Chapter Text
The gates of Camelot loomed dark under a sky heavy with rain.
The man who approached them bore no armor, no sigil, no sword. Just a staff, a plain travel-stained cloak, and the silence of long years worn like a mantle.
The guards tensed as he came within speaking distance.
“Name,” barked the captain.
A pause.
Then: “Balinor. Of Ealdor.”
One of the older guards shifted uneasily. The others didn’t react — the name meant little to them. But the captain narrowed his eyes.
“State your business.”
Balinor didn’t lift his head.
“I seek an audience. With King Arthur. If he will grant it.”
The captain snorted. “The king doesn’t meet just anyone who strolls up to the gates.”
“I come unarmed,” Balinor said. “I bring no threat. No claim. Only a request. I will wait.”
And he did.
He stood beneath the high gate for hours, saying nothing, asking for nothing. Just waiting.
Arthur read the petition in silence. The rain tapped faintly against the windows of the council chamber. His thumb dragged once across the edge of the parchment.
“Balinor,” he murmured aloud.
Several heads turned. Lord Harrow squinted. “That name is familiar.”
“He is a sorcerer,” said Lady Arwenna flatly. “Or was. Banished under your father’s laws.”
“He once served Camelot,” said Gaius quietly.
Sir Leon raised his brow. “The name was mentioned during the Great Dragon’s attack. You went to him, didn’t you?”
Arthur didn’t look up. “He helped us. I met him only once. He didn’t stay.”
“He has magic,” Harrow said sharply. “Known. Documented. That alone makes him dangerous.”
“Magic is no longer grounds for exile,” Arthur replied.
“With respect, sire,” said Arwenna, “trusting a man like that now may be... premature.”
Arthur finally looked up, steady and clear-eyed. “He comes without demands. Without weapons. He waits at our gates rather than sneaking past them. I will hear him out.”
“Sire—”
“My word is final.”
Merlin hadn’t said a word. But his hands, clenched at his sides, were trembling slightly.
The east audience chamber — dusk
The doors opened quietly.
Balinor stepped inside, bowing low—not the curt, cautious nod of a stranger, but a full, formal gesture of deference. His cloak brushed the stone floor, and when he rose, he kept his gaze respectfully lowered.
He dropped to one knee.
“My liege,” he said, voice rough with disuse but steady. “Balinor of Ealdor. Once of Camelot. I stand before you by your grace.”
Arthur did not move for a moment. Then: “Rise.”
Balinor stood slowly, keeping his hands loosely folded before him, not out of habit — out of humility.
“I recall you,” Arthur said. “We met. Years ago.”
“In the north,” Balinor nodded. “I was... less presentable then.”
“You were hiding from my father.”
“I was surviving.”
Arthur accepted that without comment.
“You asked for an audience,” he said. “I’m listening.”
Balinor inclined his head. “I claim no title. No rank. What I once held was taken, and I do not seek its return.”
Arthur said nothing.
“I have come only to ask permission to remain within Camelot. As a guest. As a man. My son lives here.”
Arthur’s brow ticked upward. “A son?”
Balinor nodded once. “Yes, sire.”
“Does he serve in the castle?”
“He does.”
Arthur tilted his head. “And his name?”
There was a hesitation — brief, but noticeable.
“I would speak to him first, if Your Majesty allows.”
Arthur didn’t respond immediately. His gaze searched Balinor’s face, quietly measuring. The fire crackled behind him, casting shadows across the stone.
“You were a dragonlord,” Arthur said after a moment. “That power still lives in you?”
“It does,” Balinor replied calmly.
“And your magic?”
“Also intact.”
Arthur didn’t flinch. “And yet you come here with neither staff nor spell raised.”
“I come as a father,” Balinor said simply. “Not a threat.”
Silence.
“The council will protest,” Arthur murmured. “They already have.”
“As they should,” Balinor replied. “I would question myself, too.”
Arthur turned to face him fully, then nodded once.
“You may remain. You will be given a room in the east wing. You are permitted in the lower city and the citadel’s public halls. Nothing more, for now.”
