Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Even as an old man, Merlin could see every detail of the valley below. 

Every soldier. Every torch. Every flag. 

Most of the Saxons were either dead or unconscious and, if a large amount could be attributed to his lighting, the Knights of Camelot had held their reputation well. 

The sorcerer’s mouth turned into a line. Thousands of friends and foes alike were to be mourned — as the war exacted a fair blood price. 

A wind shifted on the left side of Camlann. 

A silhouette detached itself from the mist and moved slowly towards the last steel armor standing. 

Mordred. 

The knight’s dark curls cut a path through the bodies, drifting closer to Arthur’s golden locks like the tide toward a cliff. 

Merlin clenched his fist on his staff. 

He was too far to be precise with his strikes. 

He had to hurry. 

✴︎

Arthur’s boots were sodden with blood and the air he breathed was cold and heavy. 

Saxon after Saxon, he had parried, stabbed, slid leather — his sword arm arched. If the old sorcerer had cleared most of the way with a storm, enemies had still arrived in waves afterwards.

If he had fought in countless battles — this one felt different. 

The visibility on the battlefield was low, torchlights only revealing bodies littering the land. But whether or not they were part of his army, they had fought bravely. He would make sure each of them would have proper funerals. 

Despite all the red cloaks among the corpses, Arthur still had faith in his men. Some remained, scattered across the valley, their blades clashing in the dark.

He needed to find Morgana to put an end to the hatred. To give Camelot the peace it sought. 

A man threw himself on him. Arthur responded—his adversary crumbled. 

The King set a breath — scanned the darkness for other silhouettes. War was war. He could not let himself linger. 

One faced him.

The once-young Druid he’d saved from his father’s grasp — the boy he’d trained into a knight — stepped through the land in his direction. A hatred, matching the sister Arthur had lost to magic, burning in his eyes. On his cloak, Morgana’s colors lay.

Arthur tightened his grip on his sword and crossed the distance between them. 

He knew he had caused Mordred grief, but he couldn’t let that stop him. Too many lives were at risk. He would spare his once-knight’s life if he could.

Their blades found the same line — but no clash followed.

A blast had blasted Mordred away before they met. The knight’s head hit rocks several paces away.

Arthur looked back. 

The old sorcerer was standing just over a rod’s length behind him, his grey beard and hair floating in the wind. His red tunic was clean, like he had nothing to do with the battlefield. Like he didn’t belong there.

The man’s eyes drifted from Mordred’s silhouette to meet Arthur’s gaze. It was soft — almost relief. 

“Thank you,” Arthur surprised himself muttering.

He hadn’t forgotten the sorcerer for taking his father’s life, but saving the Knights of Camelot and his life was another topic.

The old man strode to the King — and crossed him. His hand reached Mordred’s sword.

“Oh no, you won’t,” hissed a familiar voice.

A blast shattered the air again. And the old man bursted at Arthur’s feet. 

The King’s nostrils flared. 

Morgana.

A yard above, the Priestess was towering him — cheeks covered with dirt and chin raised high. She met Arthur’s eyes, hers menacing to flicker like torchlights. She dragged herself to Mordred, unconscious — dead, maybe.

A moan distracted Arthur. The sorcerer was in pain. The King crouched beside him, steadying the man’s shoulders and letting Morgana out of sight for a moment. A life was worth worrying about — always have, always will. Even this man’s life.

“How are you feeling?” Arthur asked.

He gripped the old man’s hand to let him know he was there for him if he needed. But the other groaned, his body folding on itself at the King’s boots.

“You should focus on what matters, Brother.”

Arthur gripped his sword — and got pushed back by a hand. Silver hair blocked his view of his sister. The disgusting sound of a sword driving itself in flesh clung to the valley. Followed by a roar of magic.

Camlann turned to silence.

Morgana was now lying on distant rocks, her state matching Mordred’s. And Arthur’s newfound ally was falling in his arms as brutally as he had risen. 

The man had protected him, taking his sister’s attack upon himself. 

His hands closed around the man’s torso following him in his fall, their knees sinking into the mud under their combined weight.

"How did you—why would you—why would you do that?”

Nothing made sense. Had they won? Was she dead? Unconscious? Why had the man helped them? Him?

Sounds of suffering came from the sorcerer in his arms. Arthur’s eyes dropped on him. The man was agonizing. 

A wrinkled hand reached for the leather of his glove.

They held each other’s gaze.

“Because I have faith in the world you are building—I have faith in you.” The man coughed. “And because you’re my friend, and I didn’t want to lose you.”

Arthur gripped his hand. 

The man’s frame stiffened. The lines of his face blurred… and the wrinkles vanished. The King’s breath hitched. In his arms lay a younger man — one that Arthur would recognize in a crowd of thousands.

His servant.

His friend.

The one and only Merlin.

Merlin’s eyes fluttered shut, his robe bleeding a darker red. 

Arthur whispered his name in a plea. 

But only the silence of the valley answered.

✴︎

“Where have you been?” The King shouted.

Gaius stopped every movement as Arthur rushed in his tent, Merlin draped on his back.

“He is dying! I demanded help for minutes!”

The noises surrounding them answered Arthur’s unasked question.

Gaius’s tent was a battlefield of its own. Howls were weighing the air down, linen turning red and death clinging to the patients’ faces.

Fortunately for him, a table as dirty as the others was empty of bodies. Arthur laid his servant on it unceremoniously. Merlin’s side twisted causing him to cry out.

“What happened?” The old man blinked slowly, the view of his pupil unraveling all coherent thought.

“I am wondering the same!” hissed the King, glaring at the Court Physician. “He was stabbed by Morgana. After saving my life, apparently.”

Gaius pressed his lips. His gaze dropped on Merlin’s robe.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” coughed the servant. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” gritted Arthur between his teeth. He gripped the other’s shoulder like iron and plunged on his figure. “You will have to explain this to me later. For now, you will live. Do you understand?”

Merlin shut his eyes — partially due to the pain, partially to agree. Now was not the time for debate.

Gaius removed the aged robe from his pupil’s frame slowly and tossed the fabric of his tunic aside. Merlin had a deep notch on his ribcage. He was bleeding heavily. The physician pressed the wound with one hand, braced around it with the other. The sound of his pupil’s scream tangled with the cries around them.

“Sorry, ma boy,” apologized the physician. He released the pressure — Merlin’s breath ragged. “He has a fragment of a sword embedded in his chest. It’s going for his heart.”

“What can we do—” Arthur roared.

“—It was Mordred’s blade,” Merlin cut him. “Forged in a dragon’s breath. I could feel it.”

Arthur furrowed his brows and turned to Gaius. But the man had his mouth open. “How could she—?”

“Aithusa,” answered his friend. “Morgana must have used her.”

Arthur’s fingers crushed Merlin’s shoulder. Why was he talking about Morgana? And what was he talking about? Dragons?

His friend winced at his action.

“Easy,” Merlin tried, his mouth curling slightly through the pain, “I’m not as thick as you are.”

But whatever was on Arthur’s face wiped his attempt of playfulness in an instant.

The King couldn’t understand a word of the conversation happening before him — between men he thought he knew. And phrase after phrase, he was discovering how little he actually knew about his friend. He had never felt as left out before. Never as betrayed.

Not with Mordred. Not even with Morgana.

Only the pain he had felt from Guinevere’s adultery could have surpassed the situation he was facing.

They had known each other for years now. Years. 

And only now was his friend revealing him that he had magic. For the life of him.

Now that his life was on the line — only now — Merlin just happened to let him know this vital information.

If he wasn’t dying, Arthur would have killed him right away.

On the way to the Court Physician’s tent, a grim thought crossed his mind. Maybe it wasn’t Merlin. Maybe he was possessed by that old sorcerer — Dragoon the Great, if he remembered right — or another creature. Or maybe he just gained magic. But it wasn’t matching with his words or actions—Arthur forced himself to focus on the present. Answers could wait.

“Then, there is little I can do,” gaped Gaius.

“Maybe I could—” 

A violent cough interrupted Merlin. Blood reached his breath.

“No, Merlin!” His mentor hurried. “You can barely talk, you might as well die trying to save your own life!”

“What can we do?”

Gaius finally turned toward Arthur, eyes wide. Even the screams around them felt quiet next to the King’s tone.

The old man’s brow knit. His lips tightened. But Arthur’s urgency pushed him to a decision. 

He let out a deep sigh.

“To remove the fragment of that blade would require using magic, Sire. A magic as ancient as dragons themselves.” He looked at Merlin — stopping him before he could argue. “They can still forge weapons, but their magic has faded. It’s too weak to unravel it.” He let the weight of the truth settle before he continued, confronting Arthur’s eyes this time. “Only one hope remains — the Sidhe. In the mist of the Lake of Avalon, there is an isle as ancient as the world itself. This land is the source of their power. Only there can they gather their real appearances. Can they gather all of their powers. But their ways are old. If you seek their help…” He paused, unsure. “They may ask a price greater than you expect. Perhaps more than you can give.”

“What are we waiting for?”

Under the tent’s lights, Arthur’s eyes hadn’t wavered.

