Chapter Text
For weal or woe I wyll not flee
To love that hart that lovyth me.
Frost suffocates what ought to have been a clear and clement day. The sun, seemingly paler than ever, provides no balm; the King of Camelot considers a fur underlining to his formal cape for the third time that week. Once again, he convinces himself that winter is nearly over, and there would be no point to it.
“It's past halfway to Beltane1 , and yet I swear the days keep getting colder,” Arthur complains. “Can't you get the fire going any higher, Merlin?”
“Not unless you want to risk burning down your study,” Merlin gripes, but he prods at the firewood anyway. Getting burnt alive sounded good at this point; he'd be grateful for the warmth. The cauldron hanging over the fire simmers. “Another mug of wassail2?”
“Please,” Arthur says gratefully. Scrolls litter his desk, and he scratches away at one with a quill. “Do you think Percival’s handwriting could get any worse? I can almost make out a few words on this report.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Merlin laughs. “Gwaine should be back any day — there's a report you'll really struggle to decipher.” He ladles out a mug of steaming wassail. The scent of spiced apple taunts him; contemplating, he pours himself a mug too. He probably shouldn't be helping himself to the King's drinks, considering the cost of the spices involved; then again, Merlin is the one that made it.
Merlin sets Arthur’s mug down before seating himself by Arthur's side, his own pilfered mug in hand. Arthur raises his eyebrow, and Merlin guards his mug closer.
“Taxation of my own, Sire,” Merlin sniffs.
“Those mugs were gifts from Queen Annis,” Arthur says, “crafted from the finest Caerleon copper.”
“And I will be sure to praise her generosity and impeccable taste the next time we see her.” Merlin takes a sip of the wassail; sweet, citrus-y, and perfectly spiced. Gods, he's a fantastic brewmaster. “Now do you want my help reading Percival's chicken scratch or not?”
Arthur wordlessly passes the scroll over.
Time seems to both gallop ahead like a horse and crawl at the pace of a slug. The bells have struck twice, yet they'd barely made a dent in the sheaves of paper piling the desk. Blessedly, a knock interrupts them; Merlin knows Arthur is just as much in need of a reprieve because he sighs with relief before sitting up straight.
“Come in!” Arthur calls.
Gwaine walks in, movements stiff, boots tracking muddied snow into the room. “My Lord,” he chatters out, running his hands through his frosted-stiff hair.
“Good gods, Gwaine,” Arthur swears. “Had a fight with a rimebeast, did you?”
Gwaine scowls. “If only,” he bites, rubbing at his arms. “Would have been simpler. I have good news and… less good news.”
Arthur gestures for Gwaine to continue. Merlin, meanwhile, stands and finds a spare woollen blanket to wrap around Gwaine’s shoulders.
“Merlin,” Arthur chides.
“He'll return it!” Merlin defends. “Won't you, Gwaine?”
“You may never be able to extricate me from it,” Gwaine says as he wraps the blanket around himself. He huddles into it like a spoiled dog, and Arthur bites back a smile. “The good news is that our borders are secure, and our people happy. Odin did try and encroach upon Camelot, as you suspected he would, but his force was paltry, and our subjects quite unwilling to be encroached upon. They aided us in turning his men out our lands.”
“Good news indeed,” Arthur agrees. That meant Gwaine and his men had successfully fulfilled their quest. “And the less good news?”
“Well, I may have angered a goddess and triggered an eternal winter upon Camelot,” Gwaine admits with a wince. There's a casual air to him, as though this is just something one accidentally does. Happens to everyone, just like breaking a glass or using salt for sugar.
Arthur takes one deep breath, then another. A third, for good measure.
“Before you get mad, I really didn't mean to.” Gwaine raises both hands in surrender, though the gesture is somewhat hidden by the blanket he maintains a grip on.
“You never do. And yet…” Merlin says.
“And yet,” Arthur concurs.
“There was a statue of a cloaked woman, pretty big, twice my height. I may have battered a Jórvíkan3 soldier into it a few times. And, uh… the statue may have actually been Beira, Queen of Winter4 , a Goddess of the Old Religion. Apparently, as Beltane approaches, she slowly turns into stone. Then she, uh, cracks open in time for Samhain, or something along those lines. Who knew, huh?”
“I did,” Both Merlin and Arthur say. It was a fairly common children's fairytale; it’s surprising that Gwain’s never heard it. Perhaps his mother, busy as she was raising her kids alone, never had the time.
“Okay, well, I, personally, did not. Queen Beira was quite upset. Ranted about how the great nation of Camelot had fallen so far, to have raised such insolent knights. And I couldn't let it stand, y'know, so I said-”
“Gwaine,” Arthur interrupts, massaging his temples. “Get to the point.”
“She'd like to meet you, I think. She can't fall asleep or become rock or whatever while she's spitting mad. So her Highness would like a sincere apology from the King of Camelot,” Gwaine concludes.
“Great,” Arthur sighs. “That's just… great.”
“Again, I really didn't mean to, and you'd think she'd hibernate somewhere a little less easily accessible, I mean-”
“Gwaine?” Arthur asks.
“Yes, my Lord?”
“Get out.”
Gwaine leaves with a spring to his step, the King’s blanket still firmly wrapped around his shoulders. Merlin meets Arthur's gaze with a plaintive look in his eyes, fully aware of the fate that now befell him. “Leave at first light?” he guesses.
