The Once and Future Kings

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/39437460.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: Merlin (TV)
Relationship: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Character: Merlin (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gwen (Merlin), Morgana
(Merlin), Gaius (Merlin), Uther Pendragon (Merlin), Knights of the
Round Table (Merlin)
Additional Tags: Canon Rewrite, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character
Study, Slow Burn, no seriously so slow, Alternate Universe - Everyone
Lives/Nobody Dies, except the few people who do, Worldbuilding,
Violence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Magic Revealed,
Compulsory Heterosexuality, Mutual Pining, Falling In Love, Getting
Together, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, First Time,
Background Relationships, Minor Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Minor
Gwaine/Percival (Merlin)
Language: English
Collections: BHT, Merthur to ignore the finale with, my Hyperfixation is ~Very
Pleased~ (✿◠‿◠), Need to read, Merlin Fanfics <3, The Cream of the
Crop, currently unfinished merthur fics i wanna read
Stats: Published: 2022-06-05 Updated: 2023-04-08 Chapters: 20/50 Words:
278342

The Once and Future Kings

by tjmcharg

Summary

In a land of myth, and a time of magic, the destiny of a great kingdom rests on the shoulders
of a young boy.
His name...

Merlin.

Notes

Translation in Português brasileiro in progress: The Once and Future Kings by tjmcharg,
translation by nenamichalski

i am so ecstatic to finally be sharing OAFK with you guys, it is my pride and joy. i started
writing this in july 2021 and literally have not stopped. i am driven by brain rot, it’s
incurable. i hope you enjoy the first chapter and you’re excited to strap in for this journey.
 I CANNOT EMPHASISE ENOUGH HOW SLOW OF A BURN THIS IS GHJFHDJ IT
WILL BE WORTH IT AND THEY WILL GET TOGETHER I SWEAR

for now the posting schedule will be once every three weeks, i know it's large gaps between
chapters but it's just to give me and my editor time to make sure we can keep up with the fic
(i'm still writing it as i post) once we're in a more comfortable position it will increase !!!

i cannot thank the wonderful rachel (almondblossoms) enough. she has been betaing my
works since i started writing fic - and was the one to get me into it in the first place (so in a
roundabout way this is on her) - and knows me so well I genuinely don’t know if I could let
someone else into my google docs. she has gone above and beyond with this work, from
three rounds of editing to a six hour ft where we worked out the entire timeline (her doing
all the maths because im useless) to dealing with my endless random texts begging for help.
this literally would not exist without her <3

also a massive thank you to benny (@eghosticamp) who not only literally watched merlin
for me but has helped me endlessly with this fic. they helped me fix plotholes, flesh out
characters, world build, have listened to approximately one THOUSAND (generously low)
rambles about this fic and merlin and never stopped showing support and listening. you’re
a real one babes

i hope you enjoy the chapter and please leave a comment to let me know what you think
they fuel my life <3

See the end of the work for more notes

 The Dragon's Call

When Merlin first walks through the gates of Camelot he thinks it might be the most beautiful
place he has ever seen. The streets seem to be alive, everywhere he looks there is movement;
shopkeepers bartering, young girls running after their mothers with heaping piles of fabric and
overflowing baskets of wheat. He ducks under a tray of bread carried by bakers with heaving
muscles and deep booming voices. A smile stretches his face as he observes the beauty of the city.

He grew up in a small town just over the border in Essetir, with a population so small that the
whole village could likely fit into a single street of Camelot. Merlin had always wanted to travel, to
meet new people, to expand his horizons past the wheat pastures of Ealdor, but until now he had
never been given the chance. He’s never seen anything outside of village life, so a place like
Camelot, with its bustling energy, is completely unknown to him.

Merlin follows the sharp sound of the bugle into a large town square, eager to see what else the
city has to offer. There’s a large crowd gathering around a podium, but even when he stretches tall
onto his toes he can’t see what the purpose of the gathering is until it’s much too late to turn back.

A loud voice rings over the square.

“Let this serve as a lesson to all,” a man booms, the King, Merlin assumes as he notices the golden
crown encircling his head. Uther. He’s a stocky man, with very little hair, a scar jutting across the
right side of his forehead and a permanent frown crease between his brows, he holds himself with
the poise of someone who believes they are better than everyone.

A man is dragged towards the podium and it dawns upon Merlin what exactly is happening in the
square. He turns to escape. Executions do occur in Ealdor, though they are few and far between,
but Merlin has never enjoyed them. He cannot even share the crude perverse entertainment some
are able to take from the event.

“Thomas James Collins is charged guilty of the use of enchantments and sorcery,” Uther continues
and Merlin pauses, turning to look up at the King once again.

“In Camelot, such practices are banned, on penalty of death.”

Merlin’s heart drops like a stone, leaving him stock still. He’s sure the fear coursing through him is
evident on his face, but he can’t find the ability to control his expression.

His magic, a core piece of him, as much a part of his person as his name, is enough in this beautiful
city to have him killed.

Having magic has never been safe. His mother has always warned him to keep that piece of himself
hidden away where no one would see it. That no one should know. King Cenred is known for
using sorcerers to pursue his own desires, forcing them to work for him and casting them aside like
any other weapon when they were no longer of use.

Hunith never said, but Merlin knows he has more power than is normal; and that if Cenred were to
know he would steal Merlin and enslave him as a weapon of mass destruction, before anyone could
do anything to stop him. But even then, Merlin was never at risk of death.

Uther is still speaking, but Merlin hears nothing but the sharp sound of the blade being sharpened
by the executioner, the heavy pounding of drums, the low murmur that passes through the crowd,
they are unsurprised, they have seen this many times before.
He stares at Thomas — a young man, at best only ten years older than Merlin’s nineteen years —
as he bends to his knees before the chopping block. Merlin’s mind places himself on the chopping
block, his own forehead resting on the cool, hard wood. He can’t help it, he knows how easily he
could end up there, a small slip, an emotional outburst. Magic is a part of him, but it’s also
something he has little control over, like a bucket filled to the brim it has a tendency to overflow.
The image of the execution flickers before Merlin’s eyes, Thomas, Merlin, Thomas, Merlin.

With the sharp gesture of Uther’s hand the axe raises, and with a clenched fist it falls.

Merlin’s hand flies to his throat, feeling the harsh jumping of his pulse as it pushes against his
fingertips. An insistent reminder that he’s still here, still alive.

But for how much longer? A cruel voice in his head asks.

Uther keeps talking, saying something about a feast and honouring the peace he’s brought since the
capture of the Great Dragon, since ridding Camelot of the evil of sorcery. Merlin barely hears a
word of it.

He’s still seeing double — his head rolling, his grunt of pain as the axe hits — when the woman
starts screaming. The crowd parts to reveal her, hunched with more than just old age but a grief so
immense Merlin can hardly conceive it.

“There is only one evil in this land and it is not magic,” she cries, voice wet with tears. “It is you.”

Uther’s jaw sets in a hard line but he says nothing, staring down at her from his elevated platform.

“You! With your hatred and your ignorance, you are the evil that plagues us all.” The woman
pauses, taking a heaving ragged breath as she struggles to compose herself, heavy tears rolling
down her wrinkled cheeks. “You took my son. My boy.”

Merlin blinks and the woman is his own mother, Hunith, screaming in pain at a King who does not
care. Merlin’s body lies dead at her feet, her face is twisted with anguish. He blinks again and the
old woman has returned, but the pain of a mother and her lost son remains.

“I promise you, Uther Pendragon, you will share my tears, my grief, you will understand what it
means to hurt.” She spreads her hands to the square, addressing them all but her gaze never
wavering from the King.

“An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth… a son for a son.”

At those words Uther’s gaze changes from stoic to furious.

“Seize her!” He thunders, but she screams an incantation into an amulet and disappears before the
guards so much as move.

Merlin drops his hand from his throat, having barely even realised he had frozen with it there. He
schools his expression into something as neutral as possible, feigning indifference and avoiding the
eyes of the guards posted around the square. He straightens his spine and marches from the stone
surrounded area.

One thing is for certain, he needs to get out of Camelot.

He’s almost tempted to walk immediately out of the city. It’s a long week’s walk back to Ealdor,
but at least he won’t be killed. Small victories.
He’s set on his path to do just that when he remembers Gaius. He’s never met the man, but when
his mother had let her old friend know Merlin would be coming to Camelot, the man had been kind
enough to offer Merlin housing and training as a physician’s apprentice. The least Merlin can do is
let him know of the change in plans.

He follows the path into the citadel of Camelot, it’s not grand for a castle, simple paved stone and
arching windows, but it's the largest single structure Merlin has ever seen. It’s just as busy inside as
it was out, servants are hurrying along with chores and various tasks to complete, and littering the
halls are a few knights along with many guards. One of whom points him in the direction of the
physician’s chambers, up a short winding staircase and to the left.

“Hello?” Merlin calls out softly, knocking on the half open door. “Gaius?”

The room is warm and homely, covered in various knick knacks, boiling potions and poultices.
Glass bottles filled with various herbs and liquids line the walls and further up on a landing are
shelves so densely packed with books they bow under the weight of them. By the overflowing
bookshelves is an old man with shoulder length silver hair, muttering to himself.

“Hello!” Merlin says again, announcing himself. The man, Gaius presumably, turns and suddenly
the barricade splinters and breaks, and he is falling.

A surge of fear wells up in Merlin and his magic bursts out of him. His eyes flash gold. Its tendrils
push from Merlin, reaching around the room and seizing the pallet in the corner, thrusting it under
Gaius’ falling body.

“What did you just do!” Gaius shouts once he lands safely, sitting up on the pallet and staring at
Merlin in astonishment. “If anyone had seen— oh nevermind that, tell me!”

“Do what? I didn’t do anything,” Merlin stammers, the image of the falling axe present in his
mind.

“You know what. Tell me how you did it.”

Merlin shakes his head. “That?” He gestures wildly to the moved pallet. “That had nothing to do
with me. That was—”

“—I know what it was,” Gaius snaps, cutting through his fumbling words. He stares at Merlin for a
long moment and when Merlin doesn’t say anything further he gets to his feet and hurries to close
the door.

“Where did you learn to do magic?” Gaius asks more clearly now that the heavy oak door is cutting
them off from the rest of the castle.

“I didn’t, I never studied magic, or was taught,” Merlin answers, grateful for the opportunity to be
honest.

“Are you lying to me?” Gaius does something with his eyebrow that makes Merlin feel ten years
younger, like he’s a small child being caught with his hand in the sweet jar.

“No!” Merlin says insistently. “I swear, I was born like this.”

Gaius pauses at that. “That’s impossible,” he says finally.

“It’s the truth.” Merlin shrugs.

They stand staring at each other for a few long moments.

“Who are you?” Gaius asks.

“I’m Merlin,” he introduces himself, sticking out a hand.

“Hunith’s boy,” Gaius says, more to himself than to Merlin, taking Merlin’s hand in his weathered
palm and giving it a firm shake, still looking at Merlin bewildered, like he’s a miracle.

“Your room is there,” Gaius points behind himself to a door at the back of the room. “Feel free to
take your belongings in there and set it up how you like.”

Merlin winces. “Actually. I’m not going to stay.” Gaius halts and stares at Merlin with that same
eyebrow trick, pinning Merlin with his gaze until he’s squirming before asking, “Whatever do you
mean?”

“I can’t control my magic,” Merlin lowers his voice as though the King himself might hear him
and come to take his head. “I can’t stay here, it’s not safe, they executed someone for using
enchantments just this morning.”

Gaius frowns. “Your mother thought Camelot would be the best place for you.”

“I’m certain my mother wasn’t aware exactly how dangerous this place is for someone like me,”
Merlin retorts.

There’s a beat of silence as Gaius contemplates this. “Hunith is a smart woman, she sent you to me
for a reason. She’s well aware of the dangers.”

“I don’t think—” Merlin attempts, stepping backwards but Gaius cuts him off.

“—Give me a chance to help you control it. Power like yours, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

That makes Merlin hesitate. “What do you mean?”

Gaius smiles, like he knows that Merlin is already convinced. “When you moved the pallet, how
did you do it? Did you speak a spell in your mind?”

“No. I don’t know any spells.”

“So what did you do? There must be something.”

There’s something in his grey eyes that tells Merlin he already knows his answer, but he says it
anyway. “It just happens. I don’t have to do anything.”

Gaius nods. “I thought as much. That kind of power Merlin, it takes years to hone and master.
People study for years to do what you were born able to do. Magic, it takes incantations, spells,
what you did was… elemental, instinctive.”

Merlin feels a swell of something deep in his chest; an odd concoction of pride in his magic, a part
of himself he has always loved no matter how much he felt he had to hide it, and fear for what that
type of power means for him. To have his suspicions that he’s stronger than he’s ever known
confirmed is equal parts relieving and terrifying, and does nothing to quell the lost feeling that has
always followed him.

“I understand Camelot is dangerous for you, but I think your mother is right, I can help you,”
Gaius’ words are soft, tentative, like he’s trying not to startle Merlin away.
Merlin nods slowly, reluctant to admit even to himself that he had given in minutes ago when
Gaius said he’d never seen magic like Merlin’s.

“Alright, I’ll stay.”

Gaius smiles, as warm and inviting as his chambers. “We’ll just have to keep you out of trouble.”

~-~-~

In Merlin’s defence, he had fully intended to follow Gaius’ advice to stay out of trouble. He is
willing to stay in Camelot because of the hope that Gaius will be able to help him, but the image of
the chopping block has not yet slipped his mind and he’s not eager to place himself in any form of
danger.

However he’s never been much good at staying out of trouble, no matter how much his mother,
and now Gaius, may have liked him to.

It only takes a day for things to start to go wrong, beginning with one of the most handsome young
men Merlin has ever seen. Merlin is halfway through delivery rounds when he sees him —
standing off to the side of the path, laughing with his friends, one hand covering his smiling mouth.
He’s dressed in a loose semblance of armour, a shoulder plate over a red tunic that brings out the
sharp blue of his eyes; with soft blond hair that glows in the morning light, a strong jaw, and broad
shoulders. If Merlin took to his nighttime fantasies with a mortar and pestle and ground them up to
make a single person, he would look like this man.

“Where’s the target?” The blond man asks, staring pointedly at a skinny boy in drab clothes. He
has a drawling voice, with a formal edge to it, as if someone went to a lot of effort to teach him
how to speak properly.

The boy points to the target. “It’s there, sir.”

“So it’s into the sun,” the man says condescendingly.

“It’s not that bright.”

“A bit like you then.”

The boy sighs so heavily Merlin can see his shoulders slump as he shuffles to move the target to
the other side of the courtyard, staggering under the weight of it.

“You know you’re not actually meant to argue against your tasks,” the blond man points out.

The boy grimaces, half heartedly nodding. “Right, sorry sir.”

The blond man turns to his friends, muttering something Merlin can’t catch over the laughter and
chatter of the square. With a trained precision the man readies a knife and throws it into the target
still in the boy’s hold, so fast it is no more than a blur of movement. He stumbles backwards with
the force of it and pops his head out to stare at his master in shock.

“Well come on! I didn’t tell you to stop! Keep moving!” Blond Prat hollers, and his friends jeer in
agreement. “We want some moving target practise!”

“Teach him a lesson!” One of them calls to the Prat who throws a smile over his shoulder before
launching another blade.
Merlin glances around, hoping to find someone who will put a stop to the behaviour. While the
action draws the attention of many people around the square, no one pauses to help.

When the fourth knife lodges into the target the boy trips, dropping the disk as he crumples to the
floor. It rolls along the length of the small courtyard before coming to a stop at Merlin’s feet.

“Hey, come on, that’s enough.”

Blond Prat stares at him incredulously, as if Merlin saying something against him is shocking and
not his appalling behaviour.

“What?” He demands, like he’s sure he must have heard Merlin wrong.

“Look, my friend,” Merlin attempts to placate him. “You’ve had your fun but that’s enough now.
Someone could get hurt.”

Blond Prat walks towards Merlin, tipping his head at him like he’s a puzzle to solve.

“Do I know you?”

“Oh um,” Merlin holds his hand out, “I’m Merlin.”

The Prat makes no move to take Merlin's outstretched hand. “So, I don’t know you then.”

Merlin hesitates before lowering his hand. “No.”

“Yet you called me ‘friend’,” Blond Prat points out.

“Right. That was my mistake.”

“Yes I think so.”

Merlin smiles falsely. “I could never have a friend who could be such an ass.”

He turns to walk away, sure that will be the end of the interaction. No matter how attractive the
prat may be, he is far too much of an arsehole for Merlin to ever be interested in him.

“Nor I one who could be so stupid,” Blond Prat retorts before he can leave. Merlin stops and
glances over his shoulder.

“Tell me, Merlin,” Blond Prat continues, he says Merlin’s name like he’s testing how it feels on
his tongue, putting more emphasis on the start of his name. “Do you know how to walk on your
knees?”

Merlin’s eyes drop to the Prat’s right hand which is resting on the sword slung low on his hip.

“No I don’t,” he answers haughtily. Blond Prat steps close so their chests are almost bumping,
daring Merlin to be the one to step back first.

“You don’t? Would you like me to help you?” The Prat pats the sword on his hip as though Merlin
could have any doubts over what he means.

“Don’t make me fight you,” Merlin says, frustration only growing when the Prat has the gall to
laugh at him.

“Oh, be my guest,” he goads. “What are you going to do to me?”

“You’d like to know wouldn’t you?”

“I would, I really would.”

The Blond Prat steps back and spreads his arms wide and defenceless in invitation.

“Show me what you’ve got, Merlin.”

Merlin’s fists clench at his sides but he pushes a lid down on the simmering anger building in his
chest.

“Come on,” the Prat encourages. “Come on,” he repeats mockingly, issuing a challenge for Merlin
to either take or give up. Merlin has never backed down from a challenge.

He swings his fist, aiming for the Blond Prat’s stupidly attractive face, figuring at the least bruising
the arsehole’s face will give him something to remember him by. He’s not an idiot, without magic
he doesn’t stand a chance of actually winning this fight, but he can’t just let the arse get away with
challenging him like that.

To his dismay he doesn’t even land a punch. The Prat catches his fist easily and twists it far behind
his back before Merlin can even blink.

“Argh!” Merlin lets out a yelp of pain, his arm pulling painfully in his socket.

“I’ll have you thrown in jail for that,” Blond Prat says lowly, right into Merlin’s ear.

Merlin grunts, attempting to wriggle his way out of his hold. “What? Who do you think you are?
The King?”

“No,” the Prat says, jolting Merlin’s arm purposefully. “I’m his son, Arthur.”

That makes Merlin freeze.

True to the Prat — Prince Arthur’s — word Merlin is thrown in jail. He’s compliant the entire way
to the dungeons, significantly too shocked by his own stupidity to put up much of a fight.

They say everything is clearer in hindsight.

Arthur was training just outside the Camelot castle, with a posse of other young men — knights of
Camelot Merlin now realises — surrounding him and seemingly listening to his every word.

He was dressed in red, the Pendragon’s signature colour. Albeit his outfit was dressed down, more
for comfort in training than a usual prince’s garb, but even then it was well laundered and without
a single tear. He had a servant doing his bidding — and really that should have been the thing to tip
Merlin off.

More than anything, no one spoke out against him; and everyone, none more so than Prince Arthur
himself, was surprised by Merlin doing so.

Hunith has always said that Merlin’s desperate need to do the right thing all the time was going to
get him in trouble. She would hold his bruised face in her hands after every fight turned sour and
sigh softly.

“My sweet boy, you can’t protect everyone.” She would say, stroking his fringe out of his face with
calloused hands. “One day you’re going to get into trouble, and I might not be able to help you.”
Will said something similar, although he emphasised how amazing it was that Merlin didn’t know
how to back down from a fight.

“You’re gonna get in trouble, Merlin,” he’d mutter, throwing an arm over Merlin’s shoulders. “But
at least you’re going to look cool while doing it.”

Merlin would grin and retort. “I’m going to look like a sack of potatoes dropping to the ground.”

“A cool sack of potatoes.”

Turns out both Will and his mother were correct.

Merlin looks around at the empty cell walls, scowling at the pile of straw in the corner that made a
poor substitute for a bed. It’s not his fault he was antagonised by the prince, or that the prince is
such a pompous prat.

~-~-~

Merlin jolts out of his slumber to a voice calling his name. He initially heard it the night before,
but reasoned that he was having odd dreams due to being in a new place for the first time in his
life. Today it is louder and clearer, and impossible to explain away as a dream. Someone is
speaking to him.

“Merlin.”

It is deep and rings between Merlin’s ears, like the words are being spoken directly into his mind.
The voice resonates deep in his stomach and sends a shiver that runs from the top of his spine to
the core of his belly. He stands and peers out of the barred doorway but sees no one.

“Merlin,” the voice says again. Although it’s only a disembodied voice Merlin can practically see
the finger beckoning him towards it, like whoever is speaking is calling him. He walks the border
of the four walls but the voice gets no louder and no softer, like the person speaking is right by his
side. He lowers himself to the ground, pressing his ear to the stone. It’s cool against his cheek,
prickly with straw and completely solid. The voice doesn’t speak again.

Instead, Gaius walks into the cell, interrupting Merlin from his hunt. “Merlin?”

“Gaius!” He exclaims, scrambling to his feet.

He’s appropriately chastised by the look on Gaius’ face. “I don’t know what to tell you Merlin!”
He says, crossing his arms across his chest. “The one thing you need to do, that someone like you
must do is keep your head down, and what do you do?”

Gaius pauses but Merlin knows he’s not meant to answer. “You pick a fight with the Prince,”
Gaius finishes for him.

“Yes,” Merlin replies sheepishly. He’s astonished at how this man Merlin has known for all of a
day can make him feel so much like a small child.

“You behaved like an idiot, and you could have gotten hurt.” Gaius shakes his head in
disappointment, but Merlin can hear the undertone of concern beneath.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin attempts, with a meek hopeful smile.

Gaius’ lips turn up a little in the corners. “You’re lucky is what you are. I managed to pull a few
strings to get you released.”

Merlin cheers, barely letting Gaius finish his sentence. He throws his arms in the air and grins,
doing a little jig of celebration. “Thank you, truly.”

“I pointed out that you wouldn’t have done something so foolish if you had known Arthur was the
prince.” Gaius raises a threatening eyebrow at Merlin.

Merlin nods, certain he can honour that silent request. If he never speaks to Prince Arthur again it
will be too soon.

“I won’t forget this.”

“Yes well, there is a small price to pay,” Gaius says with a poorly concealed smile, placing a hand
on Merlin’s shoulder and steering him out of the room.

~-~-~

A rotten tomato hits Merlin squarely in the jaw, sliding down his cheekbone before plopping to the
floor, leaving a trail of sticky juice in its wake. The child who threw it laughs happily at Merlin’s
grimace. He barely has time to recover before another tomato is thrown and the pulp makes itself at
home in his hair.

He makes the mistake of taking a moment to breathe and a cabbage hits into his mouth, crumbling
into pieces.

“Oh God,” he groans, spitting out chunks of rotten leaves with a hacking sound.

“Uh hello?” Someone says, Merlin turns as best he can when he’s hunched through the stocks.

The voice belongs to a beautiful girl, about Merlin’s age with brown skin and dark curly hair that
frames her face. She’s smiling apologetically down at Merlin, hands clasped politely in front of
her. Merlin knows if he was even remotely interested in women he would be simpering at the sight
of her.

“I’m Guinevere,” the girl introduces herself. “But most people call me Gwen. I’m the Lady
Morgana’s maid.”

“Oh uh,” Merlin tries to extend his hand towards her but the attempt results in him just twisting his
wrist in her general direction. She giggles and takes it.

“I’m Merlin, but most people just call me ‘idiot’,” he gestures to his general predicament.

“No! I saw what you did, it was very brave,” Gwen says, smiling kindly at him.

Merlin wrinkles his nose. “It was stupid.”

She tips her head from side to side, considering. “A little, but still brave. Are you new to
Camelot?”

“What gave it away?”

“You did try to fight the prince,” she points out. Merlin tips his head, conceding her point with a
smile.

“I could have taken him,” he insists.

Gwen sizes him up with an expression of disbelief. “Could you? You just don’t look like one of
those big, strong type of fellows.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows and Gwen seems to hear herself.

“Oh goodness I didn’t mean— well it’s just, you’re not exactly a knight are you? And Arthur’s the
strongest in the kingdom.”

Merlin grins crookedly, he likes Gwen already, she’s obviously sweet by nature, but has a witty
edge and Merlin senses he’s only just getting the first glimpse of it.

“I’m stronger than I look,” he assures her. She doesn’t look convinced but offers him another
winning smile regardless.

“Well, I’m glad you stood up to him.”

Merlin blinks at her, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yes, Arthur needs someone to tell him he’s wrong every now and then,” she says with a decisive
nod. “Everyone thinks you’re a real hero.”

A crowd of children and young teenagers interrupt them, walking over with arms laden with rotten
produce.

“Oh sorry Gwen you’ll have to excuse me,” Merlin points to the laughing kids preparing to throw
their fruit, “my fans are waiting.”

Gwen giggles again, backing away from Merlin with a small wave goodbye. The first piece of fruit
hits him in the face just as Merlin is attempting to wave back.

~-~-~

Arthur laughs at what he hopes is an appropriate time in Pellinore’s story. He’s focused on the
monotonous nature of doing rounds, eyes scanning over the familiar scene in a rote pattern. The
woman who usually sells cabbage on the corner is selling lettuce instead, which generally sums up
how exciting the morning’s activities have been.

He inclines his head towards the greater market area and the other knights follow him obediently
without question. There are a few people milling about, but the busier hours of the morning when
most people collect their produce has passed. Camelot has been relatively peaceful following the
execution of the sorcerer, so the daily rounds are more about checking on the general population
and making pleasantries than actually doing anything of substance. Arthur attempts to swallow a
yawn, and smiles half heartedly as two young men wave hello to him.

A familiar figure passes by, the peasant boy Merlin, from the day before and Arthur’s spine
straightens.

There isn’t a good reason to call out to Merlin. If later someone were to ask him why he did so, he
wouldn’t have an explanation. Maybe just that the day has been dreadfully dull and he is craving
some form of entertainment. Or maybe he’s curious, no one has ever spoken to Arthur the way
Merlin did. The man is intriguing, a puzzle to solve.

Whatever the reason he cups his hands to his mouth and calls out, “Did you enjoy the stocks?”

Merlin doesn’t respond, but Arthur notices his shoulders tense infinitesimally.
“Oh don’t run away,” he teases, intentionally lacing his voice with challenge. He remembers the
way Merlin had risen to his bait the day before and Merlin doesn’t disappoint.

“From you?” he scoffs, it’s obviously addressed to Arthur but he still doesn’t turn to face him.

A spark of anticipation lights up in Arthur’s chest.

“Thank God. I thought you were deaf as well as dumb,” he mocks. He turns to grin at the knights
around him, all chortling with glee.

Merlin straightens his shoulders like he’s preparing for battle. He turns to face Arthur, sharp
cheekbones accompanied by even sharper eyes.

“Look, I’ve already told you you’re an ass. I just didn’t realise you were a royal one.”

A breathy chuckle bursts out of Arthur. Merlin is unlike any person Arthur has ever met, and he’s
torn between wanting to hear more and wanting to flay him where he stands for his insolence.

“How did you find the dungeons?” He asks derisively.

Merlin bares his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Oh wonderful thanks. My compliments for the
interior design, really sets the mood.”

“Comfortable, I hope,” Arthur says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh yeah.” Merlin rolls his eyes. “I had the best sleep I’ve had in years.”

“I’m glad.”

Merlin smirks. “You should try it down there some time. I recommend insulting an arse if you’d
like to be thrown in. That does the trick pretty easily.”

The knights behind Arthur rouse at the insult, stepping forward so they’re at his side rather than a
few paces behind. The movement reminds Arthur he shouldn’t tolerate this type of behaviour no
matter how entertaining Merlin is.

Merlin speaks before he gets the chance to.

“Ooh,” he murmurs, raising his eyebrows slyly at Arthur. “What are you going to do? Get daddy’s
men to protect you?”

Arthur laughs sharply. “I don’t need them, I could take you apart with one blow.”

“I could take you apart with less than that,” Merlin retorts easily.

Arthur sizes Merlin up with a disbelieving glance, taking his time to look up and down Merlin’s
wiry frame. His ratty red tunic doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Despite being the same
height as Arthur he seems much smaller, his arms and legs are skinny but lean; while his muscles
are less toned and defined than Arthur’s own Merlin’s have been built up over years of general
labour.

“Are you sure?” Arthur goads, he’s a little curious to see how far Merlin will escalate this.

Once again Merlin doesn’t disappoint. He blinks at him, assessing the strength of Arthur’s muscles
as they pull against the fabric of his blue tunic, before nodding. He sheds his jacket but leaves his
horrific neckerchief tied around his neck. Arthur lets out a barking laugh, easily agreeing to
Merlin’s offer of provacation.

“Here you go, tough guy,” he says, throwing a mace at Merlin, watching in amusement as he
fumbles with it. He takes his own from Kay and swings it by his side with practised ease, enjoying
the way Merlin’s eyes go wide.

“I should warn you, I’ve been trained to kill since birth,” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow
challengingly at Merlin.

“Wow,” Merlin deadpans. “And how long have you been training to be a prat?”

Arthur falters, no one else would dare say something like that to him. “You can’t address me like
that,” he insists.

Merlin nods and looks down at the ground, compliant for the first time in their interactions.

“Sorry. How long have you been training to be a prat,” Merlin bows deeply with a flourish of his
hand and looks up at Arthur through long thick lashes, “my Lord?”

Arthur blinks, unable to stop himself from smiling. A thrill runs through him like a surging wave,
starting at his toes and ending in the tips of his fingers. Excitement. He finally identifies what is so
entertaining about Merlin, why he feels this pull to torment him, this desire to goad him into action.
For the first time in years Arthur is having fun.

He wants to fight Merlin, and he wants to win. He wants to prove that no one can insult him and
get away with it. He hasn’t felt this level of excitement for a battle since he was fifteen and his
father sent him on his first quest.

He doesn’t respond to Merlin’s taunting, instead swinging his mace towards Merlin just as he starts
to smile back. He ducks, missing the attack by inches and scurries away.

“Scared?” Arthur mocks.

Merlin shakes his head, still stumbling away from Arthur. “Just giving you a head start that’s all.”

“Ah, naturally,” Arthur quips back.

He swings the mace back and lets it fly into the wall where Merlin was standing, grinning when
Merlin yelps. A crowd of people have begun to gather around them and they all gasp as Merlin
only just evades the attack.

Merlin attempts a swing back in retaliation; it’s weak wristed and he’s holding the mace entirely
incorrectly. If this was one of Arthur’s newer knights he would bite back his laughter and teach the
young man how to hold it correctly. Merlin warrants no such kindness so he throws his head back
and laughs openly.

He gathers speed in the mace and brings it down beside Merlin, who vaults himself over a fruit cart
to avoid it, sending apples flying in every direction.

“Don’t run away now Merlin!” Arthur crows after him.

“Run away? Never,” Merlin says, even as he does just that, hopping over a shelf of crates to hide
behind it. “I’m just ensuring we have space to fight properly.”

“Right... which I assume is why you’ve backed yourself into a corner?” Arthur points to the dead
end behind Merlin, smiling when his opponent’s face drops.

Merlin trips in his panic, falling onto a sack of potatoes with a grunt. He scrabbles like a trapped
animal, eyes darting left and right for an escape. In the end Merlin’s need for escape is futile, as
much to Arthur’s embarrassment, when he swings his weapon it gets caught in the hanging beams
above, which happened to clash together. Merlin grins as if he was responsible for the unfortunate
accident and gets to his feet, he takes advantage of Arthur’s bewilderment and heaves a decent
swing at Arthur’s stomach.

Arthur grunts in pain as the mace hits him. It’s off kilter so it hits him in the arm instead of the
intended target of his gut, and there isn’t enough force to do any real harm, but it hurts all the same.
He rushes towards Merlin in fury and stumbles over a crate that he was sure hadn’t been there
before, falling to the floor and skinning along his palms.

“Are you going to give up?” Merlin teases, spinning the mace threateningly.

Arthur glares up at him in disbelief. “To you?”

He hauls himself to his feet before Merlin can so much as move, grabbing him by the scruff of his
neckerchief and punching him firmly in the gut.

Merlin drops to the ground in a heap with a gasp, knees slamming audibly into the ground. Arthur
looks down at him and echoes Merlin’s words, “Are you going to give up?”

Merlin doesn’t say anything, he’s laid himself out on the ground with the breath knocked out of
him, but despite that nods.

“Good,” he steps away from Merlin and two guards move forward to deal with him.

“Wait.” Arthur holds out a hand as the guards haul Merlin to his feet, who is still wheezing from
the force of Arthur’s punch. “Let him go.”

The guards follow his order immediately although confusion flits across their faces.

“He may be an idiot but he’s a brave one,” Arthur explains. Merlin shakes his arms with a scowl
when they let go, loosening the tension in them.

He stares Merlin down, stupid haircut, big ears and all. Despite everything Merlin still meets
Arthur’s gaze straight on, refusing to relinquish his pride and lower himself to the prince. He
makes Arthur equal parts curious and frustrated, like an itch impossible to scratch.

“There’s something about you Merlin,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “I can’t quite put my finger
on it.”

~-~-~

“How could you be so foolish?” Gaius shouts as they march into his chambers, slamming the door
closed behind him with a crash that rattles the walls. “You could have been caught!”

“I wasn’t,” Merlin rebuts, as the frustration from the fight with Arthur continues to boil in his gut.

“It isn’t worth the risk! Don’t you understand, your mother trusted you in my care, if anything
happened to you—”

“—You’re the one who wanted me to stay in Camelot!” Merlin points out, his own voice rising to
match Gaius’.

Gaius’ face goes red with anger. “Because I thought you could be sensible! If anyone had seen you
doing magic you could have been killed.”

“They didn’t! I was careful!”

“You were reckless and impulsive,” Gaius maintains, storming across the room to face Merlin.
“You have to learn to control yourself before you get hurt!”

Anger surges through Merlin’s veins, heating his body like a furnace. Frustration bunches in the
muscles of his shoulders and hardens on the walls of his stomach. He twitches with the effort to
keep his magic contained.

“Don’t you get it? I don’t want to control myself!” He slices his arms out wide, rage making his
movements wild. “You said it yourself, I’m more powerful than anyone you’ve heard of before.
Why?”

Gaius pauses, his frustration slackening until he simply looks perturbed. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, my mother doesn’t know. I don’t know why I’m like this!” He takes a heaving
breath as his heart drums a furious beat against his rib cage. “All I know is magic is a part of me,
it’s who I am.”

The words choke and catch in his throat. “I can’t separate myself from it. I am magic. What is the
point of all this power if I’m not allowed to use it?”

Silence settles over them like a fog, long and stretching until Merlin can hardly conceive an end to
it. His chest heaves with his outburst as his fury fades away into exhaustion.

Finally Gaius replies. “That I cannot answer. Your powers force us to ask a question that has never
been posed before Merlin.”

“If you don’t know the answer, no one will,” Merlin sighs as the familiar feeling of being lost
settles like a heavy weight in his throat.

“No matter what it is for, Merlin, you are a miracle.”

“But I can’t use it,” Merlin says, frustration giving way to resignation.

“What you did today was not the right way to wield it regardless,” Gaius argues gently. “Magic is
a tool to be used for good, not for idiotic pranks.” Despite being at least a head shorter than Merlin
it feels like he’s looking down at him.

“I think teaching that arse a lesson is a very ‘good’ thing.”

“He is the prince, Merlin!”

“That doesn’t mean he can behave like a prat.”

Gaius flicks the side of Merlin’s head.

“Speaking about the prince that way is treason, you’re lucky I don’t throw you back to the
dungeons,” Gaius mutters, but his words are softened by the smile toying at his lips.

Merlin offers a shaky smile in response.

“Come on,” Gaius tips his head towards Merlin’s room. “Let me have a look at your bruises and
get a poultice sorted for the pain.”

~-~-~

Merlin can’t sleep, despite resolving his argument with Gaius, the words still plague his mind. He
has always felt stranded by his magic. It is something intrinsic that he loves and appreciates about
himself but it is also a question no one can answer. To hold so much power, seemingly without
explanation, doesn’t make sense. Every time he closes his eyes, their argument plays in his mind,
probing him and jabbing him with its barbs. So he is very much awake when the voice calls out to
him again.

“Merlin.”

This time it is more than just the sound of his name but a feeling deep in Merlin’s body that
compels him to follow. The directions to the source seem to be embedded in his very veins, bones
and muscles, like Merlin was born with this knowledge hidden within him.

He quietly pulls on his boots and sneaks past Gaius snoring in the main room of the chambers. The
night air is a cool sting on his face and the darkness shrouding the castle makes everything feel
vaguely foreboding. The pull towards the voice takes him across the castle in the direction of the
dungeons. He’s careful to avoid any guards patrolling the area; there isn’t really a good explanation
for ‘I’m following a voice in my head’.

He reaches a staircase that is long and arched, paved with ageing stone and shrouded in darkness,
the light of Merlin’s torch dances on the walls in flickering patterns and sends goosebumps down
Merlin’s arms. He knows he is going in the right direction, but still Merlin hesitates for a moment.

“Merlin,” the voice calls again, as though it can sense his hesitation and knows Merlin needs to be
nudged towards it. He takes the first step, cringing as his footstep echoes through the hallway.

He reaches the end and rounds the corner into a massive cave that stretches as far as the eye can
see. The ceiling is curved and covered in dripping stalactites that hang from the rocky surface. The
cavern is so expansive that the light of Merlin’s torch doesn’t even reach the far wall. He squints
into the darkness, following the lines of granite in search of something that could have called to
him. Nothing stands out. Despite the incredible size of the space it is bleak. The most interesting
thing in the whole space is the large boulder that sits in the immediate entrance, which is larger
than Merlin’s home back in Ealdor.

“Hello?” He calls into the cavernous abyss, his voice reverberates around the room, echoing in
Merlin’s ears. “Are you there?”

A chuckle responds to his call, so low it vibrates in Merlin’s rib cage and sends a chill down his
spine. The voice isn’t warm but simultaneously isn’t guarded, and is aged with a wisdom Merlin
couldn’t comprehend.

“I am here.”

With heavy beats, a gust of wind smacks into Merlin, so powerful he’s almost pulled completely
off his feet. He grabs at the rocky wall to steady himself, torch flickering dangerously close to
going out completely. The wind stills and the cave falls quiet again but from the chaos a dragon is
now perched upon the rock, staring down at him.

Merlin stares up at the massive dragon in awe. He is a golden brown colour, scales glittering where
Merlin’s torch light falls on them. His eyes are bright yellow and seem to gaze directly into
Merlin’s very soul, like his skin and bones are just a facade and the dragon can see beyond that into
the very core of Merlin’s essence.

“Hello young warlock,” The Dragon greets him, bowing his giant scaly head. “How small you are,
for someone with such a great destiny.”

The Dragon speaks like he understands more than Merlin can ever possibly know, his words
underpinned with the knowledge of hundreds of lifetimes passed and to come.

“What do you mean?” Merlin asks, his own voice feeling small by comparison.

The Dragon smiles, sharp teeth glinting. “I speak of the answer you have been seeking, the reason
for your great power.”

Merlin’s eyes go wide. “So there is a reason?”

“Of course. Your destiny.”

Something blooms in Merlin’s chest, bright and hopeful, he feels dizzy with the revelation.

“What is my destiny? I don’t understand.”

“You will,” The Dragon says simply.

Merlin struggles not to leap with joy. He knew he was destined for something, that there was a
purpose to his power. To have that confirmed, by a creature with such great power and wisdom, is
a dream come true.

“Arthur is the Once and Future King whose destiny is to unite the Land of Albion. In his path he
faces many threats, from friend and foe alike”

Merlin hesitates, the change in topic leaving him feeling off kilter and unsure. “Right…” he says,
confused. The Dragon says nothing so Merlin continues, “I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you,” The Dragon snaps.

“You are what guides the path to making Albion a reality. You must protect Arthur against those
determined to bring him harm.” The Dragon stares at Merlin, his sharp gaze sitting like a weight
on Merlin’s shoulders. “For without you Arthur can never succeed. Without you there can be no
Albion.”

Merlin gapes at The Dragon. “You can’t be serious.”

The Dragon stares at him amused. “I know more than you can ever fathom, young warlock.”

“No. No way, no.” Merlin shakes his head roughly, trying to shake off The Dragon’s words. “If
anyone wants to kill him they can go right ahead, in fact, I’ll give them a hand.”

The Dragon laughs, a booming sound that rings against Merlin’s eardrums.

“None of us can choose our destiny, Merlin,” he says, mouth stretched in an entertained grin. “And
none of us can escape it.”

“No, you’re wrong.” Merlin steps backwards. “No, there must be another Arthur because this
one’s an idiot.”
The Dragon chuckles again. “Perhaps it is your destiny to change that.”

With those final words he unfurls his wings and takes off before Merlin can open his mouth to
speak. Merlin is pushed backwards by the force of the wind from his wings.

“Wait, stop!” Merlin calls after him. The chain around The Dragon’s leg rattles as he takes off
towards the roof of the cave. “Please stop! I need to know more!”

If The Dragon hears him he doesn’t acknowledge it, flying out of sight and leaving Merlin with the
answer he has always craved, and now wishes he didn’t have.

~-~-~

Merlin stares at Arthur across the banquet hall talking with some of the knights, trying to
understand how he could possibly be the Once and Future King. He cannot reconcile such a
destiny, to be the King who will unite the lands of Albion, with the idiot Merlin has just met. Even
if Arthur were to assume this fate, their interactions alone are enough to prove that Merlin will not
be at his side while he does it. No matter what The Dragon says, or how all knowing he claims to
be, Merlin is sure that he’s mistaken in what he believes to be Merlin and Arthur’s destiny.

Merlin can tell one of the other knights has drawn attention to Merlin’s entrance because Arthur
hunches himself over and pretends to cry in fear. The whole group laughs like he’s told some
clever joke.

Destiny can go fuck itself.

He turns his attention to the rest of the party instead. The Lady Morgana is as beautiful as everyone
has assured him. He hadn’t gotten the chance to see her before, despite delivering a healing potion
to her the day before. She has thick black hair bound in a spiralling braid at the back of her head,
and a proud smile that says she’s aware of the way eyes follow her across the room.

“Merlin,” Gaius hisses, smacking his shoulder, mistakenly assuming that Merlin was gawking at
Morgana’s beauty when he was truly just in awe of her confidence. “You are here to work,” he
reminds him.

Merlin doesn’t quite understand how he ended up serving the banquet when he isn’t an employee
of the castle, even Gaius isn’t a traditional servant, but he moves from table to table nonetheless,
pouring wine and serving food. He’s partially grateful for the opportunity, as he scans the room in
wonder at the opulence before him.

A blasting trumpet announces the entrance of the King Uther, and signals to everyone attending
that they are to take their places at the long tables. Merlin moves to the side with the other servants
as Uther marches down the centre of the two long tables laden with food and glowing candles.
Heads bow in respect as he strides past with a confident tilt to his royal chin, as though attention is
a comfortable cloak he shrugs over his shoulders.

When Uther reaches the front of the hall he turns to face the audience with a smile.

“We have enjoyed twenty years of peace and prosperity,” he says, gesturing widely as though to
encompass the amount of peace. Merlin thinks of the sorcerer he saw executed, and has to bite his
cheek to keep himself from showing any disbelief on his face.

“This has brought the kingdom, and myself, many pleasures,” Uther continues. “But few can
compare to the honour of introducing…” he pauses for dramatic effect and Merlin puts a lot of
effort into not rolling his eyes. “Lady Helen of Mora.”
Lady Helen enters the room with a pleasant smile, turning both her hands to the audience and
bowing once to the king before beginning her song.

Her voice is clear as crystal, a lilting melody that is as tender and smooth as a caress. She keeps her
head high as she sings, letting the notes perform for her. Despite her beautiful singing Merlin feels
an uncomfortable itch between the connections of his joints. A hissing noise pushes at his mind,
like he’s sensing something he can’t see. The only time he’s felt anything similar was when The
Dragon called Merlin to his cave, like magic was pulling him in a specific direction. Only now it
pushes with force.

He claps his hands over his ears just as the rest of the hall begin to droop, slumping against the
table and their neighbours in slumber. The room darkens as the candles extinguish, like she is
pulling the life and energy from everything in the room with her words. Cobwebs begin creeping
along every member of the feast, stringing from one person to another. A layer of dust collects
over the room, in the span of a single song she has made it appear like the kingdom has been asleep
for centuries.

The allure of Lady Helen’s voice remains but it is bone chilling, building in a crescendo. There is
an ache to her words, a sadness flowing from the vowels and a fury hidden in the way she vocalises
the consonants. Merlin shivers, shifting from foot to foot in a desperate attempt to stave off the
inhumane cold she brings.

She hasn’t yet noticed he is still awake because she is wholly focused on one point in the room —
Arthur.

She pulls a dagger from her sleeve, never once turning away from the sleeping prince. The blade
glints despite the lack of light, sharp and deadly. Merlin feels a swell of panic crash over him. He
glances around the room desperately, eyes falling quickly on the chandelier above Lady Helen’s
head. Her voice is so high she is practically screaming.

With a flash of gold Merlin’s magic slices through the air, severing the chandelier’s chain, sending
it crashing to the ground on top of the Lady Helen just as she reels her arm back to launch the
dagger at Arthur.

The second her body hits the ground the room begins to rouse. The guests are all waking with
confused expressions, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and pulling at the thick layer of cobwebs
stretched over them. Uther is faster to react than anyone, jumping to his feet and staring at the Lady
Helen.

Only she isn't Lady Helen any longer. She pushes herself up slowly, struggling against the weight
of the enormous chandelier. Her arms shake with the effort and Merlin reels back. It’s the woman
from the execution, the mother, he recognises her immediately. She isn’t crying today, but the fury,
the burning hatred in her eyes, is the same.

“A son for a son”

Merlin remembers her words vividly now, she doesn’t care what happens to her, she only has one
goal. With a scream of rage she throws the dagger.

Merlin doesn’t have time to think about it, he doesn’t even consider otherwise. He jumps towards
Arthur, stood frozen in place, and grabbing him by the arm pulls him down. There is a thunk above
their heads as the dagger collides with the throne Arthur was standing in front of.

Arthur scrambles to sit up, from his profile Merlin can see the fear in his eyes as he looks at the
sharp blade embedded in the exact place his heart would have been.

“You saved my son’s life,” Uther says in wonder as they both get to their feet. Arthur turns to look
at him for the first time and his face drops in shocked recognition. They stare at each other for a
moment that seems to stretch. Arthur’s eyebrows are furrowed in confusion as though he can’t
understand why Merlin would save him, and Merlin is trying to discern the same thing within
himself.

“A debt must be repaid. You shall be rewarded”

Merlin snaps out of his stupor. “No honestly, you don’t have to, Your Highness. It was nothing.”

“I won’t hear of it,” Uther insists. “This merits something quite special. You shall be awarded a
position in the royal household.” Arthur’s head snaps from Merlin to look at his father in disbelief.
From the deep knit of his brow and the incredulous twist of his mouth, it’s obvious that Arthur
understands something that Merlin is oblivious to.

“You shall be Prince Arthur’s manservant,” Uther declares with a tone that suggests it is a reward
Merlin should be eager to receive.

He sees his own horror reflected in Arthur’s face as he protests.

“Father!”

Uther either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t deem his son’s grievance worthy enough to acknowledge,
walking towards the applauding crowd with a benevolent grin. Merlin glances at Arthur, meeting
his glare head on with a grimace.

~-~-~

Merlin presses his face into the table and lets out a long inhumane noise, broken up by a litany of
curses and a scream which he tempers with clenched teeth.

“A reward?” He mutters incredulously to himself, lifting his forehead up only to thump it back into
the table again. “In what universe is serving that prat a reward?”

“Most would consider being a part of the royal household an honour,” Gaius answers from the
doorway.

“Gaius!” Merlin shouts, sitting up straight and plastering a smile onto his face.

Gaius chuckles, walking properly into Merlin’s room and taking the seat across from him on the
small cramped desk. In his hands is a red parcel, about the size of a large dinner platter but thick
and weighted as it thumps onto the table.

“It seems that you’re a hero,” he says, raising his eyebrows at Merlin.

Merlin hums. “Seems like it. Hard to believe isn’t it?”

“Not at all.” Gaius reaches over and pats Merlin’s hand fondly. “I knew it from the moment I met
you, you saved my life, remember?”

He shrugs sheepishly. “That’s not being a hero, anyone would do that.”

Gaius concedes the point with a nod. “But not just anyone can.”
Merlin furrows his brow in confusion, taking in Gaius’ words slowly.

“You mean my magic?”

Gaius nods. “It seems we finally have a use for it, an answer to the why. I saw how you saved
Arthur.”

“That wasn’t magic,” Merlin attempts to argue.

“No, but I assume the Lady Helen was not crushed by a chandelier by chance.” Gaius smiles
knowingly, raising his bushy eyebrows in question at Merlin.

“Well, no…”

Gaius makes a knowing noise. “Perhaps that is its purpose.”

Merlin thinks of The Dragon’s words, what he had tried so hard to reject.

None of us can choose our destiny Merlin, and none of us can escape it.

“My destiny,” he says a little glumly.

“Indeed.”

Seeming to remember the wrapped gift on the table, Gaius slides it towards Merlin.

“This book was given to me when I was your age, a very long time ago now.” He pats the top
fondly before releasing it to Merlin. “I have a feeling it will be of more use to you than it ever was
to me.”

Merlin unwraps the red cover slowly. The book is a deep brown, scratched with use and the
embossing along the edges has almost completely worn away. It is fastened by clips that might
have once been a brilliant bronze, but are now damaged and old. He unfastens the clasps carefully,
rifling through the old and yellowing pages.

“This is a book of magic,” he whispers, eyes glancing over the words with eager fascination.

“It is,” Gaius says quietly. “Which is why you must keep it hidden.”

“I will,” Merlin promises, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

It’s the most information about magic that Merlin has ever seen, or heard, in his entire lifetime. He
touches the pages almost reverently, as though he can soak the magic through the ink. Between the
actual fastened pages of the book there are spare pieces of parchment, spells, potions, lists of
ingredients and their properties and how those can be enchanted to create magical poultices.

“I’ll study every word.” “I know you will,” Gaius says.

Merlin looks up at Gaius. “Thank you,” he says, voice cracking around the words.

The old man smiles back at him, leaning forward to lay a reassuring hand on Merlin’s arm.
“You’re very welcome.”
~-~-~

thank you to the incredible Buffy for the amazing art she did for the chapter !!!! i am so honoured

Check him out on tiktok at APBuffy !!!!!!!

 The Mark of Nimueh
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“But Father,” Arthur tries to argue, desperate to resolve the situation. He hurries alongside the
King, practically jogging just to keep pace with him.

“I won’t hear another word of it,” Uther shuts him down immediately. “If you didn’t want this,
‘Merlin’, for your manservant you should have chosen one for yourself sooner.”

Arthur scowls. He’s all too aware that his own indecisiveness regarding the appointment of a
permanent manservant has put him in this position; but that does nothing to help his mounting
frustration. Throughout the course of his life he has been attended to by a selection of servants and
he’s never taken issue with it before, why should he need to have one person around him all the
time? Worse still if that person is to be Merlin.

“But Merlin, really?”

Uther frowns. The guards open the doors to the king’s chambers as they approach. “Has the boy
done something wrong? If he poses a threat to you I can remove him from the position.”

Arthur scrambles for a cover story. “No! It’s completely fine, Merlin has— he’s done nothing
wrong.”

To admit to his father why he is hesitant to employ Merlin as his manservant means revealing what
Merlin had said about Arthur, their resulting squabble and Arthur’s decision to let him go. The
resulting lecture would do nothing to improve the already exhausting night.

Uther takes a seat at his desk, eyes scanning over documents even as he continues to speak to
Arthur. “After all Arthur he saved your life,” he says with an air of finality. “He deserves to be
rewarded.”

Arthur bites back his retort that he has no idea why Merlin saved his life when Arthur practically
tried to kill him the day before.

He grapples for any excuse. “Merlin isn’t even trained.”

“So he’ll be trained,” Uther replies dismissively, waving his hand to shoo away Arthur’s worries
like a bothersome fly.

Arthur opens his mouth and closes it again when he realises he has no further substantial
arguments to present.

Uther looks up at Arthur for a moment. “Is there anything else, Arthur?”

He poses it as a question but his tone is a dismissal, a kinder way of saying ‘I was patient with you
but now my patience has reached its end, I suggest you leave the room immediately’.

Arthur resigns himself to the fact that he is going to have to put up with Merlin on a constant basis,
and that his frustrating presence will be a new staple in Arthur’s life. He takes a deep breath and
forces a smile, his political smile, bright and full. Only someone who knew him incredibly well
would be able to tell it isn’t a true smile. So no one can tell.
“No Sire, that’s all,” Arthur concedes, bowing his head.

“Very well,” Uther replies, already returning to the documents in front of him.

“Goodnight Father.” Arthur leaves the room immediately after, not expecting a response and not
receiving one.

~-~-~

Arthur lies awake, having slept fitfully through the night in nervous preparation for Merlin’s first
day of work.

Arthur doesn’t actually know whether he wants Merlin to improve his behaviour. The thing about
Merlin is that he is entertaining because he’s like no one Arthur has met before. He’s rude and
sarcastic, he says what’s on his mind, and he doesn’t care about Arthur’s position. His strange
rudeness makes Arthur enthralled by him, however simultaneously those very traits make him
froth at the mouth with anger. To be surrounded by that all day, disrespected and brazen with
insults, sounds like absolute torture.

Arthur doesn’t know which would be worse; Merlin turning up only to act as the model servant, or
for him to continue to be discourteous.

He is drawn out of his confusion by Merlin stumbling into the room, five minutes late and
struggling with the weight of the breakfast platter.

“You’re late,” Arthur complains, wrinkling his nose in distaste as Merlin drops the platter onto the
long table with a clatter.

“I came as fast as I could,” Merlin argues as he doubles over, taking the chance to breathe.

“Don’t argue, just do better.” Arthur sits up and meets Merlin’s unimpressed gaze.

“Well apologies, your royal prat-ness, not that you would know, or care, but the kitchens are not
within convenient walking distance of your chambers,” Merlin snipes, throwing the curtains open
so the sun floods the room.

Arthur groans and covers his eyes against the sudden bright onslaught. “You aren’t allowed to say
things like that to me,” he attempts.

“Sorry Sire,” Merlin replies without a pause, moving over to the bed and tugging the covers off
Arthur, exposing him to the icy morning air. Somehow he manages to make the title sound like an
insult, like ‘Sire’ is just another word for ‘chamberpot’.

“Are you able to dress yourself, or is that a part of my duties too?” Merlin asks.

Arthur uncovers his face to stare at him disbelievingly. “Do you actually know anything about
being a servant?”

“Not really, your father just gave me the position.”

“I wish he hadn’t,” Arthur mutters, swinging his feet over the end of the bed and getting up.

“That makes two of us.”

Arthur watches in fascination as Merlin bustles around the room. Despite knowing nothing about
his role he seems to understand the vague processes involved with getting Arthur ready for the day.
He ties back the curtains so the window is cleared, moves the plates and cutlery into a seating
place for Arthur and pulls back the chair.

“Yes, you have to help me get dressed,” Arthur says, remembering Merlin’s question.

Merlin nods with a wry smile and moves to Arthur’s closet, retrieving a red tunic and a pair of
trousers. “You know,” he muses as he approaches, “most small children know how to dress
themselves.”

Arthur tightens his jaw and takes a steeling breath. “I could throw you in the stocks for your
insolence.”

“But then how would you put on your trousers?”

Arthur glares heatedly at Merlin, hoping to make him cower with nerves before the prince.

Merlin doesn’t even flinch, instead he smiles cheekily and opens the trouser leg for Arthur to step
into. The interaction has done nothing to answer Arthur’s question. He still has to tamp down the
urge to make Merlin pay for daring to speak to him in such a rude manner; and he’s equally
fascinated by the conversation, how different Merlin is, how much fun it is to bounce insults
between them.

“You will help me with my training for the tournament tomorrow,” Arthur says, stiffly. He
imagines battering Merlin with his training sword and smiles. This is the perfect solution for
releasing his frustrations towards his idiot of a manservant.

Merlin looks cautious for the first time all morning. “Right… What exactly does that entail?”

“Sparring,” Arthur answers bluntly.

Merlin pales.

~-~-~

It takes Arthur three days to finally verbalise the question that's been sitting in the back of his mind
like a looming presence. He is sitting on the edge of his bed, undressed and ready to sleep but his
mind is whirring. Merlin is across the room, stoking the fire in preparation to warm Arthur’s room
for the night.

“Merlin?” Arthur calls Merlin’s attention. His voice comes out meek and small, he clears his throat
and tries again. “Merlin, come here I have a question.”

Merlin looks up from his task with a curious glance. “Okay,” he says, stretching out the word to
emphasise how perturbed he is by Arthur’s behaviour.

“When we met,” Arthur starts when Merlin stops in front of him, faltering as he realises he has no
idea how to say this.

Merlin raises his eyebrows impatiently, his hands are clasped in front of him in a loose semblance
of the position servants are meant to take when speaking to Arthur. Everything Merlin does is just
shy of correct and respectful, the hands are meant to be behind his back, and his feet lined straight;
but it’s close enough.

Arthur tries again. “When we met, you stopped me from berating the servant boy.”
Merlin blinks a few times, like he’s waiting for Arthur to say more. “Yes?”

Arthur shifts awkwardly on the bed, toying with the corner of the sheet. “I don’t understand why.”

He chances a look up at Merlin, meeting his confused expression with the most welcoming face he
can muster. Merlin’s brows are furrowed in thought, his mouth twisted and pursed in a way that
seems like he’s holding back a laugh, or thinking very hard about how to respond respectfully —
so it’s significantly more likely to be the former.

“You don’t understand why?” He confirms and Arthur nods sharply.

“Explain,” Arthur commands.

Merlin out a single bark of disbelieving laughter. “You were being an arse.”

“You really can’t call me that,” Arthur tries to argue,

“There’s no other word for it,” Merlin replies, barely even hearing Arthur’s protest. Arthur clamps
his mouth shut, tamping down the flash of irritation that runs through him.

Merlin sighs, tugging on a loose string on his tunic and Arthur watches the movement of his
fingers with interest. “You can’t just treat people like what they want doesn’t matter.”

He looks up to meet Merlin’s blue eyes, confused. “My father told me that everyone wants to serve
me, that it makes them happy.”

“And you believe that?”

Arthur hesitates and considers. Slowly he nods, his head heavy and almost clumsy in his shy
hesitance. “I’ve never had any reason not to. No one has ever told me otherwise.”

“Just because everyone is too scared to speak out, doesn’t mean they agree with you,” Merlin
explains, staring at Arthur to ensure he understands.

Teeth clenched and feeling like a stranger in his own skin Arthur lets the words settle into him.
They’re sharp, pricking his skin like pins that sit uncomfortably within him, sharp points that force
him to acknowledge his failings. He wants to do the right thing by the people of Camelot, and he
had always thought he was. The realisation that he was wrong is like a rash, irritating his skin and
leaving him feeling ill at ease. He needs time to process without Merlin there watching him with a
bemused expression.

“Alright. You’re dismissed.” Arthur waves Merlin away.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “You’re welcome,” he drawls, making his way to Arthur’s door.

“You called me an arse,” Arthur reminds him.

~-~-~

His first few days of working for Arthur were horrible. There’s no doubt about it.

Arthur had him spar with him until his arms were like lead, so heavy that by the end of the day he
could barely move them. The next day he was delegated a list of chores so long it would have
taken him well into the evening and the next day if he didn’t have magic to help. He forgot half of
the steps to get Arthur into his armour for the tournament which earned him a disappointed glare
— and isn’t that the kicker? Despite it all, Merlin is more upset that Arthur doesn’t seem to like
him any more than before, despite their close proximity to each other.

However on the third day, after their conversation in Arthur’s room that evening, there’s a shift.
Merlin starts to see something in Arthur that he hadn’t before. He sees it in the way Arthur smiles
and how he quickly disguises it with a cough when Merlin tells a joke. How he blinks in surprise
when Merlin straps him into his armour successfully and his hesitant compliments before
remembering himself and covering it with an insult.

“Is it my imagination, or are you starting to enjoy yourself?” Gaius asks, catching Merlin smiling
as he watches Arthur run onto the field for the tournament.

“What?” Merlin scoffs, crossing his arms across his chest like a barrier. “Enjoying myself— what
are you even—” he cuts himself off with a sigh on seeing the disbelieving quirk of Gaius’ brow.

Gaius smiles knowingly.

“It’s not… totally awful,” Merlin admits reluctantly.

It’s just as much of a shock to Merlin as it is to Gaius how true that is. Arthur is still an arse, and
that seems unlikely to change, but he doesn’t mind Merlin’s lack of formality too much, and is
quick and sharp with barbs of his own. They get along well and that edge of dislike has dropped
away into tolerance. Merlin might even go as far to say that they almost enjoy each other’s
company.

Which is why it hurts so much when Arthur sacks him.

Arthur’s back is to the door when Merlin walks in, his shoulders hunched up to his ears, like he’s
trying to retreat inside his body. He’s braced on his desk, hands splayed out to steady himself and
even from across the room Merlin can see the harsh way he’s breathing. Merlin doesn’t dare speak.

Arthur has been competing in a tournament for the last few days, a gross sweaty affair that Merlin
truly cannot see the point of. One knight from a visiting kingdom, Valiant, made it no secret that he
planned to beat Arthur. He didn’t stand a chance, Arthur might have many faults but his fighting
ability is not one of them. Merlin was the one who discovered that the Knight Valiant was using
sorcery in the tournament, and he had gone to Arthur for help.

Gaius had warned Merlin that without proper evidence the word of a servant was not enough to get
Valiant convicted. Though Merlin had seen his shield come to life with his own eyes — snakes
lifting themselves from the metal with venomous teeth bared — his word was worth nothing
against the gentry. For Arthur to stand before the King anyway, on Merlin’s word alone was a
show of complete faith. Yet Valiant twisted Arthur’s words to make it appear like he was making
false accusations to avoid facing him in the tournament.

Now Merlin feels like he’s standing on the edge of a dark cliffside, with no idea what will meet
him when he falls.

“I believed you, I… I trusted you,” Arthur says eventually, voice terrifyingly even. “You made me
look like a complete fool.”

“Arthur—” Merlin tries to apologise but Arthur ploughs on, cold with anger.

“Do you understand how much appearances matter to someone like me? You made me look like a
coward in front of my father and the entire royal court.”

Arthur steps forward, crowding into Merlin’s space, his face red with livid fury. Anger radiates off
him in waves, shaking with the force of keeping it somewhat contained.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“—You humiliated me!” Arthur shouts, arm slicing through the air by his side. Merlin’s knees
tremble, he curls in on himself slightly away from Arthur, he’s never seen anyone so furious.

“We can still expose Valiant, then they’ll see you were telling the truth,” he says, grateful that his
voice doesn’t shake.

The rage in Arthur’s eyes dim, like the fight is completely drained out of him. He goes lax,
shoulders dropping low and heavy, slumped under the pressure piled upon him.

“No Merlin,” he grits through his teeth, turning his back on Merlin and staring out the window.
Even from behind Merlin can see the way he squeezes his eyes shut.

“I no longer require your services.”

Merlin’s stomach plummets to the floor. “You’re sacking me?”

“I need a servant I can trust,” Arthur replies, his chin jutting out stubbornly.

“You can trust me.”

“Look where it got me.” Arthur’s hard and unyielding eyes glance over the Merlin. He is
impossible to read, Merlin can see in their deep blue the stone wall that Arthur has built and
barracked at the entrances. Impenetrable.

“Get out of my sight,” he says quietly.

“Arthur—”

“— Get out.”

Merlin storms straight for The Dragon’s cavern, his own anger rendering him breathless. With
every pounding step he sees Arthur’s eyes in his mind, the fury, the distrust and worse still, the
aching pain and humiliation.

“Hey!” Merlin yells into the cavernous space, his shout reverberating off the walls. “I just came to
let you know you have the wrong person! Whatever grand destiny you think I’m meant to fulfil,
whatever my great purpose is, you’re wrong.”

The cave doesn’t answer, The Dragon nowhere to be seen. Merlin pants heavily, chest heaving, his
irritation bubbles in his throat.

“You’re wrong! It’s not me,” Merlin says, he slumps against the wall, the determination in his
blood fizzles out. The cave remains silent and unhelpful. “So that’s it! I’m done.” He turns to walk
away.

“If only it were so easy to escape one’s destiny,” The Dragon’s voice stops him. The chain around
his ankle rattles as The Dragon flaps over to the rock opposite Merlin and perches there with an all-
knowing smile.

“Destiny,” Merlin scoffs, kicking at a rock with the toe of his shoe. Arthur’s face flashes across his
mind, the burning hatred in his blue eyes. “How can it be my destiny to protect someone who hates
me?”
The Dragon chuckles. “The half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole,” he answers
cryptically.

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Merlin says. “I don’t need riddles, I need answers.”

“Sometimes the answer you need is not the answer you seek.”

“Do you ever give a straight answer?”

With a smile The Dragon ignores Merlin’s question, instead saying, “Your path and Arthur’s lie
together, that is not a riddle. That is the truth.”

“How am I meant to protect him when he won’t even look at me?”

“All will come with time. This is not the end, young warlock, it is the beginning. You will see.”

The Dragon flies away before Merlin has the chance to reply, leaving him with more questions
than answers, and a heaving ache sitting in his lungs.

~-~-~

Merlin can’t stop turning over The Dragon’s words in his mind. His supposed destiny is to protect
Arthur, but he tried to do that and failed. Now Arthur hates him, and he’s more lost than he was
before. He wanders around the castle for almost an entire hour, trying to work out what to do.

He can’t leave Arthur to die in the tournament, but Arthur doesn’t want his help. His magic is
useless if he doesn’t have a way to channel it, and he doesn’t have a plan. Nothing about this
situation is simple and it makes Merlin want to put his head in his hands and cry.

Gwen catches his arm when he finally makes the choice to return to Gaius’ chambers, feeling like
all of his limbs are dragging him down towards the ground. He wants to tear his hair out with
desperation, or sink into the floor and succumb to exhaustion.

“Merlin,” she says, fingers wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet. “Is it true what you said about
Valiant using magic?”

Her dark eyes are round as saucers and terrified. Like every young person who grew up in Camelot
she would have been taught from infancy to fear sorcery as a dark force of evil.

Merlin nods jerkily, unsure what else to do. He looks away, preparing for Gwen to scorn at him, to
not believe his outlandish claim. Instead her mouth parts in shock and she lets out a shaky exhale.

“What are you going to do?” She asks, and it’s the last response he’d expect. His head snaps back
to her, eyebrows raised.

“Me?” He confirms, meeting her worried expression with confusion. “Why does everyone seem to
think it’s down to me to do something?”

Gwen pauses, considering, and answers frankly. “Because it is. Uther certainly won’t.

He doesn’t even believe you.” She looks out the window, in the vague directions of Arthur’s
chambers. “And Arthur can’t, no matter how much he does believe you.”

Merlin chuckles humorlessly. “He doesn’t believe me.”

“Yes he does,” Gwen snaps. Merlin blinks in surprise and she gathers herself. “Just because he
can’t do anything about it doesn’t mean he doesn’t believe you. I was…” she trails off.

Merlin waits for her to continue.

“I’ll admit, I was a bit worried when the King gave you the position of Arthur’s servant, you two
seemed to hate each other.” Merlin tips his head in agreement, unable to help the small smile that
creeps onto his face. “But that’s changed already, I can tell you don’t want him to get hurt. He
needs that. Someone like you to watch his back.”

“He’s the prince, no one wants him to get hurt,” Merlin points out.

Gwen nods. “But no one cares enough to stop it from happening.”

The words make something deep in Merlin ache.

He thinks of Arthur, nervous and oblivious to the fact that not everyone is happy to do his bidding;
learning for the first time that just because his father says something is right, doesn’t mean it is.
How he disguises his emotions with a hand over his smile, a cough over his laughter, a diplomatic
expression over his sadness. Realisation washes over Merlin. It’s not by choice, Arthur has never
been allowed to be himself. It’s not as simple as not wanting to appear cowardly, he cannot be
afraid.

They’re not close, Arthur isn’t his friend, but Merlin doesn’t want anything to happen to him. Even
if that means putting himself in a position to get hurt. Uther wouldn't do the same, he won’t trust
his son’s word alone, or stick his neck out for him.

Gaius had warned Merlin that no one would listen to him. The word of a servant against a knight is
worth nothing, but Arthur had listened. Merlin needs to do the same.

“I don’t know what to do, Gwen.”

“You have to show everyone that you were right and they were wrong.”

Gwen looks Merlin deep in the eyes, her face shining with a deep trust and faith, like she’s never
doubted him. Her confidence is infectious.

Merlin pulls a face. “And how do I do that?”

There’s a short silence, Gwen’s lips parted like she’s about to speak but doesn’t know what to say.
“I don’t know,” she finally answers.

Merlin nods slowly. “Me neither.”

He stares around the entrance to the citadel where they’ve stopped. It’s a large courtyard, with the
centre taken up by a looming staircase leading towards the castle’s entrance and pillars lining the
borders. There are small statues of various animals decorating the space, dragons, lions, owls and
dogs. Merlin’s eyes fixate on them, a scheme forms slowly in his brain. The pieces of an idea start
as whisps, barely fathomable, and slowly form into something more tangible that weaves itself
together into a clear plan.

If he can make the snakes emerge, force them off the shield and into public view, everyone will
see that he was telling the truth and Valiant will be disqualified. More importantly, Arthur will be
cleared of any humiliation or dishonour.

Gwen is kind enough not to question his sudden desire to steal the dog statue from the courtyard.
She even goes so far as to help him by fetching a wheelbarrow and carting it with him to Gaius’
chambers.

Merlin flicks through the pages of the book hurriedly, skimming past instructions for curing
magical poisons, the intricacies of ageing spells, and various recipes for enchanted poultices that
help with sleep. His eyes skip wildly over the pages, desperately searching for the right
enchantment.

Eventually he finds it. A spell to temporarily force artificial life into objects.

He looks at the dog statue and carefully says the incantation. Nothing happens. It remains lifeless
and no different to when he and Gwen lugged it across the castle. He tries again, reaching for his
magic and struggling to grasp it.

Merlin puts more emphasis on the start of the incantation, the end, the middle, every second
syllable. He tries it standing, sitting, upside down. The dog statue remains a statue, staring
judgmentally back at him, an immalleable stone.

He grasps fruitlessly for the usual swell of his magic within him, its familiar pull, the energy
coiled deep in his soul. He pulls it forward, but it veers uncontrollably, writhing in his grasp and
resisting his attempts to channel it. Attempting to control it feels like attempting to reign a wild
horse, spiralling out of his grasp with every attempted incantation.

Merlin doesn’t sleep, he repeats the incantation all night, his head lolling forward as tiredness
seeps into his bones. The morning sun rises through his window and still he continues. He can hear
the sounds of the people heading for the field to watch the finale of the tournament. Arthur will be
there already. Soon the snakes will emerge from Valiant’s shield where no one can see them and
kill him, and Merlin can’t do anything about it.

A surge of desperation claws up his throat, bringing his magic with it. He lets his mind seize hold,
channelling his desperation to succeed into emotion and letting that power his words. He can feel
the difference, the clear path for his magic to follow from his body to the statue. When he opens
his eyes a dog is sitting before him.

“I did it!” He cheers, ducking away from the angry dog. He runs to the tournament, ducking and
weaving through the halls and narrowly dodging other servants in his path. Excitement pounds an
exhilarating rhythm through him, a thrum of energy that surges up his legs with every step he
takes. The arena is just to the left of the castle, the sun burns high above him and he relishes in the
warm feeling of it as he skids to a stop by the entrance.

Arthur’s sword clashes with Valiant’s. Valiant is fast, and talented, but he’s not quick enough.
Without sorcery he doesn’t stand a chance of defeating Arthur and he knows it.

Merlin is glad Arthur is smart enough to avoid Valiant’s shield almost more so than his sword. He
jams Valiant in the shoulder with the hilt of his own sword, using the time it takes Valiant to
stumble backwards to dodge around him. Valiant slashes forward twice. Arthur’s sword is lost in
Valiant’s attack but he doesn’t lose the upper hand, using Valiant’s shield as a lever and crashing it
into the Knight’s nose. There’s an opening for Merlin to force the reveal.

He knows the sensation to draw on, he feels his magic tug deep in his gut, seizes it and wraps it
around the incantation. He whispers the words, careful no one around is looking his way.

The snakes materialise from the shield with an ominous hiss, baring their sharp fangs at Arthur.
Both Valiant and Arthur are equally surprised by the snakes’ appearance. Merlin grins at the
horrified look on Valiant’s face, taking a moment to enjoy it before glancing towards Uther. He is
stone faced with fury, teeth bared and eyes burning with disgust.

“How dare you!” Uther roars, Arthur glances over to him and Valiant chuckles darkly, taking
advantage of the distraction.

“Kill him!” Valiant commands, pointing at Arthur and urging the snakes forward. They advance on
Arthur with malicious snaps of their jaws, hissing so loudly Merlin can hear it from across the
arena.

Morgana tugs a free sword from the sheath of the knight by her side, and tosses it towards Arthur
with a shout of his name.

Arthur lunges forward, attacking first Valiant with rigour until he stumbles back. The clanging and
sharp sounds of swords clashing fills the air. He turns, spinning on his heel and beheads the snakes
in a single fell swoop. Without breaking stride Arthur turns back to Valiant. Their swords clash
first, ringing out, Arthur steps around Valiant’s clumsy swing.

Merlin watches enthralled as Arthur knocks Valiant’s sword from his hand. He steps between his
shield and unprotected chest and plunges his sword into Valiant’s chest. He twists and Valiant’s
eyes go glassy and still. Merlin can’t find it in himself to feel sorry for the man, even as he drops to
the ground. Not after he tried to kill Arthur.

The crowd erupts in a cheer, launching to their feet with raucous applause.

~-~-~

There’s something thrilling about defeating a sorcerer in front of an entire audience. The victory is
sweet; Arthur savours the proud glint in his father’s eyes and the awed whispers that follow him as
he makes his way through the feast that has been thrown in his honour.

His success feels even more satisfying with the knowledge that defeating Valiant serves as
indisputable indisputable proof that he had been telling the truth in court; his name has been
cleared of the humiliation that was following him like a foul stench.

Arthur’s eyes glance over to Merlin, standing stiff as a board on the side of the banquet hall. Guilt
twists uncomfortably in his stomach, much as he’s loath to admit it, his outburst of anger was
entirely uncalled for, and now that the dust has settled, Arthur is forced to see that he was the one
in the wrong.

Now it’s up to him to make things right again. He makes his way across the hall to Merlin, picking
his way through the crowd. A few nobles stop him to congratulate him on the win and he smiles,
accepting them graciously.

Merlin looks up at him in surprise with eyes wide like an owl as Arthur approaches. Arthur just
wants them to settle back into the routine they’ve developed over the last couple of days.

“Can you believe Morgana? She says she saved me,” Arthur attempts to launch immediately into
their usual quips but much to Arthur’s disappointment, Merlin doesn’t reciprocate. Instead he nods,
smiling half heartedly, staring at the ground like he’s afraid to meet Arthur’s eyes.

It’s clear that ignoring what happened between them is not going to produce any results. Arthur has
never had to apologise to anyone except for his father and Morgana, he doesn’t know how best to
approach the challenge. He chews on the side of his mouth.
“Look, I wanted to say,” he says, changing tact. He leans closer, turning properly towards Merlin
so they’re facing each other. Merlin looks up from the floor, meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I made a
mistake, it was unfair to sack you.”

An odd part of Arthur warms at the sight of Merlin’s slight smile. “Is that the closest I’ll get to an
apology?” He teases, nudging Arthur with his shoulder.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it, Merlin.”

“Not even going to buy me a drink to call it even? That’s just common courtesy,” Merlin continues,
his words swimming with mirth.

“I can’t really be seen buying a drink for my servant, now can I? Wouldn’t be proper.” Arthur
quirks his head, hoping Merlin will pick up on the hint so he can avoid saying the words explicitly.
There is only so low he is willing to stoop in a single day.

“Oh of course,” Merlin nods.

Arthur watches in amusement as the words dawn on Merlin properly, mirth slipping from his face
to be replaced with wonder. He turns to look at Arthur in surprise.

“Your servant?” He asks, tipping his head in confusion. “You sacked me.”

Arthur bites at his cheek to keep from smiling. “Now I’m rehiring you. Turns out you’re not so bad
to have around.”

“Much appreciated, Sire,” Merlin replies, beaming from ear to ear. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Excuse you, I’m a delight.”

~-~-~

If someone had told Merlin a week ago that he’d be thrilled to be reappointed as Arthur’s servant
he wouldn’t have believed them. If they then told him that he would be disappointed when Arthur
instructed him to assist Gaius with the plague that had arrived in Camelot instead of completing his
duties, he would have deemed them raving mad.

He and Gaius have made no headway on the disease, and while they struggle to work out the
cause, it is spreading like a wildfire through the lower town.

“Don’t be stupid Merlin,” Gaius says sharply, cutting off Merlin’s plea to use magic to help

“What else is this power for if not to help people?” Merlin demands. “You keep telling me it’s not
for playing immature tricks.”

Gaius huffs, snatching a vial of liquid from the table and stomping to his stove. “You want to
practise magic when the King is actively on a hunt for sorcerers? Are you mad!”

“Maybe! What else am I meant to do?”

“Keep your head down,” Gaius replies seriously. “Your life is destined for more important things.”

Merlin groans, running his hands over his head. “What could be more important than saving a
man’s life?”

“Finding the cause of the disease!” Gaius snaps. “It’s no good just saving one person.”
“Tell that to the one person,” Merlin mumbles sarcastically.

The body behind them is like a physical presence in the room, demanding Merlin’s attention. The
corpse’s cold skin is whiter than human flesh should ever be, like a blanket of snow, lined with
visible blue veins that creep from his eyes and circle his purple mouth. It looks like he was lying in
the winter cold for months, rather than the single night with the illness present in his body.

Gaius sighs, prickling with frustration. “I understand it is tempting to use the way you find easiest
Merlin—”

“— it is when it could save a life—” Merlin interjects. He thinks of the man in the village, still
alive but on the precipice of succumbing to the disease. He could have done something.

“—But you have to be careful. Science is our best answer right now, magic is too dangerous.”

“So what can we do?” Merlin asks, irritation dulling to a frustrated hum.

Gaius’ shoulders slump, letting on how worried he truly is. “Hope science finds the answer before
it kills us all.”

~-~-~

The answer doesn’t take long to arrive. The next morning another dead body is brought to Gaius’
chambers. Merlin grimaces at the sight when he exits his room, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“A bit of a grim wake up call,” he mutters.

Gaius doesn’t deem that with a response, instead beckoning Merlin over to examine the body.

“What is different about this victim?” Gaius asks, voicing it like a teacher conducting a lesson
rather than a genuine question, prompting Merlin towards the right answer.

“Uh.” Merlin scans over the body, taking in her glassy eyes, well kept hair and green dress. “She’s
a woman?” He tries.

Gaius lets out a disappointed breath.

“Incredible observational skills. Anything else?”

Merlin chews on his lip. “She’s a courtier?”

“Good,” Gaius says with a nod.

“How does that help us?”

“Courtiers seldom visit the lower town, so what does that mean?”

Merlin lets out a long sound of thought. “She hasn’t made contact with any of the other victims.”

Gaius makes a pained face but nods slowly, still trying to encourage Merlin towards the answer
himself. “Yes… it suggests that the disease isn’t spread by contact.”

Merlin’s head bounces in a nod like a doll. “She wouldn’t have eaten the same food as the others,
spoken to any of the same people. I doubt they would even breathe the same air.”

Gaius starts to smile. “So what’s the only thing they do share?”
The day of a courtier and a peasant couldn’t be more different. She would have spent her day in the
upper town with other people in high society. Servants would have fetched her food, prepared her
daily tasks, and collected her daily water intake from the well.

Merlin inhales sharply.

“Water.”

Gaius nods proudly. “Exactly.”

“You think the illness is spreading through water?”

“I’m sure of it, only I’m still not sure how to fix it.”

They are interrupted by Gwen bursting into the room, tears streaming down her face, cheeks ruddy
and red.