“Morgana—? Mordred—?——It is magic, Sire—are you sure—?” Gaius tried.

“They are taken care of,” dismissed Arthur. “Only a few Saxons are still standing in the valley. Nothing stands between us.”

The Court Physician opened his mouth—“I know the road.” Merlin’s voice came like a whisper. 

Had he been audible through the noise? 

Or was Arthur now able to read on his lips?

“You’re barely able to stay conscious,” Gaius replied, reassuring the King about his hearing abilities at the same time.

“Apply some remedies on the wound… and—and… give me something to handle the pain. Hur—Hurry! I’ll go to Avalon.” Merlin cried. His hand clasped on Arthur’s shoulder, refusing the pain an escape from his mouth again. “Sire, allow Gwaine to go with me—please. You must make sure to stop the war with the Saxons. You must protect Camelot. You must protect your people.”

“How can you be more mad than I am at the moment, Merlin?” Arthur clenched, his fingers digging Merlin’s flesh through his glove — only an hesitant look answered him. “Ready two horses,” the King ordered a knight from the corner of his eyes. “The fastest we have. We will depart as soon as we can.”

“Yes, my Lord!” The man hurried his way out.

Arthur glared at Merlin once again.

“I’m not letting you die without my permission. I’m the King of Camelot and, for once, you will follow my lead.”

Gaius returned with bandages and remedies — Arthur hadn’t noticed the man's disappearance — and the King let go of his servant’s shoulder. The physician would need some space.

Merlin’s eyes followed his nonetheless — pain shining through, anger burning beneath. Even in his state, he was ready to push the King’s limits. But the sweat running down his face told Arthur he wouldn’t make it much further. He had never seen Merlin look worse.

Gaius applied a poultice on Merlin’s side and his pupil cried out again. The physician’s mouth tightened.

A life spent healing should have hardened him. A decade fearing for Merlin’s life, too. And his mastery in the healing arts should have brought him comfort. But watching it happen made the wound his own. And, for a moment, Gaius felt like he was the one dying on the table.

“Merlin, ma boy,” he muttered, unrolling a bandage. “Let Arthur carry you to Avalon.”

“But—”

“When you come back, your favorite meal will be waiting for you.”

Merlin studied him — taking his mentor’s worry as his — and chose not to answer. He couldn’t let Arthur put himself in danger again. Not when he had nearly lost him a few hours ago. But he couldn’t let Arthur stay in Camlann either. 

Mordred was still breathing when they left him in the valley. If the war pursued, if Mordred wasn’t stopped… Arthur’s bane could still happen. The enchanted fragment burned his core again, causing him to grit his teeth. Morgana had really planned Arthur’s death through — the prophecy was still probably unravelled itself.

Locking eyes with the King again, Merlin muffled a scream as his mentor bandaged his torso.

“What happened?” Guinevere rushed in the tent. “Why are horses being prepared?”

Bags were digging under her eyes, sweat running across her face and red tainted her tunic. Through the tent’s opening, other soldiers were howling.

But Arthur didn’t turn.

“I’m going to Avalon,” he stated instead. “Merlin is dying.”

Her eyes finally fell on her friend’s shape. The bandages nearly fell from her hands. Merlin’s wounded side — even partially covered by Gaius — was visible from afar. 

Still, the servant had enough strength to stare at the King — uncertainty meeting resolution.

Guinevere swallowed down the panic.

“I don’t understand. Isn’t Gaius healing him?”

“He needs special care.” Arthur’s arms were straight on his side and his shoulders were high, like a horse ready to bristle. Yet, the rough leather of his glove wrapped around her hand — gentle but firm. “Can I talk to you in private?”

She searched for his face.

There was no doubt in his voice, no sorrow. Not even urgency. 

But a quiet, frozen tension, like the world inside him had gone still.

“Of course, you can.”

Their eyes finally met — something in his shattered her heart. 

The wound on Merlin’s side was affecting him, of course. But there was something more.

With a silent understanding, they left the tent, searching for a quieter corner. Their path was difficult — cries rang out from everywhere, and only wounded bodies lay under flickering torchlight. A long minute later, they found their moment, tucked between two makeshift morgues.

Gently, Arthur removed a piece of rope from his neck.

“While I am away, I want you to have this.” He opened her palm, placed a metal ring on it. “If anything happens to me, I only see you as the one being able to carry my legacy.”

Her eyes widened. The ring was engraved with a dragon.

“Arthur, wait—”

But he indulged her fingers to close on the royal seal. 

“Please, Guinevere,” he asked. “Merlin does not have much time left. I cannot let a man that saved my life so many times die without trying everything I can to save him.”

His gaze wasn’t wavering, but there was a hollow in it, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

She understood now — something had happened between Merlin and him. She didn’t know what but she knew his silences.

Her hand closed on top of his.

“I can’t fathom the thought of losing you.”

Arthur softened.

“I will return to you, Guinevere. That much, I swear.” He spared a kiss on her fingers. “I love you too.” Then another, on the lips, this time. “With all my heart.”

A smile slightly touched her face. 

“Then go where your path is leading you. I will do but the same.”

He nodded and, as the Knight informed him that the horses were ready, the spouses embraced each other slowly. They hoped they would have others to share.

When Arthur reached the horses, Merlin was already straddled on one, head hanging low and eyes closed. Nearby, Gwaine hovered, worry etched in every step.

“Sire, will you allow me to escort you…”

“No,” Arthur cut him off. “Two men traveling alone will alert fewer people.” He fixed the Knight with a look through the dark. “You need to take care of survivors, as are others. What king will I be if I cannot take care of a mere servant myself?”

Arthur swung on his own mount — a thick brown one — after making sure Merlin’s was going to follow. He couldn’t let anyone take on his task. Not now.

Gaius stepped forward, a satchel on his shoulder, potions clinking inside.

“I believe that he would need that, Sire. A dose every two hours. It will help him endure the pain, but it can leave him unconscious, like now.”

Arthur’s hands stilled on the reins. “How much time does he have left?”

“Not long, I fear. He is dying.”

“How long?” Arthur rushed. The steadiness Guinevere gave him was already fading.

“Two days… at most.”

His jaw clicked shut. He nodded and pulled the reins tighter.

“Go straight to the North, Sire. The road to Avalon is quicker that way.”

“I was born in this land, Gaius. I know where I’m going.”

Arthur kicked the horse forward and both his and Merlin’s started to gallop in the darkness, towards Avalon.

Gaius crossed his arms, torchlights deepening the lines of his face. There was nothing more he could do for them. 

In three days, he hoped to prepare two full meals. Both him and Merlin would need it. He’d add another one for Arthur depending how they would come back.

“Gaius?” Guinevere called from behind.

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Will they be able to reach their aim?” She dared to ask, her knitted brows matching his.

“Nobody can be certain of that, I fear.” He paused, tried a smile. “But Merlin’s companion could not be better than the King. And, if they succeed — neither could the opposite be. Of that, we can be sure.”

On that note, the old man returned to his patients, a sudden chill taking his spine by surprise. And Guinevere’s eyes lost themselves in the dark.

✴︎

Merlin struggled to open his eyes. His mind was foggy, like he had awakened from a long dream. 

First blurred, the leaves above him sharpened into focus as his senses returned. They were scattered, thin and curled around a branch like bonny fingers gripping on a cane. Despite all of that, he recognized their wearer — an apple tree. His favorite specie. 

It was common in Camelot but, between chores and destiny, he rarely had the chance to pause and observe them. At this time of the year though, he knew most of them were bearing fruit. Yet, this one was waiting for its death in silence. 

He extended a hand to reach a leaf — a violent pain tore his abdomen. Inside his chest, the shard of the sword was moving, burning everything in its path. His hand clutched his side, desperate to ease the agony. A low moan escaped him. 

“You’re awake?” 

He looked at Arthur from the corner of the eye and felt grateful for the pain. At least, he hadn’t been caught using magic in front of him again. Even though, he would have only made a fruit blossom out of that branch, he did not want to cause the King any more fear than he already had. 

They must have traveled some distance for Arthur to settle down in this forest hollow.

From where Merlin lay, the horses could be heard but not seen, and a small campfire was warming his feet. For once, Arthur hadn’t needed him to light it. The scorched ring around the fire told Merlin that night wasn’t over. And judging by how he felt, only a few hours had passed since he had blacked out. 

“Open your mouth. Drink this.” 

Arthur approached him, a small vial in hand — a potion Gaius had probably given him. Merlin obeyed, staring at the fire, unwilling to meet the King’s eyes. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he objected however. 

“You don’t give me a choice.” 

“I can do it myself.” 

Arthur stopped his gesture mid-air. Merlin could feel the heat of his friend’s glare.

“Tell me how.”

Merlin froze. 

There was a roughness in Arthur’s tone. A roughness he had only used when Guinevere cheated on him with Lancelot. A roughness reserved for traitors. 

Arthur grabbed Merlin’s shoulder, forcing him to meet his gaze. 

“I asked you to tell me how. How, Merlin, are you going to do it yourself?” 