“Mm. Pack my things. Oh, and tell the Duchess Guinevere she'll be holding Court while we're gone.”
Merlin bites back a smile. He wasn't surprised when Arthur brought up the idea of granting Gwen a duchy, but he was, and remains, very very proud. She is the most important contributor to Court by far, in his wholly unbiased opinion.
He looks outside, where ice clings to every surface it can. He pictures his room, small and warm, and the chicken soup that Gaius had been planning to make the next day. Now he and Arthur will have to gallivant off into the winter and suffer cold naps on icy ground instead. He may steal every source of warmth Gwaine's room had before they leave as revenge, even if just to warm the horses.
Merlin and Arthur leave at the first ray of dawn, both unfortunately quite experienced at prepping and undertaking sudden expeditions. The journey to Tivore — where Gwaine had his encounter with Queen Beira — would take the better part of a day. It is not a particularly arduous commute on account of good paths and a large number of typical beastly obstacles having made themselves scarce for hibernation. This leaves them with a pleasant but rather boring ride, and Merlin takes it upon himself to fill the time with chatter.
“I think Mórrígan and Llamrei may be… courting5,” Merlin says, guiding his mare to keep pace with Arthur’s. They have made an unspoken decision to ride as continuously as possible, as neither were particularly anticipating camping out in the cold winter. The sooner they were done with this, the better.
“Mórrígan and Llamrei. Our mares,” Arthur clarifies with a look of disbelief.
“That's what I said. Are you losing your hearing, sire?” Merlin asks to elicit that particular twisted look of annoyance he so loved seeing.
Arthur scoffs. “Merlin, how could you possibly come to the conclusion that your mare is courting mine?”
Very easily. Merlin is long used to spouting absolute codswallop to while away the time on long rides. At least his current campaign has some credence to it. He won't quickly forget how ticked off he managed to get Arthur that one expedition when he continuously pretended that the sky was green; he managed to get the knights accompanying them in on it, too. He even wrote to Gwen ahead of time, informing her of his shenanigans; she responded by welcoming them back into Camelot with a comment on what a lovely shade of sage the sky was. They had Arthur in a strop for a whole week after that, hissing and spitting about the untrustworthiness of his staff like an irate kitten. Fond memories.
“What, you think Llamrei’s too good for my Mórrígan?" Merlin asks. "I'll have you know she's a fine horse. Llamrei may be swifter, but Mórrígan’s stamina and strength are far superior, and she's a lot more… approachable. Anyway, I didn't say my mare was courting yours, I said our mares were courting each other.” He can barely conceal his smile at Arthur’s incredulous expression.
“Okay, first, what in the blasted seven hells are you talking about,” Arthur says more than asks. “Secondly, I'll have you know that Llamrei has excellent judgement; if she tries to bite your hand off at every meal, perhaps you ought to reflect on what you did to make her dislike you.”
“I did absolutely nothing, which is why I think she's jealous of me, and all the time I spend with Mórrígan.”
“Because she and Mórrígan are courting.”
“Exactly.”
Arthur looks up at the sky, muttering under his breath, before looking at Merlin again. “Merlin, were you dropped on your head as a child? Multiple times, perhaps?”
“Have you considered, your Highness, that while you rarely ever deign to visit the stables, I have spent a significant amount of time there mucking the stalls and grooming the horses, thus giving me ample opportunity to watch them interact?” Merlin huffs. “After all, you may be unaware that not only do they share a stable wall, they throw an absolute fuss if you try to separate them? One time the stable master had the bright idea to rearrange the stables on the basis of rank of rider — my poor Mórrígan was relegated to the back of the stables, I’ll have you know. Anyway, the two wouldn’t eat, and they fussed terribly, calling out to each other and making such a racket that they had to be moved back to their old stalls.”
Arthur considers the point. “They are rather physically affectionate with each other despite Llamrei usually being rather… solitary in nature.” Which was a nice way to say she was extremely antisocial, Merlin thought.
“Exactly! They nuzzle and hug and frolic together all the time! And they groom each other! Oh, and they pee around each other, which the stable hand tells me is how mares display their, uh, readiness to copulate," Merlin says.
Arthur squints. “I can't tell if you're still taking the piss or if this is genuinely something you believe anymore.”
“Neither can I,” Merlin admits. Really, he'd only been aiming to claim that Mórrígan was Llamrei’s mate, and thus, as mate of the royal steed, she deserved privileges. Such as a finer saddle, something that would only happen to benefit Merlin.
“Sometimes, Merlin, I do wonder if I still remember what peace and quiet sounds like,” Arthur sighs.
“At least you don't remember what boredom sounds like,” Merlin quips back.
“Touché. You may be the worst servant in Camelot, but you are also far from the most boring, I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you.”
“Only the most idiotic.”
“Hey, now.”
“And the most imbecilic.”
“Hey now!”
The rest of the ride continues in much the same way; bantering, chatting, gossiping. Despite all the time they spend with each other on a regular basis, Merlin finds that he and Arthur never seem to want for topics to discuss or games to play. Conversation between them flows as easy as sand in a minute-glass.
They catch sight of Tivore as sundown strikes, painting the vast snowy glen in hues of pink and orange. Arthur slows to a trot, Merlin following, as they descend the soft rolling hills that surround the Great Glen of Tivore6. The land once housed a flourishing village composed primarily of adherents of the Old Religion; it has been abandoned since the Great Purge, leaving only a few particularly hardy structures dotting the land here and there, sheltered by mild, winding eskers and half buried in snow.