“Gwen!” Merlin exclaims, rushing to her side but she pushes past him blindly and runs to Gaius.

“Do you have the sickness?” Gaius asks worriedly and Merlin watches his wise eyes dart across
Gwen checking her for visible signs of bad health.

She shakes her head roughly, breath coming out in small hiccups. “No, it’s my father. Please Gaius
he’s all I have.”

“Gwen,” Gaius says sadly, taking her by the elbows. “I have no cure.”

“Please,” she sobs. “I am begging you.”

“I wish there was something, anything, I could do,” Gaius says. Merlin feels a sting deep in
himself. “But the remedy is beyond what I can achieve.”

She wrenches herself out of Gaius’ hold, shoulders shuddering with grief before her father is even
lost. She runs from the room without even looking at Merlin.

“We have to do something,” Merlin insists.

“We must hope this water hypothesis provides answers,” Gaius says, voice even and unyielding.
“Run to the well and fetch me some will you?”

Merlin’s face drops in horror. “That will be too late for Gwen’s father.”

Gaius looks up at him sadly, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, looking worn and
saddened. “I’m afraid you’re correct. But there is nothing we can do”

~-~-~

Gaius may have been able to cope with the knowledge that Gwen’s father would die, he may not
feel guilty in his idleness, but Merlin does have the ability to alleviate the family’s troubles, and he
can’t stand by watching knowing Gwen will suffer.

The usual guard patrol is stricter than usual, on the hunt for the sorcerer who is wreaking havoc in
Camelot so Merlin has to be careful. He sneaks under the cover of night, sticking to the shadows,
making his way through the darkness to Gwen’s cottage on the edge of the city. Her home with her
father is attached to the forge, making it easier for Merlin to sneak in through the open area.
He knows it’s dangerous, even as he lays the poultice under Tom’s head and whispers the
incantation, but the change in Gwen’s demeanour the day after makes the risk worth it. She comes
into the castle with a brilliant smile on her face, back to her usual self rather than the grief stricken
girl he had seen the day before.

He’s feeling quite proud of himself until Gwen is accused of sorcery.

“Merlin!” Gwen screams as the soldiers pass him in the hall, her arms caught tight in each of their
grasp. “Please help! I haven’t done anything!”

Merlin stares stricken after her as she’s dragged away, kicking and screaming, as she attempts to
fight the guards.

He and Gaius hurry after her into the throne room where the guards dump her unceremoniously to
the floor at the foot of Uther’s throne.

“Well done,” Uther says, nodding slightly to Arthur. Merlin takes in the stony look on Arthur’s
face, completely devoid of emotion, like he’s aware that he can either show his true emotions and
be castrated for it or show nothing at all.

“Please,” Gwen says desperately, eyes wild and confused. “Why will no one believe me? He got
better, he just recovered, please believe me.”

Morgana steps forward, her chin tipped high in defiance and her green eyes steely. “I believe you.”
She stands beside Gwen in a show of solidarity, displaying to the entire court that she is supporting
her maid, rather than the King. “Perhaps this illness is not always fatal, perhaps he recovered
naturally, have you considered that?”

Uther doesn’t waver. “Then what of the poultice that was found?”

“What poultice?” Gwen asks frantically. “I don’t know anything about a poultice.”

Uther glares severely down at her, looking down his nose. “It was found in your house.”

He gets to his feet and marches to stand above Gwen, commanding the attention of the room to his
will.

“Undo this enchantment. Put an end to this contagion.”

Gwen stares desperately up at him, the usual flush to her cheeks has drained away. “I can’t. I am
not a witch, I don’t know how to stop the illness,” Gwen’s voice grows ragged as her sentence
wears on, completely terrified.

A vein in Uther’s temple throbs dangerously. “If you will not undo your sorcery you force my
hand, I must find you guilty. I have no choice but to pronounce you to death.”

Gwen’s chest shudders. “No,” she whispers, voice stolen by panic.

“I can only hope that when you die, this evil plague dies with you,” Uther scorns, waving his hand
to the guards. “Take her away!”

Merlin runs after the guards who drag her from the room as she trembles and screams for mercy.

~-~-~

Arthur rubs a hand anxiously over his chest, trying fruitlessly to subdue the hollow ache of guilt
that sits there. The room clears behind Guinevere but her screams still fill the space, tormenting
Arthur with their pleas. Though he was only following orders he can’t help but feel he’s made a
terrible mistake.

Morgana turns to Uther with desperate eyes.

“I know Gwen, she’s my maidservant not an enchantress,” Morgana pleads, her fingers twist in her
skirt, clutching for something to ground herself as her fear and grief threaten to pull her away.

“Have you ever seen an enchantress?” Uther demands. “Believe me they bear no mark or sign.”

Arthur pushes a hand over his mouth, desperately trying to swallow down the bile rising in his
throat. He can’t let his father see how this has affected him, it’s important to remain composed,
especially before Uther. Arthur has seen hundreds of sorcerers and enchantresses condemned
throughout his lifetime. He was permitted to attend his first execution at seven years old, standing
by Uther’s side. Arthur still remembers the smell of burning flesh. A sorcerer’s death is nothing he
hasn’t seen before.

This is different. He knows Guinevere, and although they haven’t spoken much it’s impossible not
to have a fondness for her. As Morgana’s maidservant she’s around constantly, for mealtimes, in
Morgana’s chambers, following at her heels. She has always offered Arthur a smile and polite
greetings when he’s nearby. She’s kind, and compassionate. She’s going to die.

“I’ve seen the way the girl works. Her fingers are worn, her nails are broken. If she was a sorceress
why would she do this?”

He listens with clenched teeth as Morgana argues with his father. She is right. No powerful
sorcerer in their right mind would willingly work as a servant. The labour is hard and gruelling, for
little pay, someone with power would never subject themselves to such treatment.

“I have made my judgement,” Uther shuts Morgana down with a wave of his hand.

She sounds on the verge of tears. “But you’re sentencing the wrong person.”

“She’s right, Father,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, forcing his voice to remain even as
he faces his father. “You hear the word magic and you no longer listen.”

Uther’s eyes snap towards him, alight with fury at Arthur’s blatant display of disrespect. “You saw
it for yourself, she used enchantments.”

“Yes, perhaps. But to save her dying father. That doesn’t make her guilty of creating a plague,”
Arthur attempts to reason. “One is an act of kindness, of love; the other of evil. I don’t believe evil
is in this girl’s heart.”

A shadow of frustration falls over Uther’s face. “And if you’re wrong? If this maidservant is
responsible for the plague. How many more will die for you to play at being noble?”

Arthur flinches, recoiling in on himself.

“If there is any doubt about this girl she must die or the whole kingdom may perish.”

“I understand that—” Arthur starts but is silenced by the dark look in Uther’s eye.

“You understand nothing. When you are king, then you will understand. Such decisions must be
made. We have to combat the dark forces that threaten this kingdom.”
Arthur wrenches his eyes from the floor to meet his father’s heavy gaze. “I know witchcraft is an
evil, Father,” he says in the hope of appeasing his father. His heart tugs, an image of Guinevere
tied to the pyre for daring to save her sick father burning into his mind's eye.

“But so is injustice. I know I am not yet king and I don’t know what kind of king I will be. But I
know of the Camelot I wish to live in, and it is one where the punishment fits the crime.”

Uther’s glare makes Arthur’s legs wobble. He takes a deep breath to keep himself standing tall and
sure, even as his father stands from his throne and approaches.

“I fear you are right. She has played with fire, and now she must die by fire,” he spits, storming
from the room.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and releases a shaking breath.

~-~-~

Across the table Gaius’ stare is unwavering and patient, though his eyes are filled with dismay. The
silence is heavy, laden with Gaius’ disappointment and Merlins’ guilt. It fills every crevice of the
room, forcing its way under Merlin’s skin until he’s squirming. Gaius doesn’t say anything,
encouraging the heavy silence as he waits for Merlin to speak.

“I thought I was doing the right thing, that curing Gwen’s father would help her,” Merlin says with
a trembling voice. “I couldn’t stand the idea of letting him die when I knew I could help. It seemed
so simple.”

Gaius nods in understanding. “An easy solution is like a light in a storm, Merlin. Rushing towards
it puts you at risk of peril, for it may not always lead to a safe harbour.”

Merlin chews on his lip, staring steadfastly at the table.

“I have to see her,” he says eventually, getting to his feet and heading straight for the dungeons. He
passes Morgana on his way, tear stained and shaking as she leaves Gwen’s cell, which dashes all
his hopes that she might have convinced Uther to have sympathy and see reason.

Gwen is staring hopelessly at the wall when he approaches her. Her eyes are sunken and heavy
with bags as if she hasn’t slept in weeks, face sticky with barely dried tears. Her hands are bound in
thick iron chains. It is a precaution that is exclusively used for sorcerers; iron weakens their magic
and Merlin is woozy just from its close proximity.

“Gwen,” Merlin whispers, getting her attention.

She brightens when she sees him, getting to her feet and hurrying as close as she can when there
are chains binding her to the wall.

“Thank you,” she says, voice hoarse and scratched from tears.

“What for?” “Coming to see me,” she replies immediately, wide eyes genuine and grateful.

Merlin shakes his head, heart squeezing painfully. “Of course I would come to see you, you’re my
friend.”

She smiles sadly, her eyes wet with new tears and her bottom lip wobbling.

“I’m so sorry,” Merlin says, leaning his head against the wooden beams of the dungeon’s barred
door.

“It’s not your fault,” she says, forcing a pained smile. Merlin almost buckles under the weight of
his guilt. “It’s all right, don’t worry about me.”

“Oh Gwen…” Merlin murmurs, unable to think of much else to say beyond the ache that threatens
to splinter his heart into fractured pieces. “I can’t let this happen.”

“Please just… one thing...” Gwen inhales sharply, and exhales in fragmented gasps. “You don’t
have to…” she trails off, leaving her sentence unfinished.

“What is it?”

“Please remember me,” she begs, dark eyes brimming with tears, staring imploringly at Merlin.
Shame swells and curdles in Merlin’s gut, rotting his insides until his skin crawls. He hates that
he’s put her in this situation, and he refuses to lose her to his own stupid mistakes. Gwen is too
wonderful for that.

“You’re not going to die,” he promises. “I won’t let this happen.”

“Merlin—”

Merlin shakes his head roughly, backing away. “I promise, Gwen.”

~-~-~

Merlin bursts into the throne room, throwing the doors open with such a force that they clatter as
they hit the walls.

“It was me!” He confesses, all eyes in the room turn to him. “It was me who used magic to cure
Gwen’s father.”

His chest heaves with fear, hands shaking by his sides. His heartbeat is so loud in his chest it's a
wonder the entire court can’t hear it.

No one says anything. The silence rings in Merlin’s ears, so profound he hunches under the weight.
Uther stares at him in interest, brows furrowed with thought. Somehow, his silence is worse than a
condemnation, because Merlin doesn’t know what comes next. He is hanging over a precipice,
stomach dropping as he prepares for the fall.

“Gwen is not the sorcerer, I am,” Merlin declares.

Gaius’ chair makes a sharp sound as he stands to his feet and it is shoved backwards and out of his
way.

“Merlin,” he hisses and Merlin glances away from Uther for a moment to meet his worried eyes.
“Are you mad?”

“I cannot let her die for me,” he answers, clenching his fists until crescent moons cut into the
palms of his hands. He turns to Uther again, standing as tall as he can muster. “It was me. I place
myself at your mercy.”

Uther nods, folding his hands in front of him and looking sternly at Merlin.

“Then arrest him,” he says with a detached tone. The room spins around Merlin and his legs are so
unsteady he feels like he’s standing on a boat in a storm. His thoughts crash like thunder, and
Uther’s glare is like lightning. His mind pitches and throws him around until he’s lost in the
cascading rain of fear. Then he pictures Gwen’s face, the terror and confusion in her eyes and
returns to firm ground.

Guards seize his arms on either side and he takes a shaking breath to keep from resisting them.

“Father, this is madness, I can’t allow this,” Arthur cuts in, and Merlin blinks in shock. “There’s no
way Merlin is a sorcerer,” Arthur says scornfully, wrinkling his nose at the prospect like he can
think of nothing more ridiculous. .

Uther frowns. “Did you not hear him? He’s admitted it.”

“Yes but…” Merlin watches in confusion as Arthur scrambles for something to say. His eyes are
wide and frightened, for him, for Merlin.

“He saved my life, remember? Why would he do that if he were a sorcerer?”

“Why would he fabricate such a story if he weren’t?” Uther rebuts.

It’s a wonder Uther doesn’t send Merlin away immediately, as Arthur visibly tries to construct an
excuse. He thins his lips, biting down on them intensely in thought, fingers drumming on the back
of a chair anxiously.

“He’s in love,” Arthur blurts just as Uther’s frown goes from impatient to frustrated.

Merlin’s eyes bug. “What?”

“With Gwen!” Arthur continues, looking supremely proud of himself. The crease in Uther’s frown
has deepened so severely Merlin is a little concerned just looking at it.

“I am not,” Merlin insists.

Arthur marches over to Merlin’s side and slings an arm over his shoulder, pulling him close to his
side almost protectively.

“Yes you are,” he snaps. “I saw you yesterday with that flower she’d given you.”

Merlin splutters, certain that the blush creeping up his neck is doing him no favours to help
convince the council members he isn’t in love with Gwen.

“That was…” he can’t think of any good reason why Gwen would have given him the flower if she
wasn’t flirting. Oh God was Gwen flirting with him?

“Don’t worry Merlin, you can admit it,” Arthur says to Merlin while looking imploringly to his
father. Merlin trods hard on Arthur’s toes, taking great pleasure in his hiss of pain and resulting
glare.

“Perhaps she cast a spell on you,” Uther says seriously. Both Merlin and Arthur’s heads snap to
look at him, eyes wide with fear. A Cheshire smile slowly stretches across Uther’s face and he
chuckles like he’s just told a truly funny joke and didn’t just pull the rug out from under Merlin’s
feet, leaving him disbalanced and dumbfounded. If it weren’t for Arthur’s arm around his
shoulders Merlin is sure he would have collapsed to the floor.

Arthur laughs too, a quick sharp sound just to show he’s amused, Merlin wonders if it’s even real
laughter.
“Merlin is a wonder, but the wonder is that he’s such an idiot,” Arthur grits the final word through
his teeth. He ruffles Merlin’s hair, like one would a small child and steps away. To the court it
probably looks affectionate, but Arthur’s fingers scrape against Merlin’s scalp.

Arthur turns to look at Merlin, his voice going serious. “There is no way he’s a sorcerer.”

His eyes are dark, heavy with vexation and stress, he meets Merlin’s gaze without wavering.
There’s an intensity in his expression that makes something in Merlin stir despite his frustration.
They don’t look away from each other until Uther speaks.

“Don’t waste my time again.”

It’s a dismissal if Merlin has ever heard one but still he hesitates in the doorway. Arthur shoots him
another pointed glance and Merlin fights the urge to glare back at him, instead spinning awkwardly
in place and making his way out of the room, Gaius on his heels.

He manages to hold his tongue until they reach Gaius’ chambers, throwing the door open and
revelling in the way it crashes against the stone wall.

“Arthur’s the idiot,” he says with a growl.

“No, he was right to do what he did, he saved you from your own stupidity,” Gaius retorts harshly,
levelling Merlin with a look so full of disappointment that Merlin shrinks under it.

“I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. It’s my fault Gwen is going to die.”

“Yes it is,” Gaius says simply. Merlin reels with the honesty of it. He had been expecting Gaius to
attempt to alleviate the severity of the situation, but it seems the time for patience has passed.

“But you don’t prove her innocence by offering to jump into the flames yourself, you do it by
finding out what’s causing the disease,” Gaius continues, not quite shouting but so furious it
achieves the same effect. He thrusts a bag into Merlin’s arms and stalks out of the room, signalling
for Merlin to follow him.

Merin fumes the entire journey to the water supply. He knows Gaius is right and that Arthur was
righteous in protecting him; but the guilt clawing at his insides isn’t relieved by that knowledge. He
wants to do something for her, and chasing dead ends isn’t going to stop her looming execution.

The entrance to the water supply reminds Merlin of the staircase to The Dragon’s cave, a long
steep staircase with a domed roof and dark lighting.

“The water from here supplies the whole town,” Gaius tells Merlin, pointing at a stoned off section
of water. Merlin presumes that it runs from the river just outside of Camelot, but it’s murky and
dark like no river water Merlin has ever seen. “Take a sample.”

Merlin dips his hand into the water, scooping the liquid out and corking it. He peers into the small
bottle with a grimace. It feels like another dead end, hopeless, even as he looks at it.

Gaius nods, taking Merlin by the shoulder and steering him out of the dark tunnel. They make it a
couple of steps before there is a loud splash and water drenches the back of their heads. Merlin
spins around as the creature roars ferociously. He barely gets a glance at the monster, spotting
brown sticky skin and sharp yellow fangs, before it disappears back into the water.

“What the hell was that?”

~-~-~

Merlin rushes into The Dragon’s cave, almost tripping in his rush to speak with him. He and Gaius
had scoured through his many books on zoology, until finally Merlin thought to pull out the book
about magic. They concluded that the creature was an afanc, a being made of clay that could only
be conjured by the most powerful of sorcerers. However, the description gave no indication of how
to defeat it, only how to create such a thing.

He calls out a greeting into the abyss, waiting impatiently for The Dragon’s response.

“Hello, young warlock,” The Dragon says with a welcoming smile, landing on the rock opposite
Merlin.

“I need to know how to defeat an afanc,” Merlin cuts to the chase, anxious to help Gwen before it’s
too late and already sensing The Dragon has no care for small talk.

The Dragon’s smile grows, stretching wide and smugly across his scaly face. “Yes I suppose you
do,” he muses.

Merlin clenches his teeth to keep from snapping a sarcastic retort. He’s mostly sure The Dragon
can’t read minds, and at this moment he hopes he’s correct.

“Will you help me?” He asks, a little demandingly.

The Dragon is silent for no more than a few seconds but it seems to stretch for hours, Merlin
fidgets anxiously in the quiet, every second that passes they inch closer to Gwen’s looming
execution.

“Trust the elements at your command,” The Dragon says finally.

“Elements? But what do I do with the elements?”

The Dragon seems amused, and as usual doesn’t answer Merlin’s question.

“You cannot do this alone,” he says instead. “You are but one side of a coin. Arthur is the other.”

Merlin frowns, mulling over the words. “I don’t understand. Just tell me what I have to do.”

The great wings of The Dragon unfurl, opening into a wingspan that would easily cover double
Camelot’s great throne room.

“No!” Merlin shouts as The Dragon prepares to fly away. “Tell me what I have to do! Help me!”

The Dragon looks down on him, laughter in his huge yellow eyes.

“I have,” he replies simply, flying away and leaving Merlin with his confusing riddles.

“Brilliant, thanks,” Merlin mutters. “Barely helped but sure.” He kicks at the stone wall on his way
out. It does nothing, and The Dragon will never know, but he gets some satisfaction out of the
small act of defiance anyway.

~-~-~

Though Merlin is loath to admit it, The Dragon’s words are actually extremely helpful.

When Merlin comes to Gaius with a question about elements he’s quick to make the connection
that the afanc, a creature of earth and water, would likely be destroyed by the other two basic
elements, fire and air. The solution is so simple Merlin is somewhat frustrated that they didn’t
come up with it without The Dragon’s help.

“How did you realise elements were the answer?” Gaius asks, watching Merlin shrug on his jacket
as he prepares to leave.

He comes up with the lie easily. “I just knew, you know, part of my powers.”

“What else do your powers tell you?”

Merlin shrugs. “That I am one side of a coin — the brighter side obviously.”

One of Gaius’ eyebrows creep up to his hairline. “Who’s the other side?”

Merlin forces a smile. “I think that might be Arthur.”

“What about Arthur?” Morgana asks as she enters the room, somehow still looking put together
despite the frantic glint in her eye.

“I need his help. The plague is being caused by an afanc in the water supply. We need to kill it,”
Merlin answers. Gaius shoots him a look for his bluntness but doesn’t say anything to stop him.

“We need to tell Uther,” Morgana says immediately.

“We can’t,” Gaius cuts in and she looks at him in surprise. “An afanc is a creature of magic, he will
only assume Gwen has summoned it and bring her execution forward.”

“So what are we to do?” Morgana demands.

“We need to destroy it,” Merlin replies. “Then the plague will stop, and Uther may see sense.” He
looks to Gaius for confirmation and is relieved when the physician nods.

“And that’s why you need Arthur?”

Merlin nods. “He’s our best chance, but he’ll never disobey the king.”

“Arthur is not as conservative as you think him to be,” Morgana says. “He’ll come if I ask him to.”

“He’ll defy his father?”

She purses her lips. “Arthur cares about what Uther thinks, but he cares more about doing the right
thing. Leave him to me.”

She storms from the room, her silk dress billowing in her wake.

Not even twenty minutes later he, Arthur and Morgana are making their way into the underground
water system Merlin and Gaius had visited earlier. The darkness seems more ominous, every
shadow birthed from the flickering of the torch in Arthur’s hand becomes a monster waiting to
attack them. They wander through the stone tunnels, Merlin close on Arthur’s heels and Morgana
by his side.

“You’d better be right about this, Merlin,” Arthur mutters, eyes scanning from wall to wall in
search of the creature.

Merlin swallows, throat crackling, trying in vain to bring moisture to his mouth, completely dry
with fear. “I appreciate the faith, Sire.” Arthur’s eyes bounce to him for a moment before returning
to their hunt with a slightly frustrated roll.

He tips his head towards a path. “This way then.”

A low growl echoes through the tunnels, seemingly everywhere and nowhere all at once. Merlin’s
heart pounds a staccato beat against his ribcage and Morgana gasps sharply.

Arthur turns to look at her, face twisted with worry.

“You should go back,” he says, it seems he has only just realised that he has led his adoptive sister
into danger.

She tips her chin in defiance. “I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

Merlin glances between them, getting the sense he is stuck between two immovable objects.

Morgana smiles in a cat-like fashion. “Scared I’ll show you up?”

“I’m scared you’ll get hurt,” Arthur amends honestly.

“You’ll be the one getting hurt if you don’t get out of my way,” she rebuts, flipping her dark braid
off her shoulder with a flourish and sashaying past Arthur.

“Father will slam us both in chains if he knew I put you in danger,” Arthur protests to her turned
back, as she strides away from them into the darkness of the tunnel.

She glances over her shoulder with a wry smile. “Good thing he doesn't know then.”

Arthur and Merlin share a look, lamenting her stubborn nature, before continuing after her.

Morgana screams, tripping backwards and waving fire at the shadows, Merlin and Arthur rush
forward to meet her, hearts in their throats. Merlin hears the snarling before he sees the afanc. The
growls are wet, gurgled in the back of the creature’s clay throat. It bites at the air in front of
Morgana with loud snaps of its jaw, roaring when she rushes to Arthur’s side and out of its reach.

Arthur lunges at the shadow but by the time his sword reaches where the beast should be the blade
slices through thin air.

“Where is it?” He grits out, frantically looking around the cave for the deformed looking creature.

Merlin follows the sound of low growling in the tunnel across from them. “I think it went this
way!” He shouts, leading Arthur and Morgana towards the source of the sound, and hopefully, the
beast.

The afanc roars, so loud Merlin can feel it rattle his bones, as it lunges from the shadows towards
Arthur. It drips with clay, leaving a trail of sticky residue on the ground, spit clinging in strings
between its monstrous jaws. Arthur is pinned against the stone wall, while Morgana has been
forced into a small crevice, and the creature has positioned itself menacingly between them. None
of them can move for fear of angering the beast.

“Arthur!” Merlin shouts. “Use your torch!”

Arthur drives the torch forward like a sword towards the afanc. As he does so Merlin plunges deep
into his own mind, seeking the tendril of his magic and pulls it forward. He didn’t have time to
learn this spell like when he forced the appearance of the snakes on Valiant’s shield. He only had
the opportunity to glance over the incantation before rushing out to meet Morgana and Arthur. He
has to place complete trust in his magic, in the supposed power he holds, nature has always been a
friend and he greets it now.

He chants the incantation under his breath, tugging on his magic. Wind whips through the tunnel,
whistling in Merlin’s ears and buffeting his clothes. It sweeps the fire from Arthur’s torch, sending
it towards the afanc in a gust. The beast roars in pain, bellowing out before melting into a pile of
sticky mulch on the ground.

Little to Merlin’s knowledge, miles away on a secret island that moves with the tide, an
enchantress Nimueh curses his name.

~-~-~

The shackles drop to the floor with a clunk and an overjoyed Gwen throws herself her father’s
arms. She laughs in disbelief, the sound muffled by her father’s shoulder. Merlin feels a swell of
affection for her as she squeezes her eyes shut and smiles wildly. He ignores the slight dizziness
that comes from being so close to iron, focusing instead on Gwen's delight as she turns to him and
Morgana.

“Thank you,” she breathes, taking Morgana’s hand in her own and squeezing it. Morgana rolls her
eyes and pulls Gwen into a tight hug.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” she says fondly.

Gwen pulls away and looks to Merlin, joyful tears in her dark eyes. “I can’t believe you really did
it.”

“I told you I wasn’t going to let you die,” he says with a shy smile. Gwen throws her arms around
him and squeezes tight, hands bunched in his tunic as she holds him close. He smiles into her curls,
squeezing back.

The weight of her in his arms is a welcome reminder that she’s okay. Alive and well. It makes the
anxiety from the last few days worth it. The fear that had choked Merlin while facing the afanc is
just a distant memory and the guilt at having put her in this situation and threatened her life begins
to slowly dissipate .

She pulls away and smiles at him, squeezing his shoulders fondly once more.

“Come on Gwen,” Tom says, nodding to the door. “Let’s get you some rest.”

They leave the room together, Gwen waving goodbye to Morgana as they go. Merlin turns to
follow but is stopped by Morgana catching his attention.

“I wanted you to know,” she says, eyes serious, “your secret is safe with me.”

Merlin’s stomach drops to his feet. He’s tried to be so careful, but to be caught out by the king’s
ward is as good as signing his death sentence. His pulse jumps in his throat, pounding a fearful
beat.

“My… secret?”

Morgana looks unamused. “Come on, don’t pretend, I saw it with my own eyes.”
He forces a laugh, scratching at the back of his head. “You did?”

His head is pounding, he feels like he might collapse, legs turning to liquid mulch as he looks into
Morgana’s serious eyes. He doesn’t want to die, he can’t die, he’s too young. There’s so much he
still wants to do. His stomach lurches painfully, twisting itself into a tight knot of anxiety.

“I understand why you don’t want anyone to know, but I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

Merlin swallows a gulp of air, the combination of rushing fear and the close presence of iron
makes the entire room spin. He longs to sit on the ground and put his head in his hands, just to feel
some sense of stability amongst the lurching turmoil Morgana has thrown him into.

“Thank you,” he gasps, suppressing the urge to grab the wall for support.

Morgana nods stiffly, smiling although it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Gwen would be lucky to have you.”

Merlin blinks.

“Gwen?”

Morgana smiles, more genuinely and pats Merlin’s cheek in a way that is somehow both fond and
condescending. “It’s our secret.”

She leaves Merlin alone in the cell, staring at the floor and trying to fathom how multiple people
seem to think he’s in love with Gwen. He laughs a little to himself under his breath and makes his
way out of the dungeon.

~-~-~

Once again I have been blessed by the incredible art (TWO ARTS) of APBuffy, I literally owe her
one of my arms at this point <3 check him out on tiktok at the same name !!!
Chapter End Notes

rip to the abandoned line "there are small statues of various animals decorating the
space, which will never be mentioned again aside from this very important plot point"
you will be missed, but not forgotten

let me know your favourite part if you have one, otherwise every comment and kudos
literally fuels my happiness so please consider leaving one if you can

can't wait to see you for the next chapter on the 17th of July !!! (it will be a little later
than the usual 10AM AEST)
 The Poisoned Chalice
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Merlin is run off his feet. King Bayard is visiting whilst the kingdoms of Camelot and Mercia are
in the process of sealing a long awaited truce, which has subsequently reduced Arthur to a pile of
anxiety with a pair of legs. And if there’s anything Merlin has learnt about Arthur over the last
month, it’s that when he’s stressed, he likes to ask things of Merlin.

“There is no good reason new bed sheets should be essential in the middle of the bloody
afternoon,” Merlin mutters under his breath, lugging a basket of fresh linens towards Arthur’s
chambers.

He is almost knocked off his feet by a girl rushing in the opposite direction. Merlin’s sheets and
the clothes she’d been carrying go toppling to the floor, spreading out across the hallway.

She must be a member of the Mercia delegation because he hasn’t seen her before. She has vibrant
blue eyes that immediately remind Merlin of Arthur’s and her hair is wrapped in an equally blue
shawl.

“Oh goodness, I’m so sorry,” she says, sinking to the floor to gather the bedding for him.

Merlin waves her off, offering a smile. “Don’t worry.”

“No it’s my fault.” She bends forward to reach a pair of trousers and the front of her dress slips
down slightly, Merlin quickly averts his eyes.

“Really,” Merlin insists. “It’s not a problem at all.”

The girl reaches for a tunic at the same time as Merlin and their fingers brush together. She smiles
shyly at him, batting her eyelashes. He pulls his hand away, scooping the sheets into his arms
again, hoping Arthur won’t complain too much about the wrinkles.

“I’m Elise,” the girl introduces herself, with a flirtatious look.

Merlin smiles awkwardly. “Merlin.” His hands are full with the basket of sheets so he nods his
head in greeting.

“You’re Arthur’s servant,” she says, mystified. “That must be such an honour.” Her eyelashes are
almost unnaturally long, they exaggerate each blink.

“Oh yeah, in a way.” Merlin scratches the back of his neck.

He looks around for a way out of the conversation, unaware that Elise’s face drops as soon as he
isn’t looking at her, confused by his reaction. When he turns back to face her she smiles again.

“I’d better get these to Arthur,” he says, shrugging his shoulders to hold up the sheets.

She nods, gone is the flirtatious quality of her smile, more than anything else she looks confused.

“It was nice to meet you.”

Merlin nods, lying through his teeth. “Likewise.”

He hurries to Arthur’s chambers, bumping the door open with his hip.

“What took you so long?” Arthur asks as he enters, not looking up from the jacket he’s inspecting.

“I bumped into a serving girl from Mercia, got held up,” Merlin explains loosely, dumping the
sheets unceremoniously on the bed.

“Sorry for pulling you away from your flirting,” Arthur quips, shooting a grin at Merlin over his
shoulder and beckoning him over. “I found my ceremonial jacket for the feast tonight.”

Merlin rolls his eyes but does as Arthur instructs, moving closer to look at the jacket.

It’s red and embellished with gold buttons along the shoulders and chest, musty from being in the
wardrobe all year and smelling vaguely like tomatoes left to ferment.

He screws up his nose, holding the jacket at arm’s length. “When was the last time this was
cleaned?”

Arthur shrugs. “Last year sometime? Before the Feast of Beltane.”

Merlin sniffs the jacket again and groans. “Did it end in a food fight?”

“Don’t all feasts?”

Merlin squints at Arthur, trying to gauge if he’s being sarcastic or not. Arthur however is
impossible to read as he simply smiles at him. Merlin holds the jacket up for Arthur to slip on and
ensure it still fits.

“I wouldn’t know. It may surprise you to hear, but I haven’t attended many feasts.” Merlin adjusts
the collar of the jacket and scans appraisingly over Arthur. “The airs and graces of the court are a
mystery to me.”

Arthur hums distractedly, inspecting a slightly loose button on the sleeve. “Tonight they won’t
be.”

“I’m going to be at the banquet?”

“Not quite.”

Arthur shrugs the jacket off and hands it to Merlin. “You’ll be there to make sure my cup doesn’t
run dry. If I have to sit through Bayard’s boring speeches, I don’t see why you should get out of it.”

“Great. Thanks so much,” Merlin drawls sarcastically.

“Wouldn’t want you to miss out on the fun,” Arthur replies, mirth threaded through his words.

He steps away from Merlin and disappears behind the changing screen in the corner of the room.
“Do you want to see what you’ll be wearing tonight?”

Merlin looks up from his assessment of the loose button Arthur had found. He’s not much good
with a needle and thread so he’ll need to visit the seamstress or beg Gaius to do it for him.

“Won’t this do?” He asks, looking down at his own clothes.

Arthur steps out from the changing screen, a bundle of clothes in his arms. He scans his eyes over
Merlin’s body, slow enough that Merlin squirms. He rests for a few seconds on Merlin’s
neckerchief, blue today, and wrinkles his nose. “No.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Merlin asks and Arthur shoots him a look that seems to say he
doesn’t have enough time to list all the things he finds wrong with Merlin’s attire.

“Tonight, you’ll be wearing the official ceremonial robes of the servants of Camelot,” Arthur says
instead of answering Merlin’s question. He unfurls the bundle in his arms and holds it up for
Merlin to see, smiling mischievously.

“You can’t be serious.”

Arthur grins, looking utterly thrilled.

“There’s a hat too.”

Little to Merlin’s knowledge, as Arthur chases him around the room trying to jam a feathered hat
onto his head, across the castle the enchantress Nimueh, disguised as Elise, sneaks into King
Bayard’s chambers. She swaps one of the silver chalices, the smaller of the pair, with her own and
slinks out of the room.

~-~-~

Merlin glares at the back of Arthur’s head, feather from his hat tickling his nose. Gwen poorly
conceals a giggle from his side, as she has done every time she glances at his hat. It’s more of a
headband, a thick band of green and gold with large plumed feathers sticking in the air. It makes
Merlin look like a preening bird during the mating season.

Arthur turns around and meets Merlin’s eye with a wry smirk, very obviously trying not to laugh.
His smile widens as Merlin shakes his head disparagingly at him. It doesn’t help that Arthur looks
excellent in his red jacket — including the stray button that Gaius helped Merlin mend — so
Merlin can’t very well tease him back.

Merlin rips the hat off his head and Arthur bites down on his lips to keep from laughing out loud,
squeezing his eyes shut in happy crinkles and turning back to listen to Bayard.

“People of Camelot,” Bayard greets, spreading his hands wide to encompass the entire room. “For
a great many years we have been mortal enemies. The blood of our men stains the ground from the
walls of Camelot, to the gates of Mercia.”

Arthur is right, Bayard, though a powerful speaker, delivers awfully boring speeches. He’s too
dramatic, putting emphasis on every word like an actor in a poorly written melodrama.

Merlin’s eyes glaze over as the goblets are brought forward, vaguely aware that Gwen has moved
over to attend to Morgana, and watching as Arthur twists his fingers together on his lap to keep
from fidgeting.

“As a symbol of our goodwill, and of our newfound friendship, I present these ceremonial goblets.
To you, Uther,” Bayard takes out the larger goblet and holds it aloft. “And to your son, Arthur,” he
presents the smaller goblet. “In the hope that our friendship may last.”

Elise, the serving girl from earlier, comes and pulls Merlin out of his half-hearted listening by
grabbing his shoulder.

“I need to speak to you,” she whispers, face consumed with worry and pleading desperation.
Merlin glances over her worriedly but she doesn’t seem hurt. “What is it?”

Her eyes dart around nervously. “Not here, please, I don’t know who else to tell.”

He follows immediately. Though he has no interest in Elise he isn’t willing to let something bad
happen to her just because he was uncomfortable with her flirting. They quietly leave the room; no
one bats an eye towards two servants leaving the feast, even while Bayard is still speaking.

They stop in an alcove just outside the dining room, the evening light through the window casts a
blue glow over both of them. Elise grabs him by the wrist and pulls him close so she isn’t speaking
any louder than a rushed and urgent whisper.

“It wasn’t until I saw him give the goblet to Arthur that I realised, I should have known sooner, but
I didn’t even consider—” she rushes through her words, stumbling over them in panic.

“Woah woah,” Merlin puts his hands on her shoulders to encourage her to relax. “Slow down, go
back, start from the beginning.”

Elise takes a heaving breath. “Two days ago I was bringing Bayard his evening meal. We’re
supposed to knock so he wasn’t expecting me to walk in—” she cuts herself off with a shudder. “If
he knows I said anything he will kill me.”

Merlin rubs her shoulder soothingly. “I’m not going to let that happen; I promise. Please tell me
what you saw.”

She nods jerkily, hands clutched tight in the fabric of her bodice, knuckles white with the force of
her grip. “Bayard is no friend of Camelot, he craves the kingdom for himself. He believes that with
Arthur dead, Uther’s spirit will be broken and Camelot will fall.”

Terror creeps up Merlin’s throat. Merlin knows Uther would be devastated by the loss of his son. If
there is one thing he cares about in the world it is Arthur. Despite that, Uther would not be
weakened but imbued with the desire for revenge. His already stern character would moult into
something tyrannical. Camelot will survive, but its people, and the people of Mercia would suffer
greatly.

“Tell me, what has Bayard done with the goblet?”

Her blue eyes are wide and terrified. “He—” she stops abruptly as another servant walks by. “I
shouldn't, he'll kill me.”

Merlin’s heart jumps in his throat. “Please Elise, tell me.”

She shakes her head, pressing her lips together in silent terror.

He doesn’t really need her answer, he knows, he is just desperate for her to be wrong.

“Is it poison?” He asks, dreading her answer.

Please say no, please, anything but poison.

She nods slowly, confirming his worst suspicions.

“Fuck,” he gasps under his breath, taking off in a run towards Arthur.

~-~-~
Arthur bites back his fourth yawn. How Bayard still has more to say is beyond Arthur, the entire
speech has just been a reworking of the same sentiment in various different ways. Camelot and
Mercia are now to be allies, and as such their shared past should be put behind them. Arthur’s sure
he would have been able to make the same speech in less than a minute, but it’s taken Bayard
almost twenty.

Finally, Bayard lifts his own goblet.

He toasts. “To your health, Uther, and Arthur.”

Arthur sends a thanks to the sky that it’s finally over and goes to lift his goblet to his lips when
Bayard continues. “The Lady Morgana…”

Arthur stands back to his full height, clenching his teeth together to control himself and to not roll
his eyes back into his head.

“The People of Camelot,” Bayard says to finish, turning to brandish his goblet towards the knights
encircling the room on long banquet tables.

Arthur lifts his own goblet in return and is stopped once more, this time by his own father.

“And to fallen warriors from both kingdoms,” Uther acknowledges. It’s a polite addition to the
toast, politically sound but with an edge of threat. Arthur knows his own father well enough to
recognise the warning, if Bayard were to cross him, further war would be inevitable.

They all pause, waiting for Bayard’s nod of approval, and when he gives it, the room lifts their
goblets to their lips.

“Stop!” The word booms in the silent banquet hall.

“It’s poison! Don’t drink it!” Merlin shouts

Arthur blinks and his goblet is being snatched from his hand. He stares at his servant in horror,
hand still poised as if he’s holding an invisible goblet.

“Merlin? What are you doing?” He asks frantically, reaching out for his goblet to be returned to
him. Merlin twists so it’s further from Arthur’s grip, covering the top of the chalice with his hand.

“Bayard laced Arthur’s goblet with poison,” Merlin announces, not just to Arthur but to the entire
court. Arthur inhales sharply, he doesn’t even need to look at his father to know he is red with fury.

Bayard’s face distorts in livid outrage.

“How dare you?” He roars, drawing his sword, brandishing it towards Merlin. The Knights of
Camelot and then the Knights of Mercia follow suit. The entire room is a circlet of sharp weapons.
Merlin winces, curling in on himself in fear and Arthur plants himself firmly to the ground to keep
himself from pulling Merlin to safety.

“Order your men to put down their swords,” Uther commands in a deceptively calm tone.
Camelot’s guards rush closer so there is more red than blue in the standoff, the crimson of
Camelot’s capes practically swamp the blue donned by the men of Mercia. “You’re outnumbered.”

Bayard’s quivers with fury. “I will not allow this insult to go unchallenged.”

Arthur looks from Merlin to Bayard, quickly realising with a sinking stomach that Merlin, in the
eyes of every political figure in the room, is the one to blame. Whether or not the goblet is
poisoned is irrelevant, by interrupting the feast and accusing Bayard of such an outrageous crime
he has threatened the entire peace treaty.

“On what grounds do you base this accusation?” Uther asks, his voice cold and brimming with
barely concealed fury.

Arthur quickly steps forward. “I’ll handle this,” he says, hurrying towards Merlin. His status as
prince should protect Merlin, it’s worked before.

“Merlin, you idiot,” he grits out. He grabs Merlin by the shoulder and tries to lead him away from
the centre of the attention, snatching the goblet from his grasp. “Have you been at the sloe gin
again?” He looks to Bayard apologetically, forcing his most winning political smile.

Uther doesn’t allow the distraction.

“Unless you want to be strung up, you will tell me why you think it’s poisoned” he says, eyes
boring into Merlin like there is nothing he would rather do than string Merlin up himself. Arthur
tightens his grip on the chalice to keep from tucking Merlin under his arm where he’ll be safe.
“Now.”

Merlin’s fingers release the sleeve of Arthur’s tunic, Arthur hadn’t even realised Merlin had
lingered there until the touch was gone.

“He was seen lacing it,” Merlin answers and Arthur is astonished by how even his voice is.

“By whom?”

Arthur holds his breath. All Merlin needs to say is one good name. A knight, or a fellow nobleman,
someone of merit, and the whole incident will be dismissed.

Merlin swallows roughly. “I can’t say.”

Arthur resists the urge to groan, or worse still, curse. His stomach cramps as he looks at Merlin,
standing tall and confidently despite the weight of the room resting upon him. Uther’s jaw visibly
clenches and Arthur’s veins flood cold with dread.

“Pass me the goblet,” Uther orders, holding out his hand. He marches around the table and Arthur
hands the chalice over immediately, subtly stepping forward to shield Merlin from Uther.

Uther doesn’t look at Arthur, nor Merlin, but at King Bayard, still standing with his sword
outstretched towards Merlin.

“If you’re telling the truth…” Uther begins, with narrowed eyes.

“I am,” Bayard insists.

“Then you have nothing to fear. Do you?”

Bayard visibly processes the words, mulling them over with a frown before nodding and sheathing
his sword. He reaches for the goblet, raising his eyebrows in silent question.

Uther pauses, regarding Bayard with interest.

“No,” Uther says abruptly, pulling the chalice away. “If this does prove to be poisoned, I want the
pleasure of killing you myself.”
Bayard lets out a single bark of cold laughter and retracts his hand.

Uther turns slowly, the chalice still outstretched in his grasp, looking past Arthur to Merlin.

“He’ll drink it,” he says, dark and unsympathetic. Arthur feels the blood drain from his face and he
clenches his hands into fists by his sides so no one will see how hard he’s shaking.

“But if it’s poisoned he’ll die,” Arthur protests, staring imploringly, desperately, at his father. He
begs with his eyes for the King to reconsider. Deep below his hard walls and cold exterior, there
must be a kindness to his father, a man who can sympathise, a man who understands that Arthur
needs Merlin around. Merlin matters to him.

Uther doesn’t even look at him. “Then he can die comfortably, knowing he was telling the truth.”

Merlin takes the goblet from Uther’s outstretched hold.

“And what if he lives?” Bayard asks.

Uther doesn’t hesitate. “Then you have my apologies, and you can do with him as you will.”

The dangerous glint in Bayard’s eyes leaves no room to question what he would do to Merlin.
Merlin would be lucky to be killed mercifully. Horrifying images of Merlin beaten and bloodied
flash across Arthur’s mind, fresh terror roars up in him. He thinks he might be sick.

Gaius objects before he can.

“Uther please he’s just a boy, he doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Gaius appeals, a raw emotion
scraping the edges of his words so they sound pained. Arthur knows that though the physician and
Merlin have not known each other for long they have developed a close bond, and he can hear that
in Gaius’ plea for mercy on Merlin’s behalf.

His father turns to look at Gaius, voice even and eyes cold.

“Then you should have schooled him better.”

The words strike a painful chord in Arthur’, leaving an aching pain on the inside of his skin. It is
impossible to escape his notice that Uther is punishing Merlin for speaking up to try to protect him,
to protect Arthur. The way he’s done it is stupid, and an outrageous insult to the visiting king, but
he has put himself in this position for Arthur and is going to die for his trouble. No one else would
dare cause such an insult on Arthur’s behalf, no one else cares enough to consider it.

He can’t lose Merlin.

“Merlin, apologise,” Arthur orders frantically. “This is a mistake.”

A frenzied idea seizes him and Arthur surges forward, reaching for the goblet and trying to take it
from Merlin’s grasp. Should there be poison in the goblet it is intended for Arthur anyway, it isn’t
fair for Merlin’s life to be put at risk.

“I’ll drink it.”

Merlin bats his hand away, his long fingers seizing around Arthur’s own and pulling them from
their loose grip on the cup. He doesn’t look at Arthur but at Bayard. “No no no. It’s alright.”

Please look at me, Arthur thinks desperately.

Merlin doesn’t waver. He presses his mouth in a long thin line as he raises the goblet in toast first
to Bayard, and then to Uther. Arthur is so close he can see the clouded edges of fear in his blue
eyes; but he doesn’t flinch or give any indication to the wider court that he’s afraid.

His eyes quickly glance to Arthur before he raises the goblet to his lips, an apology, and a refusal to
accept Arthur’s returning apology, all in one. Stubborn idiot.

Arthur doesn’t want to lose him. Merlin is annoying, and rude, and he refuses to treat Arthur with
respect, no matter how much Arthur tries; but he’s also sarcastic and funny, he makes Arthur laugh
and makes the days interesting. Arthur hadn’t realised how much Merlin has become an important
part of his day in the last month until he is about to lose it.

His stomach lurches like he’s going to vomit as Merlin takes the first gulp of wine, and then a
second. Merlin lowers the goblet, staring resolutely at Uther. Arthur is amazed by his ability not to
waver in the face of Uther’s furious glare.

Nothing happens.

Merlin looks down at the goblet, Arthur can see his shoulders slump in realisation.

“It’s fine,” he says softly.

Uther scoffs, waving his hand dismissively. “He’s all yours.”

Arthur’s heart thunders painfully against his chest. He can’t tell whether to feel relieved or
horrified. He forces himself to walk mechanically away from Merlin and retake his seat. If he
doesn’t do the right thing his father will be more furious with him than he already is. He has to do
the right thing. He has to.

Merlin coughs and Arthur spins back around to stare at him in horror. Merlin is clutching his throat
like it is burning, pulling at the skin, already red and inflamed along the column of his throat. He
makes a gurgling sound, choking and spluttering, eyes wide as they connect with Arthur’s.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, his voice thick with fear.

Merlin coughs again, the choked noise sounds suspiciously like Arthur’s name, before his eyes roll
back in his head. He collapses to the floor in a crumpled heap, legs twisting as they give way
beneath him. The goblet clatters against the stone floor, rolling out of Merlin’s limp hand.

Arthur sprints to Merlin. He doesn’t stop to see his father’s reaction, or to act with any sense of
propriety, his only thought is that he needs to reach Merlin now. Arthur’s knees collide hard with
the ground as he drops by Merlin’s side. He hovers over him nervously, noticing the pale clammy
quality of his skin, the fluttering of his eyelashes. The room around them is muffled, swords
unsheathing to point at Bayard as Uther announces the use of poison.

Arthur’s hands skitter nervously over Merlin’s body, afraid to touch and make things worse but
desperate to check on him. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, feel it in his throat, he’s never felt
fear like this before.

“Merlin?” Gaius calls. Arthur jumps as Gaius lays a hand on his arm to shift him out of the way.
He doesn’t move far, he hesitates before resting a hand against Merlin’s shoulder reassuringly just
in case he can feel it.

“Merlin, can you hear me?” Gaius tries to open Merlin’s eyes but all the touch reveals is the whites
of his eyes.
Arthur’s hands tremble against Merlin’s shoulder.

“We need to get him back to my chambers, now,” Gaius says, turning to Arthur with an intense set
to his face. To Guinevere he adds, “Bring the goblet, we need to identify the poison.”

Arthur levers Merlin up, tucking one of his arms under his legs and pulling Merlin’s torso to his
chest, like a peasant would carry a bride through the door to their new home. He rushes towards
Gaius’ chambers, not bothering to check if Guinevere and Gaius are keeping up. Merlin’s head
lolls against his chest, a little bit of wine drips from his mouth and stains Arthur’s red jacket a deep
burgundy.

He lays Merlin carefully on the pallet in the centre of Gaius’ chambers, careful not to jostle his
head too much. Merlin’s breathing has steadily gotten shallower as they made their way to the
physician’s chambers, his breaths are heaving his chest and audibly rattling in his airway.

Gaius lays a cool towel on Merlin’s burning forehead.

“Will he be alright?” Arthur asks, eyes trained on the way Merlin twitches as the cool touches his
skin.

“You can heal him, can’t you Gaius?” Guinevere asks, her hands twisted together and clutched to
her chest. Arthur hadn’t even known they were friends.

Gaius’ bushy eyebrows are furrowed so low Arthur can barely see his eyes. He sighs heavily.

“I won’t know until I can identify the poison,” he answers honestly, Arthur’s stomach lurches.
“Pass me the goblet.”

Gaius and Guinevere switch places, she holds the cold rag in place on Merlin’s forehead and he
inspects the goblet. Arthur hovers nervously, feeling out of place and intrusive but not willing to
leave Merlin.

“There’s something stuck to the inside,” Gaius murmurs, plucking out a flower petal with tweezers.
Despite the fear in his voice his movements are steady and precise, without a hint of tremor in his
hands. He moves over to a book on flora and flicks through the pages. “Ahh, the petal comes from
the Mortaeus flower.”

Arthur moves to stand beside him, looking over his shoulder at the flower on the page. “What does
that mean?”

“It says here that someone poisoned by the Mortaeus can only be saved by a potion made from a
stem of the very same flower,” Gaius explains, still reading the page, his finger tracing the words.
“The flower can only be found in the caves beneath the forest of Baloch, growing on the root of the
Mortaeus tree.”

Arthur’s eyes fall on a drawing in the corner of the page, a cruel looking reptilian creature, with a
rooster’s head, a long forked tongue and heavy plates along its back.

“That doesn’t look particularly friendly,” he mutters.

Gaius hums, avoiding Arthur’s eye. “A cockatrice — it guards the flower. Its venom is potent, a
single drop would mean certain death. Few who have gone in search of the Mortaeus have returned
alive.”

A wave of fear crashes over Arthur and he steps back and away from Gaius, crossing his arms tight
across his body. He feels like his body might tremble apart with fear if he doesn’t hold himself
together. A mission so dangerous is potentially suicide, it isn’t worth the risk.

He looks at Merlin, who sacrificed his life for Arthur without hesitation. Who despite their rocky
start has been some of the best company Arthur has ever had. Arthur has to do this, or he’s going to
lose him.

Merlin groans in his fitful unconsciousness, his breath sounds like stones scraping together with
every exhale, and he shudders as he inhales. His skin is sweat soaked and flushed red with fever.
He needs Arthur.

“Sounds like fun,” Arthur says tersely, spinning on his heel to leave the room.

“Arthur, it’s too dangerous.” Gaius attempts to stop him.

Arthur doesn’t hesitate. “If I don’t get the antidote, what happens to Merlin?”

Gaius sighs, a deep pain in his wise eyes. “The Mortaeus induces a slow and painful death, but an
inevitable one. He might hold out for four, maybe five days if he’s lucky, but no longer. He will
die.”

Arthur looks once more at Merlin’s sleeping face, the pain in his furrowed and sweaty brow. There
is no decision to be made. He nods and leaves the room.

~-~-~

Arthur shouldn’t be surprised his father tells him not to go but he is. To him, it hadn’t been a
question; Merlin risked his life to save Arthur’s — twice now — he should do the same. Uther has
no such qualms.

“What is the point of having people taste for you if you’re going to get yourself killed anyway?”

“Merlin’s job is to serve me, not to taste my food, he shouldn’t have been asked to do so in the first
place,” Arthur argues.

“Still better him, than you,” Uther replies, cold and indifferent.

“That’s not fair, it wasn’t his place—” Arthur tries but Uther talks over him.

“You’re right, it wasn’t his place to speak out in court. He learnt his lesson as did the other servants
in the room.”

Arthur recoils. “If he hadn’t said anything I would be the one in Gaius’ chambers dying.”

“Then he can die a hero.” His father shrugs dismissively.

“He doesn’t need to die! I won’t fail no matter what you think, I can get him the antidote—”

Uther growls, his footsteps turning to furious stomps. “Arthur, you are my only son and heir.”
Arthur doesn’t miss the emphasis on the word ‘heir’. He is a valuable possession to both his father
and Camelot. He has always known that the role he is destined to fulfil is beyond his own
importance, and significantly more important than his own desires.

Uther continues, “I can’t risk losing you over the sake of some serving boy.”

Arthur thinks of Merlin lying shuddering, dying on the pallet and a fresh wave of frustration
bubbles up in him.

“What, because his life is worthless?”

Uther rounds on Arthur, irritation sparking in his gaze. “No, because it is worth less than yours.”

The words snap Arthur out of his frantic fury like a slap across his face. It awakens him but leaves
him hollow.

“Please Father,” he begs, acutely aware of how desperate he sounds. “He saved my life, I can’t
stand by and watch him die.”

Uther exhales sharply through his nose.

“Then don’t look.”

The air is knocked from Arthur’s lungs like a punch to his chest, he falters to a stop. Uther stares at
him, stubborn and apathetic, refusing to soften his blows.

“One day I will be dead, and Camelot will need a king. You cannot go risking your life on some
fool’s errand to save the life of a servant boy.”

“But—” “But nothing. This boy won’t be the last to die on your behalf, nor is he the first. It’s
something you’re going to have to get used to.”

Arthur knows that people will die for him. Knights die for him every day. He has been on quests,
battles and regular patrols and watched Knights fall for him at the hands of beasts, soldiers and
mercenaries. It is their job, their purpose, to protect and serve the royal family. They volunteer for
the position, knowing the potential cost.

Merlin is different. This is not his responsibility, his burden to bear. Dying for the royal family is
not what he was hired to do. All he wanted was to protect Arthur, and he was willing to put himself
in danger to do so, but he shouldn’t have been put in that position at all.

“I can’t accept that,” Arthur says, quiet but determined. “I have to save him.”

Uther shouts, face dangerously red with anger. “Damn it Arthur!”

Arthur flinches away from his Father, stomach stewing with sick terror.

“You are not to leave this castle tonight! That is an order.”

Arthur holds himself together until he reaches his chambers. He passes four servants and Sir
Owain on his way. All of them nod and smile and tell him that they are glad that he is okay and
none of them suspect a thing. He’s good at keeping his emotions in check.

He throws his sword at the table when he enters the room, appreciating the satisfying clunk it
makes against the wood. Gaius would forgive him if he didn’t go on the journey, he was the one to
point out how dangerous it would be. Guinevere might not, but they aren’t friends, even Merlin
isn’t technically his friend, it’s improper for a prince to be so dedicated to his servants.

Merlin wouldn’t want Arthur to risk anything for him, not after risking his own life. He would
forgive him, a million times over. He’d probably tease him for even thinking about it.

Arthur can practically hear Merlin now. ‘I’m honoured you’d consider getting off your lazy arse
for me, but don’t be an idiot, you’ll get yourself killed,’ because he has no sense of propriety.
Arthur rests his forehead against the wall, the cool stone refreshes his skin, flushed with stress.

“Say what you want about the food, but you can’t beat our feasts for entertainment,” Morgana’s
voice cuts through the silence of the room.

Arthur quickly recovers, standing tall and plastering a neutral expression onto his face. She raises
an eyebrow at him but doesn’t comment.

They grew up in the castle together, she’s the only person in the world who might understand him,
regardless of how they tease and get on each other's nerves. No matter how much he trusts her, he
still doesn’t let her see how much tonight has upset him. It’s prudent to guard his emotions
carefully.

“Yes well, nothing like an assassination attempt to spice up the evening,” he retorts sarcastically.

Morgana smirks. “I’m almost disappointed I didn’t get to clobber a few Mercians around the head
with a ladle.”

Arthur sighs, unable to help himself from smiling a little. “I’m sure the guards could have handled
Bayard and his men.”

“Yes,” Morgana tips her head, agreeing easily, “but why let the boys have all the fun?”

“Morgana,” Arthur tries to chastise.

She interrupts him, waving her hand and pairing it with a well practised eye roll. “Oh spare me the
lecture, I’ve already had it from Uther.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur says, turning his back on her to look out the window towards the forests of
Baloch, unable to manage their usual back and forth.

Morgana looks at him intently, like she’s reading into his very soul. Arthur always gets the sense
that Morgana knows more than he would ever dare to tell her. The walls he builds to protect
himself are as clear as glass when she narrows her eyes at him.

“Not that I listened to him of course. Sometimes you’ve got to do what you think is right, damn the
consequences.’

Arthur turns to face her in surprise.

“You think I should go,” he says, not a question but a surprised observation.

Morgana raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him, green eyes flashing. “It’s not about what I
think, it’s about what you want.”

“It’s never about what I want, if it were it would be easy.”

She looks pointedly at the way he’s fidgeting uncomfortably with his shirt, an action he usually
would never dare exhibit in front of others.

“It is easy. You care about Merlin.”

Arthur opens his mouth to argue that he can’t care for Merlin, and she rolls her eyes again.
“Alright fine don’t get your pants in a twist; but you enjoy his company and you don’t want to lose
him.”
He can’t argue with that and so he nods hesitantly.

“So do the right thing, Arthur.”

Arthur has never broken a direct order from Uther in his entire life. His twentieth birthday has just
passed and never once has he gone against his father’s word. He is the King, and his order is not a
suggestion but a command.

“What if I don’t make it back? Who will be the next King of Camelot?” Arthur asks. “There’s
more than just my life at stake.”

They both hear the words that go unspoken. If it were just my life I would risk it in a heartbeat.

Morgana blinks solemnly at him.

“And what kind of king would Camelot want? One that would risk his life to save that of a lowly
servant?” She unsheaths his sword from where it sits on the table and holds it out to him. “Or one
who does what his Father tells him?”

Arthur inhales sharply, meeting her challenging expression with his own. Morgana is brash and
wild, whereas he is tempered and cautious, he usually would never let her incite him into
something so perilous. His insides are twisting in turmoil but her ultimatum is one he is not willing
to submit to.

He knows what kind of king he wants to be.

~-~-~

The mist is heavy between the trees in the Forest of Baloch, clinging to Arthur as he rides. The
branches twist and reach towards the sky like clawed hands, grappling at his skin, scratching at his
face and snagging on the fabric of his red cape. It’s one of the eeriest places Arthur has ever
visited, even the dirt seems to have a sinister motive. Every piece of nature is dark and somehow
supernatural, waiting to strike Arthur when he least expects it.

The soft sound of a girl sobbing draws his attention. She is curled on a log, hunched in on herself,
with shaking shoulders. Her red dress is torn to shreds, and there’s a harsh gash cutting along her
right arm.

“Hello?” Arthur calls out, careful not to raise his voice lest he frighten her. He ties his horse to the
branch of a nearby tree and makes his way over to her.

She shudders, looking at him with teary eyes. Her eyes are a vibrant blue, so bright Arthur pauses a
little at the sight of them.

Arthur kneels in front of her, making himself as small as possible so he isn’t intimidating. She
blinks at him widely, still shaking.

“Are you alright?” He asks gently.

She goes to reply but a loud roar interrupts her, cutting through the near silence of the forest.
Arthur jumps to his feet, hand reaching for his sword, drawing it out as the cockatrice breaches the
top of the hill.

As terrifying as Arthur had found the illustration in Gaius’ book it doesn’t compare to the
cockatrice’s real form. It’s immense in size and mostly reptilian in appearance, completely covered
in brown and black scales, with two huge plates sticking out of its back. It’s head is like that of a
rooster, only with rows of sharp teeth along its beak and eyes a terrifying piercing yellow.

It roars again, charging towards him on all four legs, tail slashing through the air, kicking up dirt in
its wake. Arthur lets the familiar calm of a fight overcome him, inhaling and letting his muscles
relax. His sword slashes through the air, just missing the beast. He ducks to avoid its sharp beak;
remembering Gaius’ warning about the deathly nature of the venom.

The cockatrice has the advantage of size and strength over Arthur, but he has speed on his side.
Though the beast is dangerous its heavy tail makes it slow when turning. The beast gnashes it’s
jaws as Arthur ducks behind it and manages to slash a few shallow scratches along its side.

It roars, hitting Arthur hard in the stomach with its tail, sending him flying. He twists, using the
momentum of his fall to roll back to his feet, and ignores the throbbing pain in his side from the
blow. The cockatrice ignores the girl thankfully, instead turning to Arthur with a low growl.

The beast rears up onto its hind legs and roars, Arthur braces himself against the noise, careful not
to wince. A moment’s weakness is all it would take for the cockatrice to kill him. Blindness, even
for a second, is enough time for the beast to overcome him. If Arthur dies, he would prove his
father right, and Merlin will never receive the antidote; more importantly, with Arthur’s death
Merlin’s sacrifice will have been for nothing. He would have risked his own life only for Arthur to
fail him. Death is not an option.

As the cockatrice lunges forward with an almost cat-like pounce, Arthur drops to his back and rolls
underneath the creature’s clawed feet. He turns before the beast has a chance and stabs forward in
the defenceless small of the cockatrice’s back. It screams, throwing its head back with a deafening
roar, scrabbling for purchase on the ground.

Thick black blood oozes from it’s back as it drops dead to the ground.

The girl stares at the dead monster with a somewhat confused expression, as though she can’t
understand how Arthur could have bested it. She trips backwards as Arthur approaches, fear in her
bright blue eyes. Arthur has never seen eyes like them, they seem almost inhuman. Not like
Merlin’s which, though bright, are as natural as flowing water. Her eyes seem like they were forged
and planted into her head, completely artificial.

“Don’t worry,” he assures her, reaching out a hand. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She nods shakily, her eyes glance down at the wound on her shoulder.

“Who did that to you? What are you doing alone in the forest?” Arthur asks. He catalogues the
wound. He’s no physician, but battle has taught him to learn the difference between fatal wounds
and treatable injuries. She won’t die but it should be treated before it gets infected.

“My master. I escaped him but then I got lost, I have no horse, no supplies. I’m stuck here,” she
explains. “Please don’t leave me.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m not going to leave you, don’t worry,” he reassures her. She visibly
relaxes. “We’ll leave together, there’s just something I have to do first.”

He makes his way over to his horse to release it, leading it towards the gaping mouth of the cave
not far from where the cockatrice had lurked.

“What do you seek in the caves?”

Arthur glances at her, cautious to say too much.

“I know the caves, I might be able to help.” She offers a small smile. There’s no risk in giving her
more information about what he seeks, especially if she can help him. Merlin is far from her reach,
and he’s already slain the cockatrice, if she wanted the flower for herself she could have already
taken it.

“It’s a rare flower that only grows here in the caves,” Arthur explains. Not too much information,
not too little.

“The Mortaeus flower?” She guesses. “I know where they are, come on, I’ll show you.”

~-~-~

Gaius watches in concern as Merlin thrashes in his sleep, face screwed up in pain and panting for
air between pitiful whines of anguish.

His skin is burning hot when Gaius touches it, like there’s a fire lit in his chest, heating him from
the inside out. Gwen squeezes out the cool towel and returns it to Merlin’s forehead and he
whimpers in pain.

The circular rash on his skin makes Gaius’ heart heavy with worry. The mark is a confirmation
that the poison had been enchanted, escalating its efficiency, making certain that death would only
be two days away.

He is almost convinced that the poison is the work of Nimueh. He had been right to be concerned
after Merlin stopped her afanc and thwarted her attempt to bring about Camelot’s destruction from
within its belly. She is not a sorceress known for forgiveness. Gaius knows that, he should have
known she would want revenge on Merlin.

He takes the seat opposite Gwen, taking Merlin’s hand between his own weathered palms and
giving it a squeeze. Merlin’s hand is sweaty and clammy with fever, the tips of his fingers are as
hot as burning coals, but Gaius holds on anyway.

In the last month he has developed a fondness for the boy unlike any other. In a short space of time
he transitioned from protecting Merlin for Hunith’s sake, to doing so out of his own affection for
the boy.

He hates sitting by him, unable to do anything and knowing that if Arthur fails, Merlin doesn’t
stand a chance.

“Arthur,” Merlin whimpers, still completely unconscious. “Arthur, stop, no, it’s a trap.”

Gwen’s eyebrows furrow in both concern and confusion as she rubs her thumb over his cheekbone.
“His fever’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

Gaius nods, watching with an aching heart as Merlin’s face twists in agony, his breath coming out
in heaving whistles and gasps.

“The poison’s setting in,” he says solemnly.

Merlin mutters in his restless sleep, mumbling incantations and other magical spells Gaius doesn’t
recognise. Gaius shushes him gently, taking the cool towel from Gwen and dabbing it against his
burning forehead. There’s only so much magic Gwen can hear before she connects the dots, and
Gaius can’t let that happen no matter how trustworthy Gwen seems.
“Can you get me some more hollyhock?” He asks, searching in his mind for the herb that will take
her the longest to acquire.

“Yes, of course,” she nods, getting to her feet and hurrying from the room.

Gaius waits until the moment he hears the door click closed after her before leaning close to
Merlin.

“You have to fight this, Merlin,” he whispers, squeezing the boy’s hand tight in his own. “You
must fight it.”

~-~-~

Within the caves it’s so dark that without the light of a torch Arthur wouldn’t be able to see his
own hand inches from his own face. Their footfalls echo loudly through the tunnels, every sound
they make is like a thunderclap against the silence. The tunnel opens to form a wide cave and
Arthur’s torch barely casts enough light to reach the opposite wall. A thin formation of rock juts
out forming a bridge to the far side of the room. As he stretches his torch arm out he can see the
yellow petals of the Mortaeus flower clinging to roots implanted in the wall.

“Stay away from the edge, alright?” Arthur turns to look at the girl, as he begins to inch his way
along the thin outcrop.

As he inches away from her she begins whispering what he initially presumes to be a prayer.
However as her voice grows louder the sound of magical incantation is unmistakable. Arthur has
been raised to fear magic, to know its signs, its sounds. Those words are undoubtedly the words of
the Old Religion.

“What are you doing?” He shouts, turning to look at her in distress.

She smiles cruelly, continuing to chant. The innocence from her eyes has been devoured, and her
inhumanly blue irises almost glow in the light of the torch. The rock beneath Arthur’s feet
crumbles and he launches for the far wall, towards the Mortaeus flower. His torch falls into the
chasm below, the light extinguishes and her torch becomes his single source of light.

Arthur’s hands latch onto a small ledge, there’s just enough of an outstretch of rock to grip onto.
His arms shake with the effort of holding himself up. Arthur gasps as his hand slips and he has to
readjust to a stronger hold. As his fingers struggle for purchase his stomach drops in preparation
for a fall that is yet to come. His heart races in his chest, strong enough that he can feel it in the tips
of his fingers.

“I expected so much more,” she says disdainfully, wrinkling her nose at him.

“Who are you?” Arthur demands, grunting with effort as he attempts to haul himself to safety.

She tips her head consideringly at him. “The last face you will ever see.”

“Then why don’t you kill me?” Arthur asks. His fingers slip slightly, his hands cramp, and his
arms tremble as his stamina wears thin.

An ominous hiss sounds before the girl has a chance to answer and she smiles, red lips curving into
a cold grin. He follows her line of sight to spot a scuttling creature, a spider the size of Arthur
inching along the walls. Its eyes are red and beedy as they survey Arthur, and as its long legs move
towards the torch light he can see they are fuzzy with black hair.
“It is not your destiny to die at my hand, Arthur Pendragon,” she answers cooly. He glances around
in surprise, although he shouldn’t be shocked she knows his name. “I think I will leave my friends
to finish you off.”

She turns and leaves, taking with her any answers Arthur might hope to receive and his only source
of light. The darkness of the room swallows Arthur, he couldn’t hope to see past his own nose. The
sounds of the creatures moving towards him echoes in his ears, made infinitely more terrifying by
the fact that he can’t see them. His heart pounds in his throat as they hiss and snap their oversized
pincers. His breaths come in short sharp pants, panic making the air thin.

He breathes harshly through gritted teeth, trying to keep himself calm but it’s impossible when all
he can hear is the scuttling of spiders signalling his imminent death. When every shifting rock
beneath his fingertips will be the final thing to crumble the ledge to pieces and send him falling
into the abyss below.

He’s completely blind, and completely alone.

~-~-~

“Arthur. It’s too dark, too dark, ” Merlin whimpers, struggling in his sleep, before going very still.

His incantation is clear, instead of the words slurring together he pronounces them with perfect
articulation. A strange glow emits from beneath the cover of the worn, rough blanket Gaius
swaddled him in earlier.

Gaius pulls the cloth away, revealing a glowing blue ball of light sitting in the palm of Merlin’s
hand. The light casts a soft blue glow over the room. Merlin is now the most peaceful since the
poison entered his bloodstream. His eyelashes flutter in sleep, his lips are parted, his eyebrows are
scrunched in concentration and his breath , while shallow, comes out in slow steady exhales.

“Merlin?” Gaius asks aloud. “What are you doing?”

Merlin gasps suddenly, groaning in pain and still completely unconscious despite his movement.

“No,” he practically shouts. “Leave them, Arthur.”

The glow of the magic in his palm intensifies, growing to match his franticness, so painfully bright
that Gaius is forced to shield his eyes.

“Please Arthur, please just leave it,” Merlin says, voice raw with desperation. “Save yourself,
follow the light. Get out of there, please.”

~-~-~

Arthur’s arms shake, threatening to give in. He knows he has the strength to haul himself onto the
ledge, but it’s impossible to know if the rock is safe. The hissing has definitely gotten louder, it
seems to close in on him from every direction. His breath hitches, and a drop of sweat slides down
the side of his forehead. He’s completely paralysed by fear, stuck imagining the worst case
scenarios that fill his mind. He tries to focus on slowing his breathing and rationalising his
thoughts. He only has two options, pull himself up or stay out of sight. If Arthur pulls himself onto
the ledge and a spider is waiting there, he doesn’t stand a chance, but his arms can’t stand the
strain for much longer either.

He squeezes his eyes shut, arms shuddering with pain and weakening as every second passes.
When he opens them again a blue glow is illuminating the cave. He looks around desperately, eyes
falling on the ball of luminescence as it casts light throughout the cave. Magic.

“Come on then!” He shouts at the offensive magic. “What are you waiting for? Finish me off!”

The ball of light does nothing to endanger him, but it hovers closer, not so close that it could touch
nor hurt him, just enough to show it is there for him. The spiders are visible now, and Arthur can
see they’re further away than he thought. He grits his teeth hard and musters his strength, heaving
himself up onto the ledge. His muscles scream with effort but he’s able to crawl onto the ledge,
heaving huge gulps of air and tucking himself close to the wall.

The ball of light edges closer. It feels welcoming, familiar. It drifts close to him almost
affectionately, which is daft, a ball of light can’t be affectionate. Nevertheless, the magic achieves
it. Arthur doesn’t understand how, but he knows the light is friendly. It emanates an energy that
makes Arthur certain, without a shadow of doubt in his mind, that he can trust it.

It starts to float upwards, despite being silent Arthur knows it is beckoning him to follow, to climb
out towards the safety. Arthur looks at it and then turns to see the flower just out of reach. He
hasn’t come this far only to let Merlin die. It’s not an option.

He inches along the wall, hands pressed to the stone. The spiders hiss, crawling closer, their long
hairy legs making scuttling noises that echo throughout the chamber. Arthur ignores them,
gathering his courage. The Mortaeus flower is just above his head, he climbs towards it.

There isn’t a foothold close enough. He stretches as far as possible, but the flower remains just out
of reach from his pinching fingers. Arthur strains desperately, Merlin’s sick face in his mind,
Merlin dying in Gaius’ chamber and Arthur the only one who can help him. The scuttling of the
spiders grows closer but he blocks them out, focusing only on the flower, so close, just barely out
of his grasp.

He stretches a tiny bit further and his fingers curl around the stem, pulling the flower free.

The spiders are dangerously close. His hands slip and scramble against the walls of the cave, as he
climbs, following the blue light towards safety. The stone crumbles in places as his hands grip for
purchase, he eventually tugs his gloves off with his teeth, letting them drop into the abyss below.
The blue light guides him towards safer footholds and more secure walls. It’s companionship is
comforting, a physical representation that somewhere out there, someone wants to keep him safe.

He kicks out at a spider that comes too close, striking it in the face and listens to its screech as it
tumbles down into the chasm.

The blue light moves into the open air, through the open roof of the cave and into the forest.
Arthur focuses on putting one foot after the other, tucking his feet into the best footholds he can
find, desperately climbing towards the light.

Arthur collapses onto the ground outside the cave, quickly jumping to his feet, sword at the ready;
but the spiders don’t follow him out. He gives himself two short moments to breathe, letting his
shoulders slump, before squaring them again and running for his horse.

~-~-~

Arthur advances on the castle faster than he’s ever ridden in his life. His heart is thumping with
such vigour against his chest it feels like it might escape. A blockade of soldiers meet him at the
northern gate, swords drawn and circle his horse so he can’t enter the citadel.

He frowns. “What are you doing? Let me pass.”

The knights shift uncomfortably, like they would rather be doing anything else.

“I’m sorry Sire,” Bedevere says. “You’re under arrest by order of the King.”

Arthur blinks, muscles tensing and heart stuttering to a stop. In the hysteria of the day since leaving
the castle he had completely forgotten about his father, and he tenses in anticipation of what is to
come.

He does not unwind for the duration of the walk to the dungeons. His heart is a steady war drum
beating against the barrel of his chest, urging anxiety through his veins with every steady pump.
The fear only increases when the King storms into the cell with a crash.

His father is more furious than Arthur has ever seen him. He seems possessed by an enraged
energy, rendering him unable to pause for a moment. He paces the length of Arthur’s cell, his face
steadily growing redder as he storms the small space.

“You deliberately disobeyed me,” he growls, glaring at Arthur like his very presence disgusts him.

Arthur runs an anxious hand through his hair. “Of course I did! A man’s life was at stake.”

Uther stares at Arthur in shock, finally going still, his jaw slack. Arthur doesn’t speak his mind. He
doesn’t disobey orders; and he certainly doesn’t yell at his father.

“Do not let Merlin die because of something I did.”

His father blinks at him now completely still. It’s almost more terrifying than his pacing. “Why do
you care so much? The boy is just a servant.”

Arthur feels sick.

Yes, Merlin is just a servant but he’s the only person who would ever think to put himself at risk
for Arthur, and Arthur alone. Not because he’s a prince and not because Merlin has an obligation
to protect him, but because he wants to. He cares in a way no one in Arthur’s life ever has:
unconditionally.

“He knew the danger he was putting himself in; he knew what would happen if he drank from that
goblet,” Arthur says instead. Uther turns his back on him, leaving Arthur with only the tense line of
frustration in his spine and shoulders. “But he did it anyway. To save my life.”

Uther scoffs, “I thought you would be happy, you never wanted to hire the boy in the first place.”

“I was wrong. I would not wish this fate on anyone.”

Least of all Merlin.

The flower is fragile in Arthur’s hold as he pulls it from the satchel and holds it out to his father.
Uther looks down at it, face stern but confused.

“Gaius knows what to do with it,” Arthur says, letting Uther take the flower. He allows the
emotion that has been driving him all night seep into his words; the exhaustion and desperation to
protect Merlin.

“Put me in the stocks, for a week, a month even. I don’t care. Just make sure this gets to him.” He
stares at his father pleadingly. “I’m begging you.”

Uther stares at him, the crease between his eyebrows as deep as the chasm Arthur had confronted.
The King doesn’t break eye contact as he takes the delicate flower in his grasp and crushes it in a
fist.

“No!”

Arthur stares distraught at the crushed flower. His chest shudders as his airway seals itself closed,
his ribs spasm as they struggle to bring air to his already desperate lungs. His eyes won’t part from
the broken petals of the small flower, too frail and delicate to hold such importance.

“You have to learn there’s a right, and a wrong way of doing things,” Uther says, watching
Arthur’s horrified reaction without a care. “I’ll see you’re let out in a week.”

He turns and walks out of the cell. Arthur inhales deeply struggling to keep the tears pricking his
eyes at bay. He blinks furiously, eyes following the swing of his father’s fist where the crushed
flower remains as he slams the door closed.

Uther turns and looks at Arthur once more.

“Then you can find yourself another servant.” He drops the flower to the ground, just outside of the
barred door.

It lies on the floor, crushed and wilted.

Arthur waits until Uther is out of sight before dropping to his knees and reaching through the bars,
stretching until his fingertips brush the flower’s broken petals.

He’s sitting at the back of the cell when Guinevere enters with a tray of food. He bites at the inside
of his cheek hard enough to draw blood in effort not to reveal how relieved he is to see her. There
isn’t a chance Morgana’s attendant would be responsible for bringing him food, her position as
maidservant is too highly ranked, she must be here for Merlin. He has to remain impassive and
calm, if he reveals to the guards that she has snuck down here not only will she be in danger but
Merlin will never get the antidote.

“Set it down over there,” he orders, keeping his voice stern and emotionless. He sees the flash of
worry, in Guinevere’s eyes but it can’t be helped.

She carefully moves across the cell in silence, and lays the plate of bread and cheese on a crate in
the corner.

Arthur walks over to the meal, letting the flower slip from his tunic onto the plate and tucking the
bread around it.

“Wait a minute,” he calls out, stopping her before she leaves the cell. Dread gnaws at his insides.
He can see in her eyes that Merlin is not faring better. “I couldn’t possibly eat this, it's disgusting.”

He shoves the plate into her arms and looks intently at her, desperately hoping she understands his
concealed message. “The state it’s in, it’s better suited to a servant.”

Guinevere smiles slightly, just enough Arthur can see it but the guards cannot with her back turned
to them. He forces himself not to squirm with embarrassment, uncomfortably aware how
vulnerable and genuine he is being.

It doesn’t matter, as long as Merlin will be okay.

~-~-~
Gaius hasn’t used his magic since the Great Purge. He remembers the day it began as clearly as if it
were yesterday. He remembers Uther demanding Gaius denounce magic, or join the other sorcerers
on the pyre. To condemn sorcery was a low price in comparison to keeping his life and position as
court physician.

Ever since he was a young man his desire had been to combine his prowess for healing magic with
his natural inclination towards science and the practise of medicine, to merge the two fields and
improve medicine for the better. The Great Purge all that was required of him was to adjust his
dream to be solely focused on physical and practical healing. His magic had always been a weaker
part of him, to surrender it was not difficult, and he has never even thought about returning to the
practice of sorcery.

Until now. Until Merlin.

He looks at the boy. He’s so pale he looks like a breathing corpse, his eyelids sunken and purpling,
mouth pinched in pain and hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His breaths are so shallow
they barely sink his stomach, Gaius has to place a hand to his mouth to feel a whisper of air
whistling in and out. He doesn’t have a choice. Without magic, he cannot make the antidote Merlin
needs, and he will be lost.

He sends Gwen to fetch water for him. She’s a lovely girl who has shown many times in the last
two days that she would do anything for Merlin, but being witness to sorcery may be too far, even
for her. To Gaius’ knowledge she would have only been a year old when the Great Purge began,
and would have grown up being taught to fear magic. It’s better to not force her to confront that
now.

As soon as the door closes behind her Gaius digs deep into his soul, searching for the magic that
once resided there. When he was a young man, though he was not a powerful sorcerer, his magic
was a thick and strong coil of rope; now it has thinned away with misuse, frayed and thin as a piece
of thread, but it’s still there.

He cups the pestle with the ingredients to the antidote and tips his head back. The words return to
him immediately, even after twenty years of neglect. He murmurs the incantation, careful to be
quiet so no passing soul would hear. He seizes his magic and steers it towards the concoction,
wrapping the tendrils of it around the flower’s stem and fusing them together with the ancient
incantation.

Gaius opens his eyes carefully, peering down at the potion as it hisses and bubbles before falling
still. A swell of relief rises in him, washing over him in a steady wave. Even internally he’d had an
itch of doubt as to whether he would be able to perform magic after so long. He doesn’t know if he
could forgive himself if they lost Merlin now because of his own lack of skill.

Gwen runs in with the freshwater, her face flushed with exertion and exhaustion, but hopeful. He
takes it from her with a quiet thanks and pours it into the potion, mixing as quickly as he can
fathom.

He hurries to Merlin’s side, commanding Gwen to hold his nose as he carefully pours the potion
down his throat. Merlin doesn’t respond, immobile beneath Gaius' hands as he tends to him.
There’s a long stretching silence as they both wait.