Merlin swallowed hard. He tried to answer multiple times — words were stuck. He could try a healing spell, but it was dangerous to do so in front of Arthur… and he wasn’t sure he was in a good enough shape to use such powers. 

“I can try,” he still muttered. 

“Merlin,” started Arthur, his voice darkening. “I told you I wouldn’t let you die. And I will respect my word.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin continued, meeting Arthur’s eyes in a quiet plea. The King tried to make him take a few sips of the remedy — Merlin escaped it. “All I did was for you. Only for you.” 

Arthur’s grip on the potion eased. His jaw slackened by a fraction. He could swear that, had Merlin had the strength, he would have bow saying those words. 

“Drink. The remedy will take time to come into effect. Stay still in the meantime.” Merlin obeyed. At last.

The King sat down a little farther off, his back turned to the fire — and to his servant. 

He probed their surroundings. No moon was in sight. The visibility was worse than in Camlann. Around them, only the silhouettes of the trees were to be seen. 

A wind shifted in the forest — quiet and cool — threading in the undergrowth like something watchful. It carried the scent of damp bark and bruised leaves. Every now and then, a branch clicked… but no threat came. 

In the undergrowth, a deer appeared. 

First tinted in shades of grey, its fur covered itself in yellows and oranges as it moved towards them. The animal was large and healthy. 

Its head turned to them — returned to grazing. The fire cracked but only one of its ears twitched. 

The deer was too experienced with survival to waste fear on two wounded men. 

Its shape faded in the trees. 

The King’s eyes narrowed. 

“What exactly are you sorry for?” Arthur finally asked, voice stripped from emotions. “You mentioned it twice.”

The wind brushed them both — it stirred the fire, then fell back into silence. 

“I had to abandon you earlier…” Merlin whispered. “I defeated the Saxons, the dragon, but—I nearly couldn’t stop Mordred—even though I knew it was him I had to stop—but Morgana had taken my magic—” 

“—So, you used it with your full consent,” the King cut him, his voice low and even. “You were not forced to use magic in any way.” He looked at his servant above his own shoulder. The other’s eyes were shimmering. “Since when?” He paused. Merlin’s brows flicked. “Were you chasing that power to save Camelot? Did—did you gain it recently? Did you choose to be possessed by that sorcerer?” 

But Merlin shook his head and sniffled — swallowing to free his throat. “It was me. I am a sorcerer… I’ve always had magic.” 

Merlin’s voice broke at the last word, and tears began to fall — silent and hot across his dirt smudged cheeks.

Arthur’s mouth flattened, his eyes dropped. 

“No, Merlin. You cannot be…” he reasoned. “I would have noticed. I would have known.” 

“Look, here.” 

Arthur turned his head once again — his gaze hesitated between the fire and his servant. From the corner of his vision, he saw his friend’s trembling arm rise towards the flames. The other pronounced a few words he didn’t understand… and slowly, impossibly, the frame of a dragon rose from the embers. 

Its wings crackled, allowing it to fly eerily — before vanishing, seconds later, in the dark. 

Only the fire remained, casting shadows on their figures. 

Arthur’s breath hitched. His instincts urged him to run away from danger — and to stay. To protect the friend he once trusted with his life. 

“Arthur—” 

“No—” Arthur ordered, sharp — weak. “—Sleep, Merlin. Let me make up my mind… or I fear I don’t know what I will do.”

Merlin’s hand retracted. 

The forest returned to silence and, between the trees, even the wind didn’t dare to speak again. 

✴︎

The day was nearing. 

In the shadows, only the contours of the mountains could be seen. The danger had been too long tamed, leaving the camp in an unnatural stillness. No blade rang, no cries pierced — even the moans of the wounded had faded.

Dressed in a more formal gown, Guinevere stood at the edge of her tent, her fingers fiddling with the royal seal — she would have eaten her nails otherwise. If Arthur were to never return… she cut the thought short, refusing completely.

“Your Majesty,” Leon entered the tent, face dark. “The Saxon King is awaiting you.”

The night had been tough. 

Many soldiers had died before her eyes — whether she had been helping or not. And if she had seen people pass away before, it still had left a wound in her mind. A painful memory she would have to bury for duty.

“Has every soldier been counted?” 

“Yes, Majesty. We faced fewer deaths in our ranks than we thought. It’s all thanks to Gaius’ care and yours. Many would have died otherwise.” 

Images crawled into her memory, like a poison. She shook her head. 

“The Knights and… the sorcerer… are the ones who should be thanked. Have you found him?” 

“No, Majesty. He seemed to have vanished in the air. He had been seen fighting by the King’s side before evaporating.” 

Perhaps then… she would have to talk about it with Gaius later. 

The sorcerer had appeared right after Arthur had awakened — precisely when they needed. He had struck the Saxons, brought Camelot the victory, and vanished as strangely as he had appeared… if Gaius knew him as he claimed, he might as well know the reason behind his actions. And where the sorcerer had gone. 

But for now, she had duties to fulfill. Alone. 

In her palm, Arthur’s presence was warming the royal seal, lingering into it. He had entrusted her with the kingdom — with the people. 

And she had to fight for them now. 

Arthur was a great king, not because he was good with a sword, but because he was leading with kindness. With justice. Her husband never feared death if it was for the sake of his people. For him, battles weren’t a goal — only a means to peace. As they should be.

Guinevere fastened the seal around her neck and stepped through the gray light, crossing the battlefield to meet their enemy king. 

She couldn’t let the war continue as it had. 

Too many lives had already been lost. 

✴︎

At dawn, Arthur lifted Merlin on the servant’s mount without a word. 

The night had been awful for them both. Neither had been able to sleep as much as they would have needed to. The King had made sure his servant had received the remedy for the pain, but that was all. They hadn’t spoken beyond that. 

The lack of sleep was particularly hard for Merlin, as it compounded his suffering. He had managed to croak agreements for the treatment when needed, not wanting to anger the King further — though he wasn’t even sure why the other was still helping him. 

Arthur verified the saddle and reins, ensuring his servant’s horse trailed behind as they departed, and avoiding Merlin’s eyes completely. 

The King wasn’t willing to think about the scene from the day prior. The image of the fire-dragon was clinging to him. Reborn in every fallen leaf — in every flicker of sunlight. And it didn’t belong with the picture he had always carried of his servant. 

He had seen this type of creature on the battlefield earlier, but the old sorcerer had brought it down swiftly. The man had been impossibly powerful that night, his powers limitless — it hadn’t been strange to see him handling such a  monster. 

Yet now… here the sorcerer was, on the brink of death from a sword forged in the creature’s breath? 

And he was Merlin. 

Rather, Merlin was him — which was worse. 

At least, that’s what his manservant claimed. That made it all the more real. 

Arthur clenched the reins. He hoped Leon and Percival were still alive. He had sent them to deal with Mordred and Morgana, commanding them to take as many knights as needed. Even wounded, the Priestess was stronger than any men, women or magical creatures they had ever faced. They couldn’t underestimate her. 

And even with Morgana still out there, the war needed to end. 

His collar felt lighter than usual — the royal seal missing around it. He had left Guinevere alone negotiating with the Saxon King. And though she was the most diplomatic person he had ever known, the task wouldn’t be less hard. But how could he have done otherwise. 

Alongside Gaius and Merlin, Guinevere was the one most trusted in matters of the kingdom. And if the two men had revealed their true nature to him, Arthur hoped she had already dealt him the deepest wound years ago. 

Noticing the direction of his thoughts, he forced himself to focus on the oaks surrounding them. The forest was thicker, shadows longer, and the sun was now settling between the trees. Even with the satchel half-empty, the evening was unexpected. 

Arthur scanned the woods, alert. They were deeper in the forest now and the quiet was no longer peaceful — rather watchful. The thud of boots in the undergrowth revealed to him what he feared. 

The King halted the horses — their adversaries grew closer. Behind the trees, a few men appeared. 

Saxons. 

Arthur took his sword and descended his mount. His adversaries charged immediately. 

The King went to the thick of it, but he was slower than usual. The battle two days prior was still lingering his limbs, dulling his reflexes and stealing his breath at every strike. 

His opponents, in comparison, were swift and merciless. Their blades had weight. Arthur was fighting as boldly as he could, trained to fight in complicated circumstances, but even the greatest warriors had their faults. And Saxons were menacing to take advantage of that. 

A nearby branch snapped free — crashing down on several of their opponents. At the sound, Arthur turned. Two more men hurled through the air and crashed on trees. Lifeless. 

Merlin’s eyes, barely opened, were circled by gold. His arms remained on his sides — he hadn’t even lifted a finger. 

Arthur stormed towards his once-friend. 

“Why, Merlin? Why? Why did you save me? Why did you save Camelot? Why did you kill my father? Why aren't you able to heal yourself?—Why did you lie to me all this time?” 

But his servant had passed out, all strength drained from him. 

Arthur wanted to shake him. Or to drive his sword in a tree, just to let something break. But he couldn’t. Other enemies could be hiding in these woods. He had to preserve his energy if he had to protect Merlin. 

