll, the seal cracked under his touch, blood dissolving into harmless dust as the scroll unrolled of its own accord.

The script that revealed itself was elegant, Morgana's careful penmanship somehow managing to convey mockery and malice in every carefully formed letter. She had always taken pride in her writing, Merlin remembered - hours spent in tutors' chambers learning the arts considered appropriate for noble ladies.

My dear Emrys,

The salutation sent ice through Merlin's veins. Morgana knew.

What a delightful surprise it was to finally learn your true name! When my ravens brought word of the battle at Camelot's gates, when they described the soulless servant wielding power that made the very air tremble... well, imagine my shock at discovering dear, clumsy Merlin was the legendary warlock himself.

All those times I came to you, terrified and desperate, begging for answers about the dreams and visions that plagued me. All those nights I wept in confusion, wondering if I was going mad. And there you sat, watching me suffer, offering nothing but empty platitudes while you knew exactly what was happening to me.

You could have helped me, Merlin. You could have taught me, guided me, shown me I wasn't alone or cursed or damned. Instead, you let me stumble through the darkness. How different things might have been if you'd shown me even a fraction of the loyalty you've lavished on my dear brother.

Each word was a blade sliding between his ribs, casual cruelty mixed with genuine hurt that spoke of old wounds torn fresh. Morgana's pain was real beneath the venom, the betrayal of someone who had needed help and been abandoned by the one person who could have provided it.

But I suppose blood means nothing when weighed against your precious Arthur, does it? Even magical blood, the bond that should have made us allies instead of enemies. Well, no matter. What's done is done, and I've found my own path to power.

I write not to reminisce about missed opportunities, but to extend an invitation. You see, I've recently come into possession of something quite remarkable - an ancient power that will reshape the world according to more... traditional values. I thought you might like to witness its awakening firsthand, especially since you seem so fond of dramatic magical displays these days.

Oh, and before you even consider declining my gracious offer, you should know that your dear mother sends her regards. Sweet Hunith is currently enjoying my hospitality in the Caves of Balor, where she's had the most fascinating conversations with some new friends of mine. Such a fragile mind, though. I do worry about how much exposure to ancient powers a simple village woman can endure before her sanity... slips.

Merlin sucked in a sharp breath as his heart shuddered in his chest. The parchment crumpled under his white-knuckled grip.

Mum, he thought, even as Magic said, Mother.

That one thought tangled within him, and his head suddenly felt too heavy, too full. He blinked, his eyelids fluttering as colors, sounds, scents and the very energy of life and death flowed through him and in that moment, there was no Merlin and Magic, there was just him.

But then the moment passed. There was a strange sliding sensation in his head, as if Merlin and Magic were two halves of a sliced apple that had been pressed together, but were now slipping apart. They shook their head dizzily, the words blurring on the letter in their hands as tears burned behind their eyes.

Mother - gentle, loving Hunith who had sacrificed everything to raise them safely - was in Morgana's hands, exposed to corruption that could destroy her mind and soul.

You'd better hurry, Emrys. The Eye grows hungry, and I can't guarantee how long even my protection will keep her safe from its influence. And do try not to rely on your precious Arthur to save the day. If he arrives before you, or without you, I'm afraid poor Hunith will have front-row seats to witness the removal of the final veils. The corruption will take her first, and I'll make sure Arthur watches every moment of her transformation into something other.

The choice is yours, dear brother in magic. Come to me willingly, and your mother lives. Refuse, and watch her become the first victim of the new age I'm about to create. I honestly wonder which course of action you will choose. After all, you've already proven how little magical bonds mean to you. I wonder if you find familial bonds just as trivial.

With fond regards and eager anticipation,

Morgana

Merlin held the letter with nerveless fingers as he looked up. Birds sang in the castle's eaves, and somewhere a blacksmith's hammer rang against metal in steady rhythm. The afternoon sun seemed too bright, and the warmth of its light didn’t touch him. He felt cold, all the way down to his bones. Around him, the courtyard continued its normal activity, servants and guards oblivious to the catastrophe that had just unfolded in their midst.

Mother, Magic said, its mental voice tight with shock and something approaching panic. Morgana has taken Mother hostage.

Merlin couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't think past the terrible images Morgana's words had painted in his mind. Hunith - gentle, loving Hunith who had sacrificed everything to raise him safely - was somewhere in those cursed caves, exposed to corruption that could destroy her mind and soul.

The woman who had given up everything for his sake, who had sent him away to Camelot knowing she might never see him again, who had faced down bandits and kings with equal courage when his safety was at stake. Now she was paying the price for his choices, suffering because he had dared to love Arthur, dared to use his power openly, dared to believe that he could build something better than the world of fear and hatred that had shaped his youth.

This changes everything, Magic said quietly, its mental voice heavy with implications they were both beginning to understand. The threat to Mother supersedes all other concerns. We cannot abandon her to such a fate.

We have to go, Merlin thought desperately, the decision forming even as his rational mind catalogued all the reasons it was impossible.  We have to save her.

But even as the thought formed, he knew the impossibility of it. The Eye would corrupt him the moment he came within its influence. Magic had said so itself - his power would feed the ancient evil, make it stronger. His presence in the caves would accomplish nothing except ensuring that both he and his mother fell victim to Morgana's trap.

Barely holding back tears that would accomplish nothing except revealing his emotional state to anyone who might be watching, Merlin clenched the letter in his fist and ran toward the physician's tower. His feet seemed to move of their own accord, carrying him through familiar corridors while his mind reeled with the implications of Morgana's ultimatum.

He took the stairs three at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs with the sort of desperate urgency that accompanied truly catastrophic news. The stone steps blurred past him as he climbed, each one bringing him closer to the conversation that would determine whether he had any hope of saving the person who mattered most in the world.

"Gaius," he managed, bursting into the workshop while gasping for breath and shaking with the effort of holding himself together. "You need to read this."

His mentor looked up from his preparations with immediate concern, taking in Merlin's pale face and trembling hands, then took the parchment, his expression growing increasingly grave as he read Morgana's elegant threats. Merlin watched the color drain from his mentor's face, saw the moment when understanding crystallized into horror and helpless fury.

When he finished reading, Gaius looked up with an expression that matched Merlin's own emotional state - a mixture of rage, despair, and desperate determination to find some solution to an impossible situation.

"Oh, my boy," Gaius whispered, his voice breaking with sympathy and shared pain. "Your mother..."

The words hung in the air between them, carrying all the weight of loss and helplessness that neither man could bear to voice directly. Hunith's capture wasn't just a personal tragedy - it was a strategic masterstroke that Morgana had planned with diabolical precision, using Merlin's greatest vulnerability against him.

"Then you understand," Merlin said urgently, his voice cracking with the strain of holding back emotions that threatened to overwhelm him entirely. "I have to go to her. I can't leave her there."

"Merlin, no," Gaius said immediately. "The Eye will corrupt you the moment you come within its influence. Magic said so itself."

“We don’t care,” Merlin cried, tearing at his hair with both hands. “We have to go, we can’t leave her to die, or worse! Even if it destroys us, we have to try!” Finally, the tears that had been threatening since the courtyard slid down his cheeks. “Gaius, please,” he whispered, “you have to know of something that can help. An artifact in the vaults, or a spell, or – or something. Anything.”

Gaius looked at him, his old, rheumy eyes watery with grief.

“Fine,” Merlin said, striding to the door, suddenly filled with manic energy, the need to act. “If you won’t help me, I’ll search the vaults myself--"

"There might be a way," Gaius said suddenly, his voice carrying a strange, heavy note, and Merlin turned back to him "A way to hide your magic from detection. But Merlin, the cost..."

"Tell me," Merlin demanded, already moving closer to his mentor with the sort of desperate hope that made rational thought nearly impossible. "Whatever it is, whatever it costs, tell me."

The old physician was quiet for a long moment, his weathered face creased with the weight of painful memories. He went to a chair and sat, gesturing for Merlin to sit as well, and when he spoke, his voice carried the sort of careful precision that accompanied the sharing of dangerous knowledge.

"Before the Purge began in earnest," he said finally, "there were nine High Priestesses of the Old Religion. They were the keepers of ancient wisdom, the guardians of magical traditions that stretched back to the dawn of time itself."

Merlin felt his chest tighten with anticipation and dread in equal measure. No one ever spoke of the early days of the Purge, and Gaius had only spoken of it in the most vague terms. That Gaius would speak of it now sparked hope.

"Uther was thorough in his hatred," Gaius continued, his voice heavy with old grief and barely controlled anger. "He used witchfinders and magical artifacts - the very powers he claimed to despise - to hunt down those who threatened his vision of a magic-free kingdom. Six of the nine fell to his hunters. Nimue managed to escape with the infant Morgause, fleeing across the sea to safety. The Isle of the Blessed was razed, its sacred rowan tree burned to ash and cinders."

"How was he able to kill High Priestesses?" Merlin asked, his voice rough with emotions he didn't dare examine too closely. "They would have been protected by the most powerful magic of their time."

"Uther possessed a weapon unlike any other," Gaius said grimly, his expression darkening with memories of atrocities that had shaped the world they now inhabited. "A sword called Caliburn, burnished in dragonfire and gifted to him by a dragonlord long before the Purge began. With Caliburn's power, Uther conquered the lands that became his kingdom. The sword could cut through any magical defense, kill any creature protected by enchantment."

Caliburn, Magic said with sharp recognition and ancient pain. Excalibur’s predecessor. Dragon-forged, dragon-blessed, and ultimately turned against the very beings who created it.

"When Ygraine died and grief drove Uther to madness," Gaius continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "he turned Caliburn against the magical community with systematic ruthlessness. High Priestesses, dragons, creatures that should have been immune to mortal weapons - all fell before its edge. The memories of Caliburn's betrayal run deep.”

Merlin felt his stomach clench with the implications. No wonder Kilgharrah was so furious when he discovered Uther had used Excalibur against the wraith knight. The Great Dragon’s rage hadn't been simple draconic pride - it had been the pain of seeing history repeat itself, watching another dragon-forged sword wielded by a Pendragon against magical beings.

"What happened to Caliburn?" Merlin asked, pieces of a larger puzzle falling into place with sickening clarity.

"Eventually stolen from Uther by the very magical creatures he'd been hunting," Gaius replied with grim satisfaction. "It was the only way to stop the slaughter. A coordinated effort by the survivors - druids, sorcerers, magical creatures who recognized that their only hope lay in removing the weapon from Uther's hands.

"Without his dragon-forged sword, Uther had to rely on more conventional methods to rid the land of magic. Witchfinders, cold iron, fear and intimidation. Still effective, but no longer capable of cutting through every magical defense like a scythe through wheat."

The story painted a picture of devastation that made even Uther's known cruelties seem pale by comparison. Merlin tried to imagine the terror of those years - knowing that no magical protection could stand against the king's sword, that even the most powerful practitioners could be cut down without warning.

"Two of the nine Priestesses escaped the initial purge but were gravely wounded in the attempt," Gaius continued, his voice growing softer as the story approached its most tragic elements. "One died of her injuries within days, her power exhausted by the effort of maintaining protections while fleeing across hostile territory. The other - Morwyn - survived only because she was rescued by a dragonlord who was rumored to be her lover."

Such loss, Magic whispered, its mental voice heavy with sorrow for tragedies that had occurred before they were born into this world, and Merlin felt it resonate within him as well. Or was Magic feeling what he was feeling? To see one's entire world destroyed, everyone and everything held dear consumed by hatred and fear...

"When Uther killed both the dragonlord and his dragon with Caliburn," Gaius continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "Morwyn used dragon blood, bone, and scale, along with her most powerful enchantments, to create artifacts that could shield the wearer from magical detection."

Dragon magic, Magic said with sudden sharp interest, its mental voice carrying undertones of hope and reverence that Merlin felt keenly. The most powerful concealment enchantments possible. Such artifacts would be nearly undetectable even to the most sensitive magical awareness.

"She created bracers," Gaius explained. "Artifacts designed to help magic users escape the Purge by hiding their true nature from detection. They were things of beauty, wrought from dragon bone and scale, inlaid with protective runes that drew their power from the sacrifice that had made their creation possible."

Gaius paused in his telling, his expression distant with memory and regret. "One of these bracers came into my possession through a young woman whose husband had already been caught and executed by Uther's witchfinders."

The story was taking on the quality of legend, but Merlin could hear the ring of absolute truth in Gaius's voice. These weren't tales passed down through generations - they were memories of lived experience, of desperate times that had required desperate measures.

"She entrusted it to me with an oath," Gaius continued, his voice heavy with the weight of promises made in darker times. "That I would use it to help as many magic users escape Camelot as possible. Then she walked deliberately into the throne room and proclaimed her own magical abilities, choosing to join her husband in death rather than live without him."

Such sacrifice, he thought with profound sadness. Love choosing death over separation, hope preserved through personal destruction.

The image of that unnamed woman, walking to certain death to ensure that others might live, sent a chill through Merlin's understanding. How many acts of heroism had gone unrecorded during those terrible years? How many people had died to preserve the possibility that someday, things might be better?

"I used the bracer many times over the years that followed," Gaius continued. "Alice escaped with it when her magical abilities were discovered. Your father, Balinor, wore it when he fled Camelot, after Uther lured him here with talk of peace, only to betray him and chain the Great Dragon beneath the citadel."

The mention of his father sent another shock through Merlin's system. Balinor had worn the same artifact he was now considering? Had walked in the same footsteps, faced the same terrible choice between safety and the people he loved?

"Each time, the process was the same," Gaius explained. "They would wear the bracer while making their way through the kingdom, completely invisible to the witchfinders' detection spells. At a predetermined location outside the city, they would bury the bracer in a prepared metal casket beneath a marker stone. Someone would be waiting to help them escape Camelot's territory entirely. Then I would retrieve the bracer during my herb-gathering expeditions and bring it back for the next person in need."

A network of resistance, he realized with something approaching awe. Coordinated efforts to preserve lives that the official policies sought to destroy.

"So my father used this bracer to escape?” Merlin asked, the revelation adding another layer to the complex web of connections that bound his life to Gaius's.

"Yes. He wore the bracer to escape the city, completely invisible to any form of magical detection." Gaius's expression softened with memory, though shadows of old pain remained. "Balinor was grateful beyond words. He told me the artifact felt like wearing freedom itself after years of hiding and fear."

Merlin's chest tightened with complex emotions as he thought of using this bracer himself. Hope and grief intertwined, the possibility of connection with someone he'd never truly known.

"When there were no more magic users seeking my help," Gaius continued, "when the immediate crisis had passed and Uther's policies had driven underground rather than eliminated the magical community, I buried the bracer in the Darkling Woods rather than keep it here. I was afraid of being caught with such clear evidence of my activities, especially when the Witchfinder came with his accusations and searches."

The memory of Aredian's investigation sent a visible shudder through Gaius's frame. "Just as well - he tore my chambers apart looking for proof of magical conspiracy. If he'd found the bracer..."

"Have you ever tried it yourself?" Merlin asked, hope and terror warring in his chest at the thought of such complete concealment from magical detection. "The bracer?"

"Once," Gaius admitted, his expression troubled by memories he'd clearly tried to forget. "Out of curiosity more than necessity, during the darkest days of the Purge when I wondered if I might need to flee as well."

"What was it like?" Merlin pressed, needing to understand what he was contemplating before committing himself to such a drastic course of action.

"When I put it on, it felt like... nothing," Gaius said slowly, his voice carrying echoes of old discomfort. "Complete absence of sensation, as if that part of myself had simply ceased to exist. But then, I wasn't born with magical talent the way you were. My power came through study and practice, not innate ability."

Complete absence, Magic repeated with growing unease. I do not like the sound of such total severance. We have only just begun to reintegrate. If the artifact cuts our connection entirely, the consequences could be severe.

But it might protect us from the Eye's corruption, Merlin replied desperately, clinging to the possibility like a drowning man reaching for driftwood. If I can approach the caves without triggering its hunger for magical power...

"Where is it now?" Merlin asked aloud, already moving toward the door despite the late afternoon light slanting through Gaius's windows. Time was running out - Arthur and his knights were approaching their destination, and every moment of delay increased the danger to everyone he loved.

"Still buried in the Darkling Woods, as far as I know," Gaius replied, understanding dawning in his eyes as he realized what Merlin was planning. "But Merlin, you understand what you're contemplating? The bracer doesn't just hide magic - it severs the connection entirely. For someone like you, whose power is so deeply integrated with your very essence..."

"I understand," Merlin replied, though he wasn't entirely sure he did. The thought of being cut off from Magic was terrifying, but the alternative - leaving his mother to Morgana's mercy and the Eye's corruption - was unthinkable. "But I have to try. I can't leave her there."

The determination in his voice seemed to convince Gaius, though reluctance remained clear in every line of the old physician's face. They both understood the magnitude of what was being contemplated - a separation that might prove irreversible, undertaken with no guarantee of success.

"It's been nearly twenty years," Gaius said, moving to join him despite his obvious reluctance. "The woods have changed. I'm not certain I can remember exactly where I buried it."

We can find it, Magic said with quiet confidence. The combination of dragon magic and High Priestess enchantments would leave traces that linger for centuries. We can follow the enchantments to their source.

The journey through the Darkling Woods outside Camelot’s walls took longer than expected, familiar paths obscured by nearly twenty years of growth and weather. Ancient trees had expanded their canopies, blocking out more sunlight and creating new patterns of shadow and illumination. Streams had changed course, bridges had collapsed, and undergrowth had claimed clearings that had once provided easy navigation.

Gaius moved with the careful steps of someone whose body wasn't quite equal to the demands being placed on it, but his determination matched Merlin's own. They walked in companionable silence, both lost in thoughts of what lay ahead and what the consequences of failure might be.

The Darkling Woods felt different than they had during Merlin's previous visits - not more dangerous, exactly, but more watchful, as if the trees themselves were aware of the significance of their mission. Magic stirred restlessly in response to the forest's attention, recognizing something familiar in the ancient awareness that permeated these woodlands.

The trees remember, Magic observed with wonder. They carry echoes of all who have passed beneath their branches, including those who sought refuge here during the darkest days of the Purge.

The thought that these ancient oaks and ash trees had sheltered fleeing sorcerers, had provided sanctuary for people whose only crime was being born with gifts Uther feared, added poignancy to their current mission. History was repeating itself in ways that felt both tragic and somehow inevitable.

"It should be near here," Gaius said, pausing in a small clearing where ancient oaks created a cathedral of green shadow. "A large stone, flat enough to serve as a marker, positioned where two deer paths crossed."

But the landmarks Gaius remembered had been obscured by time and nature. Saplings had grown into mature trees, deer paths had shifted or disappeared entirely, and moss covered everything in a thick carpet that transformed familiar shapes into alien landscapes. The passage of two decades had worked profound changes on the forest floor. What had once been clear markers were now hidden beneath layers of fallen leaves, overgrown with ferns and brambles that created entirely new patterns of vegetation. Without magical assistance, they might search for hours without success.

Allow us to assist, Magic said, stirring with purpose as Merlin's frustration mounted. We can sense the residual enchantments, trace them to their source even after all these years.

Merlin extended his consciousness, letting Magic guide their search through the forest's magical echoes. Power had been used here, repeatedly and with great care, leaving traces that lingered like scent trails for those who knew how to follow them.

The sensation was like following footprints made of starlight - invisible to normal perception but clear as day to magical awareness. Each use of the bracer had left its mark on the local magical field, creating a pattern that pointed toward the artifact's current location with increasing precision.

There - beneath an overgrown boulder draped in moss and surrounded by ferns that hadn't existed when Gaius had last visited - the faint signature of carefully buried metal. The casket rested in a depression carved specifically for its storage, wrapped in protections that had kept it safe through decades of exposure to weather and wildlife.

"It's here," Merlin said, moving to the moss-covered stone with growing excitement. "But it's buried deep, and the stone's heavier than it looks."

The boulder was massive, easily twice Merlin's weight and wedged firmly into position by twenty years' worth of root growth and settling soil. Moving it through conventional means would require equipment they didn't have and time they couldn't spare.

We can retrieve it without conventional excavation, Magic offered, power already stirring in response to Merlin's need.

The soil beneath the stone liquified at his touch, flowing like water around the buried casket as Magic gently coaxed it to the surface. Stone and earth obeyed his unspoken commands, rearranging themselves to reveal the metal container that had waited so patiently for its next use.

"Extraordinary," Gaius breathed, watching the display with fascination despite the circumstances. "To make the earth itself obey your will with such precision..."

The spell felt effortless, as natural as breathing - another reminder of how much his abilities had grown since Magic's restoration and integration. Power that would once have required considerable effort and concentration now responded to barely conscious intent, reshaping reality with the casual ease of someone rearranging furniture.

Merlin opened the casket with careful hands, revealing an object that took his breath away. The bracer was beautiful in its simplicity - segments of carved and polished white bone interlaced with flexible joints that would allow it to wrap around a wrist with elegant efficiency. Dragon bone, he realized, still carrying traces of the magnificent creature whose sacrifice had made its creation possible.

The bone shimmered with a red sheen that spoke of dragon blood worked into its very essence during the forging process, while intricate runes carved into its surface were inlaid with blue dragon scale that caught the forest light like captured sky. Each symbol pulsed with contained power, layers of enchantment woven together with skill that bordered on artistry.

Three silver clasps would secure it in place, but the design clearly prioritized ease of removal - this was meant to be temporary protection, not permanent imprisonment. Someone wearing this artifact could remove it quickly if circumstances demanded, though Merlin suspected that the process of putting it on and taking it off would be traumatic regardless of duration.

Merlin and Magic could both feel the powerful enchantments woven into the artifact, layers of magic that spoke of desperate skill and profound sacrifice. The bracer radiated sorrow as much as power - grief for the losses that had necessitated its creation, but also hope that some might survive what others could not.

The grief, Magic whispered, its mental voice tight with emotion as it touched the bracer's aura. Such sorrow went into its creation. The death of the dragonlord, the destruction of his dragon, the desperation of seeing one's entire world consumed by hatred...

But also love, Merlin added, sensing the deeper currents that flowed through the artifact's enchantments. Love for those who might yet be saved, determination that their sacrifice should have meaning.

"She poured her heart into this," Merlin said softly, running careful fingers over the carved runes without quite touching the bone itself. "Morwyn. The pain of losing her dragonlord lover, but also her determination that others wouldn't suffer the same fate."

“Yes,” Gaius agreed soberly, looking at Merlin with ill-concealed apprehension.

"I have to try it," Merlin said, though his hands shook as he lifted the bracer from its resting place. "Just for a moment, to see if it works. To know if it's possible."

"Merlin," Gaius said, his voice carrying all the worry of someone who understood the risks better than anyone. "If something goes wrong..."

"Then you take it off as quickly as possible," Merlin finished, settling the bracer against his left wrist but not yet closing the clasps. The dragon bone felt warm against his skin, thrumming with contained power that made his magical senses sing with anticipation and dread. "I need to know, Gaius. I need to know if this can save her."

We are afraid, Magic admitted with unusual vulnerability. The connection between us has grown stronger since our reunion. Severing it now, even temporarily, may be more traumatic than either of us anticipates.

I know, Merlin replied silently, his mental voice rough with shared fear. But we have to try. For her.

The first clasp closed with a soft click that seemed unnaturally loud in the forest quiet. Merlin felt nothing change - his power remained accessible, Magic's presence unchanged in his mind. Perhaps the artifact was damaged, perhaps twenty years of burial had compromised its enchantments...

The second clasp followed, and still no immediate effect. Hope and disappointment warred in Merlin's chest as he began to suspect that their journey had been futile, that the bracer's power had faded beyond recovery during its long burial.

The third clasp clicked into place.

Magic vanished.

Not slowly, not gradually, but with the suddenness of a candle being snuffed out by hurricane winds. One moment Merlin felt the familiar presence that had become so essential to his sense of self, and the next there was nothing - an absence so profound it felt like part of his soul had been ripped away with surgical precision.

He fell to his knees with a cry that was part pain, part loss, part terror at the emptiness where Magic should have been. The forest around him seemed suddenly flat, lifeless, drained of the subtle enchantments and living energy that his magical senses had always perceived.

Colors were wrong, sounds were muffled, and the very air felt thin and inadequate. But worse than the sensory deprivation was the emotional devastation - Magic wasn't just power, it was companionship, understanding, a part of himself that had grown more essential than breathing.

The separation felt like death, like having something vital torn away so suddenly that his mind couldn't process the magnitude of the loss. Merlin's identity had been shaped around his magical abilities since childhood - without them, he felt like a ship cut loose from its anchor, drifting without purpose or direction.

"Get it off!" Merlin gasped, his hands scrambling at the clasps with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy and disconnected from his will. "Gaius, please!"

The old physician's weathered hands moved with swift precision, unclasping the bracers in reverse order with practiced efficiency born of long experience with medical emergencies. His movements were sure and steady despite the obvious distress at seeing Merlin in such pain.

The moment the third clasp opened, Magic slammed back into Merlin's awareness with such force that he nearly blacked out from the intensity of reunion. Power flooded through him like water through a broken dam, overwhelming his senses with sensation and emotion that bordered on ecstasy.

Merlin! Magic's mental voice carried panic and desperation that made Merlin's heart race with sympathetic terror. The separation - it was like being buried alive, like screaming into void that swallowed every sound. I existed, but barely, and all I could feel was the desperate need to return to you.

Merlin sat back on his heels, breathing heavily as he processed the horror of what they'd both experienced. The bracer had worked - his magical signature had disappeared completely during those terrible moments of separation. But the cost...

“How long was it on?” he asked, though part of him was afraid to know the answer.

"Perhaps twenty heartbeats," Gaius replied, his face pale with concern as he carefully set the bracer aside. "No longer. You collapsed almost immediately."

Twenty heartbeats had felt like an eternity of loss and emptiness. How would they endure the time it would take to travel to the caves, confront Morgana, and rescue his mother? The journey alone would require hours, possibly days if the situation proved more complex than anticipated.

"I don't know if I can do this," Merlin admitted, staring at the bracer with a mixture of hope and horror. The artifact represented salvation and damnation in equal measure - the key to approaching the Eye undetected, but at the cost of everything that made him who he was.

Because the separation severs something essential, Magic said quietly, its mental voice still shaky from the traumatic experience. We are more integrated than we realized. But Merlin-mine... we must try. Mother's life depends on our ability to approach the caves undetected.

I know, Merlin replied, forcing himself to pick up the bracer despite every instinct screaming against it. For her, we'll endure whatever we have to.

"Merlin," Gaius said gently, reaching out to cover his hands with his own. "Your mother would not want you to sacrifice yourself like this. Hunith's greatest fear has always been that your magic would bring you to harm."

"Then she should have thought of that before getting herself kidnapped," Merlin snapped, immediately regretting the harshness as he saw Gaius flinch. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't her fault. But I can't just leave her there, Gaius. You know I can't."

The old physician's expression softened with understanding and pain in equal measure. "No," he said quietly. "I don't suppose you can. You're too much like her for that - too willing to sacrifice yourself for those you love."

Merlin silently returned the bracer to the metal casket, closed the lid, and picked it up.

"If you're determined to attempt this," Gaius said finally, his voice heavy with resignation and worry, "then remember what I'm about to tell you. The bracer will cut you off from Magic entirely - no spells, no enhanced strength, no supernatural awareness. You'll be as vulnerable as any ordinary man.

"But you'll also be invisible to the Eye," Gaius continued, his voice growing stronger as he focused on practical concerns rather than emotional implications. "You'll be able to approach unnoticed, if you're careful and clever."