Arthur studies the topography laid out for them, scanning for a sign as to where the Winter Queen is sequestered. “See anything?” he asks, squinting into the distance.
Merlin doesn't need sight to locate their destination. All magic in the glen seemed to flow towards a hill in the north-east, where, upon squinting, one could notice that a slight grotto marred the land. “There,” Merlin indicates.
“How can you tell?” Arthur asks.
“I… have a feeling.” Merlin urges Mórrígan into a gallop, knowing Arthur would follow irrespective of his gripes with Merlin's ‘feelings’.
“Merlin-” Arthur pants as he catches up. “You really have some nerve-”
Mórrígan slows to a cantor, allowing Arthur to catch up. “Look,” Merlin nods at the approaching grotto. From it, whispers of snow flutter outwards, a wholly unnatural sight.
“So there may be something to be said about your intuition after all,” Arthur allows. “Occasionally.”
“She's powerful, I'm sure she is. I had hoped that perhaps the stories were larger than life, that she was just… I don't know, a witch, perhaps, or an odd magical entity of some sort, but to affect weather like that…” Merlin trails off. Arthur remains oddly silent by his side.
They come to a stop by the cave entrance. There’s a singular fir that stands guard, and they tether the horses to it.
“Bugger,” Merlin shivers as he dismounts. “It's cold.” He'd worn the warmest clothes he'd had, but well… his work didn't typically take him to what felt like the depths of a frozen lake.
“Is that really the best cloak you had?” Arthur asks. “I told you to dress warm.”
“Well, I'm sorry, your Highness, but some of us servants, with our paltry wages, choose to-” Merlin is interrupted with a cloak to the face. He opens his mouth to complain further, except the fur and velvet in his hands is really quite nice, and he wisely chooses to fasten it around himself before he does any snarking back. “Did you bring this for me?” Merlin asks, surprised.
“I packed a spare. I like to be well prepared,” Arthur says nonchalantly, pointedly adjusting Llamrei’s saddle when there was no need for it.
“You didn't pack your clothes, I packed your clothes.”
“Fine, so I added a spare to my luggage, in case of any waifish maidens we happen to encounter. Happy now, Merlin? Get a move on, will you? The sooner we get done, the sooner we're freed of this eternal winter that Gwaine has managed to incur. I can't feel my toes,” Arthur huffs.
The both of them are suited appropriately and the horses blanketed and tacked; all that’s left is to head inside. Merlin catches Arthur’s arm before he can lead their path. “I just…” Merlin hesitates. “Look, I had Gaius tell me more about Beira, and I know you know the stories about her are more than just cautionary tales for naughty children, but… I think- she really is a god, Arthur. You may have no faith in the Old Religion, which is… fine, but you’re perfectly aware there are forces beyond nature, and-”
“Merlin. I know. I’m pleased to know you think of me as an insolent idiot of the highest order, but I assure you that I shall be perfectly respectable. It may have escaped your notice, but the soothing ruffled feathers of powerful dignitaries is a part of my duties as King. Feathers that are often ruffled by your actions, I shall remind you.”
Neither Arthur’s confidence nor his teasing slap to the back assuaged Merlin’s anxiety. “There’s just… I have…”
“A feeling, yes, I know. Trust me, would you?” Arthur squeezes the back of Merlin’s neck once, twice, before pushing him forward.
They soon discover that what they judged to be a wide but shallow grotto actually narrowed into more of a twisting, writhing cave. Every surface shines with ice unlike anything they've seen before; it emanates shifting colours, like an aurora is trapped within it. Snow flutters without rhyme or reason, having neither point of origin nor destination.
“At least this means we don’t need to figure out how to light a torch, hey?” Arthur’s voice barely hides his underlying uneasiness. Merlin makes an incomprehensible noise. Every step, the air grows thicker with condensed, oppressive magic. They push on anyway.
It takes twenty minutes before the rather narrow cave opens up into a spacious cavern from whose ceiling hangs icicles that shaped like maces and morningstars. Water pools below, reflecting a night sky that isn't visible; Merlin looks around twice, but he can't find any openings in the cavern walls that could provide a reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere they are now submerged in.
In the centre, as still as the air around them, is Queen Beira. She looms over them, far, far larger than Gwaine had described, and yet Merlin can barely look at her; it’s impossible to look at the large, crouched figure through anything but the edges of his peripheral vision. Any attempt to meet her gaze leaves his eyes feeling swollen and hot, like they may burst. Merlin has never known magic like this, concentrated enough to blind. Even Arthur appears to be affected, his head lowered in either respect or avoidance, though Merlin can't tell which.
“Her most gracious Queen of Winter,” Arthur starts, taking one knee. Merlin nearly drags him back up — what if they have to make a run for it? No, no use angering her right now. Best to let Arthur speak. “I am Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot.”
“I know you well, King Arthur.” Queen Beira’s voice sparkles like ice, sounding both youthful and unfathomably old. “Are you here to offer your apologies?”
“I am; my knights had no right to trespass upon your property, let alone disrespect your person-”
“Oh, there was no trespassing involved,” Queen Beira corrects. “I assure you, King Arthur, that no one enters my abode uninvited. My true body lies here, but I have a… fondness for the outside world. Prior to your father’s desecration upon this land, I did have many a worshipper craft me statues with which I could walk the world; though they are human-crafted, the magic they were carved with and my acceptance of them mean they are a part of me in quite the same way as your sword is you.” She shifts and the shallow water underfoot ripples. “There is only one left, now, and the technique has been lost with its artisans.”
