Chapter Text
Hunith cried the first time she saw her son’s eyes turn gold.
Her little boy, still so young, small enough that she could hold him with one arm. She’d carry him when she could — he didn’t like being put down for too long and she loved being able to see him as she worked, as she moved about the little house and through the village around. Feeling his little hands wrapped in her shirt and his little eyes watching her brought a wide smile to her face. She carried him when she could just to feel him in her arms. Her precious boy.
He was so small, barely able to speak, just making small, babbling noises that meant nothing. Attempts at words that came out muddled and confused. She’d already heard her name in his little voice — or the closest he could form with his unpractised voice, anyway. She’d considered trying to teach him his father’s name, but she feared what would happen if someone were to recognise that name in the babble.
She had not taught him magic. She never would. Not in that place. Not at that time. She would not choose to subject her darling boy to that risk. He was too young to learn magic anyway, even if she did have any desire to teach him.
Yet, when she knocked a pot from the table, she saw it stop before it hit the floor. She saw it pause, as though held in the air by invisible strings. Floating there, a few inches from the ground.
She didn’t need to look to know Merlin’s eyes were gold, but she did anyway. And two golden eyes looked up at her just as the pot fell those last few inches and shattered in a spray of brown shards. Broken pieces of pottery that skittered across the floor of their small home.
She checked to see that no one was there. That no one could have seen him. Though she knew there was no one else there. She knew there was nobody with her. No one but her boy, her son.
Then she held him to her chest and she cried.
He didn’t know why she was crying, yet he cried with her.
This was not the place to be a sorcerer. This was not a place her boy could be safe. Not if magic flowed through his veins and turned his eyes to a bright gold. The border with Camelot was so close to them. Close enough that she sometimes heard the sound of Camelot’s knights patrolling the outskirts of their realm if she ventured out to collect herbs. Camelot, where those with magic were put to death, no hesitation. The king would not hesitate to doom her son if he were to find out what he was.
And Essetir was little better. They might not have the same laws against sorcery. They may not kill their sorcerers. But their king’s greed was no secret. His desire for power and willingness to subjugate any who may be able to grant him some. Those with magic bound in chains and forced to work, to kneel at the king’s feet and offer their lives to his endless war.
Slavery or death.
She sobbed and held her boy close to her chest. She pressed her nose into his soft hair and felt his little hands grab at her, asking reassurance as they both cried.
Her son was not, and never would be, safe.
She tried. It was all she could do. She taught Merlin to keep his magic a secret, to hide what he could do. She taught him not to use the powers he had when anyone but her might be able to see them, and only to use them around her when he needed to. She taught him to be careful and made sure he knew what would happen if he wasn’t. She didn’t want to scare him, she never did, but he needed to be safe. He needed to know.
She tried. Yet she still saw him, one day, sitting alongside the creek with Will, his eyes glowing gold as light flickered between them. Will was smiling and laughing and Merlin looked happier than she had ever seen him. And it broke her heart to tell him off for it. It broke her heart to shatter that piece of joy her boy had found and replace it with the paranoia she knew must govern too much of his life already.
She saw his face change then. She saw the pain in his eyes as he heard her words. The reminder that he would always have to hide a part of himself. That even his friends shouldn’t know, that he should never have even told Will, though he trusted Will with his life.
And she knew then that her attempts to give her boy a normal life would never be enough. She knew she couldn’t raise her son like this. With fear controlling him, marking every part of him. He did not deserve that life. He should not be made to live that life. He deserved for his skills to be seen as they were and he deserved to be safe.
Merlin asked so many questions as she packed up his things. As she packed everything she could carry into bags and slung them onto her back. She didn’t know how to tell him that he would never be seeing Ealdor again. She didn’t know how to tell him that he would never be seeing Will again.
But she told him he would be safe. She told him he would be going somewhere he wouldn’t have to hide. She told him he would be going somewhere he could learn. Somewhere he could be happy.
She packed up his things and they headed out into the forest. She had heard rumours of a druid camp out there and she prayed to any god there may be that those rumours were right. She prayed to any god there might have been that they would take him in. That they would give her son the life she could not.
He deserved better.
***
Merlin grew up among wildflowers. He grew up with magic in the air and flowing through the earth. He called magic to his hands and flowers grew from the dirt and the other druid children would laugh and smile, sitting in the meadows he helped create. Taking the plants that grew around them and weaving them together into crowns they wore perched in their hair.
When the nights grew cold, Iseldir, the camp chieftain, would sit with Merlin and teach him to call upon fire, to create a hearth they could all sit around, in their small camp. When the days were too warm to work, he taught Merlin to call on the water to quench the heat and keep the streams flowing. When they needed food, he taught Merlin the plants they could eat, the plants to heal, the plants they needed, and Merlin would learn to call on the earth and spread those plants through the cracks in the earth, would walk with the rest of the druids as they collected their bounty and learnt to prepare each one, He learnt to call on the air to bring a pleasant breeze through the valley they called their own.