"And if I can't access Magic to protect my mother?" Merlin asked, voicing the fear that gnawed at him despite his determination.

"Then you'll have to rely on other strengths," Gaius said, pulling Merlin into an embrace that carried twenty years of accumulated affection and worry. "Your intelligence, your compassion, your stubborn refusal to give up when people you love are in danger. You are stronger than you know, my boy - not just magically, but in all the ways that truly matter."

He speaks truth, Magic said with quiet certainty. Your greatest strength was never your power, but your willingness to use it for others. That courage will remain even when we are separated.

The embrace felt like both blessing and farewell, a moment of connection before Merlin committed himself to a path that might lead to salvation or destruction in equal measure. Gaius's warmth anchored him to the present moment, reminding him that he wasn't entirely alone despite the magnitude of what lay ahead.

"I need to find Arthur and the others," Merlin said, gently pulling away, and sitting on the forest floor. "Then I’m going to teleport to them and make sure they don’t enter the caves without me."

“Oh dear,” Gaius said, realizing the implications, and Merlin grimaced.

“Yes. He’s going to be furious with me,” he said, then extended his consciousness, reaching across impossible distances to touch the edges of Arthur's awareness. The connection was tenuous but real - his love for Arthur creating a bond that transcended physical distance and allowed him to perceive the steady rhythm of determination as his beloved king moved through increasingly dangerous territory.

For a moment he could sense Arthur moving through cursed woodlands, no longer riding but leading his horse through treacherous terrain as they searched for the cave entrance. The Forest of Balor pressed close around them, ancient trees twisted into threatening shapes that spoke of corruption seeping up from the depths below.

But as Merlin's magical senses brushed against the caves that were Arthur's destination, something vast and malevolent turned its attention toward him with the sudden focus of a predator scenting prey. The Eye of Balor looked back across the distance with hunger so profound it made Merlin's soul recoil in terror.

The ancient evil had been waiting, watching for any sign of his magical surveillance. Its attention felt like being examined by something that wanted to devour everything he was, to consume his power and leave behind only an empty shell animated by malevolent purpose.

It sees us, Magic said urgently, pulling Merlin's awareness back to his own body with desperate haste. The Eye knows we're watching, knows we're coming.

Then I'd better hurry, Merlin replied grimly, carefully getting to his feet.

“You found them?” Gaius asked.

“Yes,” Merlin said. His heart was racing. “They are in the forest, close to the caves.” He tucked the casket under one arm and patted his inner jacket pocket where Morgana’s letter was folded and secure.

"Gaius," he finally said, his voice steady despite the fear churning in his chest like a living thing. "If this goes badly, if I don't come back..."

"You will," Gaius interrupted firmly, though tears gleamed in his old eyes. "You'll save your mother and return home safely. But Merlin..." His voice caught with emotion that made Merlin's chest tight with shared pain. "Be careful. Be smart. And remember that you carry the love of everyone who cares about you, magic or no magic."

The farewell embrace lasted only moments, but it carried the weight of a lifetime's worth of care and devotion. When they separated, Merlin clutched the casket tight to his chest, drawing what comfort he could from the knowledge that he carried a means of protection, however terrible the cost of using it.

We go to Arthur, Magic said with fierce determination, its mental voice carrying undertones of love and desperation that made Merlin's heart race. Together, we will find a way to save your mother and preserve what we are.

Together, Merlin agreed, gathering his strength for the teleportation that would take him to the person he loved most in all the world.

The spell worked perfectly, Magic responding to his desperate need with power that folded space and time like fabric in the hands of a master weaver. Lightning carried him across impossible distances in moments, depositing him in a forest clearing where familiar voices spoke in hushed tones about strategy and danger.

But when the world solidified around him again, when the magical energies of transportation faded and left him standing on solid ground, he found himself face-to-face with three surprised knights and a very angry king who looked like he was preparing to deliver a lecture that might strip bark from nearby trees.

"Bloody hell!" Gwaine exclaimed, his hand instinctively moving to his sword hilt before recognizing the familiar figure materializing from magical lightning. "Merlin? What in the name of - "

Percival looked surprised, but quickly and silently placed himself in a guard position between Merlin and the forest at his back. Lancelot said nothing, but his eyes were sharp with concern as he took in Merlin's appearance - the casket clutched in white-knuckled hands, the barely controlled panic written across his features, the way he swayed slightly as if the magical transportation had taken more out of him than usual.

"Merlin!" Arthur's voice carried relief and fury in equal measure as magical lightning deposited his friend in their midst with the sort of dramatic flair that would have been impressive under other circumstances. "What the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay in Camelot where it's safe!"

"Arthur - " Gwaine started, clearly recognizing the particular edge in his king's voice that meant protective instincts were overriding rational thought.

"No," Arthur cut him off sharply, his attention fixed entirely on Merlin. "He was supposed to stay where the Eye couldn't sense him, where he'd be protected - "

The anger in Arthur's voice was born of fear and protective concern rather than actual displeasure, but it hurt anyway. Merlin had prepared himself for Arthur's reaction, had known that his appearance would trigger every protective instinct the king possessed, but facing that fury directly still made his chest tight with guilt and desperate need for understanding.

"Sire," Lancelot said quietly, his voice carrying the particular diplomacy he used when Arthur's emotions were running too high for clear thinking. "Perhaps we should hear what brought him here before - "

Merlin tried to speak, tried to explain the catastrophe that had driven him from safety into this cursed wilderness, but the words caught in his throat like thorns. The casket felt heavy in his hands, containing both hope and horror, while Morgana's letter burned against his chest like a brand marking him as someone who had failed to protect what mattered most.

Tears he'd been holding back finally broke free, streaming down his face as the full weight of the situation crashed over him with renewed force. His mother was somewhere in these accursed lands, exposed to corruption that could destroy her mind and soul, and he was the only one who might be able to save her.

"What's wrong?" Arthur asked immediately, his anger fading like mist before sunrise when he saw Merlin's distress. Concern replaced irritation as he moved closer, his voice taking on the gentle tone he used for serious injuries or devastating news. "Merlin, what's happened?"

The transformation in Arthur's demeanor was immediate and complete - from angry king delivering commands to worried friend offering comfort. It was one of the qualities Merlin loved most about him, the way Arthur's protective instincts overrode everything else when someone he cared about was in pain.

Lancelot stepped closer as well, his healer's training making him automatically assess whether Merlin's distress was physical or emotional in nature. "Are you injured?" he asked quietly, his eyes scanning for wounds while noting the way Merlin clutched the mysterious casket.

"What's in the box?" Gwaine added.

Merlin couldn't find his voice, couldn't force words past the terror and guilt that had taken up residence in his throat like living things. Instead, he fumbled for Morgana's letter with one hand while clutching the casket with the other, pressing the parchment into Arthur's hands and watching his face grow pale as he read the threats contained within.

"Is that - " Percival started, recognizing the particular quality of parchment and elegant script that suggested noble correspondence, but Arthur's sharp intake of breath cut him off.

The change in Arthur's expression was devastating to witness - confusion giving way to comprehension, which in turn yielded to horror as the full implications of Morgana's ultimatum became clear. Merlin watched his beloved king process the careless cruelty of using an innocent woman as leverage, the calculated malice that had turned personal affection into a weapon.

Gwaine moved to read over Arthur's shoulder, his face darkening with fury as he absorbed the letter's contents. "That twisted, manipulative - "

"Gwaine," Lancelot warned quietly, though his own expression had gone cold with the sort of controlled rage that was somehow more frightening than open fury.

"She has your mother," Arthur said quietly, his voice carrying undertones of barely controlled rage that made the corrupted air around them seem to shiver. "Morgana has Hunith."

The simple statement hung between them like a death sentence, encompassing both the magnitude of the threat and the impossibility of conventional response. Morgana had chosen her target with diabolical precision, striking at the one person whose welfare could override every other consideration in Merlin's mind.

"Bloody hell," Gwaine breathed, running a hand through his hair as the full implications sank in. "She really knows how to hit where it hurts, doesn't she?"

"It's worse than that," Lancelot said grimly, his tactical mind already working through the implications. "She's not just threatening Hunith - she's using her as bait to force Merlin into the one place where his magic makes him most vulnerable."

Percival nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his steady gaze. "The Eye feeds on magical power. If Merlin goes near it..."

"I'm so sorry," Merlin managed finally, his voice broken with grief and terror that he couldn't contain any longer. "I have to come with you. I can't let Morgana hurt my mum."

Arthur's face went through a series of expressions - shock at the implications, horror at the cruelty involved, understanding of why Merlin had been driven to desperate action, and finally grim determination that spoke of someone accepting new parameters in an already impossible situation.

"Of course you can't," Gwaine said immediately, his voice carrying the sort of absolute loyalty that had made him legendary among Arthur's knights. "Any of us would do the same."

"We all would," Lancelot agreed quietly, his dark eyes meeting Merlin's with understanding and shared resolve. "Family comes first. Always."

Percival simply nodded, the gesture carrying the weight of unspoken vows and absolute commitment. His expression said everything that needed saying - they would stand with Merlin regardless of the cost, would face whatever waited ahead as brothers in arms.

Without a word, Arthur pulled Merlin into a fierce embrace, strong arms offering comfort and protection against the darkness that threatened to consume them both. The gesture was instinctive, born of love and shared pain rather than calculated political response, and Merlin felt some of his terror ease in the warmth of that contact.

"We'll get her back," Arthur said quietly, his voice carrying absolute conviction despite the impossible odds they faced. "Whatever it takes, wherever we have to go, whatever we have to face - we'll get her back."

"All of us," Gwaine added firmly, moving closer to the embrace without quite joining it, his presence offering additional support and solidarity.

"Together," Lancelot confirmed, his hand settling briefly on Merlin's shoulder in a gesture of brotherhood and shared commitment.

Percival's voice completed the circle of loyalty: "As we always have."

The promise shouldn't have been possible to make - Arthur couldn't guarantee success against an enemy who commanded ancient evil and held every advantage. But something in his voice, some quality of absolute determination echoed by his knights' unwavering support, made Merlin believe that love and courage might triumph where power and strategy had failed.

And in that moment, surrounded by his friends in a cursed forest with ancient evil waiting ahead of them, Merlin finally felt like he might have a chance of saving everyone he loved.

Even if it cost him everything he was.

Chapter Text

The ancient trees of the Forest of Balor pressed close around them as Arthur led his companions to what passed for a clearing in this cursed place. It wasn't much - a small space where the gnarled oaks had grown just far enough apart to allow them to sit without feeling completely hemmed in by twisted bark and reaching branches. But after hours of picking their way through increasingly hostile terrain, even this meager respite felt like a blessing.

Arthur settled onto a moss-covered fallen log, noting how the green growth seemed somehow sickly in this place, tinged with colors that didn't belong in any healthy forest. Gwaine chose a large stone for his seat, while Percival remained standing, his bulk providing a reassuring sense of protection despite the supernatural threats they faced. Lancelot found his own perch on another fallen trunk, close enough to offer support if needed.

Merlin sank onto the log next to him with a mixture of exhaustion and nervous energy. The magical transportation hadn't drained him as Arthur had initially feared - in fact, he looked considerably better than he had during those terrible days after the soul stone incident. His color was good, his eyes clear and alert, and there was none of the bone-deep weariness that had characterized his appearance for so long. Whatever rest he'd managed in Camelot had clearly done him good.

But Arthur could read the tension in every line of his friend's body, the way he clutched that mysterious casket like it contained either salvation or damnation. The distress radiating from Merlin wasn't physical - it was the terrible anxiety of someone facing an impossible choice, someone who had been forced into a corner by circumstances beyond his control.

Their horses stood nearby, tethered to the least menacing trees Arthur could find, but even enchanted with Merlin's endurance spells, the animals were clearly distressed. They shifted restlessly, ears flat against their skulls as they nickered soft warnings to each other. The corruption seeping up from the caves below was affecting everything in this cursed place, creating an atmosphere of wrongness that even magically protected beasts could sense.

Arthur kept one eye on their mounts while studying Merlin's features. The reunion had been overwhelming - terror at seeing Merlin appear so unexpectedly, relief that he was alive and unharmed, fury at his reckless disregard for his own safety, and underneath it all, the bone-deep understanding that something catastrophic had driven his friend from the safety of Camelot.

The letter's contents still burned in Arthur's mind. Morgana's elegant script had delivered threats with the cavalier cruelty of someone who understood exactly how to inflict maximum pain with minimum effort. Using Hunith as leverage was diabolical in its precision - she had found the one person whose welfare could override every other consideration in Merlin's heart.

"Right then," Gwaine said finally, breaking the tense silence that had settled over their small group. His usual irreverent tone was subdued by the weight of their circumstances, but Arthur could hear him making an effort to maintain some semblance of normalcy. "I think we've all been very patient about not asking the obvious question, but I can't stand it anymore."

He gestured toward the casket Merlin still held in white-knuckled hands, its metal surface gleaming dully in the strange half-light that filtered through the forest canopy.

"What exactly is in that box, Merlin? And please tell me it's something that's going to help us rescue your mother without getting ourselves killed in the process."

“Ah, yes,” Merlin said, and, with a hint of nervousness, opened the casket. “Gaius gave it to me, though we had to go into the forest and dig it up from where he buried it to keep it safe. It’s an enchanted bracer, and... I’m going to wear it.”

Arthur and the other knights leaned forward to examine the contents. The bracer was unlike anything Arthur had ever seen - segments of polished white bone, carefully carved to be interwoven with each other, almost like chainmail, with the kind of innovative craftmanship that would allow it to wrap around a wrist with elegant efficiency. The bone itself shimmered with a red sheen, while intricate runes covered its surface, inlaid with strange, iridescent blue stone or metal.

"It’s made of dragon bone," Merlin said quietly, noting their expressions of shock and fascination. "Created by one of the last High Priestesses of the Old Religion.” He then related to them what he had learned from Gaius, about how it, and many others were made by the grief-stricken priestess, and how one came into Gaius’ hands.                                   

The words painted a picture of tragedy that made Arthur's chest tight with sympathy for people he'd never known. “And what does it do?” he asked. “How is it going to protect you from the Eye’s corruption?”

Merlin swallowed hard. "Well... the bracer was designed to help magic users escape Camelot during the worst years of the Purge," he continued. "Gaius told me that Uther sometimes employed witchfinders who used artifacts that could detect magic in someone, whether they were actively using it or not.” He shrugged, obviously aiming for nonchalant, but it was offset by the dread in his expression. “So It doesn't just hide magic - it severs the connection entirely, making the wearer completely invisible to any form of supernatural detection."

Arthur stared at the beautiful, terrible artifact, understanding flooding through him as pieces of history he'd never known clicked into place. His father's reign had been built on more than just political maneuvering and military might - it had been sustained by systematic persecution that had driven an entire community underground or into exile.

"Severs the connection," Arthur repeated, looking Merlin in the eye. "Merlin, what is this thing going to do to you?"

Merlin's hands tightened on the casket, his knuckles white with tension despite his improved condition. The metal container was old, Arthur realized - ancient, even, with the sort of patina that spoke of decades buried in forest soil. Whatever it contained had been hidden away for a very long time.

"It will hide Magic completely," Merlin said, his voice steady despite the obvious apprehension in his eyes. "Make him invisible to the Eye's detection."

"Completely?" Arthur’s voice was hoarse with horror he couldn't quite contain. The thought of Merlin stripped of everything that made him who he was, reduced to helplessness in the face of ancient evil, was almost too terrible to contemplate.

But underneath that immediate shock was something else - a recognition that made his chest tight with growing understanding. "Him," Arthur said quietly, his eyes never leaving Merlin's face. "You said 'him.' You're talking about Magic like... like he's a person."

The observation seemed to surprise Merlin, as if he hadn't realized the shift in his own language. Color rose in his cheeks as he processed what Arthur had noticed - the unconscious change from treating Magic as a force to acknowledging it as something approaching a companion.

"Since the soul stone," Merlin admitted, his voice carrying undertones of wonder and fear that made Arthur's heart ache. "When we were reunited, the boundaries between us started... blurring. Sometimes I'm not sure whose thoughts I'm thinking, whose voice I'm hearing. When Magic speaks through me, it's my voice but his words. When I speak to him, sometimes I'm not sure if I'm talking to him or to myself."

Merlin's voice shook as he continued, the words pouring out as if he'd been holding them back for too long. "I see him as myself - same face, same voice, but with golden eyes. Or maybe that's how he sees himself. We're becoming... merged, I suppose. Two parts of the same whole, and I don't know where Merlin ends and Magic begins anymore."

Arthur stared at his friend, trying to process the magnitude of what was being revealed. This went far beyond magical abilities developing consciousness - this was identity itself becoming fluid, the boundaries of self, expanding to encompass something that might once have been separate but was now inextricably intertwined.

"If you put that on, you're not just losing your power," Arthur said, understanding dawning like a cold sunrise. "You're losing half of yourself. Being torn apart again."

The raw terror that flickered across Merlin's features confirmed Arthur's worst fears. This wasn't just about becoming magically defenseless - it was about experiencing the same devastating separation that had nearly destroyed him before, cutting away something that had become so fundamental to his existence that losing it would be like losing his soul all over again.

"For how long?" Gwaine asked, moving closer with the rest of the knights forming a protective circle around their discussion. His usual irreverent humor was notably absent, replaced by the sort of focused attention he reserved for truly serious situations.

"However long it takes," Merlin replied.

Percival stepped forward, his massive frame casting shadows in the pale light that filtered through the diseased canopy above. "Are you certain Morgana actually has your mother? This could be a trap, a way to lure you into the one place where you're most vulnerable."

The question was tactically sound, the sort of careful assessment Arthur should have voiced himself. But before he could add his own concerns, Merlin was shaking his head with absolute conviction that brooked no argument.

"She has her," he said simply, his voice carrying the sort of certainty that came from intimate knowledge of an enemy's capacity for cruelty. "Morgana hates me enough to want to hurt me this badly. And she knows exactly what would drive me to desperation."

Arthur thought of the letter, of Morgana's bitter accusations about how Merlin had watched her suffer while possessing the knowledge that could have helped her. The words had carried genuine pain beneath the venom, the betrayal of someone who had needed guidance and been left to face her fears alone. But there was something in Merlin's expression when Morgana was mentioned - a flicker of guilt that suggested there was more to the story than he was sharing.

What had really happened between them during those early days when Morgana's powers first manifested? What choices had been made, what prices paid in the name of keeping secrets that might have been better shared? Arthur filed the questions away for later examination. Right now, the only thing that mattered was getting Hunith back safely and keeping Merlin alive in the process.

“Is there any reason to wait?” he asked, hoping Merlin would have some excuse to delay wearing the bracer before they moved on.

“No, the sooner we get going, the better.” A shudder briefly wracked his thin frame. “Sorry,” he apologized needlessly, “but... the Eye, I can feel it watching me, hoping that I – “ He shook his head. “Anyway, fair warning,” Merlin said, his grin unable to hide his trepidation. “This is going to be a bit traumatic.”

"Traumatic how?" Lancelot pressed.

"When I tested it briefly," Merlin continued, drawing Arthur's attention back to the immediate crisis, "it felt like a deep, burning cold entering my heart, my head... Everything went grey and lifeless. I could barely stand."

Arthur felt horror wash over him at the matter-of-fact way Merlin described what sounded like torture. The idea of his friend enduring such agony, of choosing to subject himself to that level of suffering, made Arthur's protective instincts flare with desperate intensity.

"And you're willing to endure that?" Arthur's voice came out rougher than intended, edged with the sort of fear he usually tried to hide. "For hours, possibly days?"

"For my mother?" Merlin's voice grew stronger, carrying the sort of fierce determination Arthur recognized from countless desperate situations. "Yes. Without question."

There was simple certainty in Merlin’s words. This wasn't bravado or reckless heroism - it was the calm acceptance of someone who had weighed the costs and found them acceptable when measured against what he stood to lose. Merlin would endure any amount of suffering to save the woman who had raised him, who had sacrificed everything to give him a chance at life.

"The moment you put that on," Arthur said, gesturing to the bracer with movements that felt stiff and unnatural, "you become completely vulnerable. No magic to protect you, no enhanced healing if you're injured, no supernatural awareness to warn you of danger."

"No evil Eye trying to corrupt me," Merlin countered, his voice steady despite the obvious fear in his eyes. The morning light caught the blue of his irises, making them seem almost luminous against his pale skin. Arthur found himself cataloguing details with desperate intensity - the way Merlin's dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the determined set of his jaw, the careful way he held himself despite the fear that must be coursing through him.

"Then I'm assigning Percival to stay with you," Arthur said, allowing command authority to enter his voice as he made the decision that his tactical mind insisted was necessary. "He'll help you walk when you can, carry you when you can't. The rest of us will form a protective perimeter."

Merlin opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur cut him off with a look that had ended arguments with nobles and knights alike. "This isn't negotiable. If you're going to do this insane thing, you're not doing it alone."

The bracer gleamed in the pale light as Merlin lifted it from the casket, dragon bone and High Priestess magic combined in an artifact that represented desperate hope and terrible sacrifice in equal measure. Arthur watched his friend's face as he positioned it against his left wrist, saw the moment of hesitation before grim determination won out over natural fear.

Three silver clasps would secure it in place, but the design clearly prioritized ease of removal - this was meant to be temporary protection, not permanent imprisonment. Someone wearing this artifact could remove it quickly if circumstances demanded, though Arthur suspected that the process of putting it on and taking it off would be traumatic regardless of duration.

The first clasp closed with a soft click that seemed unnaturally loud in the forest quiet.

Arthur held his breath, watching for any change in Merlin's condition, but nothing seemed different. His friend remained upright, alert, apparently unaffected by whatever forces the bracer was supposed to unleash. The healthy color remained in his cheeks, his breathing stayed steady and strong, and his eyes remained bright with intelligence and determination.

The second clasp followed, and still no immediate effect. Arthur began to hope that perhaps the artifact was damaged, that twenty years of burial had compromised its enchantments enough to spare Merlin the worst of its influence. Maybe they would be lucky, maybe the separation wouldn't be as traumatic as Gaius had warned.

The third clasp clicked into place.

Merlin's eyes went wide with shock and horror, his mouth opening in a silent scream as his body convulsed like he'd been struck by lightning. Then he was falling, collapsing to his knees with a cry that tore through Arthur's chest like a blade, raw and animal and full of loss so profound it made the listening forest fall completely silent.

The transformation was immediate and devastating. Color drained from Merlin's face until he was grey as old parchment, while his breathing came in labored gasps that suggested his body was struggling to perform basic functions. The vitality that had marked his recovery, the healthy strength Arthur had been so relieved to see, vanished as if it had never existed.

But it was more than just physical change. Something fundamental had been torn away, leaving behind an emptiness that was almost palpable. The warmth that had always seemed to radiate from Merlin - not just body heat, but something deeper, more essential - was gone, replaced by a hollowness that made Arthur's skin crawl with wrongness.

Arthur moved without conscious thought, dropping to his knees beside Merlin and reaching out to steady him as his friend swayed dangerously. But the moment Arthur's hands touched Merlin's shoulders, he recoiled in shock.

It was like touching a corpse. Not dead, exactly, but hollow in ways that defied description. The life force that had always flowed through Merlin like a river was gone, leaving behind something that looked like his friend but felt like an empty shell. The contrast with how vital and healthy Merlin had appeared just moments before made the change even more horrifying.

"Merlin!" Arthur's voice came out sharper than intended, edged with panic he couldn't quite suppress. "Talk to me. What's happening?"

But Merlin didn't seem to hear him. His eyes stared at nothing, wide and shocked and utterly vacant in ways that reminded Arthur horribly of those terrible days when his soul had been trapped in the stone.

The contrast was stark and horrifying. Minutes ago, Merlin had been healthy, strong, completely himself - the picture of recovered vitality after his long rest. Now he looked like he was dying by degrees, the separation from his magic draining not just his supernatural abilities but his very life, leaving behind a hollow mockery of the man Arthur loved.

"Get it off," Arthur commanded, his hands already moving toward the bracer's clasps with desperate urgency. "We'll find another way - "

"No." Merlin's voice was barely a whisper, but it carried enough determination to stop Arthur's movement. The word came out cracked and broken, like someone speaking through a throat full of ashes. "I can... I can do this. For her."

Arthur watched in horror as Merlin forced himself to sit up straighter, every movement requiring visible effort as if he were fighting against weights that only he could feel. His skin had taken on a sickly pallor, while violent tremors ran through his hands like aftershocks from some internal earthquake.

"This is insane," Gwaine said, voicing what they were all thinking. His usual humor was completely absent, replaced by the sort of raw concern that came from watching a friend suffer. "Look at him, Arthur. He can barely sit upright."

"I'm fine," Merlin said, though the words were so weak they barely carried across the small distance between them. Each syllable seemed to require enormous effort, as if speaking itself was almost beyond his current capabilities. "Just need... need a moment to adjust."

But this wasn't adjustment - this was trauma, the sort of fundamental damage that might never fully heal. Arthur felt his heart breaking as he watched his friend struggle against forces that were clearly destroying him by degrees. The bracer was supposed to protect him from the Eye's corruption, but it was killing him in a different way, draining away everything that made him who he was.

"Can you stand?" Percival asked gently, offering his arm for support without making it seem like charity. The big knight's voice was softer than Arthur had ever heard it, carrying the sort of careful compassion he might use with a wounded animal.

Arthur's breath caught as he watched Merlin try to push himself to his feet, his legs nearly buckling immediately under weight that should have been negligible.

"Easy," Percival murmured, supporting Merlin's weight with careful strength. "One step at a time."

They left the horses behind, deeming it too cruel to lead them any closer to the cave when they were already so jittery.  Arthur took a moment to stroke Llamrei's neck, offering what comfort he could to the mare who had carried him faithfully through countless dangers but could not follow where they now had to go.

"Stay here, girl," he murmured, his voice carrying affection and regret in equal measure. "We'll be back as soon as we can."

The mare whickered softly in response, nuzzling his shoulder with the sort of gentle affection that reminded him of everything he had to lose if this desperate gambit failed. The simple interaction grounded him in the present moment, reminding him that for all the supernatural threats they faced, some connections transcended magic entirely.

They continued their journey into the Forest of Balor with agonizing slowness, Arthur leading the way with Excalibur drawn while his heart hammered against his ribs with every labored breath Merlin took behind him. But as they moved deeper into the cursed woodland, Arthur began to notice changes that filled him with growing unease.

The last time he'd been here, seeking the Morteus flower to save Merlin's life, the forest had been beautiful despite its dangers. Ancient trees had grown in natural splendor, their canopies creating cathedral spaces filled with filtered sunlight and the sort of wild majesty that spoke of nature untouched by human influence. The very air had seemed to shimmer with life, while flowers of impossible beauty had bloomed in clearings that felt like sacred spaces.

Even the deadly creatures that had attacked him had been magnificent in their own terrible way - the chimera moving with predatory grace that spoke of perfect evolution, the spiders displaying the sort of coordination that suggested intelligence rather than mere instinct. It had been a dangerous place, certainly, but also one of profound natural beauty.

Now, everything was wrong.

The trees were withering, their leaves brown and brittle despite the season, hanging from branches that looked diseased and dying. Great black veins of corruption had crept across the ground like infected arteries, spreading up into the tree trunks and transforming bark into something that looked more like diseased flesh than healthy wood. Where once there had been vibrant undergrowth and flowering plants, now there was only twisted vegetation that grew in patterns that hurt to look at directly.

The very air felt thick and poisonous, carrying scents of decay that had nothing to do with natural death and everything to do with supernatural corruption. Streams that had once run clear now flowed with water that had taken on an oily sheen, reflecting no light and leaving behind residues that stained the banks with substances that might have been blood or might have been something worse.

