Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Funny, Arthur thought, that a creature born of sorcery can seem so familiar.

It was eerily silent, aside from his uneven footfalls on the cobblestones and the rapid pounding of his heart. He could feel it all the way up in his throat, adrenaline making his blood rush, the folds of his voice raw and fatigued from shouting commands to the King's men.

It had only occurred to him after Sir Geraint had called for his attention. The shout had broken his sudden, idiotic, irresponsible reverie as an unfortunate knight was snatched from the ground and carried away past the parapets, and then it all unfolded in a matter of seconds—a flash of movement even as Arthur snapped back to attention, a sharp, stabbing pain tearing across the entire left side of his body, the ground disappearing from beneath him.

The ground meeting him again.

Stone, he'd realized through the haze of his scattered thoughts. The creature. It felt like stone.

It hadn't taken much time for Arthur to shake off the attack, groaning as he collected himself. No one around, he told himself. No one to hear. Sir Geraint had ordered a retreat and a rendezvous point, to his credit. If Arthur had been able, he'd have done it himself. No sense losing any more men to pride, when they could lead with strategy.

He'd sensed reluctance in Sir Geraint's voice to leave him. Privately, Arthur wondered if it was only his status that afforded him such care.

The thought had followed him nearly for the full length of the alley. He poked and prodded at it, turning it over and over again. Would he have the same reluctance to leave a new recruit? Was it genuine care? True loyalty? Or was it the implied threat that if something happened to Arthur, Uther would have his head on a platter?

Arthur forced his mind to spin in another direction. Questioning Sir Geraint's loyalty—his affection?—was ridiculous at best, and at worst, it was a dire insult to his character. He should not allow himself such thoughts about the King's knights. They would be his knights one day.

Stone, he reminded himself shaking his head. For the love of Camelot, focus, Arthur! Stone, yes. But there was something more, some familiarity that he couldn't quite place. He could not shake the feelings that he had somehow passed these creatures by, that he had seen their like hundreds, even thousands of times before they'd ever dared to attack.

Ignoring the pain lacing through his body, Arthur staggered into the the empty square, sword held at the ready. He scanned the area, eyes darting wildly, but it was the relieved shout of Sir Geraint that turned his head.

There, on the far side of the square, barely six feet from the open gates of the castle. Sir Geraint. Arthur counted four, maybe five knights huddled behind him. All of them green, he noted, and his stomach turned over. All recently knighted, aside from their leader. All with wide, horrified eyes, but spines that stood tall and brave in the face of this threat of sorcery, ready to lay down their lives in service of the crown.

In service of Arthur.

His armor had never felt so heavy.

Wings beat the air above them. Talons of rock met the stones of the street, and the street lost the battle, cracking from the sheer force and weight of the wretched creature. It was facing the knights. Arthur's blood ran cold.

"Save yourselves, THAT'S AN ORDER!" His voice tore from his throat, raw but commanding and foreign to himself, the words steeped in the bloody authority of the crown. Arthur poured everything he had into it, every ounce of courage, of energy, into the necessity and the promise that these men would make it out alive, and that he would follow.

And Sir Geraint obeyed.

The rushing in Arthur's ears drowned out the sound of Geraint's voice, but he could see his mouth moving, the knights under his command scrambling to follow, their eyes shining with clear relief. In his heart, the Prince knew he had made the right decision. The belief remained steadfast, even as the creature of stone turned to face him with the look of a wild beast with its prey in sight.

Arthur would be no easy prey. He settled into a back leaning stance as the creature charged; he didn't dare to tear his eyes from the approaching beast, but he heard the gates slide closed, his men now safely inside. He braced himself, his sword steady in his hands, leveled to target the inside of the creature's mouth, and prepared to strike.

His aim was true, but his blade struck stone. The clashing impact reverberated up his arms, but Arthur hardly felt it because his already wounded side exploded into blinding agony, the overloaded nerves screaming for his attention and wrenching at his consciousness. He crumpled like a paper doll, armored knees jolting against the unforgiving crags of the street. They were protected. His head was not.