Only one day out of the two Gaius had given Merlin had passed… yet, his servant’s face was pale as paper. Under his tunic, the bandages were burning red. From his battlefield experience, Arthur could tell: Merlin merely had a few hours left. 

They had to cross as many miles as they could before nightfall, but the bandages had to be changed first. The jaw clenched, the King pulled the straddle bag from his horse and returned to his servant’s side. 

His fingers worked efficiently — too rough to be gentle, and too gentle to be cruel. Arthur wasn’t going to drag his servant’s body to the lake. He rewrapped the wound, tighter this time, scanning Merlin’s face as the other winced. The other hadn’t stirred. 

Arthur got to his own mount and scanned the forest. The last lights of the day were already flickering on the leaves. The air was cooler now, but free of enemies. Still, something wasn’t quite right. 

Something shifted again. 

The tension in Arthur’s shoulders rose. Were Saxons sent to them specially? 

Eyes narrowed, he approached an oak tree, his boots quiet on the leaves — a shadow moved. Human. The back of a dark blue cloak peaked from the trunk, gathering the twilight. Arthur extended an arm slowly — grabbed the hood. 

A high pitch sound. Jet black hair, big blue eyes. The face of a child. A boy? A girl?

The kid hold their breath. Near their clavicles, a symbol was tattooed — Arthur’s brows knitted. 

Behind them, another silhouette appeared, their cloak of a murky green. Then another one, taller, behind an ash. And another. Soon, the path ahead was framed with shades of blue and green figures. 

Men, women, old, young. None talked, none moved further. All mimicked the child, until one removed their hood. A man. Grey hair, lines deeply set, probably hitting the middle of his life.

They had met before — in exchange for a boy’s life, he had let Arthur take the Cup of Life. That moment, added with what had happened at the sanctuary, had convinced Arthur to let the Druids wander around Camelot’s lands without fear. 

“Let the child go, Arthur Pendragon,” the man asked calmly. “We only want to help Emrys. He is suffering.” 

Arthur’s tensed hand let go of the child’s cloak and followed the Druid’s gaze to Merlin. “Emrys?”

Another Druid — nearly adult this time — had stepped forward to gently lift his servant from his horse. 

Merlin was struggling to awake. His head was probably as painful as his core, and his body completely numb. Like any soldier would after such events. 

The King focused on the Druid’s movements on the other torso. Their hands were careful, delicate — respectful. The type of inclination to have towards someone from a higher rank. Every other Druids were watching the scene, a similar intent painted on their faces. 

Merlin’s eyes met Arthur’s — and drifted down. The Druid rose his chin toward Merlin to which the latter answered by a silent nod. 

Arthur’s brows flicked. 

“Your horses are too noticeable for now,” the middle-aged Druid stated. “You’ll get them back in the morning.” 

Two Druids had already reached their mounts, petting their manes. 

“He is dying,” refused Arthur, pulling the reins from their hands. 

Their pace had already been slow to preserve Merlin’s life. If they were to stop completely, it could be the other’s end. 

“He hasn’t reached his fate yet,” answered the nameless man. “His end is not near.” “How could you know?” 

But the Druid’s expression let him know that he wouldn’t have any further explanation. “You are wise, Arthur Pendragon. You know we won’t do anything to arm him. Or you.” 

Merlin had one hand around the shoulder of the young Druid, the other clenched on his side again. His face was pale and his feet unsteady. 

“How can I be sure that you won’t lead him to his death?” 

“You can’t. But you need to trust us,” answered the man, his tone leaving no space for doubt. “Will you?” 

Arthur examined every silhouette and gauged Merlin. Death had never been closer. The King nodded. 

He kept to the rear as they travelled, every muscle poised. If it was a trap, he’d be ready. The Druids led them along a path worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, though no map in Camelot marked it. And at the end of it—a cavern. 

The cavity had a high ceiling. 

The diffuse moonlight was coming through it, granting them passage. Water was dripping from every wall, from every crevice. 

Arthur slowed down, frowned. 

On the stones spirals, glyphs, and unfamiliar markings could be seen. Some fresh, others worn nearly smooth. 

But the place had obviously been filled by the rain for centuries. Every surface should have been bare by now. 

And, yet the symbols held on. 

Arthur scanned the small cloth flags tied to stone outcroppings — a cold sensation lined his spine again. The spirit’s voice from the other sanctuary whispered in his ear. 

The young Druid he had caught earlier was leading the way, directly followed by the ones holding Merlin. At their steps, no sound echoed. Neither at his. 

Did this place vibrated for his servant? Just like he had said it was when they met the Disirs? Arthur’s eyes drifted down. 

How could he had never noticed before? Had he been that oblivious all this time? 

He lifted his gaze again. Two Druids, a young and an old one, were laying Merlin down on a circular rock rising in the heart of the chamber. They exchanged looks with — Arthur now knew to be — the sorcerer, continuing their silent conversation. Merlin braced himself on one arm, eyebrows’ flicked in worry. The two Druids turned to the gray-hair man, like consulting a chieftain. The man nodded, Merlin’s mouth opened in a silent protest but the others’ hands gently eased him flat on the stone. 

His servant’s fists clenched. His eyes went for Arthur’s feet — obviously avoiding the King’s gaze — before going for the Druids. In response, they retrieved their hands slowly and joined the rest of their clan in a circle. 

One by one, every Druid knelt around the rock. 

Then, they began to sing — a whisper at first, rising between the walls and weaving into a voice of many. 

It was as though every particle around them pulsated in echo. Every symbol glowed gold. As though, everything… quivered. 

Droplets of water rose in the air slowly, shimmering in the faint light. 

The Druids clapped their hands in synchronization. 

Word.

After.

Word. 

Merlin’s eyes opened wide — magic burning inside of them. And he started convulsing. 

Arthur got to his sword, ready to attack — his belt was empty. He had left his weapon at the entrance of this sacred place. 

The Druid chieftain extended an arm in front of the King to prevent him from further action. 

Their gazes met — Arthur stopped. The calm and the wisdom he found inside the eyes of that man soothed him. 

Around them, the song faded, vanishing in the shadows.

Merlin fell back on the rock, eyes shut and body immobile. The droplets fell in unison. The symbols on the walls returned to their initial state. As if nothing had ever happened.

Still, no Druid moved for the longest time — afraid to interrupt the moment.

One finally stepped up to Merlin, their hand hovering his forehead carefully. They turned to Arthur and smiled slowly. A long shudder rolled down Arthur’s back, unspooling every muscle. 

His servant was alright. Asleep, but alright.

“Did you save him?” He asked the chieftain.

“No,” the man shook his head. “We only gave him time.”

“Then, he could have died. Unlike you told me.”

Arthur’s knuckles turned white in his gloves.

“No,” stated the Druid, firm but calm. He gauged the King a moment. “This moment had long been written in the stars, Arthur Pendragon. As well as the moment Emrys revealed his true identity to you.” He paused. “Do not fear him, he means you no harm.” 

Two Druids — the same as before — tended Merlin again. 

“Sleep for now,” the chieftain continued. “You will depart at the first light. Your journey has just begun. Trials are yet to come.” 

✴︎

Flanked by a ring of his knights, the Saxons King stood tall in the tent. Eyes narrowed and a fist clenched on the hilt of his sword, he waited patiently for his adversary to continue the negotiations. Dealing with the Queen instead of the King was insulting enough. He refused to put effort into it. 

Behind him, his closest knights mirrored his stance. Their faces, streaked with dirt and blood like grim medals of war, were set with the same patience. A wind whispered through the wool flaps and reached their fur-lined cloaks, rustling the leather beneath. 

Queen Guinevere’s voice rose again in the air — calm, unyielding, and painfully civil. It hadn’t changed since the beginning of the day. 

“King Maleagant. We do not wish to gain any of your lands, only for peace to be between our kingdoms and people. Enough lives have been taken in this war. Let us put an end to it today.” 

“How could a servant be aware of a kingdom’s needs?” 

His tone was void of anger. Almost pleasant. Yet, around them, the air thickened with forgotten blood. 

Behind her, Guinevere heard sand gritting under Leon’s boots shift. He stayed still, following her command, but his sword clicked at his side. The Saxons Knights tapped their owns in return, their gazes sharp on the red-cloaks. 

King Maleagant was playing both camps perfectly. Camelot’s wasn’t the first army he had to deal with — and it wouldn’t be the last. 

Guinevere’s eyes didn’t waver. There was no need. 

He had used this tactic earlier. If she hadn’t answered this question before — too focused on the outcome — she now saw the path narrowing. 

“How could a king disappearing behind a sorceress know any better?” 

Maleagant shrugged, the rustle of his armor's leather crafting his answer. His gaze didn’t reach her. 

“A servant that had been made queen knows these things,” she finally stated, composed. She had no shame to have from her upbringing. In fact, it brought her more than other realized. “Because she has lived the lives of both peasants and royalty. She knows that its people seek peaceful lives. Just like any other. She also knows only ill-advised lords could march into battle against Camelot’s army.”

“Camelot’s army is only composed of a few.”