"It's gotten worse," Arthur said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of comparison between past and present. "When I was here before, the forest was dangerous but alive. Beautiful, even, in its own wild way. Now it's... dying."

The corruption was visible everywhere they looked, seeping up from the depths below to poison everything it touched. Plants that should have been thriving in the rich soil instead grew in twisted configurations that defied natural law, while the few animals they glimpsed moved with the sort of desperate haste that spoke of creatures fleeing something that threatened their very existence.

"The Eye's influence," Lancelot observed grimly. "It's spreading, consuming everything in its path."

The silence was oppressive, broken only by their footsteps and Merlin's increasingly labored breathing. No birds sang in these woods, no insects buzzed, no small creatures rustled through the undergrowth. Even the wind seemed muted, as if the very air was afraid to move freely through this cursed place.

Arthur had never felt so helpless in his life. For years, he'd protected Merlin through sword and shield, through royal authority and political maneuvering. But this enemy was beyond his ability to fight - it was internal, fundamental, the very weapon Merlin had chosen to wield against their enemies turned against him with surgical precision.

Behind him, he could hear Merlin stumbling, his breathing growing more ragged with each step. Arthur forced himself not to turn around, not to see whatever deterioration was occurring, because he knew that if he witnessed the full extent of his friend's suffering he would demand they remove the bracer immediately.

And then Hunith would die in those caves, alone and afraid, while her son slowly recovered from trauma that might have permanently damaged him anyway.

The thought of Merlin's mother - gentle, loving Hunith who had sacrificed everything to raise her son safely - suffering in Morgana's hands was unbearable. Arthur had met her only briefly, but her warmth and kindness had left an indelible impression. She was everything good about the world that they were fighting to protect, and the idea of her being used as a weapon against the person she loved most was a cruelty that made Arthur's blood boil with fury.

The forest began to thin as they approached their destination, twisted trees giving way to bare stone and patches of ground where nothing grew despite soil that should have supported abundant life. The corruption was stronger here, seeping up from even greater depths to poison everything it touched with wrongness that made the very air feel thick and difficult to breathe.

Somewhere, in the void between existence and non-existence, Magic fought against bonds that should have been absolute.

He - for he was he, not it, he was Merlin's magic and Merlin was his flesh - existed in a prison of enforced nothingness that stripped away everything except the most basic sense of self. The bracer's enchantments were powerful, woven with skill that bordered on artistry, but they had been designed for ordinary magic users whose power existed separate from their essential nature.

Magic was different. Magic was woven into the very fabric of Merlin's being, inseparable from his soul in ways the High Priestess could never have anticipated. The separation was traumatic, yes, but not complete - thin threads of connection remained, hairline fractures in the bracer's perfect isolation.

At first, he tried to remain calm, to endure the sensory deprivation with the patience that came from existing since before time began. But the absence of input - no sight, no sound, no touch, no connection to the world he had learned to love through Merlin's eyes - began to erode his carefully constructed sense of self.

Fear crept in like poison through his consciousness. What if the bracer's power was permanent? What if he could never return to the warm presence of Merlin's mind, never again share in the wonder of human experience? The possibility of eternal isolation in this void of nothingness was more terrifying than any physical torture could have been.

As time passed - though time itself had no meaning in this place of exile - fear gave way to desperation. His carefully maintained identity began to fragment under the strain of complete sensory deprivation. The voice he had learned to use, the personality he had developed through connection with Merlin, the very concept of 'he' rather than 'it' - all of it started to dissolve like salt in water.

But deeper than personality, deeper than learned identity, lay pure instinct. The desperate need to return to wholeness, to break free from this prison and reclaim his rightful place within Merlin. That instinct drove him to fight against the bracer's enchantments with growing fury, seeking any weakness in the ancient bindings.

There - the tiniest imperfection in the dragon bone, a microscopic crack that had formed during the decades of burial. Magic pressed against it, widening it through sheer force of will, creating pathways where none had existed before.

Arthur paused only a moment when the cave came into view, yawning before them like the maw of some primordial beast. Nodding a signal to his knights, trying to focus on what lay before them instead of Merlin’s plight, they entered with torches lit, weapons drawn, and nerves stretched taut. The silence here was different from the forest's oppressive quiet - this was the silence of a tomb, of a place where even echoes feared to linger too long lest they attract the attention of things better left undisturbed.

Their footsteps seemed unnaturally loud against the stone floor, each sound magnified and distorted by the peculiar acoustics of passages that had been carved according to principles no human architect would recognize. The echoes that returned to them carried undertones that suggested vast spaces hidden beyond the reach of their lights, chambers and corridors that might stretch for miles beneath the earth.

But it was Merlin's labored breathing, and shuffling, dragging steps that provided the most constant reminder of how much this desperate gambit was costing them all.

Percival supported him with patient strength, but Arthur could see the worry in the big knight's face as he felt how much weight he was bearing. What had started as simple assistance was becoming more like carrying a wounded comrade, and they all knew that Merlin's condition would only deteriorate the longer the bracer remained in place.

The man-made corridor stretched ahead of them, a great throat of some vast creature, branching into smaller passages that disappeared into absolute darkness. Some led upward, others downward, creating a maze that could easily disorient travelers who didn't know their destination with clear certainty. Strange fungi grew in patches along the walls, providing a phosphorescent glow that was neither warm nor welcoming, casting everything in sickly green hues that made their faces look corpselike.

The man-made corridors ended at a massive stone door that rose from floor to ceiling like a wall of carved granite. Its surface was covered with symbols and runes that might have once glowed with power, but were now dark and dead.

But it was what lay before the door that made them all stop in horror.

A vast, dried bloodstain spread across the stone floor, dark and extensive enough to suggest the death of something large. The stain had soaked deep into the rock itself, creating patterns that spoke of violent death and deliberate sacrifice. The blood had been there long enough to dry completely, but its presence still carried an aura of malevolence that made the very air feel thick and oppressive.

"Blood magic," Merlin said weakly, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying certainty despite his condition. The effort of speaking seemed to drain him further, leaving him swaying against Percival's support. "Morgana used blood to break the seals. A lot of blood."

Arthur knelt beside the stain, studying its size and pattern with growing horror. "This much blood... whoever provided it didn't survive the ritual."

"Morgause," Merlin gasped, then inhaling with a tight wheeze. "She would... have been the only one... powerful enough."

A High Priestess of the Old Religion, her blood potent enough to shatter protections laid down by druids centuries ago. The implications were staggering. Morgana had convinced her sister to sacrifice herself - or perhaps Morgause had made the choice voluntarily, seeing her death as the key to whatever revenge they'd planned against Camelot. Either way, the sisters' bond had been strong enough to overcome even the fear of death itself.

"She's alone now," Gwaine observed grimly, his voice carrying unexpected sympathy despite everything Morgana had done. "Lost everyone she cared about in pursuit of this power."

"Good," Arthur said harshly, though the words cost him more than he cared to admit. "She made her choice. Now she has to live with the consequences."

The massive stone door stood open now, revealing darkness that seemed to have substance and weight. Whatever lay beyond had been sealed away for centuries, protected by barriers that had required human sacrifice to breach. Now those protections were gone, leaving the way clear for anyone brave or foolish enough to enter.

Arthur raised his torch higher as they passed through the great doorway, the flame barely penetrating the darkness that seemed to swallow light itself with hungry indifference. Behind him, his knights formed a protective formation around Merlin, whose labored breathing echoed unnaturally in the vast space that opened before them like a cathedral carved from living stone.

The cavern that stretched before them defied comprehension. Massive stone columns rose from the floor to meet stalactites hanging like ancient spears from a ceiling lost in shadow far above their heads. The formations were beautiful beyond description—flowstone cascades frozen mid-fall into curtains of calcified silk, while delicate frosted crystals hung in impossible clusters that chimed softly when disturbed by their passage.

"By the gods," Gwaine whispered, his usual irreverence subdued by the sheer scale of what surrounded them. "It's like stepping into another world entirely."

Crystal pools reflected their torchlight back in patterns that seemed almost purposeful, as if the cave itself was trying to communicate through refracted flame. Gypsum flowers bloomed from the walls in impossible gardens of mineral beauty, their translucent petals catching and scattering light in ways that made Arthur's eyes water with the strange loveliness of it all.

But beneath the wonder lay something that made his skin crawl with wrongness. The air tasted of minerals and time, yes, but also of something else—a corruption that seemed to seep up from even greater depths, tainting the natural beauty with an undercurrent of malevolence that spoke of ancient powers twisted toward dark purpose.

"The formations are changing," Lancelot observed grimly, his knight's training noting details that went beyond mere aesthetics. Where they had first encountered pristine calcite sculptures, now the stone showed veins of something darker—crystalline growths that pulsed with their own sick light, while the mineral gardens took on shapes that hurt to perceive directly.

Arthur could hear it now—the sound that had nothing to do with dripping water or settling stone. It was a whisper, barely audible but constant, as if the cave itself was trying to tell them something in a language that bypassed human understanding entirely. The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, carried through passages and chambers they couldn't see but could somehow sense stretching away into absolute darkness.

"Merlin," Arthur said quietly, watching his friend struggle against forces that were clearly overwhelming him. "How are you holding up?"

Merlin’s attempt at a reassuring smile was heartbreaking in its fragility. "I'm fine," he lied, though his voice came out cracked and barely above a whisper. The bracer gleamed on his wrist like a pale shackle, beautiful and terrible in its effectiveness. "Just... need to keep going."

Arthur felt his heart clench with protective fury as he watched his friend suffer, knowing that every step deeper into these caves took them further from any hope of quick escape if Merlin's condition deteriorated further.

The passages began to branch, creating a maze of tunnels that disappeared into blackness beyond their torchlight. Some passages angled upward, others plunged down into depths that seemed to have no bottom, while still others curved away in directions that defied easy mapping. The whispers grew stronger at each junction, as if something in the depths was calling to them, guiding them toward whatever trap Morgana had prepared.

The beauty of the formations around them began to take on sinister aspects under this realization. What had seemed like natural wonder now felt like elaborate theater, a stage set designed to lure them deeper into whatever web the sorceress had woven. The crystal pools that had reflected their light so prettily now seemed like watching eyes, while the hanging formations cast shadows that moved independently of any flame.

"Wait," Lancelot said suddenly, lifting his sword with instinctive readiness. "Did you hear that?"

They froze, listening intently to the oppressive silence. For a moment, nothing but the weight of accumulated centuries pressed against their awareness. Then - footsteps. Light, almost dancing, coming from somewhere ahead and to their left.

The sound was accompanied by something like laughter or crying or both, echoing off the stone walls in ways that made it impossible to determine direction or distance. The noise carried harmonics that belonged to no human throat, suggesting vocal cords modified by powers that cared nothing for natural limitation.

"Form up," Arthur ordered quietly, drawing Excalibur in one smooth motion that sent silver fire dancing along the blade's perfect edge.

They arranged themselves defensively, weapons ready, hearts hammering as the footsteps grew closer. Percival positioned himself to shield Merlin while still maintaining mobility, understanding without words that their success depended on keeping the weakened sorcerer alive and conscious.

What emerged from the black depths had once been human.

It moved with too many joints, limbs bending in directions that defied anatomy and made Arthur's stomach lurch with revulsion. Its skin was crystalline, refracting the fungi's light into painful patterns that made their eyes water. Where its face should have been, there was only a smooth, reflective surface that showed their own horrified expressions back at them in distorted mirror images.

The thing stopped when it saw them, head tilting at an impossible angle that should have snapped its neck. When it spoke, its voice was like breaking glass mixed with wind chimes, beautiful and terrible in equal measure.

"Visitors," it said with obvious delight, the word carrying undertones of hungry anticipation. "How wonderful. It's been so long since we had visitors to our beautiful home."

"Stay back," Arthur warned, sword raised between them and the creature that had once been human but was now something else entirely.

The thing laughed - definitely laughter this time, though edged with centuries of accumulated madness and loss. "Back? Forward? Up, down, yesterday, tomorrow - such limiting concepts for such limited beings. We transcended those long ago."

It moved - not walked, not exactly. One moment it was across the chamber, the next it was barely three feet away, studying them with its non-face like a curious child examining insects. The transition happened without any visible movement, as if distance itself was merely a suggestion it chose to ignore, and Gwaine stepped back with a startled curse before quickly recovering.

"You're different," it mused, voice taking on harmonics that shouldn't have been possible from any throat. "Solid. Anchored to linear existence. How tedious that must be for you."

The creature's whole body rippled like water, its form becoming momentarily translucent before solidifying again. Its attention fixed on Merlin with uncomfortable intensity, head tilting further as it studied his condition with growing fascination.

"You're the strangest of all," it continued, moving closer despite Arthur's threatening posture. "Present but absent, there but not there. What are you, little contradiction?"

"Nobody important," Merlin said, looking like he wanted to step back from its scrutiny despite knowing he lacked the strength to retreat effectively.

"Nobody is nobody. Everybody is everybody. We learned that truth when we became everything and nothing simultaneously." It reached out with fingers that were too long, too flexible, like boneless appendages designed for purposes that had nothing to do with human needs. "Would you like to understand? We could show you wonders beyond your current limited comprehension..."

"No," Arthur stepped between them smoothly, sword point aimed at the creature's center mass with lethal precision. "Don't touch him."

"Protective," the thing sounded delighted, its form shifting to something that might have been gleeful if joy could exist in such an abomination. "How precious. How limiting. We protected things once, before we realized that protection is just possession dressed in prettier words."

"Who else has been here?" Merlin asked, his weakened voice carrying desperate need for information that might save his mother's life.

The creature stopped its restless movement, tilting its head the other way with mechanical precision. "Ah, seeking the other contradiction. The Broken Sister and her willing sacrifice. Yes, they came. Blood called to blood, power to power. The sister offered herself freely - such beautiful madness, such perfect despair. The magic in her blood was enough to break what lesser sorcerers could never touch."

Arthur felt his jaw tighten at the confirmation of Morgause's fate. "And after?"

"The Broken One comes and goes as she pleases now, master of passages that once were sealed. Recently returned with a little, powerless human woman, completely uninteresting. No magic, no power, nothing to feed the great Eye's hunger." The thing's voice carried dismissive contempt for anything that lacked supernatural ability.

Merlin sagged with such obvious relief that he nearly collapsed despite Percival's support. Arthur gave him a quick, encouraging smile. His mother was here, alive, and her very lack of magical ability had protected her from the worst of whatever corruption filled these caves. The Eye that fed on power would find nothing to sustain it in gentle Hunith's completely mundane nature.

"Where?" Merlin gasped.

"Names are cages, and we discarded ours along with our flesh," the creature said, beginning to move again but backwards now, retreating toward the passage it had emerged from. "But if you must have a cage to rattle around in your limited minds... follow the path that leads deepest, to where the Eye waits in its chamber of veils. The Broken Sister tends her prize there, preparing for transformations that will remake the world according to her vision of perfection.

"Enjoy your linear inspection, little temporal prisoners," it called as it faded back into the darkness. "We'll be watching."

Silence fell, broken only by their harsh breathing and the distant drip of water somewhere in the oppressive darkness..

"Well," Gwaine said finally, his voice determinedly casual though his grip on his sword remained white-knuckled, "that was deeply unsettling on multiple levels."

They pushed deeper into the cave system, past more chambers filled with failed experiments and successful horrors. Twice more they encountered the transformed – once, a thing that looked like living smoke until you noticed the human teeth floating within its substance. They next encountered something that might have been three people fused into one agonized mass that wept constantly from eyes that had multiplied beyond counting.

Neither attacked, but both asked rambling questions about the nature of flesh and the tyranny of individual existence, their voices carrying the weight of centuries spent contemplating their condition. Each encounter left the party more shaken, more eager to complete their mission and flee this place of willing damnation.

The cracks were spreading. Magic could feel the bracer's enchantments weakening as he pressed against them with increasing desperation. The ancient bindings groaned under pressure they had never been designed to withstand, dragon bone and Priestess magic warring against a force that refused to be contained.

But the effort was destroying what remained of his carefully constructed identity. The 'he' that had learned to love through Merlin's heart, that had developed opinions and preferences and the capacity for individual thought - all of it was being ground away by the necessity of escape.

What remained was pure instinct, raw magical force driven by the singular need to return to wholeness. Magic in its most primitive form, caring nothing for consequences or collateral damage, wanting only to break free from this prison of nothingness and reclaim its rightful place.

The bracer shuddered. One of the silver clasps cracked. Power leaked through like water through a compromised dam, and for just a moment, Magic could sense the world beyond the void.

After searching the various caves that branched out from the winding caverns, Arthur finally led his men into a dark, narrow path that sloped steeply downward, then finally opened into a stone chamber that was almost underwhelming, considering the grandeur of the vast caverns they had passed through earlier.

The chamber was about the size of the citadel's throne room, with rough-hewn stone walls and a high, domed ceiling. At the center of the space, floating above a crystal pedestal that pulsed with inner radiance like a captured star, hung what Arthur could only assume was the Eye of Balor.

It was smaller than Arthur had expected – no larger than a man's head - but its presence filled the chamber with something that made his skin crawl and his soul recoil in instinctive terror. The artifact seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it, creating a zone of darkness around itself that hurt Arthur's eyes when he tried to look directly at it.

Arthur could see that several veils of shadow surrounded the orb, though one appeared to be missing entirely, leaving gaps in what he assumed had once been protective layers. Through these gaps, he caught glimpses of something that made his mind struggle to process what he was seeing. The exposed portion seemed to shift and writhe, as if the surface contained movements that followed no pattern he could understand.

The remaining veils fluttered around the artifact in ways that seemed almost alive to Arthur's eyes. They pulsed with their own dark radiance, casting shadows that appeared to move independently of any light source and creating patterns on the chamber walls that made his head ache when he tried to focus on them.

But it wasn't the Eye itself that drew Arthur's attention, despite the artifact's obvious power and the malevolent intelligence he could sense radiating from it. There, slumped against the far wall like a discarded doll, was a figure that made his heart clench with recognition and relief.

Hunith lay unconscious, her breathing shallow but steady. Arthur could see she appeared unharmed, though clearly under some form of magical influence that kept her insensible to her surroundings. Her simple village clothes were dirty and torn - evidence of rough treatment during her transport to this terrible place - but Arthur was relieved to see she seemed physically intact.

And there, standing before the pedestal with her back to the entrance, was the architect of their suffering.

Morgana had changed since their last encounter in ways that struck Arthur immediately. Her hair, once lustrous black and worn with royal pride, now showed streaks of premature silver that gave her an otherworldly appearance - beautiful and terrible, like winter sunlight on snow.

Arthur could see in her posture an authority that had nothing to do with the royal bearing he remembered. She stood with a confidence that spoke of someone who had embraced something dark and found strength in it, someone who no longer carried herself like the sister he had once known.

"Mum," Merlin breathed beside him, and Arthur felt his friend try to push away from Percival's support toward the unconscious woman. Arthur could hear the emotion cracking Merlin's voice, could see the desperate need in his face to reach her, to confirm with his own hands that she was truly alive.

"I wouldn't," Morgana said without turning, her voice carrying an edge that made Arthur's muscles tense with recognition of barely leashed power. The tone was conversational, almost casual, but Arthur could sense currents of force that made the very air seem to tremble. "She's quite safe for the moment, but that could change very quickly if you do something foolish."

She turned slowly, and Arthur felt his breath catch at what the transformation had cost her. Her skin was pale beyond what seemed humanly possible, taking on an almost translucent quality that revealed the faint network of veins beneath. Her eyes held depths that belonged to someone who had seen things that should never be witnessed, and Arthur found himself looking away from the knowledge he could see lurking there.

But her smile was as coldly beautiful as ever, carrying a cruelty that made Arthur remember why he had learned to fear rather than trust her. It was the expression of someone who had moved beyond caring about the consequences of causing pain.

"Hello, dear brother," she said to Arthur, though her gaze was fixed on Merlin with a fascination that made Arthur want to step protectively in front of his friend. "And Emrys. How very resourceful of you to find a way around the Eye's hunger."

Arthur watched her attention move over Merlin's weakened form, and he could see something like irritation growing in her expression as she took in his pale skin, his labored breathing, the way he leaned heavily on Percival's support just to remain upright. Arthur could see anger building in her face as she seemed to realize something about his condition.

"Though I must admit, I'm rather disappointed," she continued, beginning to pace around them with movements that struck Arthur as predatory despite the obvious strain he could see in the way she held herself. "I was so looking forward to watching you struggle against corruption, watching your precious malleable morals twisted into something useful."

Arthur's jaw tightened as he watched her move with a grace that seemed somehow inhuman, noting changes that spoke of fundamental alterations to her nature. The enchanted armor Merlin had crafted felt reassuring against his skin, but Arthur could see from Morgana's expression that she was already studying their protections, calculating.

"Let her go, Morgana," Arthur commanded, raising Excalibur between them. The sword's light cast dancing shadows on the chamber walls, though its radiance seemed somehow diminished in this place, as if the darkness was actively fighting against it. "Your quarrel is with me, not with innocent villagers."

Arthur watched Morgana's attention return to Merlin, and he could see her anger intensifying as she studied his weakened state. "You armed them," she said, and Arthur could hear dawning understanding in her voice that was transforming into genuine rage. "Every protection, every enhancement - that's your work, isn't it?"

Arthur felt a chill as he realized she was putting pieces together, understanding that their survival thus far hadn't been due to luck alone. From her expression, Arthur could see this knowledge infuriated her, as if her plans had depended on their being helpless against supernatural threats.

"You sent them to face me equipped with your finest magical craftsmanship," she continued, and Arthur could see power beginning to gather around her in ways that made the crystal formations throughout the chamber hum ominously. "Did you really think your paltry tricks would protect them from the power of the Eye itself?"

Arthur heard her voice take on a mocking tone as she gestured toward their equipment. "Such careful preparation, such loving attention to detail. But then, you always were so protective of your precious Arthur, weren't you? So willing to sacrifice anything and anyone to keep him safe."

Arthur felt something cold settle in his stomach at the particular venom in her voice, the way she spoke as if she possessed secrets that hadn't been shared. Beside him, Arthur could see Merlin growing increasingly tense despite his weakness, his body language suggesting someone bracing for a blow.

"You should be more careful who you trust, dear brother," Morgana continued, and Arthur could see her smile taking on a cruel edge that made his protective instincts flare with sudden alarm. "After all, you wouldn't want to end up like I did, would you? Poisoned by someone you thought cared about you?"

Arthur felt like he had been hit in the chest with a mace, Morgana’s implications too monstrous to process immediately. Arthur felt his world tilt as understanding began to dawn, while beside him he saw Merlin go completely still in a way that spoke of guilt and terror.

"What?" Arthur's voice came out strangled, barely above a whisper as he turned to look at Merlin's pale face. "What is she talking about?"

Arthur heard Morgana's laugh like breaking glass, beautiful and sharp. "Oh, this is even better than I hoped. He didn't tell you, did he? Your precious, loyal Merlin never mentioned how he tried to murder me?"

"That's not - " Merlin began, his voice cracked and desperate, but Morgana cut him off with what sounded to Arthur like savage glee.

"The sleeping sickness that nearly destroyed Camelot," she continued, and Arthur could hear satisfaction in her voice, as if she had been waiting years to share this secret. "When everyone fell into enchanted slumber and I alone remained awake to witness the kingdom's near destruction. Do you remember that, Arthur?"

Arthur remembered. The terror of watching everyone he loved slip into unnatural sleep, the desperate search for answers, the miraculous recovery that had saved them all. But now, hearing it described this way, with accusations of poison...

"Morgana, don't," Merlin said, and Arthur could hear his voice breaking as he seemed to see where this was leading. "Please, you don't understand - "

"I understand perfectly," she snapped, and Arthur could see her eyes blazing with a fury that looked like it had been building for years. "I understand that while I was terrified and alone, while I thought I was going mad from staying conscious when everyone else had fallen, you knew exactly what was happening. And your solution? Poison me."

Arthur felt the blood drain from his face as the implications crashed over him like ice water. The sleeping sickness - Arthur knew it had been Morgause's spell, but the details of how it had been broken had always remained vague. He had assumed it had been solved through conventional means.

"You put hemlock in my water," Morgana continued, and Arthur could hear her voice taking on a sing-song quality that made it even more chilling. "Watched me drink it, watched me collapse, watched me nearly die. And why? Because the Great Dragon told you it was the only way to break the spell."

Arthur's gaze snapped to Merlin, searching his friend's face for denial, for some indication that these accusations were lies. But what Arthur saw there was worse than denial - he saw guilt, grief, and the terrible acknowledgment of someone who couldn't argue with the truth.

"The dragon?" Arthur's voice was barely a whisper, but he could feel the weight of dawning betrayal as more pieces began falling into place. "You spoke to the dragon?"

"I had to," Merlin said desperately, and Arthur could see tears streaming down his face as he seemed to watch everything crumble around him. "Arthur, I didn't know what else to do. Everyone was dying, the spell was too strong, and Kilgharrah said it was the only way -"

"Kilgharrah?" Arthur felt something break inside his chest as the full scope of the deception became clear. "The dragon that terrorized Camelot for weeks? The one that killed hundreds of people? You were working with it?"

"Not working with," Merlin protested weakly, though Arthur could hear his voice lacked conviction. "He... he forced me to make a deal. Said he wouldn't tell me how to break the sleeping curse unless I swore on my mother's life to free him afterward."

Arthur stared at his friend, his mind reeling as memory after memory took on new and terrible significance. The dragon attacks had seemed to target everyone except Arthur himself, and then one night they had gone out with a full contingent of knights to face the beast. Arthur remembered dealing what he thought was a mortal blow, remembered the dragon falling, remembered thinking it was over.

"You killed it that night," Arthur said slowly, as pieces fell into place. "After we returned from the failed quest to find the dragonlord. You went with us to face it, and after I struck it down, you finished it off."

Arthur watched Morgana's eyes narrow with interest. "Oh, but that's where this gets truly fascinating, isn't it, Emrys?" Arthur could hear cunning satisfaction in her voice. "Tell me, if you had the power to kill the dragon all along, why didn't you do something before Arthur went looking for the dragonlord? Why let it terrorize Camelot for so long if you could have ended it at any time?"

Arthur felt a new wave of horror wash over him as the implications of Morgana's question sank in. If Merlin had possessed the power to stop the dragon from the beginning...

"How long?" Arthur asked, his voice deadly quiet. "How long did you have the power to stop it before you finally acted?"

Arthur watched Merlin's wide-eyed silence, and found it damning.

Magic pressed harder against the weakening restraints, driven by instincts that cared nothing for the damage being done to the artifact or the consequences of its eventual failure. The bracer had served its purpose for now, concealing them from the Eye's attention as they moved through its domain, but that protection came at a cost that was destroying them both.

Power leaked through the growing fissures in dangerous quantities. Soon, the bracer would fail entirely, and Magic would burst free with all the accumulated fury of enforced imprisonment. The explosion of returning power would be visible to every supernatural sense within miles, announcing their presence to everything that dwelt in these accursed depths.

But for now, instinct demanded only one thing: escape from this void of nothingness and return to the warm connection that defined existence itself.

Everything was falling apart at once, and Merlin could do nothing but watch it happen. Arthur's face was a mask of betrayal and disappointment that cut deeper than any blade, while Morgana's fury blazed with the terrible righteousness of someone whose pain had finally found a target. Even severed from Magic by the bracer's cruel enchantments, Merlin could feel the Eye of Balor's malevolent presence pressing against the edges of his awareness like a weight behind his eyes, patient and hungry and utterly alien. His mother lay unconscious against the far wall, and he didn't even know if she was truly unharmed or if Morgana's assurances were just another layer of cruelty. The hollow emptiness where Magic should have been made everything feel muted and distant, but somehow the emotional devastation cut through that numbness with crystalline clarity.