The town square melted away into blackness. Arthur's right arm was the last to hit the ground, fingers still wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

—

Something hit him, and he jolted awake.

Arthur lay there, unmoving, paralyzed by a heavy blanket of pain. You should be dead, his brain cheerfully informed him. Then a smaller object, light and hard, smacked against his right temple. Another explosion of pain, this time in his head, his vision momentarily turning white.

Everything was too loud. Too much.

How can that be, Arthur wondered, if my eyes are closed? It was a funny question, he decided, even if he couldn't figure out why. He could swear he heard the object that hit him bounce off and crumble into smaller pieces, and his chest swelled with satisfaction. Ha. That'll teach you.

His vision eventually settled back into darkness, a burial shroud of silence settling down upon him. The creature had probably left, assuming he was dead. Why? That thought swirled hazily in his mind, but drifted away before he could grasp it fully. Stone beasts don't need to eat, Arthur decided after that, thoroughly impressed by his own intellect, and then the dizzying thoughts came to a screeching halt.

Someone was here.

It should have been obvious, in retrospect, because that someone was touching him. A hand, gentle and timid, pressed just below his left collarbone, and shaky breaths tickled his forehead. Arthur's heart sank. One of those fool knights, he realized. One of those fools came back for me! The creature would be back any second to finish him off, and this brave idiot would pay for his courage with blood. He stood no chance, especially if he intended to defend Arthur, utterly helpless as he was.

Arthur tried to speak. He would issue a command in that same authoritative tone, his best mimicry of Uther Pendragon, and this man would listen.

"Run," he whispered, his head lolling to the side. Or, tried to whisper. It came out as a weak groan, barely audible. But perhaps the man understood, because his next exhale came in a huff of what might have been irritation, forceful enough to ruffle Arthur's hair back. Arthur felt a surge of it then himself, irritation that someone under his command dared to be irritated by a direct order, that—

"Who would have believed it? You… a sorcerer."

Distant and booming and triumphant, the voice echoed from across the square. "And a powerful one."

Arthur froze, confused. He tried to grasp the meaning of the words. When his dazed mind finally put the pieces together, he forgot how to breathe.

The man next to him was a sorcerer.

A sorcerer crouched by his side, with a hand laid upon his breastplate with intent to harm, not to help. That huff, his apparent irritation… because Arthur Pendragon had not yet died?

Arthur fought with renewed desperation to pull away, just to move, but his head was stuffed thick with cotton. His body remained still. But it didn't matter, because even if he could push himself to stand, nothing could have prepared him for the voice that rang out in reply.

"I won't let you hurt him!"

Merlin.

Strong and assured, sparkling with that calm resolve and impossibly timid courage that Arthur had come to expect. But not this time, Arthur realized, startled. Not timid.

Where was the sorcerer? Arthur floundered in his own thoughts, not comprehending. Everything was there, he knew, everything he needed, but it wasn't fitting together. It didn't fit, it couldn't fit, because it would all point to an impossible conclusion.

"And you're going to stop me?" That voice rang out once more from across the square, and Arthur winced from the pain that laced through his head.

Merlin, his sluggish brain reminded him. In danger. Guilt and fear gripped at Arthur's heart in equal parts. He couldn't think straight, he must be hearing things wrong, and his first priority, the only priority that mattered at all, was…

"I'll stop you."

The world seemed to stand still.

His servant had moved. Merlin's voice came from further away, just a few paces if Arthur had judged the distance right. The stupid boy had positioned himself between Arthur and the other person—that foreign voice, which was yet so familiar—and Merlin's words, firm as they were, didn't quite match the soft but determined tone in which he spoke. An awful suspicion nagged at Arthur's mind, one that had whispered at the edge of his consciousness from the moment Merlin first spoke up.

"He does not deserve your loyalty." The words came more easily to the unseen man, flowing from his mouth the way an advisor would speak to his king. "He treats you like a slave."

"That's not true." And it stuck like a knife in his heart, the way Merlin's voice wobbled on the word 'true.'

The unseen man sprang eagerly at the opening. "He cast you aside without a moment's thought."