He grew up learning magic from a dozen people who each adored him. Adored his attitude and his jokes and the magic that poured from him like water. He played with a dozen children, some who could call on magic as he could — though none, he noticed, quite seemed to have the same ease with it that he did — and some who couldn’t. But it didn’t matter who had magic and who didn’t when each of them could still recognise the magic of the world around them and none of them shied away from him when he did call that magic to himself.
He was ten when he first took on a druid mark. Iseldir talked him through the process and made sure he knew he had the choice of whether he wanted to mark his body. And he wanted it. He wanted that mark of the people who had become his family. He wanted that reminder of magic and the beauty he found around himself, in the trees and the wild flowers.
He sat among a grove the druids had set aside for their rituals, a quiet place, away from the camp itself, where he could just sit and listen to the sounds of the birds and the wind in the trees. Iseldir had told him that it may take time for him to feel it, but the tug of magic came to him easily. The warm hands of that power, not quite alive, but by no means inanimate either.
Those gentle hands wrapped around him. They called him and they spoke to him of home. They spoke to him of nature and of the elements that flowed through each of them. They spoke to him of good and evil and of morality, how it was simply a human concept, and how the morality that matters was the one that called to him, that desire within him to care and love all and do what he could to improve life for those that gathered around him.
Fire could be destructive. It could burn and it could ravedge. It could turn healthy skin a violent red and reduce homes to black ash and grey soot, leak the colour from the world in wisps of burning red. Water could fill the lungs with oppressive blue until all you could do was choke on it as the life fled your body. It could consume and it could drown you among its bulk. It could take everything from you and it could fill you until there was nothing inside you but more water. Wind could blow and tear at what it found. A cold wind could tear the skin from a body, could rip the roofs from buildings and leave those inside with nothing to protect themselves. It could freeze a person where they stood until fingers turned blue and fogged breath stopped. Earth could consume you as much as water, or it could leave you with nothing. The earth could refuse to give you the harvest you needed until you withered away to nothing. It could leave you with nothing and starve you of its beautiful bounty.
But fire could give warmth. It could protect you on those cold nights and it could bring people together, sat around a warm hearth. A hearth was a home, a place where people gathered and a place where no one was ever truly alone. A warmth that flowed both through the skin and through the heart.
Water gave life. It flowed through the body and through the world. It could turn dead lands green again, return the vitality to a place that had none. It could soothe the heart and soul with gentle, lapping waves and it could soothe the body with its coolness and inherent life.
Air gave breath as easily as it took it away. It flowed in and through him with each moment. It flowed through the world and through nature. Through every plant and animal. It gave cool breezes that cured the warmth it brought and it brought warm breezes to cure the cold. It gave birds flight as it moved the clouds, bringing life giving rain.
Earth gave sustenance. It gave the plants he had learnt to heal with. The herbs that could be crushed together to make the sick better, to cure ills and stop pain. It gave the plants he ate, the food that he needed, the flavourful berries that burst on his tongue and the simple grain that filled his belly and meant he never again knew the pain of hunger.
They each flowed through him and through each other. The air brought rain. The water made the plants grow. The plants could burn to produce heat. And that heat warmed the air in turn. A cycle of life and nature in perfect balance.
Magic was its own balance. The power of nature and the ability to control it, for better or worse. To bring life giving rain or floods that swallowed everything in their path. The warmth of a hearth or the destruction of an inferno. The cool breeze that soothed or the violent winds that ripped and tore. The plants that fed and healed or the poisons given as easily, the plants that tricked and ate as much as they were eaten.
Merlin took a deep breath and felt his own magic breathe with him.
When he opened his eyes again, he found a mark on his chest. A design made of five rings, all connected together. The elements and himself, his own magic, emblazoned above his chest.
Iseldir called that kind of mark a nature mark. A mark that spoke of the nature of the person who wore it. A mark that spoke of the person, of their being and their soul. And magic had marked itself as his nature, the very elements his heart.
Iseldir had a hard time making him wear a shirt for a few weeks, so excited was he to show off his new mark.
The next time he took a mark, magic spoke to him of love. It spoke to him of eternity tied to another person. Of a love that would never fade and never die. It spoke to him of his own love, of the caring that flowed through him with each breath and told him he would one day find another who loved as deeply as him. Who loved each person as though they were their own kin, as he did. Who cared for all with the hand of a parent and the heart of a ruler who did not look down upon those they ruled.
Magic spoke to him of a person who would compliment all he held dear. Of a person who stood tall as he did and cared as he did. Who would not shy from him as he would not shy from them. Who would see his power and find themselves in awe, not of the magic he wielded, but of the smile he wore as he did.