“Nonetheless, it won this battle. And it had been winning any other for the longest time—”

“Which is why we deal with you today,” he cut her.

But Guinevere only smiled. 

He was repeating himself. Over and over. Same tricks. Same traps. He was waiting patiently for her to falter. And, truthfully, it was working a bit — her hands were beginning to tighten. Hopefully, the cold metal of the royal seal against her fingers soothed her some. 

“May I ask why you chose to start this war, King Maleagant? Why you chose to fight for our lands? Against our knights? They are known to be the strongest of the five kingdoms. Were you by any means persuaded to do so by some High Priestess?” 

“A royal head is better on a throne than any other.” 

The King studied her. She was disguising herself just enough to pretend to be a queen. But she was too stiff, too raw. She hadn’t learned to stand a whole day without moving. 

“Were you so sure you would have won, helped by her powers?” She challenged him. 

“Saxons do not fear magic like you, Camelot people, do. A power as deeply rooted in Earth should not be feared — but controlled.” 

Something shifted in the servant’s stance. 

“You may be right,” she conceded. “But can a power as strong as Morgana’s be controlled? Can Morgana be controlled?” 

“Her former servant should know better than I do that Sarrum of Amata made it possible.” 

Guinevere suppressed a smile. 

“And her now ally may know he only made it possible for two years. And that it only anguished her hatred. Made her even more powerful.” 

“A good way to reinforce allies, you must admit.” 

“She is to blame for his death.”

Maleagant held his breath, dust trapped in his nose — a technique he had perfected since he had first been introduced to court. Easy to maintain and difficult to notice, it was working wonders to conceal his emotions from his adversaries. And to allow him time to think. 

The woman before him wasn’t lying. The murder of Sarrum had slipped from his emissary. The latter would have to be punished. 

“What are you offering?” 

“Peace. And for our people to be allies.” 

“An ally not able to handle a single sorceress cannot be of any help.” 

“But we did,” she countered, her shoulders as light as possible under the exhaustion. “You saw him during the battle — our sorcerer.” 

Luckily for her, none of her knights reacted. 

It was her very first negotiations. She knew her husband to play less tricks than her, but he hadn’t experienced being a fugitive. He hadn’t had to escape from men twice his size weaponless. 

“Was he really able to defeat Lady Morgana?” 

Guinevere’s thumb stopped on the engraved dragon. Before she could answer, Percival entered the tent in a hurry. Something was wrong. 

King Maleagant looked at them both. And a dark smile installed itself on his features. 

✴︎

Arthur’s eyes fluttered open slowly. 

Sunlight was reflecting on soaked stones above his head, while air was warming his lungs and birds were chirping in the echo. Morning had come. 

He braced himself on one arm — frowned. 

His breath was full. His shoulders didn’t burn. His spine uncurled without complaint. The pain that had made a home of his body was gone. For a moment, he didn’t feel like a knight.

Near the cavern’s entrance, footsteps echoed — three silhouettes. The Druid chieftain, the Druidess that had smiled at him, and Merlin. They were speaking quietly, their steps pausing just within the cavern’s mouth. 

Arthur pushed himself to his feet — surprisingly, without any difficulty. Whatever the Druids had done to Merlin seemed to have touched him too. 

He made his way toward the small group. Except for the four of them, everybody had vacated the sacred place for the woods. Outside, cloaks were moving in the breeze and steel whispering through the trees. Even Druids, it appeared, had breakfast routines. 

Merlin’s shoulders tensed at his approach. Though he was the only one facing him fully, Arthur barely caught his eyes before his servant turned to the woman, as if answering a question she had asked. 

“How do you feel?” Arthur asked once he reached them. 

No voices were to be heard, nor signs exchanged. Still, he had waited seconds before daring to say a word, wary not to interrupt a conversation.

“Fine,” Merlin replied hastily. 

Colors had regained his face. His posture looked solid — as though nothing had happened. But Arthur hadn’t forgotten the Druids chieftain’s warnings from the night prior. 

“You should regain Camelot before it’s too late,” his servant continued, his tone the same. “Politics cannot await.” 

Arthur frowned, studying him. Merlin was avoiding his gaze and his stance was rigid. “There’s no way I’m abandoning you to death, Merlin.”

“I told you I’m fine. You’re seeing it yourself.” Merlin gestured loosely at his body, his eyes meeting Arthur’s before dropping again. “I’ll manage. You need to return to Camelot… You cannot let the war continue, not when you know what’s at stake—” 

Arthur lifted a hand, stopping him. “What’s at stake?” 

Merlin opened his mouth, then closed it. Again. 

Arthur’s turned into a line. “Guinevere is taking care of Camelot. I believe in her, just like you should… Now, tell me — you, who are so knowledgeable.” 

But Merlin couldn’t. Just thinking about Lochru’s vision was sending a shiver down his spine. “The world you want to create—” 

“ Emrys,” Iseldir interrupted him. Merlin’s gaze met his. The chieftain had spoken in his head. “ He is ready to face the truth.” 

“Enough now,” Arthur asked, annoyed. “Speak if you are willing to participate.” A pause. “Out loud. Please.” 

People had a way to exclude him recently that sharpened his senses on the clues he had missed for so long. 

The chieftain complied. “The remedies will help manage the pain. The spell only slowed down the pace of the shard for one or two days. He must avoid strain. Even if he doesn’t feel it, the fragment still moves. Once the spell fades, it will race again to kill him.” 

“That’s not what I call fine,” Arthur sighed, looking at Merlin. 

“I’ll still manage,” Merlin insisted, guarded. “I don’t need you.” 

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. That one hurt.

“This moment needed to come, Emrys.” Iseldir stated, his low voice echoing through the cavity. “Without him at your side, the events you want to avoid may come sooner than you wish.” 

A shiver crawled down Merlin’s spine again. Whether it was from the cavern’s air or Iseldir’s words, he wasn’t sure. 

Arthur gauged the three of them. 

The Druidess was turned to the tribe, busy conversing silently with some Druids. Dishes were in preparation. Her absence of interaction with Merlin was telling — they didn’t really know each other. 

But that couldn’t be said of his servant and the chieftain. 

“With horses, the Lake of Avalon lay a day and a half ahead,” the chieftain instructed. “An old friend will guide you through its waters to gain the Sidhe sleeping on the isle. But know this, the price they will ask in exchange for their service may hurt you just as much as yesterday’s pain.” 

Merlin and Arthur looked at each other — the first, resigned; the latter, buoyed by the thinnest hope. 

“Saxons may still be in our way,” Arthur stated. “Ready to let me handle the fighting this time?” 

His servant rolled his eyes. “I’m not made of sugar.” 

“I know,” Arthur replied, seriously. 

Merlin’s gaze lingered in his, unreadable. 

“The breakfast is ready. Eat before you ride,” the Druidess instructed, stepping through the light. “A long day awaits you.” 

They didn’t argue. The moment food was mentioned, their stomach answered for them.

✴︎

Mordred awoke in darkness. 

Dust was filling the air, and the smell of lead mixed with iron could not be mistaken.

He had been imprisoned. 

By whom? He wasn’t sure. 

Probably Camelot. But the Saxons may have had their turn. He only had faith in Morgana. She had been his only ally. And she had forgiven him when he had returned by her side. 

The blindfold on his eyes surprised him. Same went for the handcuffs that were weighing down his wrists behind his back as he braced himself in a sitting position. They were made of lead — not just a binding, but a silencing. Someone knew exactly how to restrain him.

His enemies were aware of his magical powers.

It could really be the Saxons then, as Camelot never knew much. Like his father before him, Arthur kept these practices banished. As if fear could make magic disappear. The King never understood. Magic couldn’t be turned off. Practiced or not, it was still there. Druids had taught him better than Emrys had Arthur. 

Yet — they were wronged by the prophecies. Emrys wasn’t going to lead them to a better world. And Kara had paid for his own arrogance. 

Mordred turned his head in different directions, testing the blindfold. Unfortunately, it was secure. The handcuffs were worse. 

“Nah, it won’t be that easy.” 

“Too bad we were told how to neutralize you.” 

Voices echoed yards away — Gwaine and Percival. Great. There was no doubt of where he was, then. 

He breathed heavily. They had been on good terms as comrades before, but the trust was gone. They wouldn’t be gentle. 

“Why are you here?” he spat as he didn’t smell any food. “Is it you take me out to burn at the stake?” 

Arthur didn’t get any sorcerer burn since he became king, but Mordred wouldn’t put it past him to make an exception. And Merlin… Merlin would encourage it. Emrys had never trusted him, always treating him like a menace. Mordred just hadn’t realized how far the sorcerer would go to see him fall. To see him dead. 

“Why did you join Morgana’s ranks?” Gwaine asked, his tone low. 

“ Lady Morgana,” Mordred corrected him. “Do not disrespect her.” 

“You betrayed us.” 

Gwaine’s tone was empty. It surprised Mordred more than if he had been angry. “Why am I not dead already?” He chose his words carefully. “Hanged or burned?” 

“Good question, isn’t it, Percival?” 