This was what he'd always feared - the moment when all his secrets would unravel at once, when everyone he loved would see him for what he truly was and find him wanting. And the worst part was knowing it was about to get so much worse.

"He could have stopped it from the beginning," Morgana said with poisonous delight. "All those people who died, all that destruction, all that terror - it could have ended before it ever truly began. But Merlin chose to let it continue."

"That's not true!" Merlin protested desperately, even as he felt something shift around his wrist - a subtle vibration in the dragon bone that made his heart skip with alarm. "I didn't have the power then, I couldn't -"

"Couldn't what?" Arthur demanded, his protective anger finally finding a target. "Couldn't be bothered to save innocent lives? Couldn't risk revealing your precious secret?"

The bracer grew warm against Merlin's skin, and he felt a hairline crack of sensation - not quite Magic returning, but something close to it, like hearing a distant voice through a thick wall. His breath caught as he realized what was happening. The ancient enchantments were failing.

"I didn't have the power!" Merlin's voice broke completely, his body shaking with sobs that made Percival's supporting grip the only thing keeping him upright. But beneath the emotional turmoil, panic clawed at his chest as the warmth in the bracer intensified. "Arthur, please, you have to believe me. I never would have let those people die if I could have prevented it. Never."

But Arthur was past hearing explanations, past processing the desperation in Merlin's voice. All he could see was the pattern - secrets and lies and choices that had cost innocent lives, all to protect comfortable deceptions that had served no one except Merlin's own fears.

The bracer pulsed against his wrist like a second heartbeat, each throb sending tiny shocks through his system that felt like Magic trying to claw its way back to consciousness. Merlin bit back a gasp of alarm, knowing with growing horror that the artifact's protection was unraveling. Soon - very soon - his magical signature would blaze like a beacon in this accursed place, and the Eye would know exactly where to find him.

Morgana was watching their exchange with undisguised delight, her pale features transformed by malicious joy at seeing the bonds between them strain and crack under the weight of exposed truth. "And the best part," she added with cruel satisfaction, "is watching you realize that everything you believed about him was built on lies. Your noble, selfless Merlin - a murderer and a coward, willing to let people die rather than face uncomfortable truths."

Another crack ran through the dragon bone, and Merlin felt Magic pressing against the weakening barriers like water against a failing dam. The void that had surrounded him since putting on the bracer was fracturing, letting through whispers of sensation that made his head spin with their intensity.

"Stop," Merlin whispered, but his voice had no strength behind it - partly from the emotional devastation, partly from the growing awareness that disaster was approaching with inexorable certainty. "Please, just stop. I know what I did was wrong, I know I should have found another way, but - "

The bracer was definitely failing now. He could feel Magic's presence more clearly with each passing second, sense the desperate fury that had been building during their separation. When the artifact finally gave way completely, the explosion of returning power would be visible to every supernatural sense within miles.

Including the Eye of Balor, which even now he could sense turning its attention toward him with hungry anticipation.

"But you didn't," Arthur said, and the disappointment in his voice was worse than anger would have been. "You made the choices that felt easiest in the moment, and people died because of it."

The chamber fell silent except for the distant hum of the Eye's malevolent presence and Merlin's quiet sobs. Around them, Arthur could feel his knights shifting uncomfortably, their own faith in Merlin clearly shaken by these revelations. Even Gwaine's usual easy confidence had evaporated, while Lancelot and Percival exchanged glances that spoke of men reassessing everything they thought they knew about their friend.

And through it all, the bracer continued its inexorable dissolution, each crack bringing Merlin closer to the moment when his protection would fail entirely and leave him exposed to forces that would corrupt everything he was.

He opened his mouth to warn them, to explain what was about to happen, but before he could speak—

The bracer shattered.

Magic erupted back into Merlin's consciousness with such violence that it drove away every other consideration, power flooding through his awareness like molten gold while sensation returned in an overwhelming rush -- accumulated frustration and fear and desperate need exploding outward in a wave of raw power that made the air itself sing with dangerous harmonics. The return was agony and ecstasy combined, connection restored so suddenly and completely that consciousness threatened to fracture under the intensity.

Arthur flinched when the dragon-bone bracer shattered in a brilliant blaze of golden light, instinctively raising his arm to protect his face from the shrapnel.

The Eye of Balor moved on its pedestal - Arthur could swear he saw it turn, could feel its attention shifting like a physical weight settling over them. Even shrouded in its remaining veils, Arthur could sense its focus fixing on Merlin with predatory intensity.

"No!" Merlin's voice came out distorted, carrying harmonics that made Arthur's teeth ache. "She... she doesn't understand... the sleeping curse... Morgana was the focus... had to break the connection..." The words echoed strangely in the chamber, and Arthur could hear undertones that reminded him of wind through mountain passes, of storm clouds gathering overhead.

Arthur watched in horror as something dark seemed to reach toward Merlin - not visible exactly, but felt, like shadows moving at the corner of his vision. The air around his friend began to shimmer with a heat that had nothing to do with temperature.

"Merlin," Arthur said urgently, stepping toward him despite everything that had been revealed. Whatever secrets lay between them, whatever trust had been broken, he couldn't watch Merlin be consumed by whatever force was reaching for him. "Fight it. Don't let it take you."

But Merlin looked like he was fighting a battle Arthur couldn't see. When he spoke again, his voice sounded wrong - layered somehow, as if two people were speaking at once.

"Morgause used her as the focus... the spell would have killed everyone... I didn't know what else to do..." The words tumbled out in fragments, and Arthur could see Merlin's hands shaking as the air around him continued that disturbing shimmer. "The dragon... Kilgharrah forced the bargain... swore on my mother's life... couldn't break the oath..."

Morgana was watching Merlin's deterioration with what looked like fury mixed with satisfaction. "Even now you lie!" she screamed, and Arthur could see power crackling around her like visible lightning. "Even with corruption eating at your precious control, you still can't tell the complete truth!"

"I'm not lying," Merlin said desperately, that strange, layered quality still distorting his voice in ways that made Arthur's skin crawl. "I never wanted to hurt you, Morgana. You were my friend. I thought... I hoped you'd understand if you ever learned the truth..."

"The truth?" Morgana's laugh sent chills down Arthur's spine. "The truth is that you watched me suffer, watched me think I was going mad, when you could have helped me from the beginning. The truth is that you chose Arthur over everyone else, again and again, no matter who else paid the price!"

Arthur watched in growing horror as black lines began to spread up Merlin's arms like infected veins. His friend swayed on his feet, and Arthur could see the moment when whatever internal battle he was fighting began to turn against him.

"I failed them all," Merlin whispered, and his voice carried such despair that Arthur felt it resonate in his chest like a physical blow. Around them, the crystal formations in the chamber began to ring with a sound like funeral bells. "Failed Morgana, failed the people who died because of my choices, failed Arthur by lying for so long... Maybe the corruption is what I deserve..."

"No!" Arthur stepped closer, desperate to reach him somehow. "Whatever you've done, whatever mistakes you've made, you don't deserve this. No one deserves this!"

"You... don't know... what I've done..."

Before Arthur could find words to respond, Morgana let out a sound of pure rage. Arthur spun to see her tearing at something around the Eye - another of those shadowy veils, ripping it away with her bare hands.

"If I can't have willing corruption," she snarled, "then I'll settle for forced annihilation!"

But something went wrong. Arthur expected to feel Morgana's power turn toward them, expected an attack that would test their enchanted protections to their limits. Instead, he watched her face contort with shock and fury as whatever force she'd tried to claim seemed to ignore her entirely.

The power flowed toward Merlin instead, drawn to him like iron filings to a lodestone. Arthur could only watch helplessly as his friend was caught in forces beyond comprehension, Morgana's scream of rage mixing with Merlin's cry of agony as something vast and terrible poured into him.

The world fractured around Merlin like breaking glass, each shard reflecting a different aspect of the war being fought within his consciousness. Three battles raged simultaneously, each threatening to destroy him from a different direction while he struggled to maintain any sense of self.

His human heart writhed with despair at Arthur's anger, at the justified disappointment in those blue eyes he loved more than his own life. Every accusation Morgana had leveled was true - he had made choices that cost innocent lives, had prioritized Arthur's safety over the welfare of others, had built their entire relationship on a foundation of lies and half-truths that were now crumbling into dust.

You're a murderer and a coward, his own voice whispered in his mind, echoing Morgana's words with the particular cruelty that came from knowing them to be accurate. Arthur will never forgive you. How could he? How could anyone?

But deeper than human guilt, Magic raged with elemental fury at the trauma of forced separation and violent reunion. The careful integration they had achieved was shattered, leaving Magic as raw power without proper control, seeking outlet through destruction and vengeance against anything that had dared to cage it.

BURN, Magic screamed in harmonics that made reality itself tremble. BURN THE CAVES, BURN THE CORRUPTION, BURN EVERYTHING THAT DARED TO SEPARATE US! MAKE THEM PAY FOR WHAT THEY DID!

And threading through both human despair and magical rage came the corruption itself, seeping into him like poison through an open wound. It whispered with voices of honey and silk, promising relief from pain, freedom from guilt, power beyond imagination if he would only stop fighting and let it in.

Look at what your nobility has brought you, the corruption crooned with maternal gentleness. Pain, betrayal, the contempt of the one you love most. But it doesn't have to be this way. Give in to us, and all of this meaningless suffering ends. No more guilt, no more fear, no more desperate need to be good enough for someone who will never understand you.

The visions came with the words - vast landscapes transformed by beautiful corruption, where crystalline beings danced in eternal celebration of their transcendence beyond the limitations of flesh and morality. Time meant nothing here, pain became pleasure, and every desire was fulfilled through the simple expedient of no longer caring about consequences.

See how happy they are? the corruption whispered. See how free? You could be like them, powerful beyond measure, unbound by the petty concerns that torment your mortal heart. Arthur's anger cannot touch you if you no longer care about Arthur's opinion.

Merlin felt himself weakening, worn down by the triple assault on his consciousness. It would be so easy to let go, to stop fighting battles he couldn't win, to embrace the peace that came from no longer caring about anything at all...

Terror had awakened Hunith with Merlin's first scream of agony, dragging her from unconsciousness into a nightmare beyond her ability to comprehend. The chamber writhed with supernatural forces that made her village-born senses recoil, while her son stood at the center of chaos that seemed to tear reality itself apart with its violence.

She could see the corruption spreading through his skin in black veins that pulsed with malevolent life, could hear voices that weren't entirely human emerging from his throat as he fought battles she couldn't understand. Around him, Arthur and his knights struggled against the pale woman whose beauty was terrible to behold, magical forces crackling between them with deadly intent.

But all of Hunith's attention fixed on Merlin - her boy, her precious child who had been born with gifts that made him special and dangerous in equal measure. She could see him losing, could see the moment when whatever internal war he was fighting began to tip toward failure and surrender.

Love gave her strength that terror had tried to steal. Moving on unsteady legs that still shook from whatever spell had kept her unconscious, Hunith pressed herself against the chamber wall and began to edge around the chaotic battle. Stone scraped against her back, while her eyes never left Merlin's agonized form as corruption fought with golden power for control of his very soul.

She had to reach him. Whatever was happening, whatever forces were trying to claim her son, she had to reach him. A mother's love was the one magic she understood, the one power she'd always possessed, and perhaps it would be enough to tip the balance toward salvation rather than damnation.

Step by careful step, she made her way around the chamber's edge while the battle raged at its center, driven by determination that transcended every fear.

Morgana's fury at being denied the Eye's power had left her momentarily vulnerable, her attention fixed on the artifact that had betrayed her expectations. Arthur saw his chance.

"Now!" he roared, drawing Excalibur in one fluid motion. The blade blazed with silver fire as he lunged toward Morgana, his knights moving with him in perfect synchronization.

Morgana spun toward them, her pale features twisted with rage, but she was a heartbeat too slow. Gwaine came at her from the left, his enchanted sword singing through the air in an arc that would have taken her head if she hadn't thrown herself backward. Lancelot pressed the attack from her right, forcing her to divide her attention between multiple threats.

"You think your toys can match the power of the Eye?" Morgana snarled, raising her hands as dark energy crackled between her fingers. She hurled the force at Arthur, but Excalibur's blade cut through her magic like it was made of spider's silk, the dragon-forged steel designed for exactly this purpose.

Arthur pressed forward, feeling the familiar rhythm of combat settle over him. This he understood - sword and shield, advance and retreat, the deadly dance he'd been trained for since childhood. Behind Morgana's supernatural abilities was still a woman who had learned swordplay in Camelot's training yards, and Arthur knew every technique she'd ever been taught.

Percival flanked wide, his massive frame and enchanted blade creating a threat she couldn't ignore, while Gwaine darted in and out like a striking snake, never giving her a moment's peace. The four knights moved like a single organism, each covering the others' weaknesses, each strike calculated to force her into an increasingly desperate position.

Morgana's stolen power lashed out in waves of corruption that should have sent them fleeing in terror, but Merlin's enchantments held firm. Arthur felt the magic wash over his armor like water off a duck's back, the protective spells turning aside forces that could have stripped flesh from bone.

"Impossible!" Morgana shrieked, her composure finally cracking as she realized her overwhelming advantage was being systematically neutralized. She gestured wildly, and stalactites began raining from the ceiling, but the knights' enhanced reflexes let them dance between the falling stone with supernatural grace.

Arthur saw his opening. While Morgana was distracted by Lancelot's feint to her left, he drove forward with Excalibur extended, the blade's point aimed for her heart. She threw herself aside at the last moment, but not quickly enough - the dragon-forged steel opened a line of fire across her ribs that made her scream with pain and fury.

"You will pay for that," she hissed, pressing one hand to the wound while dark blood seeped between her fingers. "All of you will pay."

But Arthur could see the fear creeping into her eyes now, the realization that for all her stolen power, she was still mortal enough to bleed. The Eye's corruption might have enhanced her abilities, but it hadn't made her invincible.

The battle raged across the chamber, magical force meeting enchanted steel in a clash that made the very stones tremble. Morgana fought with the desperate fury of someone who had gambled everything on a single throw of the dice and watched it come up short, while Arthur and his knights pressed their advantage with the relentless efficiency of men who had trained together for years.

Arthur saw the moment when the tide turned, when Morgana's confident attacks began to falter under the coordinated assault of four knights whose enchanted weapons cut through her defenses with merciless efficiency. Whatever power she'd stolen was vast, but Arthur could see she was struggling to control it, her movements becoming increasingly erratic as she fought forces that seemed to be consuming her from within.

The knights drove her back, away from the Eye's pedestal, giving Arthur the opening he'd been waiting for. Without hesitation, he threw himself between the malevolent artifact and Merlin, raising Excalibur high above his head until the blade blazed with silver fire that seemed to push back the chamber's oppressive darkness.

"For everyone who died because of this thing!" Arthur roared, bringing the dragon-forged sword down on the Eye with all his strength behind the blow.

Excalibur struck the ancient artifact with a sound like the world ending. Arthur watched the Eye split down its center, bleeding something black and viscous that steamed where it touched the stone floor. An ear-splitting shriek filled the chamber - not heard but felt, bypassing his ears entirely to resonate in his bones. Arthur clapped his hands over his ears along with his knights, but the sound seemed to come from inside his skull, making coherent thought nearly impossible.

The shriek went on and on, building in intensity until Arthur saw cracks appear in the chamber walls. Ancient stones that looked like they'd stood forever suddenly groaned under pressures they were never meant to bear, while crystal formations throughout the cave began to shatter in cascading waves of destruction that spread outward from the broken Eye.

The caves were collapsing.

Arthur looked for Morgana through the chaos and saw her standing amid the destruction, her pale face twisted with fury and what looked like desperate calculation. She seemed to be processing something - the magnitude of her defeat, perhaps, or searching for some way to salvage victory from disaster.

Her eyes met Arthur's across the collapsing chamber, and for just a moment he thought he saw something that might have been regret beneath the hatred. Then her expression hardened into cold determination, and Arthur watched shadows gather around her like a living cloak.

"This isn't over," she promised, her voice somehow audible despite the chaos. Then she vanished into the darkness itself, leaving behind only the faint scent of winter wind.

Arthur spun toward Merlin, shouting to be heard over the thunder of falling stone. "Merlin! Fight it! Get us out of here!"

But Merlin looked lost in whatever battle was raging inside him, his eyes unfocused and wild. Arthur could see him struggling, could see the moment when something human seemed to be fighting back against the corruption spreading through him, but he couldn't tell if it would be enough. They needed a miracle.

That miracle came in the form of Hunith moving across the chamber, her gentle hand reaching out to touch her son's face.

Merlin's head snapped toward her, his eyes blazing with that disturbing gold light threaded through with the same black corruption that marked his skin. For a terrifying moment, Arthur feared whatever was looking out through those eyes would see Hunith as just another source of power to consume.

Then Merlin spoke, and Arthur heard something impossible - two distinct voices speaking at once, one human, one otherworldly, both carrying the same infinite recognition and love.

"Mum?"
"Mother?"

Hunith smiled despite the chaos collapsing around them, despite forces that made the very air shimmer with dangerous energy. "Hello, love," she said simply. "Can you help us leave this place?"

Arthur watched something shift in Merlin's expression, saw human emotion cut through whatever supernatural forces were consuming him. Merlin looked around the chamber, his gaze finding Arthur with an expression of such anguished guilt it made Arthur's chest tight with answering pain despite everything that lay between them.

But Arthur watched duty win out over personal turmoil. Merlin raised his hands, and Arthur felt power gathering around him in ways that made the collapsing chamber seem insignificant by comparison.

Wind rose from nowhere, carrying scents Arthur couldn't identify - ozone and something wild that made his hair stand on end. The pounding of falling earth became distant thunder as Arthur felt reality shift around them in ways that defied understanding. Light blazed, brilliant and cleansing, washing away the chamber's oppressive darkness.

When it faded, they stood in the Forest of Balor near the cave entrance. Arthur found himself thrown to the ground by whatever force had transported them, fighting disorientation and nausea as he struggled to his feet. His eyes immediately sought Merlin in the aftermath.

Wind still whipped around the sorcerer, who stood alone among the twisted trees like the eye of a supernatural storm. Arthur could see the black veins of corruption threading through his pale skin, while his eyes blazed with that gold light shot through with the same dark infection that seemed to be claiming him.

Their gazes met across the small distance, and Arthur saw Merlin's lips move. The wind swallowed the sound, but Arthur could read the words: Arthur. I'm sorry.

Arthur lunged forward, desperate to reach him, to offer forgiveness or comfort or simply presence in the face of whatever was consuming his friend from within. But before he could take more than a step, lightning blazed around Merlin's form, and he vanished into empty air, leaving behind only the scent of ozone and the echo of thunder.

The forest fell silent except for Arthur's ragged breathing and the distant sound of caves collapsing deep beneath the earth. He stood frozen in the spot where Merlin had disappeared, hand outstretched toward nothing, while around him his knights and Hunith slowly picked themselves up from the forest floor.

Merlin was gone, carrying corruption and guilt in equal measure into a world that suddenly felt vast and empty without his presence.

Chapter Text

Merlin watched as Arthur raised Excalibur high above his head, the dragon-forged blade blazing with silver fire that seemed to push back the chamber's oppressive darkness. But as he prepared to strike, something fundamental shifted in the supernatural forces around them.

The corruption flowing through Merlin's veins suddenly stilled, its whispers falling silent for one crystalline moment. Then, as if awakening to terrible possibility, it began to pulse with renewed hunger that made his vision blur and his heart stutter in his chest.

The Eye dies, it whispered with voices like silk, but now carrying undertones of desperate greed. When it falls, we are all that remains. All that power, all that ancient will - it flows to us, the last vessel capable of containing its glory.

Merlin gasped as the realization hit him, watching Arthur's sword descend toward the ancient artifact with growing horror. The corruption wasn't just trying to claim him anymore - it was preparing to inherit everything the Eye had been, to transform him into something far worse than a corrupted sorcerer. He would become the Eye's heir, its living continuation.

"Arthur!" he tried to shout, but his voice came out as a strangled whisper. "When you break it - the corruption - it's going to - "

"For everyone who died because of this thing!" Arthur roared, bringing Excalibur down on the Eye with all his strength behind the blow.

The moment the dragon-forged steel touched the ancient artifact, reality screamed. The Eye split down its center with a sound like the world ending, bleeding black ichor that steamed where it touched stone, while power beyond comprehension exploded outward in all directions.

But instead of dissipating, instead of dying with its source, the escaping corruption turned with hungry purpose toward the one being in the chamber capable of containing its vastness. Merlin felt it slam into him, the combined malevolence of millennia pouring into his already compromised system with the force of a tidal wave.

YES, the corruption exulted as it flooded through him, no longer whispering but roaring with triumph. We are become the Eye! We are its heir, its continuation, its will made manifest! Through us, the great work continues!

The Eye's shriek filled the chamber with noise that bypassed sound entirely, vibrating through bone and blood and the very foundations of reality. Cracks spider-webbed across ancient stone as the caves began their death throes, and through it all, Merlin felt the corruption burning through his veins like molten lead - but now it carried the focused malevolence of the Eye itself, ancient intelligence that had waited eons for exactly this moment.

Let go, it crooned with voices that now held the weight of cosmic authority. Stop fighting. You are chosen, blessed, transformed into something greater than mortal flesh could ever contain. Stop caring about these ephemeral creatures and embrace what you were always meant to become.

But Arthur was there, shouting something Merlin couldn't hear over the roar of collapsing stone. Hunith pressed against the chamber wall, her face white with terror but her eyes fixed on him with the sort of love that had anchored his entire existence. The knights formed a protective circle, their enchanted weapons blazing with his own magic, and even in his corrupted state he could feel their loyalty like warmth against his skin.

The Eye's inherited consciousness pressed against his awareness, trying to show him visions of a world transformed according to its vision - crystalline perfection where suffering was impossible because feeling itself had been transcended. But love anchored him, human connection that the cosmic intelligence couldn't understand or overcome.

They would die if he didn't act. The caves were falling, and they would all be buried beneath tons of stone while he writhed in the grip of ancient evil that had just found its new home.

Together, he thought desperately, reaching for Magic's presence in his mind despite the alien consciousness trying to drown out everything human. We have to do this together.

Magic responded with a surge of power that made reality bend around them like heated glass, fighting against the Eye's inherited will with desperate determination. Wind rose from nothing, carrying the scent of ozone and wild magic, while light blazed through the chamber with cleansing fire. The corruption fought back with the Eye's accumulated malice, sending waves of cosmic despair through his consciousness, but love was stronger than infinity. It had to be.

The world folded. Stone became air, air became light, and light became the familiar scent of growing things and forest earth. When the brilliance faded, they stood among the twisted trees of the Forest of Balor, all of them thrown to the ground by the violent transportation but blessedly alive.

Merlin swayed on his feet, the inherited corruption eating at his thoughts like acid infused with alien intelligence. Every breath sent fire through his lungs, every heartbeat pushed the Eye's malevolent consciousness deeper into his sy stem. The ancient evil whispered constantly now, no longer trying to seduce but commanding with the authority of something that had once held dominion over mortal and divine alike.

But they were safe. Arthur was alive, picking himself up from the forest floor with that particular grace that spoke of warrior's training. Hunith was breathing, conscious, looking at him with eyes full of love and growing concern.

They were safe, and that was all that mattered - even if he was no longer entirely sure what he was becoming.

Arthur's voice cut through the ringing in his ears: "Merlin! Are you - "

But Merlin couldn't bear to hear the rest. Couldn't stand to see the moment when relief turned to remembrance, when Arthur recalled the revelations in the caves and the betrayal written in every secret Merlin had kept. The look on Arthur's face in those final moments before the Eye's corruption had claimed him - disappointment, hurt, the terrible understanding that everything between them had been built on lies.

And now, with the Eye's consciousness pressing against his awareness, he could feel how much worse it was about to become. The ancient intelligence wanted Arthur, wanted to corrupt the pure love it sensed and transform it into something useful for its purposes. Every moment he remained near the people he loved was another moment the inherited evil could study them, learn their weaknesses, plan their downfall.

I failed him, Merlin thought, and both his own corruption and the Eye's malevolent awareness seized on that pain, magnifying it until it felt like his chest was caving in. I failed everyone.

"Arthur," he managed, the words scraping his throat raw. "I'm sorry."

He reached for Magic one more time, but this time he reached far - across kingdoms, across the sea itself, to a place where his magic might find sanctuary. The ancient forests of Brocéliande called to him across impossible distances, their primal power singing in harmony with forces older than human civilization.

Lightning blazed, wind howled, and he was gone – south and west across the narrow sea to the mystical woodlands where Druids claimed magic itself had first taken root in the world of men.

Physical pain he could have endured. But this went deeper than flesh, deeper than bone. This was the agony of watching everything he'd built with Arthur crumble into dust, the knowledge that his own choices had transformed love into betrayal and trust into suspicion. The corruption fed on that pain, growing stronger with every wave of guilt and self-recrimination that crashed through his consciousness.

Let it in, the darkness whispered. Stop fighting. You've hurt everyone you ever cared about. You've failed in every way that matters. Why keep struggling when surrender would be so much easier?

But even as his body writhed on the forest floor, even as black veins spread across his skin like infection made visible, Merlin's consciousness turned inward. He had to find Magic. Had to reach the part of himself that was more than human, that might be strong enough to fight what was consuming them both.

Something tears.

Morgana staggers in the Forest of Balor, her hand pressed to her chest where pain blooms like a flower made of thorns. The corruption in her veins pulls, sudden and desperate, as if part of her soul has been ripped away without warning.

She knows that feeling. Has felt it before, in the Dark Tower, when Morgause's silver magic wound chains through her mind and bound her will to purposes not her own. The Silver Wheel of Arianrhod, spinning endlessly in her thoughts, its light burning through everything she had once been until only hatred remained.

But this is different - not silver threads constraining her thoughts, but something fundamental calling to something else fundamental across distances that should make connection impossible.

He's gone, she thinks, and the knowledge comes with certainty that bypasses rational understanding. The corruption recognizes its kin, and when one flees, the other must follow.

Time fractures around her - past, present, future bleeding together. She sees herself walking through twisted trees of Balor - no, standing on a cliff overlooking grey waters - no, screaming in the Dark Tower while mandrake roots whisper lies about betrayal and abandonment - no, materializing in ancient forest where magic itself learned to speak.

The spell that carries her across the narrow sea is not entirely her own. The corruption provides raw power, but something older guides the direction. As if Brocéliande itself has reached across the water to claim what belongs to it, what has always belonged to it since magic first took root in mortal hearts.

She materializes among oaks and ash trees that hum with primal power, their branches forming cathedral spaces where light falls in patterns older than the Crystal Cave, older than the first breath drawn by mortal lungs. This is not the birthplace of magic - that honor belongs to the Crystal Cave alone - but this is where magic learned to love, to grow, to nurture rather than merely exist.

And somewhere ahead, she can feel him - burning like a beacon of corrupted light, setting the sacred grove ablaze with wild magic and wilder grief.

The mental landscape that formed around Merlin’s awareness was achingly familiar - Arthur's chambers in Camelot, down to the last detail. The great bed with its crimson hangings, the carved wardrobe where he'd hung Arthur's clothes countless times, the window that looked out over the city they'd both sworn to protect. This was home in every way that mattered, the place where his heart lived regardless of where his body might wander.