Merlin takes a trembling breath. Arthur, beside him, remains steady. “That is a dear loss indeed,” Arthur agrees. “Should your Majesty deign to offer us guidance, the craftsmen of Camelot could-”
“You have yet to introduce your aide, King Arthur,” Queen Beira’s voice twists with amusement. It sends chills down Merlin’s spine and leaves him mute and helpless.
“This is Merlin, my manservant,” Arthur says, unable to hide his surprise. “Merlin. Merlin,” he hisses to him, and when that proves no use, he stands up and forces Merlin to bow. “I apologise, he’s quite nervous.”
“As he should be,” Queen Beira allows. “Well met… Merlin.”
She knows, Merlin knows that she knows. For whatever reason, she isn’t interested in calling him out.
“Well met,” Merlin stammers out when Arthur steps on his boot.
“As for you, King Arthur Pendragon…” Queen Beira says, sounding out every syllable. “I will allow you to offer me an alternative, though a statue built by a non-believer is but a bauble.” Flurries of ice fill the cavern, rendering them blind; when it subsides, Queen Beira stands before them at a much more humane height, though her presence is still anything but. “Accept me into your heart, allow me to see through your eyes. I am quite curious as to what it means to live as the once and future King.”
Queen Beira reaches out to cup Arthur’s cheek; before he can make a decision, Merlin finds himself standing between them, arm flung out as if it would do much to protect Arthur from her gaze. “You know what he is prophesied to do,” Merlin snarls, un-heeding of Arthur hissing his name. “And yet you would aim to divert his path?”
The Queen laughs, delighted. “Oh indeed I do, and I will not intervene in any way. I merely want to stand witness. Perhaps I could even offer guidance, should it be necessary.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Merlin says harshly. “Arthur has always been guided by his righteous heart; it’s what makes him a great King.”
“Merlin! Are you trying to get us killed? ” Arthur hisses again. Louder, he continues, “I am so sorry, your Majesty, my manservant is ill-trained and-”
“Oh, Emrys, you do melt my frozen heart.” Queen Beira coos, and her skeletal fingers wrap around Merlin’s wrist and draws him in, forcing his hand against her bony sternum; it sinks through her body as bone and flesh part like freshly fallen snow. The well of power he finds within is akin to a pool of lightning, or perhaps white-hot ice that aims to burn him blue. Merlin pulls back, scrambling away until his back hits plated armour. It’s only Arthur’s grasp on his biceps that keep him from collapsing. “Tell me,” the Queen continues, “do you serve Albion, or do you serve your King?”
“They are one and the same.” Merlin rights himself on shaky legs, edging backwards to push Arthur further away from her.
“They are not, and you know where your loyalties lie. Oh, I am disappointed with you, ‘Merlin’,” the Queen laughs. “Disappointed, and yet so delighted. Tell me, if you love him so, why then do you hide from him?”
Merlin stays silent. Her motives are unfathomable. Does she really want to possess Arthur, or was that a test? What does she have to gain from sowing discord between Merlin and Arthur? Surely she must anticipate the rise of the Old Religion under Arthur’s rule.
There’s no point in playing along with an inscrutable god, Merlin decides. “Arthur, let’s go,” he whispers, carefully keeping his eyes on her. They sweat with pressure, and yet he dares not look away lest she decides to try to sink her claws into Arthur once more. He pushes them back, back, all the way to the passage they came by.
“Merlin-”
“Sire, if you have ever trusted me before, trust me now. Let’s go,” Merlin insists, turning around and pushing Arthur away from her.
“You would do well to heed his council, Arthur Pendragon, but do not rely on it wholly,” Queen Beira advises, voice echoing through the cavern. “His mind is wise, but easily swayed by his stubborn heart.” The snow in the cavern picks up again, and her voice speaks from all around them. “You have entertained me well, and for that, I shall hold no grudge against Camelot or its knights. Go, with my blessing, and let the gift of my wisdom guide you home.”
Merlin shoves Arthur back towards the path they came, uncaring of whether Arthur agrees with his plan; luckily, it only takes a couple of seconds for Arthur to get with the program, and then they're racing towards the cave entrance.
“Merlin, what in the blazes was she talking about?” Arthur’s panting voice echoes through the cave's narrow passage.
“I don't know. I don't know. Keep running.” Merlin picks up the pace, feet striking the ground harder
“It sure sounded like you knew,” Arthur insists.
“I was just going along with her blithering, you clotpole, just keep running!”
Minutes later, Arthur comes to a stop, Merlin clattering against his armour. “Arthur, what do you think you're-”
Arthur steps aside so Merlin can get a better view.
“Oh,” Merlin breathes.
While they've successfully made it to the cave’s entrance, the outside world is shrouded in snow as far as the eye can see. Merlin can barely make out the horses, who are huddled close against the tree they're tethered to. Attempting to get a feel for the land using magic is no use either; this is no ordinary snow.
“I can't believe she lied to us,” Arthur says.
“I don't think she did.” From what Merlin knew of the Old Religion, that wasn't their style. “Perhaps this is her punishment, or a test? We find our way out, and we're home free.”
“Another feeling of yours?” Arthur asks. Merlin shrugs. Well, what else were they going to do, just wait here to die? Besides, while Queen Beira seemed opportunistic, she didn't strike him as the cruelly wrathful type, and she had nothing to gain from the destruction of either them or Camelot.