Merlin stops breathing.

“Gaius,” Gwen says, panic making her voice high and shrill as she leans forward and presses her
fingers to where Merlin’s pulse should be on his wrist.
Gaius’ heart drops. He places his hands on Merlin’s chest, waiting for the feeling of his heart.
Nothing comes.

“His heart has stopped,” he forces out, the words are thick and stick to his throat. Merlin lies
completely still, the sight of him lifeless feels like a horrific nightmare.

Gwen shakes her head, hands pressed to her lips and tears shining in her eyes. She is mute with
horror.

“It can’t be,” Gaius murmurs, touching his fingers to Merlin’s wrist, the side of his neck,
desperately chasing the faint outline of a pulse. “It can’t be,” he repeats helplessly.

Gwen shudders. “If I had been quicker, if I had gotten here sooner—” she cuts off with a sob.

“No,” Gaius stops her, opening his arms and letting her fall into them. “No it’s not your fault. He
was under my care, I should have looked after him better.”

Gaius squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing Gwen’s back as she shakes against him. In all his years as
physician, all the deaths he has been forced to witness, it has never felt this overwhelmingly
terrible, like an important piece of the world has been annihilated.

“The way you’re acting, you’d think somebody died.”

They both look down at the pallet to see Merlin looking up at them with a weak smile. Joy swells
in Gaius as he takes the boy in, who’s breathing, smiling and wonderfully alive. His heart sings in
relief, exhaling easily for the first time in days.

“Merlin!” He exclaims, a smile overcoming his face. “You’re alive!”

Merlin grins, his arms trembling with the effort of holding himself up.

“Nah, I’m a ghost, come back to haunt you,” he teases, a cheeky glint in his eyes.

Gwen lets out a gleeful sobbing noise, overwhelmed with joy, and throws her arms around Merlin’s
neck, knocking him back onto the bed with a grunt. He smiles over her shoulder, the crinkled edges
of his eyes just visible as he buries his face in her neck.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” Gaius can just hear her say softly, the words muffled by Merlin’s
shoulder.

~-~-~

Arthur watches Bayard’s delegation as they march away, a sea of blue soldiers, servants and
noblemen. After a week of back and forth, in which Arthur was contained to the dungeon, the
kingdom had finally decided to leave without signing a peace treaty. The visit did not achieve what
they had hoped, and likely has ensured another period of war between the two kingdoms.

“Arthur,” his father’s voice interrupts Arthur’s observation of the leaving embassy. “You knew
Bayard’s men were not responsible for the poison, you said so to the guards, did you not?”

Straight to business, exactly like always.

“I did.”

Uther follows Arthur’s line of sight to Bayard’s men and their path out of Camelot. “What made
you realise?”
“There was a woman at the mountain,” Arthur says. He sees his father jerk out of the corner of his
eye and he looks at him curiously. The scar jutting across his forehead is creased along with his
frown lines, deep in thought.

“She knew I was there for the flower,” he continues. “I think she was the one who tried to poison
me.”

Uther pauses, digesting this information.

“This woman, what did she tell you?” He asks, voice surprisingly solemn.

“Not much. She was too busy trying to get me killed.” Arthur shrugs.

Uther’s jaw tightens, a twitch that Arthur has come to know he’s worried about something. He also
knows better than to ask. Uther is not one to share his personal feelings with his son.

“You must have been scared,” Uther says, finally turning to look at Arthur. After a week in the
cell, alone with his thoughts, unaware if he had even succeeded in saving Merlin, it’s a relief to see
the edge of guilt around his father’s eyes.

He tips his head slightly. “It had its moments.”

“Those who practise magic know only evil. They despise and seek to destroy goodness wherever
they find it…”

It is a tirade Arthur knows well, familiar as a well worn children’s book read to him by the nurses
at bedtime. However Uther’s addition is not one he expects.

“Which is why she wanted you dead.”

Silence falls over them again, it’s uncomfortable, the way it always is with his father. Eventually
Uther sighs, reaching out and touching Arthur’s shoulder. He’s startled by the touch, looking down
at it in surprise. Uther has never and will never be a physically affectionate father. He stopped
hugging Arthur at six years old. A touch to the shoulder is high comfort coming from him.

“You did the right thing, even though you were disobeying me,” he concedes.

Arthur can’t help but smile, crossing his arms over his chest and doing his best not to grin. The
words light up in his veins, leaving a pleasant hum that warms him from the inside out.

“I’m proud of you, Arthur. Never forget that.”

~-~-~

Merlin’s entire body aches. In spite of a week having gone by since the antidote rejected the
poison from his system, still every muscle in his body feels like he endured hours of physical
training; even the muscles of his pinky finger are tender and sore.

He’s hunched over a cup of tea Gaius prepared for him — much to his protests — with a scratchy
blanket thrown over his shoulders.

“Still alive then?” Arthur’s voice cuts through the quiet. Merlin turns towards him, taking in the
easy, almost affectionate, smile on his face.

Merlin smiles back, unable to help himself, Arthur’s smile is contagious. “Uh yeah just about.”
Arthur’s smile goes soft, less teasing and more genuinely relieved to see Merlin sitting up and
alright.

He knew that he and Arthur were growing closer, the animosity to the beginning of their
relationship long forgotten even though only a month has passed. It’s a symptom of spending the
majority of their days together, but it’s nice to have reassurance that Arthur actually cares.

Not only did he retrieve the antidote Merlin needed, putting his own life on the line, but he clearly
cares about Merlin’s recovery too.

“I understand I have you to thank for that.” Merlin looks up at Arthur where he’s come to settle by
him, one hand sitting on the back of Merlin’s chair, close enough his knuckles brush Merlin’s
shoulder.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Well, it was nothing. A half-decent servant is hard to come by.”

“Half-decent? That might be the closest you’ve ever come to complimenting me,” Merlin teases,
shooting Arthur a weak grin.

Arthur laughs. “Don’t get used to it.”

Arthur has a nice laugh, it’s loud and addictive, infectious in the best way, inciting everyone
around him to smile too. His eyes crinkle deeply in the corners and his grin stretches wide.
Sometimes, if Merlin can get him to laugh hard enough, his shoulders will shake with it.

Merlin looks down at the table, ducking his head to hide how wide he’s smiling.

They both go quiet, relaxing in the comfortable silence.

“Well,” Arthur says, his voice soft so as not to break the bubble they’ve found themselves in. “I
was only dropping by to make sure you were alright.”

Merlin’s head turns to look at Arthur in surprise, and behind them he can see Gaius doing the same.
Arthur stiffens slightly, remembering where he is and that he usually doesn’t let himself relax so
openly.

“And to check you’d be back to work tomorrow,” he adds, raising his eyebrows pointedly at
Merlin.

It’s a weak excuse but Merlin allows it. “Oh yeah, of course, bright and early.”

Arthur turns to leave, patting the back of Merlin’s chair absently before he steps back. Merlin
watches Arthur go, and even sees the awkward bob of his head directed towards Gaius as he
passes. He makes it all the way to the door before Merlin calls out.

“Arthur.”

He turns back to Merlin at the sound of his name, a surprised and curious expression on his face.

“Thank you,” Merlin tries to saturate his gratitude into those two words. There aren’t enough
words to express how much Arthur’s actions truly mean to him, but he does his best with the
simple show of acknowledgement.

Arthur stares back, his eyes going soft and unguarded. “You too,” he says quietly. An
acknowledgement of Merlin’s risk in protecting him from the poison, and Arthur’s own
 appreciation

“Get some rest,” Arthur adds, turning and walking out of the room before Merlin can think to say
something in response.

Chapter End Notes

sorry this one came out a bit later in the day, i just got off a 14 hour flight an hour ago
!! but i hope you liked it !!

let me know what you thought in the comments, did you have a favourite bit ?? or a
line that really stood out to you, i love to hear about it !! your comments and kudos
genuinely brighten my day !!!!

can't wait to see you all on the 31st of july for the next chapter !!!
 The Knight's Code
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

If Merlin dies while foraging for mushrooms, he’s coming back as a ghost purely to make sure
Gaius never forgets it.

The beast charges out of the forest on all fours, sprinting towards Merlin. His breath catches in his
throat. The beast advances on him with terrifying speed. Merlin doesn’t even have time to gasp
before it is almost upon him. The creature moves like a cat but propels forward with the body of a
lion. Its sharp claws hit the ground, kicking up dirt with every stride. Its screeching head belongs to
an eagle, the beak of its feathery face stretched wide and sharp as it prepares to attack. Huge wings
fan out behind the beast, flapping to increase its already terrifying speed.

Merlin runs, feet slamming into the ground in his frantic scramble to escape. He feels slow and
sluggish compared to the hulking beast, he swings his arms wildly in a desperate attempt to move
faster. He doesn’t dare look back, but the sounds of the beast grow closer. His lungs burn, his heart
rate sprints wildly, thumping against his chest like war drums. Sweat trickles down his forehead as
he rushes through the trees.

He lets out a yelp as his foot snags on a root and he topples to the ground, hitting the floor with an
oof. He turns, scrabbling on the loose dirt. His breath catches in his throat. The beast rears up
above him.

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for the fatal blow. His heart beat crashes in his ears. He
waits, but nothing happens.

He opens his eyes to see a man has jumped to his rescue. Armed with a sword, he attacks, driving
the beast back with wide sweeps of silver. The creature roars, snapping at the man, ducking its
massive beak as it backs away from the blade.

The man stumbles as the beast swipes him to the side but doesn’t falter. He drives his sword
forward at the first opportunity. The sword splinters as it collides with the beast’s hide, shattering
to pieces. The man freezes, looking down at his sword, then at Merlin in horror.

“Run! Run!” He urges, grabbing Merlin’s arm, hauling him to his feet.

They bolt through the forest, weaving between the trees, jumping over roots and rocks. The man,
clearly more logical than Merlin, stays within the trees that have grown closer together. Here they
can fit comfortably but the beast can’t.

The pounding of the creature’s paws follows them, accompanied by angry shrieks which send
chills down Merlin’s spine.

The man uses his hold on Merlin’s arm to yank him down and behind a log. Merlin holds his
breath, careful not to make a sound over the deafening boom of his heart thumping in his ears.

The beast, thankfully, flies away with a furious shriek, taking off in the direction of a nearby town.

Merlin drops his head back against the log, finally letting out a gasp. Fear still sits in his throat in a
thick layer but the air passes through, entering his lungs in a relieving wave. The terror slowly
eases from his body in bursts of shivering tremors.
“Holy shit,” Merlin wheezes, pressing his palm to his heart, he can feel it racing against his touch
through his chest. He repeats the sentiment a few more times to be sure.

The man next to him lets out a weak laugh of agreement.

“You saved my life,” Merlin says, turning to him with a wide eyed look of appreciation. “Thank
you.”

The man waves him off flippantly, Merlin vaguely notices the man is barely moving his left side,
but his mind is too slow from the adrenaline to comprehend it.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m Merlin.” He holds out his hand for the man to shake and he does so with an exhausted smile.

“Lancelot.”

Merlin watches in horror as Lancelot’s head lolls back and his eyelids droop, still clutching his left
side. The confusion from the fight falls away and Merlin can now see a small wound where the
beast must have struck.

~-~-~

When Merlin gets Lancelot to Gaius he assures him that the man will be fine.

“The wound itself is superficial and the fever will pass. He should be fine by the morning.”

Gaius is right of course. Merlin discovers a fully recovered Lancelot the next morning, peering out
the window and looking down in wonder at the streets of Camelot. If Merlin’s first impression of
the city had been amazement, it doesn’t hold a torch to the awestruck way Lancelot admires the
view from the castle. He smiles down at the streets, practically falling out the window in
desperation to see more.

“Good morning,” Merlin greets him, leaning against his door frame.

Lancelot turns and returns the sentiment with a beaming smile, so bright that Merlin suddenly
needs the support of the door frame to stay upright.

“It’s amazing isn’t it?” He says, turning back to the window.

Merlin takes a seat by his side, careful not to stare for too long. He had noticed Lancelot was
attractive when they met, but the adrenaline of being in mortal danger was clouding his judgement
in that moment. Now he can see that his initial assessment wasn’t favourable enough. Aside from
Arthur maybe, Lancelot is one of the most gorgeous men Merlin has ever laid eyes on. He has
deep soulful eyes that shine with wonderment, framed by soft dark hair that curls around his ears.
The subtlest beginning of stubble spreads across his chin and upper lip that all curve into a giddy
smile. His tanned skin glows in the morning light and soaks in the Camelot sun. He holds his
shoulders in an assured yet humble manner, it’s clear that chivalry has been embedded into his very
bones. Merlin can see the lines of strong muscles through his threadbare shirt, built up with years
of consistent training and labour.

“Ever since I was a child, I’ve dreamed of coming to this city,” Lancelot says, still looking out the
window rather than at Merlin, like he can’t bear to take his eyes off Camelot.

“You grew up in Camelot?” Merlin asks.

Lancelot shakes his head. “No. I grew up in the villages of Nemeth just south of here.”

“Why Camelot then?”

Lancelot’s eyes sparkle with a dreamlike wonder as he faces Merlin. “It is my life’s ambition to
join the Knights of Camelot. They are revered throughout all the kingdoms for their honour, their
strength. I want to be one of them.”

Merlin smiles to himself. It’s easy to picture Lancelot in such a role after he came to Merlin’s
rescue only a day ago. He has more of the knightly qualities Arthur prattles on about than most of
the idiots who already are knights. The mental visualisation of him in a knight’s armour is not only
easy to conjure but Merlin imagines would be easy on the eyes.

With a sigh Lancelot turns back to the window.

“I know, I expect too much. They have their pick of the best and bravest in the land. Why would
they choose me?”

Merlin frowns in disbelief. Just a few days ago one of the ‘best and bravest in the land’ had
knocked over an entire display of armour while attempting to pull off his boots. Only Sir Leon had
been kind enough to stay behind to help pick up the mess left behind.

“Lancelot,” Merlin says, drawing the man’s attention. “They’re going to love you.”

Lancelot’s eyes go wide with hope, and a gracious smile adorns his soft mouth. It’s small, as if he
doesn’t dare believe Merlin could be telling the truth.

“They are?”

“Absolutely! I’ve seen you in combat, you’re incredible.”

“Hardly.” He waves Merlin off, ducking his head with a shy smile to avoid his eyes.

“Trust me I’ve seen my fair share of knights, you are more than worthy. I think you could beat
Arthur himself.”

Lancelot’s eyes widen to the size of saucers. “Certainly not.”

Merlin slaps his knees, determination settling with an exciting buzz as an idea blooms in his mind.
“In fact, I’m going to speak with him right now. I’m sure he would love to meet you.”

“You know Prince Arthur?” Lancelot asks incredulously, jaw dropping open in disbelief.

Merlin grins, getting to his feet. “Oh yes, too well I’d say.”

Lancelot stares at him with a cynical twist to his eyebrows, like he’s waiting for Merlin to reveal
the punchline. “I’m his manservant,” Merlin explains, tipping his head, gesturing for Lancelot to
follow him out of Gaius’ chambers and towards the area where Arthur would be preparing some of
the squires to face their final test before achieving knighthood.

~-~-~

As Merlin expected, it’s easy to arrange with Arthur to meet Lancelot. However there is a small
issue: according to the knight’s code, only noblemen are permitted to be knights of Camelot. It’s
nothing Merlin can’t overcome, all it takes is a magically forged seal of nobility, and Lancelot’s
dream of becoming a knight is essentially achieved.
The harder part is convincing Lancelot to agree.

Merlin knew, even before he asked, that Lancelot would be opposed to the lie. He seems to be
someone determined to do the right thing, no matter the cost. But Merlin also knows that Arthur
needs more knights, he’s been complaining about it constantly, especially since the presence of the
newfound beast tormenting Camelot. He’s also sure that Arthur will appreciate Lancelot’s strength
and honour. If he never finds out Lancelot isn’t a member of the nobility, how will that hurt him?

“I’m still not sure, Merlin,” Lancelot says softly as Merlin leads him to Gwen’s cottage, rapping
twice on the door.

“Remember, you still have to prove yourself. Pretending you’re nobility is only a little lie to get
your foot in the door,” Merlin reminds him. “Everything else is up to you.”

The door opens to reveal Gwen. She’s wearing a soft pink dress and her hair is twisted into a messy
updo, the picture of casual beauty. She offers them both a winning smile which Merlin returns
eagerly.

“Merlin! And you must be Lancelot.”

Merlin glances over at Lancelot taking in his awestruck expression with a smirk.

Gwen steps aside to let them in, giving Merlin a short hug before he passes. “Come in, make
yourself at home, Merlin.”

Gwen leads Lancelot to the centre of the room, unravelling a measuring ribbon and beginning to
size him. Both she and Merlin only have a short space of time when they’re not expected to be
attending to Morgana and Arthur so she moves quickly.

Merlin watches from the corner of the room in amusement as Lancelot’s face steadily colours as
Gwen moves down his body.

Lancelot clears his throat. “This is very kind of you, Gwen. Thank you.”

Gwen wraps the measuring ribbon around his thigh and Merlin has to bite his tongue to keep
himself from laughing as Lancelot’s eyes snap to the far wall.

“There’s no need to thank me, I’m happy to help,” she assures him. When she stands they both
pause for a long moment, before Gwen breaks contact by moving around his back.

“I think it’s great that Merlin’s got you this chance — sorry can you raise your arms? — We need
men like you.” Lancelot raises his arms out to his sides and Gwen wraps her own around his
middle, pulling the ribbon to circle him.

“You do?” Lancelot looks at her in wonder. Their eyes meet again as Gwen moves to measure
around the width of his neck, her knuckles brush his skin and Merlin watches Lancelot shiver.

A dark flush creeps up Gwen’s neck, her eyes growing wide and her expression more than a little
enamoured. Merlin contemplates leaving the room to give them privacy.

“Well, not me, personally that is. We, like Camelot, you know, Camelot needs knights um—” She
shuffles away from Lancelot again, unconvincingly checking her notes.

“We need knights like you, not just people like Arthur and his kind, but ordinary people like you
and me,” she explains quickly, not looking up from the parchment.
Lancelot smiles, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I’m not a knight yet, my lady.”

Gwen looks up with a startled smile. “And I’m not a lady.”

There’s another long pregnant pause where the two stare into each other’s eyes, smiling shyly.
Lancelot looks at Gwen the same way he looked at Camelot, like she’s breathtaking and he can’t
take his eyes off her for a second, lest she disappear.

“Right!” Gwen says suddenly, too loud. “We’re done, um, I should have these ready in no time.”

Merlin gets to his feet, and she glances at him with wide, startled eyes. She had clearly forgotten he
was there. He smirks, hoping she sees one his face that he will absolutely be teasing her about this
later.

“It was nice to meet you, Lancelot,” she says, holding out her hand for him to shake.

Lancelot takes her offered hand and bends over to press a kiss to her knuckles. Gwen’s cheeks go a
brilliant shade of dark red.

“And I you, Guinevere.”

He walks out the door first and Merlin turns to Gwen, still standing with wide eyes where Lancelot
left her.

“We’re talking about this later,” he mouths cheekily, ducking the measuring ribbon that she whips
his way with a laugh.

Obtaining Lancelot’s knighthood proceeds easily. Gaius doesn’t approve and Merlin sees that in
the way the man glares at him whenever they make eye contact, but Merlin hadn’t expected him
to. Gaius likes to follow the rules, even if they’re unfair. Lancelot advances through training with
incredible speed. He willingly does whatever Arthur asks of him and though Arthur hides his
thoughts well Merlin is almost sure he’s impressed.

He cleans stables, faces Arthur in hand to hand combat and shows honour and chivalry to those in
need. With the beast steadily advancing on Camelot, the need for more knights becomes so dire
that Arthur is even willing to move forward his last trial. Merlin and Gwen watch in terrified
anticipation as they duel. Arthur is the better swordsman, but Lancelot is able to best him, granting
him the title of knight.

Merlin should have known better, when something seems too good to be true it almost always is.

~-~-~

Arthur doesn’t know what to do with himself, what to feel. Lancelot is one of the best knights and
best fighters he has ever known. His eagerness and willingness to serve is unparalleled to any other
man Arthur has trained; but he lied.

He watches, still as a statue, as Lancelot is pushed to his knees in the centre of the throne room
before Arthur’s father.

“Tell him what you told me,” Uther orders Geoffrey, who is standing to the side with a solemn
expression. From what Arthur knows of the man he takes his documentation very seriously.

“These credentials are faked,” Geoffrey announces, his voice booming around the large room.
“The seal itself is faultless, a forgery of the highest possible standard, but a forgery it must be.
There is no record of a fifth son of Lord Eldred of Northumbria.”

Lancelot closes his eyes against the words like they pain him. When he opens them he keeps them
trained on the floor, by Uther’s feet.

“Therefore he lied,” Uther growls, stalking towards Lancelot, each step decisive and brimming
with anger.

“Do you deny it?” He asks, stopping just above Lancelot, forcing him to stretch his neck in a
painful way to look up at him.

Arthur pleads desperately in silence for Lancelot to deny the claim, to provide a good reason for
the misunderstanding. Perhaps for the first time in over forty years of service, Geoffrey has finally
made an error. It must be difficult to see past those ridiculously bushy eyebrows, maybe he read the
wrong piece of documentation.

However Lancelot does no such thing. He hangs his head in shame and quietly speaks.

“No Sire, I do not deny it.”

Arthur lets his head drop forward into his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose painfully. He can
feel a headache starting to form behind his eyes, building a thick and uncomfortable pressure in his
temples. Regardless, it’s easier to focus on the throb of pain in his head than the uncomfortable
sting of betrayal in his chest. That sharp feeling is too painful, and too heavy to comprehend.

“You have broken the first code of Camelot, and so you have broken a sacred trust. You brought
shame upon yourself, and upon us. You are not worthy of the knighthood bestowed upon you. You
never were.” Uther stares down his nose at Lancelot, whose expression is devastated.

Arthur frowns. He agrees with his father only to an extent. The knight’s code is sacred and to break
it so shamelessly, to lie to Arthur’s face, is a massive betrayal that cannot be overlooked. However,
the notion that Lancelot does not, and never did, deserve knighthood is wrong.

Arthur has never met someone who so wholly embodied the principles of a knight. Lancelot has
proven from the day he arrived in Camelot that all he wishes is to serve and to serve honourably.
His methods were deceitful and whilte that is inexcusable, he was more than worthy of the
knighthood bestowed upon him. Perhaps even more so than the majority of the knights who did
come from noble families.

“Get him out of my sight,” Uther says, his lip curling distastefully as he looks at the disgraced
knight.

The doors haven’t even closed behind Lancelot as he is escorted from the court before Arthur turns
to look at his father.

“Sire,” he begins.

“You contest my judgement?” Uther interrupts. It’s a dangerous question, with only one correct
answer and Arthur doesn’t doubt that overstepping will unleash an outburst of Uther’s fury upon
himself.

He shakes his head, not answering the question but instead choosing to explain himself.

“His deception was inexcusable, but I am certain he meant no harm. He only wished to serve.”
Both Geoffrey and his father turn to him, Geoffrey in surprise and Uther in frustration.

“The knight's code is a sacred law, it bends for no man. To break the first code means to break the
trust that bonds the knights together.”

He stares at Arthur, almost daring him to disagree. Arthur knows better and so he says nothing.

“How can you trust a man who has lied to you?”

The question digs its talons deep into Arthur’s skin, catching with sharp cruelty on the fragile
edges of his heart. He swallows around a thick lump building in his throat, and turns away from his
father. He cannot answer.

~-~-~

Arthur doesn’t have time to ponder the question. The winged beast that tormented the outlying
villages of Camelot has reached the citadel, and Arthur is focused on putting a stop to the creature.

He stumbles his way into the court where his father and other officials are discussing the danger
the beast poses to the kingdom and to their people. A sombre atmosphere sits like a dense fog over
the sea of heavy frowns and troubled expressions worn by every member of court.

Arthur is exhausted, his limbs practically drag along the floor, his fringe is plastered to his
forehead and his muscles ache. His heart is still racing in his chest. The beast was invincible, its
claws were vicious as it tore through capes and pierced armour. Their swords were useless against
the beast’s body, splintering into useless pieces as they made contact. Arthur doesn’t know what to
make of it, all he knows is he is terrified.

“Did you vanquish the beast?” Uther asks, an eager and expectant smile on his face.

Arthur hesitates. “It did not succeed in hurting anyone,” he says — not quite an answer.

“It escaped?” The smile slips from Uther’s face to be replaced by a much more familiar frown.
“What happened?”

“Nothing we did seemed to make any impact. We managed to stave it off the citadel for now but
it’s still out there.”

Uther nods, getting to his feet and meeting Arthur by the doorway.

“Then we finish this, today, before it can return.”

“Sire, if I may?” Gaius interrupts them. “I’ve been researching this creature, and I believe it to be a
Griffin.”

Uther frowns. “What’s in a name?”

Arthur hears Gaius swallow, he’s noticeably nervous for the sentence about to come. He knows
Arthur’s father well, better than Arthur could ever hope to know him, so there must be a cause for
his nerves.

“The Griffin is a creature of magic Sire—”

“—I don’t have time for this,” Uther cuts him off with a stormy look in his eye.

“Sire, it is born of magic and it can only be killed by magic,” Gaius ploughs on, imploring Uther
towards reason, but where magic is involved that endeavour is nearly impossible.

Arthur considers the physician’s words even as his father continues to dismiss them. He remembers
how his sword seemed incapable of even scratching the Griffin, despite being made of flesh and
blood, just like any other creature. He meets Merlin’s eyes over Gaius’ shoulder, it’s clear that he
agrees with the physician and his face urges Arthur to do the same. The image of swords shattering
haunts Arthur’s mind again.

“You are mistaken,” Uther assures Gaius, turning away. “Arthur and his men proved that today.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m not so sure, father. I think there may be truth in what he says.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Uther snaps harshly, a clipped and dangerous tone to his voice.

“The creature went unharmed, my Lord. Our weapons were useless against it.”

Uther scowls, his face going rigid, a sign he was steadfast in his choice and would not be
convinced otherwise. “Useless? I think not. No, the beast has tasted our steel once and the next
time will be its last.”

His father turns to him with a cold, demanding look in his eyes. Arthur dreads the words before
they even leave his father’s lips.

“When will your knights be ready to ride again?”

Arthur’s heart sinks but he doesn’t let the devastation appear on his face.

“An hour, maybe two,” he answers hesitantly. His knights will not be happy to ride out again so
soon, they barely made it back into the castle earlier. The weight of their exhaustion was all
consuming, leaving their eyelids heavy and their legs shaking. It’s unlikely they will all make it
back alive if he forces them into battle again under such conditions.

“Good,” his father nods. “We finish this tonight.”

With those final words he storms from the room, Gaius following in his stride. Merlin flounders,
clearly unsure of whether to follow or stay. Arthur turns away to leave him to make that decision in
peace. He squeezes his eyes shut and grinds his teeth together, careful not to play out his frustration
visibly.

“You’ll die if you go,” Merlin breaks the silence, choosing to stay by Arthur’s side.

Arthur nods sharply. “Yes, probably.”

“So don’t go,” Merlin proposes as if it’s that simple. As if Arthur has ever had the choice to just
stay in his entire life.

“When are you going to learn that’s not an option for me?” Arthur asks, rolling his eyes to the
ceiling.

Merlin shrugs and doesn’t answer.

Arthur sighs, a slow inhale, and then a longer exhale. He needs knights, good knights. He needs
men like Lancelot. Arthur knows that if Gaius is right — and he likely is — without magic they
don’t stand a chance of conquering the beast, but magic isn’t an option. There is only so much
Arthur can control.
Mind made up, he looks back at Merlin, who’s still staring at him, not expecting anything but
hopeful regardless. Hopeful that Arthur will change his mind and stay, even though they both
know he can’t do that.

“I have to go and do something. You should go to Gaius. I expect you at work in the morning,”
Arthur dismisses him as though this is just a regular afternoon.

Merlin opens his mouth and then closes it with a scowl, like he wants to argue but thinks better of
it.

“Fine,” Merlin grits out in a tone that ensures Arthur is aware he means the opposite.

“Good.” Arthur marches out of the room, towards the dungeons.

Lancelot is sitting against the far wall of the cell, but he scrambles to his feet immediately as
Arthur approaches. The Griffin’s attack had been enough to distract Arthur from Lancelot’s lie, and
the complicated knot of emotions it leaves in his chest; but seeing him again reopens the wound.

“Sire—” Lancelot says softly, like he’s about to apologise, but Arthur speaks over him before he
gets the chance.

“I can’t believe it, how could I have been so stupid?” His eyes jump over Lancelot and now it’s so
obvious he isn’t a nobleman. The way he holds himself is reminiscent of Merlin. He isn’t stiff in
the shoulders, with a straight back and upturned chin like members of the nobility, but he stands at
an angle, with a proud chest from years of honest work.

“You don’t look like a knight, you don’t even sound like a knight,” Arthur says agitatedly, running
a hand through his still sweaty hair.

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot says honestly, accompanying his words with a slight bow.

“I’m sorry too,” Arthur snaps back, exhaling through his nose in a frustrated huff. “Because damn
it Lancelot, you fight like a knight. A damn good one, and I need—” he stops himself.

No matter what Arthur is about to face, he cannot ask Lancelot to join him. Not because he
wouldn’t, Arthur is sure he would agree to serve in a heartbeat; but because if his father were to
find out, his wrath would be worse than the Griffin itself. He came to the dungeons to give
Lancelot the opportunity to escape, or to fight alongside them by choice. The guards posted outside
the cell need to know that Arthur ordered Lancelot to leave Camelot.

If Lancelot is the man Arthur thinks he is, he will stay. If he’s not, Arthur made an error in
judgement and let a man go free without consequence.

“The creature?” Lancelot guesses.

Arthur nods jerkily. “I have never faced anything like it. We could not kill it.”

“I faced it myself, Sire, some days past. I struck it squarely, I wondered how it endured.”

Arthur thinks of Gaius, and of Merlin. “There are some that believe this creature, this Griffin, is a
creature of magic, and can only be killed by magic.”

Lancelot’s eyes widen in horror. “Do you believe this?”

With a rough swallow Arthur shrugs. “It doesn’t matter what I believe, magic is forbidden.”
He looks to Lancelot, standing tall despite being locked in a cell. He does not ask for anything,
since the moment Arthur arrived he has not once begged for freedom or attempted to excuse his
actions.

“There is a horse waiting outside, take it and never return.” Lancelot’s face falls, he retreats further
into the depths of the dank cell. “No. Please Sire, it is not my freedom I seek. I only wish to serve
with honour.”

“I know.”

“Then let me ride with you sire.”

“I cannot.”

Lancelot falls silent, expression crumbling inwards. His jaw wobbles and his dark eyes are hurt. He
does not disguise his feelings, they are worn for the world to see, for Arthur to see.

Arthur scratches his thumb into his forefinger, a nervous habit his father had forced out of him
long ago. He looks imploringly at Lancelot hoping he recognises Arthur’s silent plea to help.

“My father knows nothing of this, I release you myself, but I can do no more. Now go.” He steps to
the side so Lancelot can leave through the open cell door.

Lancelot hesitates a moment, looking desperately at Arthur, before nodding and leaving. Arthur
can only hope he will do the right thing.

~-~-~

Merlin might be sick.

It was easy to convince Lancelot to let Merlin help him face the Griffin, putting on a charade of
false bravado and assuring him he could hold his own. Despite the show of bravery, Merlin’s heart
is hammering against his ribcage like a pounding drum, and his stomach stews in fear.

Arthur, Camelot, and now Lancelot, they all depend on Merlin. He can’t fail, it isn’t an option. To
fail means to lose everything. To fail means that Merlin did not fulfil his destiny. He must do this.

They dismount at the first sight of a red cape draped across the ground. Merlin’s eyes skip over the
fallen knights in terror, searching amongst them, he runs between the bodies frantically, searching
amongst the rubble for one person. His gaze falls on a familiar blond head of hair.

“Arthur,” he breathes, rushing over to him, almost tripping over a root in his desperate haste. He
presses shaking fingers to Arthur’s pulse point, between his strong jaw and neck. The reassuring
beat of a heart meets his fingertips.

“Thank god,” he gasps with relief, turning to Lancelot. “He’s alive.”

The distant call of the Griffin growing closer distracts them from saying anything more.

Through the fog and dark of night the beast strides into view, it’s beady black eyes narrowed and
beak stretched wide as it roars. It slinks forward like a cat, but it’s huge wings drag on the ground
in its wake, fluttering, ready to unfurl and take flight.

Merlin looks down at Arthur, unconscious and completely helpless.

“Stay with him,” Lancelot says, already jogging away towards his horse.
Merlin lays a hand on Arthur’s chest plate protectively. “I won’t leave his side.”

He knows that Lancelot is concerned because he believes Merlin to be defenceless. But even then,
he doesn’t plan to leave Arthur, hell could rise and Merlin won’t be pulled from Arthur’s side.

Lancelot’s horse rears as he hauls himself onto the saddle, lance drawn and prepared to attack. The
Griffin screeches, prowling towards him with arched haunches. The air is still, tension drawn
taught as a bowstring. Lancelot’s eyes are firm on the Griffin, staring down his nose at the
monstrous creature.

“Come on Merlin, it’s now or never,” Merlin murmurs to himself.

He whispers the spell but his magic stubbornly plants itself in his chest and won’t be tugged
forward. He tries again as Lancelot starts to charge. The horse’s hooves strike the ground heavily,
advancing upon the beast. The Griffin lunges towards Lancelot at a similar pace, it lets out piercing
shrieks that rattle Merlin’s heart. The two race towards each other, a pocket of a storm, creating
thunder crashes with their fury. Merlin’s palms are sticky with sweat, adrenaline pumping in his
ears, he needs to do this now.

Merlin looks down at Arthur. Fear makes his magic uncontrollable, it’s dangerous to use such a
tumultuous emotion to harness magic. Yet he doesn’t have much choice, strong emotions are like
alcohol to fire, they cause magic to surge. If he can harness that, it might be his only chance.

He lets the fear rise, flooding his veins, making his heart clamour. He focuses on the knowledge
that he could have lost Arthur today, the terror for what that would mean for their destiny. Even
more, that real raw fear that he could have lost Arthur, not the man from his future destiny but the
boy he’s coming to know.

Merlin likes being around Arthur. He likes getting to know him in tiny increments, when Arthur
accidentally gives things away. He likes saying something rude and watching Arthur squeeze his
eyes shut as he decides whether to tell Merlin off or quip back. He likes the bond they are forming,
and the future they are destined to bring to light. This beast could have taken that away.

His magic surges in a rush, his roaring fear draws the difficult tendrils of his most powerful magic
to a place where he can seize and control them. Merlin’s heart races as he wraps them around the
syllables of the incantation. Terror and magic surge through in his veins, making his ears pop and
his eyes burn with golden energy.

Blue light surges from the tip of the lance, enchanted flames that expand until they lick the entire
sharp speared point of the lance. Powerful enough to kill a magical beast. Lancelot’s posture
solidifies with the appearance of the magic, hunching forward and urging his horse faster.

Merlin watches with wide eyes, positioned protectively in front of Arthur, as the Griffin launches
itself at Lancelot. It attacks with a horrific scream, rearing over him with its huge wings unfurled
and flapping and long, sharp claws bared.

The lance spears the beast right in the heart. Where Lancelot’s sword had once shattered to pieces
the enchanted spear pierces directly through the Griffin’s hide and it collapses with a crash.

Merlin launches to his feet and cheers. He jumps up and down, laughing with glee and throwing
his head back hollering. His relief makes him feel like a bubble, floating high above their heads.
Lancelot takes off his helmet and grins at him, and Merlin could collapse with how overjoyed he
is.
Arthur stirs at Merlin’s feet and his eyes flick to him. He can’t stay, his lack of explanation for his
presence paired with the use of magic would cause too much suspicion. He offers Lancelot one last
smile and runs. As he turns the corner he hears Arthur shout.

“You did it, Lancelot!”

~-~-~

There is an immensely proud look in Uther’s eye as Arthur approaches, a smile stretches across the
king’s often stern and serious face. He strides across the room towards his son.

“You did it.” His father’s smile grows into a proper grin as he looks at Arthur.

Arthur shakes his head. “Not I, father.”

He wishes for a moment that he could lie in good faith, if only to savour his father’s delightedness
a little longer. Instead the expression falls from the man’s face, dropping completely when Arthur
finishes his sentence.

“It was Lancelot.”

He gestures to where Lancelot is waiting sheepishly by the door, his hands clasped behind his back
with the utmost respect.

“What is he doing here?”

“Father I can explain—”

“You. Wait outside,” Uther commands.

Lancelot obeys without a word, bowing out of the room with a complicated mix of emotions
splashed across his serious face.

Arthur turns to face his father.

“I confess it, Sire. I released Lancelot and I will face the consequences, but surely his actions
change things?”

For any other man, such a display of courage would grant them a feast in their honour. To face the
Griffin alone, and slay the beast, saving hundreds of lives is an act worth celebrating.

Uther rounds on Arthur with a sneer. “It changes nothing. He broke the knight’s code.”

“He put his life on the line for me! He served with honour.” Arthur’s nostrils flare, his mouth set in
a hard line. The anger on Lancelot’s behalf keeps him from buckling under the weight of his
father’s stare.

“I can see you feel strongly about this, Arthur,” Uther says, running a hand over his face.

He turns and paces, from Arthur, to the throne, and back.

“Under the circumstances, a pardon, perhaps?” Uther offers.

On a normal day Arthur would take that small concession without a second thought, but today, he
cannot give in and cower when Lancelot did so much for the sake of Camelot. He has earnt
Arthur’s support.
“No Father, that’s not enough. You must restore Lancelot to his rightful place, as a knight of
Camelot.”

A storm cloud passes over Uther’s face, his expression turning stony. He stands imposingly over
Arthur, glaring until the inch of height he has over Arthur feels like a head.

Despite fear twisting inside him he squares his shoulders and meets his father’s frustration head on.
He knows that no matter how diligently his father clings to rules and traditions they still have the
potential to fail. The law is failing Lancelot and Arthur is the only one who can do something
about it.

“Never,” Uther spits. “The law is the law. The code bends for no man.”

“Then the code is wrong!”

The knight's code prevents good men, like Lancelot, from defending their kingdom. In refusing to
adapt Camelot is preventing itself from the best protection it could receive. A man of Lancelot’s
standing could only hope to be a royal guard, or a common squire; but he’s a better fighter, and a
better man than most knights Arthur has seen in his lifetime as prince.

Arthur and Uther stare at each other, each as solid in their stance as mountains. Two unyielding
forces butting heads until one collapses under the force. For once, Arthur is determined to not be
the first to break.

~-~-~

Merlin can hear the muffled sounds of Arthur and his father yelling through the door, debating
Lancelot’s right to be a knight of Camelot. While the man himself stands just outside the door,
running his hands along his arms nervously.

“They’ll restore your knighthood,” Merlin assures him. “Of course they will. You slayed the
Griffin.”

Lancelot doesn’t look up, staring at the floor with a conflicted look in his deep eyes.

“But I didn’t kill the Griffin,” he sighs, walking down the hall so they’re further away from the
guards posted by the doors to the throne room. “You did.”

Merlin forces a high pitched and strangled laugh out of his throat. “That’s ridiculous.”

Lancelot finally looks at him, eyebrows raised in blatant disbelief and a hint of amusement.

“I heard you, Merlin.” He repeats the incantation Merlin had roared back in the forest, leaving no
room for Merlin to argue.

Merlin glances around frantically but no one seems to have heard him.

“I saw you,” Lancelot says.

Merlin’s stomach swirls, threatening to unload itself onto the stone floor beneath them.

Lancelot smiles a little. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank you,” Merlin whispers hoarsely, his heart still recovering from the sudden terror of being
discovered. “If Uther ever knew—”
“I understand,” Lancelot promises. “But I cannot take the credit for something I did not do. I came
to Camelot to serve with honour, I cannot do that by lying, I see that now.”

“What are you going to do?” Merlin asks with a frown.

Lancelot looks back at him, the picture of virtue, regardless of his birth.

“The only thing I can do,” he answers vaguely.

Before Merlin can open his mouth Lancelot rushes forward and throws the throne room doors
open. The guards rush forward and seize him at once.

“What is the meaning of this?” Uther demands, his left eye twitching with such force that the
prominent scar on his forehead creases almost in half.

Lancelot struggles against the guards’ hold. “Let me speak,” he pleads.

“Wait,” Uther raises a single finger and the guards freeze. “I will hear him.”

They release Lancelot and he shakes himself off.

“Forgive me, Sire,” he apologises with a low bow. “I’ve come to bid you both farewell.”

Merlin watches from around the doorway as Arthur’s brows crease together.

“What is this, Lancelot?”

Lancelot’s shoulders visibly tense before falling with a heaving sigh.

“I lied to you both, and now there is conflict between you. I cannot bear that burden, as you should
not be made to bear mine.”

Arthur’s face drops, confusion giving way to sadness in his blue eyes. He opens his mouth like he
wants to say something but Lancelot keeps speaking.

“I must start again, far from here. Then maybe one day fate will grant me another chance, to prove
myself a worthy knight of Camelot.”

Arthur frowns. “But, Lancelot, you've already proven that to us.” He steps forward, like he’s
welcoming Lancelot into his personal circle.

Lancelot takes a step back. “But I must prove it to myself.”

Uther’s face is contemplative as he looks down at the floor, deep in thought. Arthur by comparison
is saddened and amazed simultaneously; upset at the news of Lancelot’s departure, but in awe of
his strength and goodwill to step away. Merlin wishes he could say something to convince him to
stay. To explain that if Arthur sees he is a worthy knight, then he has proven himself plenty and
need not leave; but he knows any attempt would be futile. Lancelot has made his choice and he will
not be dissuaded from it.

“Your Highness,” Lancelot says, bowing to Uther. While being a sign of respect, it is a mere
formality in comparison to the reverent way he speaks to Arthur. “Prince Arthur.”

He nods to Merlin on the way out with a small smile, an acknowledgement of what the two
endured together and their friendship, no matter how short.
And with that he leaves Camelot.

~-~-~

“Merlin,” Arthur sighs as he buries his head in his hands, emphasising the start of Merlin’s name in
that specific way only he does.

Merlin smiles sheepishly up at Arthur from the bush he’s tangled in.

“Yes, Sire?”

Arthur drags his hands slowly down his face and peers at Merlin with a look of pure exasperation.

“I ought to leave you here, I’ll have more chance of actually catching something,” Arthur
grumbles. Despite his words, he leans to help Merlin detangle himself from the bush. He steps
away as soon as Merlin is comfortably on his two feet once more.

“Then you’d have to carry the game back by yourself, and we can’t have that,” Merlin chirps back
cheerfully.

“Assuming we catch any game that is,” Arthur mutters bitterly. He motions for Merlin to follow
him as he takes off through the trees.

This is the first time Merlin has accompanied Arthur on a hunt. Though Merlin has been working
for him the past couple of months, thus far, hunts have coincided with other tasks that took
priority; preparing for feasts, assisting Gaius, scrubbing Arthur’s floor and the like. So until now,
Merlin hasn’t had the pleasure of joining Arthur on a sweaty trek through the forest to catch
innocent animals.

“Remind me again why you couldn’t bring another servant along with you?” Merlin asks with a
scowl when yet another branch hits him in the face.

Arthur shoots a frustrated look back at him, either for his repetitive questioning or because Merlin
is likely scaring off any nearby wildlife by speaking at all.

“Because, Merlin, you are my manservant. This is one of your responsibilities.”

Merlin parrots the words back in a high pitched tone, pulling a rude face and rolling his eyes
skyward.

Arthur directs his signature glower in Merlin’s general direction.

They trek further into the forest. Arthur pads softly across the dirt floor, inspecting the trees and
shrubbery for any signs of life. Merlin follows him, trying to keep quiet, but he still manages to
step on every twig, piece of bark and crunchy leaf that could possibly give away their position.

Arthur holds up a hand to indicate Merlin to stop and points through the trees to a small clearing. A
rabbit is cleaning its nose by the bushes, unaware of their presence.

“We need to move closer,” Arthur whispers, so low and soft Merlin barely even hears the words.

Merlin nods. He takes a step forward, eyes trained carefully on the rabbit. In his single minded
focus he fails to notice a stone in his path. His foot catches on it and he goes down with a crash.
The rabbit scampers away in fright.

Arthur glares down at him and Merlin offers him an embarrassed grin.
“I hate you.”

“Liar.”

~-~-~

Gaius had known from the moment Edwin arrived that there was something suspicious about him.

Perhaps it was the fact that his arrival coincided so perfectly with Lady Morgana falling ill. Or it
may be the shifty way he dodged Gaius’ inquiries as to whether they had met before.

Morgana’s impressive recovery under Edwin’s care should have been a welcome relief. However it
was not.

Gaius did not pride himself on much, he practised being a humble man by trade and it was best not
to let pride overcome oneself, but his observance in treating his patients was something he was
very meticulous with. He would not, and did not, overlook any blood in Lady Morgana’s ear. It had
not been present before Edwin entered the room, therefore how he managed to diagnose and heal
Morgana was beyond Gaius.

Until he discovered why he recognised Edwin.

Most of his memories of the Great Purge are locked away in a chest at the back of Gaius’ mind.
His actions in that time of his life are his biggest regrets. He turned his back on magic, and let those
who were once kin burn in flames. He cannot change the choices he made twenty years ago, so to
reflect on them only brings guilt and grief that would eventually chew him into nothing.

However, he remembers the little boy who ran into the flames of the pyre in a desperate attempt to
save his parents. Edwin is in Camelot for revenge. Against Uther, and against Gaius for standing
by and neglecting to stop the king.

Turning to the Great Dragon is a last resort.

The Dragon leers down at him with a disgusted expression twisted over his large scaled face.

“How old a man can become, and yet have changed so little.”

Gaius crosses his arms, returning the creature’s glare. “You have not changed either.”

The Dragon’s eyes narrow. “For you, a lifetime has passed, for me, time has been more kind.”

Gaius has not missed the deep boom of The Dragon’s voice. A voice who for so long has taunted
him for turning his back on his own kind.

“I am not here for me,” Gaius says, denying the avenue of discussion The Dragon attempts to steer
towards.

The Dragon smiles all knowingly, with a cold and calculated glint in his bright yellow eyes.

“The boy,” he supplies.

Gaius frowns, the insides of his stomach curdle unpleasantly. The knowledge that Merlin has
spoken to The Dragon, and that his powers extend so far that The Dragon could know of him
generates an uncomfortable sensation that creeps under his skin.

“You know about Merlin?”

The Dragon smiles cruelly, sharp teeth bared for Gaius to see. “Of course. Someone with so great a
destiny could not escape my notice, or anyone’s.”

Something invisible catches in Gaius’ throat, his heart picking up speed in an unsteady climb. “So
it is true then?”

“Oh yes. You have struggled with his destiny but neither you, nor he, have the ability to change it.”
The Dragon leans closer and Gaius plants his feet to keep from tripping backwards in haste to get
away. “He and the young Pendragon will one day unite the land of Albion.”

Merlin is too young to have such a destiny.

“But he is in danger,” Gaius highlights.

The Dragon’s snout wrinkles in thought. “No, it is my jailor who stands in peril.”

Gaius cannot let Uther die. Despite all they have been through, Gaius regards him as almost a
friend, or as close as they can be considering their positions. Perhaps it is simply him clinging to
the memories of who Uther once was, a time where his smiles were more forthcoming and his
kindness extended beyond himself. He cannot condone all of Uther’s actions, particularly his war
against magic; but ultimately when his options are turning his back on the king or staying, he made
that choice long ago.

If it weren’t for Edwin’s threat to unveil Merlin’s magic Gaius would have already told Uther
everything.

“Must Uther be sacrificed to save the boy?”

The Dragon’s scaled legs shift in what could almost be a shrug if he were human. “His and
Arthur’s time cannot come until the King’s has passed.”

Gaius considers this. No matter what The Dragon believes Merlin and Prince Arthur’s destiny to
be, Gaius cannot accept that they are ready for such a future. Merlin has not yet fulfilled the true
scope of his abilities, and Arthur is not old enough, nor wise enough to be king. If he lets Uther die
they will be thrust into this destiny before their time has come.

However if he warns the King, instead Merlin will be sacrificed. An impossible choice.

“I will not choose between them. I can’t.”

The Dragon seems unsurprised, though it is hard to read the expressions on his scaled and reptilian
face.

“Then turn a blind eye, that is after all, your talent.”

The words hurt more than Gaius thought they would. He had thought he had grown thicker skin
over the years, but The Dragon’s taunt cuts through it like butter.

He carries that pain into the court where Uther retires him.

He lets himself feel the painful reminder that while during the Great Purge he had picked the safest
route for himself, he turned a blind eye to the suffering of many. Instead of fighting the horrible
memories of his past actions, as he usually would, he lets them sit in his muscles. He is painfully
aware that he is choosing the path of idleness once again, to stand for nothing, and therefore fall
for nothing.
Turning a blind eye is his talent, even if he longs to believe he has changed. It isn’t until he has left
Camelot that he realises he has.

~-~-~

Merlin bursts through the doors, staggering into the guest chambers that Edwin is currently
occupying. He pulls to a halt as he observes the room. Fear is making his brain slow, and the shock
of what he sees when he enters, takes a moment to sink in.

Gaius is standing against one of the pillars in the room, his back pressed against the stone and chest
stiff. A ring of fire surrounds him and it inches closer by the push of Edwin’s outstretched hand.
The light radiating off the fire lights up the cruel darkness in Edwin’s eyes, catching on the burn
that mars the right side of his face.

“What’s going on?” Merlin rasps. His thoughts are stuck in heavy mud, weighed down as they
attempt to trudge through his mind. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. He just knows that
Gaius is in danger.

“He was going to kill the king,” Gaius explains frantically, his chest shuddering as the flames close
in further. The fire is so close now it is practically licking his ankles. Merlin’s heart rate escalates,
like a horse thundering into a gallop.

“I couldn’t let him.” Gaius continues, squeezing his eyes shut as the flames flare upwards, Merlin
can feel their intense heat, a thick smog that presses into his throat.

“Stop, you'll hurt him!” Merlin pleads, his veins turning cold as Edwin stares apathetically back at
him.

He smirks cruelly, leering at Gaius.

“That is the idea.”

Merlin edges along the wall, carefully shifting inch by inch towards Gaius.

“Why are you doing this?” He asks, trying to goad Edwin into talking as he subtly creeps his way
nearer to Gaius. The closer he gets to the flames the more they leave his skin scorched hot, almost
burning but not yet scalded.

Edwin sneers, baring his teeth.

“Don’t you know what he did, what this kingdom has done to people like us?”

Like us.

Merlin isn’t like Edwin. All they share between them is magic which runs through their veins,
thicker than blood. He knows he is right to an extent, Uther, Camelot, even Gaius, have let
hundreds of people like them fall, have sent them to their unjust deaths, but that does not mean
more murder is the answer.

Edwin continues speaking, storming the length of the room.

“I want to watch them burn, just as they sent my parents to their deaths. With them gone I will rule
the kingdom.” He looks fanatical, wild and burning with hatred.

“You can join me, you know?” Edwin offers, holding out a hand coaxingly. “We can be all
powerful.”

Merlin backs further away, the heat of the flames is excruciating on his back. He glances at Gaius,
his cheeks flushed red and sweat trickling down his face, watching Merlin with wide eyes.

“I won’t join you,” Merlin says, shaking his head.

“You would protect a kingdom who hates you? A man who let people like us die?” Edwin scorns;
with his anger the flames jump to such a height that Merlin can barely see Gaius through the wall
of raging fire.

It isn’t a fair accusation.

Gaius is atoning every day for his mistakes. Merlin can see it in his downcast eyes whenever the
Great Purge is mentioned that he feels the regret he feels like a heavy burden. Every time he bends
the rules and shields Merlin from the law it is an apology to those he failed to protect in the past.

“Release him!” Merlin demands.

Edwin’s cajoling expression slips away like a mask being tugged from his face, leaving only dark
cruelty.

“Such a shame, you had such potential,” he says with a pitying sigh.

Edwin thrusts an arm out, buffeting Merlin into the wall, his head smacks against the stone with a
painful crack. A force of heavy magic aimed at Merlin pushes forward and pins him to the wall.
Smart. Magic is hard to control without movement, the channel of it is unpredictable at best and
guesswork at worst. Sorcerers use their hands to channel the direction of their spells. Edwin is
trying to stop Merlin from protecting himself; but Merlin doesn’t need to control his magic.

When Merlin met him Gaius said he had stronger power than he had ever seen before. That his
instinctive powers were a miracle, a power unparalleled to anything the physician had seen before.
Now is the moment to put that to the test.

With a sweeping arm Edwin pulls a decorative axe from the wall and sends it hurtling towards
Merlin. His magic bursts from his chest protectively, coiling around him like a shield. His eyes
flash gold, time seems to go still.

The axe is suspended, inches from Merlin’s nose. The blade is barely a whisper from Merlin’s
face, if he so much as breathes the curved edge would land true. His eyes spark again, a blink of
movement that sends the axe flying away from him.

The hatchet whirls through the air, colliding with a sickening squelch in Edwin’s skull. His body
drops to the ground with a thud.

Merlin looks away, sick with terror at what he just did. He had only wanted to get the axe away
from himself and Gaius, but he hadn’t meant to kill Edwin. His head spins, he might vomit. He
can’t think about it or he will definitely vomit.

Gaius provides the necessary distraction, collapsing into the fire as the heat becomes
overwhelming.

Merlin dives through the flames, ignoring their searing heat as they lick at his skin. His arms grasp
blindly for Gaius, seizing his shoulders and pulling him to safety. The heat eases away into
unpleasant stinging. Neither he nor Gaius should sustain any injuries but his skin itches from the
burst of heat.

He holds Gaius upright in a tight hug, waiting until his coughs have turned to wheezes and then to
whistling and mostly calm breaths.

“Are you alright?” He asks, his own voice coming out shaky and soft. He holds Gaius a little
tighter, painfully aware of how he almost lost him.

“Yes,” Gaius answers hesitantly, still trembling with shock.

Gaius gently extracts himself from Merlin’s hold, squeezing his shoulders affectionately before
letting go.

“Thank you Merlin,” he says softly.

Merlin nods, letting himself take a few seconds before hurrying over to Edwin’s work table. He
ignores the body on the floor even as his stomach lurches.

“Uther’s ill with the same thing Morgana was diagnosed with,” Merlin explains as he opens a
small chest of beetles Edwin had shown him earlier. “Edwin said he used these to cure Morgana,
perhaps we can too.”

Gaius frowns, coming closer to look into the chest.

“Elanthia beetles,” he identifies immediately with wide eyes. “They can be enchanted to enter the
brain and feed on it until they devour the person’s very soul…”

“He didn’t cure her,” Merlin gasps, speaking the realisation aloud.

Gaius nods his confirmation.

“We must get to Uther, before it’s too late. Magic is the only thing that can save him now.”

~-~-~

It takes a long time for the adrenaline of the day to wear away. He is trembling with aftershocks
even hours after he and Gaius have returned to the physician’s chambers, Uther safely healed and
the danger averted.

Gaius assures him that’s to be expected after killing someone with an axe and then immediately
performing magic on the King who despises magic and would literally execute him if he knew.

However as the stress wears away into gentle trembles and his nerves ease away it starts to sink in
just how much Gaius risked for him. The King, his position as physician, his life in Camelot; all so
Merlin would be safe.

He’s not only trustworthy, but the closest to a father Merlin has ever known. But there is still a
secret Merlin hasn’t shared with him.

Evening has settled over Camelot, a soft blanket of steadily darkening sky as the sun disappears
over the horizon. He and Gaius are both reading, Merlin his grimoire and Gaius a thick text on the
qualities of mint leaves which looks dreadfully boring. Merlin can’t focus on the words, his eyes
have skimmed the same paragraph at least four times already and he’s absorbed none of the
information.

“Gaius,” he breaks the quiet they’ve settled into with an awkward cough. Gaius looks up at him,
peering over the top of his reading glasses. “Would you— I mean um.” He coughs again, words
sticking in his throat. His stomach flips anxiously, twisting and knotting in all sorts of unpleasant
ways. He crosses his legs, uncrosses them and then thinking better of himself crosses them again to
be sure.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

Gaius looks understandably concerned, moving over to the table Merlin is sitting at, taking the seat
across from him.

“Of course, Merlin. You can always talk to me.”

Merlin nods, his heart has made its home in his throat and he swallows roughly around it. He
coughs again, in a vain attempt to dislodge his heart. His hands fidget nervously, tugging at the
short hairs at the back of his neck, scratching at his wrist, tucking between his thighs, acting on the
nervous energy thrumming through his body.

He forgot how terrifying this is. He hasn’t had to do this in years. Everyone in Ealdor knew.

“I just wanted to tell you, um, because you’re like a father to me.” He doesn’t look at Gaius as he
says it. Dread pools in his gut at the idea that Gaius might not feel the same, but he needn’t have
worried.

“And you are like a son to me. I never dreamed I would have such a blessing this late in life.”
Merlin meets Gaius’ eyes as he smiles, his old skin wrinkling in happy crease marks around his
eyes.

“Right. I’m glad,” Merlin says, laughing awkwardly in a bright and high pitch that makes him
wince. “Anyway I just, I wanted to tell you that, that I um… that I like...” The shyness in his voice
drops away the more nervous he gets, going frantic and loud.

“Men!” He shouts suddenly, slamming his hands on the table. The words burst out of him. “I like
them, and that’s just the way it is, if you don’t like that, well that’s too bad because I can’t change
it and I don’t want to,” he blabbers nervously.

He stares at the wall over Gaius’ shoulder the entire time he speaks, unable to make himself look at
the physician. Gaius is quiet for a pause that can’t be longer than a few seconds but stretches
forever, every passing moment makes Merlin want to sink through the floor and become one with
the Earth. He picks at the skin around his thumbnail while he waits.

“Oh Merlin,” Gaius says fondly, placing his weathered hand over Merlin’s to stop his anxious
movements.

Merlin looks at him nervously, meeting Gaius’ kind expression with a terrified one of his own.

“I already knew that,” he says with a kind smile. He looks into Merlin’s eyes warmly, without a
hint of hesitation or rejection. It is open, and affectionate, and Merlin feels loved down to his very
bones.

“You did?” Merlin’s eyes widen, his nerves come down slowly as Gaius pats his hand
reassuringly.

His breaths are coming out in pants as if he’s just run a race, head spinning from the confusion and
turmoil of the day. Even though it’s the best reaction he could have conceived, Gauis' reaction still
has him floored, dizzy with relief and confusion. He is so overwhelmed that tears spring to his eyes
 and he has to bite down a laugh that bubbles happily from his chest.

Gaius smiles. “Yes Merlin. I did. You were certainly more interested in Lancelot than you’ve ever
been in Gwen.”

Gaius chuckles at the weak splutter of protest Merlin makes.

“Thank you for telling me.” He squeezes Merlin’s hand, and pulls out his book again, and it’s as
simple as that.

Chapter End Notes

as always thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed this chapter !!

please leave a kudos or comment and let me know what you thought/your favourite
part i absolutely adore hearing from you (i read every comment, i'm sorry i dont reply
to many i get a bit overwhelmed with love, but i genuinely love your comments thank
you so much)

can't wait to see you all on august 14th for chapter 5 !!

 The Gates of Avalon
Chapter Notes

cw for some non con kissing - see end notes for more detailed warning

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Arthur sinks. His limbs are heavy as he is dragged down through murky water which is the colour
of the sky at dusk. His eyelids are heavier still, cemented shut.

His chainmail drags through the thick grip of the water, pulling lower and lower, further and
further; swallowing him into the depths of the water’s great gaping mouth, into the gaping
darkness where she will no longer be able to see him.

The water grabs at his arms, his legs, wrapping around his throat. Its icy cold hands drag him
deep below the surface. Arthur is its gift to hoard, the prince, the jewel of its murky collection. It
claims him, sucking his body down, down, down.

Above the surface, a girl with long brown hair and sickly sweet smile looks down at him. Her eyes
are soulless, as if their spirit were gouged out, and her smile is so cold it puts the water to shame.

She watches unperturbed as Arthur drowns. Her hands drift over the surface of the water, creating
ripples that distort the vision of her impossibly beautiful face.

Arthur sinks out of view, consumed by the water, into the darkest depths to be suffocated and
devoured.

He is gone.

Gone.

Gone.

Morgana’s eyes fly open with a loud gasp, chest heaving with fear, her nightmare wraps its hands
around her throat.

“Arthur.”

~-~-~

“You must stay here a while,” Arthur’s father says to Sophia and her father Aulfric. “Break your
journey. A noble family like yours is always welcome in Camelot.”

The two bow graciously to the King, their noses nearly hitting their knees in their eagerness to
show their respect.

Arthur can’t take his eyes off Sophia, he’s not quite sure what’s wrong with him. The moment he
laid eyes on her earlier in the forest he felt drawn to her enchanting presence. When he stepped in to
save her and her father from bandits there hadn’t been an ulterior motive. He hadn’t even seen her
before jumping in to help. It was just the right thing to do.
As soon as Sophia had turned to face him, pulling her cloak from her head, an odd feeling
overcame Arthur; like a magnetic pull connected him and the girl. Arthur almost feels woozy
looking at her, his head is clouded with rose coloured thoughts that clutter his mind. She has long
brown hair pulled out of her face by braids and gold clips, and a sweet smile, even when he turns
away from her thoughts about her dance before his eyes.

The feeling of her skin against his lips from where he kissed her hand lingers, leaving his mouth
over sensitive and tingling like his lips are swollen. Her lilting voice is stuck in his head like an
endless melody. It sticks to his brain like honey, a heavy thick substance that makes her name, her
voice, her face, catch on his thoughts and stay. He can’t stop thinking about her.

Arthur barely even notices the journey back to his chambers, he is completely consumed with
thoughts of Sophia.

“Make sure you put Sophia and her father in a decent room,” he orders Merlin as they enter the
room. “The best we can offer.”

Merlin shoots him an odd look, like he’s trying to withhold laughter and Arthur sends him a
withering stare in return.

“Will do, Sire,” Merlin replies, clearing away the dirty plates on Arthur’s table.

“The room next door is empty?” Merlin suggests.

The strange tugging sensation in Arthur tells him he needs to be as close to Sofia as possible, it
almost purrs in delight at the very thought. He doesn’t understand it.

“Next door is fine,” he responds. “Excellent, in fact.”

Merlin gives him another amused look, staring at Arthur pointedly.

“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?” Merlin says, raising his eyebrows at Arthur.

Of course. The solution makes perfect sense. All Arthur can do is think about her, her voice, her
angelic eyes, her soft hands and pleasant smile. He’s attracted to her, he’d be stupid not to be.

“Yes. She is,” he answers, voice growing dreamy at just the thought of her. He’s been away from
her for far too long.

Merlin coughs, poorly hiding his laughter.

“Shut up Merlin,” Arthur scoffs, chucking a pillow in his general direction.

Merlin looks up at him, affronted when it hits him in the forehead.

“I didn’t say anything!” His words are overcome by a little giggle that makes Arthur smile despite
himself. For a moment, thoughts of Sophia are gone from his mind, and then he remembers her
smile and it’s like he never stopped thinking of her.

“You didn’t have to.”

~-~-~

Merlin fluffs the pillows on Arthur’s bed — why he needs four of them is beyond Merlin. His own
bed comprises of only one pillow, and it’s threadbare and thin as anything, but no the pompous
prince needs to be completely cushioned in his sleep. Merlin shakes one of the pillows from its
case and begins replacing it with practised movements.

Arthur wanders over, too slow and precise to be aimless, but purposefully casual, signalling that
he’s going to ask Merlin for something, and he’s not going to like it.

“I’m taking Sophia out for a ride today,” he begins, leaning against the bedpost opposite Merlin.
“You know, show her around Camelot, let her take in the best sights of the kingdom.”

Merlin nods slowly. “Right, that sounds like a nice idea.”

Arthur doesn’t move, still watching Merlin like he’s anticipating something.

“What does that have to do with me?”

Arthur’s fingers drum against his arm.

“Well…” he says, eyes shifting from the uncovered mattress, to the pillow still in Merlin’s hands,
to the roof and back again, but never meeting Merlin’s eyes.

“I’m supposed to be on patrol with the guard and my father this morning. I need you to cover for
me.”

Merlin’s head snaps up, certain he must have heard wrong. Arthur stares back, completely
unbothered by what he’s asking of Merlin.

“What, and lie to the king?” He asks, eyes wide.

Arthur tips his head from side to side. “More or less.”

Merlin stabs a finger at Arthur. “No. No way. He’ll see right through me!”

“He will not.”

“He will too. He’ll have me in the stocks quicker than you can say ‘rotten tomatoes’,” Merlin
whines, looking pleadingly to Arthur.

“Merlin,” Arthur cuts in with a heavy sigh as the corners of his lips quirk up. “I need you to do this
for me.”

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, if he looks at Arthur too long he’s bound to do what he asks.

“I can’t lie to your father. I’m a terrible liar, my knees get weak, I start sweating, my brain stops
working—“

“—Oh so no change there then.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows, looking at Arthur incredulously. “You want my help, remember?”

“Right, you’re right.”

Merlin wisely chooses not to comment on the rarity of Arthur actually admitting Merlin is right.

Arthur sighs, shifting so he’s leaning against the bedpost right next to Merlin, so they’re only a few
steps apart.

“Look, I promised Sophia I’d take her out, if I don’t follow through now it’ll blow my chances.”
“You really like her then?” Merlin asks, taking in the awestruck look in Arthur’s eyes, not to
mention his willingness to genuinely ask Merlin for help.

“Yeah, what’s not to like?” Arthur answers honestly.

Merlin forces a smile. There is something deep at the back of his mind that is oddly uncomfortable
with the idea of helping Arthur to win over this girl, but he ignores it.

“I can’t order you to lie to the king,” Arthur says with a warmth in his voice that Merlin can’t
ignore. “But you’ll be a friend for life if you do.”

Arthur tilts his head to the side, looking at Merlin intently. Merlin doesn’t look away fast enough
and finds himself pinned by the inciting blue of Arthur’s gaze. There’s a hopeful question written
in his crooked smile and Merlin’s resolve melts away like snow on a hot summer’s day. He’s
spineless and too easily agrees to Arthur’s whim.

He sighs, lamenting his inability to say no to this colossal prat and nods.

“Well go on then, you don’t want to keep her waiting,” he relents, fluffing the pillow excessively.

Arthur lights up with a bright sunny smile that makes Merlin feel the need to shield his eyes. His
heart does a funny little jump that he dutifully ignores.

“Thanks Merlin, I won’t forget this.”

Merlin can’t help but let his eyes follow Arthur as he leaves the room with a little skip in his step.
That strange itch at the back of his mind scratches uncomfortably but it doesn’t matter. Arthur is
happy, which is the most important thing.

Uther it seems, wouldn’t agree.

He stares at Merlin as he enters, eyes darting around in search of Arthur and narrowing when they
don’t find him.

“Where’s Arthur?” He asks with a frown that makes Merlin’s knees shake. Arthur is a mad man
for asking him to do this.

“He’s, well, he’s not here,” Merlin answers, his tongue feels oversized in his mouth making his
words trip over it. His knees knock together and his legs turn to jelly.

Uther’s frown deepens, his eyes growing furious in a way that makes Merlin’s stomach coil.

“Yes I can see that,” he replies, unamused. “Where is he?”

“There’s been a mistake, I think, no, I know it’s my fault… Sire.” He tacks on the honorific at the
end as an afterthought, having almost forgotten.

“Stop gibbering and tell me where he is.”

“I’m not sure.”

Uther puts his hands on his hips and glares at Merlin as his frustration continues to mount. Unlike
Arthur there is no teasing or halfhearted nature to Uther’s glare, it’s glacial and dark as he regards
Merlin who is trembling before him. Merlin swallows roughly, his throat is as dry as a sandbank
and every lie he must tell the king is an additional grain forced into his throat. He’s never been a
very good liar, but Camelot has forced him to improve the practice.
“Prince Arthur wasn’t sure of his orders so he asked me to check and see if he was riding out this
morning and, well, I may have forgotten,” Merlin blubbers his poor excuse without a single pause
for breath.

“You… forgot?” Uther scorns, his head inclining like he’s imagining all the ways he could murder
Merlin. A vein on his forehead throbs and Merlin watches it cautiously.

Merlin swallows again, making his Adam’s apple stick in his throat and wipes his clammy hands
against his trousers as subtly as he can manage.

“Yes. I’m sorry, My Lord. I’m sure he would have been here, had I informed him.”

Uther scowls. “If this was a time of war I would have you flogged.”

Merlin attempts to offer a pleading smile that likely would have convinced Arthur to let him off the
hook but only makes Uther scowl.

“But since it’s not we’ll let it go just this once?” He asks hopefully.

The vein on Uther’s forehead is so prominent it looks dangerous.

Merlin spends the afternoon in the stocks being pummelled by rotten fruit.

~-~-~

A soft voice calls his name and Arthur bolts upright with a hammering heart, fuelled with the
anticipation of seeing Sophia again. Instead it is Morgana who greets him in the doorway, her hand
raised to rap her knuckles on the wood. He slumps in disappointment, scowling like a petulant
child, crossing his arms tight over his chest.

“Can I come in?” Morgana asks when Arthur remains silent. He shrugs, beckoning with a hand to
welcome her into the room, forcing down the simmering irritation that she isn’t who he wished for.

He blinks rapidly to clear the rosy haze that comes with thinking about Sophia. When his vision
clears he is able to see the concerned curve to Morgana’s eyebrows and her deep frown that creases
her usually smooth and unblemished skin.

“What is it?” He asks, worry crawling up his throat, tightening the pressure around his airway.

She hesitates, chewing on her lip.

“Nothing. I just—” she visibly changes her mind, shaking her head slightly to clear her thoughts
before trying again. “You seem awfully fond of Sophia.”

Arthur frowns as the tether wrapped around his heart tugs. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“Not necessarily, I’ve just never seen you fall under a woman’s spell so quickly.”

The spark of irritation begins to simmer in his gut, bubbling and itching hot under his skin.

As they talk about Sophia, the wave of fondness washes over Arthur again, and there’s a pull in his
chest telling him that he needs to be with her. His vision clouds and his brain is jumbled with
wonderful thoughts of what it would be like to touch her hand, to kiss her, to caress her cheek and
hear her heartbeat. She kissed his cheek in the forest today, before knights interrupted and she grew
shy. He longs for her to do so again; the spot where her lips touched his skin seems to burn with
need.
“Is that so terrible?” He asks, busying himself with tasks to maintain his concentration. No one
ever told him love was so all consuming.

Morgana follows him around the room, concern knitted in her brow. “I’m worried, I don’t think
she’s what she seems.”

The simmering in his chest explodes.

“Why?” He demands as fury fuels him, rounding on her with a wild expression. “What makes you
say that?”

Morgana’s eyes widen, she stumbles backwards a few steps as he storms towards her. “I just have a
feeling. It’s difficult to describe—”

“— your feeling is wrong,” he hisses. Hot anger burns through his veins, setting everything in their
path alight. He feels consumed by the need to protect Sophia, to take Morgana by the shoulders and
shake her until she apologises for every negative thing she considered saying about his true love.

“Arthur, I’m trying to protect you,” Morgana protests and Arthur scoffs, turning his back on her.

“Well stop trying.”

Morgana doesn’t heed his warning. “I had a dream and Sophia she—”

Arthur explodes into a cold, cackling laugh, drowning out her words. He clutches his stomach and
lets the bitter amusement roll over him. He doesn’t miss the way Morgana flinches away, a
horrified look of betrayal flashing across her face. All that matters is defending Sophia. There isn’t
space in his mind for anything else.

“You had a dream, and you thought that was a good reason to bother me?” He jeers, turning
towards Morgana with a savage glint in his eye. “Get out.”

Morgana takes a shuddering breath, closing her eyes as she regains her composure, rearranging her
posture so she’s poised and tipping her chin at him defiantly. When she opens her eyes again they
are bright with anger, an impenetrable mask that protects her like a knight’s shield.

“Fine. I don’t know why I bothered,” she sniffs; the thick emotion in her voice is the only
indication that reveals how his words hurt her. “Get out before I make you,” Arthur seethes with a
dark and commanding tone. For a moment he feels like his father, a force to be reckoned with.

She glowers at him. “I just hope I’m wrong about her,” she says, pausing a moment before
spinning on her heel and striding from the room.

The door slams closed behind her.

~-~-~

Morgana corners Merlin when he’s returning from his second round in the stocks.

He has never seen Morgana anything less than perfectly put together, so it’s a bit unnerving to be
tugged into a private hallway with her when he’s covered in dripping tomato pulp.

She pauses when they come to a stop; she had been so focused on catching his attention that she
didn’t even notice his dishevelled state.

“What put you in the stocks?” She asks, the anxious look in her eyes disappears for a moment as
she hides a giggle behind her hand.

“Arthur,” Merlin replies simply, wiping his juice soaked fringe out of his eyes. Better to simplify
than try to explain that he was willing to subject himself to the stocks just because Arthur pouted a
little. Merlin doesn’t quite understand that himself.

He’s choosing to ignore that for the second day in a row he willingly lied to the king and was
punished accordingly, for Arthur. He’s beginning to realise if Arthur makes his eyes go wide while
he’s asking Merlin for something then Merlin is undoubtedly going to say yes. He doesn’t know
how to interpret that.

Morgana’s face hardens again and she twists her hair between her fingers.

“That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you.” She pulls him a little further down the corridor and
away from the continuous bustle of servants.

Merlin’s face scrunches with confusion. “You wanted to talk to me about getting put in the stocks
for Arthur?”

Morgana’s lips thin like she’s working hard not to laugh even despite the obvious concern in her
eyes.

“No. I’m worried about Arthur,” she admits quietly. Merlin’s stomach twists with anxiety, creating
a tight lump in the bottom of his gut.

He matches her tone, lowering his voice. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Morgana hesitates. “I’m not sure exactly, but have you noticed he’s been acting strangely ever
since Sophia arrived?”

A sharp stabbing sensation joins the coil in Merlin’s stomach. He has noticed Arthur’s strange
behaviour, but had managed to convince himself he was imagining things. While he’s beginning to
understand and learn who Arthur is, he’s still difficult to understand and predict, it wouldn’t be out
of the question to be incorrect in his assumptions.

“What makes you say that?” He asks nervously.

Morgana sighs. “I have a bad feeling, and I tried to warn him about her and we got into a fight. He
yelled at me.”

“Morgana, I’m so sorry,” Merlin attempts to apologise on Arthur’s behalf but she waves him off
with a roll of her green eyes.

“Don’t be silly, I’m quite able to handle Arthur having a mood.”

She hesitates, like Arthur, Morgana is almost impossible to read, although she’s not as guarded
with her emotions. In the short time he’s been at Camelot Merlin has heard her stand up to Uther in
ways Arthur wouldn’t dare, she’s obvious in her affection for Gwen, and she is open and honest
with the townspeople. However, she has the poise and restrained expressions of someone raised as
a member of the royal household, and right now it makes it almost impossible for Merlin to
decipher what she might be thinking.

“It’s just… he doesn’t usually yell at me like that, even when he’s angry. I’m worried,” she admits
finally, her gaze strong as she notes Merlin’s reaction. “Just… Do you promise you’ll look out for
him?”
Merlin nods quickly but the entire conversation leaves an odd taste in his mouth. He feels like he’s
missing pieces of a puzzle and trying to make do without the whole picture. He can sense Morgana
knows more than she’s telling him, but also that she doesn’t know enough to understand what is
actually wrong with Arthur.

“Of course.”

Morgana smiles softly, taking Merlin’s hand and giving it a kind squeeze.

“You’re a good friend Merlin,” she says. “Arthur’s lucky to have you.”

A flush rises up Merlin’s neck and warms his cheeks.

“I care about him, that’s all.”

She nods, gliding away without another word. Morgana doesn’t need to finish conversations, they
end when she decides and everyone else is just expected to accept that, it’s quite impressive.

Despite her sudden departure from the conversation, her words remain in Merlin’s thoughts. He
tells Gaius everything as soon as he arrives back at Gaius’ chambers. The more Merlin reveals, the
deeper Gaius’ frown grows.

“What do you know about Seers, Merlin?” Gaius prompts when Merlin finishes explaining the
entire story to the physician.

Merlin stalls for a moment, confused. “Not much. They’re supposed to be able to see the future,
like prophets.”

Gaius nods. “Yes, it is said to be an innate ability, those who have it are born that way. Some aren’t
even aware that what they see is the future, as it comes to them in their dreams.”

“What does this have to do with Arthur?”

“Not Arthur, Morgana,” Gaius corrects, his mouth set in a long thin line. “The night before Sophia
and Aulfric came to Camelot, Morgana had a dream. Sophia was in it.”

Gaius’ expression is twisted in discomfort and mulling confusion.

Merlin blinks rapidly, completely knocked off kilter by the reveal. The information is practically
unfathomable, so much that he doesn’t know how to begin unravelling it.

“She what? Before she arrived in Camelot?”

Gaius nods sadly.

The conversation lulls as Gaius shifts in his seat. His concern is obvious, the weight of his
thoughts makes his brows sink until his eyes are almost completely concealed. He frowns at the
floor and folds his hands on his knees, before looking up at Merlin with a sad expression.

“I’ve been observing Morgana since she was very young,” he says with a heavy sigh, “and though I
tried to persuade myself otherwise I realised that some of her dreams have come to pass.”

Merlin’s head spins, he reaches out a hand to steady himself and his eyes go wide as Gaius
continues.

“I kept it a secret from Uther of course, the gift of prophecy is far too similar to the work of magic,
and too often the two go hand in hand.”

Merlin resists the urge to put his head in his hands to keep the room still. The news requires a
complete readjustment to his very way of thinking. Gaius waits patiently for Merlin to decipher the
information, allowing the knowledge to sink into Merlin’s mind without urgency.

“You think Morgana is a Seer?” He asks after a long stretch of silence.

Gaius nods with a solemn expression. “I don’t only think it… I fear it.”

Merlin frowns, a sense of dread creeping up his spine like a spider. The expression on Gaius’ face
is foreboding, a storm that clouds over his eyes. It is obvious that he has more to say, that he still
holds information that leaves his shoulders hunched under their burden and an anxious twist to his
kind face.

“Morgana said that in her dream… Sophia killed Arthur,” Gaius reveals.

Merlin’s heart drops, the whole world tips for a moment before righting itself.

He shakes his head desperately. “Couldn’t that have just been a dream, maybe the woman
Morgana saw only looked like Sophia,” he offers optimistically.

Gaius’ mouth twists. “That’s what I hoped too, but with the changes you and Morgana have
noticed in Arthur, it seems unlikely. Not to mention, earlier, Aulfric caught me in Sophia’s room,
and in a flash of anger his eyes changed colour.”

Any hope Merlin had left is dashed by Gaius’ words.

“What do they want with Arthur?” Merlin asks, worry infecting his words.

Gaius’ shoulders heave with the force of his sigh. “I examined the markings on Aulfric’s staff, and
from the research I’ve done it appears to be Ogham — an ancient script.”

He gets to his feet and beckons Merlin over to a large book about ancient and dying languages,
pointing to a line of script and reading it. The words have a distinct similarity to magical
incantations, but sound more accented and stiff.

“‘To hold life and death in your hands’,” he repeats in English. “I’m afraid… we might be dealing
with the Sidhe.”

Merlin’s hands tremble. “That really doesn’t sound good.”

Gaius grimaces. “No, it’s not. The Sidhe are masters of enchantment…”

Merlin catches on. “You think Arthur’s been enchanted?”

“Considering his odd behaviour, I am certain of it.”

~-~-~

Arthur is mesmerised by the soft curve of Sophia’s mouth, the way her lips stretch into a soft and
wide smile. She is beautiful. Arthur wants to gaze upon her face forever.

The room around her is a blur, it hardly matters, she is the only thing in the room that he would
care to look at. He’s thankful that he already sent his manservant away, so that no one can disturb
them. To look away from Sophia even for a second would be a disaster. He wishes he could stitch
his eyelids open so he could never look away again. For she deserves his every attention.

He wouldn’t be able to breathe without her, she holds his lungs in the palm of her hand. His every
inhale, every exhale, every breath he takes is hers to keep and control.