He saw an image then, just a faded blur that fluttered behind his eyes. A boy, only a few years older than him, with hair as bright as any sunflower Merlin had ever seen and eyes the colour of forget-me-nots. And Merlin felt his heart yearn for the person he saw, for the smile he saw in his mind’s eye. The love that nature and magic promised him would one day be his.
When he opened his eyes, there were two new marks on him. A design made of two overlapping lines, tied together. One on each of his hands, on the back of them where he would see them each time he reached out to touch, to hold. Merlin knew the meaning as well as he knew his own name. Love and eternity.
Iseldir called them reaching marks, a sign of what it was Merlin was reaching for and what he would give the world in return. Merlin grinned as he realised he was destined to give the world love as much as he was to take it himself.
The next mark was a dragon across his back, the great span of its wings covering his skin. A tail that curled around itself in a single, fluid line that stretched up to its head. Eyes that looked upwards, towards Merlin's head. Iseldir called it a kinship mark, a sign of those who would always stand beside him. Merlin questioned then how his mother was a dragon — eternity and energy — and Iseldir laughed.
“There is more to kinship than simple blood,” He told Merlin, a knowing smile on his face.
His mother took a mark as well. She wasn’t there all the time, but she visited him regularly, even as the camp moved. He once asked her how she always found the camp and she smiled. “I follow the forget-me-nots,” She told him, and he remembered eyes in that same colour and hair the colour of wheat.
It took her longer to find her mark than it did for Merlin. At Iseldir’s offer, she headed to the grove and she sat there. Merlin busied himself with helping some of the other druids collect herbs — he knew each one now, by name and effect and by the way they each called to him with a Siren’s song of healing. He smiled when he saw her emerge again, and she was smiling as well, as wide as he had ever seen her. There were tears streaming down her face, but she didn’t seem to mind them in her joy.
She showed him her mark, across her chest, over where her heart lay. A complicated knot that seemed to come together into the shape of a heart. Iseldir called it the mother’s mark. A symbol of endless love and a connection that would never fade, the love of a parent.
She told him she’d seen him when she got it, though she wouldn’t give him details on what it was the magic had shown her, other than to smile wider and tell him that she would always be proud of him. For what he had achieved and what he was going to achieve.
Over time, Merlin took more marks. A bird on his shoulder — Iseldir laughed when he said it was a merlin — that Merlin knew meant freedom and a connection to magic. A knot on the back of his calf that meant unity and strength — placed to represent what he would show on his journey through life. Another knot on the other calf that he knew represented nature and protection — Merlin was happy it was summer when he got those ones as he could wear them openly rather than having his mother and Iseldir try to bundle him up in thick clothes that covered his skin.
With each new message and vision magic gave him, he saw that same boy. He watched him grow older as Merlin himself grew older. Watched him grow into his pudgy cheeks, his face becoming angular and refined. Watched him grow taller and his shoulders broaden, more than Merlin’s own ever did. Saw him smile and laugh and saw him frown and cry. Magic showed him another life blossom as his own did.
He wasn’t expecting another mark when he went out into the grove. He knew magic had no more to give him, for the moment. But he knew magic still had more to show him. He could feel the call of it, as he always could, and he could feel the way it wrapped through him and prodded at his mind, ready to be let in the moment he let it.
He sat down among the wild flowers and closed his eyes. As he relaxed, he felt magic flow in around his muscles and around his nerves in a cool blanket that pushed away the late summer heat, giving him equilibrium. He felt it directing his mind and he followed it, down the twisting path it showed him towards a truth it wanted him to know.
His mind’s eye opened and he found himself stood in a room he didn’t recognise. It wasn’t the tents of the druids, or the ramshackle houses he remembered from Ealdor. The walls were tall and sturdy, made of stone that stretched up around him. Fabric hung on the walls, decorated in a deep red with patterns and illustrations Merlin couldn’t quite make out.
He stood before a raised platform, three chairs set out on top of it. Chairs fashioned from a deep, rich oak. The center one lacked decoration. It was all harsh lines and angles, pure functionality. The one to the right was decorated with curling symbols Merlin recognised. He could see the same symbol he wore on his chest carved into the backrest — the symbol of nature and of magic. The lines of that chair curled around, but ended in sharp points that stuck out at odd angles.
The chair to the left was the one his eye was drawn to the most. It contained aspects of both. Harsh lines and rigid functionality, but those harsh lines smoothed out as he watched, becoming softer, the wood turning warmer as he looked upon it. There were no symbols on the chair, nothing carved into the wood, except for two that marked the rich wood. One on each of the arm rests, where it was visible to anyone stood before that chair, where hands would rest upon them. The same symbol he wore on his own hands — love and eternity.