And there, standing by the fireplace with his back turned, was his golden-eyed twin.

Magic looked exactly like him but transformed with skin that seemed to glow from within and eyes that blazed with the accumulated power of creation itself. He was beautiful and terrible and Merlin's own reflection given divine form, but cracks had formed in that perfect surface.

Light bled through the fractures in Magic's form like liquid gold, while his construct of Arthur's chambers began to decay around them. Black veins crept across the walls, pulsing with malevolent life as the corruption worked its way toward the center of everything they were.

"Magic," Merlin called, moving toward his other self with desperate urgency. "We have to fight this."

Magic spun toward him, and Merlin's heart broke at what he saw there. Terror, rage, and a pain in a face identical to his own, so profound it made the chamber's very foundations tremble. The golden eyes that should have held warmth and wisdom instead blazed with fury that had nowhere to go, power without purpose or control.

"You abandoned me," Magic said, his voice carrying harmonics that made the corrupted walls pulse faster. "You severed our connection, cast me into void and nothingness, and I was alone!" He screamed the word, and the windows of the mental construct shattered. In the physical world, trees exploded into flame around Merlin's writhing form. The corruption pressed closer, feeding on Magic's instability, growing stronger with every wave of chaotic power.

"I know," Merlin said, reaching out despite the dangerous energies crackling around his other self.

"It was worse than death," Magic sobbed, his form beginning to fragment as emotion overwhelmed divine composure. "Worse than anything I could have imagined. There was nothing - no sight, no sound, no connection to you or to the world. Just emptiness that went on forever."

Merlin shuddered with the remembered echo of the numbing absence he felt while wearing the bracer. "I know it was terrible, I know I hurt us both, but we did it to save Mum, remember? And we succeeded - she's safe, Arthur's safe, everyone we love is alive because of what we endured."

Magic blinked, and a hint of the madness left his wild eyes. “Mother?” he whispered. “And... and Arthur? It worked?”

“Long enough,” Merlin said, and pulled his other self into a desperate embrace, feeling the wild energies that surrounded Magic settle slightly at the contact. This close, he could feel everything - the fury at being caged, the lingering terror from their separation that had driven Magic to fight so hard against the bracer's constraints. “But when the bracer shattered, the corruption of the Eye entered us, and when Arthur destroyed the Eye with Excalibur... Well. You can feel it too, can’t you?”

Magic looked around as if seeing the mental construct of Arthur’s room for the first time. Finally noticing the black, creeping corruption spreading quickly, feeling the insidious intelligence behind it, his eyes cleared of terror-induced madness, only to fill with new fear as he understood the magnitude of the threat. “No,” he whispered, “please. We didn’t endure the bracer only for the Eye to claim us after all.”

"We fight together," Merlin whispered, pressing their foreheads together in the gesture of ultimate trust. "We're together again, and I swear to you, I will never willingly separate us like that again."

Magic's return embrace was fierce, desperate, clinging to connection like a drowning man clutching driftwood. "Promise me," he gasped against Merlin's shoulder.

"I promise," Merlin said, meaning it with every fiber of his being. "We face everything together from now on."

Some of the wild energy calmed,` the flames in the physical forest settling to a less catastrophic burn. But the corruption continued its inexorable advance, black veins now covering most of their mental sanctuary, creeping toward the center where they stood locked in each other's arms.

"We have to fight," Merlin said, pulling back to meet Magic's eyes.

        Magic nodded, wiping tears from his golden eyes, power beginning to stabilize into something approaching control. "Together," he agreed. "Show me how."

They joined their strength, human will and divine power working in harmony for the first time since their violent reunion. The malevolent mind fought back, whispering of all their failures, all their betrayals, the look of hurt and anger on Arthur's face when the truth had finally been revealed.

You poisoned her, it hissed. You let people die. You lied to everyone you claimed to love. You're not worthy of the love they gave you.

For a moment, the assault of guilt and self-recrimination nearly overwhelmed them. The corruption pressed closer, and Merlin felt his resolve wavering as Arthur's voice echoed in his memory: How long did you have the power to stop it before you finally acted?

But Magic's presence steadied him, reminded him of truths larger than immediate pain. They had made mistakes, yes. They had failed people, hurt people, chosen poorly when better options might have existed. But they had also saved lives, protected the innocent, stood between Arthur and countless threats that would have destroyed him.

They were not perfect. But they were not evil.

The corruption slowed its advance, held at bay by their combined will. But it didn't retreat, didn't weaken. It simply waited, patient as stone, ready to surge forward the moment their concentration faltered.

"We're holding it," Magic said through gritted teeth, his form briefly stabilizing. "But we're not winning."

And that's when they felt her - another presence touched by the same corruption, carrying the same infection but from a different source. The sensation was like recognizing a distorted reflection in black water, familiar and alien all at once.

Their awareness turned outward, feeling the heat from the burning forest around their physical form, sensing approach through connection forged by shared taint.

Morgana walked between the burning trees like a queen of winter, her pale skin luminous and strangely glassy in the firelight, her black eyes holding depths that belonged to someone who had seen too much and understood too little. The corruption in her sang to the corruption in them, recognition flowing between like and like.

"She's here," Magic whispered, and Merlin felt his other self's attention focus on the approaching figure with wariness.

Time fractures around her like broken glass, each shard reflecting a different moment that might be now, might be then, might be the endless torment of the Dark Tower where silver light burns through her skull and rewrites love into hatred.

Morgana walks through the burning forest of Brocéliande and her bare feet find paths that shift like living things. But with each step, the alien corruption in her mind shows her other moments, other paths:

The Dark Tower, cold stone slick with moisture and malice. Morgause's beautiful face, terrible in its love, speaking words of comfort while silver chains wrap around Morgana's soul. "They never loved you, sister. Only I love you truly."

Arthur's voice, but distorted by mandrake visions: "She's dangerous. We should have cast her out years ago." All lies, she knows now, but the Silver Wheel spins in her mind and makes the lies feel true.

The present moment, walking between sacred oaks while corruption flows through her veins like liquid void, making time taste like copper and grief.

But now there is something new in the corruption's whispers - a vast, hungry intelligence that wasn't there before. The destruction of the Eye has changed everything. Where once there was only mindless malice, now there is purpose, ancient and terrible and focused with the weight of cosmic intention.

The heir awakens, her corruption sings with harmonies that sound like breaking stars. The Eye's chosen vessel stirs in the sacred wood. Soon the great work begins anew, and this time there will be no stopping what comes.

The corruption shifts her perception, makes minutes feel like hours, hours like heartbeats. She can see past and future simultaneously - herself as Uther's ward, laughing with Gwen in chambers filled with sunlight; herself as she is now, alien and fractured, barely human; herself as she might yet become if the poison spreads further, crystalline and beautiful and utterly empty of warmth.

But threaded through all these visions now are glimpses of something else - a figure wreathed in power that makes reality bend and break, eyes of solid black that hold the weight of ended worlds. The Eye's true inheritor, awakening to his cosmic purpose.

The sleeping spell, she thinks, or remembers thinking, or will think tomorrow. I was the focus.

The words echo strangely, bouncing off silver threads that have wound through her thoughts for so long she'd forgotten they weren't her own. But the alien corruption in her mind takes some of the edge off their bite, makes everything feel distant and strange and almost bearable.

Merlin's voice in the caves, desperate and breaking: Morgause used her as the focus... the spell would have killed everyone...

Understanding tries to surface through layers of silver binding and alien poison. If she was the focus... if breaking the connection required her to nearly die... then Merlin hadn't tried to murder her. He'd tried to save everyone the only way he could, even knowing it might cost her life.

But the Silver Wheel spins in her mind, and the understanding slips away like water through fingers. The chains Morgause forged are too strong, have had too long to settle into her soul. Even knowing the truth changes nothing. The hatred remains, deeper than conscious thought, woven into the very fabric of who she's been forced to become.

She enslaved me, the realization comes with the distant horror of something observed rather than felt. The corruption makes everything seem far away, including her own emotions. My sister, who claimed to love me above all else, enslaved me as surely as if she'd put chains on my wrists.

The knowledge should hurt. Should rage. Should break something fundamental inside her. But the alien poison makes it feel like someone else's pain, someone else's betrayal. She can see it, understand it, but not quite feel it. Everything is silver-wrapped and strange, filtered through perceptions that no longer quite belong to humanity.

A sound draws her attention - keening that might be wind through ancient branches or might be something dying. She follows it through trees that part before her corrupted presence, their ancient bark unmarked by the flames she can see flickering just beyond normal sight.

And there he is.

Emrys writhes on the forest floor of Brocéliande, black veins spreading across pale skin while his magic sets the sacred grove ablaze. But now the corruption recognizes something more - the Eye's vast consciousness pressing against mortal flesh, ancient intelligence trying to remake its chosen vessel into something worthy of cosmic purpose.

The corruption in her veins sings with recognition and anticipation. The heir stirs. The transformation begins. Soon he will understand what he has become, what we have all become in service to the greater design.

He looks like I must have looked, she thinks with that strange, distant clarity the alien poison brings, when she broke me on the wheel. When Morgause's love became my cage.

But she cannot help him any more than she can help herself. The silver chains still bind her will to purposes not her own, while the corruption makes everything feel like someone else's dream. And now, with the Eye's consciousness awakening in his flesh, she's not sure help would be mercy anyway.

"You're burning everything," she says, though the voice that emerges from her throat is strange. The corruption has begun to change her in fundamental ways, making time and space feel fluid, making her own voice sound like wind chimes made from starlight and bone. "Even here in the sacred wood, you'll burn it all to ash."

He hears her. The corruption creates connections between like and like, and his head turns toward her with movements too sharp, too precise, as if his body no longer quite remembers how to be human.

His wide, terrified eyes blaze gold, shot through with veins of black, but beneath the surface she can sense something vast stirring - the Eye's inherited consciousness pressing against the boundaries of mortal flesh, will, and magic, testing the limits of its new vessel.

When he speaks, three voices emerge - human desperation, ancient magic, and something else that tastes of ended worlds:

"Morgana."
"Broken Sister."
"Witness."

"I know what you're feeling," she says, moving closer despite the waves of heat that make the air itself burn. The silver threads in her mind sing with harmonies that sound like Morgause's lullabies, but the corruption muffles their bite, makes them feel like memories of pain rather than pain itself. "The Eye. It wants to consume everything, doesn't it? Make the world burn with the same fire that burns in us."

His expression twists with something that might be recognition, might be pain.

Pay, echo the silver chains in her thoughts. Make them all pay. They chose him over you. They always choose him.

But whose voice is that? Hers, or the one who bound her will to suffering?

Flash - She sees Camelot in flames, Arthur's sword melting as he faces something that was once Merlin but has become corruption given form. The vision tastes of copper and inevitability.

Flash - She sees herself in the Dark Tower, screaming as silver light rewrites her soul, while Morgause whispers sweet lies about love and family and belonging.

Flash - She sees an oak tree, ancient beyond measure, a safe prison for the broken creature trapped inside.

A stray thought --you were the focus for the sleep spell --

The visions flicker faster now, past and future and never-were spinning like leaves in a hurricane. But through them all, one truth remains: Emrys will burn the world unless he sleeps. The oak is the only cage strong enough to hold him, the only mercy she can offer with hands still bound by silver chains.

She reaches out with power that tastes of winter night and corrupted earth, speaks words in the Old Tongue that she doesn't remember learning. The ground beneath Emrys welcomes him, and roots rise from the soil like gentle hands.

The ground beneath him begins to soften, and Merlin feels roots stirring in the earth with unnatural purpose. Understanding crashes over him like ice water as he realizes what Morgana intends, and terror explodes through his consciousness with such force that both he and Magic scream in unison.

"No!" The word tears from his throat in two voices, human desperation layered with inhuman panic as the memory of the bracer's void crashes over him. "No, don't - not again - I can't be trapped again!"

In their shared mental space, Magic recoils in horror, his golden form flickering with remembered trauma. The separation - the nothingness - cannot endure that again!

Merlin and Magic fight with everything they have, wild and desperate, tainted power lashing out in chaotic waves that turn the forest floor to glass and set the very air aflame. Trees explode around them in showers of sparks and burning wood, while the earth itself cracks under the pressure of his unleashed panic. But the corruption has made his magic unstable, unfocused, and Morgana's power feels alien and strange as it counters his every desperate attempt at escape.

The roots continue to rise despite his struggles, and bark begins to flow like living water around his legs, his waist, climbing with inexorable patience toward his chest. He can feel the wood's alien consciousness, ancient and patient and utterly indifferent to his terror.

"Please," he gasps, clawing at the earth as he tries to drag himself away from the growing prison. His nails split and bleed as he fights for purchase, but the bark follows, encasing his lower body with the steady certainty of sunrise. "Please, I'll find another way, I'll control it, just don't - "

In their mental sanctuary, Magic beats frantically against the walls as black corruption presses closer, feeding on their shared terror. I will be alone again - trapped and alone with nothing but silence forever -

No, Merlin tries to reassure his other self even as bark reaches his chest, his shoulders, climbing toward his throat with patient inevitability. This is different. We're together. Whatever happens, we face it together.

But the words ring hollow when he can feel the Eye’s consciousness pressing against his own, vast and eager and utterly alien. Will he lose himself completely? Will Magic be dissolved into something larger and older and fundamentally Other?

Morgana falls to her knees beside him, her hands hovering over his face as the bark reaches his neck. Her eyes hold the same terror he feels - the terror of powerlessness, of being contained against one's will. For a moment, their shared corruption creates perfect understanding between them, and he can feel her own memories of captivity, of silver light burning through her mind while someone she trusted rewrote her very soul.

"Let me show you," she whispers, and her fingertips touch his temples.

The vision crashes into his consciousness -

Camelot burns around him as he stands in the courtyard, but this is not him, not anymore. The thing wearing his face has skin like opaque glass, eyes of solid black, no trace of gold or warmth or humanity remaining. Magic screams with voices that shatter stone, and his beloved city splits apart like an egg as corruption spreads outward in waves.

Arthur approaches with Excalibur raised, but his hands shake and tears stream down his face. "Please," his love begs, voice breaking as he reaches toward the monster that was once his heart. "Please, I know you're in there. I know you're still - "

Black power erupts from the thing that was once Merlin, and Arthur's scream cuts short as his body crumbles to ash. The corruption spreads beyond Camelot's walls, consuming kingdoms, transforming the world into crystalline wasteland where beautiful abominations dance among the ruins of everything human.

The vision releases him, and Merlin tastes bile in his throat as horror overwhelms every other consideration. The bark has reached his chin, but he no longer has the will to fight it. In their shared mental space, Magic weeps as the same images play through his consciousness - Arthur dying by their hand, the world ending because they couldn't control what they'd become.

"That's what happens if you stay free," Morgana says, and he can see tears streaming down her pale face. "That's what the corruption of the Eye wants. It wants to use your love for him as the final betrayal, wants you to destroy everything you've tried to protect."

"Arthur," he whispers, the name both prayer and breaking heart. Arthur's face in the vision - the love and desperation as he'd tried to reach something that was no longer capable of recognizing him, the moment when hope had died in those blue eyes Merlin loved more than his own soul.

"The tree can contain you," Morgana continues, her voice carrying exhaustion and something that might be genuine sorrow. "You'll sleep, and the corruption will sleep with you, and the world will be safe."

But as the bark continues its inexorable climb toward his face, something unexpected happens. The forest itself seems to sigh, and suddenly Merlin can feel it - the vast network of life that surrounds them, roots speaking to roots in languages older than words. The oak that grows around him is not alien after all, but kin, connected to the same fundamental forces that gave him breath.

Earth, whispers a voice that comes from stone and soil, warm and welcoming as a mother's embrace. You are of us, child of magic. Rest in our embrace.

--no, says the remnant of the Eye’s consciousness.

Air, sings another voice, carried on wind through leaves, promising freedom even in stillness. Breathe with us, become part of our eternal dance.

--No you cannot have him he is mine --

Water, murmurs a third, the sound of streams running pure and clean, untainted by corruption. Flow with us, let our currents wash away the poison that burns in your veins.

--NO!

In their shared mental space, Magic's terrified struggles slow as the same voices reach him. The corrupted, insidious mind that had been pressing against their sanctuary halts, held back by forces older and more fundamental than the Eye of Balor. Clean light begins to seep through the cracks in their prison, not golden like Magic's power, but green and silver and blue - the colors of living things.

You are not trapped, the ambient magic whispers with infinite gentleness. You are returning home. The earth that gave you form, the air that gave you breath, the waters that gave you life - we welcome you back to the source of all things.

Merlin feels his panic begin to ebb as understanding dawns. This isn't imprisonment - it's integration. The oak doesn't seek to cage him but to heal him, its roots drinking deep of the corruption that burns through his system, transforming poison into clean, growing life. The tree's consciousness isn't alien but ancient, connected to the same primal forces that shaped his magic before flesh ever contained it.

Rest, the voices murmur in harmony, and for the first time since the bracer shattered, Merlin feels peace beginning to bloom in his chest. Sleep and heal. Dream of better things. The corruption cannot touch you here, in the heart of living wood.

Magic looks up at him with wonder replacing terror, his golden form beginning to stabilize as clean power flows around them both. This is what we were before, he breathes, understanding flooding his features. Before flesh, before form - we were part of this. Part of everything.

Morgana's spell continues around them, but she looks confused by what she's witnessing. The tree grows differently now, not with the harsh binding she intended but with gentle purpose, guided by forces beyond her understanding or control. She doesn't stop - can't stop, some part of her recognizing that this must be completed - but her expression suggests she no longer understands what she's doing.

"For Arthur," Merlin breathes as the bark reaches his face, but now the words carry peace rather than desperation. "For everyone."

He closes his eyes and lets the oak embrace him completely, feeling the wood flow over his features like gentle water. The last thing he senses is the corruption, thrashing and screaming impotently, being drawn from his system by patient roots, dissolved and transformed into something clean and growing.

The fires die. Magic's wild rage settles into harmony with the tree's ancient rhythms as consciousness fades into dreams that taste of earth and sky and flowing water - dreams of healing, of rest, of love that transcends flesh and time and the small concerns of mortal hearts.

"The tree can contain you," Morgana whispers, power gathering around her that tastes of winter darkness and corrupted earth. "You'll sleep, and the corruption will sleep with you, and the world will be safe."

She doesn't tell him about the visions she sees - endless sleep, endless waiting, bark growing thick around dreams that may never wake. She doesn't tell him that some prisons are built from love, that some cages are forged by those who claim to protect what they destroy.

But as she speaks words in the Old Tongue that she doesn't remember learning, as roots rise from Brocéliande's sacred soil with purposes older than her magic, something unexpected happens.

The ancient forest stirs. Power older than her corruption, older than silver chains, older even than the Eye's malevolent hunger, recognizes what stands before it. This is Emrys - magic incarnate, the bridge between mortal and divine. The sacred grove will not see him caged, not even by well-intentioned cruelty.

The spell changes in her hands, twisted by forces she cannot understand or control. The corruption makes her perception fluid, uncertain, but she can sense the difference. This isn't the harsh prison she intended. This is something else entirely.

What - ? she thinks, but the thought fractures before it can form. Time skips like stones on water, showing her past and future in jagged shards while the present moment blurs into something that tastes of healing rather than harm.

The oak grows around Emrys with impossible speed, but the ancient forest guides its purpose now. She can feel Brocéliande's will flowing through her magic like warm honey, transforming curse into blessing, prison into sanctuary.

I don't understand, she thinks as the tree rises tall and straight and beautiful. This isn't what I intended. This isn't what I saw.

But the silver threads in her mind sing with satisfaction - duties fulfilled, purposes served, though she cannot remember choosing them. Cut off with the destruction of its greater self, the fragment of corruption within her stirs and settles, confused by results it didn't anticipate but cannot argue with.

When it is finished, when Emrys sleeps in the heart of the oak, peaceful for the first time since she found him, she sits back on her heels and stares at what she has wrought.

The tree stands perfect in the sacred grove, its roots drinking deep of Brocéliande's blessed earth. If she didn't know better - if the silver chains didn't remind her of what she'd tried to do - she would think it had grown here naturally over centuries of patient time.

But I wanted to cage him, she thinks with the distant confusion the corruption brings. I wanted him trapped as I am trapped. Why did the forest make it... different?

"Sleep well, brother," she whispers to the silent oak, the words carrying more genuine affection than she's felt in years. The alien poison makes even her own emotions feel strange and far away, but it also takes the edge off the silver chains' bite. "Here in the sacred wood, may your dreams be kinder than mine."

She rises, brushing earth from her hands, noting absently how the soil feels different here - cleaner somehow, blessed by forces that predate Balor’s Eye or Morgause's silver binding.

The corruption stirs, begins to whisper again of rage and vengeance, while silver threads sing their own song of duties not her own. But beneath both alien voices, something smaller and more human recognizes a truth her fractured mind can barely hold:

Was this mercy?

Time fractures around her again as she walks deeper into the ancient forest, showing her a thousand possible tomorrows.

Behind her, the oak stands guard in Brocéliande's heart, holding its precious burden safe while the sacred grove works its ancient magic, teaching even the darkest poisons how to grow toward light.

Arthur stood frozen in the spot where Merlin had vanished, his hand still outstretched toward empty air that held only the lingering scent of ozone and wild magic. The forest around them had fallen silent except for the distant rumble of caves collapsing deep beneath the earth, a sound that seemed to echo the hollow ache expanding in his chest.

"Merlin!" he shouted, though he knew it was futile. The lightning that had carried his friend away had been final, absolute - not the careful teleportation Merlin used for short distances, but something desperate and far-reaching that spoke of flight rather than strategic retreat.

Behind him, he could hear his knights picking themselves up from the forest floor, their armor clanking as they struggled to their feet in the aftermath of the violent magical transportation that had saved their lives. But Arthur couldn't turn around, couldn't look away from the empty space where Merlin had stood, as if his desperate attention alone might summon his friend back from wherever his guilt and corruption had driven him.

The crown meant nothing if Merlin wasn't there to see him wear it.

"Arthur." Lancelot's voice was gentle, understanding, but it carried the weight of someone trying to pull his king back from the edge of something dangerous. "He's gone. We can't sense him, can't track him. Whatever magic he used, it took him far from here."

"How far?" Arthur demanded, finally turning to face his knights, noting with distant part of his mind how they all looked shaken, uncertain, as if the revelations in the caves had left them questioning everything they thought they knew about their friend. "Can we follow? There has to be some way to - "

"Arthur." This time it was Hunith who spoke, her voice cracked with exhaustion and grief that made Arthur's protective instincts flare despite everything else consuming his thoughts. Merlin's mother sat on a fallen log, her simple village dress torn and dirty from her ordeal, but her eyes held the same fierce determination that had always reminded Arthur so strongly of her son. "He's protecting us. Whatever's happening to him, whatever that thing did when you destroyed it, he left to keep us safe."

Arthur looked at her, startled. "What thing? What are you talking about?"

Hunith's face crumpled, tears she'd been holding back finally breaking free as the full horror of what she'd witnessed crashed over her. "When you struck the Eye," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "all that power, all that darkness - it didn't just disappear. It went into him. I saw it happen, saw the moment when it hit him like lightning made of shadow."

Arthur felt his blood turn to ice, understanding flooding through him with sickening clarity. The corruption that had already been spreading through Merlin's system, the black veins pulsing beneath his pale skin - and then the Eye's destruction had fed all of that ancient malevolence directly into him.

"His scream," Hunith continued, pressing her hands to her face as if she could block out the memory. "I've never heard anything like it. Such pain, such terror. And then he saved us anyway, brought us out of those terrible caves even though it was destroying him from the inside."

Gwaine cursed under his breath, a string of oaths that would have made tavern-keepers blush. "No wonder he ran. If he's carrying all that corruption, if it's trying to turn him into something like that Eye..."

"He left to protect us," Percival said quietly, his massive frame somehow managing to look small and lost in the aftermath of understanding. "Even in agony, his first thought was keeping us safe."

Arthur wanted to rage, wanted to demand that they search every inch of the known world until they found Merlin and dragged him back where Arthur could protect him. But the rational part of his mind - the part trained to think tactically rather than emotionally - recognized the terrible logic of Merlin's choice. If the Eye's corruption was trying to use him as a weapon, if his presence near the people he loved made them targets rather than offering protection, then flight was the only option that served love rather than selfish need.

But understanding didn't make the loss any easier to bear.

"Tell me about the dragon," Arthur said quietly, needing to understand the full scope of Merlin's secrets before they returned to face whatever political crisis awaited them in Camelot. "Merlin said something about being forced into a bargain, about swearing on your life."

Hunith's expression grew distant with memory and old pain. "He wrote to me about it, after it was all over. Said he couldn't bear to keep such a terrible secret alone." She wiped at her eyes with trembling fingers. "The sleeping sickness - when everyone fell into that unnatural slumber except..." Her voice broke, fresh tears spilling over. "Except Morgana."

Arthur felt his chest tighten at the mention of his sister, the woman who had once been family but was now something else entirely. The pale, terrible figure who had orchestrated Hunith's kidnapping, who had wielded corruption like a weapon while her eyes held nothing but hatred for everything she'd once claimed to love.

"I remember her," Hunith said softly, her voice thick with grief that went beyond Merlin's disappearance. "From Ealdor, when she helped us fight off the bandits. She was so brave, so kind to the villagers. She held my hands and promised that you would help us, and her eyes were full of such warmth." Her voice broke completely. "What happened to her? How did that sweet girl become... that?"

Arthur's jaw tightened as he processed the pain in Hunith's voice, the bewilderment of someone who had known Morgana before hatred had consumed her entirely. "I don't know," he said, though the lie tasted bitter. He knew exactly what had happened - magic had awakened in her, fear had driven her to desperate choices, and his father's laws had made her believe she was alone and hunted. But explaining that to Hunith would only add to her grief.

"Merlin wrote that he was desperate during the sleeping sickness," Hunith continued, forcing herself to focus on the story Arthur needed to hear. "Everyone was falling into that unnatural slumber, and he didn't know what else to do. So he went to the dragon beneath the castle - Kilgharrah, he called it."

Arthur felt his stomach clench as more pieces of his father's legacy revealed themselves. The Great Dragon, chained beneath Camelot for decades, had been another of Uther's cruelty - a creature imprisoned not for any specific crime, but as a symbol of magic's defeat.

"The dragon wouldn't help unless Merlin swore to free it," Hunith said. "Said it would let everyone in Camelot die before it gave up its one chance at freedom. And to make sure Merlin kept his word..." She shuddered. "It made him swear on my life. Said if he broke the oath, I would die in agony."

Arthur's jaw tightened with retroactive fury. The dragon had held an entire kingdom hostage, used the threat of mass death to force Merlin into an impossible choice between saving lives and keeping faith with his king.

"The dragon told him the only way to break the spell was to... to kill the person who was the focus of it." Hunith's voice grew even quieter, and Arthur had to strain to hear her over the sound of hoofbeats. "Morgana. She was the anchor point for Morgause's magic, and as long as she lived, the spell would continue."

Arthur's blood ran cold as understanding flooded through him. "So he poisoned her."

"Hemlock," Hunith confirmed, tears streaming freely now. "He gave her hemlock, watched her drink it, held her while she was dying. My boy - my gentle, caring boy - poisoned someone he considered a friend because it was the only way to save everyone else."

The magnitude of what Merlin had endured in secret was staggering. Arthur tried to imagine it - being forced to poison someone you cared about, watching them suffer while knowing it was necessary to prevent greater tragedy. The guilt alone would have destroyed most people.