Percival looked over, worried. Gwaine was unstable. Wasn’t he careful enough, his friend would have already struck Mordred down. Gwaine had never taken love seriously until Eira. Morgana had played her cards well. 

And they needed to be extra careful. Leon had them both detached to Camelot specifically to imprison their former brother-in-arms. And, hadn’t Mordred been unconscious and cuffed, they wouldn’t have been able to beat him. They knew it now. Mordred wasn’t just an excellent swordsman — with magic in the mix, he was a threat even the two of them might not manage. 

“Answer our question first,” Percival demanded. 

Mordred felt Percival’s glare burn into him. But he didn’t flinch. “You know Arthur hanged Kara. He is not worthy of the throne.” 

Gwaine didn’t look left — Eira’s remnants haunted the adjacent cell. He could and couldn’t understand Mordred. Guinevere had only done what she had to in order to protect Camelot. Just like Arthur. And just like Mordred should have done. 

Kara had proven to be on Morgana’s side since the beginning. Just like Eira. They had shown no remorse for their victims. 

And as Knights of Camelot, it was their duty to stand against them. Even when it hurt like hell. 

“Neither is Morgana.” 

Mordred drew a deep breath. They hadn’t corrected him talking about Arthur in the present tense. He was probably alive then. And so was Morgana. 

“Not having her dead must be frustrating.” 

“Less than being defenseless, I suppose,” stated Percival, restraining Gwaine by putting himself between the two. 

“I won’t be for long,” Mordred menaced. He tugged the lead cuffs again, but winced. 

Percival glanced at Gwaine. The bearded knight nodded. Their former comrade wouldn’t slip through again. 

Gwaine grew up in Carleon’ kingdom. Sorcerers, Priestesses, Nymphs, Druids and spirits alike were more common there. At least, more tolerated. They were just occurrences of this world after all. Inconvenient sure, but natural. Therefore, there hadn’t been any purge. 

Not like in Camelot — there, fear ruled. 

No kingdom he had visited before held it in such regards. People might fear it elsewhere, sure. But none had rulers punishing magic users so strongly. If it wasn’t for Arthur's noble way to carry his crown and Merlin’s friendship, Gwaine would have pursued taverns in different lands. 

When Leon and Percival had brought Mordred — unconscious and handcuffed — on their shoulders to the Queen, the bearded knight had nearly screamed victoriously. But hearing their conversation from afar, the war was far from won. Morgana was still running and nobody knew where. 

Gaius had joined them as fast as exhaustion let him be. The old man had warned them about Mordred's true abilities. Percival had exchanged a look with him — disbelief followed by concern. How could they ensure their former brother-in-arms to be powerless during his captivity? He could still be useful in their war against Morgana after all. 

Gwaine clenched his jaw as the Priestess’ smirk passed before his eyes. 

“Did you forget how Morgana treated Camelot’s people? The ones you swore to protect?” 

Mordred scoffed. “Aren’t magic users Camelot’s people too? Aren’t we a part of the people you swore protection to? That Arthur swore protection to when he became king?” The young knight shook his head. “Arthur never respected us. Morgana did. She is the only one. She never betrayed us. And never betrayed me. Unlike Arthur. And unlike your friend, Merlin.” 

Gwaine and Percival froze. Looked at each other. None had clues. 

“Why are you talking about Merlin?” Gwaine finally asked. 

Mordred bolted forward—lost balance, his face hitting the ground. His nostrils flared out. “Who else than him would tell you how to bind a druid? Have you ever wondered why he followed us to battlefields? How he always returned without a scratch?” He grunted. “And to think Druids raise themselves talking about him in such regards… while he fools everybody daily.” He spat the words out. “Merlin is far more dangerous than me. You just haven’t realized it yet—” 

“Enough riddles, Mordred. We are not interested,” Percival said quickly, before Gwaine could respond. “If we don’t see each other at your trial — farewell.” 

They turned to leave. 

“You’ll care soon enough.” Mordred’s voice echoed through the corridor after them. “Ask Merlin about his real name. Ask him about Emrys. See how it plays out.” 

The dungeons door slammed shut, and questions rose in Gwaine and Percival’s minds. Mordred had planted a seed neither of the Knights could ignore. They climbed the steps in silence, each of his words reverberating on the stones. By the time they reached the Court Room, the air had grown thinner around them — before the Queen’s voice sliced it apart with delicacy. 

“I managed to negotiate a truce with King Maleagant because Morgana is missing. But it won’t be for long.” She announced her advisors. “Their army is far more populated than ours. And shall she return by their side, we might as well be defenseless.” 

The sun peeking through the windows was cutting her profile — along with Gaius and Leon’s — into a silhouette, leaving shadows on the wooden floor. The round table not in sight, the room felt broad and empty. 

The Queen stood closer to the glass, the cold air reaching her skin. Will her husband arrived in the courtyard, she’d be ready to invite him in. 

“You might forget how determined our knights are, Majesty,” the First Knight answered, his outline appearing behind the Queen. 

“I do not, Leon. In fact, I count on it if we need to keep going.” A pause. Her eyes locked with his in the light — firm but soft. “But our men are fewer, wounded and tired. We won’t stand another battle at the moment.” 

Leon tightened his lips, casting a deep shadow on his lower face. He had nothing to object. 

“For how long do you think we'll have to wait before they can fight again?” He asked the physician. 

Gaius returned his expression. 

“Months.” The old man drew a sharp breath. “Weeks at best. Even with our best efforts, we would need more herbs than nature could give to anyone.” He paused. “But from what I’ve seen of the Saxons’ state, I believe they are in no better shape.” 

The seal warmed beneath her fingers; the hope felt small and private against the hall’s scale. They now had to hope they’d found Morgana before their opponents. 

“Gwaine, Percival,” she finally greeted the two knights. Their boots stilled on the wooden floor; shadows lengthening the lights. “What do you have?” 

Percival and Gwaine inclined themselves respectfully. They nodded at each other — the first calm, the latter grim — and the tall knight answered. 

“Mordred doesn’t seem to know anything about Morgana. Neither where she is, her state or where she is heading. It looks like she abandoned him before our arrival.” 

“We already know who she pursue. Had she gone find King Maleagant, he would have struck already. She is trying to find Arthur,” the Queen deducted, her gaze flickering to the courtyard doors as if picturing his saddle-streaks. Her husband had always been Morgana’s first opponent after all. 

“Multiple patrols have returned already,” answered Leon. As he understood the adjacent question, he added. “Out of the multiple red-herrings we sent for her, only the one going for Brinved had been followed.” He dared to cast a look at Gwaine and sighed. “But we don’t know for how long she will follow this path.” 

Guinevere’s eyes dropped slightly. 

“Was something missing on Sire Mordred attire when you captured him?” 

Everyone turned to the old physician. The question was unexpected. 

“No…” started Percival, confused. “Only his sword. But he could have lost it on the battlefield.”

Clouds passing through the sky darkened their friend’s mentor's face. 

“What’s the matter?” asked the Queen. 

Gaius studied her a moment. “I fear that sword is no ordinary one, Majesty.” He crossed his arms slowly. “I fear Morgana forged it in a dragon’s breath, making it nearly impossible to counter. At least, that’s what Merlin believed and I’ll follow his conclusions.” 

Guinevere frowned in the dim light. “Is that why you couldn’t treat Merlin?” 

“Yes, my Lady,” he answered, voice thin. “And I fear Morgana had regained it to kill the King.” 

The sentence rang out through the room. 

The Queen swallowed down the fear. Her fingers coiled around the engraved dragon. “If they reached the cure, wouldn’t they be able to carry through?” 

“Unfortunately, nothing could be up for certainty. The treatment we are talking about is dependent of creatures we barely know nothing about. Are they willing to cure Merlin, nothing tells us they’d do the same for the King.” 

The seal seemed to bite into Guinevere's palm; Leon’s jaw tightened, Percival’s mouth flattened, Gwaine’s fingers flexed. 

“Are we talking about magic?” 

Only the bearded knight could ask about it with such confidence. 

Gaius' focus shifted. There was nothing he could do for the Queen at the moment. “Nothing can counter magic more than magic itself, Sire Gwaine,” he professed. 

“Do you have any idea of where the old sorcerer is? Maybe he could be of any help,” suggested Percival. 

“He would already be helping us if he could,” evaded the physician, mouth tight. 

Guinevere’s eyes sharpened on him. She had known him for too long for her not to notice his antics. And she did not fear her assumptions to be right. 

“Where are those creatures located?” asked Leon. 

“In an isle in the middle of the Lake of Avalon.” 

It was Gwaine’s turned to frown. “There is no island on that lake.” 

“There is one. Only a few know about it.” He sighed. “It’s hidden for most. Only those who have a strong connection with magic are able to see it when needed.” 

The old man lost his gaze on the wooden floor. 

No one answered as none knew where the conversation was heading. Yet, Gaius felt Guinevere’s eyes more than before. 

“Will Arthur and Merlin be able to reach it then?” She challenged him. 

“The creatures will lead them to it if needed,” he chose to answer. 

The knights exchanged a look — but the passing clouds only carried their common confusion. Leon sighed again. They still needed to do something about the situation. 