Her hand strokes his face lovingly, a wonderful touch that smooths his edges and makes him as
perfect as she is. Without her he would be nothing. He is a shell, a husk of a person, she makes him
whole. Her skin prickles, like the stab of pins over his skin and under his fingernails, but he seeks
it regardless. He needs it.

“Our love is strong,” she whispers, the soothing melody of her voice as familiar as his favourite
song. It is all he can do not to sigh at the wondrous sound. He could listen to it for a lifetime, to
live in silence without her would be torturous, would be worse than death. “You feel the same way
too.”

She is right of course, he would never doubt her. She knows exactly what to tell him, it’s
reassuring, to know that their love is so resolute that she can speak his feelings for him. He does
not need to think, for she knows everything he could ever want to say.

She slinks forward, a predator, beautiful and compelling, the queen of beasts. She smiles at him
like a jungle cat, gazing at him lustfully as her next meal. He loves her more than meals, more than
air, he will offer himself willingly for her to feast upon. His flesh, his blood, his mind is hers to
consume.

“If we were ever to be parted…” she says, the worry in her voice makes Arthur feel like he will
die. He can feel his lungs close as his heart shudders; her pain is his pain. He could not be without
her, to be parted from her is to be parted from his body. She is his reason for survival. If he was
without her it would feel as though his skin was being torn from his body, he would be melted and
consumed from the inside. He knows he would rather die than experience the agony of existing
without her.

“I will never let that happen,” Arthur promises.

He would rather rip out his own heart with his bare hands than let that happen.

Sophia smiles, batting her gorgeous eyelashes at him, her hands sit over his, keeping him still and
impeccably moulded to her touch. He cannot move until she says so. He is her marionette, he
willingly hands her his strings and lets her play puppeteer.

“You may not have the choice. There are some here who do not want us to be together.”

“I will never let them come between us.”

Arthur wants to kill them, he wants to tear them limb from limb if they dare to keep him from his
darling Sophia. If she says the word he will do it, whatever she wants, she can have.

“You must seek permission for us to marry, so that we can be together. Forever,” she instructs.
Whatever she wants.

“Till death do us part,” Arthur mumbles, completely enraptured in the beautiful pattern of freckles
beneath her eyes. He would promise her anything if it meant he could watch her forever, until he
dies, until the skin had rotted from his corpse leaving him as nothing but bones.

“Because we are in love,” Sophia says softly.

“Because we are in love,” Arthur echoes.

She leans forward and kisses him but Arthur cannot move, completely overwhelmed by the magic
of her presence. Her lips claim him, marking him as her territory, her possession to treasure.

Whatever she wants. Whatever she wants. Whatever she wants.

~-~-~

Merlin’s worst fears about Sophia and Aulfric are confirmed the next day. He had almost been
hoping that they were all overreacting and simply too invested and intrusive about Arthur’s strange
behaviour. There was every possibility he was just having a poor week, and it coincided with
Sophia and Aulfric’s arrival completely by accident.

However Arthur’s behaviour on the third day eliminates that possibility.

When Merlin wakes Arthur up with a light shake to his shoulder he remains unresponsive. He
stares at Merlin unseeingly with unfocused and glazed eyes, like he’s seeing straight through
Merlin.

“Arthur?” Merlin tries to catch his attention.

Arthur blinks lethargically, he’s focused on the space beyond Merlin’s shoulder even though he
blinks to acknowledge Merlin’s presence. Merlin steps out of Arthur’s way as the prince swings his
legs off the edge of the bed and stretches.

“Fetch me my finest tunic,” Arthur says with a snap of his fingers in Merlin’s vague direction, not
even looking him in the eyes. Typically in the mornings, Merlin will rouse Arthur and duck a few
pillows thrown his way for daring to wake him — even though it’s one of Merlin’s assigned duties.
Then they’ll quip back and forth as Merlin helps Arthur prepare for the day, before they exit his
chambers together. The change in the established routine is unmistakable. The contemptuous way
Arthur is treating him now is enough to make Merlin feel unsteady, even with the knowledge that
Arthur is likely not acting of his own volition.

“Your finest tunic?” Merlin confirms even as he makes his way to Arthur’s wardrobe to retrieve it.
There is no occasion that should warrant such lavish clothing.

“What for?”

Arthur frowns and for a moment Merlin can see the family resemblance between him and his
father, there is no glint of amusement in his eyes, only icy frustration.

“That doesn’t concern you, Merlin. I have business to attend to with my father,” Arthur huffs,
turning his back on Merlin.

Merlin bites his tongue to avoid mentioning that technically Arthur’s plans for the day are his
business, as it’s his job to attend to him; knowing what Arthur wants to accomplish is a fairly
important part of doing his job. He can sense that Arthur wouldn’t appreciate hearing that in his
current state.

As it turns out Merlin doesn’t have to wait long to discover what Arthur’s plan is. He requests an
audience with his father within the hour, and barely waits to exchange civil pleasantries before
asking Uther’s blessing of his marriage to Lady Sophia.

A horrible feeling stews in Merlin’s gut as Uther attempts to laugh Arthur off and receives nothing
but a blank stare and furrowed eyebrows. The anxious feeling curdles as the discussion grows more
heated, both King and Prince snapping back and forth at each other and their frustration mounts. In
his normal state Arthur would never dare raise his voice at Uther, but when he’s under an
enchantment he holds no such qualms.

It’s almost upsetting that Uther doesn’t realise something is blatantly wrong with his son, instead
he only grows furious and his face colours. He resorts to threatening both Sophia and Aulfric with
execution if Arthur does not respect his decision to deny the union. Merlin watches with bated
breath as the two sneer and snap at each other like wild dogs, Arthur growing more and more
furious until eventually he snaps and storms from the court in a huff. Merlin hurries after him,
stomach stewing with anxiety and a looming feeling that prickles at the back of his neck.

Arthur is wrestling himself into chainmail when Merlin walks in; just the sight of him clearly
preparing to leave is enough to send Merlin’s heart rabbiting.

Arthur looks up and lays eyes on Merlin and his expression is nothing short of livid. Merlin
ignores how the disappointment in Arthur’s blue eyes sends burning pain lashing across his
stomach.

“Get out,” Arthur mutters venomously, turning back to his task.

Merlin ignores that too.

“Arthur, you need to stop,” Merlin tries to reason.

Anger flashes across Arthur’s face like lightning. “How dare you? I ordered you to get out. Now
leave me.”

Merlin approaches tentatively, cautious not to startle the livid prince. It feels as though the floor is
rotting beneath his feet, and every footfall might send him into peril. “I understand you think
you’re in love with Sophia—” Arthur slams his hand into the bedframe, it crashes against the wall
and Merlin fights not to flinch at the burst of anger.

“That I think I’m in love with Sophia?” Arthur demands.

“Alright, that you are in love with Sophia,” Merlin rectifies hurriedly.

Arthur turns away from Merlin with an indignant sneer, continuing his preparations to leave
Camelot.

“You think this is a good idea but it’s not, you’re not in your right mind. You can’t do this,” Merlin
attempts again, squaring his shoulders against Arthur and refusing to back down.

“Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do?” Arthur scorns.

“I’m your friend.”

Arthur rounds on Merlin with a scoff.

“No Merlin, you’re my servant.”

The words are a punch to Merlin’s gut. It hurts more than he would like to admit. His heart
squeezes, he feels it crack under the strength of Arthur’s grip, tightening in his chest until he thinks
it might crumble away. With a rough swallow and a few quick blinks he dispels the ache, he
doesn’t have time to think about that now.
“She’s cast a spell on you, you’re enchanted,” Merlin insists, following Arthur around the room
even as he tries to shake him off. Arthur pauses, the glazed look to his eyes clearing as he considers
Merlin’s words. A blossom of hope buds in Merlin’s heart.

“I told you people would try to keep us apart,” Sophia’s voice floats from the door, her words
dripping with insincerity. Merlin turns to face her and finds her expression set hard in stone, jaw
locked and gaze burning as she glares at Merlin.

“I know,” Arthur answers, Merlin’s gaze flicks back to him, his heart plummeting. “I won’t let that
happen.”

“Don’t listen to her, she’s controlling you,” he says frantically, stepping between Arthur and
Sophia so she is forced to speak to Arthur over his shoulder.

Arthur’s face flickers with a range of emotions, a conflicted confusion dances in his eyes. His
expression reveals an internal raging war as he grapples with how to proceed.

Sophia tries to tempt him towards her.

“We can elope together, get away from these people,” her words are sweet but her tone is
malicious as she says ‘people’, and she sends a glare at Merlin in case he wasn’t aware who she
was speaking about. “Get away from this place.”

“Arthur you have to believe me, they’re crazy, they’re going to kill you,” Merlin rebuts. He’s still
facing Aulfric and Sophia, a human barrier between Arthur and the Sidhe, but he glances over his
shoulder, at Arthur, while he speaks.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut tight, his face twists like he’s battling a painful headache. When he
opens his eyes again they are tormented with confusion, if Merlin were to ask he’s sure Arthur
wouldn’t know up from down.

“Let’s go, Arthur,” Sophia pleads in her silky smooth voice that trails cold fingers up Merlin’s
back. “Let’s go, let’s leave tonight. Then we can be together.”

Merlin doesn’t give Arthur a second to consider her offer, interrupting with his own before they
can take root. He can see the familiar sharpness to Arthur’s gaze slowly returning through his
tortured disorientation. His expression slowly loses that befuddled sweetness and transforms into
something more contemplative, more Arthur, the longer Merlin talks.

“She’s going to kill you. Sophia plans to sacrifice you. If you go with her you will die. Arthur, do
you understand?”

Arthur looks pained, screwing up his face and taking a gulp of air like he’s on the verge of tears.
“I-It doesn’t make sense,” he stumbles over his words, looking desperately to Merlin for answers.
“We’re in love.”

He looks like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Merlin.

“They’re magical beings! They’ve enchanted you,” Merlin cries almost mad with desperation. He
needs evidence. Arthur is always harping on about evidence, his eyes fall on the staff in Aulfric’s
hand. “Look at the writing on his staff.”

As soon as he steps to move closer Aulfric’s eyes glow a dark, ominous red, fires burning in his
irises. Merlin gasps and stumbles backwards, his heart hammers in his ears, despite his fear, he
feels vindictive.
“Look, Arthur don’t you see? Look at his eyes,” he shouts, driven to madness with how
desperately he wants Arthur to see reason.

Arthur is staring at the opposite wall, his head turned from Merlin.

“Arthur?”

Slowly, Arthur turns to face Merlin, his usually cerulean blue eyes the same hellish red. The
comprehension that had slowly been returning to Arthur’s gaze is gone, he is a mindless corpse, a
puppet completely subject to the will of his master.

Fury bubbles inside Merlin until it overflows and floods his entire body, turning everything in his
sights red. He turns to the Sidhe and charges with a shout, determined to free Arthur from their
hold. He barely makes it two steps before Aulfric turns the blue staff in his hands, firing a blast of
energy that hits Merlin squarely in the chest. His head cracks against the stone wall as he flies
backwards.

Everything goes black.

~-~-~

Merlin wakes to Gaius’ hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake, his worried face consuming
his line of vision. His head hurts something terrible, there’s a sharp ringing in his ears that makes
everything muffled and he’s seeing double.

He groans as the split images slowly merge and he makes out the question Gaius keeps repeating.

“What happened to you?”

“It was Aulfric,” he says, reaching a hand up to his head, wincing as his fingers prod at the tender
bruised skin of his scalp.

As the grogginess wears away he remembers. He sits up with wide eyes, wincing as his head
pounds. The sudden movement makes his stomach lurch, almost unloading the contents onto the
floor, but he manages to swallow it back down, steadying his swaying body by resting his
throbbing head against his knee.

“Where’s Arthur? I have to go after him, he’s in trouble,” he explains frantically, heart clenching at
the thought of Arthur with those monsters. As he scrambles to his feet he notices an odd murmur of
noise in his ear canal. “What’s that buzzing noise?”

Gaius frowns, reaching out, grabbing Merlin by the elbows as he sways dangerously. “Be careful
Merlin, you can barely stand.”

Merlin ignores both Gaius, and the buzzing. He has a single minded focus — Arthur, everything
else can wait.

“I have to go,” he says, frantically walking away from Gaius. The room careens like a boat
travelling over a vicious wave and Merlin takes a steadying inhale through his nose.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t go anywhere in this state. You owe it to your powers that you
survived Aulfric’s attack at all.”

Merlin shakes his head — a mistake, the porridge he ate for breakfast threatens to make a
reappearance — as he continues to try and escape Gaius’ grip. “I’ll be fine, he needs me.”
Gaius’ eyebrows furrow in the specific way that means Merlin is worrying him.

“Has that buzzing stopped?” He asks.

No, Merlin thinks, it’s actually quite frustrating.

“Yes,” he replies instead.

“Liar.”

“I have to go Gaius, he’ll die if I don’t.”

Merlin levels Gaius with a serious look but his vision is still slightly out of focus. He must look
grave enough because Gaius doesn’t argue, but his frown deepens as he rubs Merlin’s shoulder
soothingly.

“The Sidhe are a vicious people, Merlin,” Gaius warns, carefully releasing Merlin’s shoulders,
eying him appraisingly as he sways in place. “You must be careful.”

Merlin grins, attempting to give off an air of casual confidence. “Don’t worry,” he waves off
Gaius’ concerns. “I know what I’m doing.”

He doesn’t, but Gaius doesn’t need to know that.

The adrenaline and stress of reaching Arthur trumps the continuous agony of his injury from
Merlin’s mind. He focuses on the rhythmic slamming of his feet hitting the floor as he races to the
stables, urging his body faster and faster. The Lake of Avalon is the only place Sophia and Aulfric
would take Arthur and it is about a half a day’s ride from the Camelot citadel. Merlin was
unconscious an hour at least, there isn’t a moment to lose.

His mind churns with anxieties of what the Sidhe could be doing to Arthur. A million scenarios
bounce in his head, each worse than the last. If anything happens to Arthur, Merlin isn’t sure what
he’ll do.

“I’m your friend.”

“No Merlin, you’re my servant.”

Friend or not, Merlin’s responsibility is protecting Arthur, it’s his destiny.

He dismounts his horse a good few yards out from the lake to maintain the element of surprise,
sneaking towards the expanse of water where Arthur, Sophia and Aulfric have gathered. The lake
is a huge glittering body of water, which glistens with a magical energy. It is surrounded by
arching willow trees and reeds, and there are small abandoned row boats along the edge of the
lake.

Merlin isn’t sure what Aulfric and Sophia are planning exactly, but the incantations Aulfric is
chanting from the lake’s bed appear to be some kind of ritual. Taking into consideration Gaius’
research on the Sidhe and their immortality, which Sophia and Aulfric seem to lack, it presents the
conclusion that the pair are planning to sacrifice Arthur as some kind of exchange. Merlin refuses
to let that happen.

Arthur is completely unresponsive as Sophia leans forward and kisses him. He doesn’t even notice
her lips are touching his, he doesn’t notice how she holds him. He is lethargic and unaware of her
touch. The horrible feeling in Merlin’s chest turns to acid that burns his lungs, rising in his throat
like bile. He hates her for subjecting Arthur to such a spell, anger coils within him, tightly wound
and heavy, leaving him nauseous and electrified with fury.

He watches as Arthur falls into the water pliantly, his eyes falling closed and Merlin’s heart sinks
with him. He glances around, frantically searching for a way to get to Arthur in time. Sophia’s
staff, with the blue jewel encased in twisting vines sits on the floor by Aulfric’s feet. A sliver of
hope wedges itself into Merlin’s mind, jamming itself between his terrified thoughts of possibly
losing Arthur.

Merlin reaches for the familiar weight of his magic sitting in his chest. This is the type of magic he
knows, it is a tool he’s been using his whole life, he learnt how to use magic before he learnt how
to talk. The new forms of magic he’s been learning demand focus, attention, concentration, but this
doesn’t; this is as instinctive as walking. He reaches out with the coils of his magic, seizing the
staff and pulling it to his hand, thankfully without disturbing Aulfric.

The staff is warm in his hand, he can feel the buzz of the sorcery concealed under the surface, the
stick seems to be alive with power. The enchantment thrums to match Merlin’s magic, responding
to his touch and coming to life.

He breathes deeply as the magic settles comfortably into his skin like a second mind. Directing the
spell’s course is easier with the staff in hand, his own magic surges up to meet the power within
the staff. They work side by side as he aims the staff at Aulfric. Merlin’s magic swells within him,
flowing through his veins, lighting up his nerve endings with energy. It mingles with the magic
within the staff, passing from him to the stick and out of the jewel in a burst of light.

The beam hits Aulfric between his shoulder blades, and he stumbles forward with a shout before
exploding into light and dust. Merlin doesn’t have time to recognise that he’s just killed a man.
He’s too distracted by Sophia, who runs towards him, her dress pulling slowly through the water.

“Father!” She screams, her voice raw with horror.

Merlin inhales deeply and turns the staff on her, squeezing his eyes shut he fires another blast of
light. He hears her scream, a shout of fear cut short by the explosion of light.

Once again he represses the sick feeling that swells at the thought of taking another life. Instead he
throws his jacket from his shoulders and dives into the lake. The water is ice cold, clinging to his
body like glacial hands trying to pull him away from Arthur. His trousers and tunic are soaked
through as he swims further.

“Arthur!” He calls desperately, scouring the water for a glimpse of the prince. His pulse is
clamouring like a wild horse, and his entire body is shaking in a way that has nothing to do with
the chill of the water. He splashes around, driven wild with his need to find Arthur. With every
second that passes he feels more frenzied. He finds nothing but murky water and leaves. “Arthur!”

Merlin inhales a mouthful of air and dives beneath the surface, squinting through the gloom in
search of Arthur. He stays under for as long as possible, swimming wildly, scouring the depths for
a glimpse of the prince. Panic rises in Merlin as his search continues to be fruitless. He swims
deeper, flailing his arms about, hoping that even if his eyes fail to detect Arthur his fingers will
find him by grazing the prince’s skin. His eyes sting with the effort of holding them open in the dirt
filled water. The need for air becomes too great, he swims to the surface and heaves gulps of
oxygen before diving under again.

In the murky depths, a glimpse of shining chain mail and blond hair catches his eye. He swims
towards it, towards Arthur, unconscious and steadily sinking, lower and lower, towards the centre
of the lake. His lips are parted sleepily, unaware of the danger he’s in, and the heavy mail of the
royal family is pulling him down and away from Merlin.

Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur’s middle and kicks firmly, propelling them both towards the
surface. He’s extremely heavy, the weight of the water in the notches of his metal armour makes
him dead weight in Merlin’s arms. He kicks harder, and together they slowly make their way to the
top of the lake, to air. His lungs scream as he continues to hold his breath, the surface grows closer.

Darkness creeps at the edge of his vision, leaving only an out of focus vignetted picture of the
surface as he desperately struggles to reach air. The pain he has been desperately ignoring crashes
over him, adding to the incredible weight of their two bodies. For all that he’s willing to protect
Arthur he never imagined he would kill someone. His body is the same as it has always been; but
he feels different. When he killed Edwin it was self defence, an accident, he hadn’t intended to
send the axe towards the other sorcerer, only to protect himself and Gaius. Sophia and Aulfric were
choices, he held a weapon in his hands and he used it to kill.

The weight of those actions is unbearable, he doesn’t feel strong enough to push through it. He’s
already so tired, he blinks away the dregs of unconsciousness that attempt to smother him. He
wants to let his eyes fall closed, his exhaustion slip over him, succumb to the pain and guilt
clawing at the inside of his chest and sleep.

They breach into the open air with a loud gasp from Merlin.

The oxygen is sweet as it enters his sore and desperate lungs. He swallows huge gulps of it,
relishing in the way it eases the pain in his body. His eyesight clears, the darkness at the edges of
his vision blinking away in the streaming sunlight of dusk.

Merlin holds Arthur to his chest, panting desperately and frantically searching Arthur’s neck for a
pulse. It pounds steadily and Merlin almost sobs with relief when he feels it beneath his fingers,
pressing his forehead to the hard surface of Arthur’s shoulder and letting the immense wave of
happiness wash over him.

“Of all the people to be destined to protect, you’ve got to be the most troublesome,” Merlin tells
the unconscious Arthur as he swims them both to shore.

~-~-~

Arthur’s head pounds like a sword is being forged on his skull. Every small increment of
stimulation wreaks havok on his aching head, even the small amount of light filtering through his
eyelashes is like torture. He groans, allowing his head to fall deeper into the soft pillow beneath his
head.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s familiar voice says softly from somewhere by Arthur’s side. Arthur grunts, and
with an agonising strain he manages to open his eyes. He’s in his bed chambers, he realises as he
recognises the drapes adorning the four poster bed, although he doesn’t remember returning to the
room. To his left, Gaius and Merlin, seated on wooden chairs, are looking down at him with twin
expressions of concern.

“What happened?” Arthur grumbles, his voice croaky with disuse. “Oh my head,” he says with a
pained noise, clutching his skull as he sits up.

Merlin looks at him with squinted eyes, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle in Arthur’s expression,
and Arthur scowls in what he hopes is a threatening way despite the migraine pounding in his
temples. To his surprise Merlin beams almost wildly back at him, like he’s utterly thrilled to have
Arthur scowling at him. It’s odd, but in that good way that only works for Merlin.

Instead of answering Arthur’s question — like any good manservant should — Merlin asks one of
his own.

“How much do you remember?”

Arthur considers his question, the last three days are an odd blur. He remembers getting out of and
into bed most days, asking Merlin to cover for him so that he could be with a girl.

“I remember a girl… Sophia,” Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and thinks, the memories are so hazy
it’s like they’re being obscured by fog. “I asked my father something about her? I asked him…”

The memories flood back into his mind, still blurry and disfigured, lacking clarity, but memorable
all the same. He had asked his father’s permission for Sophia’s hand in marriage.

Arthur has never felt any desire to be married. It’s a political alliance that he knows he will be
forced to participate in one day, but beyond that he’s never given it much thought.

“What was I thinking?” He gasps, turning to Merlin and Gaius with wide eyes.

They both wince and turn to each other with a shared guilty expression on both men’s faces. Merlin
chews on his lip, looking Arthur in the eye and then quickly looking away when he meets Arthur’s
impatient glare.

“Well we did wonder… especially when you decided to elope with her last night,” Merlin says
with a sheepish grimace.

Arthur’s jaw slackens and drops open. “I did what.”

His voice goes embarrassingly high, like a boy going through puberty for the first time. He turns to
Gaius who nods in confirmation. “Merlin had to bring you back to Camelot.”

There isn’t even faint recognition in Arthur’s mind of the vague story they’re unravelling for him.
He doesn’t remember anything after he left his father’s court and even that is such a faint memory
he would deem it a dream if it weren’t for Gaius and Merlin’s recollection.

“Why don’t I remember any of this?” He demands, looking to Merlin for answers.

Merlin just goes owl eyed and smiles uncomfortably so Gaius answers instead.

“It must have been quite a blow,” he says with a well meaning smile.

Arthur feels more confused with every word of the conversation.

“What blow?”

This time Merlin does speak, looking almost amused. “Well, when I managed to catch up with you
I couldn’t persuade you to return, you were beyond reason. So I had to make you…” Merlin
gestures absently with his hand for Arthur to fill in the gaps himself.

He can’t help the incredulity that slips into his voice as he asks, “ You managed to knock me out?”

Merlin smiles cheekily. “Yep. With a lump of wood.”

That at least explains the excruciating headache. As Arthur opens his mouth to scold Merlin, Gaius
 speaks.

“You understand he only did it to ensure you were brought back safely.”

Arthur closes his mouth with a snap. His mind is reeling with embarrassment as he observes
Merlin’s scrawny build and weak arms. The fact that his manservant resorted to physical measures
to force him away from a painfully embarrassing elopement was humiliating enough; to know that
Merlin was successful is enough to make Arthur flush with shame.

He points a threatening finger at Gaius, and then at Merlin, being sure to hold it on Merlin to
ensure he understands.

“No one can know about this, any of it. The kingdom can only know that I made the error of
asking Sophia’s hand in marriage, that I realised my mistake, and nothing came of it. Is that
understood?”

Merlin and Gaius both nod with poorly concealed smiles. Arthur can’t help but feel they don’t
fully understand the weight of his embarrassment.

“Not a soul,” he makes them promise. “Not even as a story to help you win over some girl,
Merlin.”

Merlin does actually choke on laughter when he says that, stifling the sound behind a closed fist,
but when he sees the stern look on Arthur’s face he nods emphatically.

“We won’t tell anyone, promise.”

Arthur pauses, stewing in his silence before letting another embarrassed groan slip out and flopping
backwards against the bed.

Chapter End Notes

cw // arthur is enchanted to be in love with a girl so when they kiss it isn't really his
choice

hope you enjoyed this chapter !! leave a comment about your favourite part if you
have one, they mean so much to me !!

and i look forward to seeing you on the 28th of august for chapter 6 !!!
 The Beginning of the End
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Merlin might be going insane. Which is not the way he wanted to start the day.

He tries to rationalise to himself that hearing voices isn’t completely out of the ordinary for Merlin.
The Dragon has spoken to him through a telepathic connection before. It’s probably just a magic
thing. Hopefully.

“Help me, please.”

The voice sounds young, and it croaks with pain, echoing through Merlin’s head like one of his
own thoughts. It’s nothing like the voice of The Dragon which speaks to him with purpose and
wisdom, it’s childish and bordering on frantic.

Merlin steps out into the bright daylight and scans the courtyard, unsure of what he’s looking for.
The courtyard is as busy as usual, servants bustling in and out of the castle with baskets of clothes,
ingredients for dinner and other mismatched items. Amongst them people come and go from the
castle with requests and enquiries, while guards attend to business. In the very corner, almost
completely concealed by a fountain, is a boy.

The boy is ridiculously small, and can’t be older than eight years old. He’s got messy black hair
hidden by an emerald green cloak that is swaddled around him as he curls up on himself to keep
out of sight. When they make eye contact, Merlin can see that his big eyes shine with tears.

“Help me. They’re searching for me.”

It’s then Merlin notices that the guards in the courtyard are not wandering aimlessly but are
scouring the small square in search of something, accompanied by hound dogs that sniff out the
scent of their prey. The boy trembles, curling in on himself and under the lip of the fountain.

Merlin reaches out with his own magic, wrapping it around the boy’s like a handshake. Unlike his
own magic which is warm and feels like a spark of lightning, the boy’s powers feel tranquil, like
water flowing through a brook. Merlin has never spoken to someone through his mind before, but
he finds it’s no more difficult than speaking out loud; he nudges his thoughts through the link of
the magic and to the boy.

“Why are they searching for you?”

“They’re going to kill me,” the boy whimpers, tucking his knees under his chin and shivering. His
right hand is clutching his opposite arm tightly but he’s too far away for Merlin to deduce why.

The guards are encroaching on the boy, they’ll find him within a few minutes, at best. Merlin
should do nothing. He should walk away and pretend he never heard the boy and ignore the dark
guilty fog that will creep into his mind. He should. It’s dangerous enough in Camelot without
harbouring someone who is clearly wanted. It’s obvious why the boy is in trouble, his magic still
nudging at Merlin is an obvious clue; being associated with a magic user is as good as placing his
own head on the chopping block. He should do nothing and save himself a world of trouble.

But Merlin isn’t any good at doing nothing.

He inclines his head, a subtle way of beckoning the boy and strides across the courtyard as casually
as he can. He musters a charade of nonchalance, swinging his arms cooly and walking with an easy
air to his step. No one stops to look at him. He reaches one of the servant’s entrances and looks
back at the boy.

“This way,” he says, pushing the words at him. “Come on, run. Run!”

The boy dashes across the courtyard towards Merlin, his emerald cloak billowing behind him and
his head ducked down. The guards spot him immediately with a shout and make chase, Merlin
ducks inside before they can see him and waits. The boy runs in first, fast for his small size, with
terrified watery eyes that widen with relief when he sees Merlin again.

“Come on,” Merlin says, out loud this time, taking the boy by the hand and pulling him through the
castle. He whimpers with pain but follows without complaint, running double Merlin’s speed just
to keep up with him. The guards thunder behind them and the clattering sounds of armour and
heavy boots echo through the castle’s corridors.

Merlin doesn’t have a plan, he didn’t think this far ahead. He just runs.

Morgana’s room is nearby, she’s always shown him kindness, perhaps she’ll be willing to extend
the same to the boy. It’s the only option Merlin can think of on the run. He tugs the boy’s hand and
hurries them towards Morgana’s chambers, bursting through the door and slamming it behind
them. The sound of the guards follows them.

Morgana and Gwen spin around to stare at him in shock, and in Gwen’s case horror.

“Have you forgotten how to knock, Merlin?” Morgana demands.

Merlin’s stomach twists itself in knots, he holds the boy to him almost like a human shield. It’s
easy to forget sometimes that Morgana is the King’s ward, and barging into her chambers is a
serious violation.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers. “The guards want him, I didn’t know what to do.”

Morgana and Gwen both look down and see the boy seemingly for the first time, both their eyes
widen in tandem as they realise how terrified the young child is. He’s trembling so furiously
against Merlin’s side that it seems like he’s been out in the cold for months and the tears that were
welling in his eyes have spilled over his round cheeks.

As if to prove Merlin’s words true a guard batters his fist hard against the door to knock.

“My lady?”

Morgana blinks rapidly, running her fingers through the two curls framing her face to steady
herself and nods.

“In there, quickly.” She points to a closed off section of her chambers, behind a veil.

Merlin nods, trying to convey to Morgana just how grateful he is in their short shared glance, and
hurries behind the curtain. The boy looks up at Merlin as they press against themselves flat against
the wall. There’s a long still moment where Merlin holds his breath and listens to Morgana talk to
the guard, and he thinks everything might be okay. Then the boy’s eyes go glassy and cross eyed,
and he collapses into Merlin’s side. Merlin only just manages to catch him before he hits the wall.
Now Merlin can see why he was clutching his arm earlier. There is a deep gash in his left shoulder,
dripping with blood and sticky around the edges.
The veil is ripped open and Morgana and Gwen hurry to his side.

“What happened?” Morgana asks with a horrified gasp, as she drops to the floor beside Merlin to
inspect the wound. “I didn’t know he was injured,” Merlin explains. “We didn’t speak… aside
from him telling me he needed help.”

Gwen frowns, running a hand over his clammy forehead worriedly.

They quickly realise the wound is infected. The boy slips in and out of consciousness over the
following days as the castle grows incensed at their inability to capture him. Morgana is kind
enough to continue hiding him, growing more protective over the young druid as the days pass.
However it’s obvious they need to get him out of Camelot. Arthur is being worked into exhaustion
by Uther in his mad desperation to capture the child, and it’s only a matter of time before they
search her chambers properly.

Merlin hadn’t wanted to involve Gaius but it became necessary. The boy couldn’t stay awake for
more than a few minutes at a time, and even when he did manage to keep his eyes open he was
whimpering with pain. They couldn’t get him out of the castle while he was sick and he wouldn’t
recover naturally with an infected wound. Once Gaius treated him it only took a day for him to
recover, and the preparations to get him to safety swiftly began.

Morgana is the one who volunteers to escort him out of Camelot. Or rather, won’t hear a word of
Gwen and Merlin’s protests, insistent that she is the only one who will be safe if she were caught.

“Thank you Emrys,” the boy says, projecting the words to Merlin as they bid each other farewell at
the door to Gwen’s cottage.

Merlin frowns. “Emrys? Why do you call me that?”

The boy stares back at Merlin with his unblinking gaze, that is so serious for such a young boy.

“Among my people, that is your name.”

Merlin doesn’t get the chance to ask for an explanation because Morgana arrives. She takes his
hand gently and they hurry out the door.

They don’t make it far.

~-~-~

Morgana straightens her spine and glares back at Uther, refusing to cower under his glare. He is
visibly furious with his jaw set in a hard line and nostrils flaring, a furious red flush has crept from
his neck to the taut lines of his neck and face.

He called her to the courtroom for this conversation, a space where he commands all. The room
feels impossibly large, and despite Arthur’s presence it has tunnelled to only the two of them. Her
and Uther.

“All this time you’ve been hiding the boy in my own palace,” Uther says in a dangerously calm
tone. He doesn’t look at Morgana, instead staring intently at his clenched fist resting on the long
table of the courtroom.

Morgana doesn’t dare speak.

“How could you betray me like this?” He asks, his eyes shooting up to meet hers with ruthless ire.
Morgana takes a deep breath through her nose, rolling back her shoulders and meeting his anger
with her own.

“I would not see him executed.”

Uther scoffs, pacing down the length of the table towards her. “I have raised you since you were a
child, is this how you repay me?”

“I did what I thought was right.”

“You think it is right to conspire with my enemies against me?”

Her knuckles grow white with as she clasps her hands together, but she holds her ground even as he
stops only steps away from her.

“How can he be your enemy? He’s just a boy.”

She was no older when arrived in Camelot following the death of her own father.

“He is a druid,” Uther justifies, waving a hand dismissively.

“Is that such a crime?”

“His kind would see me dead and this kingdom crumble to anarchy!” Uther screams and droplets of
spit fly from his mouth. He goes devastatingly quiet once again. “And you would help them.”
Uther points an accusing finger at her, directly towards her heart.

“Then punish me,” the words fly from her mouth before she can even consider what she’s saying,
but she doesn’t regret them. “Punish me, but spare the boy. I beg you.”

Arthur is standing off to the side, staring at the floor with a sad and troubled expression. His
shoulders are hunched around his ears and his elbows are tucked into his sides, for someone so
broad and strong it’s almost impressive how small he can make himself seem. She wishes she
could shield him from this. Morgana doesn’t understand why Uther forced him to be present, he
has no reason to be here.

Morgana saw the pain in Arthur’s eyes when he and the knights captured her and the druid boy the
night before. She saw the way he glanced around at the guards surrounding them and she watched
as the realisation dawned on him, that there was nothing he could do. It is her fault he is hurt, and
that aches like an iron grip around her heart.

“Make arrangements for the boy to be executed tomorrow morning,” Uther says and Morgana’s
heart plummets. Arthur looks up with horror flashing across his eyes.

“No, please, he’s done nothing,” Morgana begs, finally finding the ability to move, rushing across
the room towards the King, pleading with a raw voice that claws at her throat. Her eyes prickle hot
tears as she reaches Uther.

Uther bares his teeth, lip curling with animosity. “Let this serve as a lesson to you.”

Morgana’s chest feels achingly hollow, like every breath will shatter her into pieces. She feels thin
and on the verge of shattering; she is porcelain glass held in Uther’s callous hands.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says, furious at her own voice for sounding so pitifully soft.

Uther ignores her, turning to Arthur with a snap that makes both him and Morgana flinch. “Did you
hear me? I want him executed at dawn.”

Arthur opens his mouth, and Morgana sees the wobble in his jaw. She watches his eyes harden,
resignation overcoming the sorrow in his eyes.

“Yes father,” he mutters, hanging his head in defeat.

Morgana wants to stand in front of him and protect him from this whole situation; but she also
wants to scream herself hoarse, to beg him to do something. Uther will never listen to her, but
Arthur has a chance to make this right.

She knows he won’t.

Uther turns to leave and rage burns through Morgana, the flames of her anger lick at the cold fear
in her veins until she is filled with fiery resentment.

“What have these people done to you?” She hisses, storming after him. “Why are you so full of
hate?”

“Enough!”

With a snarl Uther whirls around to face her, grabbing Morgana by the throat and shoving her
against the throne at the end of the long court table. The leather of his gloves pushes hard into her
skin and she gasps as his fingers tighten and her airway closes.

“I will not hear another word,” he says coldly, leaning close and spitting the words in her face.
Morgana’s eyes are wide, shining with tears as she looks back at the man who raised her. The
throne digs painfully into her spine as he shoves her backwards.

“Do not speak to me until you are ready to apologise for what you have done.”

He releases her and she collapses forward and heaves for air, gulping mouthfuls of it until her head
stops spinning. She squeezes her eyes shut to keep tears from escaping, letting the slowing rate of
her breathing calm the frightened tremble of her hands.

She can hear Uther’s stomping footsteps retreat, slamming the door to the courtroom behind him.
She flinches away from the loud noise and wishes she didn’t.

“Morgana,” Arthur breaks the silence, barely more audible than a whisper but in Morgana’s
agitated mind it seems to boom and echo around the stony space.

“Leave it, Arthur. Just leave me,” she says through gritted teeth. She feels frenzied with hatred for
Uther, and yet is completely numb. It is like Uther has ripped her skin open and left her vulnerable
to the world, her fragile insides exposed and defenceless against the cruel open air.

She stares at the floor and waits for Arthur to leave, letting her dark hair fall forward around her
face like a shield. Only once the door has closed behind him does she let herself cry.

~-~-~

Whenever Merlin doesn’t know what to do, he seeks out The Dragon. The creature might be
elusive, and downright frustrating at times, but he has a wisdom that surpasses Merlin’s own by
centuries, and he is the only magical being Merlin knows of in the entirety of Camelot, sorcerer or
otherwise.
“Young warlock,” The Dragon greets, as he always does, although he lacks the amused smile he
usually bears. “No doubt you have come to me about the druid boy.”

Merlin really shouldn’t be surprised by The Dragon’s knowledge any more, but still his eyes
widen.

“How did you know?”

The Dragon tips his head consideringly at Merlin. “Like you, I hear him speak.”

That opens a plethora of questions that Merlin longs to ask; did The Dragon call out to the young
boy like he did to Merlin? Have they spoken? Can all magical beings speak to each other through
their minds? But there’s one that is plaguing him more than any other.

“Why does he call me Emrys?”

“Because that is your name,” The Dragon replies simply, looking down his snout at Merlin as
though he’s stupid for even asking the question.

Merlin shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure you’ll find my name is Merlin, always has been.”

The Dragon finally smiles, a familiar condescending smirk. “You have many names. Emrys is only
one of them. It is what you are known as to the druids and other magical beings.”

“How do they know of me? I’ve never even met a druid.”

“There is much written about you, young warlock, that you have yet to read.”

Merlin stares into the great chasm where The Dragon resides. He has come to terms with the idea
that Arthur, and protecting the prince, is his destiny; but it never occurred to him that he would be
known for it. His destiny is far greater than him, but perhaps his story is as well.

“You came here for another reason,” The Dragon reminds him, pulling him from his spiralling
thoughts about his own future.

“The druid boy, I don’t know how to help him.”

The Dragon’s nostrils flare. “You should not protect the boy.”

Merlin’s thoughts stagger to a grinding halt, and he looks up at The Dragon with a scrunched face.
“What? Why? He has magic, he’s just like me.”

“You and the boy are as different as they come.”

Merlin frowns. “What do you mean?”

The Dragon’s eyes narrow, peering at Merlin like he’s dissecting him with his gaze. Merlin crosses
his arms defensively over his chest and stares back.

“If the boy lives, you cannot fulfil your destiny,” he says, voice quieter than Merlin has ever heard.

An uncomfortable feeling swirls in Merlin’s stomach and he is subjected to a deep sense of unease
that makes his muscles clench and raises the hairs on the back of his neck.

“What do you mean? What does the boy have to do with my destiny? You told me my destiny is to
protect Arthur.”
The Dragon doesn’t blink, patiently waiting for Merlin to decipher his words in a way that makes
Merlin equal parts furious and scared witless. It can’t be.

“Then you have the answer you seek,” he says. The silence that stretches between them settles over
Merlin like a heavy weight pushing him down.

“You’re telling me, that little boy is going to kill Arthur?”

He thinks of the big innocent eyes of the druid boy, and the way he stares at Merlin with an
exhaustion far beyond his years. It’s incomprehensible that he could one day be responsible for
Arthur’s death.

“It is foretold that a druid boy by the name of Mordred, will one day lay to rest the Once and
Future King. This boy is the one who was prophesied. He will kill Arthur Pendragon.”

Merlin’s legs wobble, the room spins, he stumbles into the wall to keep himself upright. His body
falls into a state of shock, the air feels glacial, like winter has come early and is freezing Merlin
right down to his core. He is hollow, empty, a husk of a person, like the ruins of an uninhabited
castle. His stomach lurches, he is shipwrecked on the shore of a beach, the tumultuous waves
sending him careening into nothingness. He feels suffocated in his own skin.

Arthur can’t die. He just can’t.

“No, no way, no.” Merlin steps back and away from The Dragon, shaking his head. “You’re
wrong. You can’t know that for certain.”

The Dragon frowns at Merlin and his disappointment leaves a bad taste in Merlin’s mouth.

“There must be another way,” Merlin insists, his pulse is so loud he can hear it pounding against
his eardrums. “The future isn’t set in stone.”

His protests fall on deaf ears. The Dragon sneers, baring his sharp teeth at Merlin, they glint in the
darkness and curve like sharp knives.

“You must let the boy die.”

~-~-~

Arthur was already feeling awful when he entered his chambers, and the feeling worsens at the
sight of Morgana seated at his table. Her face is gaunt and ashen, heavy bags sit under her eyes
from crying and her usual mask of indifference is cracked and splintered. She still manages to hold
her shoulders with poise and her hands are folded neatly on the table, but Arthur has never seen her
so vulnerable.

“Make yourself at home,” he mutters, closing the doors behind him.

Morgana doesn’t bother with introductions. “You can’t let your father execute the boy.”

Arthur shrugs off his jacket and throws it onto a spare chair for Merlin to deal with later. The harsh
act only temporarily cedes his temper before another short burst of frustration bubbles within him
once more.

“You’re lucky he’s not executing you. He ought to. If you were anyone else he would.”

Morgana ignores that barb and straightens her spine so that she is meeting his gaze head on.
“I know you believe your father is wrong for sentencing him to execution. He’s only a child.”

Arthur’s stomach clenches at the idea of the small child’s round cheek resting on the chopping
block, with tears welling in his eyes and dripping down his chin. He’s so young to be subjected to
such a fate.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he answers honestly, turning to take off his belt so he doesn’t have
to look at her. “My father has already made up his mind, and he won’t be persuaded otherwise. I
tried.”

“Then the time for talking is over.” Morgana stands and the chair screeches against the floor as she
shoves it out of her way.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not going to happen,” Arthur mutters, turning to meet her
headstrong stare.

Morgana scoffs, rolling her eyes at him.

“Why am I not surprised?”

Despite being raised by the same man, he and Morgana have never been the same. Arthur follows
the rules, he wants to do the right thing, if that means conceding to his father more often than not,
then he accepts that. He’s by no means passive, but it’s easier to let his father have his way and not
risk his wrath.

Morgana on the other hand is a force to be reckoned with. She never hesitates to speak her mind,
she is vocal against Uther and against the rules of Camelot. Even as a small child she would openly
challenge the king with blazing green eyes of defiance.

“My father—”

“—Is wrong and you know it,” Morgana interrupts. “We have to get the boy back to his people.”

“No, forget it.” Arthur walks away, turning to the window in the hopes that avoiding her eyes will
make the sting of her disappointment any less potent.

Morgana huffs a sharp, cold laugh of disbelief.

“You would let an innocent child die?”

Arthur spins around with a hiss. “It’s too late now!”

He knows the words reveal more than he wants, they sound raw and vulnerable. When he meets
Morgana’s eyes his fears are proven correct. Her eyes are narrowed and her head is tipped in
analytical contemplation.

Though they are wildly different, when they were young Morgana would never hesitate to include
Arthur in her schemes. More times than Arthur cares to count, Morgana would run into Arthur’s
room, excitement gleaming in her bright eyes and grab his hand, pulling him through the castle’s
halls on the run from the guards. They would sneak into the kitchens together and stuff themselves
full on meat pies and ginger ale, giggling in hidden alcoves and shushing each other. She would
poke him with her toes until he conceded to skip lessons with her, and instead they would run
through the castle gardens or hide in a back corner of the library and play dice.

As they got older their defiance aged with them. Morgana would come to Arthur’s chambers
complaining about Uther’s latest lecture, pacing in front of his bed until she’d practically worn a
path in the stone floor. She would encourage Arthur to use his position as the prince to protect the
townspeople from accusation, and convince him to risk his father’s disappointment to save his
manservant.

Small acts of rebellion that she had always shared with him.

He doesn’t understand why she didn’t trust him with this. What has changed between them, that
she didn’t trust that he too, would want to protect the child from harm?

If he had been included in her plan, she and the druid boy would never have been caught. He could
have led the guards in the wrong direction and given them enough time to get out of Camelot. It is
too late now.

“Arthur…” Morgana’s voice is barely louder than a whisper.

He clenches his jaw, crossing his arms tight over his chest to put a barrier between them.

“I need you to help me. If I know you at all… I know you won’t let this happen.”

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, allowing the words to settle into his skin like pinpricks.

“Do you at least have a plan?” He asks with a heavy sigh. Her pleading eyes have chipped away
the rough edges of his stubbornness, he knows it’s dangerous, but he’s never been much good at
evading danger. He would prefer to put himself in danger’s way if it means keeping Morgana from
doing so alone. Where she is involved, he would risk life and limb to support her.

Morgana walks him through her plan, fingertips tugging at the edges of her dress and her eyes are
nervous but wild. It could be worse, but it’s tenuous at best, every element requires perfect timing
and if one thing falls out of place the entire operation will collapse. He agrees, of course.

Merlin interrupts them when they’re mostly done finalising the details, barging into the room
without knocking. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose tightly.

“Merlin, we’ve spoken about the knocking thing,” he mutters, a little too harshly as the stress of
the day presses against his skull.

“Sorry, was I interrupting something?” He asks, glancing between the two of them with a
concerned look. Now that Arthur looks at him properly it’s clear he’s troubled, face pale and his
bottom lip red from worrying it between his teeth.

Arthur glances at Morgana, asking a silent question. Over the years they’ve perfected the art of
silent communication, ensuring the other is comfortable before any topic of conversation was
breached — his father necessitated it. Not that Morgana has ever listened to Arthur’s silent
warnings, nor is he much good at telling her how he’s really feeling when she silently asks.

Today though she understands his question and nods.

“I trust Merlin.”

The worried look on Merlin’s face only strengthens at that, his jewel blue eyes going wide. Arthur
beckons him into the room with a two fingered motion, and they all stay completely silent as the
door creaks closed. He doesn’t properly enter the room, staying by the door with his hands behind
his back anxiously, the closest he’s ever come to actually behaving like a servant should.
“We’re going to break the druid boy out of the dungeons.” Arthur looks Merlin in the eye, trying to
convey the severity of the situation.

“You can’t!” Merlin says suddenly, startling both Arthur and Morgana.

Morgana looks at him with a frown. “We have to, Uther’s going to execute him at dawn.”

Merlin thinks better of himself and shrinks inward, pulling at the scarf around his neck.

“I mean.” He looks between Arthur and Morgana a little helplessly. “It’s too dangerous.” Morgana
scoffs but Merlin ploughs onwards. “You’ve already been caught once and if the king catches you
a second time he’ll never forgive you.”

“I’m not worried about myself,” Morgana retorts, dismissing Merlin’s worries.

“He’s got a point,” Arthur interjects and ignores the furious look Morgana sends his way. “I’m
serious, when my father finds out the boy has escaped he will suspect your involvement.”

Merlin nods. “It’s suicide.”

Morgana hesitates, he notices the minute shift of her shoulders, the way they tense before
smoothing into feigned indifference.

“You must go to my father and apologise. Dine with him.” Morgana pulls a face like she would
rather dine with a pig so Arthur hastens to add, “he cannot hold you responsible if you’re with him
when the boy escapes.”

Morgana’s lips pinch in consideration. “You need me for the plan to work,” she points out. “You
can’t do this on your own.”

She’s not wrong, Arthur evaluates the plan in his mind, his eyes drifting to Merlin easily, as they
naturally tend to do these days. He looks nervous, more so than he should be about the druid boy,
but perhaps he sees himself in the young child, he does look a bit like Merlin after all. He will want
to help, Arthur is sure of it.

“Merlin will do it,” Arthur volunteers.

“Me?” Merlin looks at Arthur like he’s lost his mind.

Arthur storms over to Merlin, stopping right in front of him and looking deep into his eyes. Merlin
squirms but doesn’t look away, his face twisted with poorly hidden nerves.

“There’s a tunnel that leads beyond the city walls,” Arthur tells him the plan. “Get my horse from
the stables and meet me there. There’s a grate that covers the entrance to the tunnel, bring a rope
and a grappling hook.”

Merlin shakes his head madly, trembling in place. “No, no I can’t,” he stutters, tongue tripping
over the words.

Arthur grabs him by the shoulders and the touch startles them both. Merlin’s skin is warm even
through the fabric of his tunic, Arthur can feel the way he’s shaking through his fingers.

“Merlin.” The moment he says Merlin’s name he stills, looking with wide eyes over Arthur’s face.
“Do you understand? If you’re not there to meet us, we will be caught.”

They’re still and silent for a long pause that stretches between them, blue eyes meeting blue eyes
and the words hanging in the air between them. Arthur watches as Merlin’s face flickers, his brows
furrow and smooth, as he tries to conceal his emotions despite normally bearing them on his
sleeve. Slowly, with a clenched jaw he nods jerkily.

Arthur quickly releases his shoulders.

“Good. Don’t be late.”

~-~-~

The meal Gaius has prepared is ashen and gritty in Merlin’s mouth. He forces each mouthful down
with a painful swallow, his stomach churning with protest. The Dragon’s words are a heavy weight
sitting in his stomach, turning the food to acid that burns Merlin from the inside.

He’s so wrapped up in his inner turmoil that he doesn’t hear Gaius clear his throat.

“Merlin, are you going to tell me what’s wrong or will I have to force it out of you? I presume it’s
the plight of the druid boy that has you in such a state?”

Merlin looks up and meets Gaius’ worried stare; the reminder of Mordred’s fate only worsens the
sick feeling in his stomach.

“Would you let something terrible happen, if you knew it would prevent something even worse
from happening in the future?”

Merlin’s shoulders hunch further under the oppressive burden of the question. He can’t look Gaius
in the eye as he asks, instead staring over the physician’s shoulder at the rows of bottles and herbs
lining the walls.

“I suppose it depends on what the ‘terrible’ and ‘even worse’ things were,” Gaius answers
honestly.

Merlin glances over and meets Gaius’ eyes, they’re swimming with concern and fatherly devotion
that makes Merlin feel simultaneously protected and guilty for not telling him the truth.

“One of them’s bad…” Merlin thinks of Mordred, so young to be saddled with such an awful
destiny. Is it fair for Merlin to hinge the fate of the young boy on the assumption that his future is
inescapable and characterised by destruction? He’s so incredibly small, to picture him on a pyre,
walking towards his executioner, is terrible to even imagine.

“Really bad.”

He imagines Arthur, dead at Mordred’s hand. He imagines Arthur dying in a million terrible ways
all while Merlin is helpless to stop it. His destiny is to protect Arthur, but even if it wasn’t, the idea
of losing him is more painful than Merlin can dare to imagine.

“But the other… it’s unthinkable.”

Gaius raises his eyebrows, a frown pulling deep at the corners of his mouth.

“It sounds as if you’ve already made your decision,” he points out kindly, pausing to let Merlin
digest the words. “You can only do what you believe to be right, Merlin. I just hope it doesn’t
involve you putting yourself in terrible danger.”

Merlin tries for a smile but it’s strained, aching with sadness for the young boy he’s sentencing to
death.

“For once you don’t have to worry.” He reaches across the table and pats Gaius’ hand reassuringly.
“I’m going to do nothing.”

It’s easier said than done. Merlin goes to his room feeling like the guilt is going to eat him alive. It
coils in his gut, tearing at the insides of his skin and leaving him pained and feeling terrible. Regret
and sorrow rot his organs and leave them intolerably cold as they sit in his chest and torso.

The guilt only intensifies as the warning bells to the castle ring out, each clang loud and echoing in
his eardrums. Merlin chews on his fist to keep himself from making any pained noises, leaving
harsh red bite marks in the flesh. He trembles from head to toe, weak with the waves of remorse
that crash over him. Arthur will never forgive him if Uther catches them. The boy will die and no
matter how different The Dragon insists they are, it’s impossible not to see himself in Mordred. It
could have been him facing the pyre and the King’s wrath. He can’t even fathom how terrified the
child must be.

His dinner rises in his throat, unable to settle in his writhing and guilt ridden stomach. Merlin drops
to his side, wrapping his arms around his legs and buries his face in his knees, letting the numbness
overcome him.

“Emrys.”

Mordred’s voice intrudes in the silence. Merlin sits up, chest heaving as his lungs stop taking air at
the sound of the small boy’s single word, filled with terror.

“Emrys please. Where are you?”

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, digging the heels of his palms into the side of his head as he
desperately tries to block out the voice. He can’t, it’s inside him. It makes the guilt that grinds his
bones together intolerable. His self hatred is like a whip, lashing against his skin and leaving
stinging welts in their wake. He can’t ignore it, can’t escape it.

“Emrys. Emrys! They’re coming, please. Help us.”

“Don’t do this. Don’t ignore me. I know you can hear me. They’re going to kill me! I don’t want to
die.”

“I thought you were my friend.”

The voice hitches on the last word. Friend, like Mordred is crying, and that is what breaks
Merlin’s resolve.

He can’t do this.

He sprints through the castle, towards the passage Arthur had told him about, his lungs ache and
with every impact his legs shudder. He ignores The Dragon’s warnings, and his own fears about
Arthur’s future. He can protect him. He will protect him. No matter the cost, but he can’t stand by
and do nothing now.

“Hey,” he ducks down by the grate and meets Arthur’s wild eyes.

“Where the hell have you been?” Arthur hisses. He resembles a caged animal, completely wild,
blue eyes shining with fear in the moonlight.
“I had trouble getting out of the castle.”

Mordred, who is tucked into Arthur’s side with big blue eyes brimming with tears frowns at Merlin
disbelievingly. Merlin avoids his eyes, he’s not sure if the boy can know with certainty that Merlin
wasn’t planning to come.

Merlin wrenches the grate from the passage with the aid of the grappling hook and ignores the
heavy fear choking his throat as Arthur pulls Mordred onto his horse.

“You’d better make yourself scarce,” Arthur mutters, turning to Merlin with concerned eyes as he
clips his heels into the mare’s side and she begins to move. “Or they’ll execute you in his place.”

Merlin nods, barely even conscious of his own movements.

Mordred turns back and looks at Merlin as they ride off into the night.

“Goodbye Emrys. I know that someday, we will meet again.”

It’s meant to be a reassurance, but Merlin can only hope he’s wrong.

~-~-~

It takes some time but Merlin begins to forget his anxieties about the threat Mordred poses to
Arthur. The ceremony in which Arthur will be bestowed crown prince looms, and the various
preparations required to arrange the day provide a welcome distraction. By the time the day of the
feast arrives Merlin has all but forgotten The Dragon’s warning.

Arthur is kneeling before the King, gazing up at his father. The entire kingdom seems to hold their
breath, watching the ceremony with eager eyes and joyous smiles as the young prince transforms
from heir to crown prince.

Merlin has to bite down on his lips to keep from grinning madly as Arthur swears allegiance to the
kingdom of Camelot. He seems almost ethereal, bathed in candlelight, his blond hair practically
glowing, like spun gold.

“I, Arthur Pendragon, do pledge life and limb to your service, and to the protection of the kingdom
and its peoples.”

Even Uther smiles proudly, turning away from his son to retrieve a circlet of gold. The symbol of
the crown prince.

“As you are now of age, and heir to the throne, from henceforth you shall be crown prince of
Camelot.” Uther’s voice booms around the throne room as he lowers the crown onto Arthur’s head.

Something strange flutters in Merlin’s chest as he looks at Arthur. He’s enchanting like this, with a
brilliant smile on his face as he stands and faces the court officially as the crown prince. The circle
of gold catches in the glow of the candelabra and he seems to gleam in the soft golden light.

“How does it feel to be servant to the crown prince?” Gwen asks, nudging her sharp elbow between
Merlin’s ribs, beaming at him.

Merlin laughs, tearing his eyes away from Arthur who is meeting the eyes of every person in the
room and offering a dazzling smile.

“Washing his royal socks will be even more of a privilege.”

She giggles, rolling her eyes. “You’re proud of him really. I know it.”

“I am not,” Merlin protests, struggling to fight the smile on his face as Arthur waves at the two of
them with a smile that could light up even the darkest of spaces.

Gwen looks at him knowingly.

“You are, I can see it in your face.”

Before Merlin can retort the festivities are interrupted by the deafening smash of glass as a figure
clad in black leaps into the room on horseback. The joyous atmosphere of the space is destroyed
like the broken shards of glass that litter the floor.

The room is silent but for the frantic whispering of servants and noblemen, and the heavy footfalls
of the horse’s hooves against the paved floor. Merlin’s breath catches in his throat as the knight
stops before Arthur and tosses his gauntlet to the ground.

Arthur has been trying recently to teach Merlin the basic rules of the knight’s code — these lessons
became more frequent after Lancelot departed, which is likely not a coincidence.

Only yesterday Arthur had explained how to issue and accept a challenge; whoever takes the
gauntlet accepts the declaration of combat offered by the opposing knight. Arthur won’t hesitate to
accept that challenge himself.

Sure enough, Merlin watches as Arthur moves to take the gauntlet. He surges forward, but by the
time he reaches the laid challenge it is too late. Sir Owain scoops the gauntlet from the floor,
lofting it into their air for all to see.

“I, Sir Owain, accept your challenge.”

The Black Knight turns to look at him with a looming stare. As he turns his head Merlin observes
the deep scratches in his helmet.

“So be it. Single combat, noon tomorrow, to the death.” His voice is inhuman, empty in his chest
plate and croaky with misuse.

He leaves the great hall cold and hollow.

~-~-~

First Sir Owain and then Sir Pellinore fall to the Black Knight’s sword. He is invincible, he is more
than a talented fighter, his body does not bleed. Merlin knows what he saw, Pellinore’s sword
pierced the Black Knight’s armour, he should have fallen to such a fatal blow. Instead he paces
from the arena with a head held high, leaving Pellinore’s body on the ground.

Of course, like the idiot he is, Arthur challenges the Black Knight to combat before Uther can stop
him; because why would he make Merlin’s destiny any easier?

Gaius explains that the knight is infallible, a ‘wraith’ he calls it. The spirit of a dead man revived
with the sole purpose of achieving their goal, to bring justice to those who tormented their
demented soul before death. In the case of this wraith — Tristan de Bois, the brother of Arthur’s
deceased mother and Uther’s wife, Ygraine — he craves revenge on Uther, who he held
responsible for the death of his beloved sister.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Merlin argues. “Ygraine died in childbirth, that isn’t Uther’s fault.”
Gaius pulls a face. “True, however Tristan didn’t see it that way. Regardless of what we think, he
will not rest until he seeks revenge on Uther.”

“Then we have to kill him.”

“We can’t, because he’s not alive, no mortal weapon can kill him.”

“But he’s facing Arthur tomorrow, he’ll kill him.” Merlin says hysterically. He’s tempted to wrap
Arthur in a blanket and keep him out of harm’s way. Just to give himself a break from the constant
pressure of keeping the idiot alive. Only Arthur could make his way into this many dangerous
situations in such a short space of time.

Gaius nods slowly, a pained look on his wise face. “Yes, it seems so.”

Merlin throws himself into the search for a weapon capable of killing a being that is already dead.
With Geoffrey’s aid — and an infuriatingly long story — the answer reveals itself, a sword forged
in a dragon’s breath.

The sword is easy enough, Gwen supplies it with little hesitation. Then he has to seek out the help
of The Dragon.

“It’s Arthur,” he explains to the great creature, before doubling over to catch his breath, exhausted
from running through the town. “His life’s in danger, he will die, unless I can create a weapon
strong enough to kill the dead.”

The Dragon’s huge yellow eyes narrow, and his voice grows low and suspicious.

“So what have you come to ask of me?”

Merlin swallows roughly, his throat as dry as desert sand. He lifts a hand and with a murmured
incantation levitates the sword towards The Dragon.

“Will you burnish it to save Arthur?”

The Dragon doesn’t answer his question, instead tipping his large head to look Merlin truly in the
eye.

“The dead do not return without reason, who has he come for?”

Merlin winces, it would be better if The Dragon had no knowledge of the Wraith’s victim.

“Uther.”

The Dragon smiles cruelly, stepping back with its talons and moving away from the sword.

“Then let the wraith take his vengeance, and die without my aid.”

Merlin shakes his head roughly. He doesn’t have time for this; the sun will soon rise over Camelot
and Arthur will face the Black Knight.

“You don’t understand. It is not Uther who is going to face him, it’s Arthur, you have to save him.”

The Dragon looks unamused. “That is your destiny young warlock, not mine.”

“This is what I’m doing to fulfil my destiny! This is the only thing I can do. Without your help,
Arthur will face the wraith and die, and Camelot will have no heir and I will have no destiny.”
Merlin’s chest constricts at the idea, like a rope wrapping around his rib cage and pulling tight until
he can’t breathe.

The Dragon contemplates his words with eyes so narrow they are no more than glowing yellow
slits.

Finally, he speaks again. “A weapon forged with my assistance will have great power.”

“I know.”

“You do not know,” The Dragon snaps. “You can only guess. You underestimate it. You have not
seen what I have seen, perhaps if you had, you would not ask this of me.”

He speaks with a mark of great pain and suffering of which Merlin does not know, though his
words are as vague and unfathomable as always.

“What do you mean?” Merlin dares ask.

“In the wrong hands, this sword could do great evil. I will forge this sword for Arthur, and Arthur
alone.”

Merlin nods, wiping his clammy hands against the rough fabric of his jacket.

“I understand.”

The Dragon dismisses his words with a shake of his massive head.

“You must do more than understand, you must promise.”

“I promise.”

The Dragon nods, face still twisted with reluctance as he steps back and opens his jaw. Merlin
covers his face with his arm as The Dragon roars. The fire is so hot it practically sears Merlin’s
skin as it erupts from The Dragon’s great throat. The cavern is awash with the bright luminance
from the flames, a streamline of pure heat and light.

Merlin squints through the haze to watch as the fire licks up the blade, encompassing the sword in
its power. It dances with colour, hues of pink, yellow, blue and magenta, the purest form of magic
Merlin has ever witnessed. It swallows the sword whole and transforms it.

As the fire melts away it leaves behind engravings of gold, two plates on either side of the blade.
The hilt is encrusted with a golden handle, wrapped in sturdy, thick leather. It emits its own
otherworldly glow.

“Excalibur,” The Dragon declares the sword, glaring down at Merlin with an impassive expression.
It floats to Merlin’s hand, still glowing with ethereal light.

“Heed my words, the sword was forged for Arthur, and him alone.”

~-~-~

Uther paces the length of the courtroom, up and down the side of the great table. He is void of any
emotion, his nerves are dead and his body is a hollow husk storming back and forth. Tomorrow,
Arthur will die. Gaius had warned Uther that the Black Knight is a wraith, the dead soul of Tristan,
come to seek revenge on Uther. He should be seeking revenge on magic, the curse that took
Ygraine from him. Instead he chose Uther, and now Arthur will bear that burden.
The flames of the candle flicker out, casting the room in darkness.

Uther turns, hand flying to the sword on his lip and eyes narrowed but they fall on the woman
easily. He hasn’t seen her in twenty years but looking at her now, it’s like no time has passed at all.
She has changed, her once neatly coiled hair is cascading down her back and her wrists are thin as
paper, but her eyes are the same inhuman blue and her cold smile is just as he remembers. Nimueh.

“I should have known,” he mutters darkly, taking a swig of wine.

The numbness within him is replaced by coiling and furious anger, thrashing and unpredictable as
a forest fire. He longs to surge forward, to wrap his hands around her throat and twist until he feels
her neck snap under his fingers. He wants to listen to the sound of her gasping for air, and her cries
of pain as he rips her neck. He wishes he could kill her, as painfully and slowly as possible.

However, no matter how vile and disgusting their magic is, he knows sorcerers have great power;
Nimueh’s greater than any he knows of. He cannot overpower her with brute force alone.

“It is more than I’d hoped for Uther,” she says, a spiteful laughter sewn into her voice. “Soon
Arthur will be slain, you will have sent him to his death.”

Uther downs the rest of his wine in a single gulp, wiping it away with the back of his hand as he
glares at the wicked sorceress.

“Haven’t you tired of revenge?” He asks with a bitter scoff. He despises her for the prideful way
she stands in his kingdom, provoking him without fear of repercussion.

“Haven’t you?”

They pause, glaring at each other and daring the other one to speak first, to break their silent
challenge. It is the challenge of two predators, prowling around each other, their teeth bared and
vicious; both equally desperate to tear out the other’s throat with their claws sharpened and hackles
raised.

Nimueh tips her chin, her upper lip curling as she observes him.

“You began this war when you threw me from the court and slaughtered all of my kind.”

Uther dismisses her with a growl. “You brought it on yourselves. You practised evil.”

“I was your friend, Uther! You welcomed me here.”

“You betrayed that friendship.”

Nimueh recoils with a wounded gasp. If it weren’t for the rage buffeting his insides Uther may
have smiled at the sight of her pained expression. She grits her teeth, torn dress clenched in tight
fists at her side.

“I did as you asked,” she hisses. “I used the magic you so despise to give your barren wife the son
you craved—”

“—Don’t ever speak of her that way,” Uther spits over her, words white hot with anger.

The reminder of Ygraine twists the knife he constantly carries embedded in his ribcage, an aching
memory that has gotten no easier to bear in the twenty years she has been gone. The emptiness
within him grows infinitely worse as he looks into the eyes of the vile woman before him.
When he lost Ygraine he turned on himself, on his emotions, with a sword, mutilating and
butchering the feeling in his chest until he could feel no more and still the wound continues to
bleed. He still misses her like a limb. His heart died with her and every day without her another
part of him dies still.

“She was my heart, my soul. She meant everything to me.” His voice is thick and dry, scratching
raw the inside of his throat as he forces the words out. He hates her, he hates Nimueh with a
passion so carnal it makes him feel completely enraged.

“And you took her away from me.”

Nimueh shrinks away, curling in on herself. Her eyes spark with betrayal and a deep, desperate
pain, and Uther wants to slaughter her for daring to look upset when he is the man who lost his
wife.

“She died giving birth to your son, it was not my choice.” She stands tall, and smoothes the lines of
her face, re-covering her emotions, tucking them out of Uther’s sight. “That is the law of magic. To
create a life there had to be a death, the balance of the world had to be repaid.”

Uther growls. “You knew it would kill her.”

“No you’re wrong.”

Silence falls over them like a heavy cloud, so thick Uther can taste the bitter taste of it weighing on
his tongue.

Her eyes narrow at him.

“If I had foreseen Ygraine’s death and the terrible retribution you would seek… I would never have
granted your wish.”

Uther can’t help but imagine a life where Ygraine hadn’t been taken from him too soon. A
beautiful life where the cold that permeated from the left side of his bed was never there, and his
hand which stretches out for someone to hold was never met empty.

“I wish you hadn’t,” he admits.

Nimueh frowns, her brow wrinkling heavily.

“You wish you didn’t have a son?”

Uther opens his mouth and finds he has nothing to say. Arthur, his son, barely seems real in the
face of the memories of his wife. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes heavily, and it is answer
enough.

When he meets Nimueh’s eyes again a slow, wicked smile is curling over her dark lips.

“Don’t worry, Uther. Your wish will come true tomorrow.”

He snaps out of his haze. Ygraine is gone — the knife twists again — but he will not lose Arthur
too. He lost too much in gaining his son. The heir to his throne.

“I will not let you take him,” he snarls, clenching his hands into tight fists. He imagines punching
her repeatedly until her face is soaked with blood and her body lays unconscious beneath his furied
hands.
“I have watched so many people I love die at your hands, Uther Pendragon.” Uther lets his head
drop to avoid her burning gaze, grinding his teeth into dust. “Now it is your turn.”

When Uther looks up, she is gone.

~-~-~

The dawn sun shines through the small slatted window of the armoury, falling on the miraculous
sword as Merlin slowly unsheathes it. Excalibur is perfect for Arthur, the gold plating compliments
his soft hair, and the handle is the perfect size for his outstretched palm.

Merlin runs a gentle finger along the engravings, ‘Take me up’ and on the other side, ‘Cast me
away’, in an ancient magical language. He admires the smooth curves of letters, the shallows of the
grooves and the cool smooth metal of the blade itself.

He lifts Excalibur high into the air. Although made for Arthur, it is natural in Merlin’s grasp, an
extension of his own limb. The sword feels like a tangible representation of the connection
between himself and Arthur.

“That’s a fine blade,” Uther interrupts. He is standing by the door to the armoury, eyes stony as
they observe Merlin and the sword.

Merlin nods, bowing his head towards the King. He can’t help but smile as he looks back to the
sword in his hand. “It’s for Arthur.”

“He won’t be needing it today. I will be taking Arthur’s place.”

Merlin looks up with a start, frown etching along his brow. He folds the cloth over Excalibur to
hide it from Uther’s sight, in the hopes he will quickly forget the sword.

He isn’t stupid enough to question the King — no matter what Arthur might think — but he knows
Arthur won’t have agreed willingly to this arrangement. Arthur would rather throw himself directly
onto the Black Knight’s sword than appear cowardly.

He is, however, willing to somewhat argue on Arthur’s behalf.

“But Sire—” he attempts to protest. “Arthur should be the one to fight today.”

Uther dismisses him with a scoff, indicating for Merlin to prepare him for battle.

“This grievance is with me, therefore the fight is mine.”

“I don’t have your armour.”

“This one will do,” Uther says flippantly, gesturing towards Arthur’s armour. His eyes are distant
and distracted, he is preparing for battle but his mind is elsewhere. “It’s likely to make little
difference.”

Uther moves the cloth off the sword, revealing Excalibur to the soft light of the armoury once
more. Merlin scurries forward and stumbles to a halt, his hands jerking towards the sword before
he quickly pulls them back to his chest.

“I’ll get you your sword,” he offers as The Dragon’s warning rings in his ears.

Uther waves him off. He lofts Excalibur into his grasp. The sword looks misplaced in his hold,
unlike the fluid way it moved in Merlin’s touch, in Uther’s grip it appears disjointed and stiff.
“This one will do fine.”

“No Sire!” Uther looks at him with a perplexed expression, which Merlin knows could quickly
turn to aggression. He toes the line carefully. “That one was made specifically for Arthur, you
would do better with your own sword.”

“Who made it?” Uther inspects the sword with a heavy frown.

Merlin swallows, busying his nervous fingers with the King’s chest plate.

“Tom, the blacksmith.”

Uther’s frown deepens. “Tom is not the royal swordsmith, I’m surprised Arthur went to him.”

“That was me,” Merlin admits before he can think better of it, his tongue running ahead of his
mind.

Uther turns to look at him over his shoulder and Merlin’s fingers fumble against the clasp. He
swallows roughly, nerves bundling in a tight coil in the base of his throat.

“I felt he needed a better sword,” he mumbles, returning to the task as dutifully as he can manage.

Uther hums, staring at Merlin and picking him apart with his eyes. It’s a similar expression to the
one Arthur sometimes wears when Merlin does something particularly insubordinate or clumsy,
like he can’t work out what is wrong with him. Although if Merlin didn’t know any better he
would describe the way Arthur wears it as almost affectionate, but on Uther it is perplexed.

“You show him the most extraordinary loyalty...” he says, turning to admire Excalibur again.

Merlin shrugs the comment off, moving to Uther’s other side and attaching his shoulder plate.

“It is my job, Sire.”

Uther shakes his head.

“Beyond the line of duty.”

Merlin’s Adam’s apple bobs. It’s not an unfair call to make, Merlin certainly cares for Arthur more
than his duty as servant calls for. However, even he doesn’t know the depth of his care for Arthur.
Certainly, Arthur is Merlin’s destiny, but is that all he is?

When The Dragon told Merlin that Mordred was destined to kill Arthur, his heart all but stopped.
The threat of losing Arthur to the Wraith makes Merlin want to throw himself into the arena, just to
keep Arthur out of harm's way. Is that destiny?

“Well… you could say there’s a bond between us,” Merlin concedes. He shoves away thoughts of
how Arthur’s eyes glitter when Merlin tells a particularly awful joke and he’s trying desperately
not to laugh. How his cheeks dent inwards as he bites at them to tamp down the smile, failing to
hide his amusement from Merlin. It wouldn’t do well to dwell on how deep that bond might be.

“I care about him,” he says with some degree of finality, summarising his own feelings simply. He
hands Uther his helmet and clenches his elbows to his side to keep from shying away from his
intense gaze.

“I’m glad,” Uther says finally. “Look after him.”

With those final words Uther goes to meet Tristan de Bois, the Black Knight, on the battlefield.
Armed with Excalibur in hand.

~-~-~

His father winning the battle against the Black Knight is inconsequential to Arthur, he shouldn’t
have been duelling him in the first place. Arthur listened to the whole duel from his room, from
when it started, to the moment his father won and it was ended. He woke to the sounds of swords
clashing, the applause of the audience and the faint murmuring of their voices, and found the door
to his chambers barred. Since then frustration has been simmering in his gut, ruminating in his
blood as he listens to the battle commence without him whilst he is unable to do anything.

He slams the doors to his father’s chambers open, relishing in the booming crash that echoes
against the stone walls. Gaius scurries from the room the moment Arthur storms in, calling out
instructions so Uther can tend to his own wound as he goes.

“You had Gaius drug me?” Arthur shouts, slicing his hands through the air.

Uther sighs, turning his back on Arthur to lean against the square table in his chambers.

“It was a sleeping draught, that was all.”

“That was all,” Arthur repeats incredulously. He feels a hum of irritation within him that sparks
and hisses like a wildfire. His father had been the one to teach him that his shortcomings on the
battlefield, even within the arena, reflect not only on himself but on the whole of Camelot. They
make him seem like a failure, and therefore make the kingdom appear weak. To not fight his own
battle is a show of cowardice, and his father ripped that choice from Arthur’s fingers.

Arthur pounds his fist against the table, getting his father’s attention as his head snaps up.

“I was supposed to fight him.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Arthur’s blood boils, he flexes his fists by his sides to keep from lashing out.

“But the knight’s code—”

“—Be damned.”

Uther turns to face Arthur with a frenzied look in his eyes. Arthur has never seen him so agitated
about something that isn’t sorcery. Even an attack on the kingdom — be it man or beast — leaves
his father in a cold but aggressive calm. This is different, his face is flushed, his eyes are wide and
intense as gaze at Arthur. He looks genuinely upset.

“I believed you would die, and that was a risk I was not willing to take.”

Arthur scoffs, he can’t take his father’s feelings seriously, not with the furious frustration humming
under his skin. It makes him feel wild, buzzing with energy, like a bolt of energy was plucked from
the sky and sewn into his veins. He wants to kick something, to throw something across the room
and watch his father’s expression harden.

“You are too precious to me.”

Arthur freezes. It takes his mind a few seconds to catch up. His shoulder tense as he waits for a
catch, for disappointment to overcome the affection. His eyes flick over to his father, watching the
deep sincerity appear on his softened face, which is usually so stoic and rigid. He doesn’t
understand.

“You mean more to me than anything I know, more than this entire kingdom and certainly more
than my own life.”

“I—” Arthur’s voice catches traitorously on the word and he swallows roughly to dispel the thick
feeling in his throat. “I always thought—”

“What?”

He shudders, a hard tug pulling at his heart.

“Well… that I was a big disappointment to you.”

Uther’s face flickers with emotions that Arthur can’t interpret: regret, sadness, but most of all,
guilt.

“Well that is my fault, and not yours.”

Uther reaches out a hand and takes Arthur’s shoulder, resting it gently on the junction between
Arthur’s neck and collarbone. The touch is warm, a reassuring weight that makes Arthur’s entire
body unwind while simultaneously making his stomach clench. It’s so out of the ordinary it sets
him on edge, like cold ice against his teeth, and yet so wonderful that he craves more almost
desperately. He doesn’t know how to interpret this feeling, this affection.

“You are my only son, and I would not wish for any other.”

A heavy lump sits in Arthur’s throat and he swallows roughly around it. To his horror, a sheen of
tears glaze over his eyes, and even as he tries to blink them away the stinging behind his eyes
remains.

The moment stretches between them. Father and son. The silence sits heavily, a dense blanket that
weighs down the entire room, thick with awkwardness and both of their discomfort. Both are
equally unable to say anything to breach the expansive space that separates them.

Arthur coughs, ducking his head and stepping back, out of his father’s hold. It severs the tension,
the moment between them, cutting it away like it was never there. Uther claps Arthur once on the
shoulder and lowers his arm, mirroring Arthur. He distances himself from the moment they shared,
not only physically but mentally. His smile is more casual, his expression is restored to the guarded
look that Arthur is more familiar with.

Arthur seizes the odd feelings humming in his ribs and tucks them away in the back of his mind.

“I heard you fought pretty well,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning against the table beside his
father.

Uther smiles, a small flash of teeth that might as well be a beaming grin.

“Thank you.”

“You should join us for training.” Arthur narrows his eyes tauntingly. “Sort out your footwork.”

Uther chuckles, shooting Arthur a dangerous look.

“I’ll show you footwork.” He kicks at Arthur and laughs almost boyishly as Arthur darts away and
out of the room.

He makes it down the hall before he realises he’s still smiling.

~-~-~

Merlin makes his way to The Dragon’s cave with his heart in his throat and his stomach twisting
itself inside out. His legs tremble with every measly step, walking so slowly that the journey is
twice as long as it should be as he tries to delay the inevitable.

Excalibur is a burdensome weight by his side, growing heavier with Merlin’s guilt as he nears the
cavern.

The Dragon doesn’t seem to know of Merlin’s failure when he enters, looking down on him with a
familiar amused glint in his huge yellow eyes.

“So, does the young Pendragon live?” The Dragon asks.

Merlin nods eagerly, his head bouncing up and down so hard his neck cracks.

“Yes, the sword was excellent, amazing in fact.”

“As I promised.”

Merlin tugs nervously on the edges of his sleep shirt, as Excalibur’s weight continues to grow in
his sweaty hold. His stomach curdles, and for a brief second he humours the idea of not revealing
his failure; but he can’t.

“But…” He mumbles. Nervous anticipation bubbles within him, the apprehension like facing a
perilous cliff and staring over the edge. His stomach lurches, his heart pounds.

The Dragon’s eyes narrow as the amused expression slips from his snout and turns stony.

“Yes?”

“Things didn’t quite go according to plan,” Merlin admits, his eyes jump around the cave, avoiding
eye contact. “I mean they did but… it wasn’t Arthur who wielded the sword.”

The Dragon says nothing, waiting for him to continue.

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation of the retribution to come — he entertains the idea
that he really should have learnt a protective enchantment before coming down here, The Dragon
could easily fry him to a crisp.

“It was Uther.”

The Dragon bellows and roars over Merlin’s attempts to explain. The entire cavern trembles; stones
drop from the ceiling and the ground beneath Merlin’s feet shudders. He shrinks in on himself,
bracketing his arms over his head as the room threatens to crumble inwards.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin shouts, loud enough that The Dragon appears to hear him, falling quiet with a
cold hiss and ducking his head to look Merlin in the eye.

“Excalibur is born of the Old Magic, in the hands of Uther it will bring only evil.”
 “I brought it to you.” Merlin lifts up the sword shakily for The Dragon to see.

“You have betrayed me.”

The Dragon doesn’t even seem to see the sword. He looks past it, towards Merlin, with cold-
blooded hatred in his eyes. Merlin swallows, fear leaving his mouth and throat dry as sand and his
blood pumps in his ears.

“You can destroy it,” Merlin suggests desperately, lofting the sword higher into the air.

The Dragon sneers. “What is made cannot be unmade.”

Merlin drops Excalibur to his side, guilt giving way to frustration. It wasn’t as if he chose to let
Uther wield the sword; there’s only so far a servant can protest the king’s wishes before he would
be better off tying the noose for his own execution.

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“Take the sword far from here, and place it where no mortal man can ever find it.”

Merlin leaves the cave with a crestfallen heart and thick determination to make things right. There
is only one place which seems untouchable to the mortal man; imbued with magic just as Merlin
has sorcery stitched into his soul.

The journey to the Lake of Avalon is easier without the fear of Arthur drowning, but Merlin still
can’t relax. He spends the entire ride there stiff and riddled with guilt as the memory of The
Dragon’s betrayed expression sits in his mind, adding additional weight to the poor horse.

His back throbs with the pain of riding without pause, and his eyes are heavy but he doesn’t stop
until they reach the great expanse of water.

The morning’s sun shines in rays over the surface, creating glittering patterns and casting the area
in a serene glow. It seems too bright and joyous of a day for the sharp guilt of his own betrayal
lodged in his chest.