As he watched, people appeared in those seats. The center seat held an older man. His eyes were narrowed and the lines of his face as harsh as those of his chair. He wore chainmail over his chest, a dull grey that seemed to seep the colour from around him. A cloak fell around his shoulders and onto the floor before him, the bright red of fire and pain reaching out towards Merlin in that fabric. The ends of the cloak dripped a deep red that sunk into the wooden floor, staining it a violent crimson. And, upon his head, sat a crown. Not the gold Merlin had heard crowns were supposed to be, but the same grey as his chainmail. A king.
On the chair to the right sat a beautiful woman. Her skin was pale and her hair flowed over her shoulders in a veil of dark locks. Her lips were a vibrant red, brighter than any makeup Merlin had ever seen, and were set in a frown. She was wearing a green dress, despite the red that surrounded her, the colour of fresh leaves. It curled around her body in gentle waves, the bodice decorated with golden thread in weaving, interlocking patterns.
She didn’t wear a crown, instead there were roses set on her head, weaved together as Merlin had weaved flowers together into crowns of his own. The petals were a mix of purple and blue, the colours flowing together and into one another in a gentle gradient. The thorns, though, the thorns dug into her scalp. Buried themselves in her skin and Merlin could see spots of red where they lay, but the blood did not drip, it did not flow down her face. Instead, it flowed up the stems in a slow tide, turning green stems red.
Merlin’s breath caught as he saw the person sat in the left chair. It was the same face magic had been showing him for so many years. The same golden hair and forget-me-not blue eyes.
He wore chainmail, as the king did, but his chainmail was a golden colour that shone out into the room. Golden links chained together over his body until he was so bright it almost hurt to look at him. Though the golden links seemed… tarnished in places. A few areas where the links were broken or the colour wasn’t as bright as it was over the rest of him. Some of it almost seemed to be the same seeping grey as the man in the center’s chainmail.
He wore a cloak as well, in the same deep red that decorated the room. His cloak, however, did not stretch out towards Merlin, but stayed wrapped around him, a perfect match to the gold of his chainmail and the gold of his hair. The ends of the cloak were frayed, though not as if the cloak was damaged, but as if it had never been finished. It had the same frayed ends as fabric that still rested on the weaver’s loom, incomplete. Still with more to make, still needing to be hemmed and sewn together to protect it from unravelling completely.
He sat tall in his chair, though the chair was still too big for him. The seat too wide for his body, the back of it stretching up above him. His hands rested on the armsrests and Merlin could see the lines of those knots peering out from between his fingers where his hands rested, so carefully, on them. There were rings on his fingers and, despite the distance, Merlin could make out the shapes that marked them clearly. A strange shape he knew at once to be a family seal on one and, on another, on one that rested on the ring finger of his left hand, was a bird, its wings flapping gently in waves that rippled across the gold.
He wore a crown as well. It was smaller than the one the king wore, and made of smooth, golden curves that wrapped around his head, in a wave pattern that flowed and shifted as he watched, like waves lapping against the shore. There were jewels set into it, all a deep red colour. As Merlin watched, those jewels seemed to bloom, flowers growing from each to wrap around the crown, Golden stems with bright red petals.
The room shifted and the golden man was sat in the center, the woman sat to his left, an empty chair to his right.
The empty chair was made of living plants, vines and branches coming together to form it. The plants bloomed, green leaves growing out of it and flowers in all colours opening their petals. There were fruits as well, berries in bright shades of red and blue and black, apples that hung from the back of it, all a smooth, juicy red, fruits Merlin wasn’t familiar with that hung from branches and gathered together in bunches.
In places, the branches came together to form symbols, and Merlin knew each of them. The dragon on the backrest, the knots on the armrests, where hands would rest, and on the base where legs would lay, the bird to the side and the first mark he’d ever gotten resting at the top of it all, where a head would touch.
The branches of that chair reached out. They wrapped around the chair the golden man sat on, tied themselves in and through the warm wood. They wrapped around it in a small grove of red roses, though he could see no thorns, peeking out from around the golden man. A couple of them reached across to where the beautiful woman sat, and Merlin saw she was gently holding some of the vines to herself.
The knot on her chair was no longer on the backrest, but displayed openly on the sides and above her head. Her lips were still a bright red, but were drawn up in a wide smile. The roses on her head no longer dug into her skin with harsh thorns, but just rested there, weaving through her hair. She looked older, her face lined with laughter lines and her hands steady where they clutched the vines to herself. She looked so much more beautiful for it.
The golden man looked older as well. There were frown lines around his eyes, but smile lines as well. His crown was bigger, but still made of the smooth lines of rose stems, the petals fully open and shining with health. His hands still rested on the armrests, but the symbols there were no longer hidden behind his hands, but inked onto the back of them, a mirror of Merlin’s own hands.