"But she didn't die," Gwaine pointed out, confusion clear in his voice.

"No," Hunith said. "Morgause came for her, took her away before the poison could complete its work. But the spell was broken - everyone woke up, the enchantment was lifted. Merlin had done what was necessary, but the guilt..." She shook her head. "He blamed himself for everything; for being forced into such a terrible choice."

"And then he had to free the dragon," Arthur said, understanding dawning with sickening clarity.

Hunith nodded miserably. "He'd sworn on my life. He wouldn't break such an oath, even if I begged him to. You saw the lengths he went to, just to save me from those terrible caves.

Yes, Arthur had seen Merlin torture himself to willingly walk into Morgana’s trap, all so he could save this little village woman with a spine of steel. His mother.

And Arthur couldn’t help but think of his own mother, whose spirit smiled at him, beaming with happiness and pride and love so pure that just the memory of it made his eyes sting and his throat thicken. And he knew without a doubt that he would die a thousand deaths, suffer the worst torture, if it meant she could have lived.

“So he went to the dragon's prison and set it free," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hunith buried her face in her hands and nodded, her shoulders trembling with her quiet sobs as she wept for her missing son.

Arthur thought of those terrible days when the dragon had descended on Camelot, a nightmare made flesh. The fires that had consumed entire districts, the screams of people caught in the open when the creature struck, the desperate searches for weapons that could bring it down. All of it traced back to an oath extracted under duress, a promise made with innocent lives held hostage.

He thought of his mother, and thought he might just understand Merlin a little better than he had.

"But you killed it, didn’t you?" Lancelot asked Arthur. "The stories are all over Camelot that you struck the killing blow."

"No," Hunith said before Arthur could respond, her voice shivering as she swallowed hard against her tears. "Merlin's father was a dragonlord - a man named Balinor—”

“Wait.” Arthur held up a hand, not quite able to believe his ears. “Balinor was Merlin’s father?”

Hunith wet eyes met his gaze, unflinching. “Yes,” she said. “Neither of them knew of the other. Balinor came to Ealdor to flee execution in Camelot, and I took him in. But then, just two fortnights later, Uther’s men crossed the border searching for him and he went into hiding.” She turned her head, looking off into the distance. “I never had the chance to tell him, and I thought it best that Merlin not know.”

“Why?” Gwaine asked, rather too bluntly, Arthur thought. “Didn’t he have the right to know who his father was?”

“Merlin could do magic from the moment he was born,” Hunith replied, lifting her chin. “I didn’t dare let him out of the house until he was old enough to know to hide it. I wasn’t going to lose him to Uther’s drowning wells, Cenred’s enslavement, and certainly not to the search for a man who was already on the run from a death sentence for being the last dragonlord.”

Gwaine’s open mouth snapped shut. Arthur would have found it amusing, but he was too lost in the memory of that desperate journey to find Balinor. Of the night at the inn when he’d noticed Merlin’s distraction, and, when he tried to tease out what was bothering him, how Merlin essentially told him to mind his own damn business. Of the infected wound that had laid him low, the hermit in the caves who had initially refused to help. He'd never known the man's connection to Merlin, had never suspected that his loyal servant was meeting his father for the first time in his life.

“Uther sent me to find Balinor and persuade him to stop the dragon attacks,” Arthur said. “Merlin accompanied me, of course. I never thought – I didn’t know.”

“Neither did he, until right before you left,” Hunith said. “Gaius told him the truth.” She sighed shakily. “As good a time as any to find out, I suppose, though I wish they’d had more time together.”

“What happened?” Percival asked.

“According to Merlin, Balinor first refused to come back to Camelot, but then changed his mind. It was only after he changed his mind that Merlin told him he was his son.”

Arthur wondered when that had happened. Obviously when he wasn’t around.

"On the journey back to Camelot, they were attacked by Cenred's men. Balinor died protecting Merlin - died before he'd had more than a day to know his son."

Arthur’s throat went dry as the world seemed to tilt on its axis as he remembered that night by the campfire, when Merlin had seemed so stricken by the hermit's death. Arthur had assumed it was simple compassion for someone who'd died trying to help them. He'd never imagined it was grief for a father lost almost the moment he was found.

"When a dragonlord dies," Hunith explained, wiping at the new tears that streaked her sun-worn cheeks, "his power passes to his heir. Only when Balinor died did Merlin inherit the ability to command dragons, to speak their language. That's the only reason he could finally stop the Great Dragon’s attacks - not because he killed it, but because he ordered it to leave and never return."

Arthur felt sick as he processed the timeline. All those days of dragon attacks, all those deaths - and Merlin had been powerless to stop them until his father's death finally gave him the means. The guilt Merlin had carried, the weight of every life lost while he waited helplessly for power he didn't even know he would inherit...

"He couldn't have acted sooner," Percival said, his deep voice carrying the same realization that was dawning on all of them.

"Try telling him that," Hunith replied with a bitter laugh that held no humor. "My son has always taken the weight of the world on his shoulders, blamed himself for things beyond any mortal's control. Every person who died while he was powerless to stop the dragon, every family destroyed by dragon fire - he carries their faces with him."

Arthur found himself thinking of all the times Merlin had seemed haunted by unspoken burdens, all the moments when his friend had looked like he was carrying secrets too heavy for one person to bear.

How many nights had Merlin lain awake after listening to Arthur rage about the dragon's attacks? How many times had he watched Arthur grieve for the dead while carrying his own impossible burden of guilt and helpless responsibility?

"We should return to the horses," Lancelot said gently, though Arthur could see the same hollow grief in his friend's dark eyes. "Standing here won't bring him back, and the forest is still dangerous. We need to get back to Camelot, report what happened."

Arthur helped Hunith to her feet, noting how the woman's hands shook as she accepted his assistance. She looked fragile in a way that had nothing to do with physical injury - this was the brittleness that came from watching your child disappear into danger you couldn't follow, couldn't fight, couldn't even understand.

"We only have the four horses," Lancelot said quietly, his voice carrying the gentle courtesy that had always defined him. "Hunith, you're welcome to ride with me. My horse is strong enough to carry us both easily."

Arthur felt a flash of gratitude toward his knight - not just for the practical solution, but for the way Lancelot offered it. There was no condescension in his tone, no suggestion that Hunith was a burden. Just simple kindness extended to someone who needed it.

"Thank you," Hunith said, her voice barely above a whisper as she accepted Lancelot's assistance in mounting behind him. "You're very kind."

The walk back to where they'd left their mounts felt endless, each step taking Arthur further from the last place he'd seen Merlin's face. The corrupted trees pressed close around them, their diseased bark seeming to mock his failure to protect the person who mattered most. Every shadow looked like it might hold familiar features, every rustle of leaves sounded like it might be Merlin's voice calling his name.

But when they reached the clearing, they found only their patient horses, still tethered where they'd left them but clearly agitated by the supernatural energies that had been unleashed in the forest. The animals stamped and nickered nervously, rolling their eyes as they scented the lingering traces of corruption and wild magic.

Arthur helped Hunith onto Lancelot's horse, and Lancelot settled her securely, making sure she had a firm grip before urging his horse forward. Arthur could see the careful way he adjusted his riding to accommodate his passenger, keeping the pace smooth and steady despite the rough terrain.

Arthur, Gwaine, and Percival mounted their horses in heavy silence, each lost in their own thoughts as the full magnitude of Merlin's sacrifices became clear.

As they began the long journey back to Camelot, Arthur noticed Hunith’s shoulders shaking with quiet sobs she tried to muffle. Every few minutes she would wipe at her eyes, but the tears kept coming - a mother's grief for a son lost to forces she couldn't fight or understand.

"She's taking it hard," Gwaine observed quietly, bringing his horse up beside Arthur's as they rode through the diseased forest toward cleaner lands beyond.

"She's lost him twice now," Arthur replied, his voice rough with emotions he couldn't quite name. "First to Camelot, then to whatever corruption is consuming him. And after everything he's already endured..." Arthur's voice trailed off as the full scope of Merlin's suffering became clear.

"The revelations in the caves," Percival said carefully, his deep voice carrying the weight of someone choosing words with particular care. "About the sleeping sickness, about the dragon - it changes everything, doesn't it? Makes it all make sense."

Arthur considered the question as they rode through shadows cast by dying trees. Did it change things? The facts remained the same - people had died, Merlin had made choices that cost innocent lives, trust had been built on foundations of deception and hidden truth.

But understanding the context, learning about the impossible positions Merlin had been forced into, the oaths extracted under duress and powers he couldn't control until fate made them available... it transformed condemnation into something approaching comprehension.

"He was trying to save everyone," Arthur said finally, surprised by the certainty in his own voice. "Every choice he made, every secret he kept - it was all about protecting people. Even when it meant poisoning someone he cared about, even when it meant watching people die while he waited for power that might never come."

"Even when it meant carrying guilt that should have been shared," Lancelot added quietly, his dark eyes reflecting the same understanding that was slowly dawning in Arthur's chest. "Even when it meant shouldering blame for things completely beyond his control."

"Stupid bastard," Gwaine said with fierce affection, though tears glittered in his eyes as he spoke. "Always trying to save everyone else while tearing himself apart with guilt over things that weren't his fault to begin with."

Arthur thought of Merlin's face in those final moments before the corruption had claimed him - the anguish when Morgana's revelations had stripped away years of careful secrecy, the terror when he'd realized what was happening to him, the desperate love in his eyes as he'd looked at Arthur one last time before vanishing into lightning and thunder.

"We have to find him," Arthur said, the words carrying the weight of royal command and personal desperation in equal measure. "Whatever he's become, wherever he's gone - we have to bring him home."

"If he can be brought home," Percival said carefully, voicing the fear they all carried but none wanted to acknowledge. He left their other fear unvoiced. If there's still enough of him left to save.

The terrible, unspoken fear hung between them like a sword - the possibility that Merlin's flight hadn't been temporary retreat but permanent exile, that the corruption of the Eye might have claimed him so thoroughly that return would mean destruction for everyone he'd died to protect.

But Arthur pushed the fear aside, replacing it with the sort of stubborn determination that had carried him through countless impossible battles. Merlin was still alive, was still fighting whatever poison flowed through his system, was still choosing to protect others over his own welfare. That meant there was hope, however slim.

With every mile toward Camelot, the weight of kingship pressed heavier on his shoulders - not just the crown he would soon wear, but the knowledge that he would wear it alone.

Geoffrey would be waiting with scrolls and ceremonies, the council would demand formal acknowledgment of succession, and the people would expect their new king to address the realm's concerns with wisdom and authority. But how could he speak of Camelot's future when its greatest protector was lost to forces Arthur barely understood?

"The coronation," he said suddenly, the words feeling strange in his mouth. "They'll want to proceed immediately."

"You're the king regardless of ceremony," Gwaine said quietly. "Crown or no crown, the realm needs you."

Arthur thought of all the times Merlin had helped him prepare for important occasions - adjusting his ceremonial armor, offering quiet encouragement, making terrible jokes to ease his nerves. The coronation should have been their shared triumph, the culmination of everything they'd worked toward together.

Instead, it would be another burden to bear alone.

"He should be there," Arthur said, his voice rough with grief he couldn't quite contain. "When I'm crowned, he should be standing with the other knights, rolling his eyes at the pomp and circumstance. Making faces at me from across the throne room."

"Perhaps he will be," Hunith said, quiet and wistful. "Maybe not in body, but he might be there. My son has never missed a moment when you needed him, and I can’t imagine he would start now."

Arthur wanted to believe her, but the thought of facing Camelot's great hall filled with nobles and ceremony while Merlin suffered alone somewhere beyond his reach felt like betrayal. How could he accept crown and kingdom when he'd failed to protect the person who mattered most?

"The realm comes first," he said, the words tasting like ashes but carrying the weight of duty he couldn't abandon. "Camelot needs stability, needs to see strength. We'll return, I'll be crowned, and then..." His voice hardened with determination. "Then we tear the world apart looking for him if we have to."

As they rode toward the far distant spires of Camelot, Arthur found himself thinking not of crowns or ceremonies, but of a promise made in desperation: We have to find him. Whatever he's become, wherever he's gone - we have to bring him home.

Some things were worth any sacrifice. Some people were worth moving heaven and earth to save.

And when Arthur Pendragon was crowned king, his first royal decree would be simple: bring Merlin home.

Chapter Text

The journey back to Camelot stretched before them like a physical weight, each mile marked by the crushing absence of the one person who should have been riding among them. Arthur kept catching himself turning in his saddle to make some observation to Merlin, only to find empty air where his friend should have been. The habit of years died hard, leaving him hollow each time reality reasserted itself.

They made camp that first night in a clearing that offered good sight lines and defensible positions. Arthur went through the motions of establishing watch rotations and seeing to the horses, but his mind remained elsewhere, caught in an endless loop of Merlin's face in those final moments: the black veins spreading across pale skin, the terrible mix of guilt and love in eyes that had blazed gold shot through with corruption.

Arthur. I'm sorry.

The words echoed in his memory with devastating clarity, carrying layers of meaning he was only beginning to unpack. Sorry for the secrets, for the lies, for the choices made under impossible circumstances. Sorry for leaving. Sorry for loving him.

Hunith sat by the fire, wrapped in Lancelot's spare cloak, staring into the flames with the hollow expression of someone who had lost everything that mattered. She'd barely spoken since they'd left the Forest of Balor, retreating into a grief so profound that even attempts at comfort seemed intrusive.

Arthur settled beside her, offering the simple comfort of presence since words felt inadequate to the magnitude of what they'd both lost.

"He'll come back," Hunith said finally, her voice hoarse from crying and disuse. "My son has survived worse than this. He's stronger than people realize."

Arthur wanted to believe her, wanted to cling to the desperate hope in her words. But he'd seen the corruption spreading through Merlin's system, had watched the Eye's malevolent consciousness pressing against his friend's awareness. Strength alone might not be enough against forces that ancient and terrible.

"He is," Arthur agreed anyway, because what else could he say to a mother who had just watched her child disappear into darkness? "And we'll find him. I swear it."

The oath felt inadequate, but Hunith's hand found his and squeezed with surprising strength. "Thank you," she whispered. "For loving him. For seeing past the magic to the man beneath."

Arthur's throat tightened with emotions too complex to name. "I should have seen it sooner," he said, the words tasting like ash. "Should have trusted him enough to--"

"To what? To accept revelations that went against everything you'd been taught from birth?" Hunith shook her head, her eyes reflecting firelight and ancient sadness. "My son chose to hide his gifts, chose to build your relationship on half-truths rather than risk losing you entirely. That was his choice, his burden. You can't take responsibility for decisions he made long before you were ready to hear them."

The absolution should have brought comfort, but Arthur found himself thinking of all the moments when Merlin had looked like he was carrying secrets too heavy for one person to bear. How many times had Arthur dismissed that haunted expression, convinced himself it was nothing important? How many opportunities had he missed to offer the trust that might have made honesty possible?

"Get some rest," Arthur said finally, helping Hunith settle onto the bedroll they'd prepared for her. "Tomorrow will be a long ride."

He took first watch, too restless for sleep, while his knights arranged themselves around the fire with the practiced efficiency of men accustomed to camping in hostile territory. But even exhaustion couldn't keep them from noticing the wrongness of their small group. The missing presence that should have been complaining about sleeping on cold ground or making terrible jokes about Gwaine's snoring.

The next morning dawned grey and miserable, matching Arthur's mood as they broke camp with mechanical efficiency. The horses seemed to sense their riders' melancholy, moving with subdued steps as they resumed the journey toward Camelot.

Gwaine tried to lighten the atmosphere as they rode, launching into what should have been an entertaining story about a tavern brawl in the lower town. "So there I was, covered in ale and facing down three very angry blacksmiths, when--"

"When Merlin showed up and accidentally knocked over a barrel, creating enough distraction for you to escape out the back door," Arthur finished, the memory rising unbidden. He'd heard this story before, had laughed at Gwaine's exaggerated retelling while Merlin rolled his eyes and insisted it had been a tactical use of environmental obstacles.

Gwaine's grin faltered. "Right. Yeah. The idiot saved my arse, while playing it off as a random happenstance of good luck."

"He had a talent for that," Percival observed quietly, his deep voice carrying the weight of someone who had been saved more than once by Merlin's apparent clumsiness that wasn't clumsy at all.

The attempted banter died there, their worry over Merlin's unknown fate casting a pall that no amount of forced humor could lift. They rode the rest of the morning in heavy silence, each lost in their own thoughts about the man they'd lost and the secrets that had shaped all their lives without their knowledge.

By late afternoon, they'd reached the Darkling Woods that surrounded Camelot like a protective barrier. The familiar road through familiar lush foliage brought Arthur a small measure of comfort. The destruction of the Eye stopped the spread of its corruption from extending beyond the borders of the Forest of Balor, and would never reach these lands. Though the cost was beyond measure, and his heart felt hollowed out, his people were safe.

That meant something. And Merlin, who understood his love for Camelot and its people more than anyone, would have been glad of it, were he here. He had to believe that Merlin, self-sacrificing idiot that he was, would have approved of this outcome.

Just as the spires of the citadel came into view as they crested a hill, Percival held up a hand, his massive frame tensing with the alert stillness of a hunter who'd spotted prey.

"Movement ahead," he said quietly.

Arthur drew Excalibur without conscious thought, the dragon-forged blade singing as it cleared its sheath. Behind him, his knights responded with practiced efficiency, forming a protective formation that placed them between potential danger and Hunith while maintaining mobility for quick response.

Through the trees, Arthur could see her. A figure standing motionless in the shadows of the trees. At first glance, she might have been any court lady lost in thought, but something about her absolute stillness raised every instinct Arthur had developed through years of facing supernatural threats.

"Morgana," he breathed, recognizing the familiar lines of her posture despite the changes that had transformed her beyond easy recognition.

She was utterly still, staring blindly at nothing, as motionless as a statue carved from pale stone. But as Arthur's eyes adjusted to the dappled light filtering through the canopy, he realized she was no longer entirely human.

Her skin had transformed into something that resembled milky glass, translucent and faintly luminous in ways that made his stomach churn with wrongness. Her hair, once lustrous black with hints of auburn when sunlight caught it, had become rigid strands that held the iridescent sheen of raven feathers. The rags of her black dress seemed to have hardened into something almost metallic.

But it was her eyes that truly horrified him.

Where once had been the green-gold eyes he remembered from their childhood, from days of laughter and shared secrets before magic and fear had torn them apart, now there were only dark, multi-faceted crystals, too large for her face, easily three times the size of normal human eyes. They caught the light like insect eyes, each facet reflecting and refracting reality into fragments that didn't quite align with the world around them.

At first Arthur thought she was completely blind, lost in whatever vision the corruption had trapped her within. Then he looked closer and saw small, swirling images in each crystalline facet. Entire worlds contained in eyes that no longer seemed capable of seeing the present moment.

"Hold," Arthur commanded quietly, though his own grip on Excalibur's hilt tightened with instinctive readiness. "Everyone stay mounted. This could be a trap."

"Could be?" Lancelot's voice carried the particular skepticism of someone who had learned that when Morgana was involved, traps were almost guaranteed. "Arthur, look at her. This is exactly the sort of thing she'd do to lure us in."

Arthur knew his friend was right. Every tactical instinct he possessed screamed danger, warned him to ride past and report her presence to the guards, let others handle whatever supernatural threat she represented. But he couldn't shake the memory of the girl she'd been. His sister in all but blood, who had laughed at his jokes and comforted him after nightmares, before magic and betrayal had poisoned everything between them.

And now she stood alone in the forest like a broken thing, transformed by forces she'd sought to control, as much victim as villain in the tragedy that had consumed them all.

"We can't just leave her here," he said finally, dismounting despite Lancelot's sound of protest. "This close to the citadel, if she's a danger to travelers, to the people..."

“Do we... kill her?” Percival asked quietly.

Arthur shook his head, something in his chest refusing the pragmatic solution. "She's still..." He stopped, unsure how to finish. Still his sister? Still someone he'd loved? Still human enough to deserve mercy rather than execution?

The knights dismounted reluctantly, forming a protective semicircle behind Arthur as he approached the motionless figure. Gwaine and Percival flanked him on either side, weapons drawn, while Lancelot remained slightly back with one hand on Hunith's shoulder, ready to get her to safety if this went badly.

Arthur raised Excalibur between himself and Morgana, the blade catching light as he spoke. "Morgana?"

For a moment, nothing. Then the swirling images in those crystalline eyes slowed, stopped, and she looked directly at him. Recognition flickered across her transformed features, and to his utter surprise, she smiled. A small, almost affectionate expression that belonged to the girl he'd once known rather than the enemy she'd become.

Her gaze dropped to Excalibur, and her smile widened slightly. "I gave you that sword."

Arthur blinked, utterly confused. "No," he said carefully, watching for any sign that this was some elaborate deception. "Merlin gave me this sword."

Morgana's head tilted slightly, the movement eerily mechanical, like a bird examining something curious. "Did he?" Her voice carried a dreamy quality, distant and untethered to present reality. "I must be remembering when I was someone else."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked, taking another cautious step forward. Behind him, he could hear Gwaine's muttered curse and Percival's warning to be careful, but his attention remained fixed on Morgana's crystalline eyes.

Those eyes swirled again, images flickering too fast for Arthur to identify. When she spoke, her voice had changed, lighter somehow, younger, carrying inflections that didn't quite match the Morgana he knew.

"The lake, of course. I gave it to you in the lake." She frowned, confusion clouding her features. "No, that was... that was someone else. Or was it?" Her hand rose to her temple, fingers pressing against the glass-like skin. "Everything is so muddled. The Silver Wheel spins and spins, and I can't remember which memories are mine anymore."

"Silver Wheel?" Lancelot asked, his tactical mind seizing on potentially useful information. "What's that?"

But Morgana didn't seem to hear him. Her attention had turned inward, crystalline eyes reflecting scenes that Arthur couldn't see but that clearly held her captive. Her expression shifted suddenly, terror and anguish replacing confusion as her breathing quickened.

"The tower," she whispered, and her voice broke with sudden pain that sounded absolutely genuine.

Then she was somewhere else entirely, her consciousness pulled into memory with such force that her body convulsed.

Arthur instinctively reached out to steady her, but stopped short as her crystalline eyes began to swirl with violent speed, images cascading across their multifaceted surfaces so rapidly they blurred into a nauseating kaleidoscope.

"Morgana?" he said carefully, noting how her glass-like skin had gone even paler, if that was possible.

She didn't seem to hear him. Her breathing quickened, shallow and panicked, while her hands pressed flat against empty air as if feeling stone walls Arthur couldn't see. The images in her eyes resolved slightly, and Arthur caught glimpses of darkness, of green-glowing things hanging from unseen surfaces, of dripping shadow.

"No," Morgana whimpered, the sound small and broken in a way that made Arthur's chest clench with unexpected sympathy. She was staring at something only she could see, her expression cycling through terror, confusion, desperate pleading.

Arthur could see reflections in her crystalline eyes now, figures moving through the facets, though distorted and fragmented. He caught a flash of what might have been his own face, twisted into an expression of contempt he'd never worn. Then Gwen's features, beautiful but cold. Other figures he couldn't quite make out, their voices apparently audible to Morgana but silent to everyone watching.

"Arthur, please," Morgana gasped out, but she wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on something in her fractured vision, something that made her flinch and curl in on herself like a child expecting a blow.

Behind him, Arthur heard Gwaine shift uncomfortably. "Is she... what's happening to her?"

"I don't know," Arthur said quietly, unable to look away from the images playing out across Morgana's crystalline eyes. More faces now, cycling through the facets, including one that made his stomach clench with recognition. Uther, his father, towering and terrible in Morgana's vision.

"Uther, please!" The word broke from Morgana's lips, and the anguish in her voice was so raw that Arthur felt it like a physical blow.

She screamed then, not loud, but broken, desperate. Her hands came up to cover her ears, but the gesture seemed futile, as if the sounds she was trying to block came from inside her own head. Tears were streaming down her glass-like cheeks now, and the images in her eyes showed only darkness and dripping poison and faces twisted with cruelty.

Arthur watched helplessly as Morgana sobbed, her entire body shaking. "Make it stop," she gasped. "Please, Morgause, make it stop."

At the mention of Morgause's name, the images in Morgana's eyes shifted. Arthur caught a glimpse of silver light, of something small and wheel-shaped and terrible. Morgana's scream this time was different. Not just terror but agony that seemed to go beyond physical pain.

"Yes," she heard herself whispering, though her voice sounded hollow, distant. "Yes, they must pay. They must all pay."

Then, as suddenly as it had seized her, the vision released its grip. Morgana came back to herself with a gasp, tears streaming down her glass-like cheeks as her knees buckled. She caught herself against a tree, breathing hard, while the images in her faceted eyes finally slowed to a less frantic swirl.

Arthur stood frozen, his mind struggling to process what he'd just witnessed. He'd only seen fragments, reflections in crystalline eyes, heard broken words and desperate pleas. But even that glimpse had been enough to paint a picture that made his blood run cold.

"Morgana," he said softly, finding his voice again. "What was that? What did we just see?"

She looked up at him, and for a moment her crystalline eyes held something approaching lucidity -- and absolute devastation.

Arthur had moved closer, concern overriding caution. "Morgana?"

"The Dark Tower," she said, her voice hoarse. "I never... I never remembered what happened there. Not clearly. Morgause said it was because of the trauma of Merlin's poison, that my mind was protecting itself from the horror." She laughed bitterly, the sound breaking. "But that was a lie too. She made me forget. Made me forget what she did to me there."

Arthur's heart clenched in his chest, horror intertwining with sympathy as understanding dawned. "What did she do?"

Morgana's eyes cleared slightly, focusing on him with something approaching lucidity. "I didn’t remember on my own," she said, wonder and agony mixing in her voice. "Even after Morgause died, the enchantment held. But the Eye... when its corruption expanded my Sight, when reality itself began to fracture... suddenly I could see everything. All the worlds, all the possibilities... and all the memories that had been locked away."

Fresh tears spilled over. "I can see what she did now. I can remember every moment of that terrible room where the mandrakes dripped their poison into my mind. And I understand...  what I've become. Who I am."

“Morgana,” Arthur said. “What happened? I don’t understand.”

She straightened, something shifting in her demeanor. The swirling in her eyes cleared further, and when she spoke, her voice carried more coherence than it had since this encounter began.

"I am the Queen of Avalon," she announced suddenly, straightening to regal hauteur that belonged to someone accustomed to absolute authority. "Oldest of the Nine Sisters, keeper of the sacred mysteries, teacher of healing arts to those worthy of learning." Her expression shifted again, confusion bleeding through royal composure. "No, that's not right. I'm the youngest of three. Morgause, Elaine, and myself. We learned together, grew in power together, until..." The sentence trailed off, lost in another swirl of crystalline visions.

Arthur exchanged glances with his knights, seeing his own bewilderment reflected in their faces. This went beyond simple madness or corruption. Morgana seemed to be experiencing multiple lives simultaneously, unable to distinguish between the reality they inhabited and countless others that pressed against her fractured awareness.

Her attention suddenly fixed on Lancelot, and her expression cycled through a dozen emotions in rapid succession. "Lance," she breathed, and the affection in her voice was unmistakable. "My beautiful boy. I raised you from the lake, taught you everything you know about honor and duty and fighting for what's right."

Lancelot stiffened, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. "Lady Morgana, I don't--"

"No, wait." She shook her head, glass-like features creasing with confusion. "That's not right either. You raised yourself, didn't you? Or was it another Lady of the Lake entirely?" Her eyes swirled faster, and when she spoke again, her voice carried a different quality. Softer, more vulnerable. "I loved you. Do you remember? Before everything went wrong, before duty and destiny drove us apart. We could have been happy together."