“I understand, Your Majesty,” Balinor said, and bowed again. “You honor me.”
As he left, Arthur watched the door long after it closed.
Then, quietly, without turning his head:
“You’ve been listening this whole time, Merlin.”
Merlin stepped out from behind the pillar, his face unreadable.
Arthur didn’t smile. But something in his expression softened.
“Keep an eye on him,” he said. “Let me know if he needs anything.”
Merlin nodded once. “Of course, sire.”
Neither said the thing they were thinking.
Not yet.
The east wing corridor was quiet.
Not Camelot’s usual kind of quiet — not the stillness of guards on night patrol or courtiers at rest. This was something heavier. A silence Merlin carried in his chest.
He paused outside the chamber door, hand raised to knock — then didn’t.
He simply pushed it open.
Inside, the fire burned low. Shadows stretched across the room in long, flickering bands. And beside the hearth, seated in a plain wooden chair, was the man Merlin had not seen in nearly two years.
Balinor turned his head.
“I was wondering how long you’d wait,” he said softly.
Merlin stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. “Took longer to find the words than the room.”
“You were never short on words before.”
That earned the smallest smile from Merlin — but it faded quickly. He moved toward the fire, but didn’t sit. Just stood, as if unsure where he belonged in the space.
“You’re early,” he said. “I thought you'd wait until winter passed.”
“I missed the frost,” Balinor replied. “And your mother insisted I come while the roads were still clear.”
Merlin’s eyes flicked up at the mention of her. “How is she?”
“Well,” Balinor said. “Stubborn as ever. She still thinks you don’t sleep enough.”
“She’s not wrong.”
Another silence passed — not awkward, but full of everything they didn’t say when they'd parted.
“I didn’t know if you’d actually come,” Merlin said at last. “Camelot’s not exactly kind to your kind. Or mine.”
“You asked me to stay away,” Balinor reminded him gently.
“I asked you to be safe,” Merlin replied. “That’s not the same.”
“I know.”
He finally sat, slowly, across from Balinor. The old wooden dragon sat on the mantle — not given, just placed, like a symbol of something waiting to be finished.
“I still think about that night,” Merlin murmured. “After the battle. You looked at me like you wanted to say something. But you didn’t.”
“There wasn’t time.”
“There’s time now.”
Balinor was quiet for a long moment.
Then: “You sent me to her because you were scared. Not for me. For yourself.”
Merlin’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t know what would happen if people found out.”
“They still don’t.”
“I don’t know how much longer that can last.”
Balinor nodded once. “Then use the time you have.”
Merlin looked over at him — really looked.
“You don’t regret leaving?”
“I regret not knowing you sooner,” Balinor said, voice soft. “But I don’t regret giving you a chance to grow without my shadow.”
A pause.
“I think you’ve become the kind of man I could never have raised in Camelot.”
Merlin blinked. Swallowed. Said nothing.
Elsewhere – the Council Tower
“They’re whispering already,” Lady Arwenna said, her voice tight.
Arthur stood at the window, looking out across the torchlit court below. “Let them whisper.”
“He has magic, sire. It cannot be ignored.”
Arthur turned slowly. “He’s had magic longer than we’ve had peace. And yet here we are.”
Lord Harrow leaned forward. “And if peace is broken, will it be because of him?”
Arthur didn’t answer.
He walked to the long table and laid out the kingdom’s northern patrol map. But he didn’t speak of borders or bandits.
Instead, he asked, “How long must a man carry the mark of exile for the actions of a dead king?”
The council didn’t answer.
Arthur tapped a spot on the map.
“We give him space. We watch. But we do not condemn a man for surviving the fire when we once begged him to help us put it out.”
He didn’t wait for their approval.
Back in the east wing
“Does Arthur know?” Balinor asked quietly.
Merlin looked up.
“Not yet.”
“He will.”
“I know.”
“Are you ready for that?”
Merlin considered the question longer than he wanted to.
Finally: “I’ll be ready when I have to be.”
They sat in the firelight for a long while after that — not father and son in the way of warm tales or easy words, but something else. Older. Quieter. Stronger.