“That way,” Arthur decides, pointing ahead. “If I'm right, that's the way we came. Even if I'm wrong, as long as we ride true, we'll find our way out of this storm.”
“Works for me,” Merlin says. He moves to mount his horse, but Arthur stops him.
“You have rope in your saddlebags, don't you? Hand it over, help me tether our horses together. The last thing we need is you getting lost by yourself.”
Soon two lengths of rope link Mórrígan and Llamrei together and they set off, Arthur leading the way.
The storm picks up, forcing them to lean down and hunker against the horses. Merlin hugs his borrowed cloak and he can barely make out Arthur doing the same ahead. Arthur was right; had it not been for the tether, there's a good chance that they'd have been separated.
Finally, after a half-hour of trudging through the harshest winter Merlin has ever seen, the snow begins to ebb and he makes out the dark silhouettes of land and tree through the endless white. He lets himself breathe again. Another day, another disaster averted. Him and Arthur work like two pails on a milkmaid’s yoke, balancing each other out, keeping each other in check; they always have.
“See Merlin? What did I tell you?” Arthur calls out against the wind.
“Never doubted you, sire!” Merlin calls back, grinning.
It's only upon getting closer that they are hit with the realisation that the sole tree by the entrance of a grotto is a very familiar sight.
“How could we have gotten turned around?” Merlin asks, heart picking up pace. He can't recall taking even a minor deviation to their path, and both Arthur and Llamrei are too well-practiced to fail at keeping straight, even blinded. How could they have circled all the way back?
Arthur grits his jaw. “I did think we were taking too long for our pace. We'll try again, hugging the hills, and take the first incline we can out of here. I don't mind a bit of a detour as long as we get out this damned glen before my fingers freeze off.”
They edge the steep hill into which the cave opens, only to find it drops off suddenly; now Merlin isn't usually in charge of navigation, but he does attempt to at least glance at their maps before they set off, and he's fairly certain he doesn't remember Glen Tivore being bound by anything but soft, rolling hills.
“Do we turn back?” Merlin asks through chattering teeth. He's so cold he may never be warm again; his bones ache with it.
“Onwards,” Arthur decides. “We need to get out of here.”
Onward they go, and yet, they're soon greeted by a singular fir and a blasted cave.
“God fucking damn it!” Merlin shouts. If only he could use his magic — but he couldn't, he couldn't see through this infernal snow, no matter how hard he tried. “Bugger. Bugger it all! Again, Arthur, let's just- just pick a direction, take off in a gallop-”
“Merlin-”
“It can't be infinite,” Merlin says, wiping his frozen nose with the back of his hand. They needed to get out of here. They wouldn't die here, Arthur couldn't die here, he just couldn't.“We just… we just have to pick a direction and stick to it.”
“We have done that, we have been doing that!" Arthur argues. "Merlin, it's past sundown, and it's only getting colder. The horses can't keep going in these temperatures, and neither can we. Let's head in.”
“To hunker down for the night, or to plead our case to Queen Beira?” Merlin asks distrustfully.
“I don't know, but please, please let's just get out of the storm before I lose half my face to frostbite,” Arthur bites out as he dismounts. Reluctantly, Merlin follows, and the two men and two horses crowd into the cave's opening.
Merlin is immediately occupied with soothing the horses, who fuss and rear in a space too small for them. “We could hole out here,” he offers, though his head is already beginning to ache from the magic suffused with the air. “I could build us a fire, break a few branches off of the fir.” He has flint and rations. They wouldn't have much space, but Arthur and Merlin could sleep in the narrower passage that the horses can't get to, just to prevent any accidental trampling.
“To what end?” Arthur questions. “This is no natural winter storm, you know it as well as I do. We’re better off returning to Queen Beira; she did say her wisdom would guide us home.”
Merlin pictures the Queen’s suppressive magical aura, the heartless amusement she took in their fear. They were playthings to her, and she had designs on Arthur. “Uh, no,” he says. “No. Nope! I veto this.”
“You can’t veto th- you can’t veto anything, Merlin, you’re a manservant.”
“Vetoed!” Merlin repeats, stalking towards the entrance of the cave. Wood, they needed wood. If they ran out, they could also use their meagre provisions… Arthur wore cotton undergarments, those ought to burn well. And once they’d pilfered their luggage, they could make use of what Arthur is currently wearing. He has layers on, there’s plenty to spare.
When Merlin walks back into the cave, fir branches in hand, Arthur grins at him. Merlin pauses, suspicious. “What did you do?”
“I was going to meet Queen Beira without you, since you were being such a girl about the whole thing-”
“Arthur!”
“-but look at what I chanced on! Here, come see.” Arthur taps one icy wall with his sword, and the sound rings out and echoes like Gaius’ singing bowls. Merlin winces at the sound, and the horses rear and neigh. When they calm down enough that Merlin can be sure he won't be trampled, he obediently drops the wood and navigates past what feels like 16 horse snouts instead of two in order to join Arthur.
The auroral lights underlying the ice, which previously shifted and shone aimlessly, had now coalesced into a distinct pattern. No — into writing.