“The Lake of Avalon is only a few hours away from Camelot by horses. If we detach two men on the road between Brinved and Avalon, they may be able to slow down Morgana’s detachment without being too noticeable for the Saxon’s army. That way we won’t disturb the truce.” 

The Queen nodded. 

“Let me join the expedition, Majesty,” Gwaine stepped forward. 

Guinevere casted him a cautious look. If his stance belonged to a knight; his face was cracking under grief like glass. It would be an easy win for Morgana. 

“Let me join too then,” added Percival. “If needed, we still know how to handle a sorcerer. It wouldn’t be much harder to deal with her the same way.” 

Percival held her gaze better than any other in the room. 

“Thank you for your guidance earlier.” Gwaine turned to Gaius. “Mordred isn’t able to use his powers.” 

The old man only answered with a sad smile. 

“The High Priestesses were known to be far more powerful than any other sorcerers and sorceresses. A blindfold and a pair of lead handcuffs found in Camelot’s crypt may not be enough to retrain her, I fear.” 

“We won’t know if we don’t try,” retorted Percival. As the physician’s gaze dropped, he added. “Do you happen to know an Emrys?” 

He couldn’t let that go without an answer — Mordred’s words were poisoning his mind. Gaius was knowledgeable on magic, wasn’t he?  

The old man grasp on his own arms tightened. He studied Percival, then the Queen. “I do.” 

“Who is he?” 

“He is the one that helped us win the battle. A powerful sorcerer referred to in legends. More powerful than High Priestesses. Some say that he is the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth,” Gaius replied carefully. “He is supposed to help the Once and Future King unite the land of Albion.” 

The knights and the Queen frowned. 

“You believe them?” Gwaine finally asked. 

“I believe we wouldn’t have survived the last battle without his help.” Gaius stated slowly. As confusion and disbelief mixed on his interlocutors’ faces, he added, “I believe without his help the King wouldn’t and won’t have any chances against Morgana.” 

Arthur already knew, he told himself. 

The knights opened and closed their mouths. The truth sinked in slowly. Gwaine searched his memories for clues he could have missed. Percival wondered if the King was safe. Leon deciphered what it meant for their plan. But a doubt still lingered. 

Guinevere’s fingers stilled on the seal. She raised her chin at Gaius — he clarified. “Emrys is only one of his names.” 

✴︎

“So… Emrys then?” 

They had already been gone for several hours when Arthur resolved to ask the question. 

The hooves of Merlin’s horse didn’t stop. And the wizard only glanced back — as if prompting the King to clarify his thoughts. 

Around them, a plain stretched for several miles, its high, dry grass lining the path leading them to the forest surrounding the Lake of Avalon of a grayish yellow. In the distance, the White Mountains separating them from Ealdor stood tall — a reminder of a young man’s hopes, traveling to Camelot for the first time, a decade prior. 

The sky was pale and overcast. The light was flat and cool, making shadows disappear, while partially blinding them at the same time. 

“Was you name another lie?” 

The King’s voice was low and tight, but clear through his mount’s steps. 

“No,” replied Merlin, seemingly focused on the path ahead. “That’s just what the Druids call me.” 

“Morgana called you like that too,” Arthur said. “On the battlefield.” 

It took Merlin several other yards to answer. 

“I don’t know where she heard that.” 

That was true. Even though he had made some speculations, he had never discovered where she had learned his other name. 

Behind him, Arthur’s voice rose again. “She was terrified.” 

Merlin swallowed — hard. 

“I can be terrifying at times,” he tried with a smile. But in his tone, darkness prevailed. 

Arthur’s horse was separated from his by one or two yards, like a security barrier. 

“Seems like you can be, indeed.” 

Merlin took a deep breath. Arthur’s lips were tight, his eyes turned into slits. Was it from the light or from the conversation? He didn’t know. In comparison, the King’s fear had been clear when Merlin’s mask had dropped. Even if hidden behind anger. 

Another memory layered itself, flooding his mind. It was Arthur’s back, shoulders raised and boots digging the ground when he had confirmed to him his sorcerer’s nature. 

It had hurt Merlin more than he would have imagined. 

“Care to explain to me why the Druids treated you with such diligence?” Arthur brought him out of his thoughts.

At that, only herbs cracking under their passage answered. 

The woods were now only a minute or two away. 

“I’m your king, Merlin,” Arthur sighed. “In case you forgot.” 

The servant kept his gaze straight on the path forward. “You are indeed.”

Silence dropped again — and Merlin’s back told Arthur not to hope for any other answer. The King cared to respect the invisible barrier separating them, reluctant to deepen the unease.

After the spell the Druids had casted, Merlin had regained colors. He could even ride a horse without help. But his grip on the reins was loose, his feet threatening to come out of the stirrups by an inch. 

“We should take a break,” he said — not an order, a suggestion. “You need to rest.” 

“I’m fine,” Merlin gave for all answer. 

And the dry whisper of the grass faded into a muffled hush, the thick foliage of the oaks offering a welcome dim light — sharpening shapes while softening the ache at every glance. Smooth beeches and pale birches accompanied the ancient trees in their work, adorning the forest of different shades of bronze. 

Merlin inhaled deeply. Between the trees, the air was getting cooler and damp. Moss and still water laid miles ahead. Iseldir was right about the distance. 

A muscle twitched on his neck. The faster they’d get to the lake, the faster he’d be healed — the faster he’d be able to protect Arthur again. 

“The horses then?” The said king insisted. 

It was Merlin’s turn to sigh. “They told us they had stopped the fragment, right?” 

“Yes,” acknowledged Arthur. “ Only for a day or two.” A beat. “They also did say that you shouldn’t strain yourself. Riding multiple hours is straining.” As Merlin didn’t react, he resorted, “And I need to eat.”

“As always…”

But, despite his mutter, Merlin’s shoulders dropped — Arthur had won this argument. 

“We’ll install the camp here,” he decided, indicating the base of a beech with the chin. 

It was wide and tall. Its branches overlapped those of several surrounding trees and its imposing roots stood out in places. They would make perfect seats or hiding spots if needed. 

Arthur descended from his mount and scrutinized Merlin as he did the same. His boots hitting the ground too fast. His hand lingering too long on the pommel. His teeth gritting too much in the end. Merlin was fine for sure.

They tied the horses to a birch in silence. Merlin went to collect firewood while Arthur looked around for potential threats. The servant installed logs in a pile, got some flints and tried to set them on fire. 

Arthur stood next to him. 

“Why don’t you use magic?” 

Merlin paused. “Habit? I suppose.” 

He looked up, one brow raised. Arthur mirrored his expression and nodded. Merlin returned to the logs. His pupils turned gold — the flames grew.  

“Feels strange,” Merlin admitted in a whisper, his face falling.

Arthur stared at the fire. The embers’ hue twinned the glint of his servant’s eyes seconds prior. 

“Yeah,” he confirmed. 

Merlin’s shoulders stiffed at the comment. He bit his lips. He got up again and went to the horses. 

He recovered cooking instruments and food in the bags fitted to his mount. He’d thanked the Druids when their path would cross again — Arthur hadn’t packed these things. 

He returned to the campfire, prepared a stew. 

“Why are you doing that?” 

Arthur was still standing close to the fire, observing him. Both of his brows were raised this time. They locked eyes — Merlin returned to the meal. “The food is not going to prepare itself.” 

Arthur frowned. “Is it related to what you told me on the battlefield? About the world I am building? And… Emrys?”

Merlin shrugged. Stirred the dish. Sniffed. He had said another thing to him in Camlann — he guess it didn’t matter, in the end.

“It still doesn’t make sense to me,” the King continued. 

“Why are you following me here then?” Merlin asked, barely audible. 

“I’m not sure.” 

Merlin’s fingers clenched around the wooden spoon. Ouch again.

He filled each of them a plate. Arthur looked at the one he gave him — exchanged their servings. Merlin had now the fuller one. 

He stared at it. Arthur sat on a close root.

Merlin sat in return, a little further. 

He met Arthur’s eyes.

The King started his meal. Merlin did the same. 

Cutlery clinked, fire popped. 

The air thickened. 

“Though I knew you.” 

Merlin stopped his filled spoon mid-way. He looked at Arthur, at his gaze pasting him — at his mouth turned into a line. The King had finished his meal already.

“I trusted you,” he added. His tone was flat, void. 

Merlin placed his spoon on his plate. The vegetables returned to the half-empty serving. “I’m sorry,” he indulged. Sincerely.

“I’m sorry too.” For what? Arthur didn’t know. But he was. 

Merlin looked up again but the King hadn’t moved. 

The sorcerer got up and regained the other’s plate, piling it on top of his, while the fire kept burning the King’s thoughts away. 

Merlin stepped over the beech’s roots, joining a stream below flanked by birches and alders. He crouched and placed the cutlery next to him on the gravel, making it screech. The cold water seized his hands as he plunged Arthur’s plate into it. 

His back facing the King and the rustle of water filling the space, he allowed tears to roll down his cheeks. They made their way to the current slowly. He scrubbed the dishes hard.