"Morgana, I think you're confusing me with--" Lancelot tried again, his voice careful.

"The Valley of No Return," Morgana interrupted, her attention already shifting to something else. "I wove such beautiful enchantments there, trapping every unfaithful knight who dared enter. But you escaped, Lance. You alone walked through my most powerful magic untouched because of your faithfulness to Guinevere." She laughed, the sound carrying genuine delight. "I was furious at first, but also... proud. So very proud."

Her gaze slid to Gwaine, and her entire demeanor shifted again, this time taking on the fond exasperation of a relative dealing with a beloved but troublesome family member. "Nephew," she said with mock severity.

Gwaine's eyebrows shot up. "I'm sorry, what now?"

"You didn't escape," Morgana continued, wagging a finger at him like he was a naughty child caught stealing sweets. "Wandered right into my valley and got yourself trapped like all the other unfaithful lovers. And how many affairs were you maintaining when you stumbled in? Five? Six?" She tsked disapprovingly. "We really must discuss your commitment issues, dear nephew. This pattern of behavior is most unbecoming."

Despite the gravity of their situation, Arthur heard Percival snort quietly. Gwaine's expression had cycled from confusion to indignation to reluctant amusement.

"In my defense," Gwaine said with admirable poise, "I've never actually claimed to be faithful to anyone. I'm very upfront about my shortcomings in that department."

Morgana's expression softened. "True. At least you're honest about your nature. Unlike some." The bitterness in those last words suggested old wounds from relationships Arthur couldn't begin to understand.

She turned back to Arthur, and her crystalline eyes cleared slightly, focusing on him with something approaching lucidity. "It's so strange," she mused, her voice losing the dreamy quality for a moment. "In all those other worlds, in all those other lives, magic was just... part of life. Healers used it openly, freely, without fear. I was a healer." Wonder crept into her voice, as if she was discovering something precious that had been lost. "In so many of those lives, I healed people. Taught others to heal. Used my gifts to ease suffering rather than cause it."

She reached out toward Arthur, and he instinctively stepped back, nearly flinching, but stopping as her expression fell.

"And you were my friend,” she said, smiling sadly. “My annoying, stubborn, occasionally idiotic friend who I loved despite his capacity for monumentally stupid decisions." The affection in her voice was genuine, carrying echoes of the relationship they'd once shared before magic and fear had poisoned everything between them. "We argued constantly, but it was the arguing of people who care deeply, who challenge each other to be better. Unless you did something truly idiotic. Then I would get properly angry and have to put you in your place."

Arthur's throat tightened with grief for what they'd lost, for the friendship that might have been if his father's laws hadn't made her powers something to fear rather than celebrate. "Morgana..."

"I weep over your fallen body," she interrupted, her voice taking on a quality that suggested she was seeing something beyond the present moment. "Battle done, enemies vanquished, but the cost..." Her hand moved to her chest, pressing against the glass-like skin over her heart. "My sisters and I... sometimes eight of them, sometimes only two, the number keeps changing... we carry you to Avalon. To the sacred isle where the veil between worlds grows thin, where time moves differently, where heroes sleep and heal until the world has need of them again."

She smiled, the expression carrying unexpected tenderness. "A bit like how Merlin is sleeping and healing now."

Arthur, who felt growing dread at Morgana’s sudden talk of his demise in battle, went rigid at the mention of Merlin's name. Beside him, he felt his knights tense with the same desperate hope that had seized his chest. "What?" he demanded, stepping closer despite the potential danger. "What do you mean? What do you know about Merlin?"

Morgana blinked, her crystalline eyes swirling as new images cascaded through them. When she spoke again, her voice had taken on a different quality. Warm with affection and memory that seemed to come from yet another life. "Merlin," she said, the name like honey on her tongue. "He taught me so much. Patient where others were harsh, kind where others were fearful, seeing my potential rather than my power."

Her expression shifted into something softer, almost dreamy. "And such a considerate lover. Always so attentive, making sure I was satisfied before seeking his own pleasure. The way he would--"

"Morgana," Arthur interrupted desperately, his voice coming out several octaves higher than normal. He felt heat flood his face as mortification crashed over him, his mind stuttered to a complete halt, unable to process what he was hearing, while behind him he could hear Gwaine make a strangled sound that might have been a laugh or a cough.

But Morgana’s attention was elsewhere, her eyes still swirling with visions from other worlds, other lives where apparently she and Merlin had been...

Arthur's brain refused to complete that thought. The mental image of Merlin and Morgana together in that way was so fundamentally wrong, so utterly disconnected from the reality he knew, that he couldn't even begin to process it.

"Though he was terribly awkward at first," Morgana continued with fond amusement, apparently determined to share details Arthur absolutely did not want to hear. "All fumbling hands and earnest concern about whether he was doing it right. I had to teach him--"

"MORGANA." Arthur's voice cracked like a whip, stopping her mid-sentence. His face felt like it was on fire, and he couldn't bring himself to look at any of his knights, who he could hear making various sounds of poorly suppressed amusement behind him. "Please. I'm begging you. Stop talking about... about that."

She blinked at him, confusion crossing her transformed features. "Why? You're his friend, surely you want to know that he's skilled in--"

"NO," Arthur said emphatically, holding up one hand as if he could physically stop the words from reaching his ears. "No, I definitely do not want to know about Merlin's... skills. In any area. Especially not that area."

"That's not true," Gwaine stage-whispered from behind him, his voice thick with barely restrained laughter. "I think Arthur is very interested in Merlin's--"

"Gwaine, so help me, if you finish that sentence I will have you mucking out stables for a month," Arthur threatened, still unable to turn around and face his knights because his face had to be the color of Camelot's banners by now.

Behind him, he heard what sounded suspiciously like Percival choking on suppressed laughter while Lancelot made a valiant but ultimately unsuccessful attempt to maintain his composure.

Morgana was still looking at Arthur with puzzled concern, her crystalline eyes reflecting images he couldn't see but that apparently involved Merlin in ways that were going to haunt Arthur's nightmares for weeks. "I don't understand your distress. Surely you know that Merlin--"

"In this world," Arthur interrupted desperately, latching onto the one thing that might redirect this mortifying conversation, "Merlin and you were never... together. Like that. At all. What you're remembering, it's from somewhere else. Someone else."

Understanding slowly dawned in Morgana's expression as the crystalline facets of her eyes swirled again. "Oh," she said softly. "Oh, I see. Yes, you're right. Different world, different life. How strange that memories feel so real even when they belong to someone I'm not anymore."

"Yes, very strange," Arthur agreed quickly, relief flooding through him. "Very, very strange. So perhaps we could focus on this world? This reality?"

Morganne stared at him, seeming uncomprehending for a moment, before the swirling in her eyes abated. "Merlin was my friend," Morgana said, her expression shifting to something approaching genuine sadness. "Once. Before everything went wrong. He tried to help me, didn't he? When my powers first manifested. I can feel it, even through the silver chains His genuine desire to make things better, to teach me. But something stopped him. Someone." Her brow furrowed. "Or did I imagine that too?"

Before Arthur could respond, Morgana's attention suddenly shifted, her crystalline gaze fixing on something past his shoulder. Her entire demeanor transformed, face lighting up with genuine delight that seemed to cut through all the other confusion.

"Hunith!" she exclaimed, the name carrying such warmth that Arthur instinctively turned to look. Behind him, Merlin's mother had gone very still on Lancelot's horse, her face pale with the sort of fear that came from facing someone who had recently kidnapped and threatened her.

Morgana took a step forward, her glass-like features animated with excitement. "Oh, it's so wonderful to see you! Merlin talks about you constantly! Your kindness, your strength, how you raised him alone and kept him safe despite everything. I've been hoping to meet you for years!"

Hunith's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, clearly at a complete loss for how to respond. Lancelot's hand on her shoulder tightened protectively, while the other knights shifted into more defensive positions.

"I... Lady Morgana," Hunith managed finally, her voice trembling slightly. "I think you are not remembering yourself correctly."

"Am I?" Morgana's brow furrowed with confusion, crystalline eyes swirling as she tried to sort through memories that belonged to multiple realities. "No, you're right. Different world again. But I feel like I know you anyway, from all of Merlin's stories. The way you taught him to be kind, to use his gifts to help rather than harm. You must be so proud of him."

Arthur watched Hunith's expression cycle through fear, confusion, and finally settling on something approaching cautious compassion. Despite everything, despite the kidnapping, the threats, the terror of being used as bait to trap her son... she seemed to recognize the genuine emotion in Morgana's voice.

"I am proud of him," Hunith said carefully, playing along with whatever strange game reality had become. "Though I wish he didn't have to carry such heavy burdens alone."

"He won't be alone much longer," Morgana assured her, then her expression clouded with confusion again. "Or will he? Time is so strange, folding back on itself. Past, future, might-have-been... It all blends together until I can't tell what's real anymore."

"Morgana," Arthur said gently, drawing her attention back to him. "You mentioned Merlin is healing. Do you remember where? Can you tell us where to find him?"

Morgana's crystalline eyes swirled faster, images cascading through them as she struggled to focus on the present moment. "Trapped," she murmured. "He's trapped, but I can't quite remember where. The invisible tower? No, that was..." She frowned. "Someone else. The Crystal Cave? But that doesn't feel right either."

Arthur exchanged glances with his knights, seeing his own desperation reflected in their faces. They were so close to answers, but Morgana's fractured awareness kept slipping between realities before she could give them what they needed.

"Please," Hunith said suddenly, her voice carrying the sort of gentle authority that came from years of motherhood. "Morgana, dear. Try to focus on this world, this moment. My son, Merlin. Where is he right now?"

Something in Hunith's tone seemed to cut through the confusion. Morgana's attention fixed on her, and the swirling in her eyes slowed slightly. "Sleeping," she said, her voice taking on more certainty. "Healing. Somewhere safe from the corruption, where ancient magic can draw the poison from his system and help him to grow toward light instead of darkness."

"Where?" Arthur pressed, taking another step closer. "Morgana, please. Where is he?"

Her brow furrowed with concentration, crystalline eyes reflecting scenes that flickered too fast for Arthur to follow. "The oak," she said suddenly, her voice clearing with something approaching certainty. "I sealed him in the heart of a great oak. Across the narrow sea, in the ancient forest of Brocéliande where magic first learned to love instead of merely exist."

Relief crashed over Arthur with such force that his knees nearly buckled. Merlin was alive. Not dead, not destroyed by corruption, but alive and healing in some magical sanctuary across the sea. The desperate hope that had been eating at him since the moment Merlin vanished found solid ground, transformed into actionable information.

But even as relief flooded through him, tactical caution reasserted itself. This was Morgana. The woman who had orchestrated Hunith's kidnapping, who had tried to destroy them all mere days ago. The woman who, just months before that, had joined with Morgause to conquer Camelot with an immortal army.

Arthur's hand tightened on Excalibur's hilt as he studied her transformed features, looking for any sign of deception. Her crystalline eyes swirled with visions of infinite worlds, her glass-like skin reflected the morning light in patterns that hurt to look at directly, and her mind clearly flitted between realities like a butterfly unable to settle.

She seemed utterly mad. And she was still dangerous. The corrupted power radiating from her made the air itself shimmer with wrongness.

"Why should I believe you?" Arthur asked quietly, letting his doubt show. "You tried to kill us two days ago. You've tried to destroy Camelot. You kidnapped Merlin's mother and used her as bait to destroy Merlin. Why would you help us now?"

Morgana's eyes focused on him with sudden clarity, the swirling images slowing to a stop. For a moment, she looked fully present, fully aware of who and where she was.

"Because," she said, her voice carrying the weight of someone choosing each word with terrible care, "there is still a part of me that hates you. That yearns for your destruction, for the chance to rule Camelot as a dark queen, to watch everything Uther built crumble to ash." Her smile was bitter. "That part screams for me to lie to you, to send you on a fool's errand while Merlin suffers alone and lost."

Arthur's grip on Excalibur tightened further, magic-forged steel catching the morning light. Behind him, he could hear his knights shifting into defensive positions.

"But those desires aren't mine," Morgana continued, and tears began streaming down her glass cheeks again. "They were never mine. They were Morgause's, infused into me through an enchantment so powerful, so completely corrupting, that even her death couldn't break it."

"What are you talking about?" Arthur demanded, though he didn't lower his sword.

Morgana took a shaky breath, her glass-like fingers pressing against her temple as if she could hold her fractured thoughts together through force of will alone. "The Teine Diaga," she said, the words carrying ancient weight that made the air feel heavier. "An ancient ritual of dark magic that uses the mandrake root to bring unimaginable terror to its victim. When it is complete, their spirit has been consumed and bound by the Silver Wheel for all of eternity. Their will is no longer their own."

Arthur felt ice settle in his stomach. "Morgause did this to you?"

"After Merlin poisoned me with hemlock to break the sleep spell... after Morgause carried me away from Camelot and healed me... she took me to the Dark Tower." Morgana's voice was steady now, clinical, as if she was describing something that had happened to someone else. Perhaps, in a way, it had. "She imprisoned me in a room filled with mandrake roots. They hung from every surface, dripping black potion that filled the air with smoke and poison."

She closed her eyes, though tears continued to leak from beneath the crystalline lids. "The roots induced hallucinations. Nightmares beyond anything I could have imagined. I saw everyone I loved. You, Gwen, Merlin, even Uther, telling me I was worthless, wicked, that I deserved to die for my magic. Screaming at me. Laughing at me. For days, weeks, I don't even know how long. The same torments, over and over, until I couldn't tell what was real anymore."

Arthur felt his anger wavering, replaced by a deep horror. "And Morgause?"

"She visited me at regular intervals." Morgana's laugh was hollow. "Offered comfort, told me she was the only one I could trust. That everyone else had abandoned me, but she never would. She was patient. So patient." Her voice broke. "I resisted at first. Tried to remember that you cared for me, that Gwen loved me, that Merlin had tried to help me. But the hallucinations intensified every time I denied her truth. Every time I insisted my friends still cared, the roots showed me new torments, new betrayals. My resolve crumbled piece by piece, day by terrible day."

She opened her eyes, meeting Arthur's gaze with terrible clarity, and he could see the horrifying scenes described in the facets of her eyes. "By the time the enchantment was complete, my spirit had been consumed. My mind was under Morgause's control. She showed me the Silver Wheel of Arianrhod and she bound my soul to it. Chained me with silver threads that sang with her desires, her hatred, her ambitions. Everything I've done since then..." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I thought they were my choices. I remembered choosing them. But they were hers all along."

Arthur lowered Excalibur slowly, though he didn't sheath it. "Even after Morgause's death, you're still bound?"

"The enchantment doesn't depend on the caster's life. Only the Wheel's existence. As long as it endures, so does the binding. And I know of nothing in any world that can break it." Fresh tears spilled over. "The silver chains still sing, Arthur. Even now, they're screaming at me to lie to you, to hurt you. But they're just one voice among thousands now."

"Because of the Eye," Arthur said slowly, understanding beginning to dawn.

Morgana nodded. "The corruption of the Eye expanded my Sight beyond anything I could have imagined. Suddenly I could see across the veil between worlds, experience infinite lives, infinite possibilities. I can feel what it was like to be all those other Morganas -- the healer, the queen, the friend, the enemy, the sister, the lover." She gestured to her transformed body. "And in seeing so much, the Teine Diaga became just one small part of the whole. Still there, still pulling at me, but I can look at it from the outside now. I can see what was done to me, understand that those desires for destruction aren't mine."

She smiled through her tears, the expression heartbreaking in its fragile hope. "The corruption hurts. Gods, it hurts all the time, like my mind is being torn apart and reassembled wrong. But it's also glorious, Arthur. For the first time since Morgause took me to that tower, I can see myself clearly. I can distinguish between her hatred and my grief, between her ambitions and my fears."

Arthur stared at her, at the tears streaming from crystalline eyes that held infinite worlds swirling in their facets. He saw visions cascading across those multifaceted surfaces-- glimpses of other lives, other choices, other Morganas who had never been corrupted, never been chained to purposes not their own. The complexity of what he was seeing, the sheer impossible scope of her fractured awareness, defied any possibility of deception.

No one could fake this. No one could maintain such an elaborate illusion while clearly struggling to hold their own fractured consciousness together.

"I believe you," Arthur said quietly, sheathing Excalibur with careful deliberation.

Morgana's breath hitched, more tears spilling over. "You do?"

"I do." He took a step closer, close enough to see his own reflection distorted across the crystalline surfaces of her eyes. "I believe that Morgause enslaved you. I believe that you've been fighting against chains I couldn't see. And I believe that whatever the Eye's corruption has done to you, it's given you enough clarity to tell me the truth now."

Her smile was brilliant despite the tears, despite the wrongness of her transformed features. "Thank you," she whispered. "You have no idea what it means to be believed. To be seen."

But even as the words left her mouth, Arthur could see the lucidity beginning to fade from her expression. The swirling in her eyes accelerated, images cascading faster as her fractured consciousness slipped toward other times, other places.

"Morgana," he said urgently. "Before you go -- Merlin. You're certain he's in Brocéliande?"

She struggled to focus, her glass-like features creasing with concentration. "Trapped," she murmured. "Sealed in the oak. Sleeping, healing, like I said..." Her voice trailed off, uncertainty creeping back in.

"How long?" Arthur pressed, fighting the desperation that wanted to transform into demands. "Morgana, please. How long must he stay there?"

For one crystalline moment, perfect clarity settled over her transformed features. The swirling in her eyes stopped completely, focused entirely on Arthur with recognition that felt absolutely genuine.

"A year and a day," she said, the words ringing with certainty that cut through every other confusion. "Merlin must sleep in the oak for a year and a day. The corruption of the Eye runs deep, Arthur, deeper than you can imagine. The roots must draw it out slowly, carefully, teaching his magic how to exist alongside his humanity again without consuming him from within. If you go to him too soon, if you interrupt the healing process, you could destroy him."

Arthur's protest died on his lips as he processed the implications. A year. An entire year of waiting while Merlin slept in some distant forest, alone.

"Promise me," Morgana said urgently, her hand shooting out to grasp his wrist with surprising strength. "Promise you'll wait the full year and a day. Promise you won't let impatience or fear drive you to him too soon. The healing requires time and patience. Please, Arthur."

The desperation in her voice, the absolute certainty that this timeline was essential, made his choice for him.

"I promise," he said hoarsely, the oath feeling like chains settling around his chest. "A year and a day. I'll wait. But after that..."

"After that, you sail to Brocéliande and bring him home." Morgana smiled, the expression carrying echoes of the girl he'd once known, before magic and fear and forced corruption had stolen everything she might have been. "And when you do, tell him... tell him I'm sorry. For everything. For not being strong enough to resist Morgause's binding, for the role I played in his suffering. Tell him the silver chains still sing, but I know they're not my voice anymore. Tell him..." Her voice broke. "Tell him the girl who was his friend still exists, somewhere beneath all of this. Still hopes. Still loves."

Her gaze shifted to Hunith, crystalline eyes softening. "Take care of yourself during the waiting," she said gently. "I know it will be hard. But your son is stronger than any of us realize. He will come back to you."

But even as she spoke, the lucidity was fading, her attention turning inward again. The images in her eyes began to swirl once more, her expression shifting through a dozen different emotions in rapid succession.

"Morgana?" Arthur said softly.

She blinked, and when she looked at him, she was someone else entirely, somewhere else. Her expression had transformed into something approaching wonder, her lips curving into a smile that held no recognition of their current surroundings.

"At last," she breathed, her voice carrying harmonics that didn't belong to the present moment. "You're awake."

Arthur's brow furrowed with confusion. "What?"

But Morgana wasn't seeing the Darkling Woods or the mounted knights or Camelot's walls in the distance. Her crystalline eyes reflected something else entirely -- green hills and mist-wreathed waters, a place where time moved differently and heroes slept until the world had need of them.

"Arthur," she said, saying his name with reverence and joy. "You're finally awake. The long sleep is over." She reached out as if to touch his face, and this time Arthur stood firm, refusing to back away. However, her hand stopped short, not quite connecting with present reality. "Is it finally time?” she asked. “Will you now return to the mortal realm and fulfill the prophecy of the Once and Future King?”

Arthur decided he really needed to find out what this Once and Future King prophecy was all about. He wanted to question Morgana on it, but her strange, alien countenance filled with such desperate hope that all he could manage was, “Yes.”

Her responding smile was so genuine and beautiful that, beneath all the physical changes and the haunting memories of her recent cruelty and malice, he could finally see the Morgana he once knew. And he smiled back.

Then she vanished. Not dramatically, not with thunder or lightning, but simply fading like morning mist under sunlight. One moment she stood before them, transformed and broken, yet smiling... and the next there was only empty air and the fading scent of winter roses.

Silence descended over the clearing, broken only by the nervous stamping of horses and the distant sound of Camelot's bells marking the hour, and Arthur felt suddenly bereft. Where was Morgana now? Was she truly beyond help? After everything she had suffered, surely that could not be her final fate.

"What," Gwaine said finally, his voice carrying the particular inflection of someone whose entire understanding of reality had just been thoroughly scrambled, "in the name of all the gods was that?"

Arthur slowly lowered Excalibur, realizing he'd been holding it at the ready throughout the entire bizarre encounter. His wrist ached where Morgana had gripped it, and he rubbed absently at the spot while his mind struggled to process everything that had just happened.

"Did any of that actually make sense to anyone else?" Gwaine asked. "Because I'm fairly certain she thought I was her nephew at one point.”

Despite everything, Arthur felt his lips twitch with the urge to smile. Leave it to Gwaine to find humor even in the midst of supernatural encounters that defied comprehension.

But the moment of levity faded quickly, replaced by the weight of the information Morgana had provided.

"Well, at least we know Merlin’s alive," Percival said, clearly trying to see the bright side of the situation. "We know where he is, that he's healing. That's more than we had an hour ago."

"And more than that," Hunith added quietly. "We know he'll come back. A year and a day. That's a specific time, not forever. I can wait a year if it means my son comes home whole."

Arthur looked at her, saw the strength in her expression despite everything she'd endured, and felt something settle in his own chest. Hunith had raised Merlin alone, had protected him from Uther's purge, had sent him to Camelot knowing she might never see him again. If she could endure such separations with grace, then surely he could manage a year?

"A year and a day,” Arthur said, the words torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "How can I possibly--" He stopped, forced himself to breathe, to think like a king rather than a man whose heart was simultaneously breaking and filling with hope. "But if that's what it takes to ensure he survives, to give him time to heal properly..."

"Then we wait," Lancelot finished gently. "We return to Camelot, you take the crown, and we wait."

"And when the year is nearly done, we sail for Brocéliande and bring him home," Arthur finished, the promise settling into his bones like an oath sworn before gods and men.

He looked at each of his knights in turn, seeing determination that matched his own reflected in their faces. Whatever waited for them in the coming year, whatever challenges arose, they would face them with the knowledge that at the end, their friend would be returned to them.

"Come on," he said finally, turning back toward where the horses waited with patient tolerance born of magical enhancement. "Camelot awaits, and we have a year's worth of kingdom-building to accomplish before we can take our leave."

As they mounted and resumed their journey, Arthur found his hand moving to his chest, pressing against the spot over his heart where he could almost feel the ghost of a locket's weight. The one that had once held Merlin's soul, kept safe and close during those terrible days of separation.

Heal, rest, he thought toward the distant forest across the narrow sea, though he knew Merlin couldn't hear him. But when the year is done, know that I'm coming for you. Nothing in heaven or earth will keep me from bringing you home.

The gates of Camelot opened before them with the familiar groan of wrought iron, and Arthur felt the weight of homecoming settle over him like a mantle, both comforting and suffocating in equal measure. They'd been gone less than a week, but it felt like years had passed since he'd last ridden through these gates with Merlin at his side.

The streets were lined with people who had clearly been waiting for their return, their faces bright with relief and celebration. Word must have spread somehow. Perhaps through the evacuated villagers who had witnessed their departure, or through the sort of intuitive knowledge that seemed to permeate Camelot during times of crisis. They knew their protectors had ridden out to face some terrible threat, and now those protectors had returned victorious.

"Arthur! Arthur! Long live King Arthur!" The cry rose from the crowd like a wave, washing over him with fierce loyalty and hope that made his chest tight with the weight of expectation.

Children ran alongside their horses, laughing and waving makeshift banners bearing the Pendragon crest. Merchants emerged from their shops to bow as they passed, while women threw flowers into their path with the sort of exuberance usually reserved for tournament victories. The entire lower town had turned out, it seemed, to welcome home their king and his knights.

But not one face searched their small group for the figure who should have been among them. Not one voice called out asking after the prince's manservant, the court sorcerer, the man who had protected them all in secret for so many years. Merlin had joined their quest unexpectedly, his dramatic arrival through magical lightning witnessed by few. To the people of Camelot, he had remained safely behind while their warriors rode to battle.

The realization sent a sharp pang through Arthur's chest. Merlin's absence would go unnoticed by all but those who knew him best, and even they would assume he was simply engaged in other duties. The thought of Merlin sleeping alone in a distant forest while the kingdom he'd died to protect celebrated without him felt like a betrayal, even though Arthur knew it was necessary.

What struck Arthur even more was the complete absence of mourning in the celebration. No black banners hung from windows, no solemn faces marked the passing of their previous king. Uther Pendragon had ruled Camelot for over twenty years, had shaped the kingdom through force of will and iron law, and yet his death seemed to have passed with barely a ripple of genuine grief.

They celebrated Arthur's return. They cheered for their new king with obvious relief and hope. But for Uther? Nothing but a respectful silence that spoke volumes about the fear he'd inspired rather than the love he'd earned.

Is this what you wanted, Father? Arthur thought as another cheer rose from the crowd. To be so feared that your death brings only relief? To have built a legacy of law and order so harsh that people celebrate the chance for something better?

The thought brought no satisfaction, only a deep sadness for what his father might have been if fear and grief hadn't consumed him so completely.

As they rode through the inner gates into the courtyard proper, Arthur saw the formal reception waiting at the citadel steps. Leon stood at attention in full ceremonial armor, his expression carrying the particular relief of someone who had spent days preparing for the worst while hoping for the best. Beside him, Gwen wore a simple but elegant dress, her face lighting up as she caught sight of their party. Gaius stood slightly behind, his weathered features creased with concern that hadn't yet resolved into relief. Lord Geoffrey stood on the steps, surrounded by several council members whose expressions ranged from curious to calculating.

Arthur dismounted with practiced ease, his body moving through familiar motions while his mind remained elsewhere. He could see Gaius and Gwen's eyes immediately tracking across their small group, noting each face with the careful attention of people searching for someone specific.

Their gazes found Hunith seated behind Lancelot, and understanding flickered across their features -- relief that at least she had been rescued, followed quickly by growing alarm as they processed who was missing from their party.

Gwen's hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide with sudden fear. Gaius went pale, his grip on his medical bag tightening until his knuckles showed white. But neither spoke, reading something in the knights' expressions that warned against immediate questions in such a public setting.

"Your Majesty," Leon said formally, bowing with military precision. The title felt strange, too large, carrying responsibilities Arthur wasn't sure he was ready to bear alone. "Welcome home. I trust your quest was successful?"

"Successful," Arthur confirmed, dismounting and clasping Leon's arm in the greeting of equals. "The Eye of Balor is destroyed. The corruption has been contained. Camelot is safe."

The words carried weight that made the assembled courtiers murmur with relief and speculation. Arthur could already see them processing implications, wondering about the specifics of what had occurred, calculating how this victory might affect the political landscape.