Merlin unveils the sword, admiring one last time the way it glows, the perfect balance between
beauty and severity in its sharp golden edges. It’s a magnificent sword.

Arthur deserves to wield it.

With a heavy sigh Merlin holds the sword to the glowing sky, a sacrifice, and an apology to The
Dragon. He casts the sword into the lake, using his magic to propel it far into the water.

Merlin watches with a heavy heart as it sinks like an anchor.

Chapter End Notes

hope you enjoyed this chapter !! as always let me know what you think, your
comments mean the world to me !!

just pre warning, there will be a mid season break after the next chapter, so four weeks
between chapter 7 and 8 !!
for now though, can't wait to see you on september 11th with chapter 7 !!
 The Moment of Truth
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Mother?”

Merlin is sure that the image of his mother walking towards him on the streets of Camelot is an
illusion; but she beams when she sees him, rushing forward and pulling him into a hug. The feeling
of his mother’s arms is something he can never capture in his dreams, so he knows this must be
real. There’s a distinct quality to the strong muscle of her wiry arms, the earthy smell of her hair
that Merlin can never quite summon without her there.

He pulls back to look at her properly and registers the black eye adorning her face.

“What happened to you?” He asks with a horrified gasp. The idea of someone hurting his mother
ignites a spark of anger within him that burns.

Her eye is swollen almost completely shut, and the surrounding skin is coloured black, fading into
mottled shades of yellow and purple. It looks painful, Merlin resists the urge to wince away from
it, but it still doesn’t detract at all from the warmth of her smile.

“Oh my boy, I need to ask your help.”

His mother tells him everything, about bandits coming to their town under the rule of a tyrant,
Kanen. She explains that they have been stealing the harvest, without leaving anything for the
village to eat, taking every piece of grain down to the stores that are necessary for resowing the
fields next year.

His mother is a steadfast and stubborn woman, she doesn’t like to cower or admit defeat, and she
definitely doesn’t like to drag Merlin into her problems. For her to come to Camelot exposes the
severity of the situation. He agrees to help without hesitation.

Merlin would do anything for his mother. Whatever she needs, he will provide, she has never failed
him and he won’t do the same to her. However, to help her he knows that he needs Arthur’s help
and that makes his stomach stew with nerves.

“Arthur? Can I ask something?” Merlin raps his knuckles against the door like Arthur is so
adamant about him doing.

“You just did,” Arthur replies, still busying himself with menial tasks.

Merlin rolls his eyes and doesn’t respond, waiting for Arthur to continue.

He looks up with a cheeky grin and waves a hand loosely, approving Merlin’s request to speak.

“Since when do you ask permission to speak? Have you finally learnt how to behave?” Arthur
glances up at Merlin with a jesting wiggle of his eyebrows.

Merlin scoffs. “Hardly. Who would keep your big head from inflating any further?”

“Careful Merlin, I could have you in the stocks for that.”

“You’d be bored without me.”

“Your faith in your importance to my overall happiness is touching.”

Merlin bites at his cheek to keep himself from smiling, the sarcasm dripping from Arthur’s words
is clear evidence of how much he does enjoy Merlin’s company. Even if Arthur will never admit
it, they’re friendly, comfortable in each other’s company, they’ve got a good companionship.

He shifts, nerves flooding back with an uncomfortable itching sensation that creeps up his arms.
He’s never asked so much of Arthur before, while their working relationship has grown
significantly, but Merlin can’t quite discern the line that marks what constitutes as too far.

Arthur shoots him an odd look, his eyebrows raise high into his hairline and his mouth twists.
“What’s got you so skittish?” He demands. Arthur doesn’t tend to ask questions like a normal
person, instead he demands things with the nature of someone who is never told no — and only
ever by Merlin if he thinks he will get away with it. Merlin hates to say he finds it somewhat
endearing.

“I’m not actually going to put you in the stocks,” Arthur points out, his eyebrows furrowed like
he’s confused at how Merlin could have genuinely believed his remark.

“I know,” Merlin replies, moving to pick up the tunic and various trousers Arthur has strewn
around the room.

“It’s just… my mother arrived in Camelot,” he explains. Out of the corner of his eye he sees
Arthur’s head turn in interest. “There’s been trouble at home, in Ealdor, bandits are coming and
taking their harvest and at this rate there isn’t going to be any food left.”

“That’s terrible,” Arthur says. Merlin turns to look at him and finds genuine concern knitted into
the low furrow of his brow.

Something odd warms in his belly at the sight.

“Yeah… I was just— well I was wondering—”

“Spit it out, Merlin. Honestly, I’m only joking when I say you have a mental affliction but now I’m
beginning to wonder if I’m right.”

Merlin glares at him which makes Arthur’s eyes sparkle.

“I was hoping you could get her an audience with the King. She wants— she needs help,” Merlin
babbles in a rush, nerves forgotten in the face of Arthur’s teasing.

“Of course. Any way I can help,” Arthur replies. He pauses as soon as the words have left his lips,
seeming almost surprised at how easily he answered. Arthur clears his throat, looking distinctly
uncomfortable under Merlin’s amazed staring.

“I’ll speak with him this afternoon.”

“Thank you. Truly,” Merlin says and lets the subject drop.

~-~-~

It isn’t difficult for Arthur to organise an audience with his father for Hunith’s grievances. As King
it is his responsibility to meet and listen to any delegates on behalf of the people, and with Arthur’s
recommendation she is received that very day. Arthur feels a sense of pride at his ability to help
even in such a small way by ensuring that Merlin’s mother is heard.
Hunith is a small woman compared to Merlin, who is long limbed and gangly, but despite that she
bears a striking resemblance to her son. They have the same sloped jaw, bright eyes, long nose and
the daring way they tip their chin in silent challenge is identical.

However, unlike Merlin, Hunith is the picture of perfect respect standing before the king, her hands
are clasped behind her back and her words are careful and measured.

“The winters are harsh in Ealdor, and there are many children,” she explains, “some of them won’t
be strong enough to survive.”

There are tears in her eyes as she looks to Uther pleadingly, in her eyes Arthur can see the
reflection of a village’s children whose stomachs ache for food. She wrings her fingers behind her
back anxiously.

“There’s barely enough food as it is, and if Kanen takes our harvest…” she doesn’t need to say any
more. The children won’t live to see another summer.

Uther runs a hand over his mouth, rubbing at his jaw thoughtfully.

“Ealdor is in Cenred’s kingdom, is it not?” He says finally, fingers tapping against the armrest of
his throne in pensive thought.

Hunith’s jaw quivers but she nods. “It is.”

“Your wellbeing is his responsibility then.”

Hunith shakes her head. “We’ve appealed to our king but he cares little for the outlying regions.
You’re our only hope.”

Arthur watches, fingers clenched tightly around in the fabric of his jacket as Uther frowns.

“You have my deepest sympathies, I would have this barbarian wiped from the face of the Earth,”
he says solemnly.

Hunith’s eyes go wide with hope, clinging to his words like a rafter keeping her afloat. “So you’ll
help us?”

Uther shakes his head. “I wish I could.”

It breaks Arthur’s heart to see Hunith’s hope shatter. Her eyes go distant, her lip trembles before
she clamps down on it, thinning her mouth to hold herself together. In her eyes Arthur can see her
village torn by starvation and the burdensome weight of the knowledge that she must return home
without salvation for them.

“Surely we can spare a few men,” he suggests tentatively.

Uther’s frown deepens. “It is not resources that are the problem…”

“Then what is?” Morgana demands, a familiar glimmer of defiance on her face.

“Ealdor lies beyond the ridge of Essetir, if an army of Camelot were to enter, it would be
considered an act of war. ”

Hunith drops to her knees, hands clasped in front of her chest. There are unshed tears in her eyes.
Arthur is awed by her ability to humble herself before a King she does not even serve. She lays
herself out, vulnerable before the King and looks to him desperately for assistance.
“I know you’re a good king, a caring man.” She looks desperately up at Uther, tears filling her
eyes. “I’m begging you, please, help us.”

“The treaty Camelot struck with Essetir was years in the making, I cannot risk hundreds of lives for
the sake of one village. I’m afraid Camelot cannot help.”

With those words the conversation is effectively ended, with no room for argument. The room
clears and Arthur is left to himself.

He stares out over Camelot, disappointment curdling in his stomach as he remembers the broken
look on Hunith’s face and the barely restrained sadness on Merlin’s. He hears Merlin’s footsteps
behind him but doesn’t face him until he’s by his side.

“I’m sorry, if it were up to me we’d be on our way there now,” Arthur says softly, digging his
fingernails into the meat of his biceps to keep himself from doing something ridiculous like
reaching out to touch Merlin’s shoulder reassuringly.

“I know.” Merlin smiles a little, like he’s never doubted Arthur for a second. “You tried. Thank
you, for getting an audience with the king.”

Arthur doesn’t respond, even as his heart clenches painfully. He hates knowing there are people
out there who aren’t receiving help, support, people who won’t last the winter, and he can do
nothing to help. Accepting gratitude for something as simple as acquiring an audience with his
own father feels shameless.

“I wish…” He chews on the side of his mouth, watching the people of Camelot bustle about their
daily business below. In his periphery he can see Merlin turn to look at him curiously.

“I wish Camelot were able to help people, regardless of how far away they lived.”

Merlin nods, and silence descends over them.

Merlin takes a deep breath, like he’s preparing for a physical altercation.

“I’m going back to Ealdor,” he says definitively.

Arthur nods, he’d expected as much. Nothing is stopping Merlin from going, and he will want to be
there for his family, his village.

“Of course.”

“It’s been an honour serving you.”

That gets Arthur’s attention. He turns to look at Merlin with a confused look and a terrible feeling
of dread settles over him, gnawing at his gut as his heart gradually picks up speed.

“You’ll be coming back,” he says. It’s not quite a question, but an expectation, he can’t imagine
living without Merlin, nevermind the twenty years he’s lived before his arrival. Six months is
nothing in the grand scheme of Arthur’s life but the manservant has made more than an impression
in such a short span of time.

Merlin shifts awkwardly, offering Arthur a lopsided smile. He’s never nervous in Arthur’s
company. Even when he was new to the position of Arthur’s servant, when Arthur’s threats
weren’t empty promises, he still spoke his mind. If anything, in the early days he would have made
a better impression if he had shown some timidness in the presence of the prince.
“She’s my mother, I’ve got to look after her before anyone else,” is all Merlin says in explanation.
His words give Arthur no true sense of whether or not he will be returning and it makes Arthur’s
stomach clench.

“You understand?”

Arthur feels Merlin’s gaze burning into the side of his head as he avoids his bright blue eyes. He
imagines what it would be like if his own mother were still alive. If he, like Merlin, had grown up
a peasant boy in the country, what would he do to protect his mother? The answer is simple:
anything.

“I’d do exactly the same,” he answers honestly. His heart feels tender, like the surface is covered in
bruises, but he understands Merlin’s position all the same. Arthur won’t stand between him and his
mother.

The look Merlin is giving him is too genuine, too understanding, Arthur doesn’t know what to do.
He doesn’t know how to handle the warmth in the silence between them. Merlin is easy to be
around because he’s so sharp witted and brash, this gentle silence feels off and uncomfortable, like
squeezing into a jacket that is too small.

“Well,” Arthur says suddenly, intentionally shattering the sincerity of the moment. “You’ve been
terrible.” Merlin smiles properly, a true grin like he’s trying not to laugh. Arthur smiles crookedly
in return.

“Really, I mean it, the worst servant I’ve ever had.”

Merlin chuckles, bumping his shoulder into Arthur’s amicably.

“Thank you, Sire.”

With that he turns to walk away, Arthur almost lets him leave, but he knows if he never sees
Merlin again he can’t let him go just yet.

“Merlin!” He calls out, stopping him only a few paces away.

“Good luck.”

Merlin smiles. “Thank you.”

Arthur watches as he walks away, and wishes… wishes he could stop him, wishes he could follow,
wishes he wouldn’t leave at all. Just wishes.

~-~-~

The journey to Ealdor is an easy one, it entails only a minor amount of trekking through the wilder
parts of the forest, the majority of the trip is spent on larger, well kept roads. Merlin rides with his
mother on his tail, and Morgana and Gwen not far behind.

He couldn’t convince them to stay in Camelot, though he wanted to. He knows Kanen and his men
won’t be any more merciful towards them just because they’re women. The mottled bruise on his
mother’s face is enough to attest to that. However, even though he fears for them, it means the
world to have them with him.

Merlin did try to persuade them to stay, but Morgana had just looked at him like he was stupid, and
Gwen had pat Merlin’s arm affectionately; chastising him for even attempting to talk them out of
accompanying him.

“You would do the same for us,” is all Gwen said, kissing Merlin’s cheek affectionately.

“You have,” Morgana added, a kind smile making her sharp angles appear soft and with a deep
warmth in her green eyes.

That was that.

Merlin is settling down to rest by his mother’s side when the clattering of hooves and soft
trampling through the underbrush catches his attention. He gets to his feet with a frown, careful to
move as quietly as possible. The sword Gwen gave him earlier is stored by his side, and he
carefully retrieves it, wincing when it scrapes against the side of the sheath.

Every sound in the forest seems to be amplified in the dark of night. The crunch of leaves in the
distance, the whistling of wind passing through trees, every sound is someone waiting in the
darkness to attack.

Merlin’s sweaty palms are slippering on the hilt of the sword but he grips it tightly in both hands,
squinting into the cover of night searching for the shape of a figure. He spins to his right as the
bushes rustle, and turns to his left when a creature snickers. His breaths are heavy and loud in his
ears as he prepares for an attack.

The pointed blade of a sword touches his upper back, pressed at the junction between his shoulder
blades. Merlin’s breath catches in his throat, every muscle tenses in preparation for a blow. Instead
a familiar voice breaks the silence.

“I’d ask you for money, but I know you don’t have any,” the voice teases.

“Arthur!” Merlin whirls around with a beaming smile. He’s still holding out his sword and it skims
over Arthur’s head as he ducks for cover and stands with a frustrated grimace.

“For God’s sake, put the sword down Merlin, before you take my eye out,” Arthur mutters, but his
eyes glimmer with amusement in the sliver of moonlight.

“I don’t know, I think I look sort of cool, almost like a knight.” Merlin poses with the sword,
smiling at Arthur’s unamused face.

“You look ridiculous,” he retorts, snatching the sword from Merlin, marching towards the camp.

Merlin grins and follows, an odd fondness swelling in his chest as he watches Arthur pick his way
through the underbrush.

Arthur heads straight for the fire, it’s obvious from the way he shivers periodically that he’s still
cold from riding under the darkness of night. With winter around the corner, Camelot is slowly
succumbing to chilly days and practically frigid nights. The knowledge that Arthur was willing to
ride to them without the heat of day makes Merlin warm in a way that makes the fire unnecessary.

When Merlin takes a seat on the log beside him Arthur speaks again.

“How long is it from here to Ealdor?”

“About another half a day’s travel.”

Merlin shifts, he can feel Arthur’s warmth by his side.

Arthur nods. “And how many men does Kanen have?”

“I’m not sure, I think from what my mother’s said maybe as many as forty.”

Arthur’s expression flickers into a grimace. He’s still impossibly difficult to read but Merlin is
starting to learn the intricacies of his emotions. Merlin recognises this grimace as one of deep
concern, the same that Merlin feels when he thinks of what is waiting for them in the village. In
Ealdor there are no knights, there are no men who are trained to be fighters like Arthur is used to
home in Camelot. They are facing impossible odds with little more than the armour strapped to the
sides of their horses.

“Right, we should get some sleep then. Long day of riding ahead of us,” Arthur decides, clapping
Merlin once on the shoulder and standing to get to bed.

Merlin grimaces at the reminder of the journey ahead, he’s never been a big fan of riding.

He watches the silhouette of Arthur in the night, the side of his face illuminated in the warm glow
of the fire.

“Arthur?” He stops Arthur before he can leave. “Thank you. I know you didn’t have to come.”

Arthur nods, shrugging off the expression of gratitude like it’s uncomfortable.

“Get some sleep,” he says, instead of responding, but Merlin sees the small pull of a smile on the
edges of his lips.

~-~-~

Kanen and his men are in Ealdor when they arrive. Merlin recognises the man that Kanen is
speaking to, his name is Matthew and as the owner of the mill house has taken on a leadership role
in the village. Although speaking is a generous term for what is occuring, it seems like Kanen is
seconds away from lobbing Matthew’s head off. He lifts his axe to do just that when Arthur
charges in a blaze of glory. Arthur slices his sword through the air, sending Kanen’s axe flying
from his grip.

The village square erupts into chaos. Men rush to meet Arthur, weapons drawn and lips curling in
hatred. Kanen’s men are wild, covered in scars and unkempt knotted hair and their eyes flash
cruelly as they attack the helpless village. Merlin jumps into the fray, protecting Arthur’s left flank
while Arthur takes on the larger of the men.

A thin but menacing barbarian corners Merlin, snarling as Merlin ducks his blows and side steps
out of the swing of his sword. The barbarian kicks, striking Merlin’s knees causing him to buckle
backwards into a wall. He only just manages to heave his sword forward to block an incoming
attack.

The force is formidable against his own weak arms, the blade comes dangerously close to the bob
of his Adam’s apple. Merlin doesn’t dare breathe, he focuses on the hum of magic under his skin,
pulling it to the front of his mind with a forceful tug. He speaks a heating spell quietly, struggling
not to grin as the barbarian’s malicious smile slips with a curse of pain as the hilt of his sword sears
into his skin. He drops his sword with a clatter and Merlin uses his momentary shock to
incapacitate him.

Merlin looks up just in time to see Morgana jump in front of Arthur, easily striking one of Kanen’s
men. She throws an easy grin over her shoulder to her adoptive brother.
“Bring back memories of when I used to beat you?” She teases, raising a mischievous eyebrow. In
the heat of battle, she, like Arthur, thrives; it is obvious in the fluid way she moves and the way the
energy of the fight seems to take a heavy burden off her face, leaving her young and bright.

Arthur scoffs. “That never happened.”

“You’ll pay for this with your lives, all of you,” Kanen threatens, drawing all of their attention to
him. He mounts his steed and takes off with his men trailing behind him, the fading sounds of
horses hooves mark their departure. The harvest they had come for stays hidden behind some
young farm hands.

“Oi,” a familiar voice makes Merlin spin around. “You still up to your old magic tricks? I thought I
told you we don’t want your kind around here.”

Merlin tries to play along but he can’t help the joyous smile that spreads across his face at the
sight of his old friend. Will returns his smile with equal joy. He’s strengthened in the months
Merlin has been away, obvious from the muscle tone building in his shoulders from longer hours in
the fields. But the dimples of his mouth are the same, and so is the way his smile crinkles around
his eyes. Merlin has missed him terribly.

“It’s good to see you too.”

Merlin throws his arms around Will and hugs him tight, burying his smile into his friend’s
shoulder. The adrenaline of their recent victory eases away into the hug, relaxing his muscles and
unwinding from his shoulders. The presence of Will after so long without his friend is a welcome
relief.

“How have you been?” Will asks when they pull away. His familiar lopsided smirk makes Merlin
beam with happiness, a pleasant hum in his chest that fills the small homesick crevice of his heart
that is always a little bit hollow in Camelot. He prefers life in the city, but a part of him will always
miss Ealdor, his mother, Will.

“I hear you’re being worked to the bone by some prince.”

Merlin shrugs. “I wouldn’t say that but—”

“—Merlin!” Arthur interrupts them with a shout. “Round up the villagers. I need to talk to them.”

Will shoots him a look that seems to say ‘you were saying?’ and Merlin sticks his tongue out at
him.

It doesn’t take long to gather up the villagers, as they were already in the town square, coming
together to seek solace in each other after Kanen’s attack. Arthur stands on the edge of a well,
there’s a confident tilt to his jaw and a determined set in his strong brow.

“I know Kanen and his kind. He’ll be back, and when he is we’ll be ready for him.” Arthur’s voice
is strong, commanding the attention of the village. He imbues them with a sense of confidence just
by projecting his own. It’s more than admirable, it’s majestic.

“First of all we have to prepare—”

“Sorry, am I the only one wondering who the hell this is?” Will interrupts Arthur, cutting through
the crowd until he reaches the front so he can face Arthur properly.

Merlin swallows down the urge to bury his face in his hands. Nerves prickle at the back of his
neck, and he’s overcome by an uncomfortable sensation that this cannot go smoothly.

“I am Prince Arthur of Camelot,” Arthur answers without hesitation.

His words strike something fond in Merlin’s chest, how oblivious he is to Will’s sarcasm and how
genuine he is in return. There is no possibility that Will doesn’t know who Arthur is, not when
they were just speaking about him. So his interruption is more of a display of disrespect than a
genuine curiosity of who Arthur is.

“Great, and I’m Prince William of Ealdor,” Will retorts with a scoff.

“Keep quiet, he’s here to help,” Merlin’s mother scolds. To his credit Merlin is quite impressed by
Will’s ability to continue opposing Arthur in the wake of Hunith’s disappointed stare, although he
does shrink in on himself a little.

“He’s made things worse,” Will insists, looking back at Hunith, wincing at the reprimanding look
on her face, turning to Arthur instead. “Kanen will return and now he’s angrier than ever. He’ll be
looking for revenge. You’ve just signed our death warrants.”

Hunith opens her mouth to argue with him but Arthur stops her with a shake of his head.

“It’s alright Hunith, this is his village. What would you have us do?”

The two stare at each other for a moment, Merlin resists the urge to groan. Two of the most
stubborn, hot tempered people he knows are standing in a stalemate, what could go wrong?

Will yields first with a frustrated huff and a furious clench of his jaw.

“We can’t fight against Kanen, he has too many men. Trained men.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “So what’s the alternative?”

“We give him what he wants.”

A murmur of dissatisfaction ripples through the crowd in a hum of anxious energy. There isn’t a
person in the village who appears content with the idea of facing Kanen, but neither are they
willing to give in to his demands. Their agitation is palpable, a thick tension that seethes in the air.

Arthur seizes the murmur of the crowd, utilising it to support his proposal. He thrives off leading
others, he carries the strength required to maintain a restless crowd and transform them into a
united army. It’s what he was born to do, and he wears it with as much pride as his crown.

“Then what? Those of you who don’t starve to death will face him again next harvest, and the one
after that.” Arthur surveys the active crowd with determination glinting in his bright eyes,
encouraging them to consider his question.

“We’ll manage, we’ll survive,” Will argues, growing red in the face.

The crowd around him echoes with questions of how before Arthur can respond.

“The only way he can be stopped is if you stand up to him,” Arthur says, sending Will an
encouraging and hopeful smile.

Will laughs grimly. “No. No, you just want the honour and glory of battle. That’s what drives men
like you.”
The smile slips from Arthur’s face and he flinches into himself. It’s a small movement, only
Merlin standing so close beside him is able to see it.

“Look,” Will continues. “If you wanna fight, then go home and risk the lives of your own people,
not ours.”

Will storms away, leaving an anxious atmosphere behind him.

“I’ll talk to him,” Merlin promises, hurrying after his friend, leaving Arthur and his mother in the
square. He hears the villagers rally behind Arthur, promising that if they are going to die, they
want to do so fighting.

Will is bustling about the empty barn, pretending to be busy with tasks that both he and Merlin
know are entirely useless. He picks up an upended stool and rights it, glancing up to look at Merlin
and looking away again with a stormy expression.

“He knows what he’s doing, you’ve got to trust him,” Merlin says, breaking the awkward silence.
He hates being like this with Will, they’re never uncomfortable with each other.

The only time they’ve been like this before was when Merlin was leaving for Camelot.

He and Will have always been friends. As far back as he can remember, Will has always been
there. Merlin always had trouble making friends in Ealdor. Even though none of the other children
knew about his magic they could all tell he was different, he was always just a little too odd.

Will was never like that. He liked Merlin for who he was. When Merlin needed a friend, Will was
there, they understood each other. He was the first person Merlin told that he didn’t like girls, and
then that he had magic; both conversations were taken impressively in stride.

When they were on the cusp of turning nineteen Will kissed him under the oak tree in Merlin’s
yard. His lips were chapped and warm against Merlin’s and he tasted like the crisp apple he’d just
eaten. It was wonderful.

Being with Will was lovely, exhilarating even. They existed in a state of pure bliss, it was like the
rest of the world didn’t matter. It was fun, and new, and fresh, and everything Merlin had imagined
love could be. It just couldn’t last.

When Merlin told Will he wanted to move to Camelot, Will didn’t speak to him for an entire day.
He walked away from Merlin, leaving him alone in the field by his house, next to the tree where
they’d shared their first kiss. Merlin still remembers how it felt as his heart splintered into pieces.

They barely spoke about it. Will arrived at Merlin and Hunith’s cottage as the sun was saying its
final goodbye, kissing the edge of the horizon. His eyes were red with unshed tears and Merlin
knew it was over.

They screamed at each other by the oak tree for hours. Merlin urged Will to come with him, and
Will begged Merlin to stay.

Their love was never going to last, they should have realised that sooner. Merlin has always been
suffocated by the small village of Ealdor. Everyone is always in each other’s business and every
day is the same. He needs change, the buzz of new experience, the flavours of a larger world and
the chance at a life filled with wonders, everything Camelot could offer. Will was more than
comfortable with the small town life, he thrives off simple pleasures and the ritualistic pattern of
the day to day on a farm.
Eventually their burning anger mellowed, and their screams turned to quiet words. Tears trickled
down Merlin’s face as Will took his hand, pressing their palms together, drawing him in for a final
kiss.

It was mutual, it was for the best, but it still hurt.

In Camelot the ache dissipated, and all he could remember were the favourable points of the
relationship. Moments spent under the shade of the wheat harvest, dappled sunlight warming
hitting their laughing faces, and hot, magnificent moments in Will’s bed, hands dipping under the
covers and smiles pressed together.

Will was a good friend, one of his best, and their relationship had been lovely. But it had come to a
close and Merlin was satisfied with that.

They sent letters back and forth by raven weekly, and their usual banter and dynamic slowly
seeped back into the words as Will healed too. Which is why it’s so unsettling to return to cold air
and stilted conversation between them.

Will scoffs but doesn’t say anything, turning his back on Merlin when he tries to approach.

“Look I understand. When I first met Arthur I was exactly like you, I hated him. I thought he was
an arrogant, pompous prat—”

“—So you were correct?” Will interrupts with scorn that makes his voice sound bitter.

Merlin sighs heavily. “You don’t know him, okay? In time I came to respect him, for who he is
and what he stands for.”

Will slams a bench into place and Merlin winces.

“I know what he stands for, okay? He stands for princes, and kings, and nobility and other men
like him.”

Merlin recognises the pain under Will’s voice, the torn edges of his words that came with the loss
of Will’s father when he was a child. Arthur isn’t like the nobleman who allowed that to happen.

“Will… don’t bring what happened to your father into this.”

“I’m not,” Will snaps, his voice breaking on the last word as he finally turns to look at Merlin.

Merlin nods and Will scowls like he knows that Merlin doesn’t believe him.

“Why are you defending him? You’re just his servant.”

The words sting more than Merlin cares to admit and he struggles to keep a straight face as he
meets Will’s defensive gaze.

“He’s also my friend.”

“Friends don’t lord over each other.”

“He isn’t like that.”

Will makes a sarcastic noise of agreement.

“Really? Let’s wait till the fighting begins and see who he sends in to die first.”
Will looks pointedly at Merlin, it’s obvious that in his eyes he sees Merlin as Arthur’s sacrificial
meat, ready to be tossed for Kanen and his men to devour at a moment’s notice.

“I guarantee you it won’t be him.”

The statement hits Merlin like a punch but he doesn’t let Will see the impact. He knows Will, and
Will knows him. He’s searching for low blows to keep Merlin away from his own pain, to protect
where he’s really hurting.

“Arthur isn’t like that. I’d trust him with my life.”

There isn’t a hint of doubt in Merlin’s voice. He leans forward over the table between them,
planting his palm flat on the surface and looks at Will with raw honesty.

Will blinks, stepping back with wide and confused eyes. Merlin watches as he visibly absorbs his
words, frowning as his expression flickers between being guarded and antagonistic.

“Is that so?” Will asks, an insistent and barbed quality under his words. “So he knows your secret
then?”

Will’s words push Merlin from a cliff, his stomach drops, his hands go numb, his heart pounds
agony against his chest. He can’t mask the sting of the wound, the positive expression he had
forced onto his face drops.

“That’s not fair.”

Will sighs heavily, looking sympathetically at Merlin.

“Face it, Merlin, you’re living a lie. Just like you were here.”

Merlin turns away, trying to school his features into something less pained, less openly hurt by
Will’s words. Will can read him like a book, and he’s always worn his heart on his sleeve. There is
no doubt he knows how his barbs are digging sharply into Merlin’s skin, but he continues anyway.

“You’re Arthur’s servant, nothing more. Otherwise you’d tell him the truth.”

There’s no good explanation for why that stings more than any of the other truth’s Will uncovered.
It’s like a wound he’s been ignoring has been torn open and exposed to the harsh cold winter air
around them.

He grits his teeth against the pain lashing under his skin, knowing his reaction is what Will is
hunting for, even if he’s doing it under the guise of protecting Merlin.

“You’re wrong about him, you’ll see,” Merlin promises, turning on his heel, leaving Will in the
barn alone. He doesn’t see the heavy slump of Will’s shoulders as he leaves.

~-~-~

The ground is stiff beneath Arthur’s head as he struggles to get comfortable. When he sleeps
during hunts, he sleeps on padded warm soil, but this stone is unyielding and agonisingly
uncomfortable. At least he’s not cold, Merlin’s body is a warm source of reassuring heat by his
side. His head is down by Arthur’s feet, and every time he shifts Merlin’s long limbs brush
Arthur’s torso.

Merlin sighs lightly, his breaths haven’t evened into sleep yet, they’re still erratic and thoughtful.
Earlier he had been obviously irritated, unnerved, ever since he emerged from the barn after his
conversation with Will. Arthur isn’t sure what they talked about, he only noticed that afterwards
Merlin hadn’t been himself, he was distant. He refused to respond to Arthur’s ribbing, and only
half heartedly smiled at his jokes.

“Merlin?” Arthur breaks the silence of the night. Ealdor is so much more still than Camelot. It’s
like the entire village is holding its breath in anticipation of Kanen’s arrival, even the trees and
crops are still as they wait.

Merlin hums sleepily. “Yeah?”

“Have you always slept on the floor?”

Merlin lets out a short breath of laughter.

“Yeah, my bed in Camelot is a luxury in comparison to this. I can’t imagine having a bed like
yours, with your ridiculous number of—” Merlin puts on a ridiculous and overly posh accent “—
fluffed, down pillows.”

Arthur grins at the ceiling, letting the darkness cover his amusement. He likes the way Merlin
pokes fun at him, even if he’d rather cut off his own foot than admit it.

“Shut up, Merlin.”

A comfortable quiet descends over them and Arthur’s body relaxes against the painfully hard floor.

“It must have been hard,” he muses.

“Well yeah, it’s hard as rock,” Merlin replies. Though he can’t see Merlin in the dark Arthur can
clearly picture his eyebrows rising in confusion.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean the ground, you idiot. I meant for you… it must have been
difficult.”

“Oh,” Merlin’s voice is contemplative as he mulls Arthur’s words over. Arthur waits in the quiet
for him to respond. The dark of night is like a blanket over them, a cocoon of safety ensuring that
anything they divulge to each other in the dark will bring no consequence once the sun rises; it’s a
shroud of safety over their words.

“It wasn’t really, I didn’t know any different. Life’s simple out here, there’s nothing to really worry
about besides the harvest. You eat what you grow and everyone pitches in, as long as you’ve got
food on the table and a roof over your head you’re happy.”

Arthur frowns, imagining what that would be like; to get up each day and have to work for your
meal later than night, toiling in the fields, running errands around town. It sounds exhausting.

“Sounds… nice?” He manages, cringing at how halfhearted his answer sounds.

Merlin giggles. “You’d hate it.”

“No doubt.”

Arthur frowns, turning over Merlin’s words in his mind. Regardless of how he would feel about
village life, Merlin speaks of it with a kind fondness, with the affection one would show a close
friend or family member.
“Why did you leave?”

Merlin sighs. “I liked it here, but I was never comfortable.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno,” Merlin tries to shrug off the conversation. Arthur isn’t willing to concede so easily.
Curiosity is itching at the back of his mind, a strange desire to understand the inner workings of
Merlin.

Arthur stretches his neck to look down at him, poking Merlin’s face with his foot until he shoves it
out of the way with a huff of amused exasperation.

“Come on, stop pretending to be interesting,” he teases. He’s almost sure that through the darkness
he can see Merlin smile.

After a long pause Merlin answers.

“I was always too different, too much to handle...”

He thinks of when he first met Merlin. How he was loud, abrasive and rough on the edges; ready to
fight without hesitation when Arthur hinted at a challenge. Was that something he learned in
Ealdor? Defend yourself first, worry about the consequences later.

“I just didn’t fit in, I wanted to find somewhere I did.”

Arthur’s stomach does something confusing. “Had any luck?”

“Not sure yet,” Merlin replies. His answer is more honest than Arthur was expecting but it’s still
not the answer he was hoping for.

The conversation closes naturally and within minutes Arthur hears Merlin’s breaths slow and grow
even as he slips into an easy slumber.

The next day starts with sun streaming through the windows, rousing everyone as the day begins.
Merlin goes to fetch wood, while Gwen and Morgana seek the women of the village to gather intel,
leaving Arthur alone in Hunith’s home doing his best to put away their bedding. He should leave
the job to Merlin, but Arthur will need his help later for teaching the men to fight — or as Arthur
had teased earlier, he will need an example of what not to do in battle. He had received a hearty
glare in return.

Hunith walks into the cottage, her arms laden with a basket full of clean tunics, drenched from the
wash.

“Can you help with hanging these out— oh!” She stops short when she lays eyes on Arthur and
curtsies as best she can. “Apologies, Sire. I thought Merlin was here.”

He waves her off with a smile. “Don’t worry. I’m happy to help, if you’d like?”

It’s a surprise to Arthur even as he says it, but truly, he wouldn’t mind helping Hunith. She’s a
lovely woman and she’s been kind enough to extend her home to him, Morgana and Gwen when
there’s barely enough space for just Merlin. It’s the least he can do.

“Oh no, I couldn’t ask you to do that, Sire. You’re a prince.”

“Are you sure Merlin’s your son?” He laughs, getting to his feet and taking the basket from Hunith
before she can protest any further.

At Hunith’s astonished look he adds. “Believe me, your son is in my employment and he doesn’t
bother with respecting titles, you are under no obligation to do so.”

Hunith ducks her head to hide her smile and gestures for Arthur to follow her out the back door.

Hunith leads Arthur over to a long piece of rope tied between two trees in the yard. He puts the
basket between them and looks up at it, a little unsure about how to proceed.

“I do hope Merlin isn’t too poorly behaved,” Hunith says, taking the topmost tunic and pegging it
to the line.

Arthur laughs, he copies her and takes another item — one of Merlin’s tunics — and tries to drape
it over the line.

“He’s not so bad. Awful at his job though.” The tunic somehow manages to snag and twist itself
into a lump of fabric. He stares at it in concern. “I don’t really mind… but don’t tell him I said
that.”

Hunith smiles fondly, smile lines wrinkling around her warm eyes.

“It can be our secret,” she promises with a wink. The mottled bruising around her eye does nothing
to detract from the immense kindness Hunith holds in her expression. She might be the nicest
person Arthur has ever met. Not that he has had the pleasure of much genuinely compassionate
company, most of his acquaintances are raised to upturn their noses and consider themselves of the
highest regard. Arthur thinks that he would consider Hunith to be one of the best people he knows
regardless. How she produced someone like Merlin is beyond him.

She takes the tunic from him with a poorly hidden chuckle and straightens it out before pegging it
up.

“Why don’t you handle the scarves and smaller items?”

They pass the time comfortably, Arthur asks questions about Ealdor and does his best not to arse
up the chore too badly as they talk. Hunith shares the tales of her life happily and Arthur listens
with rapture. She was born and raised in Ealdor, and she shares that she’s never wanted to be
anywhere else. She doesn’t mention Merlin’s father and Arthur doesn’t ask; but she does tell him
all about Merlin as a mischievous little boy who was always getting into all sorts of terrible trouble.

And it’s nice. It’s easy to understand what Merlin meant when he said that life in Ealdor is simple
and comfortable. It’s easy to settle into.

~-~-~

Will notices Merlin across the field. He’s stepping his way through the woods on the edge of the
village, axe swinging in hand. It’s simultaneously wonderful to have Merlin back in Ealdor and
incredibly painful. He’s missed him dreadfully, but it’s obvious he’s not here to stay, and his
princely accessory is a grating presence.

Will jogs to catch up with Merlin, calling out his name and struggling not to smile when he spins
around in that dazed clumsy way he always has, tipped too far to one side and almost toppling
sideways.

“Where are you off to with that thing?”

Merlin pulls a bemused expression and continues further into the woods with Will by his side.

“What’s it look like? We need wood.”

Will scoffs. “We both know that you don’t need an axe to cut down a tree.”

“Yeah, and I remember the trouble that got me in.” He nudges Will with his shoulder. “I nearly
flattened old man Simmonds.”

Will blows a raspberry. “He deserved it, stupid old crone.”

Merlin hums, looking up contemplatively as he battles a winning smile.

“He never did like me all that much.”

“Even less after that,” Will smirks.

An uncomfortable silence stretches over them. It never used to be like this, but every time Will
looks at Merlin all he can think about is how Merlin left, and the pain he’s brought back with him.

“Why are you being like this?” Merlin frowns at him, just as uncomfortable with their dynamic as
Will is. His nose is wrinkled in that way Will knows to mean he’s frustrated, like Will is behaving
like a pest.

Will scowls. He remembers the sting in his heart as he watched Merlin leave, never once turning
back or lingering, set on his journey to Camelot. He treated Ealdor, Will, like an old coat that was
finally being discarded, shrugging them off for new and better things.

“You know why,” he mutters, sitting on a log and staring out over the village.

Merlin hesitates before settling himself on the log beside him. In the corner of his eye Will can see
the patient and saddened way he’s studying him, waiting for Will to continue.

“Why did you leave?” He asks finally. They never really spoke about it, they were too swept up in
what Merlin leaving meant for them, for their relationship. Will told him why he wanted Merlin to
stay, and Merlin told him why he wanted Will to come; but never why Merlin was leaving in the
first place.

Merlin sighs, his fingers twitch anxiously as he tugs at the fabric of his trousers.

“I needed more, I needed to get out… I didn’t know who I was anymore.” Will frowns, finally
turning to face Merlin properly, taking in the uncomfortable stiffness in his shoulders, the
determined way he’s staring at the floor.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never been able to control my magic, you know that. It was getting too dangerous, and I felt
like there was this massive part of me that I couldn’t explain, couldn’t control. My mother was
worried and when she found out you knew she was furious…”

Will hunches in on himself defensively. He always thought Merlin’s magic was wonderful, an
explosion of gold eyes and sparks that were uncontainable and bright. He looks at home when he
uses his magic, like during normal life he’s forever holding his breath, but when he lets his magic
reign free, he can breathe. He is a dazzling spectacle of endless possibilities. It was an honour just
to witness it.
“I wouldn’t have told anyone.”

“Well I know you wouldn’t!” Merlin snaps. He stops with an irritated huff and visibly collects
himself, smoothing his shoulders down and unclenching his white knuckled fists, pulling his wild
emotions back into order. “It just wasn’t safe here.”

“But Camelot is so safe?” Will retorts, lathering his words with sarcasm. He’s frustrated, and his
anger feels like thorns lodged deep into his skin. He knows Camelot, knows its laws, Merlin is no
safer there than he was at home; and at least at home he was with Will and his mother.

“At least there I have someone who can teach me.” He looks at Will imploringly. “I’m getting
better. I can do things I never could before.”

It’s obvious from the look on Merlin’s face that this is important to him. Will wants to be
supportive, he truly does, but something about Merlin’s words strikes a chord in him. He saw
Merlin’s power before he learnt to control it, if he’s more powerful than that he would be
unstoppable to a mortal man.

“You’d be able to defeat Kanen on your own wouldn’t you?” He asks softly.

Merlin frowns at the sudden change in topic, shrinking into the protective cover of his neckerchief
and shrugging helplessly.

“I’m not sure… probably.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

“Arthur.” Merlin answers simply.

In one word Merlin identifies the reason Will is so vexed. He has desperately been trying to bury it
deep in his subconscious. But there is one true reason for why Will has been feeling uneasy around
Merlin.

Arthur.

Merlin looks at Arthur like the sun shines from his arse, like he’s wonderful. He smiles at the
prince as if he’s truly comfortable, at ease and relaxed. His posture loosens, his arms drape
casually. He stands with Arthur like he stands with Will, like he’s a friend, like maybe he’s more
than that. Arthur will say something to Merlin and he will laugh, open-mouthed and loud, not
bothering to hold in his giggles and not ashamed to be wild. He grins with that full beam of
happiness that Will used to draw out of him.

It hurts. Even though it shouldn’t. He feels a cold squeeze around his heart every time he sees
Merlin look at Arthur even though he has no right to. It’s worse when Merlin thinks no one is
watching, that’s when he looks at Arthur like he’s golden, like he’s glowing.

It’s selfish, he knows that. He always knew Merlin would move on, and he was always
comfortable with that. Hell, he barely feels that way about Merlin himself anymore. He just always
hoped that he would be the best, not just the first. Will can’t live up to a prince.

Will can’t help but wonder if Arthur makes Merlin happy enough to ignite his magic. He’s always
loved how when Merlin was happy, really happy, little wildflowers would spring up around his
feet. His joy could bring springtime; but could Arthur create that joy?

What makes it worse is that Arthur doesn’t seem to care for Merlin the way Merlin cares for him.
Will told Merlin that Arthur would willingly sacrifice Merlin if it meant saving his own neck, and
he meant it. Men like Arthur will never prioritise a servant over themself. Men like Arthur don’t
deserve Merlin’s loyalty.

“So what if Arthur finds out?” Will demands, fists clenching by his sides.

Merlin stands, trying to wiggle his way out of the conversation, turning his back on Will.

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Try me!” Will hates the insinuation that he wouldn’t understand Merlin. He has always
understood Merlin. Even when he hates his reasoning and he wants to shake him until he sees
sense, he understands.

Merlin stops in place, his shoulders bunch by his ears and his spine tenses into a tight line.

He whirls around.

“One day Arthur will be a great king, but he needs my help.” Merlin heaves a deep breath, his
chest shakes with the effort of keeping himself together. “And if anyone, ever, found out about my
magic I’d have to leave Camelot for good.”

Will lets out a breathy laugh of disbelief. Frustration bubbles in his lungs, boiling at the idea that
Arthur, Camelot, is worth risking his family over. He almost doesn’t recognise Merlin, and it
makes him livid.

“Are you telling me that you’d rather keep your magic a secret for Arthur’s sake, than use it to
protect your friends and family?”

Merlin doesn’t say yes. He just looks at Will.

But he doesn’t say no either, and maybe that says everything.

~-~-~

It takes Merlin more than a couple of hours to escape the intense training regime Arthur has
created for the men of Ealdor. In that time he’s been reduced to a glorified practice dummy for
Arthur’s advice on how to parry, block and land blows on one's opponents.

Merlin groans as he lowers himself into a chair at his mother’s kitchen table, after a whole day of
being victim to Arthur’s strikes, he feels like he’s just one large bruise.

Arthur laughs, clapping him on the shoulder amiably and grinning down at him. Merlin hisses in
pain as the friendly slap manages to somehow strike pain in his entire shoulder.

“Have a quick rest, then meet me outside for a tactical meeting,” Arthur instructs, walking out of
the room before Merlin has a chance to respond.

“Prat,” Merlin mutters, letting his head drop forward onto the table.

His mother laughs from the back of the room.

“You shouldn’t speak that way about a prince, it’s treason,” she scolds lightly.

He smothers his grin into the table, his mother doesn’t know the half of it — assuming Gaius
hasn’t written to her.
“He cares for you a great deal,” she says with a false air of detachment, hardly concealing a
knowing edge that lilts under her words.

Merlin lifts his head to look at her curiously, trying to decipher the soft look on her face.

“Arthur would do the same for any village, that’s just the way he is.”

It’s not a lie. Arthur is just naturally good. He’s a prat, and he’s terrible at expressing himself to the
point Merlin thinks he might be emotionally constipated; but at his very core he wants to do the
right thing. Merlin’s almost certain that if Arthur could give every needy person within Camelot’s
walls a home and a full stomach he would do it in a heartbeat.

His mother shakes her head, looking at him almost sadly.

“It’s more than that!” She insists. “He’s here for you.”

Merlin’s heart skips a beat, a happy little jump that he couldn’t hope to interpret.

“I’m just his servant,” he argues. He doesn’t dare believe his mother’s words, no matter how much
he cares for Arthur, it is a one sided friendship.

Hunith rolls her eyes like she’s never believed anything less.

“Give him more credit than that, he likes you.”

Merlin smiles bitterly. He thinks of Will’s words, his warning that Arthur would leave running the
second he discovers the truth; and even worse, that Merlin knows he is completely right.

“That’s because he doesn’t know me. If he did I’d probably be dead by now.”

Hunith falters, a heavy frown wrinkling her kind face.

“You don’t really believe that do you?”

Merlin can’t meet her eyes. The truth of the matter is, he doesn’t know what Arthur would do. For
Arthur to know Merlin’s secret, and to protect him, would mean disobeying his father, forcing him
to make an impossible choice. Merlin won’t put him in that position.

“I don’t know,” he answers eventually, still staring at the floor.

The sounds of men gathering outside draws his attention and he gratefully uses the excuse to
escape.

“I have to go, Arthur really will have my head if I’m late to this meeting,” he mumbles, glancing at
his mother quickly before leaving the room. Her expression is sympathetic, a downturned frown
with soft eyes as she looks at Merlin. It makes something twang painfully in Merlin’s chest and he
turns and leaves before she can say anything else.

The men gather around Arthur like moths to a light, like he is their beacon of hope and that just
being close to him will give them strength. He’s pacing, face screwed up in an expression Merlin
now recognises as one of intense concentration.

“We’re not going to defeat Kanen with sword and sinew alone. We need a plan. We need to find a
way to limit their mobility.”

Arthur is halfway through explaining the plan when a blood curdling scream interrupts him. It tears
through the air. A piercing sound of hoarse, raw pain that scrapes along Merlin’s eardrums, leaving
the group standing in horrified silence.

Arthur and Merlin take off at the same time, running out into the field in pursuit of the sound.

It’s a woman screaming, her eyes on a horse riding into the village with Matthew’s body strewn
over it. He flops lifelessly over the horse’s careening back.

“Get him down from there,” Arthur commands. A group of men follow his instruction, lifting
Matthew’s corpse from the steed, lowering him to the ground.

An arrow is jammed in the small of his back, dripping blood in long disgusting rivulets down his
spine and onto the ground, staining his clothes and the dirt beneath him dark red. Merlin presses a
hand over his mouth to keep himself from dry heaving over the cobbled ground.

There is a note pierced through the arrow and Arthur kneels down to gently retrieve it from
Matthew’s dead body.

“What does it say?” Merlin manages to ask, though it feels like his throat has closed.

Arthur closes his eyes against his misery.

“Make the most of this day, for it shall be your last,” he reads quietly.

A woman breaks through the crowd with an anguished scream, throwing herself over Matthew’s
body and sobbing. His wife, his sister, Merlin isn’t sure, but her heartbreak is chilling, raw and
wretched, her sobs tear from her throat like they are forcing their way out. He looks away, he can’t
bear it.

“You did this!” Will shouts, shoving his way forward until he’s standing in front of Matthew. He
observes the scene with a horrified shudder, before turning back to Arthur, a livid glare burning in
his eyes. “Look what you’ve done! You’ve killed him!”

Arthur’s face breaks Merlin’s heart. His jaw drops open and his eyes sink in defeat and grief,
mourning a man he barely knew and blaming himself for the loss.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Merlin steps to Arthur’s defence immediately.

“It is,” Will insists, pointing at Arthur like he’s the devil. “If he hadn’t been strutting around and
treating us like his own personal army this never would have happened.”

“I want to help,” Arthur manages, Merlin can hear the strangled quality of his voice, forced around
thick emotion that jams in his throat.

“You’ve made everything worse, can’t you see that?” Will gestures to Matthew and the woman,
clutching her loved one and sobbing into his lifeless shoulder.

“These men are strong enough to fight for what they believe in, even if you aren’t,” Arthur shouts,
grief transforming into fury as Will provokes him.

Will steps back, looking at Arthur with undisguised revulsion.

“You’re sending them to their graves. You’ve already killed one man, how many more need to die
before you realise this is a battle that can’t be won?”

Arthur collapses in on himself, his expression first crumbles with despair, before smoothing into an
unreadable and hollow mask.

“That’s enough!” Merlin jumps in before Will can say anymore.

Will looks at him, his eyes glazed with betrayal and fury, before storming off towards his cottage.

Merlin falters, looking first at Arthur still paralysed after Will’s tirade, and then at Will’s retreating
back. He hurries after his friend, resolving to comfort Arthur later.

Will doesn’t look up as Merlin enters, continuing to shove his belongings into a well worn sack.

“Don’t bother Merlin, I’m not interested.”

“Well I don’t give a shit, because you should be. Whether you like it or not, Kanen is going to
attack tomorrow and we’re going to have to fight.”

”I won’t if I’m not here,” Will retorts, still refusing to offer even a glance in Merlin’s direction.

Merlin laughs drily. “Well that’s up to you but the rest of us are staying.”

He feints walking away and almost slumps under the weight of his disappointment as Will
continues to prepare to leave.

“Join us,” Merlin pleads. “This isn’t about Arthur, or nobility. This is about Ealdor. This is about
your friends, are you really going to abandon them?”

Will slams the tunic he was struggling with down on the table and finally looks at Merlin. His jaw
is clenched in a stubborn line, and Merlin flinches under the weight of the burning fury in his eyes.

“What, like you did?”

Merlin squares his shoulders, trying desperately to build armour around his vulnerable heart. He
can’t face the thoughts that Will’s words threaten to uncover.

“I’m here now.”

Will makes a scornful noise. “Yeah… yeah you are and you could end this. If you used your
magic, no one else would get hurt. No one else would have to die.”

Merlin’s heart gives a painful tug at the harsh truth he’s been doing his best to ignore since he saw
Matthew’s body sprawled limply over that horse.

“You know I can’t,” he manages to mumble.

“Can’t or won’t?” He asks bitterly, he leaves the question on Merlin’s shoulders until he squirms,
guilt striking him in sharp lashes.

Will scoffs. “I just hope your ‘precious prince’ is worth it,” he spits coldly, sneering at the title and
looking pointedly at Merlin, before he resumes packing.

“What?”

“Prince Arthur,” Will answers shortly. “Don’t act coy about it now, it really doesn’t suit you.”

“Act coy about—”

“You two—” Will tips his head with scorn, and then meshes his fingers together in a crude gesture.
“—together. It’s obvious.”

Merlin splutters, eyes going wide as an owl as he realises what Will is insinuating.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Arthur isn’t— we’re not— it’s not like that.”

Will sends Merlin an incredulous and unamused expression that covers his face like a mask.

“Right,” he drawls disbelievingly. “Sure it’s not.”

He shoulders his satchel and looks wearily at Merlin with a frustrated glare that speaks volumes
louder than their entire conversation, and yet one that Merlin can’t entirely understand. It oozes
with frustration, mistrust and most painfully: disappointment.

“I’m not the one abandoning these people Merlin, you are.”

~-~-~

Arthur flexes his hand, curling it into a fist, then stretches it out into a splayed position and repeats
the motion. He watches the movement with blood rushing in his ears, while his eyes go in and out
of focus. Every time he blinks the image Matthew’s dead body flashes in his mind, burnt into the
back of his eyelids. He knows he wasn’t the one who killed him, his hand didn’t hold the bow, his
fingers didn’t release the arrow; but he blames himself. The guilt is heavy and thick, lining his
stomach like bricks, weighing him into the ground.

He feels Merlin sit beside him, their calves brush together and shoulders bump as he situates
himself. Arthur doesn’t say anything to acknowledge him, he just hunches his shoulders and waits
for Merlin to speak.

“Will’s father was killed fighting for King Cenred… so he doesn’t trust anyone of nobility.”

It breaks the silence and manages to cut through the frenzied spiral of Arthur’s internal monologue
in a fell swoop. It makes perfect sense, and it explains William’s animosity towards Arthur from
the moment he arrived. Nonetheless the sting of Will’s words, and the fear that he is leading Ealdor
to their doom isn’t alleviated; but it is eased somewhat by Merlin’s explanation.

“Do you think the villagers believed him?” He asks, voice coming out quieter than he intended.

Merlin laughs softly. “Nah. He’s always been a troublemaker, they’re used to ignoring him.”

“And if he’s right?” Arthur asks, unable to hide the insecurity itching at the inside of his skin.

He stares directly ahead, unable to meet Merlin’s intense blue eyes, but he can see Merlin’s head
snap to look at him from the very edges of his vision.

“He isn’t,” he answers.

He’s so confident it makes Arthur’s chest ache. He doesn’t doubt Arthur at all. Merlin is so trusting
it’s like he was built from layers of sincerity, like if Arthur were to look into him he would see only
kindness. It’s admirable, and dangerous.

“I’m treating these men like soldiers, and they’re not.” Arthur blurts out, trying to explain the
hesitation he feels to Merlin. “You’ve seen them fight, they haven’t got a clue. I don’t know what I
was thinking…”
“You were thinking that we need to stand up for our home, and you were right.”

Arthur shakes his head, fear and distrust still a cumbersome burden across his shoulders.

“We need to tell them to flee the village before Kanen’s men arrive.”

“No,” Merlin stops him before he can cement the plan into his mind. “We’re going to stay, we’re
going to fight, and we’re going to win.”

“Merlin.” Arthur turns to face Merlin finally, meeting his steady and unfaltering stare. “It can’t be
done.”

“It can,” Merlin stands firm. His jaw is clenched and unshakeable, his blue eyes never waver from
Arthur’s; stubborn and steadfast as a mule, he looks like he could take on Kanen’s men alone and
emerge from the fight.

They’re so close their shoulders are pressed together, it’s as warm and reassuring as Merlin’s
words. It’s another thing Arthur has noticed about Merlin, he’s incredibly tactile. He doesn’t
hesitate to bump Arthur with his shoulder, or jab him in the ribs with his elbows. When Arthur
needs support he’s there by his side. Merlin is generous with his touch in a way Arthur has never,
and can never, be.

Princes are taught to keep their distance. To keep their hands by their side, to not get too close. Any
touch could be misconstrued as blessing, disapproving, or encouraging an action. A friendly touch
of a visiting princess’ shoulder becomes a romantic advance, a clap to another kingdom’s knight’s
back is a provocation. Everything Arthur does is a political advancement.

Not with Merlin though, with Merlin it’s easy, it doesn’t mean anything.

“We’re going to make Kanen rue the day he ever came to this village,” Merlin promises. Arthur
can tell by the twinkle in his blue eyes that he truly believes it. “All you need to do is get the men
ready for battle, the rest will take care of itself.”

“How?” Arthur demands.

Merlin shrugs. “You’ve just got to believe in them. If you don’t they’ll sense it and the battle will
be lost before it’s even begun.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Arthur admits softly. He feels weak, so nervous it’s eating him from the
inside, everything his father has taught him not to be.

How can I show them I believe in them when I don’t even believe in myself? He doesn’t speak the
sentiment out loud, but Merlin’s eyes soften like he heard it.

“That’s fine,” Merlin says with a small smile. “I’ll believe enough for the both of us.”

~-~-~

The entire village rallies in the old barn late that night. A fire casts a warm glow over the room and
softens the buzzing atmosphere of the crowd. Merlin watches from the edge of the congregation as
Arthur stands in the centre of the room, looking over the people of the village who eagerly await
his instruction.

This is Merlin’s village, his family and hometown, his mother, but at this moment they are rallied
behind Arthur.
“Tomorrow morning the women and children will gather what belongings they can carry and wait
in the woods, it will be safer there,” Arthur is explaining when Gwen steps forward and interrupts
him

“We’re not going anywhere,” she says, tipping her chin defiantly in a way that is reminiscent of
Morgana but also wholly her own strength.

Arthur blinks in surprise.

Merlin knows this has been an ongoing argument between Arthur, Morgana and Gwen since they
arrived; and privately Merlin thinks the girls are right. They are adamant they should stay to fight,
while Arthur would rather the women flee to safety and bide their time until the attack is over and
the village is safe once more.

“I know you want to help, but the women can’t stay here,” Arthur tries to argue, shifting nervously
on his feet as Gwen scowls. “It’s too dangerous.”

“The women have as much right to fight for their lives as the men do,” Gwen retorts with stubborn
belief in her tone.

“None of you know how to fight.”

“The more of us there are the better chance we stand,” Gwen says firmly. She waits for Arthur to
argue and when he remains silent she ploughs on. “Tell me I’m wrong and we’ll go.”

Arthur visibly digests the information, looking around the room at the women gathered, as strong
and capable as any man.

He nods, managing to make eye contact with every woman in the room and showing that he trusts
her.

“This is your home. If you want to fight to defend it, that’s your choice. I’d be honoured to stand
alongside you.”

Merlin watches in awe as the leader he knows Arthur to be shines in the glow of the fire. His spine
straightens, his eyes blaze and his chin tips high, supporting the crown he will one day wear.

“Tomorrow, Kanen attacks. He is brutal, he fights only to kill.”

Everyone shifts anxiously, completely silent but humming with nervous energy that reverberates
against the walls of the room.

“Which is why he’ll never defeat us,” Arthur continues determinedly.

Arthur marches around the circle that has formed around him, gazing at each individual and
rallying them together.

“We have something Kanen will never understand. Look around. In this circle we are all equals.
You’re not fighting because someone’s ordering you to, you’re fighting for something much more
important than that.”

The light catches on Arthur’s hair in a golden circlet around his head. He looks dignified, a
monumental force that is untouchable and transcends the very ground they walk on. But equally, he
looks tangible, grounded in the Earth and as much a part of the village as every person in the room.
It’s breathtaking to behold.
“You’re fighting for your homes. You’re fighting for your family. And if you fall, you fall fighting
for the noblest of causes, fighting for your very right to survive!”

The room holds its breath as a collective, and exhales as one.

“And when you’re old and grey you’ll look back on this day and you’ll know you earned the right
to live every day in between.”

Arthur looks at Merlin, a confident blaze in his blue eyes. He is mesmerising like this, strong,
powerful, the epitome of a leader.

“So you fight! For your family. For your friends. For Ealdor!”

Arthur holds his sword in the air, a call to arms that is matched by the entire village. The room is
alive, like a bolt of lightning is striking the Earth where they stand.

“For Ealdor!”

~-~-~

Anxiety keeps Merlin wide awake. He listens to the soft sounds of night that settle over Ealdor.
Unlike Camelot, Ealdor is near silent once night falls, only broken by the distant sounds of owls
and wildlife in the nearby forest.

Merlin takes comfort in Arthur’s soft rhythmic breathing beside him, slow and deep in sleep.

“Morgana?” Gwen whispers, her soft voice cutting through the air.

Morgana hums an acknowledgement, equally soft in the quiet night. Merlin listens quietly to their
soft breaths, grateful for the opportunity to listen to something besides his own thoughts.

“Do you think we stand a chance?” Gwen asks anxiously. Merlin can imagine her fingers fretting
with the rough blanket Hunith provided nervously.

Morgana doesn’t say anything for a long stretch, there’s a rustle and Gwen makes a happy noise so
Merlin presumes she’s reached over to take Gwen’s hand.

“I think there’s nothing we can do now but try. We have every chance, we just have to believe in
ourselves now.”

Quiet falls over the room again, and Gwen breaks it once more.

“Arthur spoke well tonight.”

When Morgana speaks again Merlin can hear a proud smile in her voice.

“He did. That’s why I think we have a chance. Arthur doesn’t do anything he doesn’t believe in.”

“Why do you think he came here?” Gwen wonders.

“Same reason we did,” Morgana answers without hesitation. “Merlin.”

Merlin’s heart jumps, skipping happily against his chest. Something warm and pleasant hums
through his body, fluttering in his stomach like a swarm of butterflies. It’s an indescribable feeling,
and he doesn’t know what to make of it.
“Arthur may act like he doesn’t care, but he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t,” she adds, without a
trace of doubt.

Morgana’s words linger in Merlin’s thoughts throughout the night and into the morning. They’re
on his mind as he slips chainmail over his head and as he prepares Arthur’s armour for the battle.
They refuse to leave his mind, sticking stubbornly to his thoughts, taunting every spare moment.

He lifts Arthur’s breastplate, using the weight of the armour to ground him. He’s halfway across
the room to Arthur when Arthur dismisses him.

“No, not today,” he says, taking the breastplate and beginning to dress himself. “Put on your own.”

The table of armour looms over Merlin. He’s never done anything like this before. Thick lumps of
fear obstruct his throat, making it difficult to breathe. He swallows it down, along with the nerves
that bubble in his stomach. His hands wobble as he picks up the heavy armour, hoisting it over his
head and clasping it into place. He fumbles with the clasp of a wrist brace. It’s strangely difficult to
dress himself, the buckle slips through his fingers and his nails catch in the loops of chain mail.
When he dresses Arthur, it’s second nature, but now, on himself, he feels inexperienced, like he’s
never done such a task before. He feels Arthur’s eyes on him, watching him struggle with the
stupid armour, but Merlin doesn’t see him step closer until Arthur’s fingers are batting his away
and his hands circle Merlin’s wrists.

Arthur’s fingers are strong and confident as they fasten the armour in place. Merlin’s heart
thunders against the cool chainmail. He ducks his head, his cheeks are flushed, and he’s hyper
aware of how close they are standing. Arthur’s fingers brush the back of his hand as they adjust the
tightness of the armour. It clicks as it falls into place.

“You ready?” Arthur asks, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder gently. Merlin’s neck jerks as he looks up,
meeting Arthur’s friendly gaze.

“My throat’s dry,” Merlin admits instead of answering the question properly. His legs are
wobbling, knees knocking together, and his entire body is trembling with nerves and adrenaline.

Arthur smiles earnestly, his eyes are creased around the edges and hold a warmth that Merlin could
melt under.

“Me too.”

Merlin nods, smiling shakily back at Arthur.

“I’m nervous.”

Arthur chuckles drily. “I’d be more concerned if you weren’t.”

Merlin watches Arthur fiddling anxiously with the edge of his chainmail. He’s obviously thinking
about something, his eyebrows are twitching in contemplation and his mouth is pinched tightly.

He unexpectedly holds out an arm for Merlin to take and looks deeply at him with firm but warm
eyes. With a rough swallow Merlin takes the outstretched hand, clasping Arthur’s elbow tightly,
receiving a friendly squeeze to his forearm in return.

Merlin’s face is warm and his heart is beating twice as fast as usual, a clamour of frantic
exhilaration in his chest. Still, he doesn’t look away from Arthur.

“It’s been an honour,” Arthur says seriously, offering Merlin a sincere smile.
Merlin returns the expression, chest warming at the earnestness of Arthur’s expression. He is still
terrified. His heart drums anxiously at the thought of what they’re about to face, but it’s reassuring
to have Arthur there with him.

“Likewise.”

Memories of Morgana the night before are swept away in the blue of Arthur’s eyes, quickly
replaced with the knowledge of the day to come and what he plans to do.

His mother had warned him against it, refusing to let him risk his position in Camelot for her, or
Ealdor; but Will was right. If Merlin let anyone get hurt, knowing he could do something to help,
he might as well have abandoned the village. However, it would be a terrible way to reveal himself
to Arthur.

Arthur releases his arm and finishes preparing for battle but Merlin’s thoughts are launched into a
crusade against his emotions. The silence between them is tearing him apart, if this is the last time
he sees Arthur he wants to make the most of it.

“Whatever happens out there today, just promise you won’t see me any differently?” He begs,
voice bordering on frantic as Arthur looks over his shoulder at him.

“I won’t. It’s alright to be scared, Merlin.”

Merlin nods.

Merlin could tell him. He could loosen his tongue, release the words that shove painfully at the
borders of his mind, be out and done with them. If Arthur witnesses his magic there will be no
excuses that could shield him from the truth. Merlin should just tell him.

He doesn’t.

~-~-~

The battle is a cacophony of noise that beats at Merlin’s ears; horrified screams overlap with the
furious shouts of Kanen’s men, metal rings as swords and axes meet, while horses rear and bray.
They had cornered Kanen’s men in a small part of the town square, blocking the exits with carts
and fencing to better their chances. As Arthur had suggested, they needed to meet the barbarians on
their own ground, forcing them into a small area to catch them off guard. It was a good plan and at
first, it was effective.

Merlin moves through the battlefield clumsily. He’s not skilled with a sword, he knows enough to
be considered adequate, but little enough that Arthur had taken one look at his technique, grimaced,
and demanded Merlin stay close to him for the entirety of the battle.

He keeps one eye on Arthur at all times, blocking blows from Kanen’s men and staying close by
his side to ensure their protection. Whenever he gets a chance he disarms the men with a flash of
golden eyes, careful to ensure Arthur is looking the other way. It’s exhilarating, it’s wild, it’s
terrifying.

There’s a crash behind Merlin and he whirls around to see Will tackling a bandit away. He stands
with an impish grin.

“I didn’t think you were coming!” Merlin shouts over the clamour of battle.

Will shrugs. “Neither did I.”

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts, diving in front of an axe swinging at Merlin’s head, to block it with his
sword. “Less chit chat and more protecting your arse,” Arthur grunts, but his attempt to sound
frustrated is dampened as he nervously scans over Merlin for injuries.

“Yes, Sire!” Merlin replies cheekily, grinning at Will who is eying them with something akin to
surprise and wonder.

They fall into the rhythm of battle once more; dodging attacks, scraping away from weapons and
watching over their shoulders. Merlin’s breaths are loud in his ears, halting gasps as a sword
swings too close to his stomach and pants as he pushes through thick exhaustion. Sweat beads on
his forehead and drips down the back of his neck but he doesn’t dare stand still long enough to
wipe it.

They’re losing. Around them, both men and women fall to Kanen and his men. Merlin’s eyes scan
over injured villagers, who wail as they fall to the floor or desperately try to flee to safe harbours.
The cackles of Kanen’s men ring in his ears like the clang of bells and their weapons leave trails of
blood and sinew in their wake. Merlin watches with horror as his friends and neighbours run to
safety clutching blood soaked sides and screaming in agony and chilling fear.

The world slows.

Merlin watches as around him villagers fall. People he grew up with, the baker from across the
way, his neighbour since the day he was born, the girl who once gave him flowers when he was
sick. All fighting and falling for their home, for Ealdor.

Kanen’s men are ruthless, barbaric. They show no mercy and they won’t stop until the entire
village lays at their feet. The clash of their weapons rings in Merlin’s ears, the clatter of horse
hooves against cobbled ground drums against his chest.

“There’s too many of them,” Will says breathlessly, a hopeless expression shattering his face.

Merlin takes a deep breath.

“Not for me.”

His heart is thundering in his chest, louder than the horses, the knives, the shouting and the
screams. The town is like a hurricane, the collision of weapons are the deafening din of thunder,
the screams are wind whipping through trees, but Merlin is the eye of the storm, completely calm.
He thought he would be a war of indecision and anxiety, but in the face of an impossible choice he
knows what he needs to do, he can’t be doubtful, he needs to have faith for Ealdor.

Merlin looks at Arthur.

This is his only regret. He knows what he needs to do, for his mother, for his village, for Ealdor.
But doing this means Arthur will never let him remain by his side. He’ll lose him, forever.

Merlin blinks away the sting of tears in his eyes, swallowing the rough feeling in his throat. He
closes his eyes, focusing on the surge of his magic rushing forward to the surface of his
consciousness.

He lets it culminate, filling his chest and crackling in his fingertips, exploding once it can no longer
be contained. The wind whistles as it catches the dirt on the ground and whisks it up, a heaving
cloud of dust and gravel that storms through the air. With a flash of gold he steers it towards Kanen
and his men, weaving it through the citizens of Ealdor, past Arthur and Morgana and Gwen, and
instead barreling into the confused and wide eyed barbarians.
They scream as they’re torn from their horses. Merlin’s wind buffets them in every direction,
pulling them away from the villagers, slamming their heads into walls with sickening cracks as
they drop unconscious. He flings men from their horses, throws them into the paths of weapons.
Merlin watches in sick fascination as the men scream in fear, he can’t stop until they’re gone, to
never return. They run for their horses, tripping over their own feet in haste to escape. Merlin sends
the wind after them as they flee for the forest, and the villagers shout jeers at their retreating backs.

There’s a moment of still. The entire village seems to hold their breath, before slowly exhaling as
one with the shared realisation that they are safe. For the first time in years they will have a winter
with full bellies, and they won’t waste their days glancing nervously over their shoulder and
waiting for an attack. The victory tastes like sweet honey, and relief gives way to mounting joy as
the entirety of Ealdor erupts in cheers. Gwen throws herself into Morgana’s arms with a happy
shout. Hunith is embracing four other women as tears of joy stream down her face. Arthur glances
around with a proud smile gleaming on his face, glittering in the morning sun.

Merlin sags into Will’s side, the adrenaline slumping from his body. Will grins, hugging him tight
to his side, warm hands holding Merlin upright and so close Merlin can feel Will’s smile pressed
against his own shoulder.

“Pendragon!” Kanen roars with burning fury igniting his voice, storming into the village towards
Arthur and snapping Merlin back into focus.

He lunges at Arthur, sword drawn, but Arthur’s fast. He drops into an defensive stance, blocking
the blow and dodges Kanen who lashes at him viciously. Arthur’s eyes glint with the thrill of
battle, this is where he excels. He’s been trained to wield a sword since birth and it shows, the
weapon is but another extension of him.

Kanen charges forward, forcing Arthur backwards. Their weapons strike with loud clanging sounds
that fill the air. Kanen swings hard and Arthur feints left, parrying his sword and twisting it out of
his grip. He slams the hilt of his sword into Kanen’s hand and it breaks with a sickening crack.

Arthur lunges, taking advantage of Kanen’s new defenceless state, he drives his sword forward,
impaling Kanen with a sickening squelch. Kanen gasps, dropping to his knees, eyes bugging as
Arthur wrenches the sword out of his body. The blade drips steadily with blood, creating a dark red
puddle by Arthur’s feet.

He steps over the body apathetically, storming towards Merlin and Will with a dark expression
clouding his face.

“Who did that?” Arthur asks furiously, teeth clenched and eyes blazing in a dangerous way.

Merlin’s throat feels very dry.

“What?” He asks, fumbling for time. He can feel his life in Camelot slipping through his fingers.

Arthur makes a sharp noise of frustration, glaring at Merlin as he comes to a stop just before the
two of them. He’s close enough to touch but he has never felt so distant.

“Wind doesn’t just appear like that. I know magic when I see it. One of you made it happen.”
Arthur looks between them, when his eyes fall on Merlin they’re edging on desperation, a furious
need for the answer to not indict Merlin.

Will has the decency to shift sheepishly beside Merlin, glancing at him like he recognises that he
goaded Merlin into this. Merlin wishes that was true, but even though Will encouraged him to use
his magic, Merlin made this choice. He knew the risk, and now he has to face the consequences.

“Arthur…” Merlin starts, his voice scraping painfully along the line of his throat. Arthur’s eyes are
all he can see, endless blue spanning the width of the entire world. He looks enraged, he looks
violent, but mostly he just looks scared.

He’s only just finished forming his mouth around Arthur’s name when he’s interrupted.

“Look out!”

In the space of a blink Arthur is shoved to the side and Will is on the ground, an arrow jammed
through the rungs of his ribs, just below his heart.

“Will!” Merlin doesn’t feel it as his knees slam into the floor. He can’t feel anything except the
coursing of his blood through his veins, and the heavy pounding of his heart in his head. He cradles
Will’s head, wide eyes scouring over his shaking body and pained expression.

“You saved my life,” Merlin hears Arthur gasp as he helps Merlin lift Will to his feet.

Will coughs around a weak chuckle.

“Yeah, don’t know what I was thinking.”

~-~-~

They carry William into the nearest house, the owner, a baker with a smear of blood over his
temple, ushers them inside with a terrified look on his face. Merlin and Arthur carefully place Will
onto the table. Arthur’s heart is beating an alarmed rhythm against his chest as he watches Merlin’s
friend heave for air. He’s terrified for this man, who risked his life for him.

Will’s breathing is hoarse and ragged, each inhale is wet with blood that makes him cough. The
dark red blood slowly seeps from the wound, pooling on the table, saturating the fabric of Will’s
tunic.

“That’s twice now I’ve saved you,” Will chuckles, sending Arthur a grim smile. He jolts with pain
and Merlin makes an aborted movement with his hands, like he moved to help but remembered
there was nothing he could do.

“Twice?” Arthur asks hollowly.

“It was me,” Will grits out, he’s shaking so hard he looks like he might break into pieces. “I’m the
one who used the magic.”

“Will don’t—” Merlin tries to speak but Will holds up a shaking hand to stop him.

Arthur looks up at him in shock. Merlin knew?

Merlin’s face is a battlefield of emotions, grief warring against horror. His lip trembles and his
shocked eyes are filled with tears that have yet to fall.

Will makes a grim sound. “It’s alright Merlin. I won’t be alive long enough for anyone to do
anything to me.”

Merlin inhales sharply, shaking his head. “No, no, don't say shit like that.”

“It’s true.”
Will turns his head away and back to Arthur just in time to miss the grief stricken expression that
flashes over Merlin’s face like lightning in a storm.

“I did it. I used magic. I saw how hopeless things were becoming and I had to do something.”

He gasps, fingernails scraping uselessly at the wood beneath him as he scrabbles for purchase. He
squeezes his eyes shut and shivers, unable to stop moving.

“You’re a sorcerer?” Arthur can’t help but ask, the words slip off his tongue almost unconsciously.

Will laughs grimly. “Yeah, what’re you going to do? Kill me?”

Arthur freezes, Will’s question is like a bucket of freezing water splashing over his head, bringing
him to cold clarity.

His father has always taught him that sorcery is a sin of nature, the worst evil that a person could
possess. Uther told him that sorcery digs deep into the hearts of men and turns them black as coal,
leaving nothing but a husk of flesh, as soulless as a corpse.

Arthur knows to an extent his father’s views are wrong — the magic that cured Gwen’s father
from the afanc’s plague couldn’t be evil, the ball of light that protected him in the cave had guided
him to safety, that could not be evil. He just never thought that a sorcerer themself, the person
wielding the magic could be anything but corrupt and cruel.

Will, who took a blow for Arthur, who is bleeding out on a baker's table, forces him to reassess that
judgement. Why would a creature of evil save his life?

Will looks at Merlin, avoiding Arthur’s eyes even as he flicks anxiously between his friend and
Arthur. He is afraid for Will, it is clear on Merlin’s face, but he doesn’t fear the arrow embedded in
his friend’s chest, he’s scared of Arthur.

“No,” he answers honestly. “No, of course not.”

Will nods, trembling and hissing in agony through gritted teeth. His breaths are growing more
laboured, every exhale barely leaves his lips before he gasps for another mouthful of air. His hair
is plastered to his forehead, red and flushed with exertion as he struggles to keep himself breathing.
Arthur swallows, he’s seen enough men die in battle to know that Will doesn’t have long left. He
doesn’t need Arthur and the others gawking, he deserves a moment alone with his friend.

“You’re a good man, William,” Arthur says softly. He hesitates, fingers twitching by his side
before reaching out a hand to squeeze Will’s shoulder amiably, careful not to jostle his injury.

He steers Morgana and Gwen from the room. Hunith squeezes Will’s hand once before following
them out.

~-~-~

“I was right about him,” Will grits out the moment everyone has left. “Told you he was gonna get
me killed.” A hacking cough cuts off his laugh but he smiles at Merlin all the same.

“You can’t do this to me Will, you can’t go,” Merlin gasps, tears gather in his eyes and slowly
begin to trickle down his cheeks.

Will’s grip on his hand is a tight aching pressure, crushing his bones, but it’s a steady reminder
he’s there, he’s still alive, Merlin wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Will’s face is sticky with sweat, eyes screwed shut as pain wracks through his body in jolting
waves.

“Why did you do that?” Merlin asks softly, running his fingers through the knotted hair at the top
of Will’s head. He doesn’t explain what he means exactly, he isn’t sure if he’s asking about saving
Arthur, or taking the fall for Merlin’s magic, but Will answers all the same.

“You’re a great man, Merlin,” he smiles affectionately up at Merlin. “One day, you’re gonna be
servant to a great king. Now you can still make that happen.”

Merlin sniffs, pulling his hand away from Will’s head to wipe away the tears steadily dripping
down his face.

“Thanks to you.”

“Arthur makes you happy, Merlin,” Will says softly, his voice strained. “Promise me you’ll let
yourself be happy?”

There’s weight behind his words, an inference that Merlin can’t miss. He swallows around the
lump of tears pressing painfully at the base of his throat and nods.

“Yeah, I promise.”

“And stop being an idiot about it,” Will threatens, his knuckles whitening as he grips Merlin’s
hand.

Merlin laughs wetly. “I’ll do my best.”

Will smiles, the air entering his lungs is rattling audibly with every breath he takes.

“I should’ve come to Camelot with you, like you wanted me to.” He tips his head to look at Merlin
properly and Merlin chokes on a sob. “It’s been boring here without you. It’s good to see you
again.”

Merlin smiles through his tears. “Yeah, you too.”

Will coughs, choking painfully on a wet sobbing noise.

“Merlin—” he groans, eyes going wide and desperate.

“You’re okay,” Merlin whispers uselessly, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Will’s burning
forehead. “You’re okay.”

Will’s hand goes lax in Merlin’s, his head lolls back onto the table.

He’s gone.

~-~-~

They gave Will a proper farewell, the entire village gathers to watch the flames dance around him
and consume him slowly. It breaks Merlin’s heart to watch him go. The heat of the fire stings his
eyes as he watches his friend burn, but he doesn’t look away, he stays until the elements welcome
Will back into their arms.

He hears Arthur make his way to his side, hovering above him awkwardly like he doesn’t know
what to do before lowering himself onto the grass beside Merlin.
“I’m sorry.”

Merlin nods. He doesn’t trust his voice just yet. He hasn’t spoken since Will left almost four hours
ago.

“I know he was a good friend,” Arthur says softly.

It startles a soft laugh out of Merlin. Good friend doesn’t even begin to describe Will.

“The best,” he replies croakily.

He can see Arthur nod out of the corner of his eye, endearingly awkward, unsure how to help.

“Would you like some time off? To recover?” Arthur offers carefully.

Merlin shifts on the dirt to look at him properly, Arthur won’t meet his eyes, instead he’s staring at
the grass as he pulls blades out with pinched fingers.

“Are you actually offering me time off?”

“Is that the wrong thing to do?”

Arthur’s eyes are so wide and his expression is so worried as his head snaps up to look at Merlin
that Merlin instantly takes pity on him.

“No, it's lovely, thank you. I just… I don’t think time to myself, with nothing to do, is a good thing
right now.”

Arthur nods. “That makes sense.”

Silence descends over them again. It’s not uncomfortable, just a quiet that settles into the carely left
gap between them. Merlin can sense Arthur is building up to say something, and he leaves him the
time to do so, focusing on Will and letting his grief sit heavily in his chest.

Finally Arthur speaks.

“You knew Will was a sorcerer, didn’t you?” He asks, the string of betrayal slipping into his words
without meaning to.

Merlin blinks in surprise. “Yes.” A half lie.

“You should have told me,” Arthur frowns. “You know how dangerous sorcery is, you can’t keep
something like this from me.”

Merlin’s heart's a heavy weight, sinking slowly into the ground to join Will.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, a genuine apology for the lie he is telling, and for the lies he will
continue to tell.

“It’s okay, just don’t do it again.”

Merlin doesn’t say he won’t, he already feels heavy with the lies he has told today, he can’t speak
another, he fears it might break him.

Luckily Arthur doesn’t ask for the promise, instead he heaves himself to his feet, dusting dirt off
his trousers and looks down at Merlin. He does a charming floundering action that Merlin’s
coming to realise means he’s gearing up for some act outside of typical royal conduct. Sure
enough, Arthur offers a hand to Merlin.

Hesitantly Merlin takes it. Arthur’s palms are rough with callouses from training and his hand is
warm against Merlin’s cold fingers. He hauls Merlin to his feet, patting his arm stiffly before
letting go and stepping away.