“It’s all over the place,” Arthur says, and Merlin finds he’s right. The magical text repeats all across the walls, a passage followed by a larger, brighter line of text. Arthur points at the latter. “I think that’s-”
“A spell,” Merlin realises breathlessly. And above it, instructions, all in the language of the Old Religion. It detailed how the spell could be cast, how it would allow them to see a phantom that would lead them out of ‘everwinter’s desolation’. It’s incredibly specific about how it would only work when both people know each other fully.
Queen Beira was trying to force his hand, to make Merlin come clean about his sorcery. He should have known. It wasn’t enough that she raised Arthur’s suspicions by calling him Emrys; now, she wanted him to tell Arthur everything. What could she possibly gain by having Merlin slaughtered?
Okay, so, Arthur probably wouldn’t slaughter him. Probably wouldn’t even exile him, maybe, if Merlin could prove his dedication. Merlin would just… lose his position in the castle, Arthur’s trust, and Arthur’s friendship. So, just everything that made life dear to Merlin. Fantastic, truly, Merlin is so pleased by this turn of events. So pleased that he finds he has half the mind to go back down to Queen Beira’s chambers and give her a piece of his mind.
“Have you figured it out?” Arthur gestures at the writing.
“Hm?” Merlin blinks; did Arthur somehow know? Has he known all along and kept silent for Merlin's sake? Perhaps Merlin had grown careless by assuming Arthur really was as daft as he acted.
“Well I was hoping you secretly knew how to read the language of the Old Religion, as the alternative would be that you’re wasting time staring at text neither of us can read instead of doing something useful like starting a fire,” Arthur bites
Right. Too much to hope for, then. Merlin rubs at his forehead. “Right, okay, we can start on…” he trails off. “Is it just me or is it… not as cold as it ought to be in here?” His teeth are no longer chattering and feeling is slowly returning to his digits. It is by no means warm, but… it feels bearable now, at least.
“Huh.” Arthur tilts his head, assessing. “You're right. It's not so bad anymore. Guess she doesn't quite want to kill us.”
“Let's… okay, I'll ask her, and you stay put here,” Merlin decides.
“Hold on,” Arthur protests. “I'm not gonna sit here twiddling my thumbs while you risk a total breakdown of diplomatic relations with an all-powerful goddess.”
“She's not all-powerful,” Merlin waves off. “Besides, I'm not the one she's trying to possess. Gimme that,” Merlin grabs Excalibur, and Arthur is so startled by the insolence that he lets him. He points the sword at Arthur. “Now stay put. Be good and, uh, don't wander out and get yourself killed.” He ducks under the horses, and as soon as he crosses them, strikes the ice with Excalibur hard, causing the horses to rise and rear, at least temporarily blocking Arthur. He bites back a laugh as Arthur curses his name and makes his way down the cave’s passage quickly, knowing he only has a matter of minutes; there has to be boulders or rubble he can take advantage of to trap Arthur out. He can blame the Queen for it later.
Yet as Merlin turns down the winding path, he finds it abruptly cut off, no sign that it had ever led further in. His magic can't sense a seam at all; it was as if the cave had never led deeper, as if it had always ended here.
She locked him — them — out. What now? Could he call Kilgarrah for help? Perhaps, but… no. He risked angering the goddess, and even a dragon was likely no match for a being as powerful as she. A wisp of icy wind curls past Merlin's ear, and it seems to mock him.
Merlin's breath increases pace, and he buries his face in his hands. What should he do? What could he do? He couldn't let Arthur die. But to let Arthur know… he would lose him. He would choose the lesser of two evils, of course, but still he would lose him. Merlin would lose him. Oh, Emrys would remain by the side of the Once and Future King one way or another, he's sure, but…
Arthur. The man, not the King. The idiot, the prat, the insufferable fool that loves getting drunk and proceeding to wax poetic about everything from the stars to his breakfast. The fool who taught Merlin how to use a crossbow, who loves when Merlin washes his hair, who gossips with Merlin about the idiot nobles they have to deal with. The dollophead that shines so bright and smiles so beautiful. It isn't fair. Why must Merlin sacrifice his Arthur while Emrys would doubtless keep his duty to the King?
He hears the clatter of armour behind him and braces himself, taking a deep, shaky breath.
“Merlin?” Arthur asks, breathless. “Oh, thank the- what the bloody hell is wrong with you? Would you stop risking your life when you have no reason to?”
“There's no way forward,” Merlin says thickly, blinking back tears. “She's locked us out, there's… there's no other way.”
Arthur finds himself taken back; Merlin, for all his expressiveness, rarely ever cries. “Okay,” he says hesitantly, resting a gloved hand on Merlin's back. “It's okay, Merlin. We'll… we'll find a way out. And the knights know where we are, if we don't get out, they'll find us.”
Merlin shakes his head, wiping the moisture on his face away with his sleeve. “No. No, uh… that wouldn't…” Queen Beira wouldn't be tricked so easily. Doubtlessly, it would just end up with the knights stuck with them. Merlin finally lifts his face, looking red-faced and miserable. “I’m sorry.” For more than Arthur knew, for everything that Arthur was soon to know.
“It’s not your fault, Merlin,” Arthur says, sounding awfully kind.
Merlin shakes his head, lips twisting. Blinking back tears again. “No, uh… just… um, we should get back to the horses.”
“...Okay,” Arthur says, studying Merlin carefully. “If that’s what you want."
It is. Merlin will take these last few moments and treasure them forever. They walk side by side in silence; Merlin fights the urge to tangle his hand with Arthur’s. “I… I know I haven’t always been the best servant, but… I just want you to know that I have never been anything but loyal to you.”