That's not true, either, Arthur thought angrily. I…

"That doesn't matter." Merlin raised his voice, this time more sure of himself. And in that pause, the long hesitation as the other conversant weighed his options, considering a new tactic… it finally came to him.

Cedric.

The name came to Arthur at last, the oily man's face a shadowy blur in his mind's eye. It only deepened his confusion. What in Camelot's name was he doing here?

"…must hurt, so much." Cedric's tone had shifted into something more sinister, now a wheedling, simpering sound that tugged cleverly on Merlin's dignity and plunged Arthur's heart into icy water. "To be so… put upon. So overlooked, when all the while…"

You have such power.

Four simple words. All at once, Arthur's fragmented thoughts fit together as if he'd known all along. Every seed of doubt that he had so desperately clung to went up in crackling fire, tongues of flame licking at every tattered shred of the bond of trust that the two of them had built. Merlin is a sorcerer.

Merlin, who stood by his side countless times, who gained his trust with all the clumsy grace of a baby bird, who freely offered his life for the chance to save Arthur's. Who had practiced magic in secret under Arthur's nose, under Uther's nose, an act of treason, perhaps for as long as he had been in Camelot. Who had feigned loyalty to the crown, pretending to be stupid and naive and bumbling and kind and wise and…

…and my friend, Arthur thought dimly. He pretended to be my friend.

And like the fool he was, he believed him. That was the worst part of it all. When these two wretched sorcerers decided to stop their posturing and dispatch the Prince, who was helpless at their feet, Arthur had no one but himself to blame.

"—have yet to discover your true power…"

What?

"…I can help you."

Merlin appeared to hesistate, inhaling so shakily that Arthur could hear it, and in the same instant, it gave Arthur hope.

It was only the faintest spark of hope, but it kindled in him nonetheless. Because perhaps if it was recent, if magic was new to Merlin… then maybe not everything was a lie.

Don't, Arthur thought, helpless to intervene. Don't. He'll twist you, it will corrupt you even further, until there's not a shred of you left.

He hardly dared to believe it, but something in his mind had shifted. Desperation, maybe? Rage at being sacked from his position as a servant? Arthur wracked his brain for an explanation that made sense. How could anyone, even Merlin, be stupid enough to turn to magic?

"Think, Merlin." When Cedric spoke next, his voice was almost kind. It also sounded quieter, but so did everything else, as if someone had taken a huge, woolen blanket and draped it over the kingdom. "To have the world appreciate your greatness. To have Arthur know you for what you are." The oiliness in his smile dripped into his voice, his utter distaste for the Pendragons blatant from his pronunciation of Arthur's name alone.

"That can never be."

Arthur almost laughed; why, why would Merlin ever want him to know? That was the part that made no sense to him. If he knew, it would be Merlin's head.

But Cedric continued, growing in confidence as he if knew he'd landed on something substantial. "It can. If you join me." His tone grew dark and victorious. "Together we can rule over this land. Arthur will tremble at your voice, he will kneel at your feet."

With every word, Cedric's excitement blazed, his certainty grew. The urge to laugh was gone, and Arthur's last hope shrank to an ember. It did make sense now, in an awful, twisted way. He could see, somewhat, the way the pieces fit together, the fuzzy silhouette of a possible explanation.

Vengeance. Merlin had not lied to him, not at first. But he had turned against him, he had…

No, Arthur realized with a jolt. He had turned Merlin against himself somehow, wronged him in some terrible, irreparable way, to such a degree that Merlin would turn to sorcery. It wasn't about Camelot, not at all. This was about Arthur.

The silence only lasted seven seconds, but it stretched for an eternity. It occurred to him, far too late, that Cedric's voice must have raised his voice to almost a shout, but Arthur had to strain to hear it. He became aware of an uncomfortable wetness on his left side, probably his initial wound torn open further when the creature had knocked him out.

His fingers were numb and too cold, now splayed open. He couldn't wrap them around his sword's hilt, even if he thought he could use it.

Merlin broke the silence, his voice softer than ever. It weighed heavy with sorrow, as if the mere thought of what Cedric offered saddened him beyond what words could describe.

"…I don't want that."