His chainmail was a gleaming gold, no longer tarnished and broken. On top of it lay a pendant, a mark carved into it and painted a bright green. The symbol Iseldir had once called the mark of a lover. His cloak was still the same bright red, but did now stretch out towards Merlin, covering so much of the floor that Merlin found he was sat upon it, his knees resting against the soft fabric.
The golden man held out a hand and Merlin saw he was holding something. A golden coin. Merlin reached out and took it from him. It was warm against his palm, warmed by the golden man’s body heat.
The side that was turned out showed a dragon — the same one that was on Merlin’s back, the tail a single line that curved smoothly around. When he flipped it over, Merlin saw that the other side had a bird on it, the edges detailed with a wreath of olives.
He looked back up at the golden man and almost flinched at the look of adoration that was being directed his way. A soft smile and soft eyes that fixed upon him with such a gentle gaze.
“Emrys,” the man said, his voice so gentle and caring. Filled with the memory of a thousand loving moments and a thousand battles hard won.
It was a name Merlin knew. The name the druids called him so often. He was as used to responding to that name as he was to Merlin. Both were his name, though in different ways. Iseldir had told him that he’d understand why he was called Emrys when the time was right, though he’d pushed him to tell him then, and Iseldir had only smiled and repeated that he’d know when he needed to.
He still didn’t quite understand it but, looking up at the golden man, he understood that Emrys was not a name, not really, not as Merlin was. It was a title. It was his crown and it was his duty. A duty he would carry out with love on his tongue and a hard won smile on his lips.
Merlin blinked, and he was back in the grove. He looked down at his hands and, for a moment, he saw the coin still lying there, resting against his palm, the dragon side up.
He wasn’t sure why, but he flipped it. Watched it move up into the air, shining before his face, spinning around and around, before falling again. It fell into his hand, not landing on one side of the other, but instead on the rim, standing there, steady for a moment, before sinking into his skin and vanishing.
Merlin took a deep breath and laughed.
The harsh king, the beautiful woman and the golden man.
He knew what he needed to do.
***
Iseldir was easily able to recognise the place Merlin had seen as Camelot. The castle, draped in Camelot red and Pendragon gold. The king who ruled there, with his harsh judgments and his iron first. Merlin had heard about Camelot before, mostly in warnings not to pass over the border into Uther’s lands for fear of his judgement. In tales of why it was the camp was so hidden and moved so often, why it was careful they not be found.
Merlin finally learnt the name of the golden man he had been seeing since he was a boy: Prince Arthur Pendragon.
Iseldir had looked concerned as he described the beautiful woman to him. He had frowned as he said that the woman must be Morgana Le Fay, Uther’s ward. And that what Merlin described might mean that Mogana had magic, as he did. That she could be a sorcerer, forced to share residence with the man who hated magic more than anything. Merlin made a promise to himself to help Morgana, as the druids had helped him for so long.
Hunith took some convincing. Merlin was safe with the druids, he was safe and there was no need for him to put himself in danger. And Camelot was dangerous. More than that, he wanted to go to the castle itself, to interact with the royal family themselves, with Uther and the people closest to him. It took her some time to come around to the idea, though not as much as Merlin had expected.
She admitted then that the vision magic had shown her when she got her mark had shown Merlin in Camelot. She had seen him stood before a tapestry with the Pendragon crest, smiling and practising magic. She had known he would go to Camelot in time, that he would have to, but she’d never imagined that he’d be walking directly into the castle with intentions of meeting those there. She’d imagined him staying unobtrusive while calling Camelot his home.
But she did admit to him that she had family in Camelot, a brother named Gaius who worked in the castle as a physician. She gave him a letter to give to Giaus when he got to Camelot, explaining the situation as much as she could without mentioning magic or the druids — they didn’t know whether or not Merlin’s bag would be searched as he entered the castle — and making sure he would know to keep Merlin safe.
Iseldir gifted Merlin with a pair of gloves, to hide the druid marks on his hands. They were nice, woven together with skillful hands. Iseldir said some of the other druids had started to make them when they’d heard that Merlin would be traveling to Camelot. They were a gift from the druids to him, a show of their love for him and their desire to keep him safe from the dangers of Uther’s kingdom. Merlin might have cried when he first put them on.
He took the cloak he’d been wearing for so long, the cloak he always wore when it was cold or he needed to hide his face. He held it in his hands, the old, green fabric resting there and called upon his magic to change the colour. Green cloaks were recognised as a druid fashion, after all. Not enough on their own for him to face trial, but enough that his body would be checked for marks if any of Uther’s men saw it.
He changed it to a simple brown— the colour of mud and wood — and wrapped it around his shoulders, on top of his brown jacket and the red shirt he loved to wear — he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but the reason he loved that shirt was because it was the same colour as the shirt Arthur had been wearing in the first vision he’d ever had of him.