“Merlin.” Arthur breathes out heavily. “There’s no need for goodbyes, you- you dalcop. We’re going to be fine.”
“Dalcop, huh?” Merlin laughs through a sniffle. “That’s a new one. But I know. We’re going to be… I could never let you die, Arthur. Never.”
“Merlin, don’t… don’t be ridiculous, that isn’t your duty,” Arthur says, averting his wet eyes.
Oh, if only Arthur knew. Merlin can’t help it — he grips Arthur’s hand. “It is, but even if it wasn’t, I… I would always…” he trails off.
Arthur stays silent, but he draws Merlin closer, and Merlin breathes it in. It’s likely this is the last time… he thinks, perhaps, that although Emrys will survive this ordeal, this is where Merlin dies.
When they return to the horses, Merlin traces his hand over the text.
“Look, the alphabet isn’t too different,” Arthur says. “It’s just a matter of pronunciation, isn’t it? There’s only so many ways you can say it. Late, uh… Late pa bende bet-wee-oh…”
It startles a wet laugh out of Merlin. “Lǣt þā bænd betwēonum ūs, of wyrd gesmiþod and of lufe ġesċearpod, þurh ēcewintres blindfellen sċieran,” Merlin corrects. “Let the bond between us, forged by fate and sharpened by love, slice through everwinter's blindfold.”
Arthur’s face twists — surprise, confusion, disbelief. “You… you’re making that up. Aren’t you?"
Merlin shakes his head; the tears flow freely, now. If Merlin’s words didn’t clue Arthur in about what’s happening, his reaction would.
“Gaius… Gaius taught you how to read the Old Language…?” Arthur asks.
“My mother,” Merlin says thickly.
“Oh.” Arthur swallows. “That… makes sense. Ealdor is in… magic was still… is this why you were worried, Merlin? It’s fine if you know how to read the Old Language. Good, even. Now we just need to, uh, figure out how to make it work. People learn magic, right? Perhaps we need to say it together, or something. Teach ourselves magic in a couple of days, should be easy,” he laughs shakily. “What does the bit above say?”
“It, uh… it’s a… it’s a pretty unique spell. Crafted for us specifically, I reckon, by Queen Beira. It only works on people who know each other fully.”
“Well, you bathe me, so I doubt there’s any more fully you could know me,” Arthur jokes weakly. “Don’t know what the hold up is, then.”
The wariness in Arthur’s eyes is undeniable. Merlin swallows thickly. “That… that would be me. I, um…” his heart may explode, his lungs may implode. “I have magic,” he admits. The tears flow silently and freely now. “I’m… I’m a sorcerer. I have magic.”
Arthur frowns, opens his mouth as if to deny what Merlin said, frowns again. Merlin, trembling in every bone, forces himself to hold his King's gaze with surety.
“You…” Arthur falls silent, brows furrowed. For a minute, he says nothing. Then, finally: “For how long?”
“I was born with it. And- and I use it, I have been… I use it for you, Arthur, only for you.”
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them, he shakes his head, stepping back. “No. No, Merlin, you are not a sorcerer, I would know,” he says, denial etched into every feature on his face.
“Here,” Merlin says gently, holding out his hand. “Horsas īses, beride þá heofonum.” A gust brings snow rushing in, and it takes the shape of two horses that prance together on Merlin’s palm. He puts his hand forth, intending to guide them to Arthur’s hand, but Arthur steps back in alarm. Merlin shouldn’t be surprised, and yet he finds that he is. The snow horses crumple into a small heap on his palm, and Merlin lets it drop.
“You’ve lied to me all this time,” Arthur says hoarsely.
Merlin winces, and he swallows. “I- I know.”
“I trusted you, I… I thought I knew you.” There’s hurt, now, in Arthur’s expression. There is no greater torture than knowing Merlin is the one that put it there.
“I’m still the same person,” he tries. “I’m sorry.”
Arthur just puts more distance between them, resting a hand on Llamrei’s mane. She whinnies softly. “Do the spell now,” Arthur orders.
Merlin shakes his head. “It won’t-”
“Do it, Merlin,” Arthur hisses. “For once in your life, can you just-!”
“Lǣt þā bænd betwēonum ūs, of wyrd gesmiþod and of lufe ġesċearpod, þurh ēcewintres blindfellen sċieran,” Merlin chants. Unsurprisingly, nothing happens. “There’s still… there’s still more I have to tell you, I think. You might… you might want to sit down. It may take a while.”
“Great." Arthur looks away, the fury in his features undeniable. "That’s just… y’know, I used to think that you could never hide a secret from me. I used to believe that you were always true to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Merlin sobs, letting himself fall to his knees. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”
Arthur sinks to the ground on the other end of the cave, struck. “I’m sorry too.”
Merlin tells him everything, painting a picture with broad strokes. The prophecy, how he’s Emrys, how Arthur is the Once and Future King. How Merlin has used magic to save Arthur countless times, unbeknownst to him. He speaks until he runs out of words and tears, while Arthur stays stoically silent through it all.
“So… destiny. That’s all this comes down to?” Arthur asks when Merlin is done. “What we come down to?”
“No,” Merlin shakes his head. “I mean, yes, I was born to serve you, but… I’m proud of that. I wouldn’t change a thing. I do this because of who you are. Because… because I love you, and I don’t want to lose you.”