And shame, too, Arthur noted foggily. He's ashamed that Cedric even thinks he would want it. He tried to think again, urging himself to revise his earlier conclusion. His mind refused to cooperate, drifting on the very edge of consciousness, threatening to meld the two voices together until he could no longer recognize his friend.

"You'd rather be a servant?" he heard Cedric blurt out from far away.

But Merlin's voice rang out loud and clear and strong, certain of his own words. Certain of himself. He knew that tone; it had been used on him, more than once, usually when Merlin got it in his thick head that Arthur was being an inconsiderate prat.

"Better to serve a good man than to rule with an evil one!"

Silence fell after that. Arthur welcomed it.

An evil one. He turned the words over in his head. Cedric… evil. Merlin called him evil. Isn't Cedric a sorcerer, too?

And he'd called Arthur a good man. He could hang, Arthur thought, half in a panic. He could hang, and he thinks... and he'd still…

Seconds ticked by, and Arthur was not aware of it. The words all blended together into something incomprehensible, his head felt like it would explode, and he wished they would just stop talking.

A faint blue glow shone through his closed eyelids. Merlin began to chant in a low voice, the odd-sounding words thrumming with unmistakable power.

That's not what I meant, Merlin. It occurred to Arthur that sorcerers could definitely read minds, so he must have heard that, and now he also knows that Arthur knows, and he also knows that Arthur knows that he knows that Arthur…

Serves you right, Arthur thought at him, and passed out.

—

His shoulder was on fire. The rest of it was bearable, or perhaps he'd simply grown used to it.

"…back in place," murmured someone above him, concern simmering just beneath the mask of his clinical tone.

Gaius? Arthur tried to test his voice by calling his name. His voice failed spectacularly, and Gaius kept talking, uninterrupted.

"…must have tried to stab it."

If Arthur could, he would have given that an offended snort. Tried? He did stab it. Wasn't his fault he stabbed a rock.

His head rolled limply to the side—from the side, he corrected himself, back to center. A hand supported its weight, firm but gentle against his cheek, and someone else who was not Gaius sucked in a sharp breath of sympathy at whatever he saw.

"-fault," came Merlin's voice, tight with fear, and Arthur tensed. What could scare a sorcerer? "My fault. It was flying right over him, of course it…"

A pair of hands pressed hard against his side and a wave of pain crashed over him, washing away some of Merlin's next words.

"…crumbled, when I…"

Fingers swept his hair back and held it there.

"…his head. Gaius, he won't wake up, he-"

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Arthur thought at him, then added a quick 'sorcerer' for good measure. Merlin had the gall to ignore him. Or maybe it didn't work if he was panicking. Either way, his bedside manner left much to be desired.

The next word wasn't one that Arthur recognized. He wondered vaguely if he was hallucinating until Merlin repeated it, his fingertips trembling as they pressed against Arthur's temple.

Þurhhæle.

An immense pressure lifted from the inside of Arthur's head. He hadn't noticed it until it disappeared, nor had he noticed the ringing in his ears or the thick, cloying layer of honey that had dampened the sound of everything around him.

Merlin took a shuddering breath, so close to Arthur's face that he could hear his quiet sniffles before he choked them back. Arthur didn't know what to make of it, and the darkness behind his eyelids was beginning to drag him back down.

Merlin, he tried again. He struggled to open his eyes, but it was a fight he would not win. Merlin, you have to be careful.

Merlin whispered the word again. Arthur saw the golden light this time, gentle and inviting.

Careful, Arthur echoed himself one last time before he slipped under. Gaius might see.

—

Three knocks. Arthur deemed that a proper enough warning before he swung the door open to the physician's chambers, dragging a heavy sack behind him.

"I've come to see Merlin," Arthur announced, as if the boy wasn't right there. He winced inwardly at his own pronunciation of the name—awkward, full of wonder, as if there's something about him that Arthur does not yet understand. At once a greeting and an accusation.

Merlin fidgets visibly under the intensity of his gaze, unable to look him in the eyes, and Arthur feels a rush of guilt and triumph that he has managed to make him squirm.

He's just the same as ever.