“I’m sorry, again,” he says, walking away to where Morgana and Gwen are gathering their
supplies.

Merlin isn’t left alone for long, his mother approaches slowly, wrapping her arms around Merlin
and letting him slump into her embrace. He falls to pieces in her arms, tears soaking the fabric of
her tunic. He breathes in her familiar scent, lets himself relax in her arms. The loss of Will is like a
weight over him, it crushes his shoulders and grinds his bones to dust.

His mother holds him together, her kind hands keep the pieces of him in place and she strokes his
back until his shakes turn into gentle tremors, and then he grows still.

Once he’s ready he stands, sniffling and scrubbing away tears with the heels of his hands.

“You’d better be going,” Hunith says softly, stroking Merlin’s arms gently.

He looks into his mother’s warm eyes and wishes desperately he didn’t have to leave her.

“I don’t have to go,” he says hoarsely, despite what he said to Arthur. He feels like he should stay,
for Will’s memory, even though Will would never want him to stay in Ealdor, and he would never
be happy here.

Hunith smiles sadly, like she understands why he’s offering, and can hear all the words he isn’t
saying. A mother’s intuition.

“Yes you do,” she answers. There isn’t a trace of hesitancy in her voice, she just knows, urging him
towards his life in Camelot without a thought for herself.

“If anything were to happen to you,” he tries to protest but his mother shuts him up with a look. A
‘go on and try it and see how far that gets you’ look.

“I’ll be fine. I know where to find you.”

Merlin sighs, leaning into her hand as she rests it fondly on his cheek.

“You have to go, Merlin. You belong at Arthur’s side.”

Something warm ignites in Merlin’s chest, a pleasant fire deep within him, keeping out the frost
and thawing his insides.

“I’ve seen how much he needs you, how much you need him,” she says with a fond pat to his
cheek. “You’re like two sides of the same coin.”

Hunith smiles knowingly, and the look in her eyes makes it all the more difficult to avoid the
thoughts creeping into the back of his mind. He ducks his head away from her stare, glancing over
at Arthur who’s whipping a rag at a giggling Morgana with a wide smile. The warm feeling in his
chest hums happily at the sight.

“I’ve heard someone say that about us before,” he says with an indulgent smile.
 His mother returns the smile, her warm face wrinkling with happiness at seeing the small glimmer
of joy on his.

Merlin bids his mother goodbye, wishing fervently he could take her with him. If he thought there
was any chance Hunith would be happy in Camelot he would whisk her away without a second’s
thought; but he knows that her life is here in Ealdor. She would never want to be anywhere else,
and she understands he needs to go. So she waves them all the way out of the village happily.

For months now Merlin has been stowing away his feelings.

He knew Arthur was attractive from the moment he met him, the most handsome young man he’s
ever laid eyes on. With his blond hair, alluring blue eyes, his well sculpted muscles carved from
hours of knighthood; he’s gorgeous. Merlin isn’t blind. It’s never been in question that Arthur is
attractive.

Will seemed to think it was more than that, his mother seemed to think it was more than that, hell
even The Dragon was dropping hints at Merlin.

He doesn’t want to believe them.

Except… When he looks at Arthur his whole body warms, tingles run down his spine and hum in
the tips of his fingers. His stomach flutters and twists in itself, his cheeks flush. He thinks that he
wouldn’t mind gathering Arthur in his arms, kissing the dip of his cupid’s bow, his temple, his
cheek, bumping their noses together.

Arthur is a prat. He’s stubborn, infuriating and he doesn’t understand that the world doesn’t
revolve around him. He takes Merlin, and his life as a prince, much for granted; he acts without
realising that it is possible to ask for too much. He’s brash, hot tempered, and when he’s angry, he
lashes out wild and without abandon.

But he’s also one of the kindest people Merlin has ever met. He would throw himself into danger
without hesitation, if it meant protecting those in need. He’s noble, the embodiment of chivalry,
and he cares with every bone in his body. His heart is overwhelmingly good. He’s wonderful.

God, Merlin likes every piece of him. There isn’t much he wouldn’t do to put a smile on Arthur’s
face, not much he wouldn’t sacrifice to see him safe and well.

Arthur throws a grin over his shoulder, winking at Merlin.

“Race you to the nearest gully?” He goads, kicking his horse into action with a whoop.

Merlin’s heart skips a beat.

He watches Arthur ride away with a wild laugh and he knows that there isn’t much use denying it
any more. Will saw it, his mother saw it. It’s time Merlin accepts that it’s true.

Fucking hell, he fancies Arthur Pendragon.

Chapter End Notes

i have been looking forward to posting this one for ages !! please comment and let me
know what you think i cannot wait to hear from you !!
a reminder that this is the mid season break so the next update isn't until the 9th of
october !!
i will see you all then for chapter 8 (hope everyone is excited)
 The Labyrinth of Gedref
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Merlin quickly realises that having feelings for Arthur is going to be a significant issue. He will
have to dispose of them, fast.

There are a multitude of reasons for this. The most notable being Arthur’s status as prince. Uther is
adamant that Arthur will never be permitted to have romantic engagements with anyone but a
noblewoman. It is his belief that a marriage should not only be born of love, but be the formation
of a political alliance that will benefit Camelot.

He would never allow a courtship with a servant, much less Merlin.

Arthur is so far out of Merlin’s reach it’s almost laughable.

Then there’s the ridiculous notion that Arthur would ever actually want a romantic engagement
with Merlin. Arthur has never shown any interest in men, and even if he were to, Merlin knows
that he would not be Arthur’s choice.

He knows what Arthur wants and it isn’t him. A princess, made of soft lines and noble values,
appreciative of Arthur’s knightly qualities, his status as crown prince and respectful of his title.
Everything that Merlin isn’t. He’s gangly, awkward and would rather throw himself into The
Dragon’s gaping mouth than admit he admires Arthur.

In addition to all of this and not least of Merlin’s concerns is his close proximity to Arthur.
Something which immediately proves itself to be a valid concern.

They arrive back in Camelot with little fanfare, Uther presumably didn’t even notice they were
missing. Arthur had explained on their way home that he told the knights he was going on a
hunting trip so no one would raise any alarm at his disappearance.

Morgana and Gwen head back to her chambers, both kissing Merlin on the cheek fondly before
they leave. Merlin follows Arthur back to his room, bustling around the prince’s chambers as
Arthur settles back into the castle. Once the room is decently tidy Merlin turns to leave, eager to
finally step away from Arthur and process his newfound feelings in privacy.

“Merlin,” Arthur calls out, stopping Merlin with his hand on the door handle.

Merlin grits his teeth, turning slowly to face Arthur.

“Yes?”

Arthur sighs. “I’m going to ask again if you need time off… considering…”

Merlin speaks over him before he can mention it, even the utterance of Will’s name will be enough
to shatter him. “No, thank you.”

“Right, then, I should remind you, for the hundredth time, that one of your responsibilities is
preparing me for bed.”

Merlin’s thoughts convert to a steady stream of curses and expletives. In the whirlwind of the past
couple of days he had managed to forget how often he needs to assist Arthur in the process of
dressing himself.

“And for the hundredth time I will remind you that a man of your age should know how to dress
himself,” Merlin manages to quip back but the end of the sentence is strained as Arthur steps
forward into Merlin’s personal space.

“You don’t have the dog and fetch the stick yourself,” Arthur sniffs, grinning at Merlin’s affronted
expression. “No offence.”

“Hmph,” Merlin grunts, heart pattering frantically at how close Arthur’s warm smile is to his own.

His fingers fumble with the laces of Arthur’s tunic, somehow getting them more tangled. Arthur is
so close that Merlin can feel his breath blowing through the strands of Merlin’s hair when he bends
to inspect the twist of the laces. Merlin pulls at them, carefully unknotting the mess he’s made,
trying to ignore the soft inhale and exhale of Arthur’s breath and the heat of his skin.

Once the laces are successfully detangled he realises much too late that the next step is to strip
Arthur of his shirt.

Without warning Arthur grabs the back of his own collar and pulls it forward over his head. The
movement reveals long expanses of strong lightly tanned skin, warmed by the sun and
strengthened through rigorous training. Merlin tries hard not to swallow his tongue as Arthur looks
at him expectantly.

It isn’t the first time he’s seen Arthur without a shirt, far from it. However, the circumstances have
changed drastically and Merlin is left feeling extremely out of his depth, with a very impatient and
still painfully shirtless Arthur staring at him. He can’t help but notice the strong muscles of
Arthur’s biceps, the smooth expanse of his chest. As a knight Arthur trains daily, and his muscles
are a reflection of that, every curve and sharp line of him is strong and fit. He’s gorgeous, and so
close to Merlin it’s impossible not to notice, it makes Merlin’s stomach pool with heat.

“Any day now, Merlin,” Arthur drawls, interrupting Merlin’s reverie.

Merlin coughs awkwardly as he is brought back to reality and fetches Arthur’s nightshirt, holding it
out for Arthur to slip into. His knuckles brush against the warm smooth skin of Arthur’s sides, and
a hot flush creeps up the back of his neck.

Arthur’s head emerges through the collar adorably ruffled, his hair messy from the static of the
shirt. Merlin’s heart gives a sharp tug of affection as he helps to smooth down the flyaway strands.

“Tomorrow you’ll have to tidy my chambers.” Arthur begins to list off Merlin’s chores for the
following day as Merlin ties the laces of his nightshirt. Merlin means to listen but gets caught up in
fighting the blush on his cheeks and schooling his features into neutrality that won’t alert Arthur of
his internal dilemma.

“Merlin, are you listening to me?”

Merlin straightens and most certainly doesn’t squeak when he realises he and Arthur are almost
nose to nose.

“Are you saying anything interesting, my Lord?” Merlin asks snidely in return. He’s grateful he
can disguise his feelings well enough that Arthur won’t notice his inner revelation.

His brain feels slightly foggy with their proximity, every thought in his head devolving to an
endless babble of: chest, warm, Arthur. Consequently he’s not quite in the state of mind to duck
Arthur’s flick and it hits him squarely on the forehead.

“Information about how to do your job should be interesting to you, Merlin,” Arthur scolds
patronisingly.

Merlin scowls, rubbing at his head. “I think I’ll have to disagree with you. What was it you wanted
me to do?”

“Clean my chambers,” Arthur grumbles.

His eyes are extremely blue this close, they sparkle in the low light of the candles littered around
the room. Merlin is finding it increasingly more difficult to breathe.The room must be getting
warmer, he certainly feels hot under his collar.

“Right,” he says, intentionally drawing out the word. “And I’m supposed to be interested in these
thrilling plans?

Arthur rolls his eyes and blessedly steps out of Merlin’s personal space. Merlin exhales in relief,
hurrying over to Arthur’s bed to prepare the linens for him, pulling back the quilt and fluffing the
pillow.

“You know Merlin—” Arthur begins, moving his lips slowly around Merlin’s name and oh God,
how has Merlin survived this long without realising how bad he has it for Arthur, when he says
Merlin’s name like that.

“—Most servants would consider it a privilege to be in your place.”

Merlin rolls his eyes.

“I’ll remember to treasure it next time I’m washing your royal undergarments.”

Arthur sticks his tongue out and Merlin hates himself a little for how hopelessly endearing he finds
it.

He takes a deep breath, and makes his way to leave the room before he is stopped by Arthur’s
voice.

“Goodnight, Merlin,” he says softly, muffled from the way his face is squished into his pillow.

Merlin’s heart does a little skip.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

He closes the door, letting his head fall forward against the wood with a heavy sigh.

“I’m so fucked,” he mutters aloud, letting the cool wood of the door ease the burning flush of his
cheeks.

Throughout the following weeks Merlin does his best to push any feelings for Arthur from his
mind. He knows that the sooner he gets over his feelings the better off he will be. There’s no point
in pining forever over someone completely unattainable.

~-~-~

The unicorn is the most enchanting creature Merlin has ever seen.
An ethereal being that is so bright and otherworldly it could put a ray of sunshine to shame. Its coat
is soft and glows with radiance, as white as a pearl and shimmering faintly with an unknown
magic. Its mane and tail appear to consist of glossy strands of moonshine that flow freely in the
cool breeze. Merlin is breathless, standing transfixed as he stares at the beautiful creature.

A branch snaps behind them, careening Merlin back into the real world. He blinks, pulling himself
back into focus.

“Go,” he whispers to the creature, trying to usher it out of the clearing, back into the dense forest.
“Please go, they’re going to kill you.”

The footsteps grow louder and closer, slowly encroaching upon them with cracks of twigs and
careful stomps.

“Go,” he hisses, pushing at the unicorn’s front flank. It stares at him, unbothered by his attempts to
startle it away.

There’s the clunk of a crossbow, the soft clip of an arrow being notched on the bow string.

“Arthur no!” Merlin turns, trying to stop the prince. But he’s too late.

The arrow fires from the crossbow with startling speed and accuracy. It hits the unicorn in its
stomach and it lets out a loud neigh of pain. The front legs buckle first, sending the unicorn
crumbling into the dirt, and it lands on its neck with a sickening crunch.

Merlin runs to the fallen animal, kneeling beside its head and stroking gently along the line of its
muzzle and nose.

“Shh, shh you’re okay,” Merlin coos gently, continuing to pat the unicorn’s nose soothingly until it
falls still.

He feels the unicorn’s head go heavy in his lap, his comforting words falling on lifeless ears and he
can’t help but think of Will. The sentiment is an echo of what he had whispered to his friend as he
died, the memory intertwines with what Merlin is seeing, the two scenes blending together like
paint spilling into water. He can’t discern the truth from the memory.

His vision blurs with tears and his breath hitches painfully, catching like thorns on the sensitive
hollow of his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly, blinking away the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

Arthur and the other knights hurry over, hollering and whooping with excitement at the falling of
the gorgeous creature.

“Ha! A unicorn!” Arthur celebrates.

Merlin swallows the huge lump in his throat, glaring up at Arthur.

“What have you done?” he asks accusatively.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a girl, Merlin.”

Merlin opens his mouth to retort but is distracted by a flicker over Arthur’s shoulder. He peers
around the prince to see a man, shrouded in a heavy white cape and tattered cream robes staring
disdainfully at the party. He has long wispy silver hair and a frown that is heavy with grief and
contempt.

“What are you looking at?” Arthur demands, spinning around to look at the man, by the time he
has turned away from Merlin the mirage is gone. A figment of Merlin’s grief, just like the memory
of Will.

“Nothing, a trick of the light,” Merlin answers, coughing to clear his throat and getting to his feet.

~-~-~

It hasn’t escaped Gaius’ notice that he is significantly more productive when Merlin is otherwise
occupied. Although Merlin aids him on a number of tasks, he also has a habit of getting into the
worst trouble and relying on Gaius to help him out of it. He’s only been in Camelot for half a year
and he’s already managed to ensure that Gaius does not possess a single strand of hair that is not
grey.

Arthur took Merlin and a collection of knights on a hunt a few days ago, and in the meantime Gaius
has been able to restock and tidy his entire supply of herbs and premade poultices.

Merlin comes flying into the room, a distraught expression on his face and Gaius suppresses a sigh
while simultaneously happy being to see him — he does miss the company while Merlin is away.
He watches patiently as Merlin collapses onto a chair and stares glumly at the table.

“How was the hunt?” Gaius asks carefully, prodding at the likely cause of the issue.

Merlin’s face twists, the pout on his face transforming to genuine sadness. A correct assumption
then. He turns away and busies himself with preparing a tincture for Peter in the lower village, who
is being bothered by a sore back, offering Merlin some time to decipher whatever he is going
through.

“Arthur killed a unicorn,” Merlin says flatly after a decent stretch of silence.

Gaius freezes, before turning very slowly to look Merlin in the eye.

“You saw a unicorn?” He confirms. A cool chill prickles down his spine. He grits his teeth against
the uncomfortable sensation that he is about to witness something terrible, cautioning himself not
to make any rash reactions.

Merlin nods slowly, a concerned look overtaking his initial sadness from when he entered.

“And Arthur killed it?”

Merlin frowns. “Are you okay? You’re doing that thing where you repeat everything I tell you.”

There is a legend that anyone who kills a unicorn must bear a mighty curse, plagued by bad luck
and torment. Gaius knows better than to underestimate a curse, he has known to many who have
fallen to such things to not respect their truth. However there is always a chance it is nothing more
than an old wives tale, it would do no good to jump to conclusions.

“Unicorns are rare and mystical creatures,” he explains thoughtfully, folding his hands and looking
intently at Merlin. “There is a legend that says that bad fortune befalls anyone who slays one.” He
keeps his tone mild and even, revealing the information with careful precision to avoid striking fear
in Merlin’s heart.

However Merlin’s eyes widen the more Gaius reveals. Gaius can see him realising what this would
mean for Arthur, turning over worst case scenarios and possible dangers in his mind. Though he
tries his best to hide it, Gaius knows that Merlin’s care for Arthur has extended beyond his destiny
into genuine fondness. Perhaps even a friendship.

“I have to tell Arthur,” Merlin says, his expression troubled and fingers fiddling anxiously in front
of him.

Gaius nods encouragingly.

“Be careful, Merlin. Arthur won’t appreciate being accused of engaging with magic.”

Merlin nods absently and runs off. Gaius has an uncomfortable feeling that Merlin didn’t hear his
warning.

~-~-~

Merlin has been scowling for the better part of the day and it’s beginning to piss Arthur off. He’s
been feeling quite pleased with himself ever since he saw the pleased expression on his father’s
face when he handed over the unicorn’s horn. Merlin’s unpleasant behaviour is entirely ruining
Arthur’s mood.

He looks over at where Merlin is staring forlornly out the window, completely neglecting the tasks
Arthur had been allocating for the afternoon.

“Merlin!” Arthur barks and Merlin startles, spinning around to look at Arthur. “What is the matter
with you? You’ve had a face like a wounded bear ever since we got back from the hunt.”

Merlin shrugs, maddeningly quiet and still looking irritatingly sullen.

“Don’t tell me you’re still upset about the unicorn.”

Arthur throws his finished apple core onto his plate with the rest of his lunch and goes to pull on
his boots, impatiently waiting for Merlin’s response.

Merlin huffs a frustrated breath through his nose.

“I don’t think you should have killed it,” he says cheerlessly, glowering at Arthur from under
heavily furrowed eyebrows.

Arthur rolls his eyes even though Merlin has turned back to the window and isn’t looking.

“Oh really?”

Merlin nods jerkily. “It was doing no harm, what purpose did you serve by killing it?”

Arthur bites down on his tongue to keep himself from snapping at Merlin.

“We were hunting,” he explains slowly, like he’s explaining the concept to a small child. “That’s
what you do.”

“In that case, hunting is stupid,” Merlin retorts haughtily.

Arthur can’t help but smile a little, even through his flaring annoyance.

“Yes you’ve made your opinions on hunting painfully clear.”

“It’s also something Gaius told me,” Merlin blurts out, cutting over the tail end of Arthur’s
sentence.

He’s irked by Merlin’s sour mood and agitated to get the conversation over with so he can do
something more interesting. He raises his eyebrows at Merlin, gesturing impatiently for him to
continue speaking.

“Legend says if you kill a unicorn you will be cursed,” Merlin explains, the words stringing
together into one long stream.

Arthur just manages not to scoff, pinching the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh.

“I respect Gaius very much,” he says. “But that is absolute nonsense, it was just a unicorn Merlin.
That’s it.”

As he turns his back on Merlin, Arthur’s eyes fall on small brown lumps by the side of his bed. He
inspects them closer and reels back with disgust.

“Merlin! Come look at this!”

“What?” Merlin asks, rounding the bed to meet Arthur, grimacing when he too sees the droppings
on the floor.

“Rat droppings.” Arthur wrinkles his nose in disgust. “My chambers are infested. You need to
spend less time worrying about already dead unicorns, and more time searching for that rat.”

He’s interrupted from reprimanding Merlin any further by a knock at the door, Kay sticks his head
in with an apologetic but nervous expression on his face.

“My Lord, the King requires your presence. It is a matter of urgency.”

Arthur’s heart sinks. The news can’t be good, his father never requests his presence unless
something is terribly wrong.

His assumption is correct.

Every bit of food in the kingdom has vanished to an unknown cause. The crops are dead, down to
the last ear of grain, and the livestock has either been eaten or escaped. There is little to explain the
phenomena, whatever disease has overtaken Camelot has happened seemingly overnight.

Merlin’s warning about a curse enters his mind for a moment but Arthur dismisses it with a scowl.
Just like Merlin to say something outright stupid so that during a kingdom wide crisis his
infuriating servant is the only thing on Arthur’s mind.

“Is this really all the grain we have left?” Uther demands, frowning at the meagre pile of grain left
in the store cupboard.

Arthur scratches at the back of his head, avoiding his father’s steely gaze.

“The people are growing scared,” he explains cautiously. “There’s been some looting.”

Uther glowers. “We must maintain order at all costs, panic will only make the situation worse.”
Arthur nods, though he has an uncomfortable feeling he won’t agree with his father’s methods of
maintaining order.

“I will issue a decree that looters will be executed,” Uther says decisively. “And tonight Camelot
will be placed under curfew, we must protect the grain we have left.”

Arthur nods again, ignoring the sour taste in his mouth.

“I will see to it.”

~-~-~

Merlin is wandering back to Arthur’s chambers when Gwen stops him. His stomach is gnawing
itself up with anxiety, turning itself inside out and then back again. He chews on his nail bed in
deep thought while Gaius’ concerns about the grain, and his warning about the unicorn’s curse,
plague his mind.

“Merlin!” Gwen calls out. “Is it true what everyone is saying about the crops?” She asks with a
concerned frown. “That they’re all dead?”

Merlin winces. “I’m afraid so.”

“What are we going to do?” She asks, a worried expression flashing across her face.

Merlin shrugs helplessly. “Start tightening our belts I guess.”

“I’m sure Arthur will think of something!” She assures him, smiling in that lovely way only Gwen
has the capacity to; equally joyous, concerned and sincere all at the same time.

Merlin winks at her.

“And if he doesn’t, I will.” She buries a giggle into her hand, and waves him away with a roll of
her eyes.

Merlin makes it partway across the courtyard before Gwen screams his name. He skids back,
kicking up dust as he pulls to a stop in front of her. His eyes scan worriedly over her body for
injuries and when he finds none turns his attention to the subject of her horrified gaze.

Her eyes are firmly planted on the citadel’s well. It’s attached to one of the outer walls of the
castle’s bordering walls, it consists of a huge metal pump with a slot underneath for a bucket to sit.
Merlin still feels a little queasy when he has to visit it, the memories of the afanc heavy in his
mind.

Instead of water it is filled to the brim with sand. Gwen pushes the lever down again and another
torrential downpour of grains falls into the bucket.

“Shit,” he gasps. The crops are one thing, their destruction can be explained away with disease and
weather conditions, but this is impossible to rationalise.

He fetches Arthur immediately, as the anxiety knotting in his stomach turns cold and twisted in his
fear. He watches as Arthur storms away, barking orders for men to check the underground
reservoir and marching fiercely to meet his father.

Merlin takes the bucket of sand Gwen poured from the well and heaves it to his and Gaius’
chambers. If Camelot has truly fallen to a magical curse, Merlin can only hope his own magic is
strong enough to combat it.

He spends hours trying to transform the sand back into its natural state. By the time Gaius returns
to their chambers he is staring helplessly at the dust which still stubbornly refuses to become water.
“Have you had any luck?” Gaius asks, laying a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. It is only the
reassurance in his tone that stops Merlin from snapping a crude retort. It isn’t Gaius’ fault he’s so
frustrated.

“I wish I knew how to make it work,” Merlin says, running an exasperated hand through his hair
and tugging at the ends of the strands. Gaius had given it a trim earlier in the week but it’s already
starting to grow out.

“What have you tried?” Gaius prompts, taking a seat across from him.

“Everything.”

Merlin gestures feebly towards the grimoire sitting to his right. It’s opened to a page about shifting
the elements between one another, but most of the information simply states that such magic is
impossible and requires exclusively elemental magic held by no sorcerer.

“If it is magic, it’s more powerful than what I possess,” Merlin admits.

Gaius sighs in defeat, steepling his fingers under his chin.

~-~-~

Merlin makes his way out of Arthur’s chambers, rubbing at a crick in his neck that he developed in
pursuit of that bloody rat.

He’s just cussing out Arthur when the man in question calls out to Merlin as he makes his way
across the courtyard back towards his own chambers.

“Merlin! You do realise there’s a curfew,” Arthur says, walking over with crossed arms and a
disapproving expression on his face.

“Yeah, I was in your chambers hunting for the rat,” Merlin points unnecessarily backwards
towards Arthur’s room.

Recently he feels like he’s always useless around Arthur. He may normally be clumsy but there is
still a limit to the number of furniture items he would typically walk into. If Arthur didn’t think he
was an idiot before Merlin was definitely proving his assumption correct now.

“Did you find it?” Arthur asks, he comes to a stop just in front of Merlin.

Merlin cringes. “No.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“So you have been outwitted by a rat?”

“In my defence, it’s a very clever rat. They do say rats are very intelligent,” Merlin defends himself
weakly.

“More intelligent than you it would seem,” Arthur mocks in return.

“I’ll find it tomorrow,” he promises.

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“See that you do. And go home, it would be embarrassing to have to lock up my own servant for
breaking curfew.”

His words are blasé but his tone suggests he cares about Merlin more than he would dare let on.

Suddenly Arthur’s attention is caught, head snapping to the far side of the courtyard, towards an
entrance to the castle that leads towards the kitchens.

“What was that?” He asks.

Merlin follows his line of sight but sees nothing but an empty archway.

“What was what?” He asks but Arthur doesn’t answer, tugging once at Merlin’s arm and taking off
in a run towards whatever he saw. Merlin spares a second to roll his eyes heavenward and question
if he will ever get a moment’s peace, before chasing after Arthur.

As they run through the halls Merlin sees the flash of a white cape disappearing around a corner
and they both rush to follow. It’s a figure, who seems to only be walking but stays evasively out of
their reach.

He and Arthur stumble down the spiral staircase, bumping into each other at every turn as their
feet trip on the steps. They reach the landing with heaving chests. Merlin knows that this area of
the castle is essentially a large circle with the kitchens on one side and the pantries on the other.
There is one exit on either side, the one they came from, and the other which leads towards the
banquet hall and the royal families’ chambers, but that is locked from the eleventh hour. So
whoever they are chasing should be trapped.

Arthur grabs Merlin’s shoulder and his thoughts stagger to a halt. Arthur is making some sort of
movement with his hands, directions for Merlin to follow. His hand movements might as well be a
foreign language for Merlin doesn’t understand him at all. His thoughts are too consumed by the
warm feeling of Arthur’s fingers on his arm and the determined flash of Arthur’s blue eyes.

Arthur retracts his hand and moves to walk away and Merlin follows listlessly, trying to decipher
Arthur’s sign language through the enamoured fog of his mind. He really has to do something
about these feelings, if he continues at this rate Arthur’s going to think he’s truly lost his mind.

“What are you—” Arthur spins around with a frustrated growl. He leans in so close Merlin forgets
to breathe.

“That means, you go that way—” Arthur points in the opposite direction, “—and cut him off.”

“Okay, right, yes,” Merlin blabbers, running towards the pantries. His heart is going at hare’s pace,
and it has nothing to do with the adrenaline of the chase.

He and Arthur meet in the middle again, with no sign of the intruder. Merlin’s stomach starts to
sink and an uncomfortable feeling prickles at the back of his neck. He can sense there is something
wrong with this mysterious trespasser, and the uneasy feeling makes his muscles clench in
anticipation. A shadow of the figure crosses past a torch in the direction Arthur came from and
Arthur shoves Merlin’s shoulder to get him moving. They run back the way they came and once
again find nothing.

“Where is he?” Arthur demands crossly.

“I didn’t see anyone.”

Arthur’s eyes bug and he throws his hands wide in frustration. “He was right here! Don’t tell me
you let him get past you.”

Merlin’s irritation bubbles in his gut uncomfortably. “Arthur there was no one here! No one passed
me!”

“Are you blind?”

Before Merlin gets a chance to snap back a deep voice interrupts them.

“Are you looking for me?” He asks. It’s the man from the forest, the mirage that Merlin pictured in
his grief, but now he’s standing in front of them in the flesh, staring dispraisingly at Merlin and
Arthur.

His hair is white as snow and his head is shrouded in a cloak that drapes in heavy folds. He is
holding a staff with old and crooked knuckles, it curls appeasingly towards the ceiling. His silver
eyes are partially concealed by extremely bushy white eyebrows; but what can be seen of them
hold so much emotion it makes Merlin’s heart ache. They swim with grief and wisdom that he
could not imagine ever possessing. There is a fog of magic surrounding him so strong it makes
Merlin’s ears pop with pressure.

“I am Anhora, keeper of the unicorns,” he introduces himself. His voice is gravelly, wisened with
age like The Dragon’s, but lacking the amusement that Merlin associates with the winged creature.

Arthur looks at Merlin bewildered, as if hoping he can offer an explanation. Merlin returns the
look with one of equal confusion.

“Camelot is under curfew, what is your business here?” Arthur asks, clearly settling on
approaching the situation with the discipline and control of a prince.

Anhora doesn’t blink, instead he tips his head in consideration at Arthur. The movement is so
reminiscent of Sophia and her father that Merlin has to stiffen his muscles to keep from stepping
between the keeper of the unicorns and Arthur.

“I have come to deliver a message.”

Arthur’s eyebrows creep down his forehead. “And who is this message for?” He prompts
impatiently.

“It is for you, Arthur Pendragon,” Anhora replies calmly.

Both Merlin and Arthur’s spines straighten at the use of Arthur’s full name. The man has not come
here without purpose, and his knowledge of exactly who Arthur is concerns Merlin to no end.

Arthur jumps to the offensive immediately, shoulders squared and jaw clenched like he’s ready for
a physical fight.

“Is it you who’s been killing our crops, and turning our water into sand?”

“You alone are responsible for the misfortune that has befallen Camelot,” Anhora answers simply.

Merlin’s mouth drops open and anger burns through him like a flash of lightning, igniting in his
chest and spreading out through him until everywhere is hot and furious. How dare this man accuse
Arthur of hurting Camelot, when all he cares about is doing right by them?

“Me?” Arthur spits. “You think I would bring drought and famine upon my own people?”
Arthur’s body is shaking with fury, Merlin can see his anger tensed in the muscles of his shoulders
and spine, creating rigid and hard lines down his body.

Anhora looks between the two of them, tense and ready to spring into a fight and sighs.

“When you killed the unicorn you unleashed a curse. For this Camelot will suffer greatly.”

Arthur’s hands clench by his sides, Merlin has the strange urge to take them in his and hold them
until they relax.

“If you have put a curse on Camelot, you will lift it, or you will pay with your life,” Arthur growls.

Anhora shakes his head slowly.

“I do not control the curse, only the unicorns do. This was not my doing.”

His words sink slowly into Merlin’s skin. Although his body tries to repel them he can see their
truth. Gaius had warned that the slaying of a unicorn would enact a curse; Anhora’s words are only
confirmation of what Merlin already suspected. In killing the unicorn Arthur endowed this curse,
whether he chose to do so or not.

“Undo the curse, or face execution,” Arthur orders, stepping closer to Anhora and staring down his
nose at him threateningly.

Anhora does not flinch or shrink under Arthur’s gaze as many would, he simply lifts his chin to
meet his menacing stare.

“Only you can do that.”

Arthur growls and reaches a hand forward to grab Anhora’s arms.

“You’re under arrest.” As his hand meets where Anhora should be, the man disappears, no more
corporeal than a wisp of smoke. Arthur staggers forward without the expected weight to stabilise
himself.

“You will be tested,” Anhora says from behind Merlin and Arthur. They both whirl around to face
him. Merlin’s fingers tingle with adrenaline, the thrill of interacting with and being in the presence
of such powerful magic makes his body thrum with energy.

Anhora is looking directly at Arthur, over Merlin’s head like he is not even present.

“Until you have proven yourself, and made amends for killing the unicorn, the curse will not be
lifted. If you fail any of these tests Camelot will be damned for all eternity.”

With those words Anhora disappears once more, leaving the two in staggering silence that seems to
suffocate the oxygen from the room. Merlin turns to look at Arthur with wide eyes. There is
nothing the prince cares more for than Camelot. When he first met Arthur, Merlin assumed he was
a selfish prince who cared only for himself and his own ego. However it didn’t take long for him to
learn that Arthur would put Camelot before anything else. There is nothing he wouldn’t sacrifice
for his kingdom.

Arthur is staring at the place Anhora was standing with a horrified look on his face, with an open
jaw and pale cheeks. He stays still for a few seconds before blinking, recovering and arranging his
features into a nonplussed expression.
“Go home, Merlin,” he orders. “Tomorrow we’re going to find that sorcerer and make him retract
the curse.”

With that Arthur walks away without another word.

Merlin stares after him, left alone with a foreboding sense that this whole dilemma is only going to
get worse.

~-~-~

“Merlin!” Arthur yells, storming across the room with a boot clenched in his fist.

Merlin has a split second to think “I should duck in case he throws it” before Arthur shoves the
boot in his face instead.

“Look! That rat has eaten through my boot!” Arthur growls, shaking the boot under Merlin’s nose.

Sure enough, there is a small hole, just big enough for a finger to poke through the leather.

Merlin barely manages to stifle a smile.

“Perhaps the rat is as hungry as the rest of us?” He suggests, looking up and meeting Arthur’s
grumpy stare.

“You think this is funny,” Arthur says. It’s not a question but an accusatory statement.

Merlin is unable to contain his smile any longer.

“Moderately.”

Merlin winces when the boot hits him square in the chest.

He scowls as Arthur moves to fetch his sword from the weapon stand in the corner of the room, he
only just barely manages to refrain from making a rude expression behind Arthur’s back.

“Get it mended,” Arthur orders. “And find that rat.”

They bustle around the room in silence for a moment, and Merlin does his best to keep his eyes on
tidying Arthur’s things and not the heavy frown that sits on the prince’s face. It’s some sort of
ridiculous joke that Merlin finds Arthur’s pout so endearing. Even when he’s cranky from hunger,
and when he’s being a stubborn idiot, Merlin’s chest still warms as he watches Arthur strap his
sword around his waist; and he can’t help but look when the tip of Arthur’s tongue pokes out of his
mouth in concentration.

Merlin shakes himself out of his stupor, and turns his mind to more pressing matters: Anhora’s
warning.

“Have you given any more thought to what Anhora said last night?” He asks, careful not to look
Arthur in the eyes.

Arthur hums, he doesn’t sound like he wants to murder Merlin for asking so Merlin chances a peek
in his direction.

“Well, he may have escaped last night, but at least we now know who we’re looking for,” Arthur
answers, his brows furrowing determinedly.
Merlin frowns. There had been a small part of him hoping that what Arthur said the night before
had been impulsive, influenced by the spur of the moment, and that once he had more time to think,
he would come to the realisation Anhora had been telling the truth.

It could never be so easy.

“I told my father I would find this Anhora and make him put an end to this nonsense,” Arthur
continues, completely unaware of Merlin’s worries.

Merlin grits his teeth.

“What if he was telling the truth about the curse?” He suggests, feigning an air of nonchalance.
Arthur slams his new pair of boots to the ground and Merlin struggles not to flinch.

“You think I would bring suffering upon my own people?” He hisses. There’s a dangerous note to
his voice that promises time in the stocks if Merlin doesn’t tread lightly.

Merlin inspects Arthur’s ruined boots with more interest than they deserve, too nervous to meet
Arthur’s steely gaze as he replies.

“Of course not, I know you’d never do that…”

“Good.” He sees Arthur nod stiffly out of the corner of his eye. Apparently satisfied with Merlin’s
response, he resumes putting on a new pair of boots.

“... Deliberately,” Merlin adds.

Arthur’s head snaps up and Merlin sighs internally.

“Look, I know better than anyone that you would never wish this misery on Camelot. I’m not
accusing you of that,” Merlin promises, finally looking up and into Arthur’s stubborn eyes. “I just
think he might have been telling the truth.”

Arthur rolls his eyes with a scoff.

“What makes you say that?” He asks, just barely humouring Merlin as he continues his
preparations for the day.

“When you killed the unicorn, I saw Anhora in the forest,” Merlin blurts out.

Arthur glances up at him. “What? Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

“It was just for a second and then he disappeared!” Merlin scrambles to defend himself,
remembering the self doubt and immense grief that had clouded his every thought when he was
holding the dying unicorn. “I didn’t even— well— to be honest I thought I was seeing things.”

Worry flashes across Arthur’s eyes for a moment, just a split second of concern before masking it
with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“That doesn’t actually prove anything, Merlin,” Arthur points out.

“Doesn’t that make you think he was telling the truth?”

“Because he was skulking about the forest? That makes me trust him even less.”

Merlin resists the urge to scream.

“He appeared when you killed the unicorn, so his connection to them must be true,” Merlin says
diplomatically. Arthur opens his mouth to argue and Merlin continues before he gets the chance.

“Why would he appear in Camelot just to lie to you?”

Arthur shrugs petulantly. “We had him cornered, he was trying to talk his way out of it by blaming
me.”

Merlin gapes at Arthur, almost bordering on being amazed at how resistant Arthur is to the truth,
that he’s able to convince himself into believing such outlandish ideas.

“Arthur, he can disappear into thin air, he didn’t have to talk his way out of anything,” Merlin
reminds Arthur almost desperately.

The chair scrapes against the floor with how quickly Arthur stands and he slams his hand on the
table, leaning forward so he and Merlin are eye to eye. Merlin’s mouth goes very dry as he stares
into Arthur’s steady blue gaze.

“My father has warned me about sorcerers like him. They will not rest until our kingdom is
destroyed,” Arthur says solemnly, his glare is steadfast and his mouth is set in a hard stubborn line.

“Well I believe he’s telling the truth,” Merlin says softly.

“Then you’re a fool,” Arthur snaps. “You cannot trust a single word a sorcerer says, you’d do well
to remember that.”

The words scratch through Merlin’s chest painfully, leaving his insides stinging with a bitter pain
as they bleed sluggishly. It hurts for Arthur to be so overt in his hatred of who Merlin is. They’ve
started to build a bond of trust, but if Merlin told him the truth that would burn to ash. Their
tentative friendship is tenuous as a tower of sand built on the shore of a beach, only one wave away
from coming crumbling into dust.

Not for the first time Merlin wonders how Arthur would react if he knew the truth, about Merlin,
and about their shared destiny. A jeopardous and reckless part of him desperately wishes he could
admit the whole thing just to see the look on Arthur’s face.

He knows it’s hardly Arthur’s fault, he’s held the belief that sorcerers are the root of all evil, that
magic is simply a gateway towards darkness since the day he was born. His father ingrained such
beliefs so deep into his mind that he couldn’t fathom anything else. It’s impossible to know what
hardened Uther’s heart against the practice of sorcery, what made him long so desperately to
eradicate it. However the issue remains that Arthur has never known any different.

It’s unfair of Merlin to expect Arthur to believe anything else, when he’s never been given any
good reason to do so. Merlin will just have to be that person for him. With that, the impulse to blurt
out the truth evaporates and Merlin’s shoulders relax.

Merlin stays silent, resolving to help Arthur uncover the truth about the curse some other way.
Clearly, conversation between the two of them was not going to be enough to convince him he is in
the wrong. He watches as Arthur shrugs a jacket onto his shoulders, and waits for him to speak
again.

“I think I’ve figured out what Anhora’s next move is going to be, and when he makes it, we’re
going to be waiting for him.”

~-~-~
Merlin smacks his lips again right next to Arthur’s ear and Arthur resists the urge to throttle him.
Arthur knows his frustration is high because of how enormously hungry he is; and he also knows
that Merlin is — perhaps unfairly — bearing the brunt of Arthur’s anger. He grits his teeth as
Merlin smacks his lips again.

“Stop smacking your lips,” Arthur orders.

Merlin glares back at him, equally grumpy.

“I’m thirsty,” he complains.

“We’re all thirsty, Merlin,” Arthur retorts haughtily, falling quiet at the end of the sentence as the
sound of footsteps catches his ear.

They’re shrouded by the dark of night, waiting near the grain store for Anhora, where Arthur
predicted he would come next. Now it appears the man has arrived, exactly as Arthur knew he
would.

“Well—” Merlin tries to argue but Arthur shuts him by holding up a hand.

“Someone’s coming.”

Arthur retreats back to the corridor that leads to the grain store and peers around the corner. The
corridor is completely dark but there is a small flicker of light shining off a torch at the end of the
hallway, disappearing into the room where the grain is being held.

He tiptoes after the light, Merlin close on his heels. When he stops, Merlin does the same, though
he never listens to Arthurs spoken instructions, he follows Arthur’s silent movements perfectly in
time. Arthur slowly unsheathes his sword, wincing as the sound it makes in the silent corridor.

Merlin is watching his every move, eyes wide like an owl as Arthur prepares to ambush the
sorcerer. He leans close to his manservant, trying to mimic to Merlin without speaking his plan of
attack, but Merlin just blinks at him without understanding. Impossible. Arthur rolls his eyes.

They creep into the store in sync. Thankfully Merlin seems to take the hint to cover the other side
of the room, grabbing a scythe from the wall to arm himself.

“Show yourself,” Arthur finally speaks, his voice thankfully coming out confident and
commanding, “Before I run you through.”

He points his sword into the darkness. Instead of Anhora, a peasant man emerges from the
shadows, a shovel in one hand and a small bag of grain in the other. He bears a striking
resemblance to Merlin’s friend Will from Ealdor, enough that Arthur is taken aback for a moment
before regaining his footing. He glances to his side, where Merlin is standing, but the sad downturn
of his mouth is the only indication that he too sees the resemblance between this man and his
deceased friend.

“Who are you?” Arthur demands.

The man trembles. “My name is Evan, My Lord.” He bows so low his head almost hits his knees.

Arthur imagines what his father would say in this situation, the man is obviously a thief,
committing a crime in Camelot’s currently precarious position which cannot be overlooked.

“I see you think you can help yourself to our grain reserves,” he says eventually, tipping his head in
what he hopes appears to be a powerful gesture.

The man, Evan, physically shakes under Arthur’s heavy stare and he just bobs his head mutely.

“My father has ordered that looters be executed,” Arthur continues, keeping his voice even and
assertive.

Evan’s jaw wobbles.

“Please, Sire. My Lord I do not steal for myself, I have three children they have not eaten for two
days. They’re hungry,” he babbles, clutching the hand with the grain fearfully to his chest as
Arthur slowly approaches.

Arthur’s heartstrings give a painful tug. He imagines the small children, desperate for a meal on
the table and unable to comprehend why it will not arrive.

“It is the same for everyone,” he manages to say.

Evan nods so frantically Arthur is worried his head will shake off his shoulders.

“I know, and I know it is wrong to steal I simply—” he cuts himself off with a pained gasp, like
he’s holding back tears. “I could not bear to see them starve.”

Arthur withholds himself from visibly reacting to the poignant sadness in Evan’s voice. He
remembers when Hunith spoke about the children in Ealdor, and just as he had then, Arthur can no
more bear to imagine Evan’s children starving than the man himself. His father would not falter,
no amount of empathy is a match for the law. It should change nothing.

“Could you bear for your children to see you executed?” Arthur questions, adamant that Evan
understands the weight of his decision.

The man is overwhelmed by emotion, unable to speak he shakes his head, tears dripping slowly
down his cheeks. Arthur feels guilt press down on his shoulders. His father would not stand for
benevolence of any kind in such a situation, Evan is a criminal, and he must be executed.

Arthur steps to the side, giving Evan space to pass.

“Then you should go home,” Arthur says gravely.

Evan looks up with awestruck eyes and a hopeful part to his trembling lips. He looks like he hardly
dares believe his own ears.

“If I catch you stealing again, I will not spare you,” Arthur adds, the presence of Uther on his
shoulder a staggering weight that forces him to remain resolute.

Evan beams regardless, a grateful smile that shows off a missing tooth on the bottom right of his
mouth. He throws the shovel to the side and returns the small bag of grain to the stockpile.

He’s halfway out of the room when Arthur stops him, ignoring his father’s hissing voice at the
back of his mind.

“Wait.”

Both Evan and Merlin look at him curiously. Arthur lifts the small bag of grain and looks at it for a
moment. It’s so small that in a normal situation it would hardly be enough for a bowl of porridge,
but right now perhaps it’s enough that the family can survive at least a week longer.
He throws it to Evan.

“Use it sparingly,” he instructs. “It might be the last food you and your family get for some time.”

Arthur can feel Merlin’s eyes burning into the side of his head but he refuses to meet them. Instead
he focuses his gaze on the peasant man who looks gratefully back at him.

Evan’s voice takes a wizened quality which is staggeringly different from the simpering and fearful
man from only a few minutes ago.

“You have shown yourself to be merciful and kind, My Lord,” he says articulately, bowing once
more to Arthur.

Evan smiles. “This will bring its own reward.”

~-~-~

Arthur gulps down his fourth goblet of water desperately. He gasps with relief as the cool water
soothes his dry and tender throat. He wipes away the droplets that dribble down his chin with the
back of his hand, sagging gratefully against the table.

Merlin does the same across from him, eyes squeezing shut with ecstasy as he alleviates his
parched throat for the first time in over two days.

“I never knew water could taste so good,” Arthur pants, letting his head drop back against his
chair, relishing how his breaths no longer scrape along his windpipe like sandpaper.

Merlin nods frantically, downing another heavy swallow.

“My throat was so dry I thought I wouldn’t be able to talk,” he gasps.

“Well at least some good would have come out of the drought,” Arthur teases, grinning at the
vexed glare Merlin shoots him in response.

Merlin pours them both another glass, and the water sloshes enticingly in the goblet. Arthur
doesn’t think his thirst will ever be quenched, it’s possible he will drink the entire well before he’s
sated.

He watches as the cool, clear liquid pours into their goblets. It’s impossible to believe that the
water in his goblet was sand only hours earlier. Arthur understands even less why Anhora chose to
revert that specific part of the curse.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Arthur mutters, taking his goblet and swallowing two huge
mouthfuls. Merlin looks at him curiously, tipping his head like a confused animal. “The sand
disappeared, the water returned to the well. I don’t understand why.”

Merlin nods slowly, pulling a face like he’s working hard not to speak his mind.

Arthur sighs.

“I suppose you have some explanation for this, Merlin.”

Merlin shifts on his feet, confirming Arthur’s suspicions.

“Let’s hear it then.” Arthur gestures flippantly for Merlin to speak. He seems apprehensive to share
his thoughts, perhaps unsure if they will be received. Which is fair, Arthur himself isn’t sure why
he’s asking his servant of all people to weigh in on matters of state.

The only thing he can attribute to his sudden interest in Merlin’s opinions is that he can trust Merlin
to be honest with him. He has proven time and time again he will comfortably speak his mind
regardless of how discourteous his opinion may be. This should be no exception.

Arthur sends a glare Merlin’s way that he hopes will encourage him to speak.

“Anhora said you would be tested,” Merlin babbles, his words coming out in a rush now that
Arthur has extended an invitation for him to speak. “Last night in the grain store, you let that
villager go and he said that would bring its own reward.

Arthur frowns. “He was merely grateful, as he should have been.”

Merlin shakes his head emphatically. “I think that was your first test. You passed it, so the curse is
beginning to lift.”

The words make a striking amount of sense, but they twinge uncomfortably in Arthur’s gut. If
Merlin is right, it means that the misery that has befallen Camelot is due to a curse brought on by
Arthur. He doesn’t want to believe something like that could be true.

Arthur looks down at his cup, discomfort itching at the walls of his chest.

“I know you don’t have to listen to me,” Merlin says softly.

“Glad we agree on something,” Arthur mutters.

“Arthur,” Merlin snaps, looking at Arthur intently. Arthur glances up in surprise at the frustration
in his voice, meeting Merlin’s steely blue scrutiny head on.

“If you’re tested again that means you have a chance to end your people’s suffering,” he says
simply, pausing a moment to let Arthur consider those words.

“I know you want that more than anything.”

Arthur’s mind wars with itself, part of him is inclined to believe Merlin and his theory, leaning
towards the logic of its solution like a plant seeking the sun. If it’s true, he can protect Camelot,
and stop the misfortune that has spread like a plague through the kingdom. He wants that more
than words could express. But equally, if Merlin is right he would have to accept that he was the
cause of Camelot enduring such suffering.

When Arthur says nothing Merlin ploughs on.

“I think we should seek Anhora out.”

Arthur can just visualise that conversation with Uther. The idea is so comically stupid he has to bite
at his cheek to keep from laughing in Merlin’s earnest face.

“I can’t negotiate with sorcerers. My father would never hear of it,” he answers, placing his goblet
back on the table with a thump.

Merlin’s lips pull into a crafty smile.

“Then it’s probably best you don’t tell him,” he answers with a shrug.

Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks at the cocky smile on Merlin’s face and feels a strange thrill
of excitement spark through him. He’s stupidly brave, and it’s almost admirable. If it weren’t such
a dangerous suggestion.

He considers the possibility, face screwing up as he considers. It’s too much for him to handle, his
head is heavy with the weight of all the things that could go wrong. He shoves the thoughts aside
fervently.

“I’m going to check on the guard,” Arthur decides, standing to his feet and marching away from
Merlin with purpose. His stomach gives a loud grumble. In his eagerness to drink again he’d
almost forgotten how desperately hungry he is.

“And find me some food.”

~-~-~

Merlin is sure that when Arthur requested food, he hadn’t wanted to be served rat stew; but food is
scarce and beggars can’t be choosers. What Arthur doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“Here you go, eat up,” Merlin says with a grin, placing the plate of stew before Arthur with a
clatter.

Arthur wrinkles his nose like a small child kicking up a fuss about a plate of vegetables.

“I’m not hungry,” he grumbles.

Merlin frowns. “What do you mean you’re not hungry? None of us have eaten for three days.
You’ve got to be hungry.”

Arthur glares at Merlin, heated and eager to argue, reminiscent of a toddler on the verge of
throwing a tantrum.

“I can’t eat when I know my people are starving.”

A pang of longing rushes through Merlin, affection rising in him like a growing wave. He should
have known that Arthur wasn’t eating for some stupid noble reason. Arthur never turns down a
meal. Merlin can’t help but ponder if this famine might actually be harder for the prince to endure
as he has likely never missed a meal in his life. His choice to avoid food could only be due to some
ridiculous reason like undergoing a hunger strike to stand in solidarity with his people, whom he
loves more than himself. His pout of defiance is so adorable it makes Merlin’s chest flutter, and his
heart patters a staccato rhythm in his ribcage.

As sweet as his declaration of compassion is, Merlin doesn’t know how to convince him to eat. A
silence settles over them as he deliberates but to his surprise, Arthur is the one to break it.

HIs eyes are determinedly fixed on the hard wood of the table as he speaks, with a frown between
his creased brows.

“Merlin, do you really believe I am responsible for the curse?” He’s quite clearly attempting to
sound detached, but he’s unsuccessful. It’s painfully obvious that this really matters to him.

Merlin chews on the side of his mouth, trying to formulate a response that won’t send Arthur
spiralling. He knows — much as Arthur argues against it — that the prince values his honesty. He
wouldn’t have asked Merlin if he didn’t want the truth, but that doesn’t change the fact that the
truth will likely hurt him.
“I’m afraid so,” he murmurs eventually, ducking his head in preparation for Arthur’s inevitable
snapping retort, but he doesn’t ever look away from Arthur.

He watches the infinitesimal changes in Arthur’s expression. His face at first glance seems to be an
impassive mask, appearing completely removed from the conversation, but because Merlin is
looking closely he can see that’s not the case. There’s a stubborn glint in his downturned eyes, and
his brows twitch defensively. He notices the way Arthur’s jaw juts forward into defiance before
smoothing into something neutral before the motion repeats, like his mind can’t decide between
the two.

Arthur rubs a hand over his jaw thoughtfully, scratching at the side of his mouth and frowning.
Merlin waits for him to rise to the defensive and snap at Merlin. There’s an empty goblet by
Arthur’s hand that is liable to be thrown at Merlin’s head. He regrets not filling it when he had the
chance, he’s much less likely to throw things when they will cause a mess.

Instead Arthur surprises him.

“We’re going to the forest first thing in the morning,” he says decisively, still not looking up at
Merlin. “Maybe… we can pick up Anhora’s trail.”

Fondness swells within Merlin, filling him with warmth like a soothing balm, it eases down his
spine and nestles in the tips of his fingers. He struggles to bite back the smile overcoming his face.
He’s aware he’s beaming at Arthur like a yearning fool but unable to aid the situation.

“I think that’s a very good idea,” he says, holding his hands tightly behind his back to keep from
reaching out to squeeze Arthur’s hand reassuringly. Arthur huffs softly, finally looking up and
meeting Merlin’s eyes.

“Well, whatever it takes.”

Merlin gives up on trying to hide how proud he is and grins at Arthur widely. He claps his hands
together and pushes the bowl of stew a little closer to Arthur.

“Okay, but you have to eat, you’re not going to be able to help anyone if you’re too weak to pass
the test.”

Arthur scowls, looking like he desperately wishes he could argue but knows Merlin is right. He
takes his spoon with a pout and Merlin tries to busy himself but finds it impossible not to watch as
Arthur eats.

Arthur scoops a spoonful of the stew, slurping it from the spoon in a way that’s sinful. Merlin
pointedly ignores the heat in the base of his belly, focusing instead on watching Arthur from the
corner of his eye. He chews slowly, pauses, chews again and then wrinkles his nose.

Merlin winces internally, battling to keep his face as composed and unreadable as possible as
Arthur looks down at the bowl, then up at him with a confused frown.

“What type of meat is this?” Arthur asks, chewing slowly on a particularly gamey piece with a
grimace. “It has a very strange texture.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows innocently.

“It’s pork,” he answers, careful to keep his voice light.

Arthur pulls a face, sniffing the bowl, his lip curling in distaste.
“This isn’t pork,” he argues, pushing the meat around the bowl and peering at it. “It’s far too
stringy. What is it, it’s um…”

Arthur stops, his spoon hovering just above the surface of the stew. Merlin watches in equal parts
horror and amusement as Arthur’s face flicks through a range of emotions before settling on a sort
of constipated frustration.

“It’s rat, isn’t it?”

Merlin offers a nervous smile and nods.

“Try not to think about it.”

Arthur downs three huge gulps of water and Merlin absolutely does not watch his Adam’s apple
bob. He coughs, shuffling to grab the jug and refill Arthur’s glass to keep his hands occupied.

“Look at me, I’m being rude,” Arthur says with exaggerated earnest.

Merlin slowly turns to face him, shoulders hunched in preparation for something to go awfully
wrong.

Arthur sends him an excessively innocent smile that Merlin knows he can’t trust.

“Here I am, stuffing my face with this delicious stew, when you must be hungry too!”

Arthur gets to his feet and pats the chair, smiling tauntingly at Merlin.

“Come on, take a seat.”

“No thank you, I’m not hungry.”

Merlin shakes his head, backing away into the chest of drawers as Arthur steps forward and
corners him against it. He’s so close that Merlin could easily lean forward and capture his lips with
his own, it wouldn’t even be difficult. He needs to stop thinking about kissing Arthur immediately.

“Nonsense,” Arthur says with a leering smile. His hands curl around Merlin’s shoulders and the
warmth of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of Merlin’s tunic.

I’m going to die, Merlin thinks a little helplessly as Arthur manhandles him into the lavish seat.

“Come on Merlin,” Arthur taunts, his tongue curling delightfully around Merlin’s name. “Eat up.”

He’s leaning over Merlin with his arm secure over the back of the seat, coiled around Merlin’s
shoulders and his nose brushing the side of Merlin’s hair as he watches Merlin pick up the spoon.
Merlin’s fingers tremble, whether from hesitation to eat the stew or Arthur’s proximity is anyone’s
guess, he certainly can’t fathom anything over the pounding of his own heart.

“Eat,” Arthur orders, the barest hint of amusement threaded through the single word.

Merlin scoops a small portion of the stew and tentatively eats the mouthful. Arthur was right, the
texture is truly strange. It’s uncomfortably gamey, falling apart into chewy pieces of stringy meat
that won't dissolve no matter how much Merlin chews them.

Arthur makes a humming noise of encouragement right by Merlin’s ear and his heart skitters at the
sound.
Merlin struggles not to gag as he swallows the meat.

“It’s actually not too bad,” he manages to choke out, screwing up his nose as another whiff of the
odd smelling stew wafts through the air.

“I’m glad,” Arthur smiles acidically. His fingers curl around Merlin’s and push another spoonful of
the soup to his waiting mouth. Arthur’s calloused fingers wrapped around his own distracts Merlin
enough to make him more pliable to Arthur’s urging hands.

“Because there’s plenty more where that came from.”

Arthur points to the pot of extra stew and Merlin pales.

~-~-~

They have been scouring the forest for Anhora’s strail for almost an hour when Arthur sees a flash
of white cape rounding the corner.

“Merlin!” He shouts, not even bothering to look over his shoulder to see where Merlin is before
taking off after the sorcerer.

Arthur tramples over brambles and shoves his way through branches and twigs in a frantic rush,
jumps over fallen logs and ducks underneath branches in a frantic rush as he slips through the
beaten path. The sorcerer may be powerful, but Arthur knows this part of the forest and he cuts
through a shortcut, pushing his way through the underbrush and gains on Anhora.

His feet slip on the icy, muddy ground but he doesn’t slow lest he lose the sorcerer in the woods.

He rounds the corner but the sorcerer is gone, instead, Evan, the peasant man from two nights
earlier is seated on the floor, leering up at Arthur.

“You.”

Evan is surrounded by piles of food, tomatoes, watermelon, carrots and oats. It's more food than
Arthur has seen in days. He’s eating an apple leisurely, lavishing every bite. He grins at Arthur as
his teeth sink into the crisp apple and Arthur’s stomach growls desperately.

“You’re a thief,” Arthur states the obvious. There’s a huge pile of grain just behind Evan. The
meagre bag Arthur allowed him to steal would have only accounted for a sixth of the sack at most.

Evan laughs coldly. “Wasn’t that obvious when you caught me stealing your grain?”

Arthur tamps down the flash of irritation that flares in his gut. He redirects his thoughts to Anhora.
His people need him.

“You’re lucky I have more important things I need to deal with,” Arthur mutters through gritted
teeth, walking away from Evan.

“You didn’t really believe that story about my children did you?” Evan calls after him, cruel
laughter sewn into his words.

Arthur stops, looking over his shoulder at the man.

“What kind of sick person lies about starving children to save his own skin?” He demands.
Camelot sits heavily in Arthur’s mind. When he and Merlin were leaving the city this morning, a
small girl had approached him; her gaunt face was twisted with grief and her hands were as thin as
bone and shaking as she held them out and begged desperately for food that Arthur was unable to
give her.

“You let a thief steal grain that your people so desperately need.” Evan tuts, shaking his head at
Arthur. “This is why they doubt you.” He chuckles cruelly.

Arthur ignores the prickle of fear that shoots through him.

“You don’t speak for my people,” he fires back. He feels like he’s trying to convince himself more
than Evan.

Once more Arthur moves to walk away and Evan continues to throw insults at his turned back.

“You know, your father would never have allowed himself to be fooled like that.”

The derision knocks Arthur off balance, causing a wave of dizzying insecurity to strike through his
body. He knew when he let Evan go that he was not acting as his father would. If Uther were to
know that Arthur spared a thief his wrath would be insurmountable. His father would not have
hesitated to have Evan executed, regardless of whether his plea about starving children was true.

“You would do well to hold your tongue,” he says in a clipped tone. “Or I will make time to teach
you some manners.”

Evan grins, as if what Arthur is saying is extraordinarily funny rather than a threat.

“Your father would have had me executed, but you didn’t have the stomach for it, did you,
Arthur?”

“I would have too if I didn’t care about the children of my kingdom.”

Evan tsks, shaking his head.

“Not your kingdom yet, now is it?” A stab of pain shoots from Arthur’s gut. “Lucky thing too. If
you can’t even uphold the law, your father has good reason to doubt that you’ll make a good king.”

Arthur freezes. His muscles grow tense and taut while his stomach clenches painfully. The
frustration he had been carefully suppressing roars to life, a furious fire that burns in his gut.

“You know nothing of what my father thinks,” he spits, glaring at Evan who continues to lounge
back against the stolen goods.

“I think he wishes he had another son,” Evan answers casually. He waves his hand flippantly, as if
he’s talking about nothing more consequential than the weather. His words make Arthur’s stomach
roll, filling him with dread that tugs sharply at his heartstrings. He desperately wants to tell Evan
that he’s wrong, but his mouth feels sewn shut. It’s growing impossible to battle the fear clawing at
his chest that what Evan is saying could be true, that Uther does wish he had another son.

“One who is worthy of taking his place,” Evan continues and Arthur’s anger erupts. “You bring
him shame.”

He exhales sharply, rage clouding his eyes and his mind as he storms towards the treasonous
peasant.

“Pick up your sword.”

Evan scoffs, slowly getting to his feet and brushing off his legs. He moves in a slow, leisurely
manner and is obviously untroubled by Arthur’s fury.

“The king must fear the day when you will take the throne.”

“Shut up!” Arthur roars, lunging forward with his sword. He slashes at Evan wildly; he lacks his
usual careful precision but makes up for the loss by driving his movements with pure unadulterated
rage.

Evan dances out of his grip, blocking his movements with ease and grinning at Arthur. He makes
Arthur’s blood boil, his hands shake, he’s infuriating in the worst possible ways.

Their duel is like a dance and they bound over the dirt floor in synchrony. Their blades ring out in
sharp bursts as they clash together, blocking and swiping at each other as their feet jump over roots
and stones.

“The king must wonder if you are even his son,” Evan laughs and Arthur yells as he strikes his
sword down, almost growling with frustration as the blade is blocked easily.

Arthur hacks wildly at Evan, blind with rage. His knuckles are white as he grips the hilt of his
sword, sweaty palms sticky against the metal hilt. He is frenzied with his anger, completely lost to
the red clouding his vision. Evan forces him into a weaker stance and Arthur parries his way out of
the position. He is barely aware of the duel, only the rushing of his blood in his ears and the way
his heart punches against his chest.

He drives Evan against a tree, barely stilling long enough to breathe before sending the next arch of
his sword towards the man. The smug look on Evan’s face slowly fades into fear as he is backed
into a corner.

Arthur plunges his sword forward, but where it should meet Evan’s body it passes through nothing.
He staggers forward, unprepared for the lack of resistance.

The peasant man is gone, vanished into thin air like a wisp of smoke. Arthur whirls around
searching frantically for an explanation and his eyes fall on Anhora who stands calmly across the
clearing, staring at him. If the sorcerer’s face had been disappointed when they first met, there
aren’t words to describe the displeasure in his eyes as he looks at Arthur today.

“This was your doing,” Arthur realises, storming towards Anhora menacingly.

Anhora doesn’t so much as blink, where others would quiver under Arthur’s threatening stance the
man is completely aloof.

“It was a test,” he explains with a monotonous and calm voice. “To see what was truly in your
heart.”

Arthur is still brimming with anger, so much so that he dismisses the doubt eating at his skin with a
scoff.

“No. Your tricks prove nothing.”

Anhora stares at Arthur, unperturbed.

“Why did you kill that man?” He asks, completely ignoring Arthur. Anger simmers in Arthur’s
blood, the frustration from his fight with Evan still leaving him breathless, chest heaving with
resentment and the aftershocks of adrenaline.
Arthur splutters. “He insulted my honour.”

He can’t stand still, fury hums under his skin, nervous energy that makes his entire body itch with
hives. He paces the forest floor, breaths coming out in short pants and heart colliding painfully
with his rib cage.

“You could have chosen to ignore his taunts,” Anhora raises the point impassively, without even
raising an eyebrow. “What harm would they do to you?”

The desire to scream builds in Arthur’s throat, bubbling like a cauldron left to boil. Anhora’s words
burn into his skin, blistering and scarring.

He thrashes them away, blind with anger.

“You will lift the curse,” Arthur orders, pointing his sword at the sorcerer’s jugular.

Anhora’s shoulders sag in a sigh.

“It is not in my power,” he answers placidly. Arthur is infuriated by his calm demeanour, it claws
and crawls under his skin, burrowing into his body like a parasite, stoking the raging fire of his
frustration.

“Then you will die,” Arthur decides. He plunges his sword, aiming for the sorcerer’s heart, flying
forward when he fails to make impact as the sorcerer disappears and reappears a foot away.

Anhora sighs heavily, treating Arthur like a disappointing small child who held such promise, and
failed to meet his purpose.

“Killing me will not help you,” he tells Arthur calmly, disappearing once more as Arthur swings
his sword; it meets nothing but air, slicing easily with no resistance. He falls to the floor with a
crash, landing heavily on his shoulder.

Arthur groans, rolling off his arm and ignores its dull throbbing as he twists his neck to see the
sorcerer.

Anhora looks down his nose at Arthur.

“You have failed the test.”

Arthur’s heart plummets. His anger tears away almost painfully, leaving him devastatingly empty,
a horrible twisting feeling swallowing him whole.

“No,” he gasps, choking on each inhale. “No please—”

Anhora doesn’t flinch.

“You have shown that you are willing to kill a man to defend your pride,” he states coldly,
ignoring Arthur’s desperation. “For this, Camelot will pay dearly.”

“My people have done nothing,” Arthur begs frantically, plea tearing from his throat painfully.
Tears spring to Arthur’s eyes, achingly vulnerable in the face of this impassive stranger. They sting
as he struggles to blink them away.

“Your people’s suffering is not my doing,” Anhora dismisses. “It is yours.”

With those final words he disappears, leaving Arthur lying in the dirt with his head hung and hot
tears burning his eyes.

~-~-~

Guilt festers in Arthur’s chest, a horrible sensation that chills him deep in his bones and the thin
lines of his veins.

The remaining grain in the store has completely rotted away, leaving no morsel behind. The
kingdom will starve and it’s all Arthur’s fault.

He should have realised he was being tested and protected his kingdom. Anhora was right, in one
stupid interaction he has proven what is truly in his heart. He would risk not only the life of one
man, but his entire kingdom, on the insults of one man.

Arthur has always wanted to be a good king, he wants to do the right thing for his people, protect
them, keep them safe. He isn’t even king yet and he is already letting them down. How can he be a
good king when he values himself over the lives of his people?

He drums his fingers against the stone table of the courtroom. His father summoned him, impatient
to discuss Camelot’s fleeting food supply. How he plans to address the issue, Arthur doesn’t know.

His head jerks up as Uther storms into the room, cape billowing in his wake and a stern clench in
his jaw.

“What news?” Uther demands, waving his hand, signalling for Arthur to speak.

“There are some supplies left in the palace stores. We have begun distributing them to the people,
but they’re meagre. They’re not enough to live on.” Arthur answers dutifully. He pushes down the
suffocating guilt sitting in the base of his throat. It is a continued pressure on his air supply, forcing
every breath that leaves his lungs to squeeze painfully, but he manages to speak around it.

Uther nods slowly, running a hand over his mouth and jaw, his brows creased deeply and leaving
chasms in his forehead. Arthur waits impatiently, fingers twitching by his side as he itches to hear
his father’s thoughts.

“Then you must stop distributing food to the people,” Uther says blankly, staring at the wall with a
distant look in his eyes.

Arthur only just manages to stop himself from gaping, confident he must have misheard his father.

“What?” He asks hollowly. “They will starve.”

Uther nods roughly. Arthur's grip on the table tightens until his knuckles are white with strain.

“We must conserve the food we have for our army,” Uther declares diplomatically, raising his chin
and staring directly into Arthur’s eyes, almost daring him to disagree.

Arthur wants to shrink under his stare, bow out of the conversation as he usually would. But he has
already let his people down so much. He can’t let them suffer any more at his hand. Especially not
due to his own cowardice in the face of his father.

“We cannot let out people go without food—” he tries to argue, but his father disregards him.

“We must protect the kingdom at all costs.”

Arthur only just manages to withhold a scoff.

“What’s the point of protecting a kingdom when its people have starved to death?” ”

Uther’s face wrinkles with contemptuous frustration. He waves a dismissive hand at Arthur. A
movement Arthur knows to mean Uther thinks Arthur’s opinion is invalid, as he does not yet
understand what it takes to be a king, even though it is the role he has been training for since his
birth.

“What would you have me do?” Uther offers the opportunity for Arthur to speak his mind, even
though Arthur knows he won’t listen to the answer.

“Ask the neighbouring kingdoms for help,” Arthur tries anyway knowing his suggestion will fall
on deaf ears.

Uther laughs callously.

“They might be able to provide some help,” Arthur continues to push.

“Out of the question,” Uther snaps. “As soon as they realise how weak we are our enemies will
strike against us.”

“You don’t know that for certain,” Arthur argues. “And it is a risk you are willing to take?” Uther
asks derisively, lip curling as he looks at Arthur. The king is intimidating, a power incomparable to
Arthur’s own. His forehead is flushed red and his eyes are burning with ridicule, entirely disgusted
with Arthur’s suggestion.

“It is a risk we have to take.”

His father growls, slamming a hand against the side of the throne and Arthur flinches away.

“I would rather starve than beg my enemies for help,” Uther snarls.

He looks at Arthur with contempt and disappointed derision, frustrated with Arthur’s stubbornness.
He knows his father is expecting him to cower beneath his stare and so he does his best to stand
tall, lifting his chin and holding his stare.

“What of our kingdom’s reputation? Have you no pride?” Uther demands.

Arthur stills. His heart races, and his chest heaves, and the world freezes around the point where he
and his father stand.

He can hear Anhora, staring at Arthur with disdain.

You have shown that you are willing to kill a man for your own pride.

Pride.

What good is pride anyway? He favoured his pride, protected it with all his worth and fought for it
as his father would have done; and all it brought Camelot was pain and suffering. What good does
strength do for a kingdom that has fallen and people who are unhappy and dying?

Arthur would rather be humiliated every day for as long as he lives than subject Camelot to any
more hardship. If he can protect his people, his pride should be his last concern.

He looks his father in the eye, strengthening his resolve and bracing himself for attack.

“I cannot think of my pride, whilst our people starve,” Arthur says solemnly.
Uther’s face grows livid, his cheeks flushing red with restraint as he struggles not to scream at
Arthur.

Arthur’s heart clamours in his chest as Uther stalks toward him. He stands his ground, clenching
his hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

“Give the order to stop distributing food to the people,” Uther commands coldly, his stare burning
into Arthur. Arthur’s throat goes dry, breaths coming out in short pants.

He says nothing and Uther’s expression darkens. The king is standing on the platform at the front
of the courtroom and its height allows him to look down his nose at Arthur.

“Is that understood?”

Arthur’s breath sticks in his throat and he swallows in an attempt to bring some moisture to his dry
mouth. He can’t inhale properly, the air enters shallowly into his lungs before puffing nervously
from his lips. His hands shake fiercely by his side. A long pause descends over them as Arthur
struggles to force his voice out.

“You’ll have to give that order yourself,” he says, quiet but firm, staring unshakably into the king’s
eyes.

He strides away, shoulders stiff and stomach curling unpleasantly.

“Very well,” Uther says to his turned back. “But if you had caught the sorcerer I wouldn’t have to.
That is your responsibility.”

His words are untrue but their meaning strikes Arthur like the lash of a whip. It is Arthur’s fault,
not his father’s, that Camelot is in this position.

He, and he alone, bears the responsibility of their suffering.

~-~-~

In all the time he has known Arthur, Merlin has never seen him so desolate.

He is concerned for the future as the two look down at the stretching queue of people who wait for
a meagre portion of grain. Gaius had served Merlin scorpion for lunch, and despite the physician's
insistence it would taste like chicken, it had tasted of nothing of the sort.

However his own concern is nothing compared to the hollow look in Arthur’s eyes. The prince is
perched against the stone railing, chin cupped in his hands and eyebrows furrowed low over his
blue eyes. His blond hair is messy, and Merlin observes a gaunt look under his eyes which has been
present since he failed Anhora’s test.

“Arthur, are you okay?” He asks cautiously. His fingers itch to reach out to Arthur, to seize his
elbow or squeeze his shoulder in reassurance. He folds them together to keep himself from the
desire.

Arthur ignores him, indicating towards the long line of people below them.

“They do not yet know there is worse to come,” he says with a voice that is empty and broken,
devastated by something Merlin does not yet understand.

Merlin frowns, turning towards Arthur properly.

“What do you mean?”

Arthur sighs, dropping his head forward into his hands and taking a slow breath. He turns to look
Merlin in the eyes, and Merlin is startled by the mournful depth.

“My father is going to stop distributing food to the people,” he explains quietly and meticulously
devoid of emotion. Despite his carefully guarded emotions, the sheen of tears in his eyes and the
way his fingers tremble against his chin reveals how devastated Arthur is by the news.

Merlin’s stomach sinks. The people have already endured days with barely enough food to survive,
to go without food at all is unthinkable.

Arthur voices what Merlin doesn’t even dare to think.

“They are to be left to starve.”

Merlin watches with a heavy heart as Arthur turns back to the courtyard wearing a sombre
expression.

“I had the chance to lift the curse, and I failed them,” he says bitterly, frustration turning his words
sour; they ring with self hatred, so filled with disgust it makes Merlin’s heart tug.

“You didn’t know you were being tested,” he tries to convince him.

Arthur doesn’t roll his eyes but it’s a near thing.

“I should have done the right thing,” he shuts Merlin down.

Arthur doesn’t look at Merlin as he speaks but Merlin feels his heavy gaze against his skin like a
brand.

“My people are starving. Camelot—” Arthur’s voice hitches and Merlin watches him swallow the
stinging weight of tears. “—My kingdom is on the verge of collapse… and it is all my fault.”

“Arthur—” he says softly, trailing off when he realises he doesn’t know what to say. Merlin aches
to reassure him, to tell him it isn’t his fault, but he can’t make empty promises which will only
injure the prince. He won’t lie to Arthur unless he has to. To lie to him now would only be an
injustice to them both.

Without a word Arthur turns and walks away and Merlin watches him leave.

There is only one thing he can do to help.

~-~-~

“Anhora!”

Merlin’s voice echoes through the forest, he listens for a sign of the sorcerer as his words reach the
very tops of the trees.

“Anhora!” He shouts again, scanning the forest frantically. There is no sign of the white cape of
the sorcerer, nor his coiled staff. Merlin’s heart begins its slow descent into his gut, and his
stomach twists. He isn’t coming.

As Merlin turns to leave, Anhora's deep voice disturbs the silence of the forest.
“You wanted to speak with me,” he states simply.

Merlin whirls around to face him.

“I came to seek your help,” Merlin says, rushing forward to Anhora’s feet, looking up at the
sorcerer from where he stands on a raised mound of dirt.

“I will hear you, but I cannot guarantee my help,” Anhora permits, waving his hand for Merlin to
speak.

“Please. The people are starving, they will soon be dead. We need food,” Merlin explains,
wringing his hands in front of him.

Anhora sighs, running a hand soothingly along the worn wood of his staff.

“You must believe me when I tell you, it gives me no pleasure to see the people of Camelot
suffering.”

Merlin’s hands flap in the air as he loses his last piece of restraint.

“If it pains you then put an end to it,” he begs, barely keeping himself from dropping to his knees
in desperation.

Anhora’s frown deepens with a heavy crease between his brows and around his mouth. He seems
both disappointed and regretful, it is the saddened expression of someone whose hands are tied but
still longs to help.

“It is not within my power to end the curse, if it were I would do so.”

Merlin stands his ground even though his hands tremble with nerves. He thinks of the emptiness in
Arthur’s eyes and the line of starving people at Camelot’s gates who will soon be turned away.

“Then give Arthur another chance,” he urges. “He has accepted he is responsible , he will prove
himself worthy, and lift the curse. You just have to give him one more chance.”

Merlin can see the contemplation enter Anhora’s deep silver eyes and he coaxes him just that bit
further.

“I know he will.”

“You have faith in Arthur?” Anhora asks thoughtfully, his weathered knuckles curl protectively
around his staff.

Merlin stands tall. He sees Arthur in his mind’s eye, magnificent, wonderful, Arthur. The ignorant,
pig headed prat, who has never once willingly shown his weaknesses to Merlin before today. The
prince who was only truly broken by the thought that his people would suffer, knowing that he
doomed them to their fate. Merlin knows that deep to his core he is a good person, a great person
even, who would one day make a great king. He just needs another chance to show Anhora that.

“I trust him with my life.”

Anhora nods slowly, a thoughtful look spreading across his old face. He purses his lips and looks
at Merlin, his silver eyes seem to be staring into Merlin’s very soul.

“Arthur must go to the Labyrinth of Gedref, there he will face his final test,” he instructs, speaking
slowly and eloquently to ensure Merlin does not miss a word.
“If he fails, there is no hope. Camelot will be destroyed. There is nothing I can do to stop it.”

~-~-~

Merlin follows Arthur towards the Labyrinth of Gedref, keeping a few paces behind and careful to
stay out of Arthur’s sight. The git is stupid if he truly thought Merlin would obey him when he
forbade him from coming. As if Merlin was going to let Arthur walk into danger alone; especially
when Merlin knows Arthur would willingly die to save Camelot.

Luckily for Merlin, Arthur is so swept up in his journey to the Labyrinth he doesn’t even notice
Merlin following him. For now he is grateful, but Merlin resolves to have a conversation with
Arthur later about the importance of being aware of his surroundings. Especially when one is the
crown prince and sole heir of the throne.

The labyrinth sprawls over the span of the hillside, an enormous mass that looms over them.
Merlin loses sight of Arthur as soon as he steps into the maze. The hedges appear to swallow him
whole, and no matter how much Merlin attempts to carefully follow his footsteps, or listen for
sounds of him, Merlin can’t find a sign of Arthur.

The foliage encompasses him from every side, a claustrophobic winding path that seemingly
continues on forever. Merlin’s breaths start to quicken as he turns identical corners and wanders
down indistinguishable corridors. With every twist in the path he feels that he’s only moving
further away from Arthur. There is no sound but his own footsteps squelching against the muddy
path and his heartbeat pumping in his ears.

He rounds a corner and is met with Anhora who is waiting with a sword drawn and a dark
expression in his eyes.

“You said Arthur would face a test, and here you are preparing a trap for him,” Merlin accuses,
unable to keep the vitriol from his voice.

Anhora raises his eyebrows, the closest he has ever come to looking surprised.

“The trap is not for Arthur,” Anhora replies cooly, pointing the sword at Merlin’s jugular. Merlin’s
breath catches in his throat. “It is for you.”

Merlin braces for the sword’s fatal blow but it doesn’t come, instead Anhora chants an incantation.
The spell runs up the metal of the sword and transforms into vines that wrap tightly around
Merlin’s flailing limbs.

He struggles against the twisting coils, desperately trying to escape their hold but they dig into his
arms and legs firmly. Merlin can feel them cut into the flesh of his skin, leaving harsh, raw gashes
in their wake as they loop tighter. He’s left standing like a knight prepared for battle.

“Come now,” Anhora beckons, putting up a hand to stop Merlin as he continues to fight the hold of
the vines. “Arthur will be arriving soon.”

~-~-~

Merlin sags with relief when Arthur finally emerges from the great mouth of the labyrinth, sword
drawn in anxious preparation and eyes scanning the scene for danger.

Merlin is seated at a wooden table against the shore of a beach. Whenever a particularly strong
wave careens into the shore, droplets splash onto Merlin’s ankles and shins. From where they are
seated, the water appears to continue forever, stretching endlessly until it seizes the horizon. There
is nothing particular of note, even the table is bare, but for two goblets of white wine.

He watches as Arthur takes it all in. The goblets, the table, Merlin. He can see the moment Arthur’s
eyes fall on him, because they widen with disbelief and then narrow in frustration.

“Merlin?” He says incredulously, making his way over the rocky beach towards him.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin blurts out immediately.

Arthur stands still, taking in Merlin’s nervous disposition, hands tucked under his thighs as his eyes
dart nervously to where Anhora observes the entire interaction.

“Let him go,” Arthur demands, straightening his spine. “I’ll take your test, but not until he is
released.”

Merlin’s heart skips with fondness as Arthur positions himself so he’s standing protectively in front
of Merlin, partially shielding him from Anhora’s sight.

Anhora shakes his head serenely.

“That is not possible. Merlin is part of the test.”