He had thought about revealing his magic to Arthur. Desired it — feared it. 

Yet, never would he have imagined it to be as hurtful. Nor was he warned it could be. Neither by Gaius. Nor by Kilgharrah. 

He would have needed a spot farther away to call the dragon — he didn’t have that luxury. Mordred or Morgana could still attack. And Arthur would be even more disgusted if he saw him appear. Even more betrayed. The King thought the old creature to be dead. Thought Balinor was the last of his kind. 

He used the sleeve of his jacket to dry out the King’s plate, took his own, threw the food on the moss, and submerged the tin with water. He sniffled. He really missed Kilgharrah. 

After this quest, he’d either join the Druids, come back to Ealdor or to the Crystal Cave. The cave made more sense. He’d be able to protect the King from there. It was safer for both of them, until Arthur’s fear faded… if it ever did. Merlin would miss Guinevere, the Knights and Gaius — but he would have his father. 

But first, they had to face the Sidhe on Avalon. Merlin didn’t know much about the isle — but from Gaius’ saying, his powers might not be useful. The magic there probably was from a different kind than his. A superior one. 

He stacked the cutlery, then reached into his pocket. His fingers found the cold metal. He pulled the sigil out. A bird on top of a simple cross — Queen Ygraine’s crest. Arthur’s gift. Merlin had sewn a hook in his pocket so it would never be lost. 

Merlin caressed the emblem with the thumb.

The token was heavy in his hand. Too heavy maybe.

He erased the tears on his cheeks. He would have to give it back to Arthur. 

He hooked it into place again, rose with the plates — froze. 

A misty sound.

The last lights of the day saturated the hues of the leaves above. And the shadow of a dragon detached itself. Crooked neck. White scales.

Aithusa.

Morgana was after them. 

✴︎

“Run!” 

Arthur just had the time to see Merlin sprinting towards him before he heard their horses shrieked and bolt into the woods. 

He tried to catch the menace—nothing. He still followed his servant’s lead, certain of his actions. 

A low rumble shook through the earth. More hooves. Shadows riders were closing in, their charge crushing fallen leaves to the pulp. 

They had been tracked. Saxons. Or worse, Morgana. Either of these options meant he hadn’t done enough before leaving Camlann. And that Camelot and Guinevere were in danger. 

Shouts and weapons clung in his ears, pressing their haste. He needed to focus. They had to ran harder. 

But the path ended abruptly as they reached a cliff dropping into a steep hollow below. Merlin stopped when he noticed it — but Arthur barreled into him from behind. Both tumbled headfirst into the pit, sliding through dead leaves.

Roots beat their sides like whips, forcing their bodies to roll and twist to avoid them. They hit the ground hard — their bones felt crushed and stars burst in their eyes. 

Arthur shook his head vigorously, forced the air into his lungs, and reached for Merlin. The idiot’s body was moving — thank god. Arthur took his forearm and brought him under a recess before the other could catch his breath. 

Merlin’s hand went to his forehead to ease the ache — Arthur put his glove over his mouth, command clear: not a word. 

Above them, hooves thundered away. 

Shouts receded. 

Silence.

They kept their breath held. Saxons were good warriors. Morgana could be there too. And — Merlin clenched — Mordred could still fulfill the prophecy. 

Still, the path seemed clear. 

Arthur noticed his previous gesture and released him. He warned Merlin with a glance — led the way out. 

The canopy was only getting darker. They moved slowly along the cliff wall, their steps hushed by the leaves. But a petulant laugh cracked on their right. 

“Arthur Pendragon and his servant. Both for the price of one.” 

The Saxon was as tall as Percival, his eyes alight with triumph. Dozens stepped into view from another corner. 

Arthur reached for his sword and Merlin’s knuckles turned white. It wasn’t their first time affronting Saxons — and both swore it wouldn’t be their last. 

The talking man’s armor and weapon etched volts. Arthur frowned. Why did the Saxons send a noble on their trace?

“Spare him,” Arthur said, shoving Merlin behind him. “My life is worth more than his.” 

Even for him, they were too many. If Morgana was on her way, Arthur didn’t give much of their hides. 

The decorated man smirked. “She begs to differ.” 

“A servant couldn’t be of any danger,” Arthur retorted. He needed to make time for Merlin to escape.

The cocky man scoffed. Morgana went for really strange allies. 

Arthur studies each of them. He elaborated strategies — but didn’t find any. With this visibility, he could get rid of half the group, top. But Merlin didn’t have a sword to rely on. The situation couldn’t be any worse. Yet—

Footsteps closed behind them. Another group. Similar amount. 

His jaw locked. Alright, this was worse. 

A roar. He turned his head back just in time. The cocky knight had launched an attack — Arthur stayed in position as long as he could, sidestepped and inflicted the man a fatal strike. 

He exhaled loudly. It was happening for the second time in two days. Opponents really loved doing that when left out of sight a second. 

Another soldier rushed upon him. Arthur made him roll on his shoulder, sending him yards away. A third took advantage of it to lunge into him on his left. The King crushed his foot, the Saxon bend forward — Arthur’s shoulder smashed his head. 

The King kept going, every knight as skillful as the prior, his lifelong experience of battle more at use than ever. And yet— 

A mace arced to his ribs. The darkness prevented him from noticing it in time — but a spear flew past him and impaled the attacker. 

Arthur froze.

He didn’t risk looking back again. 

“Alright, Merlin?” He placed a knee in the stomach of another opponent. 

“I believe so—on your right!” the other exclaimed. 

A crossbow bolt whistled past his arm, dodged him by a few — and veered, snapping into a Saxon’s chest before it could hit the earth. In his peripheral vision, Merlin’s hand was stretched out. 

“That’s… useful,” Arthur blurted out, pulse spiking. 

Images of the old sorcerer and his lightning came to mind. Of the man changing for Merlin’s traits as he collapsed. And of Merlin being fine. 

Arthur clenched — he had to end the fight fast. 

Only a few were still facing him. He drew back until he hit Merlin’s back. Bolts hissed on the other side. He could hear strain in his servant’s voice. The idiot was casting spells.

Arthur hit the sword with an opponent that had just sprung back up from one of his attacks. The King took the Saxon’s sword — struck two soldiers in one blow. The last opponent lunged into him. To no avail. Arthur stabbed him in the chest. The man collapsed. 

Arthur turned back — Merlin could be in a similar state — and halted. 

A similar amount of bodies littered his servant’s side of the pit, flames revealing them. Only wounds from spears and bolts. Arms and legs detached from the top of the pit. Crossbowmen. 

Arthur’s chest tightened. “She proved me wrong,” he muttered. “A servant can be dangerous.”

Merlin’s breath ragged. His eyes glowed faintly, scanning the dark. “The path is clear this way,” he gave, small. 

Arthur squinted at him. “How do you know?” 

“I can see the path ahead,” Merlin chose to reveal.  

His King took a deep breath. “So you’re not a complete idiot then. That was another lie.” 

“No,” Merlin tried with a smile. “Just another part of my charm.” He inhaled deeply. “Let’s go: Morgana’s dragon was flying near our camp. She won’t be long to come. And I’m not sure either of us would be able to fight her now—” 

Merlin’s face crumpled. His knees buckled — gave in.  

“Merlin!” 

Arthur dropped beside him. He lifted his friend’s tunic delicately, the flames flickering through the distance — and found a wound. 

Merlin clasped it. “It’s only a cut—” 

“—Shut up, Merlin.” snapped Arthur. “You’re not fine.” 

Yes, the new one on his ribs was superficial. But the other wound — Morgana’s struck — was soaking through the bandages, turning them a bright crimson. It had reopened in the battle. 

Arthur searched for the satchel. He cursed under his breath. He had left it on his horse. The same horse that disappeared in the woods when the Saxons came. They had no time to find it. They had to reach the lake. 

Morgana was coming. 

“Arthur—” Merlin began. But the King caught him by the middle and swung him upside down on his shoulder. “You’re not in shape.” 

“I’m in a way better one than you.” Arthur replied. 

The moon was growing enough to show itself, not to light the way. He started to walk actively. No time to think. 

“Not if Mordred finds us,” Merlin croaked. 

“That’s not the priority, Merlin.” 

Arthur readjusted his grip, gritted his teeth — steadied his breathing. He recognized this part of the woods now. He hunted in them. But so did Morgana. 

“You are not listening.” 

“Neither are you,” Arthur grunted — roots were stepping in and branches were lashing across his face. “Why Mordred, specifically?” 

Merlin tensed on his shoulder. No answer came. Again. 

“If you’re not inclined on telling me why,” the King sighed. “You may as well not mention it…”

“He is a Druid,” Merlin whispered hoarsely, every step crushing his wound on Arthur’s armor. 

Arthur slowed, adjusting him carefully, hearing the ragged breaths. “More reasons for you to stay quiet then.” 

“But—” A cough interrupted him — wracked, shuddering. 

Arthur bent his head, voice barely audible. “Hold on, Merlin. Just hold on.” 

Was it to comfort Merlin or himself, he didn’t know.