Arthur gathered his resolve, took a decisive step forward, and spoke.

"I've not forgotten about your lazy, insolent ways. Or the fact that you called me a…" He hesitated. A far away look crossed his face, his eyes flickering into the distance as if recalling an unpleasant memory. "Clot… pole?" Arthur took no small amount of satisfaction in the way Gaius's eyes jumped to his apprentice.

"But, I do have to admit…" Arthur hesitated, feeling his throat go dry. Merlin's eyes flicked up to meet his own, wide with curiosity. So Arthur held his gaze and delivered the words he had rehearsed, but with far more warmth in his tone than he'd originally intended.

"…that there was some truth in your accusations against Cedric."

Merlin stayed silent for a moment, the faintest curve turning the corners of his lips up. Then a mischievous twinkle entered his eyes, and his smile spread wider.

"Does this mean you're admitting—" His head dipped slightly and he hesitated, as if he was aware of just narrowly he was towing the line by using this word against Arthur. "—that in this occasion, I was actually right?" The sentence ended in a grin, Merlin's amused surprise written plain in his eyes.

And Arthur forgot whatever words he had so carefully planned to say next. He inhaled his bewilderment and tilted his head back, his eyes narrow as he searched the ceiling for the right words to throw back at him. His lips attempted once, twice, to form around his next sentence.

"…not exactly?" Arthur finally settled on, all efforts toward a regal and composed demeanor gone to absolute shit. "No. It means, that…"

I know your secret, Merlin. I know.

And Merlin's smile faded ever so slightly in what could be fearful anticipation and his shoulders slumped, the mirth gone from his eyes, and Arthur just couldn't.

"…I have a knighthood to bestow first thing tomorrow—" Arthur finished, delivering the words with the same practiced boredom he'd grown to use when ordering his servant around. The idea came to him as he spoke, and a genuine wince flashed briefly across his face as he hoisted the heavy sack of armor up. He gritted his teeth and forced the pain from his expression.

"—And no one to clean my armor." It crept into his voice anyway.

But it was worth the pain, all of it, for the look on Merlin's face as he unceremoniously dumped out the contents of the sack onto Gaius's dining table. The clatter of metal on wood filled the small room. He watched with some satisfaction as Merlin, taken by surprise, scrambled to steady the precarious heap before it could topple over onto his precious breakfast.

Now it was Merlin's turn to flounder for words, his lips opening and closing helplessly and his eyes blinking in utter shock.

"All that?" he seemed to land on. His face was an open book of bafflement, mild outrage, and defiance all at once. Arthur nearly laughed, but remembered just in time that Merlin would ask him why, and he could give no answer.

"Yep." Arthur popped the 'p' and smiled. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the empty sack at his servant's head, turned on his heel, and strode to the door, satisfaction burning a hole through his chest as he felt Merlin's befuddled eyes follow him until he was out of sight.

Chapter Text

All things considered, that could have gone worse. 

Even so, it was impossible for Arthur to shoo away the dark cloud of stewing emotions that hovered about him for the following week. He had entered the physician's chambers to confront Merlin: An excellent tactical decision on his part, really, one that he'd congratulated himself for coming up with. Merlin could not use his powers of sorcery to attack him, not without Gaius bearing witness.

But Merlin was unpredictable, just like his magic. He'd cleverly driven Arthur off-script and lowered his guard; he'd pressed his advantage and twisted Arthur's own words against him.

Arthur could have improvised. Any knight worth his armor would have. But then Merlin had stared at him with that awful, terrified look, and in that fraction of a second, Arthur's plan unravelled and his thoughts cantered away with the frenzy of a loosed horse.

Merlin couldn't read minds, for one. The assumption made by Arthur's addled, concussion-riddled brain had certainly proven false, because if he could, he would have been staring at Arthur with horror from the moment he stepped through the door.

For another thing, this was new. Merlin rarely looked like that, and never looked at Arthur like that, and for some reason, something about his wide, fearful eyes made Arthur feel utterly sick to his stomach. But nothing shocked him more than his third and final revelation.

Arthur knew fear, of course.