Arthur turns back to look at Merlin, and he can see the hesitation in his blue eyes. Arthur’s feet
stay planted on the rocks and his eyes flicker with indecision. Merlin tries to wordlessly reassure
Arthur even as his insides curl and knot into themselves with anxiety. It’s impossible to convey
with eyes alone that Merlin would rather stay in this dangerous position than leave Arthur alone.
He would suffer any consequence if it meant keeping Arthur safe.

“If you refuse the test you will have failed, and Camelot will be destroyed,” Anhora presses.

Arthur’s face screws up with indecision but he makes his way to the other end of the table, seating
himself opposite Merlin. The two goblets wait menacingly on the table before them, a physical
presence of their own.

“I thought I told you to stay at home,” he says, looking at Merlin with frustration that poorly masks
his concern.

Merlin ducks his head away from Arthur’s irritated stare even as something warm and affectionate
sets off in his chest. He didn’t realise Arthur cared about what happened to him. It’s odd really, to
think how far they’ve come in the short six months they’ve known each other. If someone had
suggested to Merlin that Arthur might be concerned for his well being back then he probably
would have laughed in their face.

“Alright, let’s get on with it,” Arthur snaps. His tone is rude and demanding but Merlin sees the
fear clouding his eyes. He’s anxious, and desperate for the test to be completed.

Anhora doesn’t falter, staring appraisingly at the two of them.

“The test is simple,” he says clearly. “There are two goblets before you. One of the goblets
contains a deadly poison. The other goblet, merely harmless wine. All of the liquid from both
goblets must be drunk, but each of you may only drink from one goblet.”

Merlin’s eyes jump to Arthur. His face is screwed up in either confusion or disgust, his nose is
wrinkled and his eyebrows are furrowed.
“What kind of ridiculous test is that?” Arthur demands, looking at Anhora with a scornful
expression. “What does that prove?” Anhora frowns. “What it proves is for you to decide.
However, should you pass the test, the curse will be lifted.”

Arthur’s disdain slips away to reveal a more vulnerable fear concealed underneath. Merlin watches
his emotive eyes flick from Merlin, to the goblets, to Anhora, before repeating the cycle once
again. It’s like he can’t settle on a place to focus, every movement is dictated by indecision.

A heavy silence settles over them as they both look at the goblets. Merlin’s mind turns over the
riddle. There are only four elements really, the two goblets, himself and Arthur. The answer is
simple; he cannot let Arthur die, so it has to be him who drinks the poison. He just has to ensure he
drinks from the right goblet.

“Let’s think about this,” Merlin breaks the silence. “What if I drink from my goblet first?”

Arthur’s frown deepens, when he’s upset with something his eyebrows crease in the middle, right
above the bump in his nose. It’s upsettingly becoming.

“If it’s poisoned you’ll die,” he dismisses Merlin’s proposal with a scoff.

“And if it’s not, you’ll have to drink from yours and you’ll die,” Merlin retorts.

Merlin drums his fingers anxiously against the surface of the table. The goblets suddenly seem
much larger, they seem to loom like menacing beasts over the two young men.

“There must be a way around it,” he mumbles, thinking out loud.

“No it’s perfectly simple like he said,” Arthur argues. “One of us has to die.”

“Thank you, your royal obviousness,” Merlin mutters sarcastically.

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“What I mean is the challenge is working out which one has the poison,” he explains, articulating
the question Merlin is mulling over in his mind.

“Then I will drink it,” Arthur says calmly.

Merlin’s eyes snap up from the goblets to meet Arthur’s. His heart squeezes, causing a sharp burst
of pain to strike through him. He’s horrified Arthur would even think to suggest such a thing. To
Merlin there was never any doubt that he would drink the poison, it was only about ensuring that
could happen.

“Absolutely not,” he says sharply. “I will be the one to drink it.”

Arthur glares back at Merlin, meeting his insistence with equal force and stubbornness.

“This is my doing. I’m drinking it.”

Merlin’s heart begins to pound in his chest like a drum. A world without Arthur is unthinkable.

“It’s more important that you live,” he argues, gritting his teeth until his jaw aches. “You’re the
future king, I’m just a servant.”

Arthur doesn’t budge, his headstrong gaze is as steely and determined as it was before Merlin
spoke; if anything his resolve strengthens with Merlin’s words.
“This is no time to be a hero, Merlin. It really doesn’t suit you.”

“This is no time to be an arse, but here you are,” Merlin quips back, words saturated with
frustration.

Arthur just smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. They stay firmly on the two goblets in the
centre of the table. Merlin follows his gaze with a heavy frown.

He can’t let Arthur die, that is the only thing he knows for certain. No matter what they do, nor
what Arthur wants. Merlin must drink the poison.

“What if… I drink from the first goblet, and if it isn’t poisoned I’ll drink from yours too?” Merlin
suggests hopelessly.

Arthur shakes his head.

“I will be drinking the poison,” he vows stubbornly with a pout.

“Besides.” Arthur’s eyes flick over to where Anhora is watching them passively. “He said we
could each only drink from a single goblet.”

Merlin sighs, running distressed hands over his face and rubbing at the beginnings of a headache in
his temples. He can feel Arthur’s eyes on him, watching his every anxious movement with an
intrigued expression.

“I had no idea you were so keen to die for me,” he teases. His foot bumps against Merlin’s under
the table fondly and Merlin’s pulse stutters.

I would do anything for you Merlin thinks fiercely, looking at Arthur.

He’s silhouetted against the bright blue sky and a halo of light is spanning from his golden hair. He
is bright and gorgeous, casting light over the beach even with his taunting smile and anxiety filled
eyes.

Destiny be damned, Merlin can’t let Arthur die, simply because he cares about him.

“Trust me, I can hardly believe it myself,” he jokes in return, carefully placing his feelings in his
chest and holding them close.

Arthur chuckles, letting his head drop forward. Merlin sees the normal warmth return to his eyes
for a moment before apprehension resettles as he looks at the goblets once more.

“I—” Arthur’s eyebrows knit in frustration as he struggles with the words and his fingers wrap
tightly around the edges of the table.

“I’m glad you’re here Merlin,” he says eventually. He looks into Merlin’s eyes and Merlin can see
the sincerity that lies there. “Despite—” Arthur vaguely gestures at the situation they’re in.

Merlin’s chest warms. He knows Arthur can’t say it. That he would have hated to face this test
alone, even though he ordered Merlin not to come. He’s grateful that Merlin didn’t listen. He’s
grateful for Merlin.

It’s not the same as how Merlin feels for him, it doesn’t even come close, but it’s nice to know that
Arthur wants him there.

He looks at the goblets and the answer finally becomes clear.

“I’ve got it!” Merlin exclaims, grinning wildly at Arthur with eyes that sparkle in exhilaration. He
leans over the table in his eagerness, a confident buzz making his movements large and
uncontrollable.

“If we pour all the liquid into one goblet, we will be sure it is poisoned. Then all the liquid can be
drunk and it will be from a single goblet.”

Merlin sits back with a proud smile, feeling rather impressed with himself for thinking of the
solution. The pleased feeling grows as he watches the realisation dawn like the rising sun over
Arthur’s face. A slow smile stretches over his pink lips and his eyes glimmer with amazement. The
genuine awe in his eyes makes Merlin’s heart skip with elation and he has to duck his head to hide
his flushed cheeks.

“You never cease to surprise me,” Arthur praises with a warm awestruck lilt to his voice that
makes Merlin’s body tingle. “You’re a lot smarter than you look.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow with a smirk, choosing to ignore the backhandedness of his remark.

“Is that actually a proper compliment?”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Arthur grins.

“Of course not, Sire,” Merlin answers with a cheeky smile.

Arthur’s grin fades into a soft smile as his eyes glance over Merlin slowly, taking him in almost
like a final goodbye.

“Arthur?” Merlin prods carefully.

“Look out!” Arthur shouts, pointing over Merlin’s shoulder.

Merlin whips around, hand flying out, ready to protect them; but he sees nothing but blue sky and
glistening water. He turns back to Arthur as the clunk of goblets reveal the prince’s plan.

“No!” Merlin shouts. He reaches out a hand for the goblet as Arthur pours the liquid into the one
cup and tucks it close to his heart.

“I will drink it,” Merlin insists.

Arthur slaps his hand away.

“As if I’d let you,” he says, his stubbornness is equally infuriating and charming. Merlin wants to
punch him, and kiss him, and wishes he could hate him rather than feel so unbearably fond.

Merlin’s heart is racing, pounding a frantic beat in his chest that echoes into his ears. His breaths
come out in short sharp bursts. Anxious energy making him dizzy. He can’t think past the
knowledge that he has to stop this. His thoughts are swamped by terror that looms over his head
and threatens to swallow him whole.

“Arthur, you can’t die,” Merlin persists. “This isn’t your destiny.”

“Seems you’re wrong again, Merlin.”

Arthur doesn’t waver, blue eyes shining with fear and strength all at once.

He’s beautiful in a staggering way that makes Merlin’s heart ache.

“Please Arthur. Listen to me—”

Arthur offers Merlin an indulgent smile.

“You know me Merlin, I never listen to you,” he says, his voice trembles but his words remain
firm.

“Arthur—” Merlin tries to protest but Arthur halts him from continuing by toasting the goblet and
tipping it down his throat.

Merlin’s heart plummets. The world slows as Arthur’s eyes droop, eyelids sinking under a heavy
weight as his pupils lose focus; everything grows muffled except for the ceasing of Arthur’s
breath.

“No!” Merlin screams, the word tearing from his throat as Arthur topples backwards. He launches
from his stool, rushing to Arthur’s side. His knees crash painfully into the rocky shore, his hands
flutter over Arthur, touching his breastplate, his chainmail, his jaw.

“Arthur, come on, don’t do this,” Merlin murmurs. His heart races anxiously in his chest.

“Arthur, Arthur please,” Merlin repeats Arthur’s name frantically. His hands won’t still, they jump
over Arthur’s body in a desperate need to do something. Merlin cups Arthur’s cheeks, presses his
palms to his still chest. He chokes when he feels nothing under his touch, no heartbeat, no gentle
breath, Arthur is stagnant.

Arthur doesn’t move. His lips are parted, his limbs are heavy and unresponsive.

Merlin’s hands shudder, he can’t breathe. He can’t lose him. He can’t lose someone else, not now,
not again. Never. He can never lose Arthur.

“No, Arthur,” Merlin gasps, his words feel like thorns that latch onto the column of his throat.

His chest aches, it feels like he’s suffocating; the air around him does nothing to fill his lungs as
every breath catches on the tears in his throat. Merlin shivers as he moves closer to Arthur. His
fingers cup gently around Arthur’s jaw and tenderly strokes the lines of Arthur’s cheekbones with
his thumbs.

It feels like his body is closing on itself, crumbling inwards to protect him but simultaneously
leaving him crushed and claustrophobic.

Merlin can feel Anhora’s eyes watching him, passively observing from a few feet away. Like he’s
treating Merlin’s grief as a spectacle, a performance for his entertainment.

“Please,” Merlin begs, his voice scratched and raw. “Please.”

He looks down at Arthur, who lies peacefully in his arms, his eyelashes fanning out against his
pale cheeks and his mouth parted. Merlin would do anything for this idiot, anything at all. It
should be a terrifying thought but it isn’t. Not with Arthur here, unresponsive under Merlin’s gentle
hands.

“Just, let me take his place,” he pleads, looking with frenzied eyes at Anhora.

Anhora doesn’t move, his expression doesn’t twitch or shift to indicate what the keeper of the
unicorns is thinking.
“This was Arthur’s test,” he replies plainly. “Not yours.”

Merlin’s heart convulses painfully, tugging sharply at his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, breath
catching on the thick lump of tears in his throat.

“You don’t understand,” he says hoarsely. “You’ve killed him. I was—” he breaks off with a gasp.

Merlin strokes his thumb along the soft skin under Arthur’s eye gingerly. Something twists
painfully in his chest, like a shard of glass has been embedded into his lungs.

“I was meant to protect him,” he whispers.

“He isn’t dead,” Anhora says serenely.

Merlin’s head swims with confusion even as his breaths ease. The thick cloud of fear in his mind
makes his thoughts slow and muddled, like they’re wading through thick treacle in order to get to
his mind.

“What?” He manages to croak.

Anhora folds his fingers around his staff and stares evenly at Merlin.

“He has merely consumed a sleeping draught, he will awaken shortly.”

“What?” Merlin echoes. The realisation slips over him slowly, and then collides with his body all
at once. His head drops forward with a gasp of relief, shoulders trembling as the aftershocks wear
from his body.

“A unicorn is pure of heart,” Anhora explains. “If you kill one you must make amends by proving
that you too, are pure of heart. Arthur was willing to sacrifice his life to save yours, he has proven
what is truly in his heart.”

Merlin looks down at Arthur, a fond smile pulling at his lips.

“And the curse?” Merlin asks.

“The curse will be lifted.”

~-~-~

Camelot is flourishing when they return.

The city is a bright whirlwind of colour and energy, nothing like the desolate and hunger struck
city that they left for the labyrinth. Farmers and peasants bustle from the citadel’s walls with
baskets of bread and grain, both food and smiles are easy to come by. Every person seems to be
imbued by a sense of sweet relief, laughing and chattering with vigour, like they’re making up for
days of inactivity and exhaustion. Merlin’s stomach grumbles loudly as a platter of laden food
passes his nose. It's been days since he had a good meal and just the sight of it makes his mouth
water.

Merlin watches with a fond smile as the tension in Arthur’s shoulders unwinds as they venture
deeper into the city. The burden of Camelot’s suffering has been eased off his shoulders. The
anxiety that has lingered in his eyes for days slowly fades into comfort and twinkling joy.

“Arthur! Merlin!” Gwen shouts, she races towards them with a brilliant smile and throws her arms
around Merlin, squeezing him tightly. “Oh it’s wonderful.”
“What is?” Merlin asks, hugging her back and grinning into her shoulder.

She pulls away and bobs a short curtsey to Arthur who smiles in return. Merlin can’t help but
wonder if he would appreciate a hug too.

“The crops are growing again and they’re bringing in the harvest!” She grins, barely able to stand
still. “And a supply of food was found just outside of town.”

She points to someone walking past with a heaving pile of tomatoes in a crate.

“I’m glad,” Arthur says genuinely. He seems unable to contain the brilliant smile lighting up his
face, and it makes him seem more welcoming and compassionate than usual.

Gwen beams back at him and skips over to Morgana a few paces away.

Merlin leans close to Arthur’s side, nudging him with his elbow affectionately.

“You did it,” he says softly.

Arthur smirks, elbowing Merlin back.

“Careful Merlin, or I’d almost think you’re proud of me.”

“Me?” Merlin gasps with feigned offence. “Never.”

Uther greets them at the gates with a pleased smile. It’s so out of character to see him cheerful that
Merlin almost considers he could have been enchanted.

“Is this your doing?” He asks Arthur as he strides towards them.

“Yes, Father,” Arthur answers, coming to a stop a respectable distance from the king and holding
his hands stiffly by his sides.

“The sorcerer is dead?”

Merlin stands a pace behind Arthur, watching his side profile carefully. He observes Arthur’s
twisted mouth and pinched eyes, so inscrutable it’s almost difficult to see the shifts in his
expression. When Merlin looks carefully though he can see the hesitation there, just before Arthur
gives a slight nod.

“He won’t be troubling us anymore,” he answers carefully.

Uther’s smile grows.

“Good,” he praises.

He leans forward and clasps Arthur’s shoulder tightly.

Merlin watches as Arthur looks down in surprise at his father’s display of affection, a private smile
graces his lips even though he looks somewhat lost; like he doesn’t know how to respond. It’s so
staggeringly different to Merlin’s own family; Hunith is so forthcoming with her affection,
showering Merlin with hugs and kisses, never allowing him to doubt for a moment the expanse of
her love for him. Merlin can’t even imagine having a parent like Uther. Since Merlin arrived in
Camelot this is the most warmth Merlin has seen Uther show his son.

“Make sure the grain reserves are restocked,” Uther instructs, wide smile still on his face. He claps
Arthur on the arm once more and marches away.

Arthur watches him go with a dazed expression and Merlin waits patiently. He feels no need to pull
Arthur out of his reverie, he’s content to just watch him. When Arthur is unabashedly happy, when
he doesn’t feel the need to conceal his joy, his shoulders tilt downwards, widening his stance
appealingly. His lips are soft and parted in an easy smile, distracted by the uncommon display of
affection that he forgets to be guarded.

The distracted demeanour only lasts ten seconds at most, and then Arthur shakes his head and tips
his head, gesturing for Merlin to follow.

“Come on, there’s something we need to do first.”

~-~-~

Arthur’s heart is heavy as he lowers the unicorn’s luminescent horn into the grave he and Merlin
dug. Their fingernails are caked with dirt and their hands are scraped from tugging loose rocks out
of the path, but the horn is clean and well preserved. Despite the joy he felt when he entered
Camelot and was able to see his people thriving once again, his heart is still heavy with sadness for
the creature he killed.

“I never should have ended your life,” he says quietly, laying the pads of his fingers on the horn.
“I’m sorry.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t spoken since they left the castle with the horn in hand, only
offering Arthur a smile of pride when he realised what they were about to do. Making Merlin
happy shouldn’t bear so much significance, but a small part of Arthur is relieved to have pleased
him. He knows Merlin was upset with him after he killed the unicorn. It’s reassuring to see the soft
smile on his face again. Not that it matters what Merlin thinks of course.

Arthur is still troubled by the whole experience. He doesn’t know what to make of the fact that
Anhora spared him. It doesn’t align with anything his father has told him of sorcery.

If sorcerers were anything like his father said they were, then there was no explanation for
Arthur’s encounters with enchantments. Will had been a kind young man, and a friend of Merlin’s,
and he had died to save Arthur. The ball of light that had protected Arthur in the caves of Baloch
had been warm and affectionate. Anhora had continuously led Arthur to a better version of himself,
had spared him when he proved himself.

It had not been sorcery that doomed Camelot these past two weeks, but Arthur. His thoughts are
like pieces of string, crossing over one and another and getting confused and tangled in a way he
couldn't hope to unravel.

“Arthur,” Merlin prompts his attention, breaking his temporary silence.

Merlin doesn’t meet his eyes, instead looking over Arthur’s shoulder towards the clearing past the
trees. Arthur follows his gaze and sees a unicorn standing proudly in the forest.

When Arthur killed it the first time he failed to stop and appreciate its beauty; he now recognises
his mistake. It’s breathtaking. The majestic creature is more beautiful than anything Arthur has
ever seen. It stands in the clearing, lifting its head regally towards the sky, practically glowing in
the evening light. Arthur might one day be the king of Camelot, but this creature has sovereignty
over the forest and the essence of nature itself.

“When he who kills a unicorn proves himself to be pure of heart, the unicorn will live again,”
 Merlin says breathlessly, repeating a quote he has heard before.

The unicorn turns to Arthur. As he looks into its dark eyes he feels the churning guilt that once sat
heavily in his stomach dissolve. He and this creature are one, now and forever. It turns and walks
away.

Chapter End Notes

until very recently this chapter held the title for the longest chapter in the whole fic,
and honestly im not entirely sure how or why, but it deserves some sort of
commandment for that

i hope everyone is excited for chapter 9 on the 23rd of october !!

let me know what your favourite part of this chapter was !! i adore reading your
comments
 To Kill the King
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Merlin wakes to a sharp ringing in his ears.

It’s an unsettling sound, like the sudden onset of quiet after leaving a crowded tavern. He can’t
hear anything else, the world is muffled under the sharp trill. As he moves it echoes throughout his
ear canals, as if the sound is resonating from inside him. There is no doubt that the sound is caused
by magic. The enchantment is so powerful he can taste the earthy texture of it, like his tongue is
coated in soil, the mud seeping into his taste buds.

Merlin rubs the sleep from his eyes, letting out a low groan as the sound scratches its nails down
his spine. He drops his head forward onto his knees. The dregs of sleep cling to his skin like fog
but as the ringing fades into a dull throb he knows he won’t be sleeping any more tonight.

His knees crick as he drops his legs over the edge of the bed and trundles blearily down the stairs
into the main chambers. His bare feet meet the cold of the stone floor, matching the odd chilling
sensation that the ringing left in Merlin’s bones. Gaius peers at him over the thin rim of his circular
glasses.

“Can’t sleep?”

Merlin shakes his head. “I was asleep, but something woke me… a bad feeling.”

Gaius frowns. “What kind of feeling?”

“Powerful magic, here, in Camelot.”

That catches Gaius’ attention; he puts down his quill and turns his body towards Merlin.

“You could sense it?”

Merlin nods. “It was like a ringing sound but it was under my skin… I can’t really explain it,” he
tries to find the words, twisting his fingers together.

As Gaius listens his eyebrow is steadily climbing towards his hairline.

“Is the royal family in danger?”

Merlin shrugs weakly. He swallows the urge to sprint towards Arthur’s chambers; Arthur can
handle himself, and bursting into the prince’s bedroom while he’s sleeping would only raise
questions Merlin can’t answer.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, which does little to quell the anxious look on Gaius’ face. “I
just know whatever magic I felt was strong. Very strong.”

He’s interrupted by the door slamming open with a crash. Gwen flies in with her red cape billowing
behind her.

“Gaius! Merlin! My father has been arrested,” she cries, clutching at Merlin’s elbow. The terrible
feeling grows like an infection, twisting around Merlin’s organs and clenching in Merlin’s
stomach.
“Arrested? For what?”

Gwen’s eyes well with tears, and Merlin can feel her trembling as he pulls her into a hug, moving
to rub her back soothingly.

“They say he was making weapons for a sorcerer, but he wouldn’t! I know he wouldn’t.” She pulls
back from Merlin’s hold to look him imploringly in the eyes.

Merlin strokes his thumb back and forth across her shoulders in an attempt to reassure her.

“Of course he wouldn’t,” he agrees easily.

It isn’t a lie to ease her concerns. Tom is one of the sweetest souls Merlin has ever met, he exudes
kindness and would never do anything that could hurt the people of Camelot. He shows great pride
for the kingdom and he loves his daughter more than anything in the world. A danger to Camelot
poses a danger to Gwen, and Merlin knows Tom would never risk that.

“They’re charging him with treason,” Gwen looks to Gaius with a wild and deeply concerned glint
in her dark eyes.

“Treason?” Merlin repeats incredulously.

Gaius frowns deeply, the wrinkles in his forehead creasing with concern.

“Treason is a serious charge if he’s only been suspected to be consorting with a sorcerer…” he
muses, scratching thoughtfully at his chin.

Gwen watches him think, Merlin can feel her constant anxiety as she shifts in his arms. He starts to
imagine what it would be like in Gwen’s position, if his own mother were sentenced with treason.
He quickly halts that line of thought. The idea of anything happening to Hunith is unbearable, too
horrible for Merlin to even consider it.

“He must have been dealing with something much bigger than merely sorcery,” Gaius says slowly,
still turning thoughts over in his mind. “Do you know who the sorcerer was?”

Gwen nods shakily.

“I think they said his name was... Tauren,” she says, looking between Merlin and Gaius for
recognition.

They both pale. Merlin has heard the name Tauren on Arthur’s lips more times than he would dare
count. He leads a band of renegade sorcerers who have sworn to assassinate the King. Their forces
have threatened Camelot before and Arthur, along with the other knights of Camelot have done
everything they can to keep them at bay. However Sir Leon had confided to Merlin that only a few
days ago they lost track of them.

To hear that they have infiltrated Camelot is enough to turn Merlin’s blood cold.

“You know of him?” Gwen asks, the concern in her eyes growing.

It isn’t a surprise to Merlin that news of Tauren hasn’t reached Gwen. Morgana has essentially
refused to hear news of sorcerers ever since Mordred’s time in Camelot. Gaius nods. “Quite well,
I’m afraid. If the King suspects your father of conspiring with Tauren...”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, instead looking worriedly at Gwen as she shudders, eyes so
big she looks like a frightened owl.

“We must speak to Tom at once,” Gaius says decisively, ushering the two young adults from the
room.

~-~-~

“Gwen!” Her father sits up straight the moment he lays his eyes on her. He hurries across the cell
to meet her at the barred door.

Even though it’s a relief to see her father, Gwen’s heart clenches at the sight of him in this position.
He means the world to her, she loves him with all her heart. The person she is comes from what he
has taught her, the kindness she holds is a gift from him. The last thing he deserves is an accusation
of treason, she knows him better than that, he would never defy the king.

“Father, are you alright?” She frets, reaching through the bars. He takes her hand and she struggles
not to shiver as his icy cold fingers touch hers.

Her father smiles warmly at her.

“Yes Gwen of course,” he answers, squeezing her fingers lovingly. She knows he’s lying, his
situation is perilous and he must be terrified; but her father has never allowed himself to cower
when he could bring a smile to her face, and he won’t start now.

Something painful slashes through Gwen’s heart, like a cold knife is carving sharp slices over her
chest. She loves her father so much, and she can’t help but feel like they are standing on the edge
of a cliff, and her father is preparing to fall.

Gaius and Merlin shuffle behind her, they’re not rushing her and she feels a rush of gratitude at
their sympathy, but she knows that they’re both anxious to resolve the situation.

“Why were you helping Tauren? He’s a sorcerer, it’s so dangerous.”

Tom shakes his head roughly.

“I didn’t know Tauren was a sorcerer, I meant no harm, I swear.”

He runs his calloused and worn thumbs over the back of her knuckles gently, with care, like she’s
something that requires delicate and wholehearted attention.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” She asks, voice shaking. Her nerves are a living thing within her,
chewing and clawing at her bones.

Her father sighs. “I knew you wouldn’t like it Gwen, you’re cautious.”

“I am cautious for a good reason,” she defends herself weakly, gesturing to the cell her father is
contained in.

Her father offers her a wan smile.

“Yes, I should have told you but… I didn’t want to let an opportunity pass…”

Gwen’s breath hitches, tears springing to her eyes.

“Opportunity?” She echoes incredulously. “You call this an opportunity?”

“I know,” her father sighs, squeezing her fingers as they wrap tighter around his. “I’ve been a
fool.”

“I just wanted to make a better life for us… for you,” Tom confesses, he reaches through the bars
as far as his hand will allow and grazes his knuckles fondly against her chin. “I wanted you to be
happy.” Gwen makes a choked noise as she attempts to swallow down a sob that builds in her
throat.

“But I am happy,” she says wetly, leaning her forehead against the cool metal bars to bring herself
as close to her father as possible. “I don’t need anything else, I have everything I could ever want.”

Her father’s face screws up with pain, fat tears dripping down his brown cheeks as his eyes dart
away from hers.

“And I’ve thrown it all away,” he says mournfully.

Gwen shakes her head, wrapping her hands around his and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“No, it’s going to be alright,” she assures him. “We will get you out of here, I promise.”

Tom’s eyes are heavy with disbelief, he attempts a weak smile but instead of the usual bright joy
that beams from his face he simply looks lacklustre.

“I need you to tell me everything that Tauren told you,” Gwen says. She listens patiently as her
father explains, sparing no detail in his description. She relays what he told her to Merlin and
Gaius, explaining that Tauren hadn’t wanted weapons from her father but access to the forge. He
wanted to use it for some sort of experiment, but he didn’t tell her father what it was.

“He said he used some kind of stone… some kind of magic,” Gwen hisses the word, terrified and
all too aware of the eyes of the guards stationed in the corridors.

~-~-~

Merlin has been turning the same question over in his mind since Gwen returned from the
dungeon, yet feels no nearer to an answer. He waits until Gwen is fast asleep in his bed before
raising his concerns with Gaius.

“I don’t understand it,” Merlin says when Gaius makes his way over. “What would a sorcerer want
to do with Tom?”

Gaius doesn’t hesitate for a moment.

“His forge, Merlin,” he answers confidently. “It’s the finest in the kingdom.”

That would mean Tom was forging weapons for Tauren.

“You think Tom was lying?”

“No I don’t.” Gaius shakes his head, and beckons Merlin towards his bookcase with a crooked
finger.

He pulls out a heavy book and rifles through its pages in search of something.

“When Tom was arrested the guards found him in possession of gold,” Gaius explains. “And based
on Gwen’s description, Tauren’s experiment bears all the signs of alchemy.”
Merlin frowns, confusing stewing in his gut as he listens.

“But alchemy is impossible, isn’t it?”

Gaius hums his assent. “To change the very nature of one thing to another has defeated all who
have tried… without magic.”

He finds the page he was searching for with a small noise of exclamation.

“Do you think that’s what woke me?” Merlin asks, moving around Gaius to peer over his shoulder
at the page.

Gaius shrugs.

“It is possible. I think this would have allowed Tauren to perform such an experiment.” He points
to a yellow stone on the page, illustrated with swirling orange patterns and inscribed with ancient
symbols much like Excalibur.

“The mage stone?” Merlin reads. “What does it do?”

Gaius perches his circular glasses on his nose and peers through the glass.

“Theoretically, it could give the wielder the power of transformation.”

“Alchemy,” Merlin breathes, looking in wonder at the illustration.

Gaius nods. “Exactly.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Merlin says slowly, looking at the drawing of the stone with a solemn
weight. “Gwen said Tauren had some kind of stone.”

Although Merlin’s question of what Tom was doing is answered, he feels no relief. Uther will
perceive Tom’s actions as treason, even if Tom only unknowingly assisted a sorcerer. His position
is precarious, and his fate seems sealed.

~-~-~

Morgana wasn’t lying when she told Merlin that there was no hope at all for Tom.

She knows Uther better than most. For all his talk of a fair trial, Tom’s fate has already been
sealed, and the executioner’s axe is already being sharpened.

That doesn’t mean Morgana can just concede. Gwen loves her father more than anything in the
world, her heart is expansive and beautiful and Morgana cannot allow for it to be broken.

She sneaks into Arthur’s chambers, wincing with every creak the floorboards make beneath her
feet and gritting her teeth as the drawer squeals on release. She carefully takes the appropriate key
and makes her way down to the dungeons, chin held high and eyes confident as though nothing is
amiss. If a guard senses even the slightest hesitation then Tom’s last chance will be lost.

“Tom,” she greets with a tip of her head. She feels a stab of guilt at the glimmer of hope that passes
his eyes at seeing her without Gwen by her side. “I bring you no relief, I’m sorry,” she admits
before his hope has the opportunity to take seed and grow. It isn’t fair to leave him with false
expectations.

“I have only come to check you are being well tended to,” Morgana continues, carefully feeding
the key from her sleeve into the palm of her hand as she speaks.

Tom bows his head respectfully.

“As well as can be hoped for, My Lady.”

Her heartstrings pull taut for him. Tom is truly one of the kindest men in Camelot, even when he’s
facing an almost certain death he attempts to offer her a smile and warmth. He is always extending
his kindness outwards rather than keeping it to himself. How Uther can think him capable of
treason is beyond Morgana.

“How is Gwen?” Tom asks, his dark eyes round with worry.

Morgana does her best to smile, but it is strained and she knows it must be unconvincing. “She’s a
brave girl, she’ll be alright. She wishes only to see you free,” she replies honestly.

Tom’s smile dims into nothingness, flickering out like a candle in heavy wind. He looks down at
the floor, swallowing roughly to bring moisture to his mouth, dry with fear.

“I know what Uther thinks of sorcery…” his eyes glance up to meet Morgana’s. “I’m a dead man
aren’t I?”

Grief swallows Morgana like a crashing wave coming down over her head. It is one thing for her to
know that Tom has little chance of survival, but for Tom to have already accepted that fate himself
is terrible. He is alone in this small and dingy cell, with no chance of holding his daughter one last
time, left alone with the knowledge that by morning he will likely be dead.

“I cannot see the future, Tom, only the present,” she answers, avoiding the question for both of
their sakes. She reaches through the bars, only just slipping her thin wrists through the gap and
squeezing his hands reassuringly. She presses the key into his palm with her fingers, letting him
feel the cool press of the metal against his skin.

“You must take hope in what you have now, and seize the moment.”

“Thank you, My Lady.”

She steps back and away without another word, looking back once over her shoulder before
making her way up the spiralling stone staircase.

That is the last time she ever sees Tom. For before morning he is dead. By fleeing Uther had
declared him guilty, and he was killed before he reached the city’s gates.

~-~-~

Gwen’s scream is the worst sound Merlin has ever heard. She falls to her knees in the middle of
the courtyard with a devastated wail that echoes hauntingly throughout the open space.

“Father!” She screams hoarsely, staring as the cart rolls away and out of the citadel. Her eyes are
haunted, her mouth has dropped open in devastation and her fingers are curled tightly into the
fabric of her bodice.

“Gwen,” Merlin says gently, trying to coax her to her feet.

She screams, burying her head in her hands with heaving sobs that rip from her throat.

“No,” she gasps, her voice is so torn it sounds more like a haggard whisper than a word. It breaks
Merlin’s heart to see her like this; her eyes are haunted, her lips form around pleas that go unheard
and her knees are scratched and covered in dirt from the weight of her fall.

Merlin manages to help her back to his chambers, an arm curled protectively around her shoulders
and shooting daggers at anyone who tries to approach. He settles her gently on his bed, rubbing
circles between her shoulder blades as the shock thrashes through her in tremors and convulsions.

He holds her as she cries, each sob shudders through her body with devastation that threatens to
shatter her into pieces. It feels terrible to sit there so uselessly when she is so distraught. Her tears
soak the fabric of his tunic, and her sweaty forehead is pressed against his neck, so that each gasp
for breath between her sobs tickles at Merlin’s collarbone. His neck is tilted at an odd angle to
accommodate her but he doesn’t dare shift.

He simply holds Gwen, running a reassuring hand up and down the length of her spine and letting
her cry until her eyes are dry and she collapses from exhaustion.

The day passes in a heart wrenching rhythm, Gwen waking, remembering and sobbing until her
body forces her to stop, falling back into an uneasy sleep. Slowly her grief settles uncomfortably
into her body, Merlin can see it in her eyes as the initial shock turns to pained acceptance.

At one point in the morning she stops and writes a letter, tying it to one of the castle’s ravens with
shaking hands and sends it off. Gaius comes and checks on her periodically, taking her hand
between his wrinkled palms and squeezing gently. It is to him that she reveals who the letter was
for.

“I wrote to Elyan,” she admits softly. “But I haven’t h-heard anything,” her voice catches on a sob
in the middle of the sentence. Merlin knows Elyan only from Gwen’s passing mentions, and only
that he is her younger brother who left Camelot to explore the world at seventeen. Merlin doesn’t
know when they last spoke.

“Give it time, Gwen. Your letter may not have even reached him yet.” Gaius says softly, reaching
forward and wiping the hot tears from her flushed cheeks.

She nods through tears.

“I just thought he might—” her breath hitches and she stops to take a long slow inhale. “I don’t
want to be alone.”

Merlin buts in, squeezing her shoulder affectionately.

“No matter what, you’re never alone. We’re here.”

She smiles through tears, kissing his cheek bone warmly. “Thank you Merlin.”

Merlin doesn’t leave Gwen’s side all day.

He resolves to deal with Arthur’s inevitable irritation tomorrow, but today his friend needs him and
he won’t leave her. To his surprise, he does not need to wait to face Arthur, as the prince
announces his presence with a gentle knock. However he isn’t seeking Merlin, he turns instead to
Gwen who is sitting on the edge of the bed with red rimmed eyes and a numb expression.

Gwen jumps to her feet, hands behind her back and her head bowing respectfully.

“Sire.”
Merlin can hear the sharp edge of anxiety in her voice. Tom being charged with treason could
easily lead her to the same fate if Uther suspected she were conspiring with her father.

Arthur sighs, easing the door closed behind himself. His eyes, which are usually so bright and
animated, are dulled with sadness.

“Guinevere… I want you to know that your job is safe, and that your home is yours for life,” he
says, his voice soft with empathy. “I guarantee you that.”

Gwen stares back at him silently, her eyes wide and shining with unshed tears.

Arthur lowers his head. “I know that under the circumstances it isn’t much… but…”

He scratches the back of his head, shifting from foot to foot. Merlin watches in awe as Arthur
wrestles through his discomfort to console Gwen.

“If there’s anything you need, anything at all, all you need to do is ask.”

He looks first at Merlin and then back to Gwen, like he’s seeking Merlin’s reassurance that he’s
doing well. Merlin’s heart squeezes and he nods his encouragement with a small smile.

“Don’t hesitate to reach out,” Arthur finishes.

Gwen stays silent, but her lips have parted in surprise and her hands move to twist her skirt.

Arthur turns to leave but stops himself, facing Gwen once more and offering her a warm nod.

“I’m sorry,” he says genuinely, voice barely louder than a whisper. His eyes are big and blue, filled
with earnest sadness, imploring her to believe him.

Gwen’s lashes catch heavy tears that threaten to fall and she nods once more, pressing her
fingertips to her lips and swallowing a sob.

“Thank you Sire,” she says softly.

Arthur hesitates, eyes wide and fearful of her strong emotions like she’s an anomaly he’s never
encountered before. He tentatively reaches forward and squeezes her shoulder, Gwen stares back at
him in surprise. Merlin’s heart squeezes at the sight of Arthur so genuine and kind, letting his walls
fall away for the sake of Gwen’s comfort.

The moment stretches until Arthur breaks it with a cough and steps back. He flees the room with a
final pat to Gwen’s shoulder and an awkward nod towards Merlin.

~-~-~

Morgana storms into Uther’s chambers. Her entire body is alight with anger, fizzling hot, burning
her veins into ash. The air around her is scorching, like her fury can’t be contained and is bleeding
into the surrounding atmosphere.

She bares her teeth at Uther like a wild dog.

“There is blood on your hands, Uther Pendragon. Blood that can never be washed away.”

He looks up at her, completely unperturbed, sitting about as he usually would on any other day.
The life that he has destroyed is of no consequence to him. Tom is simply another notch to add to
his lengthy tally of victims.
He regards her with contempt and pity, looking her up and down before turning to the guards and
waving them away with a dismissive hand.

“Leave us.”

Only once the guards have filed from the room does he look at Morgana again. She is trembling
with rage, fists clenched so tightly by her sides that her manicured nails cut into the skin of her
palms.

“May I remind you that you are speaking to your king?” He suggests with a dangerous edge to his
voice. His words sound like the sharp blade of a knife pressed against her throat, daring her to
move and be slit open.

“May I remind you that a king is right and just? You are neither,” she spits with venom on her
tongue.

“Tread carefully, Morgana,” Uther warns coldly.

He stalks across the room, pouring himself a goblet of wine and doesn’t offer her the same.

“You rule only with the sword, so you can never be a good king,” Morgana forgoes his warning,
pushing it aside with bitter indifference.

Uther’s fingers clench around the stem of his goblet but otherwise he shows no signs of hearing her
accusations.

“You know nothing of what it means to be king,” he informs her coldly. A harsh reminder that she
is simply his ward and no more; Arthur is his son and heir and knows what it means to rule. She
has no such privilege.

“I know a king must protect his people,” she answers defensively.

Uther’s eyes narrow but still they do not look her way, instead he decides to stare contemplatively
into the dark pool of wine in his goblet.

“Yes. It is my responsibility to keep the kingdom and its people safe. Camelot’s well-being rests
solely on my shoulders. I, and I alone, must protect the kingdom from its enemies.”

“Then the kingdom is doomed,” Morgana spits, tilting her chin challengingly and straightening her
spine. “For one by one you make enemies of us all.”

The air freezes, turning frigid as Uther stops mid sip and stares blankly out the far window.

“You speak treason, Morgana,” he says frostily.

She scoffs.

“Only a mad man hears the truth as treason.”

Finally, Uther’s eyes snap to hers, as dangerous as a sword. She clenches her jaw and stands firm
under his cold gaze, meeting his steel with her own. She transforms their eye contact into a duel, a
battle of wills, and she will not be the one to surrender.

“Don’t test me Morgana,” Uther growls. “Or I will have you restrained.”

“Because that will surely prove that you are not a tyrant?”
For all her brave face she struggles not to flinch as Uther’s face convulses in anger. He seizes her
wrist in his stone tight grip, pulling her from the room. His fingers dig into her skin, leaving painful
bruises in her pale skin.

He throws her into the guards who take her shoulders without question, following him in his
tyrannical storm to the tower dungeons. She kicks and pulls against their hold, fear seizing her as
tight as a knight’s hand around her airway. Her heart clamours for release in her chest like a
frightened bird trapped in a cage.

As she’s forced into the room, shock hits her in a wave of nausea. The iron handcuffs seem to burn
her skin as they are clamped around her wrists. She is dizzy with overwhelming fear and fury, her
stomach clenches and she has to keep her mouth clamped shut for fear of vomiting.

Uther stands in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the cold darkness of the cell. His hands are
folded placidly in front of him and his eyes are narrowed as he watches Morgana be chained,
struggling for release like a frightened animal ensnared in a trap.

“You will remain here until you have learned your lesson,” Uther says callously.

It is a phrase she remembers well from her childhood.

She grits her teeth.

“Then release me, because I’ve learned it already,” she hisses. “That you care not for me, or
anyone else. That you are driven mad with power. That you are a tyrant. I know it well.”

Uther’s jaw clenches, his skin flushes red with anger but he says nothing, turning and slamming the
cell door behind him, leaving her in the darkness.

Morgana’s heart plummets. The isolation is nothing new, she has been punished in this way for as
long as she has been Uther’s ward. How many hours has she spent locked in rooms?

As a younger child her bedroom would suffice, she would go without supper and would run back
crying to Uther in the morning. The moment the key had turned in the lock to let her free she would
sprint through the halls, trembling with fear as she collapsed at Uther’s feet with apologies pouring
from her lips. As she got older and her stubbornness turned to defiance, the dungeons became the
new punishment.

Never before has she been put in chains.

The sharp cold metal was rubbing her soft skin raw, cutting into her wrists with every movement.
Their hold is brutally tight, leaving little room to move as she pulls against the chains as far as they
will stretch and crumpling to the floor. The hem of her dress catches in the chain and her ankle
twists painfully in the torn fabric as she struggles to her knees.

She wants to be strong, for Gwen, who deserves so much better than Morgana could ever give her.
She wasn’t even strong enough to protect her father from Uther. She doesn’t want to be afraid.

But she’s terrified. The darkness presses in around her, her head is spinning and she feels sick with
fear. Her head throbs with the beginnings of a headache and she presses her forehead against the
cool stone of the floor and lets sobs shake through her body.

She’s so afraid.

~-~-~
Morgana wakes to the sound of the heavy door opening with a clunk. She pushes herself to her
knees, spitting out dark hair that sticks to her mouth and hurriedly wipes her tear stained face. It’s
too late to protect her dignity, but she won’t lose her pride.

She looks up and meets Arthur’s eyes; she was expecting Uther and the unexpectedness of Arthur’s
arrival sends her reeling.

“You.”

Arthur looks down at her impassively, arms crossed defensively over his chest.

They were once so close, but Uther’s reign has driven them apart like a knife cutting away the
tether between them strand by strand. He forced them to abandon the other to protect themselves
from his ire. Morgana grew vines with barbs and thorns to guard her heart, while Arthur built stone
walls as thick as the citadel’s border. Maybe years ago she could read the expression on his face,
but today she only sees the passive scorn in his eyes.

“How proud you must be. Son of the mighty Uther,” she mocks, her anger lashing out like whips.
He is her only target, if she cannot hurt Uther, Arthur is as good a substitute as any.

He doesn’t react and it only stokes her anger, making it spike and burn up her throat.

“You must look up to him, you want to be just like Daddy. The righteous King,” Morgana spits.

Arthur sighs heavily through his nose, he purses his lips and says nothing.

Morgana’s head drops forward, exhausted from the night alone and still dizzy with the weight of
the chains around her wrists.

“Does the king’s little helper bring a message?” She asks, directing the question to the floor. “Or
have you just come to gloat?”

Arthur doesn’t answer her, but he finally speaks.

“Guards.”

Morgana scrambles backwards, scraping her knees along the ground and tripping over her feet in
desperation to flee.

“Get away from me you cowards!” She pulls as far backwards as the chains allow, wincing against
the onslaught of pain that tears through her body as they chafe her sensitive wrists.

“You’re free to go,” Arthur interrupts her panic, still standing across the room, his emotional
armour so strong she can’t see where his impassivity ends.

The guards reach her and unclasp the shackles from her wrists, she holds them to her chest
protectively. They are raw from a night spent in their clutches, bleeding sluggishly from where the
rough edges had dug into her skin.

Her eyes are wide as she looks at Arthur. Uther would never release her without coming to ensure
that she had learnt her lesson. She had expected at least another night in the hollow room, so cold
that the chill seemed to seep down to her very bones. All through the night as she had shivered and
endured her dizzy head she had prepared to survive another isolated day. Even Arthur never got
away with a single night of solitude when he was being punished.
Not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth, she quickly hurries from the dungeon. Arthur’s voice
stops her as she reaches the door.

“Morgana?”

She pauses, fingers winding into her bodice defensively.

“Yes?”

He doesn’t turn to look at her, instead he continues staring at the floor. She recognises his
behaviour, it is what he does to defend himself from his father; avoiding eye contact because he
knows better than anyone that his emotions are too easily read in his expressive blue eyes.

“I swore to him that you would never challenge his authority again. I swore that you’d learned your
lesson.”

Her heart clenches and her grip on her bodice tightens.

“Tread carefully,” Arthur cautions softly. It is the same warning Uther gave her the day before,
only then it was a threat, these words, Arthur’s words, are words of protection. The slight
difference in their inflection is enough to make her feel overwhelmingly guilty for using Arthur as
a reciprocal for her anger.

“Next time I might not be able to help you,” he finishes.

“Thank you,” Morgana answers quietly. “You’re a better man than your father. Always were.”

~-~-~

Morgana makes her way back to her chambers, feeling too exposed and vulnerable in the corridors.
She clutches her arms gingerly to her chest and ignores the curious stares of others as she passes
them. She’s expecting her chambers to be empty so she hurries in as quickly as possible, but
staggers to a halt when her eyes fall on Gwen.

“Gwen!” She drops her arms and lets her sleeves fall over her injured wrists, hiding them from
Gwen’s sight. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

Gwen’s eyes grow wide as they scan over Morgana’s dirt covered dress and tangled hair.

“What happened to you?” She asks, concern threaded through her words like fine embroidery.

Morgana shrugs her off, hurrying across the room, doing her best to conceal the worst of her
injuries from her maid.

“Nothing. You ought to be resting,” Morgana says softly, trying to dismiss Gwen before she can
ask too many questions.

Morgana hears Gwen follow her across the room. She listens as Gwen stops behind her, and
shivers as her warm fingers touch the base of Morgana’s spine. It’s a gentle and affectionate caress
that makes the tight knots of Morgana’s muscles unwind.

“I couldn’t sit alone with my thoughts any longer,” Gwen easily rebuffs Morgana’s weak attempts
to dissuade her. “What happened to you?” She repeats.

Morgana tries for a weak smile, but it comes up short; the confident mask she so often wears falls
apart like parchment under water.
“Nothing a hot bath wouldn’t fix,” she assures Gwen, rubbing her hand reassuringly.

The sensation of her sleeves against her wrists is unbearable. Every time the fabric brushes the raw
skin a jolt of pain sears up her arms and rings in her jaw. Her dress catches on broken skin and tears
spring to Morgana’s eyes that she tries to blink away before Gwen can notice.

“Morgana.” Gwen frowns, squinting at Morgana’s face like she’s trying to decipher something in
the smooth skin.

Morgana’s sleeve slips down as she reaches for the edge of the bed to steady herself. She doesn’t
notice the movement until Gwen gasps sharply. Her eyes follow Gwen’s line of sight to her
damaged skin and winces.

“I spent the night in the dungeons,” Morgana admits quietly.

Gwen’s mouth drops open in devastation. She reaches out hesitantly and her hands gently take
Morgana’s, brushing the pads of her fingertips delicately over the injured skin with great care.

It should hurt, she should be in agony; but Gwen’s touch is like cool water over her stinging flesh.
It eases the pain away and leaves her trembling with relief. Sometimes it feels like Gwen is the one
soothing balm keeping her from coiling into a knot of anxiety and turmoil. Morgana loves her,
more than she loves anything else.

“Uther,” Gwen says softly. It’s not a guess, or a question, but a statement; quietly brimming with
anger, more intimidating than if Gwen screamed. His name on Gwen’s lips is soaked in malice
Morgana didn’t even know Gwen was capable of.

Morgana nods shakily, still shivering in Gwen’s hands.

“He doesn’t like to be challenged,” she answers. The hatred stewing in Morgana’s gut returns at the
reminder of what Uther did to Gwen and to her father.

Silence falls over them like a shroud, hesitant and tentative, like a fawn taking its first steps.

“Please tell me you didn’t do this for me,” Gwen begs, finally breaking the silence.

Morgana eases her hands out of Gwen’s hold; as soon as the touch is gone she craves it, needs it
like she needs oxygen in her lungs.

“I would have spoken up either way,” Morgana answers, carefully toeing around the truth. “Uther
is a tyrant, what he did was wrong.”

“I know that,” Gwen butts in with a shake of her head. “But tell me it wasn’t about my father.”

Morgana blinks, her heart shuddering in her chest. Gwen is looking at her with such desperation,
such kindness, it makes Morgana feel obligated to protect this wonderful girl. At the same time, it
makes her feel fragile as thin glass, desperate to collapse into her arms.

“You have enough to deal with, without worrying about such things,” Morgana evades.

Gwen’s expression crumbles, eyes welling up and mouth twisting in worry and grief. Morgana’s
hands flutter around her, desperate to console her and unsure how to do so.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Gwen whispers, her words thick with tears. “Not on my behalf.”

Morgana doesn’t say ‘I would do anything for you’, but she wants to. It’s too much, too close to her
heart. She has already been torn open and left vulnerable for Arthur to see; she cannot take much
more than that.

She would do anything for Gwen, but telling her that would only hurt them both, and so she will
not say it.

“Uther needed to hear it,” Morgana says instead.

Gwen shakes her head roughly, tears paving a slow path down her brown cheeks.

“No. If anything happened to you—” her breath hitches on a sob. “I couldn’t bear it.”

Morgana frowns, taking Gwen’s trembling hands in hers again.

“You need to go home, Gwen. Get some rest,” she urges.

Whilst it is an attempt to steer the conversation from herself — if Gwen shows any more concern
for Morgana she might shatter — it is also founded on real worry. Gwen looks terrible. The usual
healthy glow to her cheeks is pale and ashen, and her eyes are sunken and heavy. Her head droops
in an exhausted manager that infers too many unslept nights with haunting emotions that settle
beneath her eyes. Her shoulders are hunched inwards, curling in on herself like she wants to avoid
taking up space.

Gwen takes a deep breath, swallowing heavily and visibly collecting herself. She wipes away stray
tears with the back of her hand and forces a smile so fake it makes Morgana wince.

“I’m fine, my Lady.”

Morgana frowns. “Please. I insist.”

Gwen pulls away from Morgana, ducking her head and shuffling around the room. She listlessly
moves from place to place, moving Morgana’s hand mirror to a new shelf even though there is no
need to relocate it.

“Gwen?”

Gwen’s shoulders shudder and she shakes her head, she’s turned away from Morgana, impossible
to read but for the stiff line of her spine. Morgana hesitantly reaches out and lays a hand on Gwen’s
shoulder blade.

“Gwen?” She urges once more.

“I can’t go home,” Gwen sobs, leaning into her touch easily.

Morgana’s heartstrings pull sharply with a harsh tug that leaves her breathless. It has been years
since her own father died; she was only seven, and she barely remembers what it felt like to lose
him. She remembers heavy and thick grief that sat in her lungs, the loneliness that tore through her,
leaving her hollow and small.

Unlike Gwen, she never had to return to her home without her father. She was moved into the
castle to live with Uther and Arthur the moment the battle ended and Gorlois’ body was recovered.
She can’t even imagine being alone with the empty spaces where her father’s body and spirit once
stood.

“It is understandable to feel alone—” she tries but her words stutter to a halt with the shake of
Gwen’s head.

“Tauren,” Gwen says hoarsely.

“Tauren?”

Gwen turns to look at her, her eyes brimming with tears and lip wobbling as she struggles to
contain herself. There is fear in her dark eyes, now that Morgana is looking she can see the terror
there so obviously.

“He attacked me. He threatened me. He was looking for some kind of stone,” Gwen explains,
voice shaking.

Morgana thinks of the stone she found in the forge while she was searching for Gwen. It had sat on
the ground, glowing yellow and thrumming with some kind of magic. It sits in her dresser, in a
small leather pouch, concealed under her spare stockings.

“A stone?” She asks distractedly.

Gwen nods. “He said if I didn’t bring it to him he’d kill me. He’s waiting for me in the woods. If I
don’t give him the stone to him by dawn tomorrow—” Gwen can’t bring herself to finish her
sentence, distress tightening like a noose around her words.

Fear, colder than the dungeon, surges within Morgana and seizes her throat. Anger follows suit,
brutally vicious and painful as it rushes through her veins. She’s blind with rage, she’s consumed
by it.

Uther, all of this leads back to Uther. If he hadn’t intervened, she would not have spent the night
alone in the dungeon, Tauren would not be tormenting Gwen, Tom would still be alive. It’s his
fault.

Morgana shakes her head, reaching out and cupping Gwen’s cheek tenderly.

“No. He won’t be able to hurt you. I won’t let him.”

With those words she turns and makes to storm from the room; Gwen stops her as she reaches the
door.

“What are you going to do?” She asks worriedly.

Morgana pauses, and looks back at Gwen.

She’s standing in the centre of Morgana’s room, hands held over her chest like she’s guarding her
heart. Her eyes follow Morgana with deep concern.

“Tell the guards of course,” Morgana lies easily. “It won’t be you that Tauren confronts, but the
knights of Camelot.”

~-~-~

When Merlin is once again woken by the sharp ringing sound of the mage stone but rather than
ignore it, this time he pursues the source. He leaps from bed, tiptoeing past Gaius who is snoring in
the main chambers, and into the cool outdoors.

As he squints through the darkness he spies a cloaked figure crossing the courtyard. Their cloak
billows behind them as they head towards the woods. Merlin follows in their shadow cast by the
moonlight.

He follows the figure deep into the heart of the woods, where they stop and wait, peering into the
dark trees with bristling impatience. They are not left waiting for long. Tauren and his band of
renegades step from the darkness, swords and staffs pointed at the cloaked figure.

Tauren reaches forward and rips the hood from their head. Merlin has to clamp a hand over his
mouth to stifle his gasp when he sees Morgana.

“Where is your maid?”

Merlin doesn’t even have time to wonder what Tauren could want with Gwen before Morgana
answers him, her voice shakes but her words are loud and clear.

“I’ve come in her place.”

Tauren sniffs. “Kill her.”

Merlin almost trips over his feet in his effort to surge forward and protect her but stops himself
when Morgana speaks.

“No wait!” She shouts, reaching into her cloak. “I brought the stone.”

Tauren snatches the stone from Morgana’s trembling hold with a suspicious glare.

“What else have you brought with you, my Lady. The knights of Camelot?”

Merlin flattens himself against the tree, the knobs of his spine press painfully into the trunk as he
attempts to smooth himself out of sight.

“No, I’ve come alone I promise,” Morgana promises.

Merlin holds his breath. He can feel the sound of his heart in his chest echo throughout the forest
as Tauren’s men glance around sceptically. To his immense relief no one investigates her word.

“And why have you come?” Tauren asks slowly. His words are deceptively calm, but as Merlin
peers around the tree, he can see the point of the man’s sword pressing against Morgana’s stomach.
“You have made a stupid decision, I had no quarrel with your maid. But you, Lady Morgana, you
are Uther’s ward.”

“Killing me would be a mistake,” Morgana says, her voice is astonishingly calm and clear, ringing
with confidence.

“And why is that?”

“Because I hate Uther too. I want him dead.”

Merlin’s knees buckle as he scrabbles at the sharp bark of the tree to keep himself upright. His
thoughts tangle and twist over themselves, running in every direction trying to make sense of the
words.

It’s no secret that Morgana doesn’t approve of Uther and his policies. However, Merlin had always
assumed she was like Arthur, and had a complicated relationship with the King that swung like a
pendulum between familial admiration and frustrated hostility. Though Arthur respects his father
greatly, it’s obvious that their relationship is significantly more complex than the typical love
between parent and child. He had guessed Morgana to be the same, but to wish death upon Uther is
something entirely unexpected.

Tauren seems equally dubious of the truth behind Morgana’s statement. He squints at her with a
sceptical raise of his eyebrow, meeting her jutted chin with heavy suspicion.

“You? An enemy of the king?” He demands incredulously, letting out a brash bark of cold
laughter. “And I am to believe that?”

Morgana clenches her jaw. “Why else would I be here?”

“I can only guess at your motives, my Lady. You could be a spy for all I know.”

“And this?” Morgana demands. Merlin can hear rustling and sharp intakes of breath, he chances
peering around the tree once more to see what is happening.

Morgana’s cloak and sleeves of her dress are rolled to her elbows, revealing harsh gashes across
her thin, pale wrists. The tender skin has begun to blister, grazed raw with deep pink gashes along
the bottom of her palm. The damage is considerable, as if she had been chained in the dungeon for
days rather than a single night.

“Does Uther usually chain his friends to a dungeon wall?”

Hesitantly the weapons are lowered with a nod of Tauren’s head, Morgana’s injury is evidence
enough of her hatred towards Uther.

At Morgana’s request Tauren explains his plan, to use alchemy to create enough gold for bribing
the citizens of Camelot; to turn guards’ eyes the other way, for servants to change their shifts,
allowing assassins into the walls of the castle, all the way to King Uther himself.

Morgana shakes her head with a wry smile.

“The guards may be fools Tauren, but the King is not.”

Tauren frowns but does not argue. He must know already that the plan is tenuous, reliant on a
significant amount of luck for all the pieces to fall into place without word reaching Uther’s ears.

“Do you have a better plan?”

“Yes,” Morgana says, her green eyes flashing. “To get to Uther, you need someone close to him.
You need me.”

Merlin’s stomach sinks as they lay out a plan. Morgana will lure the King to her father’s grave to
make amends, pleading that the death of Gwen’s father reminded her of the loss of her own. There
Tauren and his men will attack the defenceless, unexpectant King from behind.

The King will be dead by sundown in two days' time.

Merlin is faced with a choice, to give Uther what he deserves and allow it to happen. Or to stop it.

~-~-~

Merlin is still turning over the choice in his mind as he watches Morgana and Uther leave for
Morgana’s father’s grave.

Gaius says that Uther is a good king, regardless of if he is a good man. He is good for Camelot,
and he does his best to serve the kingdom. Ultimately Arthur is not yet ready for the crown — that
much Merlin agrees with — he’s too impulsive, reckless, and he has a tendency to explode in anger
that would make him an irresponsible king. Not only that, but the responsibility would be too great,
Arthur would collapse under the pressure like a tower of sand under a boot.

But Arthur has a kind heart, a goodness to him that Uther lacks. He is good right to his core, pure
of heart, he had proven that at the labyrinth of Gedref. Would it not be better to have someone like
him at the throne?

Then there is the question of Gwen, and her father, Tom. Uther is a tyrant, and he rules with the
executioner’s axe. Gwen lost so much because of Uther’s rash decision, his inability to see reason
is a danger to both himself and to Camelot. He is a horrible man, he kills people like Merlin
without hesitation.

“Merlin?” Gwen jolts him out of his thoughts with a gentle hand on his arm.

“Gwen,” Merlin greets. “Are you alright?”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “I was actually about to ask you the same question.”

He shrugs her off, trying to situate his arms into something casual and feeling uncomfortable no
matter where he rests them.

“I’m fine. You’re the one who…” he doesn’t finish as pain flashes over Gwen’s eyes.

She turns to follow his gaze out the window to where Morgana’s emerald green cloak is
disappearing around the corner.

“Morgana has been amazing these last few days,” she says softly, a private smile flickering across
her face.

Merlin’s heart clenches, Morgana is undoubtedly doing this for Gwen. The care they have for each
other is obvious, they don’t hold it close to their chests and hide it like Merlin and Arthur do —
although Merlin and Arthur’s budding friendship is nothing like the bond Morgana and Gwen hold.

“I think you’ve been amazing,” he says, because he doesn’t know how to acknowledge Morgana
without revealing his anxieties about what she is plotting.

Gwen tries to dismiss him but he shakes his head, turning to face her properly.

“No really Gwen. After everything that’s happened… the fact that you’re here, getting your life
together and not letting it… consume you, it’s amazing.”

Gwen’s eyes go wide and glassy with tears, and her lips wobble into a smile.

“It’s better than sitting in an empty house and waiting for my father to walk through the door.”

The smile slips from her face as she ducks her head away, squeezing her eyes shut and pushing her
fingers over her mouth with a shaky breath.

“The thing that I find hardest to bear is that people will always think he was guilty because he tried
to escape,” she admits

Merlin reaches out and touches her shoulders gently.

“I know he was innocent. So does Morgana, and Gaius, and Arthur, and anyone who truly knew
him.”
She nods, swallowing heavily and looking up to meet his eyes.

“I think he tried to escape because he knew that no matter what he said… he would be killed. Uther
had already made up his mind.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted him dead,” Merlin says softly. The tumultuous thoughts in
his mind make themselves known once more. To let Uther die, or to save him. The question he
cannot answer even here, as he stands with Gwen.

Gwen’s eyes widen and her eyebrows crease with concern. She glances over her shoulder and nods
shakily when she sees that they are completely alone. Merlin stares unblinkingly back at her.

“If Uther died I would feel nothing, he means nothing to me,” she confesses, so quiet Merlin can
scarcely hear her. “He is a horrible man with no sense of justice.”

“But if you had the choice… what would you do?” Merlin asks.

Gwen stares back at him, her hands anxiously coiled in her skirt and her dark eyes huge like an
owl’s. She says nothing, confusion flickering across her face like a candle in the wind.

“Would you kill him for what he did?”

He needs to know. He needs to hear her say it. Gwen is the best person he knows, she will know if
this is the right thing to do. Morgana is doing this for her, he is doing this for her.

“No,” she answers confidently.

The single word is enough to make Merlin’s heart lurch.

“You wouldn’t?” He asks hollowly. In his mind’s eye he can see Morgana and Uther riding into
the forest, and the fate that awaits Uther there.

“Of course not. What would that solve?” Her eyes are wide and earnest, and though her hands
shake her words are solid and sure. “That would make me a murderer. All I would be doing is
causing Arthur the same pain Uther caused me.”

Merlin’s stomach plummets to the floor.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, already running from the room. “Merlin?” Gwen shouts after him, her
words are heavy with concern. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes! I’ll be back! Don’t worry!”

He has to stop Morgana before she does something she will regret forever.

~-~-~

Morgana and Uther ride to the place where her father rests. His gravestone is settled under the
shade of a large oak tree, it is a peaceful place, not a graveyard but his favourite place on the edge
of the great forest that borders Camelot; secluded and dappled with sunlight.

Morgana kneels by her father’s grave, touching her fingertips to the cool headstone. She hears
Uther settle beside her, ordering the guards to give them privacy, exactly as she planned.

Her heart clamours in her chest.

“Your father was the greatest man I’ve ever known,” Uther speaks softly, resting a hand gently on
her head. “He stood for everything this kingdom represents: truth, justice, valour…”

Guilt rots in her stomach, turning sickly and spoilt as mould climbs the walls of her gut and turns
her innards black. She says nothing and Uther continues.

“His strength and his courage were without equal. When Gorlois died, I lost the truest friend I have
ever had, for he was as fearless in questioning my judgement as he was in defending my kingdom.”

Morgana nods slowly, tears stinging her eyes.

“I know you speak the truth, my Lord. You knew him well…” she swallows down the lump of
tears growing in her throat. “But I don’t share these memories.”

The memories Morgana has of her father are no more than sensations. In her mind he is made of a
series of portraits, rather than a dimensional figure. She remembers a warm hand on her cheek, his
bellowing laugh, being bounced on his knee, how he stood tall before battle, and nothing more.
She can’t remember the sound of his voice, or the structure of his face. He is a wisp in her
memory.

“How can I?” She asks, without truly wanting an answer. Morgana doesn’t look at Uther, but in her
periphery, she can see him turn to look at her. “I was seven years old when he passed. I only know
that I loved him and he was taken from me.”

“I understand. There is nothing I can do to replace that pain, nor to replace what he was to you.”

His hand comes to rest on her shoulder and she hates herself for leaning into it. She wants him
dead, she does, she was certain of it until they came here.

“When Gorlois died… when I took you into my care, you were already so strong. You fought me
from the beginning.” Uther smiles indulgently at the memory of her younger self. “You challenge
me as a friend should, as your father did in his time.”

His words do nothing to ease the bitterness that sourly sits on Morgana’s tongue.

“And when I do you clap me in irons,” she spits. Her wrists still ache from the night of isolation.

Uther nods slowly and regretfully.

“I apologise for that. I know I am not an easy man, my temper blinds me and I am quick to act. I
have made many mistakes… and there are things that I regret.” He looks at her wrists as he speaks.
Morgana is aware of the way she is holding them defensively to her stomach, carefully keeping
them from Uther’s watchful eye.

“Like Gwen’s father?” She asks provokingly instead. It is not her own pain that concerns her, but
Gwen’s.

Uther sighs.

“Yes,” he admits quietly, staring at the ground with abashed humility.

Morgana’s head jerks up. Of all the answers she had expected from him, scorn, irritation, she had
not prepared for remorse.

“Are you saying you were wrong to have Tom killed?” She presses. Her heart gathers speed in her
chest, beating a hard rhythm against her ribcage.

Uther nods slowly. “Yes. I was too rash, and it brings me great sorrow to have lost a good man
because of my anger.”

Morgana doesn’t know what to say, her world has been tipped askew by the confession. She
exhales shakily. The uncertainty in her head thrashes like a frightened animal, pulling her attention
and pinning it in place just as one would pin a butterfly to a board.

“You have been a blessing to me, Morgana,” Uther confesses, cupping her cheek with his gloved
hand. “I will strive to listen to you more, and quarrel with you less,” he promises.

Air won’t enter her lungs properly, it catches on the growing lump in her throat and won’t dislodge.
She shudders, tears springing to her eyes and mind a whirlwind of confusion. She doesn’t
understand her own feelings, and the unknown leaves her dizzy and overwhelmed.

“You…” Uther hesitates, stroking her cheek affectionately. Despite his kind gesture there’s an
unsure look in his eyes, resistance that gathers in the corners of his eyes and tenses his smile. “I
love you like my own daughter.”

Morgana’s heart splinters, collecting in a pile in the bottom of her chest. Her heart aches and she
can’t breathe at all. She can see Tauren approaching, sharp blade glinting in the morning light.

“Your counsel is invaluable as is your friendship and your love. Without you I cannot hope to be
the king this land deserves—”

“My Lord—” Morgana tries to interject but her voice gets stuck halfway on the growing lump in
her throat.

“Please forgive me, Morgana,” Uther begs.

And she does, God have mercy she does.

She can’t do this.

Tauren’s knife raises over Uther’s head, preparing to strike.

“No!”

Uther turns in time to block the strike and both men fall to the ground. Her heart is thundering in
her eardrums. She sucks in a sharp breath, pressing a hand to the centre of her chest, trying
desperately to steady herself.

She’s hardly aware of what she’s doing, or what she’s feeling, but she surges forward after them.
Tauren pins Uther to the ground, his hand trembling as he struggles to keep the King still. Morgana
reaches into her cloak for her own dagger, gifted to her by Arthur for her fourteenth birthday.

Tauren lifts his blade once again. “Die, Uther Pendragon.”

Morgana takes a shuddering breath and plunges the dagger into Tauren’s stomach. She winces as it
squelches when it pierces his skin and breaks through his flesh. He freezes immediately. She
withdraws the dagger with a sickening sound and lets it fall to the ground.

Uther looks up at her in wonder as Tauren falls still. He staggers to his feet and pulls her forward
into his arms. She sags into the touch, shoulders shuddering and tears slipping down her cheeks.
 “Thank you, Morgana.”

~-~-~

Merlin sags into his bed, exhaustion dragging down his limbs, while his eyelids droop so heavily
he has to blink with effort to keep them open.

Though Morgana made the choice herself to protect Uther, and thus saving the King, Merlin
ensured it could happen. He faced each of Tauren’s men alone, armed with the staff he stole from
the Sidhe. Unlike when he struck Sophia and Aulfric, the renegades were merely wounded by
Merlin’s blows.

He was successful in incapacitating each of the sorcerers but Tauren; who used the mage stone to
harness the blast Merlin aimed at him and send it ricocheting back at Merlin.

He rubs absently at the wound on his chest. Gaius applied a tincture to it, of which he made an
abundant amount, even offering Gwen some to deliver to Morgana for her wrists, but the sting is
still present. It’s likely to scar, leaving a walnut sized burn on the left side of his chest.

“Merlin!” Arthur calls from the main chambers and Merlin suppresses a wince. “What makes you
think you can skive off your duties for an entire day?”

Merlin runs his hands over his face.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts.

“Coming, Sire,” he calls with as much derision as possible, and heaves himself to his feet.

Chapter End Notes

I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, I can't lie some of the things I included were a
direct "THIS SHOULD HAVE BEEN SET UP FROM SEASON ONE BBC" so i hope
someone else got enjoyment from those set ups GHDJHJS

as always please leave a comment and let me know what you think of this chapter or
the fic so far !! your comments mean the world !!

and i will see you for the season finale (GASP) on november 6th !!

pre warning (as you may have guessed) there will be another break between the
seasons so just preparing you for that !!
 Le Morte d'Arthur
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Arthur leans back in his chair with a satisfied hum, letting the happy buzz of the day settle
comfortably into his skin. His chambers are warmed with the soft glow of dusk, and the sky
streaked in brush strokes of orange and red as the sun disappears over the horizon. He swirls his
wine in his goblet, taking another contented sip.

It has been a good day. The new knights are shaping up nicely, and adapting well to the training
regime Arthur had assigned. He sparred with Merlin and managed to best him a total of sixteen
times over the course of the hour. His father was in a wonderful mood throughout dinner, without a
word of criticism to offer, and even complimented him on the state of the lower town.

Arthur watches as Merlin trundles around the room, lighting the candles and picking up Arthur’s
discarded clothes with disgruntled complaints under his breath. The environment is as comfortable
as the day has been, a familiar rhythm they have settled into over the nine months since Merlin was
appointed his manservant.

“Merlin?” Arthur breaks the quiet.

Merlin looks up from where he’s rummaging through Arthur’s armoire in search of Arthur’s
sleepshirt.

“Yes?”

“What’s your favourite colour?” Arthur asks, crossing his feet, watching as a bemused expression
flickers over Merlin’s face.

“My favourite colour?” He echoes as he continues to tidy Arthur’s room distractedly. “Why do you
want to know that?”

Arthur shrugs. There hadn’t been any specific motivation behind his question. He was simply
inspired by the amiable atmosphere and the desire to get Merlin talking.

“I feel like I don’t know that much about you,” Arthur says. Merlin falters, almost dropping the
hose he is folding. He looks up at Arthur with an almost fond expression, as warm as the setting
sun behind him.

“That’s not true, you know plenty about me,” Merlin argues amiably.

“But not your favourite colour,” Arthur points out.

Merlin smiles. “I suppose that’s true.”

He places the folded pile of clothes into the wardrobe and glances back at Arthur over his shoulder.

“It’s green,” he answers just as Arthur is contemplating repeating the question in impatience.
“What about you? What’s yours?”

“Red, obviously,” Arthur replies immediately. As he’s always been taught to do. Red is the colour
of the Pendragons, it adorns the castle, the crimson of their capes, it is the mark of their respect.
Merlin shoots him a look, one that says he doesn’t believe him for a moment.

“Really?” He asks quizzically.

“No,” Arthur replies, shocking himself with the honesty of his answer. He contemplates putting
down his goblet for the night, the wine making his tongue loose.

“Odd thing to lie about,” Merlin says with an amused lilt to his voice, raising an eyebrow at
Arthur. He must be learning that from Gaius, it’s getting quite good.

“Red is the colour of Camelot,” he answers with a cavalier gesture.

Merlin nods. “But you’re not Camelot, you’re Arthur.”

“Well spotted, any other brilliant observations?” Arthur mocks and Merlin sticks out his tongue
immaturely.

“I’m just saying. You don’t have to always have to be the epitome of Camelot. Sometimes you can
just be yourself.”

Arthur blinks, a little taken aback by the bluntness of the statement. Something soothing and
delightful settles into him, like the feeling of getting into a cool bath after a long day.

His father taught him from a young age that red would always be his favourite colour, a sign that
he admires his kingdom down to his very core.

“It’s blue,” he admits.

Merlin makes a contemplative noise, shuffling over and leaning against the edge of Arthur’s bed so
conversation is easier. Arthur ought to dismiss him, he’s clearly completed his chores for the night,
but he likes having someone to talk to and Merlin doesn’t seem in any rush to leave.

“Blue is a nice colour.”

Arthur nods. He’s always liked the peacefulness of blue, like waves lapping at a shore or the sky
on a bright day in the middle of summer.

“What’s your favourite animal?” Arthur asks, turning the conversation away from himself.

Merlin laughs. “What is this an interrogation?”

“Hardly. You wouldn’t survive a proper interrogation if you think these are the kinds of questions
that get asked.”

“I’d be great in an interrogation,” Merlin argues, just for the sake of it.

Arthur rolls his eyes, swallowing a gulp of wine and letting the liquid flood pleasantly through his
body.

“Not true, you’d buckle under the pressure and spill every secret you know.”

Merlin grins. “Shouldn’t have told me your favourite colour in that case. Wouldn’t want that
precious kept secret to get out,” he teases.

Arthur balls up the fabric napkin laid on the table and chucks it at Merlin’s head. It misses him by
several inches but causes Merlin to erupt into a fit of giggles, which is just as satisfying.
“Answer the question, Merlin.”

Merlin smiles. “I like owls.”

Arthur is surprised by the answer though he doesn’t know exactly what he expected.

“Why owls?” With a shrug Merlin leans back, propping one foot up against the foot of Arthur’s
bed to situate himself more comfortably. It occurs to Arthur that he probably shouldn’t be letting
his servant sit on his bed but finds he doesn’t really mind.

“When I was younger I befriended an owl,” he says, like that’s a reasonable thing to say to Arthur.

“How does one befriend an owl?”

“You feed it pieces of stew until eventually it comes to your window every evening,” Merlin says,
smiling impishly. “His name was Archimedes.”

“I really sympathise with your poor mother,” Arthur says, failing to hide his amusement. It’s easy
to picture Merlin as a young boy, all knobbly knees and bony wrists, with big eyes to match
Archimedes the owl. Arthur can clearly visualise a stressed Hunith, attempting to raise the
mischievous young boy, with a fond smile on her face.

“Oh she loved Archimedes,” Merlin waves away his concern, blowing his fringe from his eyes in a
dismissive gesture.

Arthur grins. “Sure she did.”

“Well what about you, Sire? What’s your favourite animal?” Merlin asks. The question is genuine
but there’s an entertained smile twitching at Merlin’s lips as he asks.

Arthur opens his mouth to answer but is interrupted by Merlin pointing a finger threateningly at his
face.

“And don’t you dare say a dragon.”

“What if it actually was a dragon?” Arthur splutters.

“I’d call you a liar,” Merlin shrugs. “And I’d know that you’ve clearly never met a dragon.”

Arthur pulls a face.

“What, and you have?”

Merlin’s grin is so wide he looks slightly insane. “I guess you’ll never know.”

Arthur scoffs, ignoring Merlin’s obvious bluff. There’s no way he could have met a dragon and
survived.

“Well, no need to call me a liar, it’s not a dragon,” Arthur assures him, crossing his ankles and
settling into his chair. “It’s a lion.” Merlin makes a teasing ‘ooo’ sound.

“Very regal of you, Sire.”

“You asked for my honest answer, I gave it.” Arthur resists the urge to pout, knowing Merlin will
only tease him more for acting childishly.
“Now I have two dark secrets someone could interrogate out of me.” Merlin claps his hands to his
cheeks in a mockery of fear, holding the exaggerated facial expression until Arthur has to chew on
his cheek to keep himself from smiling.

“Well I won’t give you any more highly classified information tonight,” he responds, with just as
much faux seriousness embedded into his tone.

Merlin’s melodramatic expression slips away to reveal a happy smile. It’s nice, this camaraderie,
messing around with each other. Arthur doesn’t get to experience this very often, it’s as close as
he’s ever come to friendship.

“Good idea. Someone might accost me on my way back to my chambers.”

Arthur scratches at his nose so Merlin can’t see the smile blossoming on his face.

“Speaking of which, you’d better finish up here for the night,” he says, finally dismissing Merlin
for the evening.

With a nod Merlin gets to his feet in preparation for getting Arthur ready for bed.

“By the way,” Arthur says, shrugging off his jacket, leaving it on the chair. “We’re going on a hunt
tomorrow.”

He enjoys Merlin's contemptuous expression. For some reason Arthur can’t fathom Merlin seems
to absolutely despise hunting, and is vocal about his displeasure every time Arthur forces him to
join.

“What on Earth for?” Merlin demands, he trails after Arthur, picking up the jacket he left strewn
and hanging it properly. “We went for a hunt earlier this week.”

Arthur hums a noise of agreement.

“Yes well, that was a hunt for food, this is a hunt for a beast.”

“Even better,” Merlin mutters sarcastically with a heavy scowl.

“The people in the outlying villages have been complaining of some sort of beast terrorising them.
We’re going to find it, and kill it,” Arthur explains, ignoring Merlin’s complaints.

“Let me guess, it will be terribly dangerous?” Merlin offers Arthur an unamused look as he
watches Arthur flop onto his bed with a grin.

“Most likely.”

“Wonderful.”

“Stop scowling, your face will get stuck that way, and we can’t have you getting uglier,” Arthur
mocks, biting at his cheek to keep from laughing as Merlin’s scowl only darkens.

“Shut up, Sire.”

“You can’t tell me to shut up,” Arthur scolds loftily, lounging into his bed with a sleepy yet
contented noise.

“Whoops, I just did,” Merlin replies unapologetically, snuffing out the candle by Arthur’s bedside.
Arthur is glad his responding smile is hidden by the encompassing cover of darkness.

~-~-~

Merlin has spent the better part of an hour conceptualising as many creative insults for Arthur as
possible. He’s come up with some pretty impressive options if he does say so himself. His foot
lands in a deep puddle and in response he brainstorms a few more insults.

He, Arthur and a select group of knights are trudging through the undergrowth of the forest, with
mud sticking to their boots and pollen drifting into their hair. He hates hunting. It’s dirty and he is
always the one responsible for carrying the various pieces no one else wants to carry, which is
inevitably dead meat or some keepsake of a beast. By the end of the day they’re all exhausted and
covered in a layer of sweat and grime. It’s a horrid experience that he wishes he didn’t have to
partake in.

Arthur holds up a hand, and the knights dutifully fall to a stop. They listen, ears tipped towards the
trees for the signs of a beast. Merlin can’t hear anything over the laboured sound of his own
breathing and exhausted pump of his pulse. Instead of listening he watches as Arthur crouches low
to the ground, fingers skimming the dirt and eyes shining with focus as he scans the landscape.
This is the only benefit of these godawful hunts — getting to see Arthur on the scope for a beast.
He has a quality about him that rarely appears anywhere else other than the battlefield; Merlin is
occupied resisting the urge to indulge in Arthur’s attractiveness when the prince finally speaks.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers, keeping his face turned towards whatever sound caught his attention.
“Spear.”

He holds out a hand for his weapon. Merlin bites down on his tongue to keep from telling Arthur
where he can stick his stupid spear and hands it to him. His sweat slicked fingers fumble with the
stick and it drops to the ground with a clunk, hitting Arthur’s shoulder on the way down.

Arthur turns to look at him with a disappointed grimace curling his lip.

“Do you have any natural gifts, Merlin?” Arthur gibes, retrieving the spear with a frustrated yank.

I’m quite the sorcerer, Merlin considers muttering in response and inhales deeply to keep his
temper under control.

“Not that I can think of,” Merlin says instead.

Arthur sighs exasperatedly. “So we agree on one thing.”

He begins to shift forwards, crouching low and spear lofted in his grip. Merlin tiptoes after him, his
feet crunching loudly on every stick he encounters.

“Well at least I’m not naturally rude or insensitive,” he quips lowly, ensuring Arthur can hear him.

“Just naturally irritating.”

Merlin isn’t given the chance to respond, the beast bursts through the bushes and rears on its hind
legs. They all freeze, hearts in their throats and blood running cold. It towers over them with a
snake-like head hissing maliciously as its curved, sharp fangs cast dark shadows over the party, it’s
covered in matted fur, spotted like a leopard, and sturdy as a lion.