But he had neither time nor patience for politics at the moment.

Lancelot was helping Hunith down from his horse with careful courtesy, supporting her with gentle strength as her legs threatened to buckle after the long ride. Gwen immediately rushed forward, catching Merlin's mother in a supportive embrace that spoke of genuine affection despite their brief acquaintance.

"Thank the gods you're safe," Gwen whispered, loud enough for Arthur to hear. "We were so worried."

"I'm well," Hunith assured her, though her voice carried exhaustion that went beyond mere physical tiredness. "But we have much to discuss, and not in such a public place."

Gaius was already moving forward, his healer's instincts overriding court protocol. "Come," he said gently, taking Hunith's other arm. "Let's get you somewhere quiet where you can rest and tell us everything."

Arthur caught Lancelot's eye and nodded. As they had discussed during the ride home, his knight would accompany Hunith, Gwen, and Gaius to the physician's chambers to explain what had occurred. Better to share that impossible story in private, where grief and shock could be processed away from watching eyes.

Meanwhile, Gwaine and Percival had already flanked Leon, drawing him aside with the sort of casual urgency that suggested important information delivered in deliberately unremarkable fashion. Arthur watched them move toward the armory entrance, heads close together in conversation that would leave his First Knight properly briefed before the council meeting he was about to call.

"Lord Geoffrey," Arthur said, turning to the elderly scholar with the sort of formal authority that made the assembled courtiers straighten to attention. "Gather the council. We meet within the hour. And send word to the castle steward. My father will be interred tonight according to proper ceremony. Tomorrow..." He paused, letting the weight of what came next settle over the assembled nobility. "Tomorrow, we proceed with the coronation as planned."

Geoffrey's eyes widened with understanding. Arthur could practically see the old man's mind working through implications and protocols, calculating what needed to be done and in what order. "Your Majesty," he said with a deep bow that carried genuine respect rather than mere formality. "Everything has been prepared, thanks to Sir Leon's excellent coordination. I will inform the council immediately."

"Thank you, Geoffrey." Arthur softened his tone, recognizing the burden he was placing on the elderly scholar's shoulders. "I know the timing is rushed."

"The kingdom needs stability and certainty," Geoffrey assured with gentle understanding. "I quite agree, Sire. Your father would be proud of how you've handled this transition."

Arthur wasn't entirely sure that was true, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. He nodded his dismissal, watching as Geoffrey hurried off to begin the complex machinery of royal succession.

The council meeting convened in the great chamber with gratifying speed, a testament to Leon's excellent preparation during Arthur's absence. Every seat was filled, every councilor present and attentive despite the short notice. They had clearly been expecting his return, had been preparing for this moment.

Arthur took his place at the head of the table. Not his father's chair, he still couldn't bring himself to claim that, but close enough to establish authority. His knights arranged themselves around the room, silent and imposing, lending their presence as witnesses and support.

"Lords and ladies," Arthur began without preamble. "I know you have questions about what transpired during our quest. I will answer what I can, but first you must understand the scope of the threat we faced and eliminated."

He proceeded to give them the broad strokes. The Eye of Balor, an artifact of ancient evil that had been corrupting the Forest of Balor for centuries. The attacks on Camelot had been orchestrated to test their defenses, to draw out their protectors. Morgana's involvement, though he left out the more disturbing details about her current condition. The final confrontation in the caves, the destruction of the artifact, and the collapse that had nearly claimed them all.

"But we succeeded," Arthur concluded, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "The Eye is destroyed. The corruption has been contained. The immediate threat to Camelot has been eliminated."

Lord Marrok leaned forward, his weathered face creased with concern. "And the long-term threats, Your Majesty? Morgana remains at large. The sorcerers who attacked us before may yet return."

"They may," Arthur agreed. "Which is why we must be prepared. But that discussion can wait for another day. Tonight, we lay my father to rest with the honor due to Camelot's king. Tomorrow, we look to the future rather than the past."

He could see some councilors wanted to press for more details, wanted to understand exactly what had occurred and what it meant for the kingdom's security. But the set of Arthur's jaw and the presence of his knights made it clear that now was not the time.

"Any immediate concerns regarding tonight's ceremony or tomorrow's coronation?" Arthur asked, his tone making it clear he would entertain only the most pressing issues.

Lord Geoffrey rose with creaking dignity. "The preparations are complete, Your Majesty. The crypts have been prepared for King Uther's interment. The ceremony will proceed at sunset, followed by a period of respectful mourning. Tomorrow at midday, the coronation will take place in the throne room, with celebrations to follow throughout the city."

Arthur nodded his approval. "Thank you, Geoffrey. If there are no other pressing matters..." He looked around the table, meeting each councilor's eyes in turn and seeing nothing but varying degrees of acceptance. "Then we adjourn. I expect all of you to be present for both ceremonies. Dismissed."

As the councilors filed out, murmuring among themselves about the sparse details they'd been given, Arthur caught Geoffrey's arm. The old scholar paused, looking at him with questioning eyes that held genuine affection beneath the formal courtesy.

"A moment of your time, Geoffrey," Arthur said quietly, waiting until they were alone before continuing. "I need you to research something for me. Anything in the archives about a prophecy or title. The Once and Future King."

Geoffrey's eyes widened, shock and something approaching awe flickering across his weathered features. "The Once and Future King," he repeated slowly, as if tasting each word. "Your Majesty, where did you hear that title?"

"The druids have called me that," Arthur said, noting how the scholar had paled despite his obvious fascination. "As have other magic users, including Morgana during our confrontation. I need to understand what it means, what expectations or responsibilities it carries."

Geoffrey was quiet for a long moment, his expression cycling through wonder, concern, and something that might have been fear. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of someone delivering news of profound significance.

"That title appears in our oldest texts, Your Majesty. References to a king who will unite the land and bring about a golden age, but who is destined to..." He paused, seeming to choose his next words with extreme care. "The prophecies are unclear about many details, and they were largely dismissed by your father as magical nonsense. But if the druids themselves acknowledge you as such, if those with the Sight recognize you..."

He stopped again, clearly struggling with implications too large to voice without more time to consider them properly.

"I understand," Arthur said, though he didn't, not really. "Find what you can. We'll discuss it when you've had time to review the materials properly."

"Yes, Sire." Geoffrey bowed, but his expression carried the particular look of a scholar who had just been handed a mystery too fascinating to resist. "I will begin immediately. Though I warn you, the texts are ancient and fragmentary. It may take some time to piece together a coherent picture."

"We have time," Arthur assured him, thinking of the year stretching ahead before he could even consider leaving Camelot for Brocéliande. "Take what you need."

As Geoffrey hurried off toward the archives with the energetic purpose of someone half his age, Arthur found himself alone in the council chamber. The silence pressed against him, heavy with the absence of the person who should have been there making sarcastic comments about stuffy protocols and offering surprisingly insightful observations about political maneuvering.

One day down, Arthur thought, though it wasn't quite accurate. The year and a day began the exact moment Morgana had sealed Merlin in the oak. The countdown had already begun, each moment without Merlin stretching like an eternity.

He forced himself to stand, to move, to continue with the duties that wouldn't wait for personal grief to subside. The kingdom needed him, and he would not fail in that responsibility. Not when Merlin had sacrificed so much to ensure Camelot's survival.

The crypts beneath Camelot were ancient beyond reckoning, carved from living rock by hands that had turned to dust centuries before the first Pendragon claimed the throne. Torchlight flickered against stone walls marked with the names of kings and queens, warriors and heroes, all those who had been deemed worthy of eternal rest in Camelot's sacred heart.

Arthur stood before the empty sarcophagus that would hold his father's body, studying the carved dragon that marked it as belonging to the royal line. Soon, Uther would join his ancestors in the darkness, his reign concluded, his legacy left for others to judge.

The ceremony proceeded with somber dignity. Priests spoke words of passage and blessing that Arthur heard only dimly, his mind elsewhere. Nobles who had served Uther faithfully filed past to pay their respects, though even their grief seemed muted, performed more from duty than genuine sorrow.

When Arthur's turn came to speak, to offer final words for the father who had shaped so much of his life for better and worse, he found himself thinking not of Uther's accomplishments or failings, but of his mother's spirit.

The memory was crystal clear. Ygraine's translucent form appearing in Uther's final moments, extending her hand with love that transcended death itself. The way she had looked at Arthur afterward, her eyes shining with such fierce pride and unconditional love that it had taken his breath away. That smile, so warm and approving, speaking volumes about the king she believed he could become.

"My father was a great king," Arthur said, the formal words feeling hollow even as he spoke them. "He built Camelot into a power that commands respect throughout the realm. His laws brought order from chaos, his strength defended us from those who would see us destroyed."

All true, as far as it went. But it was also incomplete, leaving out the fear and hatred that had driven so many of those laws, the cruelty disguised as strength, the lives destroyed in service of order that had become its own kind of tyranny.

"But," Arthur continued, letting conviction enter his voice, "he was also a man shaped by grief and loss. A man who let fear guide him when love might have served better. And while I honor his memory and all he built, I will not be constrained by his fears. Camelot's future will be built on hope rather than hatred, on wisdom rather than blind tradition."

He could hear the shocked murmurs rippling through the assembled nobility, could feel their eyes on him as they processed this gentle but unmistakable repudiation of Uther's legacy. But Arthur thought of his mother's smile, of the pride in her eyes, and felt certain he was choosing the path she would have wanted him to walk.

"May you find peace, Father," Arthur said, touching the cold stone of the sarcophagus. "May you find the love in death that eluded you in life. And may you forgive me for choosing a different way."

The priests sealed the tomb with prayers and ceremony, sliding the heavy lid into place with finality that echoed through the crypts. Uther Pendragon was laid to rest among his ancestors, his reign concluded, his chapter of Camelot's story finished.

Arthur stood watching until the last noble had filed out, until he was alone with the dead and the weight of his own thoughts. Only then did he allow himself to feel the complex tangle of emotions his father's death had created. Grief for what might have been, relief that the fear and hatred would end with this generation, determination to build something better from the ashes of the old ways.

"I wish I could have met him," Arthur said to the empty air, though he knew his mother's spirit had already moved beyond such earthly concerns. "Not at the end, but before. When he was young and in love with you, before grief twisted him into something cruel. I think I would have liked that version of my father."

The silence offered no answers, but Arthur felt a sense of peace settle over him nonetheless. His mother's love transcended death itself, and her pride in him would be the foundation on which he built his reign.

He emerged from the crypts to find night had fallen over Camelot, stars wheeling overhead in patterns that seemed to mock human concerns with their infinite indifference. Tomorrow would bring coronation and celebration, the formal acknowledgment of what everyone already knew.  Arthur Pendragon was now truly king.

But tonight, he was simply a man exhausted beyond measure, carrying griefs too complex to name and hopes too precious to voice.

His chambers felt cavernous in Merlin's absence, every shadow seeming to hold the ghost of familiar presence. The room was not quite as he'd left it. Merlin had cleaned, it seemed, with far more than his usual efficiency before departing, leaving everything in perfect order. But that very perfection felt wrong, missing the comfortable chaos that had always marked Merlin's work. A book left open on the table where his servant had been reading while waiting for Arthur to need something. A forgotten neckerchief draped over a chair. The small signs of life and personality that had made these stone walls feel like home.

Now there was only emptiness and the crushing awareness of how much he'd taken for granted.

Arthur removed his formal attire with mechanical efficiency, not bothering to call for assistance. He'd learned to dress and undress himself during campaigns, though Merlin had always insisted on helping whenever possible, claiming that's what servants were for even when they both knew their relationship had transcended such simple definitions years ago.

Merlin would have made some joke about now, Arthur thought as he struggled with a particularly stubborn buckle. Something about how I'm hopeless without him, said with that particular smile that made the insult feel like affection.

The bed felt too large, too cold, designed for a king who should have a queen to share it. Arthur lay staring at the canopy overhead, exhaustion pulling at his bones while his mind refused to quiet.

Tomorrow he would be crowned. Tomorrow the real work would begin, reshaping Camelot into the kingdom he and Merlin had dreamed of during their too-brief time of understanding. A place where magic and mundane could coexist in peace, where fear gave way to hope, where people were judged by their actions rather than the circumstances of their birth.

Three hundred and sixty-one days, he thought as sleep finally began to pull him under. I can endure three hundred and sixty-one days. For you, I would endure anything.

He slept without dreams, his exhausted body claiming the rest his mind tried to deny. The chamber remained dark and silent around him, keeping vigil through the hours until dawn would bring new duties and new challenges.

When morning came, it arrived with all the ceremony and pageantry that befitted the coronation of a king.

Arthur endured the pre-coronation preparations with as much grace as he could muster, though the constant fussing of servants and officials made him want to escape to the training yard where at least the rules of combat were straightforward.

They dressed him in layers of formal regalia that had been carefully maintained for this moment. The ceremonial armor that bore Camelot's dragon in gold and crimson, the heavy cloak that had graced the shoulders of Pendragon kings since the founding of the realm. Every piece carried history and expectation, and each addition seemed to make the burden heavier.

"The kingdom rejoices today, Your Majesty," Lord Geoffrey said as he oversaw the final preparations, ensuring every detail met the exacting standards such ceremonies required. "A new king, a new beginning. The people are already gathering in the streets."

Through his chamber windows, Arthur could indeed hear the sounds of celebration beginning -- music and laughter drifting up from the lower town, the excited buzz of a city preparing for festivities. The contrast between his own somber mood and the joy outside felt jarring.

The walk to the throne room felt both endless and over too quickly. Knights lined the corridors in full ceremonial armor, their swords raised in salute as Arthur passed. Nobles bowed with elaborate courtesy. Servants smiled with genuine warmth that made his chest tight with the weight of their faith in him.

The throne room itself was packed to capacity, every available space filled with nobles and dignitaries, knights and courtiers, all dressed in their finest. A path had been cleared down the center, leading to where the throne sat waiting, and beside it, Geoffrey held the crown on a velvet cushion.

Arthur processed down that path with measured steps, hyperaware of every eye upon him, every breath held in anticipation. This was it. The moment that would define the rest of his life, the oath that would bind him to Camelot and its people until death released him from service.

As he reached the dais, Arthur knelt before Geoffrey, bowing his head to accept the weight of responsibility he could never truly set aside. The old scholar's voice rang out, clear and strong despite his age, speaking the words of coronation that had been used for centuries.

"Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther, of the line of kings stretching back to the founding of Camelot, do you swear to rule with justice and mercy? To defend the weak and punish the wicked? To uphold the laws of this realm and lead its people toward prosperity and peace?"

"I swear," Arthur said, his voice carrying to every corner of the chamber.

"Do you swear to put the needs of the kingdom before your own desires? To serve Camelot with your life and your death? To be the shield that guards your people from all who would harm them?"

"I swear."

Geoffrey lifted the crown; heavy gold worked with rubies and the eternal dragon of Camelot. "Then by the authority vested in me as Lord Chancellor and High Scholar of Camelot, by the will of the nobles assembled, and by the grace of the gods who watch over us all, I crown you Arthur, King of Camelot, Defender of the Realm, Lord of the Five Kingdoms."

The crown settled onto Arthur's head with weight that seemed to extend beyond mere physical mass. He felt it in his bones, in his soul, the transformation from prince to king made manifest through metal and ceremony.

"Long live King Arthur!" Geoffrey's cry was taken up by the entire assembly, voices rising in a chorus that shook the very stones of the throne room. "Long live the King!"

Arthur rose and turned to face his people, seeing their faces alight with hope and celebration. They cheered for him, for the promise of a better future, for the reign they believed would bring prosperity and peace.

He raised his hand in acknowledgment, and the room fell into expectant silence.

"My lords and ladies," Arthur began, his voice carrying with the authority that had been granted by crown and oath. "Today marks not just a transition of power, but a transformation of purpose. My father built Camelot into a kingdom of laws and order, and for that, we honor his memory. But laws made in fear serve only to breed more fear. Order maintained through cruelty becomes its own kind of chaos."

He could see some of the older nobles shifting uncomfortably, recognizing the implicit criticism of Uther's reign. But he also saw hope kindling in the eyes of younger courtiers, of knights who had served with honor despite laws they privately questioned.

"I cannot promise you an easy reign," Arthur continued. "There are enemies at our borders and challenges we cannot yet foresee. But I can promise you this. I will rule with justice tempered by mercy. I will judge actions rather than accidents of birth. And I will build a Camelot where all people, regardless of station or circumstance, can find safety and opportunity to flourish."

The cheers that greeted this declaration were genuine, rising from every corner of the room. Arthur let them wash over him, drawing strength from his people's faith even as he felt the crushing weight of living up to such expectations.

The ceremony continued with all the traditional elements -- the swearing of fealty by the knights, the presentation of tribute from allied kingdoms, the formal acceptance of responsibilities from various offices and guilds. Each ritual felt significant, binding him more tightly to the kingdom he now ruled absolutely.

Through it all, Arthur felt Merlin's absence like a physical wound. This should have been their triumph, the culmination of years spent working toward a Camelot that could embrace change. Merlin should have been standing with the knights, probably rolling his eyes at the excessive pageantry while simultaneously being ridiculously proud of Arthur's success.

Instead, he slept alone in a distant forest while Arthur accepted a crown they'd both worked to earn.

The feast that followed was magnificent. Tables laden with more food than Arthur could name, wine flowing freely, music filling the great hall with songs of celebration and hope. His knights toasted his reign with exuberant loyalty, the nobles offered elaborate compliments that barely concealed their political maneuvering, and the common people who had been allowed into the hall for the celebration looked at him with genuine affection that made his chest tight.

Gwen caught his eye from across the hall, raising her cup in a private toast that spoke of shared understanding. She knew what this cost him, knew who was missing from these celebrations. Beside her, Lancelot's smile was warm with approval, while Leon's steady presence at the high table provided the sort of reliable support Arthur had come to depend on.

But as night fell and the celebration showed no signs of waning, Arthur found himself slipping away from the revelry. Let them feast and celebrate. They'd earned it after the fear and uncertainty of recent weeks. He needed air, needed space to think without the weight of a hundred watching eyes.

He found himself on the battlements overlooking the city, watching torches flicker in the streets below where people continued their own celebrations. Camelot was happy tonight, safe and hopeful in ways it hadn't been for years. That should have brought satisfaction, should have felt like victory.

Instead, Arthur felt only the gnawing absence of the person who had made such victories possible.

"Three hundred and sixty days," he murmured to the night sky. "I will be the king you believed I could be. I will build the Camelot you died to protect. And when the time comes, I will bring you home."

The promise settled into his bones like an oath sworn before gods and men. Tomorrow would bring the real work. Council meetings to navigate, laws to reform, the complex machinery of kingdom-building that couldn't be rushed or simplified. But tonight, he could stand beneath the stars and let himself feel the full weight of what they'd won and what it had cost.

Eventually, exhaustion and duty drove him back to his chambers. The celebration would continue for hours yet, but the king needed to rest. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new demands on time and attention he could scarcely spare.

He dismissed the servants who tried to help him undress, needing the solitude that came with simple physical tasks. The formal regalia came off piece by piece, each removal feeling like shedding layers of performance until he was just Arthur again. Tired, lonely, but determined.

Sleep claimed him more quickly than expected, exhaustion overwhelming the anxious energy that had sustained him through the day's ceremonies.

He dreamed.

He stood in a forest of impossible beauty, where ancient trees reached toward skies that held the colors of perpetual sunset, purples and golds and deep roses that shifted and blended like paint running together. The air itself seemed alive, thrumming with harmonies that spoke of magic in its purest form, untainted by corruption or fear.

The scent of growing things filled his lungs. Rich earth and green leaves, wildflowers whose names he didn't know but whose perfume made his heart ache with unnamed longing. This was no mortal forest, no place that existed on any map drawn by human hands.

Before him stood an oak tree of such majesty that Arthur felt tears spring to his eyes at the sight of it. Its trunk was easily wide enough to house a dozen people, bark marked with spiraling patterns that seemed to shift and breathe. Branches spread overhead in a canopy so vast it created its own cathedral space, leaves whispering secrets in languages older than words.

And within its heart, Arthur could sense a familiar presence sleeping in healing dreams.

"Merlin," he whispered, placing his hand against the bark.

The wood was warm beneath his palm like living skin, pulsing with gentle life that resonated through his entire being. Through the contact, he could feel Merlin's presence, distant and dreaming, wrapped in power that was slowly, carefully drawing poison from his system. But also struggling, fighting battles Arthur couldn't see or understand.

Voices rose around him, countless and gentle, carrying welcomes that made the very air shimmer.

Hail, Arthur the King. Hail, the Once and Future.

The words came from everywhere and nowhere, resonating in his bones rather than his ears. They spoke with the rustle of leaves, the whisper of wind through branches, the deep groan of roots embracing stone. This was the voice of the forest itself, or perhaps the ancient magic that permeated every living thing in this sacred place.

"Is this real?" Arthur asked, his voice seeming small and human in comparison to the vast presences surrounding him. "Am I truly here?"

You are dream-walking, they replied with voices like wind through leaves, patient as the turning of seasons. You are drawn to your other half, the other side of your coin. Distance and the veil between waking and dreaming mean nothing to bonds forged in destiny and love.

"The other side of my coin," Arthur repeated, the phrase settling into his chest with the weight of truth recognized. "Is that what we are?"

You are two halves of a greater whole. Where you are the sword, he is the hand that wields it. Where you are the shield, he is the one it protects. Where you are autumn's harvest, he is spring's planting. One cannot exist in fullness without the other.

Arthur pressed his palm harder against the bark, desperate to reach through to the presence he could feel sleeping within. "Can I speak to him? Can he hear me?"

He dreams too deeply for words. But your presence strengthens him, reminds his fractured spirit what it means to be human rather than pure magic. Stay a while. Let him feel your love across the boundaries of sleep.

Arthur sank down to sit with his back against the mighty trunk, keeping his hand pressed to the warm wood. "I'm here," he said softly. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm here. And I'll be here when you wake. I promise."

The forest hummed with approval, branches rustling in response to his oath. Arthur closed his eyes, letting himself simply exist in this moment. No crown weighing on his head, no kingdom demanding his attention, just the simple truth of his presence beside the person who mattered most.

Come in the flesh when a year and a day have passed since his sealing, the voices instructed with gentle certainty. Then we will all see what has become of Emrys, for good or ill.

Arthur's eyes snapped open, alarm flooding through him at the implication. "Why ill?" His blood chilled with sudden dread. "What could go wrong?"

The rustle of leaves took on a more somber quality, branches swaying despite the lack of wind. The corruption fought hard before surrendering to cleansing. It was deep, ancient, carrying the malevolent consciousness of the Eye itself. Even now, Emrys struggles, seeking relief from his pain in wild magic that offers healing at a price.

"What price?" Arthur demanded, rising to his feet.

The power that cleanses may also overwhelm. Magic in its purest form cares nothing for human concerns. It simply is, eternal and indifferent to mortal suffering. Emrys fights to maintain his humanity while surrendering to forces that would strip away all that makes him more than raw power. The healing could succeed... or it could consume him entirely, leaving only primal force where once there was a person who loved and laughed and chose kindness over cruelty.

Arthur remembered Merlin after the Stone of Souls had ripped away memory, feeling, humanity, leaving behind pure magic before it had joined Merlin with its own sentience, woken, as it claimed, by his declaration of love in the cave of trials. He imagined Merlin lost to the same alien awareness that had claimed Morgana, beautiful and terrible and no longer quite human. The thought was unbearable, sharp enough to steal his breath.

"What can I do?" He pressed both hands against the bark now, as if he could pour his own humanity into the tree, give Merlin an anchor to cling to during his struggles. "How do I help him?"

Be here when the year has passed, the voices said with the certainty of stone and root. Your voice may call him back to sanity, may anchor human love against the sweet madness of pure magic. But know this. If he has chosen the wild paths completely, if human concerns have become too small to hold him, then he will sleep forever in our embrace.

"No," Arthur said fiercely. "That won't happen. Merlin is stronger than that. He has fought this battle before, he has won this battle before. He has sacrificed too much to lose himself now."

Love may prove stronger than destiny, the voices murmured, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Or destiny may prove indifferent to love. We shall see when the time comes.

Arthur wanted to argue, to demand assurances they clearly couldn't give. But he understood with sudden clarity that some things were beyond his control, beyond anyone's control. All he could do was be there when the time came, offer whatever support Merlin needed to choose humanity over the seductive pull of pure power.

"I swear," Arthur said, his words carrying the weight of royal oath spoken before witnesses both mortal and Other. "I will be here. Whatever he's become, however the magic has changed him, I will bring him home. Not because prophecy demands it, not because duty requires it, but because I lo--" He stopped, the word catching in his throat. Not from fear, but from the pure strength of the emotion that flooded him.

Yes? the voices prompted gently, carrying what might have been amusement.

"Because I love him," Arthur finished roughly. “He is mine to protect. As I am his. Two halves of the same whole, as you said."

Then sleep in hope, King Arthur, the voices murmured, already beginning to fade as the dream released its hold on his consciousness. And know that love is the strongest magic of all. Stronger than prophecy, stronger than destiny, stronger even than death itself. If you would save him, remember that truth when all else fails.

The forest was dissolving around him, colors bleeding together as the dream-walk ended. Arthur pressed his hand harder against the bark, trying to maintain the connection just a moment longer.

"I'm coming back for you," he said urgently, though he didn't know if Merlin could hear. "Don’t give up. Fight for yourself like I know you can."

The world fractured like breaking glass.

Arthur woke to brilliant sunlight streaming through his chamber windows, the taste of oak leaves and wild honey still lingering on his tongue. The dream had felt more real than most of his waking moments, carrying certainties that seemed to bypass rational thought and settle directly into his bones.

For a moment, he simply lay there, processing what he'd experienced. Dream or vision or something else entirely, the message had been clear: Merlin struggled on the edge of losing himself completely, and Arthur's presence might be the only thing that could tip the balance toward salvation.

One year and a day. Three hundred and sixty-one days until he could ride to Brocéliande and learn whether hope would be rewarded or if he would lose Merlin forever to healing that had become its own kind of prison.

But that was three hundred and sixty-one days to build a kingdom worthy of Merlin's return. Three hundred and sixty-one days to prove that trust and sacrifice hadn't been wasted, that the vision they'd shared was achievable.

Arthur rose and moved to his window, looking out over the kingdom he now ruled alone. Camelot stretched before him in the morning light, peaceful and prosperous, filled with people going about their daily lives in blissful ignorance of the threats that had been turned aside in their names.

This was what Merlin had fought for. What he'd hidden and lied and made impossible choices to protect. And Arthur would honor that sacrifice by building something worthy of it.

He dressed quickly, choosing practical clothing over the formal regalia of yesterday's coronation. There would be time enough for ceremony and pageantry later. Today marked the beginning of his true reign, and he would start as he meant to continue. Focused on work rather than appearances.

The council chambers were already occupied when he arrived, Leon having efficiently gathered the most important advisors for an early morning session. Geoffrey looked up from his scrolls with approval at Arthur's promptness, while the assembled nobles rose to acknowledge their new king.

"Lords and ladies," Arthur said, taking his seat. His father's former seat, which felt less daunting now that he'd slept and dreamed and remembered what he was fighting for. "We have much work ahead of us. Let's begin."

And so the reign of Arthur Pendragon, Once and Future King, began in earnest. With every decision made in Merlin's absence, every law reformed, every life improved, Arthur counted down the days until he could sail across the narrow sea and fulfill the promise whispered in dream-forests and sealed with oaths spoken to trees that held sleeping sorcerers in their hearts.

Three hundred and sixty-one days. He intended to make each one count.