Constant, gnawing, a force of nature that he had to continuously stamp down into the very depths of himself. It was something dangerous and wild, and he likened it to magic itself—corrupting the weak, bending to the powerful. It was Uther Pendragon's weapon of choice, one he kept close in the chamber of his heart that adjoined to his love for Camelot, his ward, and his son.

Left unchecked, fear was a plague; those who succumbed to it were at dire risk of infecting others. If a man was to be King, a man to whom knights, nobles, and the commonfolk would look for guidance, it was his responsibility to sequester his fear and keep it out of sight.

Arthur knew fear. He even tipped his helm to it at times out of respect, but he could not let it go unleashed. Most importantly, he could not afford to make another man's fear his own.

Right now, Merlin was afraid. Of what, he was fairly sure. But that night, with Arthur's royal Pendragon blood spilling out over the cobblestones, Gaius's practiced care holding his shredded torso together…

Merlin's hands, gentler than they had any right to be when they were trembling that violently. His fingers brushing Arthur's blond hair to the side. A scattered few raindrops on a night with no clouds. His voice frantic. Terrified.

(Gaius, he won't wake up.)

In his own chambers, Arthur was about to accuse him of sorcery. And Merlin knew it. And yet…

He didn't sound nearly as frightened as he had that night.

With that simple realization, Arthur's stupid plan went up in flames. He didn't bother sticking around to watch it burn.

—

All things considered, that could have gone better. 

There had to be consequences, of course. Arthur had no naive illusions to the contrary. But the punishment had to fit the crime, and what was Merlin's crime?

Sorcery. And saving a life.

More than one life, Arthur reasoned. If his sorcery was also responsible for defeating the larger threat to Camelot.

Merlin could not have saved Arthur's life without sorcery, and he had only used it to save his life. Yet if his fate was to be decided by Uther, the consequence would be death. That was not justice. Arthur, it seemed, would have to decide the consequences himself.

Unfortunately for Arthur, time does not wait around for a Prince to give his ruling.

Chapter Text

To hand down justice, Arthur had reasoned, he would have to learn of the true nature of Merlin's crimes. He would keep a close eye on him—as much for Merlin's protection, he told himself, as it was for the sanctity of the trial. If any other person caught wind of his sorcery, Arthur had no doubt they would drag him before the King and condemn him to a blazing death at the pyre.

To do that would be misguided; they simply did not know Merlin. They did not know that he deserved more careful scrutiny than the dismissive wave of a King's hand.

The plan was to gather information slowly and methodically. To delude himself into rushing this task would be a fool's errand, not to mention irresponsible. 

Even so, Arthur may have underestimated just how quickly things could fall apart, and how willing his bumbling sorcerer of a servant was to jump to alternative solutions.

--

"If the assassin can't find you, he can't kill you."

The memory of Merlin's words, calm but urgent, with those imploring eyes of his, swam into his mind.

Well, he found me.

The next pass of the joust felt like a dream. A thick haze settled over the arena. The roar of the crowd faded to a dull drone in the depths of his mind. Every stride of his horse jostled his body, squeezing more blood from the pit the assassin's lance had dug in his torso. It painted his armor and shone red in the glare of the sun, ruby drops inlaid in iron. But Arthur would keep his seat.

Those burning eyes never strayed from his own. Arthur couldn't claim the same. He was floating, after all; it stood to reason that his eyelids would do the same, darkness taking his vision in a perilous dance, advancing, retreating, advancing again.

When he found himself listing to the side, he adjusted his lance to compensate. The crook of his elbow dug into his side. The pain would earn him a few more seconds of consciousness, and might staunch the bleeding.

Thundering hooves brought them closer, closer, closer, within striking range—he could swear there was a soft click, the catch of metal, and the approaching lance elongated into the tip of a concealed pike—

Leather snapped. The front rigging tore on the assassin's saddle.

Sir Alynor's saddle, Arthur corrected himself. The strike never came, and his horse ploughed on.

Behind him, a body hit the ground with a far softer thud than it should have. The crowd erupted, but it seemed miles away. When at last his eyes weighed too much to stay open, Arthur clung to the only tether he had left. He clutched his lance with numb fingers, hugging it close to his side until his grip lost its strength. His squire jogged out to meet him.