Iseldir rolled his eyes fondly as Merlin grabbed one of his neckerchiefs as well, tying it around his neck. He’d long since learnt that trying to make Merlin go anywhere without one on was a losing battle.
Iseldir smiled at him and pulled Merlin close, wrapping his arms around him. “Stay safe, my boy, stay safe,” he whispered to him, and Merlin buried his face in his shoulder. He had to crouch a little to do that now, as opposed to when he was still a child and he could only press his face into Iseldir’s chest when he woke from a bad dream.
Hunith had her arms wrapped around him the moment Iseldir let go. She held him and cried into his shoulder, her tears marking his cloak. He held her back and couldn’t deny the tears that prickled his own eyes, desperate to fall. He rubbed her back, pressed his nose into her hair, making sure he remembered how she smelt — like wheat and fresh earth.
“I know you’ll make me proud,” she told him, her arms tight enough to push the air from his lungs. “I love you. Remember that.”
“I will,” he sobbed into her shoulder, no longer able to hold back the tears.
He got more hugs as he made his way from the camp. From the other druids he’d played with as a child. From the elders who’d helped raise him. From the newcomers he’d helped find their way in the camp. From the girl he’d helped remove a curse from. The boy he used to sneak off to swim with. The woman who’d laugh and poke him when he made snarky comments.
The camp came together to wish him safe travels. Some stood forward to present him with gifts. A spare pair of gloves. A new shirt is a beautiful sky blue colour. A set of wooden beads to wear around his neck, long enough to poke out from under the neckerchief. He took them all, putting them on or carefully storing them in his bag, somewhere they wouldn’t be damaged.
And, finally, he left the druid camp, goodbyes and calls for his safety following after him.
The walk to Camelot was a long one, but nothing he wasn’t used to. He travelled plenty with the druids, heading out to gather plants or when they moved the camp. A few days' walk wasn’t too much of an issue for him. He foraged food as he went, pausing to gather from those plants he passed he knew to be edible. He never could resist when he saw a nice bush of berries.
He drank when he passed streams, filling up his water skin. He knew he didn’t need to — he could fill his waterskin with a simple look if he chose to, but he needed to get used to managing without magic, and the druids had made sure he knew how to live without it. He lit his fires by rubbing two rocks until they produced sparks. Encouraged the flames as the kindling burned, until he had a nice campfire going. He knew he could cook animals over it, though he was reluctant to. The druids had taught him to make traps, though he was never much of a fan of killing animals to eat. None of the druids really were — they mostly lived off of plants.
He also didn’t want to risk getting animal blood on his new gloves. He couldn’t take the gloves off without revealing his druid marks and he didn’t know how likely it was for him to run into someone else in those woods.
He paused whenever he heard other people — out of simple habit if nothing else. He had always been taught to be careful if he heard someone else while they were moving camp, that he had to pause to make sure they weren’t someone who might wish them harm before continuing past. It always took him a moment to remember there was no danger in people seeing him now.
He knew when he was getting close to Camelot as he came across more people in the woods. Peasants, mostly. Some ignored him, seeing him as just another traveling those woods, but some would pause what they were doing to smile at him in greeting. He’d smile back and continue towards the city.
He stopped when he crossed the treeline for the final time.
The city was huge.
He had known, logically, that the city would be far bigger than anywhere he had been before, though he wasn’t quite prepared for the sheer scale of it. The lower town wrapped around it, even that far larger than the camp or Ealdor had been. As his eye followed the streets up, he saw the buildings get nicer, made of neat stone, many of them decorated with bright colours announcing which family it was who had the pleasure to call the place their own. And, finally, in the center of the city, was the castle.
Stone towers that reached up so high they seemed to touch the sky. Thick walls with small shapes moving on top of them that he could only assume were guards. The large windows that looked over the city below.
It was beautiful.
Merlin smiled as he made his way onto the streets and followed them up towards the castle. He passed shops and taverns and blacksmiths. People making and selling all sorts of wares, people moving about through the houses and the markets with an ease Merlin didn’t have, unused to so many people. He nearly tripped over a few times, but managed to find his footing without making a complete fool of himself. None of the people really seemed to acknowledge him, just another face in the crowd, except for those people who called to him to buy their wares. He did have a small bag of coins, hidden in his pocket, though he thought it would probably be sensible to figure out where he was staying before he spent it all.
He reached a small courtyard outside the castle and paused. He could see a crowd gathered there, standing around something, though he couldn’t see what it was through the throngs of people. He craned his neck to peer over them and his blood ran cold.
They were gathered around a block, the top of it with an indent, clearly made for someone to rest their neck. As Merlin watched, a man was dragged out by guards, shoved roughly towards the block. He knelt, resting his head there. Merlin became aware that the king was there, talking, but his eyes wouldn’t leave the man, knelt there with the executioner's axe hanging above his head.