“And despite that, you could never bring yourself to trust me?” Arthur asks, the first cracks in his demeanour beginning to show.
“That’s not-”
“No, it is!” Arthur exclaims, standing up. Instinctively, Merlin follows suit. “It is, Merlin, because- you know, this whole speech of yours, you’ve been going on and on about how devoted you are to me, when you have yet to- to comprehend that I have done the same? When I sought the Mortaeus flower for you, or at the The Labyrinth of Gedref… I have lied for you, I have killed for you, I have tried to die for you and I have never regretted it despite what it may mean for my kingdom. And yet you never truly trusted me, did you?”
“I- I didn’t want to put you in a position where you had to choose between me and your father,” Merlin says breathlessly.
Arthur softens minutely. “And after? After I was crowned King? Would you have ever told me of your own free will?”
Merlin finds that he has no response to that. He was so used to hiding, so used to keeping everything close to the chest… he feared being known even as he yearned for it.
“How do you see this, Merlin?” Arthur gestures between the two of them. “Hm? How do you see us? You play the eternally devoted servant, and I, the unfeeling King? Because that’s not who I am. I’m not-” his voice and his pretence of impassivity break apart, and he wipes at his face with the back of his glove. “I’m human too, Merlin. I’m not just the- the ‘Once and Future King’, I’m also just… a man. Your friend, I had thought. And I don't…” Arthur’s voice is wet and choked. “I had thought you saw me as such. I have confided in you, I have… I have let you learn all of who I am, and I thought you were doing the same. I loved you too.”
Don't, Merlin thinks desperately. Don't say loved, don't say it like that. “I…” he reaches for Arthur only for Arthur to turn his cheek.
“Any other secrets you need to share?” Arthur asks, blinking repeatedly.
Merlin shakes his head despondently.
“No? Good. Cast the damn spell, Merlin.”
Arthur seems so distant, now, so very distant. Like Merlin may never reach him again.
“We… we have to hold hands,” Merlin blurts out. “For the spell.” He doesn’t know why he says it. Desperation, he supposes. It’s not true, he knows it’s not, and Arthur knows it isn’t either because there had been no physical contact when Merlin tried casting it the last time.
Arthur stares, and the corner of his lips twitch; to pull into a smile or a frown, Merlin doesn’t know. Still, Arthur pulls his right glove off and holds his hand out.
Merlin pulls his own right glove and clasps Arthur’s hand, really takes in the feel of the calloused, rough skin. “Lǣt þā bænd betwēonum ūs, of wyrd gesmiþod and of lufe-” Merlin’s voice cracks. Lufe. Love. Could he say he loves Arthur when he never trusted him? And yet- how could what he feels for Arthur be anything but love?
“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, softer than he wants to, softer that Merlin deserves.
Merlin clears his throat. “Sorry, let me- let me try again.” His eyes flash gold, and he lets himself feel the words this time, the magic he aims to cast. Let the bond between us, forged by fate and sharpened by love, slice through everwinter's blindfold. He pictures their destiny, and what they’ve built atop it. He pictures the years past and feels grateful for all they’ve had, future be damned. “Lǣt þā bænd betwēonum ūs, of wyrd gesmiþod and of lufe ġesċearpod, þurh ēcewintres blindfellen sċieran.”
Light leaps forth from where their hands are joined, and the phantom of a white hart lands lightly upon the ground. It paws a hoof and raises its antlered head proudly, shimmering, with wisps of blue and gold that silhouette it. Both Arthur and Merlin stare with awe as it trots to greet the horses, nuzzling snouts and snorting.
“I suppose that’s our guide out of here,” Arthur says suddenly, dropping Merlin’s hand. He wears his glove and mounts his horse, so Merlin does the same. The hart- their hart marches proudly forward out into the bright night, the sky glimmering with the hues of the north. The snow that approaches them melts away into glittering droplets of water that reflect the moonlight and reveal hints of green in the white-carpeted ground where they land. Slowly but surely, stalks of grass and tiny flowers push forth through the ice, lit by the soft glow of the stag that guides them.
Merlin feels his breath hitch, even used as he is to his own magic. He studies the back of Arthur’s head and wonders how he greets the sight; does he find this loathsome, a reminder of Merlin’s betrayal? Or does he, too, find his heart full with just how beautiful Camelot is, magic and all? Irrespective, Merlin finds that he’s grateful that he can share this sight with Arthur.
They ride in silence, breathing in the scent of frosted petrichor. The snow fades, and the glen comes into view, gleaming under the dancing sky. Once they reach the periphery of it, their horses trot to a stop and the stag trots around them. Merlin grips the saddle with his left hand and leans down, extending his right. “Þancie þē,” he murmurs as the it butts up against the back of his hand and gnaws at his glove playfully.
“Is that to end the spell?” Arthur asks, face unreadable, and Merlin flushes under his sharp gaze.
“No,” Merlin says, righting himself. “Just a thank you.”
“Hm.” Arthur says. When the stag trots up to him, he hesitates, yet the stag is insistent, brushing up against Llamrei until she huffs and stomps in place. “Alright, you spoiled thing,” Arthur murmurs, and he reaches down to ruffle the fur between its antlers. “Thank you.”
The white hart snorts, satisfied, before trotting away, melting into the environment.
“Alright,” Arthur sighs once its out of sight. “We’ll set up camp up ahead, and leave bright and early in the morn for home.”
Merlin nods, worn thin. Home. It feels as though the concept is no longer within reach for him.