Too slow, Arthur noted wearily, somewhat aware that his body was pitching forward. His right hand faltered, searching the air… the lance must have slipped through his fingers. But even with his eyes closed, he sensed when his mount pulled to a stop, and easily swung himself out of his seat. He could dismount a horse in his sleep.

But holding his own weight, apparently, was out of the question. Arthur's leg buckled under him, slipping from the stirrup. His fingers fumbled at the lip of the saddle in a desperate attempt to catch himself. It did nothing to help. His stomach turned over as he slid from the horse, uncontrolled, too fast, and his boot hit the dirt and he crumpled beneath his own body and he…

…didn't fall.

Merlin's hands were so careful, so gentle that Arthur couldn't pinpoint when exactly he had begun to guide him down from the horse. The feather-light touch turned solid as soon as his legs failed him. His servant took Arthur's full weight, and Arthur allowed it without a second thought. His squire, still a few paces away, did not move a muscle.

It was only as they made their way back to his tent—Arthur with an arm slung over Merlin's shoulder, his footsteps wobbly and uneven—that his mind had time to catch up with everything that had unfolded around them.

Assassin, Arthur thought. I should be… His thoughts were spinning out of control. The ground was spinning, the sky, the world. Merlin remained steady. Something went wrong?

Or rather, right. Right for Arthur, wrong for the assassin. Right, but wrong. He was tired, oh so tired of those words.

The saddle. Now that was an odd idea. New, important somehow. Arthur mulled it over; a firm pressure on his shoulder nearly broke his concentration, someone chattering incessantly, trying to get his attention. Merlin? He ignored him and chased the thought.

Arthur kept a careful mental inventory of his knights' capabilities and their deficiencies, and Sir Alynor had always prided himself on his jousting prowess—and rightfully so. It was not rare for the men to cast admiring or even jealous glances at Sir Alynor, particularly as the tournament season approached. They would watch with coveting eyes as he practiced with his lance, even spar with him, surely hoping to uncover some hidden secret to his success.

Their attempts never yielded much more than bruised bodies and egos. But Arthur knew. He knew because he had to know, because to lead the King's men was to know how to use their strengths to his advantage.

Sir Alynor was fine at jousting, that much was true. He was, however, an unparalleled horseman.

He treated his steed with care and respect above all. She was his partner, on and off the battlefield. A young Arthur had watched him many a morning as he picked her hooves and brushed her down, and himself been inspired to treat his own horse with more reverence.

Sir Alynor never left the stables before thoroughly checking her tack. He would not dream of jousting in a tournament without inspecting the saddle for signs of wear.

Arthur blinked, heavy eyelids opening halfway. His dazed eyes met Merlin's, and he watched as concern morphed into something like guarded relief. Oh…

Oh, Merlin. You complete buffoon.

It was worse than he could have imagined. This was no soft whisper of golden light in the dark seclusion of night, carefully concealed from Gaius by the distraction of Arthur's wounded side. Merlin used magic to snap the front rigging of that saddle. He'd cast a spell in the presence of Uther, the members of the court—everyone in attendance, really—with obvious disregard for his own safety, because someone could have seen!

Merlin's lips. They were moving. Arthur flitted his eyes down to watch, transfixed, and only remembered after a few seconds that they were probably forming words.

This is it, Arthur realized, his heart twisting oddly. No choice but to confront him.

But when he looked up again, they were back in the tent with Gwen and his own stand-in. He was seated on a bench, back slumped against the side of the adjoining table. Sunlight filtered through the tent's fabric, casting an orange-golden glow on Merlin's eyes and pulling the warmest tones of Gwen's bodice to the fore.

"The people are waiting for their champion," Merlin pointed out, all in one breath. Then another short exhale, a pitiful attempt at a laugh. "It's time to reveal yourself."

Arthur stared at him in utter disbelief.

Reveal yourself… right, Merlin.

But his words died before they could reach his lips, and instead he sent "Sir William" forth to receive the glory he rightfully earned for a role well played.