The axe fell and the world went silent for a long moment.
The next, a woman was crying, pushing to the front of the crowd, her eyes filled with tears and rage as she declared her revenge upon Uther Pendragon. Merlin did raise his eyes to look upon the king then and there was no doubt that he was the same king he’d seen in his vision. The same harsh eyes and judgemental scowl. Merlin shivered and tried not to visibly recoil.
He took the first chance he got to leave the courtyard without it being clear he was fleeing. He turned his back to where a man lay dead — a man just like him — and headed further into the castle.
A guard directed him towards the physician’s chambers and he followed the path through. He had managed to collect himself by the time he reached a door labelled as being that of the court physician.
And, okay, he didn’t really mean to use magic within ten seconds of getting the door open, but his mother had assured him that Gaius was someone he could trust and he couldn’t just let him fall. And, true to his mother’s words, Gaius accepted the magic without a second thought, his only concern was how Merlin would hide his magic while living in Camelot.
Merlin gave him the letter his mother had written and Gaius sat down to read it. Merlin didn’t know what was in the letter, but he could see Gaius’ face as he read it, the drawn together brows and the thoughtful looks. When he finished reading it, he looked up at Merlin and waved him to take the seat opposite him at his small table.
“Why have you come to Camelot?” Gaius asked once Merlin was seated. He carefully folded up the letter, slipping it into his pocket. “Your mother said you needed to be here to… come into yourself?”
Was that the wording she had used? Merlin supposed it wasn’t inaccurate, and vague enough that it wouldn’t raise any eyebrows to anyone else. Merlin gave a slight shrug, trying to think of how to describe it all. He’d described his vision to both Hunith and Iseldir, but they were both people he’d known since childhood, who’d raised him, and the vision felt… personal, he supposed. Intimate. A calling from magic to him to tell him what he could be.
“I had a vision,” he started. He sort of hoped that would be enough for Gaius, but he only raised an eyebrow in a silent request to go on. Merlin leaned forward, resting his arms against the table. “I saw Camelot, and Arthur. I'm supposed to be here, with him.”
Gaius raised his eyebrow more — Merlin suspected he was going to be seeing that raised eyebrow expression a lot. “Arthur? You’re sure?”
“Yeah, he had marks like mine.” Merlin tapped his fingers against the back of his gloved hands and Gaius’ eyes fixed on them. Merlin paused, then slowly removed the gloves, showing his hands to Gaius, the marks on the back of them.
Gaius’ eyebrows looked like they were trying to escape his face. “You have druid marks.” He took Merlin’s hands gently, looking over the marks on them, turning them over as though he may be able to see more on the other side. “How many marks do you have?”
“Uh… my hands, my back, my chest… I’ve got one on my shoulder, and on both calves.” It was a list he knew well, having spent so long inspecting each mark, thinking of the meaning for each.
“You realise that you will be in danger if anyone sees them.”
“I know.” Merlin took his gloves, putting them back on again, his marks disappearing behind brown fabric. “That’s why I have these.” He held up his hands, wiggling his fingers to show off the gloves.
Gaius sighed. He had a feeling these were going to be a very long few years.
***
Merlin knew that he was supposed to be with the Prince, though he didn’t really understand why. He understood why even less after he actually met the man.
He had known who Arthur was the moment he saw him. He had recognised the golden hair and his cocky smile and even the red shirt he wore. He’d seen all of them in visions before. He’d know Arthur if he was blind and deaf. He could feel his way to the man in the dark, even if he wasn’t sure why he could.
But the man had been acting like a prat, so it seemed only fair to act like he had no idea who he was. Maybe that would knock his ego down a few pegs. That little reminder that not everyone worshipped the ground he walked on. And Merlin wasn’t about to just give him his loyalty when he was acting like an arrogant bastard, whatever magic said.
He got a night in the cells for his trouble.
Thought at least one good thing did come out of that. While in the stocks, he met Lady Morgana’s maid servant. Having a connection to Morgana through her would likely make it easier for him to help her with her magic.
Though he also got pelted with rotten fruit by a lot of people who seemed to find the whole thing to be highly amusing. So it wasn’t exactly his idea of a perfect day.
The next day, he ran into Arthur again. He did manage to avoid the dungeons that time, at least, though he still got chased around the market by the prince and his mace. Maybe he did use a little bit of magic then, but he’d had plenty of lessons in subtle magic from Iseldir and he managed it without anyone seeing his eyes flash gold. And he did get to see the Prince make a bit of an ass of himself.
He might have gotten some of the Prince’s approval as well? If that’s what he meant when he commented on Merlin’s bravery, at least. Merlin got the feeling it would be a while before he understood the strange things nobles seemed to say — he’d heard enough of those while doing rounds for Gaius already and he had barely understood a word.
His rounds also sent him to the Lady Morgana and her chambers. He had wished he’d get the chance to meet her, to introduce himself to her. He knew he’d need to get to know her sooner rather than later and that having her know and trust him could only help them both. But she was changing as he walked in and he was forced to flee, the medicine passed off to Gwen for her to deliver. He was sure he’d get his chance to meet her another time.
He hadn’t gone to the feast with the intention of saving Arthur’s life. But he’d known, he’d known, that he needed to be there, and the servants were looking for more people to help out with serving during it. It wasn’t a great job, but it did allow him to get some more money of his own and time staring at the back of the Prince’s head and asking his magic why it thought he was worth Merlin’s loyalty and love.
He recognised the magic in the music the moment Lady Helen of Mora began to sing. He felt it flowing through the room like the tide coming in. A gentle lapping at skin, a gentle voice saying that it was time to sleep. That he should just close his eyes and let the magic handle the rest. And wasn’t he already so tired? He’d been running around since he arrived in Camelot, he had earned his rest.
His own magic rose up in opposition, pushing at the tide that tried to flow into him. A wall of earth rising between him and the waves that pushed at his mind. He felt dirt under his feet, though he stood on a wooden floor, gently pushing at him, reminding him of where he stood. He could not sleep now, he needed to stay grounded and he needed to stay awake.
He could see the magic in the air. He could see it flowing from the woman’s mouth and into the air around them all. He could see it sinking into the ears of the nobles sat around the room. He could see as their heads began to fill with her power and began to droop onto the tables in front of them. It tasted of the warm milk his mother sometimes gave him when he struggled to sleep and the bitter valerian root Iseldir used to calm his racing mind.
Maybe he should have covered his ears, but the idea didn’t occur to him. He could feel his magic pushing away the magic that tried to spread inside him. He could feel it flowing through his body and purging the spell that would do him harm. Could feel it pulling him so he wouldn’t drift as everyone else did.
Lady Helen — or whoever she was, as Merlin swore he saw her face flicker at times, between that of Lady Helen and that of an old woman Merlin knew he’d seen before — didn’t seem to notice he was still awake as she reached into her dress, producing a dagger.
Maybe what Merlin did next was reckless, but he knew he had to stop her from singing. And the chandelier was right above her, connected by a thin chain that was so easy to break.
The magic snapped and the spell dissipated as the wrought metal dropped upon the head of the woman who was not who she claimed to be. She fell and Merlin’s magic dropped away again, the danger gone.
He moved back against the well, trying not to be obvious as the room began to wake again. He didn’t need anyone noticing that he was the only person who hadn’t been affected. He didn’t need to be singled out so quickly.
He watched the Prince as he woke up, watched that head of golden hair as it raised from the table and he took in the scene in front of him. The woman who was now very clearly not Lady Helen laying under the fallen chandelier. The cobwebs lining the tables and the room in their wispy shapes. The nobles slowly returning to consciousness.
Arthur didn’t see the knife. He didn’t notice as the woman raised her head again, still clutching the dagger. He didn’t see it as it was thrown at him. Not until it was too late for him to duck.
Merlin’s magic rose up again and time paused around him. The world went still, the knife hung in midair as it raced towards the Prince. All Merlin could do was push him away.
Time resumed as they both fell to the floor in a jumbled pile. Merlin landed badly, the wind was knocked from his lungs and the back of his hand hit the ground and scraped along it. The Prince wasn’t exactly a soft thing to land on. And, judging by the Prince’s expression, Merlin wasn’t a light thing to have fall on top of him.
Merlin stood first, brushing the dirt from himself and held out a hand to help the Prince up. He wasn’t sure if offering a hand was considered to be the correct etiquette, but he was being polite to the prat, so he sure hopes the Prince actually appreciated it.
Arthur looked at his hand for a moment, then took it, pulling himself to his feet and nearly pulling Merlin off his again as he did. His hands were warm against Merlin’s, his fingers wrapped around his hand and pressed against his skin as he stood.
The Prince glanced down for a moment and Merlin saw him freeze. Merlin frowned, looking down at himself to see what had caused the reaction.
The back of his glove had ripped.
The back of his glove had ripped and the mark there was clearly visible through the tear. The mark that showed he was a druid, one of the people whose existence was punishable by death.
The Prince was staring at him. Merlin opened his mouth to say something then realised there was no possible explanation for this that didn’t involve capital crimes and he rather liked having his head where it was.
He drew his hand back from the Princes, covering the back of it with his other hand. He knew the king was speaking and he should probably be listening, but he was far too aware that the Prince could have him killed with a single word for the mark he had seen on his hand.
He turned to the king, gave a curt bow and made a quick exit, listening for a call for the guards behind him.
So much for being incognito.