“Holy fuck,” Arthur gasps sharply. “Run!”

They tear through the bushes, sprinting as fast as their legs will carry them. Merlin follows the blur
of red capes before him, focusing on keeping his breathing even as he pumps his arms to gain
momentum. His feet fly over stones and mud, pounding heavily on the forest floor.

He can hear the heavy sounds of the beast behind them, screeching and crashing into trees and
bushes as it gains on their small group. Fear and adrenaline surge through him, pumping in his
veins and straining his lungs.

Merlin’s foot catches on an upraised root, sending him flailing. He hits the ground with a heavy
thud that knocks the air from his lungs.

“Shit,” he gasps, repeating the word a few more times for good measure as he trips and fumbles
trying to get to his feet.

Arthur’s hands seize around his shoulders, pulling him up and into a run alongside him.

“Come on! You’re fine!” Arthur shouts over the heavy sounds of their heartbeats. Merlin has to
bite back the urge to laugh hysterically.

They reach the edge of the forest, slowing to a simultaneous stop as the group realises that the
sounds of the beast are no longer following them.

“Did we lose it?” Sir Kay asks, scanning the forest madly with wide terrified eyes.

“We must’ve,” someone else answers.

Merlin turns to Arthur, eyes flicking over him in search of an injury and letting his muscles relax
when he realises there are none. Arthur’s eyes are sharp, darting between the group with a
calculated furrow to his strong brow.

“Who are we missing?” He says, frowning in concern as they all glance amongst each other.

Merlin looks over each of the knights, cataloguing them in a short scan and coming one short.

“Where’s Sir Bedivere?” The words have barely left his lips before a mangled scream shreds
through the air, bringing each of their hearts to a stop.

~-~-~

Arthur wishes he felt confident as he stands before his knights, but the fear stewing in his stomach
is telling otherwise. The Questing Beast, as Merlin called it, is a nightmarish creature. They have
already lost Sir Bedivere to its monstrous jaws, and he doesn’t wish to lose any more good men.

He takes a steadying breath, and remembers what Merlin said in Ealdor. If the men can see that he
does not have faith in them, they will not have faith in themselves, and the battle is as good as lost.
He tips his chin, embedding his posture with certainty and faith, standing tall like the leader they
need him to be.

“The foe we face is a creature of nightmare,” he bellows, scanning his eyes along the line of
knights standing to attention. “I will not lie, it is a fearsome beast, and if you are nervous you have
a right to be. I know I am.”

The knights look at him with wide and shocked eyes. It is not customary for the first knight to
admit to fear; but Arthur cannot allow them to feel cowardly when he himself feels that same fear.
They are not so different, they train together, they fight together, and they feel together.
“But you are the best knights in the realm,” he reminds them. “We can and we will slay this beast
before it harms another citizen of our kingdom.”

He unsheathes his sword, lifting it in the air with strength and poise.

“For the love of Camelot!” He shouts, his voice rings out around the courtyard. The knights echo
the sentiment with steadfast determination in each of their jaws and bright eyes.

The doors crash open behind them and Morgana flies down the stone staircase, her feet skipping
over the steps and her nightdress billowing behind her.

“Arthur!” She sobs, grabbing at his hands and holding them so tight he fears they might lose
circulation. “You cannot face it,” she says, hysteria wild in her eyes and desperate in her voice.

“Morgana, what are you doing?”

Arthur absorbs her appearance; her face is flushed with fear, bags sit under her eyes so heavy they
appear bruised and her cheeks are stained with tears.

“Arthur please you cannot face it,” she repeats, shaking with tears and hands desperately resisting
his attempts to keep her at bay. He cannot console her now, his knights need his pillar of strength
to keep their own fear captive.

“Morgana,” he hisses, frantically trying to calm her. “Go back to bed, there is nothing to be afraid
of.”

Morgana screams through her teeth, fat heavy tears rolling down her cheeks as she shakes her head
roughly.

“No, please. Arthur, I have seen terrible things.” Her eyes are wide, desperately imploring him to
listen to her.

Arthur frowns, torn between worry and confusion as he stomachs the state of his adoptive sister.

“Morgana I don’t understand but you have to—”

“No!” She shouts, so loud that he winces.

Suddenly Merlin is by his side, the worried look on his face is identical to Arthur’s. He turns his
head towards Arthur, whispering through clenched teeth so the other knights will not hear.

“She probably had another bad dream Sire,” he cautions. “I will have her taken to Gaius.”

Arthur’s stomach drops for forgetting the nightmares that plague Morgana. In the last few months
they have been escalating, and he feels terrible for having them slip his mind.

“I’ll be okay Morgana, it’s just a dream,” he assures her, carefully manoeuvring her thrashing arms.

“No!” She screams. “No! I will not let you go!”

“Morgana please—”

“No!”

Arthur turns to Merlin.

“Get her inside, please.”

He watches with a heavy heart and rolling stomach as Morgana is ushered up the stairs, tripping
over her own feet and screaming to be heard.

~-~-~

Merlin follows cautiously at Arthur’s heels, his heartbeat thumping in his throat, pushing hard
against his windpipe so it’s impossible to breathe properly. He hovers his hands awkwardly by his
sides, it makes him appear more cowardly than he is, but at least if the Questing Beast attacks he’s
prepared to push Arthur to safety.

He watches with bated breath as Arthur follows the beast’s tracks, his eyes narrowed and his
shoulders broad. Despite the danger he looks confident, striding forward with sure steps. Every few
paces he stops and scans the area in search of something before continuing. The knights follow his
footsteps, stopping when he does and matching him pace for pace. Merlin does not have the same
confidence but he keeps close to Arthur nonetheless. They all freeze when a low growl emits from
a cave just off the path.

Gaius warned Merlin that the Questing Beast is a creature that lies at the heart of the Old Religion.
Its nature is written in scripture and doctrine, it holds the very essence of mortality at its core. One
bite from the creature and you are sentenced to death. There is no cure.

Arthur beckons the knights forward with two fingers, keeping his eyes firmly on the mouth of the
cave. They follow him in a cautious line, hands on swords as they scan the darkness. The air is
uncomfortably stagnant, not even the wind dares to breathe as they enter the cave. Merlin stays
close by Arthur’s side, hands shaking and lungs trembling as he struggles not to make a sound.

Their every footfall feels uncomfortably loud, the atmosphere is charged with tangible fear that
drapes heavily over their shoulders and forces their backs to hunch under the weight.

Silently Arthur turns to the group, making complicated signals to the knights which they follow
with wordless obedience. Merlin can’t understand anything Arthur silently communicates but it
hardly matters, even if Arthur had been indicating for Merlin to split off he wouldn’t obey, he
won’t leave Arthur’s side for even a second.

The two of them creep around the corner, the light of the torch only offers enough vision to see a
few feet in front of them, but they persist onwards. Merlin wishes he could summon a ball of light,
he has an eerie sense that the Questing Beast is waiting in the shadows, eagerly awaiting the meal
wandering into its home.

Merlin’s steps on something and it breaks with a crack. Both he and Arthur tense but nothing
attacks. He lowers the torch to see the path ahead and his stomach lurches as the light falls on piles
of bones and skulls. The skeletons litter the floor, a massacre of bones and torn apart flesh,
collected over a number of years. Merlin feels like he might be sick as his stomach wrings itself
and nerves gnaw on the walls of his gut and chest, chewing him apart from the inside with disgust
and fear. He lifts the torch so the bones are engulfed by darkness once more.

Arthur freezes, hearing something that Merlin’s unaccustomed ears don’t pick up on.

“What is it?” Merlin whispers, barely louder than a breath.

Arthur shakes his head roughly, his face is chiselled in the harsh lighting of the singular torch, his
chin and the far side of his face are completely lost to darkness. His eyes are narrowed, glancing
around the large space in search of the beast.

“Shh,” he instructs but his whisper is interrupted by the low growl of the Questing Beast. The
sound rumbles throughout the cave, vibrating in Merlin’s chest and in the hollow of his windpipe.

The creature's huge slitted eyes glint as it slinks from the shadows, haunches raised and prowling
like a lion. Merlin feels dizzy with fear, his sweaty palms slippery against the torch. He stumbles
backwards as Arthur’s hand makes purchase with his shoulder, shoving him behind and to relative
safety.

Merlin scrambles to a higher vantage point, he’s quick and agile as fear transforms his magic into
pure energy surging through his veins, humming with activity. He can hear the sounds of Arthur’s
sword clashing with the heavy hooves of the beast. His heart lurches with every shout that leaves
Arthur’s lips. Every noise Arthur makes could be him succumbing to an attack and falling, and that
unknown makes Merlin feel sick with fear.

When Arthur is struck it is upsettingly obvious. He lets out a loud shout of pain that echoes around
the cavern and rings in Merlin’s ears. Merlin’s body goes cold, heartbeat staggering to a halt as he
reaches the crest of the rock pile and sees the beast towering over Arthur’s limp body.

“Oi! You brute! Hey!” Merlin catches the Questing Beast’s attention, waving his torch around
madly until the giant creature turns to face him with a menacing hiss. His heart is racing, his mouth
goes dry and his skin prickles, but the sight of Arthur in danger makes him puff his chest and stand
firm.

Arthur’s sword lies discarded on the floor, a few feet away from his unconscious body. Merlin
seizes it with his magic, wrapping it tightly around the abandoned weapon and tugs it into the air.
His eyes flash gold as he shouts an incantation. The sword illuminates, casting a blue light over the
cave and with a tug Merlin pulls the weapon through the air plunging it into the heart of the beast.
It staggers to the ground with a deafening roar, scrabbling on the bone covered ground before
collapsing with a thud.

Merlin is already halfway to Arthur by the time the beast stills. A sense of calm had washed over
him when facing the beast, but now he feels nothing but unadulterated panic. He is frantic, nerves
alive like there are bees caught in his muscles and around his bones. He falls beside Arthur, hands
skimming over his body, checking for vitals and injuries as Gaius has taught him.

“It didn’t bite you, it didn’t,” he pleads desperately, repeating the words over and over as his hands
jump restlessly between the plates of Arthur’s armour. When he reaches the prince’s shoulder his
hand comes back sticky with blood and the world comes crashing down.

“No,” Merlin rasps, his stomach tightens until breathing is impossible,and the air in his chest
comes out in hollow gasps. “Arthur!”

Arthur remains unresponsive, flopping weakly in Merlin’s hold. Tears sting Merlin’s eyes, pressing
harshly on the sockets of his eyes until he wants to sob.

“Fuck,” he gasps hollowly, the word crushes down on his windpipe until each heaving breath
comes out hoarse with distress.

He swallows, forcing moisture back into his mouth so air will break through.

“Help!” Merlin screams, clutching Arthur to his chest and pressing his hand against the wound to
staunch the blood flow. “Someone help me!”
He looks down at Arthur, eyebrows furrowed with pain but lips parted and breaths coming out
evenly, like he’s taking a nap rather than being on the verge of death.

“You’re going to be okay,” Merlin promises. “You have to be.”

~-~-~

Merlin sprints into Gaius’ chambers, throwing books and papers from the table in a fell swoop of
his arm. The knights lower Arthur onto the cleared table and quickly flee the room, giving the
physician space.

“What happened?” Gaius’ eyes are wide as he hurries over. He scans his critical eyes over Arthur’s
body, quickly noticing the slowly oozing wound on the prince’s shoulder. Merlin takes a slow
breath to keep himself from collapsing

“He’s been bitten,” Gaius says, looking at Merlin with a horrified expression on his old face.

Merlin’s breath hitches, the tears that were building in his throat threaten to fall as Gaius begins to
remove Arthur’s armour to inspect the extent of the damage.

“I tried to protect him,” Merlin manages to speak through the despair that is lumped in his throat.

He leaves Gaius as the physician watches the blackening and oozing edges of the injury, taking the
stairs to his bedroom two at a time. After too many close encounters he and Gaius had created a
hidden alcove under Merlin’s bed for him to store his grimoire. He retrieves it with clumsy fingers
that scrabble at the loose floorboard gracelessly and tremble as he tries to flick through the pages.

“What are you doing?” Gaius demands, looking up with a wild expression as Merlin almost trips
down the stairs with his nose buried in the book. “The king is going to be here any minute!”

Merlin looks up — whatever Gaius sees in his eyes is enough to make the physician pause.
Perhaps it’s the desperation, or how close Merlin is to the verge of tears, or the way his heart feels
like it’s splintering and crumbling; he’s certain he’s showing it all on his face.

“I have to try,” he says, hysteria thick in his voice. “I have to protect him.”

Gaius hesitates, his indecision is evident.

Merlin’s entire body is shaking, weak as a dandelion under a heavy gust of wind ready to dissolve
into nothing.

“We haven’t done all the things we’re meant to do,” he says with a choked voice, gently brushing
Arthur’s fringe from his forehead.

“That is the lament of all men. It does not mean you should die alongside him,” Gaius says
solemnly but Merlin cannot fathom the idea of doing nothing.

“Gaius.” Merlin looks intently at Gaius. “He’s my destiny.”

He watches, heartbeat as loud as thunder in his ears as Gaius considers.

“Then save him,” Gaius finally agrees with a nod of permission.

Merlin allows his fear to drop like a heavy stone into the pool of magic within him, letting it
overflow. It rifles through the pages of the grimoire, turning the pages faster than his fingers could
ever achieve. His eyelashes flicker as he sees a thousand spells, recipes, instructions fly over his
eyelids in the space of a breath. His hand flies towards Arthur. He attempts an incantation, and
another, and another.

Arthur doesn’t move. His chest barely shifts with each breath, the movement is so minute that
Merlin can hardly tell if he’s taking in air at all. Merlin bites down hard at his cheek to keep
himself alert and in the moment, pushing away the fear and despair creeping into his vision.

You’ve failed him, the thought creeps over his mind, like a hot breath on the back of his neck. It
makes goosebumps pebble on his skin and hairs rise along his arms.

“Maybe… maybe the spells just need time to take effect,” he says, forcing optimism into his voice
when all he feels is overwhelming helplessness.

“The bite of the Questing Beast is a death sentence. There is no cure,” Gaius says softly.

Gaius’ expression is dark, grief amalgamated with cynicism. From his face it’s clear what he is
thinking. There is no hope.

Merlin bites down hard on his fist to keep his tears at bay as Uther storms into the room.

“Where is he?” He demands, red faced and with a dangerous expression that makes Merlin shrink
backwards into the shadows. He steps in front of the grimoire, carefully closing it out of Uther’s
sight.

“Arthur,” Uther gasps, hurrying to his side. The king is dishevelled in a way Merlin has never seen
him. His crown is lopsided on his balding head, his eyes distraught with terror that ages him by
decades.

Merlin knows that despite it all, Uther does care for Arthur, no matter how terribly he might
express it. It is obvious now as tears drip down the King’s face as he looks over his son.

“Do something, Gaius,” Uther commands. His order is harsh, unearthed from the depths of his
grief stricken chest.

“I’m trying, Sire, but…” Gaius shies away from Uther’s enraged stare. “I’m afraid there isn’t much
hope, but I will do everything in my power.”

Merlin is painfully aware that it won't be enough.

~-~-~

He debates for almost an entire hour before deciding to go to The Dragon with desperation and fear
warring in his stomach. The Dragon frowns in a confused way as Merlin enters. Merlin has not
dared return since the incident with Excalibur, he has been too riddled with shame and the
knowledge that he betrayed The Dragon’s trust. But now he doesn’t have a choice.

“I have failed in my destiny,” he gasps, stumbling to a stop. His chest feels compressed,
constricting his ribcage until it cracks and groans in protest. His words are thick with tears he
hasn’t yet allowed to fall because he simply doesn’t have the time.

“I have failed Arthur.”

The Dragon tips his head in contemplation. “I do not think that is true, if it were, you would not be
here.”
The Dragon’s cryptic words and impassive expressions grate against his patience like stones
against brick. Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, frustration rising like a swelling wave.

“He was bitten by the Questing Beast,” he shouts, chest heaving as anger crashes over him. “He’s
going to die,” the word catches like a hook in his throat, ripping the inside of his vocal chords open
as he pushes them into the air.

The Dragon is unwavering in his nonchalance, looking down at Merlin as though he is behaving
strangely.

“Does Arthur still breathe?” He asks cooly.

Pain settles in Merlin’s skin like needles as he nods. He can’t erase the image of Arthur’s barely
moving chest from his mind, his shaking exhales no louder than the flapping of a butterfly's wings.

“Only just,” he manages to croak.

“Then there is still time to save him,” The Dragon says, continuing to speak calmly and without
urgency, lounging on his boulder in a relaxed way.

Merlin grabs at the short hair around his ears and tugs hard in frustration, letting the sharp pain
keep him from screaming himself hoarse.

“I already tried! I couldn’t save him!”

I failed. I failed him. I couldn’t do it.

The thoughts hit him one after the other in a barrage of anguish and self revulsion. They crash
against his skin, leaving him bleeding and bruised. He’s overwhelmed by it, exhausted, desperate
to collapse under their weight and succumb to the pain.

“I can’t save him,” he whispers hoarsely.

The Dragon shakes his great head slowly.

“You do not know how to save him,” he corrects patiently.

Merlin’s frustration dulls into a low hum that buzzes under his skin, still filling him with restless
energy but calmed enough that he can focus on The Dragon’s words.

“You can tell me how?” He asks hopefully.

The Dragon smiles mildly. “Perhaps, but it will not be easy.”

It doesn’t matter. He does not feel hesitation, or indecision about this, he will do whatever Arthur
needs. The fear of losing him is overwhelming, worse than anything Merlin could ever imagine, so
immense that he could sink under the weight of such a terrible thought. He feels nothing but
hardened resolve when he considers the sacrifices he might need to make in order to protect Arthur.

“I will do anything,” he vows solemnly, gaze steady as he meets The Dragon’s giant yellow eyes.

“Anything?”

There is a pleased undertone to The Dragon’s surprised answer, who continues to look imploringly
at Merlin.
“Yes,” Merlin answers easily. “Please, just tell me what I have to do.”

The Dragon hums, narrowing his eyes critically at Merlin.

Merlin feels oddly defensive, tipping his chin up at the great beast and almost daring him to
suggest that Merlin wouldn’t go to the ends of the Earth to save Arthur.

“Very well,” he agrees finally, looking down his snout at Merlin. “The Questing Beast is a
creature conjured by the powers of the Old Religion. As such, the same old magic must be wielded
against it. That is what you must use to save the young Pendragon.”

Merlin frowns heavily. “But the Old Religion died out centuries ago.”

The Dragon scoffs, plainly offended by Merlin’s inadequate knowledge.

“The Old Religion is the magic of the Earth itself. It is imbued into nature, it is the essence that
binds all things together, and it will last long beyond the time of men.”

Merlin is dumbstruck by the knowledge. He pauses, thinking of his own magic and how it
instinctively reaches for the earth, drawing him towards the forest and nature. Since he was a small
child, he’s loved the feeling of soil and water against his fingertips, and the way his magic would
fill him with warmth and pleasant tingles he would experience if he let it extend towards nature. It
is understandable that his magic is simply an extension of a more ancient magic, of the Old
Religion; however there is one aspect that remains confusing.

“But how will that help me save Arthur?”

“There are few left who still serve the Old Religion, you must seek their help. Those who hold
dominion over life and death.”

Merlin has read about the ability to control life and death in the grimoire; such power is not
something that can be harnessed by just any warlock, only the most powerful sorcerers are capable
of wielding such an ancient form of magic, a form of magic that extends beyond simply causing
death but having the power to exchange life for death. The ability to strike a bargain with the very
essence of nature.

“Where can I find such a person?”

The Dragon smiles, the eager expression stretches across his lips, revealing the sharp teeth that line
his mouth.

“Go to the place that men call the Isle of the Blessed, where the ancient magic can still be felt. It is
there where you will find Arthur’s salvation.”

Hope blooms in Merlin’s chest, a small flower that he guards carefully, protecting it from harm as
it stretches its petals towards the sun. His eyes glisten with tears, as he feels optimistic for the first
time since his hand came back from Arthur’s devastated shoulder sticky with warm blood.

“Thank you,” he says gratefully. “Thank you so much.”

“Young warlock,” The Dragon stops Merlin before he can leave. Merlin turns to face him once
more, meeting the intense expression on The Dragon’s face. “The young Pendragon must live. No
matter the cost.”

Something resigned yet firm settles beside the hopeful flower within Merlin. Understanding that
some things, even himself, pale in comparison to Arthur’s importance.

He nods pensively, and offers The Dragon a tip of his head in farewell, all too aware that they may
never see each other again.

~-~-~

Merlin thunders into the physician’s chambers, determination beating through him like war drums
preparing for battle. He has never felt so assured about what he must accomplish, his fear, his
hesitation, has faded away into nothingness. He can save Arthur, he can succeed in his destiny.
This is what he was born to do, if everything he has done has led to this moment, he is satisfied
with that.

Gaius looks up in surprise as Merlin begins to storm around the room. He retrieves a discarded
satchel and hurriedly packs anything that might aid his journey to the Isle of the Blessed.

“What are you doing?” He asks, pausing his mixing of an ailment to watch Merlin with interest.

“I have to save Arthur,” is all Merlin offers, his hand stalls over the grimoire before deciding to
leave the book where it is. Where he is going no amount of information can assist him, only the
magic that is stitched into his very soul.

“You’ve already tried,” Gaius protests. “Now we must ease his passing.”

Merlin’s chest squeezes at the mention of Arthur’s passing. Gaius’ words are surrender, a
submission to the natural order. Merlin cannot yield so easily.

“No. The Questing Beast is a creature of the Old Religion, so the cure must come from the same
source.”

Gaius eyes Merlin suspiciously, his fingertips tap the tabletop as he continues to watch Merlin
bustle around the room.

“There are not many left who have mastered such an art,” he says dubiously.

Merlin nods. “I know, but you said it yourself, the Old Religion is still alive. There is an island—”

“No!” Gaius cuts him off with a shout, his eyes blazing and his back tall.

Merlin falters and turns to face Gaius properly.

“...The Isle of the Blessed,” he finishes cautiously, watching Gaius’ tense reaction with a wary eye.
“You know it?”

Gaius chews on the side of his mouth, and his brows draw over his eyes like a dark shadow falling
over his face. Merlin watches with wide eyes and an uncomfortable feeling in his chest as Gaius
swallows, clearly reluctant to divulge the information he so obviously holds.

Finally his head dips low in a singular nod.

“It was said to be the centre of Old Religion, the heart of its power.”

Merlin frowns, what Gaius is saying aligns with what The Dragon told him.

“Why did you keep this from me?” He asks, hurt that Gaius is still keeping secrets from him in
spite of the trusting relationship they have built.
“Because it was too dangerous, Merlin,” Gaius argues without hesitation.

“I should get to decide what I can handle,” Merlin retorts, irritation prickling the back of his neck.

Gaius’ face is steadily reddening with frustration. “You’re just a boy—”

“—I’m nineteen years old!”

“Exactly!” Gaius’ hand hits the tabletop in a splayed palm.

Merlin freezes, staring back at Gaius with wide eyes and jaw hanging open. Gaius softens
immediately, his wise eyes heavy with exhaustion and love for Merlin.

“You are under my care. As your guardian I only want what is best for you. I did not think you
were ready to face the Isle of the Blessed and I do not regret my decision to keep it from you.”

“The Isle of the Blessed could be our only chance to save Arthur,” Merlin says soberly. He
understands Gaius’ desire to keep Merlin safe and he can’t fault him for that. However, for Merlin,
Arthur must come before all else.

“If there is something I can do to save him, I have to. It is my destiny.”

Gaius doesn’t look pleased with his answer, his jaw is tense and he glares at Merlin when he
returns to his task of packing.

“Once you are there what will you ask?” He demands eventually, interrupting Merlin once more.

Merlin doesn’t look at him, shoving an apple and some bread into his satchel.

“For Arthur to be saved,” he answers without pause.

Gaius exhales sharply through his nose in frustration. “The Questing Beast chose Arthur, that
means the Old Religion has already decided his fate.”

Anger bursts in Merlin, a furious explosion from his core to his fingertips.

“Then I will convince them to change their minds!” He yells, slamming a book onto the table with
a smack that echoes around their chambers.

“It is not that simple!” Gaius shoots back fiercely.

They both still, faces torn with fury and chests heaving. Merlin hates the anxiety creeping under
his skin, it corrupts Gaius’ reasonable arguments into harsh sandpaper that scrape against his
patience, eroding it into dust. He has to do this, he doesn’t have another choice. Arthur will die, he
will have failed, there is only one option and he needs Gaius to see that.

Gaius sighs, bridging the gap between them when it is clear that Merlin won’t. He reaches out a
hand, resting it on Merlin’s shoulder and squeezing affectionately.

“The high priests of the Old Religion have the ability to mirror life and death, but it is an exchange.
They will demand a life in return.” Gaius’ eyes are sad as they watch Merlin’s reaction. Merlin
tries to contain his fear, the terror that makes his beating heart feel too big, claustrophobic in his
chest. He knew this already, but it is one thing to be aware, and another to consider just what he is
risking by saving Arthur’s life.

“Please Merlin,” Gaius begs, his touch a reassuring weight against Merlin’s arm. “I beg of you.”
Merlin takes a deep steadying breath, meeting Gaius’ eyes with unfaltering, steadfast confidence.
He is afraid, but he is not uncertain. This is what he was born to do.

“I’m sorry Gaius,” he says honestly. “Whatever the price is, I will pay it gladly.”

Gaius sighs reluctantly, sadness twisting his features as he accepts Merlin’s commitment.

“You’ll need to know how to reach the Isle in that case,” he says, with an air that indicates how
little he wants to reveal such information to Merlin.

He makes his way over to the bookcase, climbing the ladder to the top balcony alcove and fetches
a small dust covered key.

“This unlocks the cabinet at the back of the royal library, it is where the King keeps any maps or
scriptures related to sorcery,” he explains, pressing the key begrudgingly into Merlin’s hand. “The
Isle of the Blessed is a place embedded in magic. It does not cling to the shore, or settle in the
water like any other island, it moves and shifts with the tide. The map tracks its whereabouts, you
will need it if you are to get there at all.”

Merlin offers Gaius a smile, taking the physician’s hand and holding it tight.

“Thank you, Gaius,” he says gratefully.

Gaius huffs, a small reluctant smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He clicks his fingers,
suddenly remembering something, and hurries over to his bed in the corner, reaching under the
pillow and retrieving a small object.

“Here, I want to give you this,” he hands Merlin the item with careful fingers. It’s a small rabbit’s
foot, fluffy to the touch and so small it fits comfortably in the palm of Merlin’s hand alongside the
key.

“My mother gave it to me,” Gaius tells him softly, emotion straining thick through his casual
words.

“To keep you safe,” Merlin murmurs, turning the small thing over in his hand with a private smile.

Gaius nods. “It was said to protect you from evil spirits.”

Merlin looks up at the physician, a comforting warmth spreads throughout his body, like sitting by
a warm fire on an icy winter’s day. “It’s rubbish, I don’t believe in superstition,” Gaius rambles,
obviously self conscious by the tenderness of the moment. “I don’t know why I thought you would
want—” he tries to take the rabbit’s foot back to save himself the embarrassment but Merlin holds
it to his chest.

“No.” He smiles at Gaius, reassuring him and thanking him all at once. “I want it.”

Gaius smiles back, eyes glistening with unshed tears and a distressed twist to his eyebrows. He
takes Merlin by the shoulders and pulls him into a tight hug, thumbing the top of his spine.
Merlin’s body eases into Gaius’ arms and he rests his cheek against the physician’s head, relaxing
into the embrace with a pleased hum. Gaius always smells vaguely of herbs and sharp spices, the
tang of his medical remedies is sewn into his state of being. It’s comforting now, as nerves solidify
in his gut and sit there, heavy as a stone.

“Be careful,” Gaius whispers softly into Merlin’s shoulder. It’s needless, they both know what
Merlin needs to do, the sacrifice that must be made. However, the plea softens something in
Merlin’s chest and he swallows heavily to hold back the tears that spring to his eyes.

He doesn’t promise anything. It would be a disservice to them both for him to lie.

~-~-~

Morgana eases herself onto the bed beside Arthur; her body is tense in frightened anticipation of
jostling him. It breaks her heart to see him like this, heavy and still, forehead shiny with sweet and
face screwed up in pain. His chest is bare, wrapped tightly with bandages that are slowly staining
with blood as his injury weeps.

She combs her fingers gently through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes, slowly untangling the
knots that are accumulating in the soft strands.

“I told you not to go,” she says softly, chastising him like he was awake and merely injured. It is
the ultimate goal of any sibling to be proven right, but now she only wishes that Arthur had proved
her wrong.

“I told you that you would get hurt, why couldn’t you just—” her words crumble into a shuddering
sob. Tears trickle down her face and drip from her chin as she takes his hand. It is heavy, almost
lifeless but still warm from his persistently pumping heart. Morgana takes a shaky breath, but her
tears continue their slow path down her face.

“If you had just listened to me just once, instead of being so damn stubborn—” she laughs wetly,
eyes shining affectionately as she gently rubs her thumb over the bumps of Arthur’s knuckles.

“—Then you’d be okay.”

He remains unresponsive, eyelashes flickering in uncomfortable slumber and his breaths are
shallow, but thankfully, still even.

“Please…” Morgana chokes, swiping at her tears with the heel of her hand.

“Please Arthur, you have to be okay.”

~-~-~

The map moves fluidly in Merlin’s hand; the illustrated trees blow under an invisible breeze, the
clouds shift over the sketched mountains, and the painted water laps at the shore in gentle waves.
He rides towards the Isle, today it’s located about a half day’s ride from Camelot’s border, but he
keeps his eyes on the shifting map the entirety of his journey.

When he reaches the shore his heart is pumping fast against his ribcage. He takes a steeling breath
before he braves the dismount and starts making his way towards the small rickety rowboat
positioned at the water’s edge.

He approaches the boat cautiously. It feels like something is watching him, he can’t help but check
behind him on the short walk to where the boat waits. There are no oars, but as soon as he enters
the small barge it pitches into motion, bobbing over the waves and towards the looming Isle, which
is almost completely concealed in a heavy fog.

The magic in the air is potent, it sticks to his skin and pulls at his hair as the boat makes its slow
path towards the castle ruins. His ears start to ring as he advances, his own magic rises within him,
towards his fingertips and mind, eager vibrations that simultaneously settle him and provoke his
anxiety.
The boat floats under huge, overhanging arches that cast dark shadows over the water. Merlin
weaves along a twisting river, through the ruins and the fog and towards the epicentre of the castle.
The magic in Merlin’s chest is practically thrumming with fervour. It knows this place, these walls,
these stones, it knows them by heart even if Merlin himself has never encountered them before.

His heart pitches as the boat pulls to a stop. His stomach heaves and bubbles as he peers over the
lip of the boat towards the steep staircase ahead.

“Okay,” he mumbles, mustering his courage and stepping onto solid land. The walls are alive with
magic, the whole Isle hums with it, emitting an energy that makes the hairs on Merlin’s arms stand
tall.

Stones crumble under his feet as he tiptoes his way up the staircase. With every step the ageing
stairs threaten to drop out from under his feet and his muscles clench in anticipation of fall with
every tentative footfall.

The staircase opens into a huge courtyard. The walls are dilapidated, covered in creeping moss that
swallows the crumbling stone. It is a manifestation of what is left of the Old Religion, broken and
feeble, but still connected to nature at its very essence. Mist sits heavily over the scene, thinner
than the magic that permeates the Isle but shrouding the space in eeriness everywhere Merlin
looks.

Merlin swallows heavily, breathing in the earthy taste of magic around him.

“Hello?” He calls out into the empty air. The castle feels deserted, a liminal space that was once
alive, only now to be left in isolated ruin.

“Hello, Merlin.”

He spins around, eyes searching for the source of the voice. They fall on a woman. Merlin
recognises her immediately, Nimueh. Though he met her under the pseudonym of Elise, Gaius had
explained the sorceress’ true identity when Merlin woke from his poison induced coma.

She looks different to when she visited him in Camelot. Her once innocent and wide eyed face has
become twisted with the years of solitude that was forced upon her, her exile from the world that
once welcomed her has turned her heart into stone. Her soft lips are pulled into a cruel red painted
smile, and her inhumanely blue eyes seem to burn with hatred.

“You.”

Nimueh smiles. “Me,” she answers, brushing her knotted dark hair from her shoulder.

“No, you can’t be who the Dragon meant,” Merlin mutters, shaking his head to dispel the fear
trailing down his spine.

Nimueh blinks at him with theatrical innocence.

“And why is that?”

“You tried to kill me, and Arthur,” Merlin reminds her.

Nimueh shrugs. “I don’t deny it, but Arthur was never destined to die at my hand; and now it
seems that I will be his salvation.”

She smiles coldly. Everything about Nimueh and her smug, leering smile is enough to set Merlin’s
teeth on edge and riddle him with distrust; but he has no other choice. Arthur needs him, and
Merlin cannot fail him.

“So you know what I’ve come for?” He asks hopefully.

Nimueh raises a thin eyebrow at him in amusement. “Yes,” she answers simply.

“And will you do it?”

With a contemplative expression Nimueh stalks towards the altar at the centre of the courtyard.
Her bare feet create sparks as they strike the earth, reacting with the energy that hums beneath the
surface, forming a connection between her and the magic of the Isle itself.

“I do not have the power to mirror life itself and give nothing in return,” Nimueh advises, the blue
in her eyes is glacial like solid ice, sharp and inhospitable. She has become so isolated that even her
eyes are uninhabitable, she is beyond cruel and nearing barbaric, stripped of her humanity.

Merlin nods, interrupting her. “I know that a price will be asked.”

Nimueh tips her chin appraisingly at him.

“To save a life there must be a death, the balance of the world must be restored.”

Merlin knew this was true, The Dragon had inferred it, Gaius had told him outright, but to hear it
from Nimueh’s lips makes his blood run cold.

He takes a slow, deep breath, bolstering his courage and standing tall while pinned by her dark,
amused stare.

“I willingly give my life for Arthur’s,” he says with an air of confidence he does not feel.

She grins predatorily, a slow pull of her lips that makes her appear to be a lioness only seconds
before her kill.

“How brave you are, Merlin,” she says condescendingly. “If only it were so simple.”

Merlin frowns, goosebumps raising on his skin. “What do you mean?”

She ignores his question, instead her grin widens until her cheeks are practically split in two. Her
lipstick is blood red, and smeared in the left corner, she looks mad.

“Once you enter into this bargain, it cannot be undone,” she warns him.

Merlin swallows his fear.

“Whatever I have to do, I will.” He steps forward, chest swelling with pride when Nimueh’s eyes
widen at his certainty.

He lets calm eclipse the fear, the knowledge that this is what he is meant to do, he is destined to
protect Arthur.

“His life is worth one hundred of mine.”

Nimueh raises her eyebrows, looking at Merlin like he’s an experiment; peering at him through the
scope of a magnifying glass. He is the ant beneath her boot, she is simply waiting for the right
moment to kill him.
She waves her hand over the stone altar, and beneath her fluid fingertips a goblet appears. Forged
in bronze and gilded in gold, it shines amongst the mist and hums with the same magic that is
infused through the air.

“The Cup of Life,” she introduces, taking the goblet and beckoning him over. “It contains the very
secret of life itself. If Arthur drinks water from the cup, he will live.”

She offers the cup to Merlin, smirking as he reaches out gingerly and takes it from her outstretched
hold. It feels too easy, like something should come at any minute to strike him where he stands.
But nothing happens.

Nimueh smiles once more, a cruel stretch of her lips that sends chills up Merlin’s spine.

She chants a spell, looking to the sky with outstretched hands, summoning dark clouds to gather
over their heads. As the sky darkens Nimueh looks to Merlin, a knowing look in her vicious blue
eyes.

From above, the clouds break and heavy rain begins to fall, a torrential downpour that escalates in
seconds until Merlin can barely see a few inches from his own nose. The water splashes in the cup
hitting the rim and bottom of the goblet in plinking sounds that steadily fill until he holds a full cup
of water in his hands.

Rainwater drips from his eyelashes and chin as the rain slowly eases to a stop under Nimueh’s
careful instruction. She offers Merlin another wicked smile, taking the goblet from him once more
and pouring it into a small canister. He stands waiting for her, shivering as cold spring air whistles
between his teeth as they chatter. He rubs his hands uselessly over his saturated arms and the
waterlogged fabric of his jacket.

She hands Merlin the canister, pressing it hard against the skin of his palm.

“A bargain is struck.”

Merlin nods, dripping a puddle onto the moss covered floor and still shaking with nerves and cold.
He turns to walk away from her, eager to leave this magic infested place and remove himself from
her sadistic gaze.

Her hand darts out and seizes his wrist just before he’s out of her reach. Her grip is a shackle,
unkempt fingernails dig harshly into his wrist and cut into his skin.

“I hope it pleases you,” she bids him, her tone simperingly sweet but her eyes are malicious and
hungry.

Merlin wrenches his wrist from her grip, hurrying from the Isle as quickly as he can manage. He
can feel her eyes on the back of his neck all the way back to his horse.

~-~-~

Gwen opens the door to Arthur’s chambers as quietly as she can, with a bowl of fresh water
balanced on her hip and her heart sitting at the base of her stomach.

The news of Arthur’s defeat from the Questing Beast shattered her heart. She has grown up
alongside him, but only this year has she begun to see him as anything but untouchable and
unapproachable, Prince Arthur. When they met he was arrogant, guarded in every sense and
emotionless aside from immature humour; she had assumed him to be callous like his father, or
cocky like the other royalty that came to Camelot.
Only this year did she realise she was wrong, and now he is going to be lost forever.

Gaius is dozing in the chair by Arthur’s bedside, drained from his efforts to keep the young prince
alive.

She knocks gently on the door, startling him awake.

“Gwen,” he greets her, rubbing at his face to rouse himself as his trained eyes scan over Arthur.

“You should get some rest,” Gwen says, placing the water on the bench, making her way over to
Gaius.

He shakes his head.

“He must not be left alone,” he says solemnly, but she feels the sag of his shoulders as she touches
his arm.

“I’ll tend to him.”

Gaius looks at her with affectionate eyes. Since the death of her father, he has been a comfort to
her, offering her to sit in the physician’s chambers often so she isn’t left alone in the silence of her
home.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says softly.

She nods. “I know, but I want to, and you need proper sleep or you won’t be able to care for him.”

Gaius frowns hesitantly, glancing at the sleeping Arthur before conceding with a nod. He eases
himself to his feet, muscles groaning and bones creaking as he rises from the stiff wooden chair.

“Thank you, Gwen,” he murmurs, patting her arm warmly before hobbling his way out of the
room.

Gwen perches on the bed beside him, gently easing the cool cloth from Arthur’s head and ignoring
the stab of guilt when he whimpers slightly in sleep. She dips the rag in the fresh water and dabs at
his sweat soaked forehead gently, cooling his fever with soothing motions.

“You’re not going to die, Arthur,” she says adamantly. “I’m not asking, it’s not a request… I’m
ordering you.”

He is unresponsive, but she continues nursing him regardless.

“I know you’ll be okay, because I know that one day you will be king.” She smiles, dabbing the
cloth at the hollow of his neck and carefully around the bandaged wound on his shoulder.

“A greater king than your father could ever hope to be.”

The pain of what Uther did to her, to her family, has not eased over the last month. She hates him
with every fibre of her being, and even though she would not wish death upon him she would
happily see him suffer for the remainder of his days. She knows Arthur will be a better king than
his father because he is a better man than Uther could dream of being. He is good, and kind, and he
will be more than his father. She knows it.

“Since the death of my father that’s all that’s kept me going,” she admits softly, tongue loosened
with the awareness that he cannot truly hear her. “The knowledge that one day I will see your rule.
You can’t take that from me.”
Gwen takes a shaking breath, taking his hand between her two smaller palms.

“You are going to live to be the man I’ve seen inside you, Arthur,” she tells him softly. “You are
going to achieve amazing things. In the future I can see a Camelot that is right, and just, and I see
people who love their king.”

Uther could never know what it is to be a beloved ruler; he strikes unease in the population; he is
respected, but despised. Arthur will be loved, he is already cherished by the people; as King he will
be adored.

“You will be a sovereign they are proud to call their own.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, refusing to cry or else admit that things are hopeless. She needs the
hope and clings to it like driftwood in a sweeping current, it is the only thing keeping her afloat.
She adjusts the cloth on his forehead so it doesn’t soak his fringe or drip onto his eyes, with tender,
careful motions, like he is a fragile antique that must be protected.

“For the love of Camelot… you have to live,” she pleads, voice choked and hoarse but firm. She
presses his knuckles to her lips and waits as he sleeps, watching over him protectively.

~-~-~

Merlin and Gaius sprint through the halls towards Arthur’s chambers with the canister of
enchanted water held tightly in Gaius’ grip. Merlin’s heart feels like it might beat its way right out
of his chest. The anticipation is like a bolt of lightning injected right into his bloodstream,
electrifying his every nerve and muscle.

The chamber is thankfully empty when they arrive so they don’t have to make any excuses. Merlin
sits on the bed, gently lifting Arthur’s head onto his lap so Gaius can offer him the water with ease.
He’s careful as he manoeuvres the sleeping prince’s head, his fingers are gentle and delicate as he
affectionately smooths Arthur’s hair.

Merlin wishes for a moment that his feelings for Arthur were reciprocated, that he could hold him
the way he desperately wants to. He longs to tend to the warm fever of Arthur’s forehead, to press
a gentle kiss to the bump of his nose. It would be so easy to express his feelings; but he can’t. He
acquiesces that at least if this works his destiny will be fulfilled. He may never be anything more to
Arthur than his poorly behaved manservant, but at least he will play a key role in his story, in his
journey to become a great king.

Gaius unstoppers the canister with a steadying breath and nods at Merlin.

Merlin gently presses the pad of his thumb to Arthur’s cupid’s bow, encouraging his lips to part for
the water.

He holds his breath as Gaius pours the liquid into Arthur’s mouth, watching anxiously as he
swallows the drops with heavy bobs of his Adam’s apple. There is no power in the room, no thrill
of magic or sense of destiny. It is just Arthur and the water, seemingly nothing extraordinary.

Arthur whimpers, his body is flushed red and shaking with fever, and his eyes are sunken with grey
shadows, unconscious but unrested. Merlin shushes him gently, stroking the soft hairs around his
ears soothingly until he settles again.

“What are you doing?” Uther’s voice from the doorway makes them both snap up in surprise.
Merlin’s stomach clenches at the sight of the King. Despite how unassuming the act appears
Merlin can’t help but feel as if Uther will smell the stench of magic in the air.
Gaius answers confidently and without pause. “I discovered an ancient remedy against poison,
made from the lobelia plant, I was just administering it to the prince.”

“A cure?” Uther asks, coming to stand by Gaius’ shoulder.

Merlin forces himself to exhale, unwinding his muscles lest the King notice anything suspicious
tense disposition. He ceases petting Arthur’s hair, while Gaius didn’t acknowledge any ulterior
motive behind the touch, he senses Uther would see right through his paper thin skin to his true
feelings for Arthur.

“I can only hope, Sire,” Gaius answers cryptically. He pours the remaining drops into Arthur’s
mouth and glances nervously at Merlin who returns the gaze with equal force.

“We should allow him to rest,” Gaius suggests, shifting to his feet with a gentle pat to Arthur’s
uninjured shoulder.

Uther shakes his head. “I won’t leave him. You go.”

Merlin wishes he could stay, he wants to be with Arthur until the moment he wakes up. There’s a
large chance he might never see Arthur again, he wants to make the most of every second he has
left, but he could never explain that to Uther. He squeezes his eyes shut, resisting the urge to hold
Arthur close, all too aware of the King’s watchful stare and moves from under Arthur. He gently
eases Arthur’s head onto the pillow with a careful cradled motion, chancing one gentle nudge of his
knuckles to the prince’s strong jaw before stepping away.

Please be okay, it’ll be worth it if you’re okay, he thinks desperately, and leaves the room on
Gaius’ heels.

~-~-~

Arthur wakes groggily, drowsy and ears stuffed full of wool. His head is pounding, his limbs are
heavy like they’re made of stone, and his mouth is dry and ashy. It’s reminiscent of the terrible
feeling that plagues his mornings after a heavy night of drinking at a particularly eventful feast.

He blinks slowly, rubbing away the crust of sleep clinging to his eyelashes and stiffly lifts his head
to inspect the room. He blinks in surprise when he turns to the left to find his father dozing at his
bedside. Arthur only has a moment to ponder whether he’s still asleep before Uther blinks awake,
his eyes widening when they meet Arthur’s.

“Arthur!”

Uther surges out of the chair and to Arthur’s side, clutching his hand like a lifeline. The gesture
only startles Arthur more, he subtly pinches the side of his leg just in case he really is dreaming but
the mirage of his father’s joyous eyes doesn’t disappear.

“You’re okay.”

Uther squeezes his hand and Arthur thinks of saying ‘no I think I’m hallucinating’, but if this really
is his father he likely wouldn’t take kindly to that response so he stays quiet.

He lets his head drop back onto the pillow heavily. He takes a heaving breath, winded by simply
attempting to sit up. The wound on his shoulder throbs with pain as the dregs of unconsciousness
slip away and his muscles awaken.

“How am I okay?” He manages to ask.

From what Merlin had been inanely muttering as they began their hunt, the bite of the Questing
Beast is a death sentence with no cure. Arthur knows the beast sunk its teeth into him, it is the last
thing he remembers. He can recall sharp teeth, blinding pain, and then sweet, encompassing
darkness.

“I found an ancient remedy,” Gaius says, emerging from the servant’s entrance by the side of his
bed with a fond smile. “Welcome back, Sire.”

“Thank you.” Arthur smiles back, his chest flooding with warmth and gratitude. “And thank you,
for curing me.”

“Always,” Gaius pats Arthur’s ankle affectionately before bowing out of the room.

While Arthur’s attention was occupied with the physician, his father has returned to his usual self.
The raw and unguarded look on his face from a moment ago is shielded once more, but he still
gazes at Arthur with a fond expression.

“I truly thought we lost you,” Uther admits.

Arthur blinks in surprise, caught so off guard that a smile slips onto his face. It’s hard sometimes to
remember that under the heavy armour of being a King, that Uther is a father at all. That he would
feel upset, emotional, if something were to happen to his son, beyond fears for his own succession.
He knows that the weight of the crown is heavy, a burden he carries on his shoulders and in the
stiff lines of his frown, but it’s reassuring, in a terrible way, to see in this moment that his father has
unravelled like a poorly made tapestry when Arthur’s life was threatened.

“Don’t worry father,” he says with a grin. “I’m not going to die.”

He thinks of his narrow escapes with death just in the last year, and muses. “I think I might have a
guardian angel, someone watching over me and keeping me from harm.”

Uther hums. “Perhaps that’s a good thing, it’s a long journey to being king, you could use someone
like that keeping you safe.”

Arthur’s smile grows, dopey and touched by his father’s out of character warmth.

Uther knocks his hand against the bedframe with a nod.

“I shall inform the court that their prince lives,” he says with a large smile that makes the warm
feeling in Arthur flourish.

From the corner of his eye Arthur sees Guinevere enter just as the door clatters closed behind his
father. Her arms are laden with linen, and her eyes are downturned and sad until they glance up and
meet his.

“You’re awake!” She exclaims, almost dropping the fabric in her excitement. “Oh I knew it, I said
you would be all right.” Her smile is infectious, a happy trill hums in Arthur’s chest as she beams
at him.

She places the linens on the armoire and Arthur watches her go with a contemplative frown.
There’s a memory that flickers in his mind, faint and hazy, nothing more than sounds and
sensations but there all the same. He remembers in the dark and painful haze after he was bitten,
the sounds of people coming to and from the room. Morgana’s soft hands in his, Merlin’s fingers
brushing his hair, and Guinevere’s cool touch nursing his fever.
“You were speaking to me,” he recalls faintly. “While I was asleep. I remember.”

Guinevere turns back to him with wide owlish eyes, shock painted across her face.

“You do?”

Arthur nods, shifting as a jolt of pain shoots down his arm.

“Tell me again what you said?” He says hopefully. The memories are so ambiguous he hardly
remembers at all. Faint whispers of him becoming king, and the man Arthur is inside, they’re like
echoes heard from the other end of a long cavern.

Guinevere shakes her head self consciously. “I don’t remember,” she says, but from the blush on
her brown cheeks Arthur knows she’s lying.

Arthur smiles. “Yes you do.”

“No I don’t.”

“Come on,” Arthur prompts with a teasing smirk that makes Guinevere smile back reluctantly.
“Something about the man I am inside.”

“No, I think I’d remember saying something like that,” Guinevere retorts, shaking her head shyly.

Arthur rolls his eyes warmly.

“Guinevere.”

She smiles back but doesn’t budge, piling dirty tunics and rags into a basket with astonishing
efficiency.

“I have to get these washed, Sire,” she says, stepping back and away.

Arthur nods, even the short interaction has left him completely drained, chest straining with the
effort of keeping air in his lungs. He smiles as Guinevere turns to leave, pausing in the doorway.

“I really am glad you’re okay, Sire.”

She bobs a small curtsey and leaves the room, his smile following her out.

~-~-~

Merlin wakes up, which is the first sign that something has gone wrong.

He’d thought that the same cool confidence that fueled him when he spoke to Nimueh would
return when he went to sleep, but instead he had laid awake for nearly two hours in panic. He felt
like anxiety would chew through his skin and leave him as an empty husk before whatever magical
intervention came to kill him. Eventually he had fallen into a restless sleep, expecting every
moment to be his last.

But he wakes up.

The rabbit’s foot is still clenched tight in his palm, and he’s slightly dazed from sleep and the
shock of being alive, but he sprints downstairs as fast as he can manage.

“Merlin,” Gaius says, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Don’t come any closer,” he warns,
holding out a hand to stop Merlin from approaching.

Merlin ignores the physician’s attempt to keep him at bay, well used to Gaius attempts to shield
him from patients with terrible, bloody injuries.

His heart stops when he sees the woman in the bed. She is covered in blisters and boils, skin
chafed raw and peeling, breaths coming out in haggard gasps; but Merlin knows those eyes, that
smile.

“Mother?”

His mother’s eyes soften as they fall upon him.

“Merlin,” she croaks.

“What happened to her?” Merlin asks desperately, turning to Gaius with pleading eyes.

“She’s gravely ill,” Gaius tries to explain but Merlin’s heart is pounding in his ears, he can hardly
hear his own thoughts let alone Gaius’ voice.

“Help her—”

“If I could—”

“Please Gaius!” Merlin nearly sobs. His mother is all he has. She is his family, his support, she has
been there for him through everything and he can’t lose her. He can’t.

Gaius shakes his head, putting a consoling arm around Merlin’s shoulders until his trembling
subside and he is able to hear again.

“This is no ordinary illness Merlin, this is magic.”

Hunith manages a nod but Merlin notices how fragile his mother seems to be, it seems like the
smallest movement may crumble her to pieces.

She manages to explain around the hoarse croak of her illness that she had arrived in Camelot by
way of magic. She had been collecting firewood in Ealdor when suddenly she had arrived at the
gates of Camelot’s citadel, weak and disoriented from the sudden onset of illness. The only place
she had thought to go was to Merlin and Gaius.

“This isn’t fair,” Merlin mumbles once his mother has fallen into an agitated sleep. “This is not her
burden to bear, it is mine.”

Gaius nods sadly, his fingers stroking at his chin slowly.

“Who did you meet at the Isle of the Blessed?” He asks carefully.

Merlin chews on his cheek until he tastes the metallic sting of blood.

“Nimueh.”

“Nimueh?” Gaius’ eyes go wide.

Merlin ignores his reaction. “You were right, she demanded a price; but I bargained my life, not my
mother’s.”
Gaius’ eyes flash with sadness at Merlin’s confession. Up until now Merlin had managed to avoid
mentioning his self sacrifice aloud. He’s sure Gaius knew, it would be impossible not to, but still it
was easier on both of them if he didn’t say so explicitly. Now he doesn’t care.

“I’m going to fix this,” he says, and doesn’t bother to wait to see if Gaius responds.

He storms to The Dragon’s cave, he doesn’t care if anyone sees him, he doesn’t care if he looks
mad. He’ll probably be dead by morning if all goes to plan. It’s hardly the time to be cautious.

The Dragon looks amused when he charges into the room, looking down at Merlin with laughter in
his giant, yellow eyes. It only serves to make Merlin more furious, his nerves are like fire, burning
within him and turning his insides to ash. He’s more angry than he’s ever been in his life.

“You knew this would happen!” He bellows. “You had me trade my mother’s life for Arthur’s.”

The Dragon blinks at him, completely unbothered by Merlin’s fury.

“You said you would do anything,” he argues serenely.

Merlin huffs a cold disbelieving laugh as anger continues to bubble under his skin. “Did you know
my mother was going to die?”

The Dragon tips his head in consideration with a low hum that vibrates in Merlin’s ribs.

“I knew the price would be a heavy one.”

“But you sent me anyway.”

The Dragon does not offer any apologies, his expression is remorseless.

“We need Arthur to live. Your destiny is to protect the Young Pendragon until he can assume the
crown. When he does, magic will return to the realm, only then, can I be free.”

Merlin goes very still. The fury flowing through him solidifies, weighing down with horrified
understanding and turning thick and strong as it lines his veins. His breaths whistle in his lungs and
his emotions harden. He’s still furious, but it’s different. He has transcended beyond lashing anger,
and reached glacial calm.

“Oh,” he mutters, clenching his jaw. “I understand now.”

The Dragon peers at him with cold interest, tipping his giant head and looking deep into Merlin’s
eyes. Merlin hopes he can see the livid anger burning through his veins.

“So that’s all you ever cared about? I thought you were my friend,” Merlin spits the word friend
like it’s an insult. His words are venomous, his mouth is poison, he wants to kill The Dragon with
words and he wants to cry and he wants the world to break into a million pieces.

“I am more than that, young warlock. I am your kin.” The Dragon smiles

Merlin’s chest feels incredibly hollow, his whole body has been scooped of everything solid,
leaving him as hollow walls filled with cold fury.

“No,” he hisses, shaking his head. “The only family I have is my mother, and you had me murder
her.”

The Dragon doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even pause, he instead looks down condescendingly at
Merlin like he’s the one acting strangely for daring to care about his mother’s life.

“Her life has not been taken in vain,” The Dragon says calmly.

The calm rage is whipped to life by torrential winds. It is a wildfire within Merlin, incinerating the
trees, killing the creatures who inhabit it.

“We will achieve great things together. You and I.”

“Fuck you!” Merlin roars, furious tears stinging his eyes. “I didn’t want this!”

“We want the same thing, young warlock. For the young Pendragon to live,” The Dragon continues
with the same cool and ambivalent tone.

“It’s not the same!” Merlin clutches at his chest, holding together his shattering ribcage. “You need
Arthur to live. I want him to. We are not the same.”

“One day Merlin, you will see—”

“No!” Merlin interrupts with a crazed shout. “You will never be free!”

He thinks of his mother, lying in his chambers and the life slowly draining from her. She never
chose this, it was not her sacrifice to make. All she had ever done was love and support Merlin, to
lose her life for such a commitment, it wasn’t fair.

“For what you have done, I will make sure you never see the light,” he hisses. His voice is cold and
unsympathetic, and he means every enraged word.

Finally, The Dragon’s composure is broken. His eyes narrow in frustration, scaled shoulders
hunching and wings unfurling threateningly. Merlin isn’t afraid, he is exhilarated, he has finally
broken through the thick scales protecting The Dragon’s poise.

“Merlin!” The Dragon screams with such force that the walls vibrate, causing rocks to drop from
the ceiling and the stone floor to quiver.

Merlin throws an arm up, conjuring a shield spell just as The Dragon unleashes a stream of fire at
him. He can feel the heat bouncing off the magic, the searing burn unable to penetrate the
protection charm he cast. He is supposedly the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the Earth, it’s
almost reassuring to see that proven.

~-~-~

Merlin sways into his chambers, muscles acting of their own volition as betrayal coils in him.
Gaius has drawn the curtains over the window to allow his mother to sleep, leaving the fire in the
corner as the only source of light. It casts a soft glow over the room, that is too warm for the ice
cold feeling of Merlin’s blood under his skin, for the grief ravaging his insides.

Gaius doesn’t say a word as Merlin walks over to him, sinking into the seat opposite with slumped,
heavy shoulders. The silence is suffocating, infuriatingly quiet in comparison to the cacophony of
his own thoughts.

“I have to save her,” Merlin breaks the silence, speaking into the fire so he doesn’t have to face
Gaius’ eyes.

“You can’t,” Gaius replies simply, not to hurt Merlin but to protect him. It stings like salt in his
wounds nonetheless.

“I have to.” Merlin’s eyes shine with tears, and he holds his breath to keep them from falling. “If
the balance of the world needs a life then it must take mine. Not my mother’s.”

In his periphery Merlin can see Gaius slowly shake his head as he leans forward, placing his
elbows on his knees to bring himself closer to Merlin.

“No, Merlin. You are young, your gifts, your destiny are far too precious to be sacrificed.”

“This was my plan all along,” Merlin argues hotly, still refusing to meet Gaius’ gaze. “Why didn’t
you argue before? Now that there is an innocent woman who will die instead of me, suddenly my
destiny matters?”

Gaius makes a sharp wounded sound that causes Merlin’s ribcage to ache with guilt, but he won’t
retract his words.

“I never wanted you to make this sacrifice,” Gaius reminds him softly. “I do not think there is
another option now, her death is inevitable. Nimueh is not one for extending generosity, you do not
know her like I do. I worry that your life will be lost in vain.”

“No, I can’t just accept that.” Merlin finally turns to meet Gaius’ eyes, consumed with worry and
fear. “I’m sorry Gaius, this is my mother. Destiny, my powers, they mean nothing if I cannot save
her.”

Gaius presses his lips together, Merlin can plainly see how he wants to continue arguing but they
both know Merlin won’t be convinced.

“You’ve taught me so much, who I am, the purpose for my skills, to always use my magic for
good… but most of all you’ve taught me to do what is right,” Merlin says, looking deep into his
mentor’s eyes and pleading for his understanding.

Gaius’ expression breaks, eyes welling with tears and despair, silently begging for Merlin to
change his mind.

“Merlin…” he urges desperately, voice catching on Merlin’s name.

Tears slip down Merlin’s cheek and he swipes them away roughly, unable to bear the look in
Gaius’ eyes for another moment.

“I have to say goodbye to Arthur,” he says decisively. He stands and makes his exit as quickly as
possible.

Merlin enters Arthur’s chambers with a gentle knock on the door. It’s not something he does often,
but Arthur harps on about it so often he might as well respect it now.

Arthur is a bit dishevelled, and his arm is strung in a sling that hugs tight to his body, but otherwise
he looks well. He looks up and his eyes brighten when they fall on Merlin, not that Merlin notices
details like that about Arthur, not that he minds.

“Ah, Merlin,” Arthur greets with a small nod.

“How are you?” Merlin asks immediately. He can see that Arthur’s doing better with his own eyes
but he needs to hear it, he needs to know Arthur is okay.
Arthur blinks. “I’m good,” he answers easily. “Really good. It’s almost a miracle really.”

Something incredibly tight loosens in Merlin’s chest, allowing him to breathe.

“I’m pleased,” he says genuinely, closing the door behind himself.

Arthur nods, shuffling over to his table and easing himself into the chair slowly. Despite his talk of
miracles it's obvious the wound has left Arthur physically debilitated. His movements are sluggish
and he winces every time his shoulder brushes the fabric of his shirt.

“I need to talk to you,” Merlin says, breaking the silence that has settled over them.

Arthur looks at him with a bemused expression.

“You still haven’t gotten it yet have you?”

“Gotten what?’

“I decide when we need to talk.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, pushing himself off the door and standing before the table, so he and Arthur
are opposite each other.

“Not today,” he says, shaking his head.

Arthur furrows his eyebrows over the rim of his goblet, taking a slow sip.

“I sometimes wonder if you know who I am,” he says, tipping his head at Merlin.

Merlin can’t help but smile as a rush of fondness floods through him, warming pleasantly under his
skin. “Oh I know who you are.”

“Good.”

“You’re a prat.” Merlin grins as Arthur’s eyes jump to him in a glare. “And a royal one.”

He watches, enthralled, as Arthur’s expression flickers. Irritation transforms into barely concealed
amusement. A smile that slowly stretches across Arthur’s lips in the most mesmerising way,
quirking at the corners just so. Arthur chuckles softly, and tries his best to cover the sound with a
small cough but Merlin can easily hear it is in fact a laugh.

“Will you ever change, Merlin?” Arthur asks with a surprisingly endeared smile.

“Nah, you’d get bored.”

Arthur chuckles into his goblet to avoid agreeing with Merlin.

Merlin wishes he didn’t have to die. He wishes he could wrap this pocket of time around himself
and remain swaddled in it as the world passed him by. He would rather stay here, in this moment,
forever.

But he’s going to die, and Arthur will replace him, and he hates it.

“Just promise me if you get another servant, you won’t get a bootlicker,” Merlin says, trying to
embed a false smile into his voice.
“If this is your way of trying to leave your job—” Arthur tries to say but Merlin cuts him off with a
rough shake of his head.

“No.” Merlin surprises even himself with the assurance of his answer.

Arthur looks at him curiously, with narrowed eyes and a frown pinching around his lips.

“I’m happy to be your servant… till the day I die.”

It’s the truth, the impending nature of that day is entirely irrelevant. Even if Merlin knew that he
wouldn’t die for decades he would still give Arthur the same answer. He would happily live and
breathe every moment at Arthur’s side; being his servant ensures he can do that, and so he fulfils
the role happily.

There’s almost some insanity in how much Merlin has changed since he arrived in Camelot nine
months ago. If someone had told Merlin then that he would mean it when he said he would happily
live as Arthur’s servant, Merlin would probably have taken them to Gaius for signs of concussion
or some other debilitating brain injury. But now there is no doubt in his mind that it’s true.

Arthur blinks at him, eyes widening and lips parting. He is completely silent as he considers
Merlin’s words. Merlin wonders if he’s thinking the same thing, of how utterly different they were
only a few short months ago. Or if there’s something else behind those guarded blue eyes, still
utterly unattainable and so vigilantly protected it almost breaks Merlin’s heart. He wishes he had
the opportunity to truly know Arthur, the young man underneath the layers of armour, beneath the
crown he wears.

“Sometimes I think I know you Merlin… but then other times well…” Arthur trails off, shaking
his head.

Merlin smiles. “You do know me, favourite animal and all.”

Arthur matches his smile, losing the confused expression and letting it slip into something more
comfortable.

“I mean beyond animals and favourite colours you great idiot,” he teases. “I meant to really know
you.”

“Well I was told your favourite colour was a great secret so now I’m offended.”

Arthur huffs, rolling his eyes and slumping back into his chair.

“You do know me though,” Merlin says more genuinely, once the laughter has settled and pleasant
silence has taken the room once more. “And I know you.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow curiously, a permittance for Merlin to continue.

“I know you’re a great warrior, and an even better leader. I know that one day… you’ll be a great
king.”

Arthur looks at him intently, like he’s trying to pick Merlin apart with his eyes so he can better
understand his inner workings.

“That’s very kind of you,” he says suspiciously.

Merlin nods jerkily.

“I know you have a good heart, Arthur.”

Arthur’s eyes are so enticingly blue as they widen and look at Merlin in ardent surprise it's a
wonder Merlin doesn’t drown in them.

He thinks he would lay down his life a thousand times for Arthur. His mother is the only other
person he cares more for, which is a terrifying but strangely freeing thought. He wishes he didn’t
have to leave Arthur. Until this point, their time together had seemingly stretched expansively into
the distance, leading to a wondrous future which could contain endless possibilities. If Merlin
cannot spend that time with him, cannot watch Arthur become the revered King he knows he can
be, he wants to at least be remembered. To offer a piece of advice, no matter how trivial, to
continue to keep him safe. For Merlin, that would be enough.

“But you must learn to listen as well as you fight,” he says softly.

Arthur’s eyes narrow once more.

“Right, any other pointers?”

Merlin shakes his head, struggling between the desire to laugh or to cry. He can feel emotions
bubbling up within him, culminating in his throat like water rising against a dam, threatening to
burst. He tries to think of everything he wants to say to Arthur, everything that can’t be
consolidated in this small moment.

He thinks for a moment, that if ever there was a time to tell Arthur how he feels it would be now.
Stood on the edge of a cliff and waiting for the final push to throw him off, the final moments he is
alive. There are no consequences, no loss, he could tell him.

But he doesn’t want to ruin this moment. Selfishly, he wants to cherish the way Arthur is looking
at him like he cares, like he’s a friend, he wants to keep it until his last breath. He doesn’t want to
ruin that.

“No… just… don’t be a prat?” He suggests lightly, uncomfortably aware of the way his voice
cracks on the final word.

Arthur doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile. Instead his frown deepens in confusion as he continues to
stare at Merlin.

“Are you alright, Merlin?” Arthur asks, tentatively like he’s not really sure how to do it. Merlin
wonders if he’s ever had to console someone before, besides maybe Morgana.

Merlin nods, pressing his lips tightly together and blinking to keep the tears at bay.

“Perfectly fine, my Lord.” He nods his head in semblance of a bow. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

Arthur nods slowly, like he’s unconvinced but doesn’t know what to do about it.

“Alright then.”

Merlin leaves before Arthur can say anything else, hurrying through the curtains of the servants
entrance and out of sight. He presses his forehead to the cool stone walls, and takes a shaking
breath, blinking away his tears. He takes a second to compose himself before hurrying back to his
chambers where his mother is waiting.
~-~-~

Gaius is gone.

Merlin should have realised the second he returned to his room to find Gwen in the physician’s
place. He was too distracted by his mother, and the sting of The Dragon’s betrayal. He didn’t think
about it properly.

But come morning Gaius hasn’t returned, and there is a letter waiting on the dining table. Merlin’s
heart clenches with the terrible anticipation that something is wrong. It is a short note, written in
Gaius’ measured and practised script, nothing like the frenzied writing Merlin has seen in moments
of great panic and urgency. This letter was written with purpose.

Dear Merlin,

My life is already near to its end. There has, for the most part, been very little purpose to it, very
little that will be remembered.

In contrast, your life is destined for greatness.

Live by the tenets I have taught you and I believe in time you will become the greatest warlock
ever.

To have known you has been my greatest pleasure, and to sacrifice myself for you is but an honour.

You are, and always will be, the son I never had.

Gaius.

Merlin feels the world fall apart; the earth shatters and the walls crash over him like waves, they
bury him deep in his own grief until he’s drowning and choking on it. He stumbles into the wall on
weak legs, grappling for purchase as his chest goes ice cold with dread. His fingers scrabble
uselessly against the buckle of his satchel and he is unsurprised but devastated to find the map
missing from its contents.

He feels sick. He can’t allow this. He refuses to sacrifice his mother and he is not willing to
sacrifice Gaius. Gaius is his father by all but blood.

Gaius might have the map and the only guide Merlin has towards the elusive Isle, but Merlin
possesses more magic that Gaius could ever conceive of. Now he needs to use it. He summons
deep inside himself, searching for the pull of his magic towards the earth, the tether that has kept
him tied to the essence of nature itself ever since he was a child. It buzzes beneath his skin,
nudging earnestly into his touch. He plunges it deep into the ground, letting it weave through the
soil, and stones, feeding into the streams and brooks and spreading like the roots of a great tree.

He squeezes his eyes shut, letting the magic see for him, coloured sensations, the patter of
footsteps, the vibrations of horses riding over land. Finally, the warm hum of magic, so potent that
when his magic grazes its sturdy edge he can taste the bitter tang of leaves.

He saddles his horse blindly, barely noticing his own movements as he focuses on the feeling of
the Isle in the distance. Merlin rides towards the feeling, using the tether of his magic as a guide.
He almost cries with relief when the Isle comes into view, not daring to hope, to believe that it
worked until the last possible moment.

“Thank god,” he murmurs against the horse’s neck, swinging his leg over and running towards the
small dingy.

The fear Merlin felt the last time he entered the Isle of the Blessed is nothing compared to the
panic coursing through his veins now. Before he had felt nervous, filled with frightened
anticipation for what was to come, now he feels frenzied with fear and anger that blaze through his
body like wild flames.

He practically leaps from the boat before it has come to a complete stop, taking the stairs two steps
at a time and bursts into the great courtyard.

Nimueh turns to him with an amused smile; as she steps towards Merlin he can see Gaius’ limp
body at the base of the statue and his blood runs icy cold. He trembles, feeling like he might be
sick all over the grassy and moss covered floor.

“Back again so soon warlock?” Nimueh asks cruelly.

“What have you done?” Merlin gasps.

“Your mother is safe, if that’s what you’re asking,” Nimueh replies evenly. “I thought that was
what you wanted.”

Merlin’s eyes keep drifting back to Gaius, his father, his mentor, his friend. He can’t bear the
thought of him being gone, he can’t be too late.

“Have you killed him?” He asks, desperation making his voice hoarse. He blinks away tears, he
won’t cry in front of this witch, she does not deserve to see him vulnerable.

Nimueh tips her head cooly, a pleased smile curling her wicked lips.

“Yes. It was his wish.”

He groans, tipping his head to the sky and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to keep the
tears at bay.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Merlin demands, his voice echoes loudly around the space as he
screams. “I bid my own life, not my mother’s, not Gaius’. Mine.”

Nimueh stares at him unamused. “Why I make the choices I do is none of your concern.”

“It’s my concern when you’re killing my family!”

“I did not want to kill you,” she answers ambiguously, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder and
raising an unamused eyebrow at Merlin.

“You’ve tried before,” he reminds her. “Why then and not now?”

“Because I did not know who you are, back then.”

Merlin frowns, momentarily taken aback. “Who I am?”

Nimueh frowns as though Merlin’s identity is a great offence to her, she purses her red lips and
stares scornfully at him.

“Yes, who you are. Magic is an equilibrium, what is killed must be born, it is a transference of
energy, never a destruction.”
Merlin nods, he has read as much in his grimoire. Magic cannot be created, nor destroyed, it
simply exists.

“The Great Purge occurred just before your birth,” Nimueh continues. “The destruction was… like
nothing you could imagine.” Her eyes are haunted as she speaks and for a moment Merlin almost
feels sorry for her.

The Great Purge is no secret to the citizens of Camelot. He has learnt much about it since arriving
in the city, and he imagines that there is still a rich history he has yet to hear. No one dares to speak
the names of those who were killed, or to speak respectfully of the lives that were taken; Merlin
knows there are stories that are lost between the crevices of what he has been told.

Nimueh doesn’t speak of it now without cause, there is purpose in her tone, something she wishes
to explain. She looks darkly at Merlin and the sympathy for her is lost. He cannot feel compassion
for someone who looks at him with such hatred.

“You were the recipient of this magic. When those lives were lost their magic needed a place to
rest. A transferral was necessary.” Nimueh looks shrewdly at Merlin, to gauge if he is
understanding what she is telling him. The realisation emerges slowly, like the sun rising at dawn,
slowly falling over Merlin’s face.

“I hold the magic destroyed in the Great Purge,” he murmurs in understanding.

Nimueh wrinkles her nose at him, lip curling in distaste. “Seemingly. So I didn’t dare kill you, you
can achieve too much.”

“But you’ll kill my family,” Merlin growls. The reminder makes his blood rush and he trembles
with anger that won’t be contained under his skin.

“The Old Religion does not care who lives and who dies,” Nimueh scoffs. “Only that the balance
of the world is restored!”

“It is not the Old Religion who has done this! It is you.” Merlin’s hands curl into tight fists by his
side. His magic reacts to his rage, crackling through his bloodstream.

Nimueh smiles cruelly. “Come now Merlin, we are too valuable to each other to be enemies. We
are kin.”

“No! I share nothing with you!” Merlin shouts. “My magic is my own, you have no part of it.”

“With my help Arthur will become king.” Nimueh grins victoriously, leering at Merlin with the
poise of a woman who believes herself already to be victor.

“I will make Arthur king,” Merlin hisses. “You will never live to see that day.”

He thrusts his hand out, letting the force of his anger push his magic forward, his fury is a crashing
wave which swarms his magic and sends it flying out of him. Lightning launches from his
fingertips, sparking along the nerves in his fingers and exploding from his palm.

Nimueh waves her hand nonchalantly, banishing the lightning in a breeze that whips back her hair.

“Oh Merlin, your childish tricks are useless against me,” she says patronisingly with a wicked
smirk. “I am a priestess of the Old Religion.”

She summons a ball of fire into the palm of her hand. Merlin’s heart leaps and he forces himself
into motion only seconds before the fire lands, crashing into the wall behind where he once stood
with an echoing boom. Nimueh stalks towards him as she launches another at the ground. Merlin
rolls out of its path, it singes the hairs around his ears, practically brushing his cheek with searing
heat as it passes.

Nimueh’s heel lands on his chest, keeping him trapped against the ground. Heat burns in her hand
as she glares down at Merlin, the light casting a harsh glow on the gold in her eyes.

“You too are a creature of the Old Religion, you should join me.”

Merlin lets out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “You think I would join forces with such a selfish
and cruel magic?”

He closes his eyes and tugs his magic forwards, letting it collide with Nimueh, sending her
staggering back.

“Never,” he spits, heaving himself to his feet.

Nimueh glares at him, bright eyes like poison, a single drop from their irises would be deadly.

Before Merlin can breathe another ball of fire launches from her fingers, hitting him in the centre of
his chest. The impact sends him flying backwards and he crumples to the ground. He skids along
the ground, wincing in pain as the force slices his head along the floor and grass catches in the
sticky blood on the base of his skull.

He groans. His chest is burning, pain radiating through him in sharp, relentless waves. He gasps
hopelessly, desperate to relieve the agony but is unable to touch the wound. It should have killed
him, if Nimueh had wanted him dead he’s certain he wouldn’t be breathing. Despite the torturous
sting of his singed and smoking flesh he’s vaguely aware that Nimueh’s fire extinguished before it
could sear deep into the layers of his skin. She didn’t want to kill him, but maim him, leave him in
agony.

The smell of burning flesh hits his nose and Merlin gags, heaving spit and vomit onto the ground.
His arms and legs tremble as he pulls himself to his feet, every pull of his skin makes his stomach
roll, sending flares of agonising pain throughout his entire body.

He lets the pain, anger and grief weave together, strands forming a strong coil of magic that wraps
comfortably around his fingertips. His anger is so savage he can taste it, it ripples from his magic
in waves, surging out of him and plunging deep into the earth. He can feel the water in the air, his
power wraps around them thickening the clouds until he and Nimueh are shrouded in darkness.

“You should not have killed my friend,” he hisses, glancing towards Gaius’ still body, crumpled
against the altar.

He doesn’t miss the flicker of fear in Nimueh’s eyes that she quickly conceals with confidence.

His magic has never been so strong, he can feel it all around him, seeping from his pores, buzzing
in his nerves. His heartbeat pushes it out of him in surging tides.

The magic of life and death is something that can only be harnessed by the most powerful of
sorcerers, but Nimueh had said that he contains the power of all that was lost in the Great Purge.
Gaius said that he was the most powerful warlock who has ever walked the Earth.

Merlin lets the magic within him strike, it explodes from his body and collides with Nimueh’s
lifeforce. He can feel her heartbeat in his mind, the way her breaths ebb and flow under the push of
Merlin’s magic, she is within him.

Lightning flashes, cresting over the Isle and colliding with the sorceress’ body with a shriek. He
watches with terrified eyes as her back arches in pain and her hands reach outwards in desperation,
finding no purchase. Her lifeforce, held in Merlin’s trembling fist is severed from her body as she
crumples to the floor.

He swallows roughly, letting the warm flow of life cupped gently within his own magic cascade
towards Gaius. It settles into the physician’s body with a sigh, buzzing before falling calm.

Merlin gasps, coming out of his trance with a shudder and runs , tripping in his desperation to
reach Gaius. He hadn’t even noticed that it had started to rain but the heavy drops hit his back and
head, saturating him to the bone as he drops to Gaius’ side.

“Gaius!” He shouts desperately, fingers fumbling as they frantically search for a pulse. Gaius
doesn’t move, Merlin can’t feel a sign of life within the man. He is cold and still under Merlin’s
hand, head flopping against Merlin’s shoulder limply.

“Please, no. No!” Merlin shudders, words succumbing to wrenching sobs as he lets his head drop
onto Gaius’ body. “No.”

“Merlin?” Gaius’ voice speaks over Merlin’s sobs.

Merlin’s breath hitches, relief flooding through him like a wave crashing down on his head as he
feels Gaius shift.

“Gaius?” He gasps, sitting up to meet the physician’s eyes, squinting through the rain to see
Merlin. “Oh Gaius you’re alive,” he sobs, surging forward to hug Gaius again.

Gaius chuckles, leaning into the hug.

“What did you do?” He asks worriedly, words slurred from the impact of death, and then life being
thrust upon him so quickly.

Merlin laughs around his tears, hardly daring to believe this is true. He doesn’t move away,
keeping his hands on Gaius’ shoulders and stays close, terrified that if he shifts away then this will
all be ripped from his grasp.

“Nimueh is dead,” he explains, enjoying the wide eyed surprise Gaius offers in return. “The
balance of the world has been restored.”

“My boy, you amaze me.” Gaius places a warm hand on Merlin’s cheek, gently rubbing away the
tears dripping down Merlin’s cheeks. “You have mastered the power of life and death itself.”

Merlin is so relieved he feels like he could burst. He’s trembling from head to toe, shuddering so
hard his teeth chatter even though it’s no longer raining. The sobs continue to shake his whole
body, fear and anxiety and love rushing out of him in heavy tremors and loud hacking sobs.

“Merlin, Merlin I’m okay,” Gaius says reassuringly, rubbing his arms. “It’s okay now.”

“I know,” Merlin gasps around a sob, laughing hysterically. Tears continue to drip down his
cheeks and from his chin. “I know but I can’t stop.”

Gaius laughs fondly and wraps his arms tightly around Merlin, embracing him in a warm hug. He
continues holding him, rubbing his back affectionately until the worst of the trembles ease and he’s
 gently crying into Gaius’ shoulder.

“Thank you, Merlin.”

Chapter End Notes

i cannot believe that it's the season one finale already !! i hope this lived up to your
expectations and that you are as excited as i am for season 2 !!

as always, let me know your favourite part of this chapter, or the whole season if you
like in the comments, every comment i receive just gives me a burst of serotonin like
you wouldn't believe !!!!

i love you all !!

see you on the 4th of december with season 2 !!
(if you would like some treats in the meantime follow me on any of my social media !!
i will be posting some art for the chapter and maybe even doing a live to answer some
questions ..... )
 The Curse of Cornelius Sigan
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

First Merlin is woken to the sound of a guard battering on the door to the physician’s chambers,
then to Gaius shouting his name up the stairs.

He trundles down, rubbing blearily at his eyes.

“Huh?” He mumbles, still half asleep.

Gaius is shouldering a bag and heading towards the door.

“Something has been found in the basements,” Gaius explains. “The king has requested my
presence.”

Merlin’s ears perk up with curiosity, and he raises his head to look at Gaius properly. Any myriad
of things could be found in the basements, each more fanciful than the last.

“Am I coming?” Merlin asks hopefully.

Gaius nods. “Yes, quickly now.”

“Oh uh, I’m not sure if...” the guard flounders awkwardly, unsure how to go about dissuading
Merlin from accompanying Gaius.

Gaius raises an unamused eyebrow at the young man and Merlin presses his lips together to
restrain himself from laughing at the sight of the anxious guard folding in on himself.

“Merlin is my ward and Prince Arthur’s manservant. I have no doubts the king will permit him to
accompany me,” Gaius says, continuing to stare at the guard until he nods.

“Yes, of course.”

They hurry through the castle together, Merlin following on Gaius’ heels all the way to the
basements. Uther has ordered construction in the lowest levels of the castle under the guise of
improving servants’ passageway through the castle, but Merlin knows in reality that he hopes to
find secret treasures underneath Camelot. The construction has been a source of much frustration
for Arthur, and thus is the bane of Merlin’s existence, for Arthur won’t stop complaining about the
hammering that impedes his ability to sleep soundly through the night.

Arthur and the King are waiting by a sizeable hole in the wall for Gaius and Merlin. Gaius enters
the cave immediately but Merlin hurries to stand next to Arthur, taking his customary place by his
side.

“What’s happening?”

“The men discovered a tomb,” Arthur explains lowly, tipping his head towards Merlin as they
follow Uther and Gaius into the room.

The tomb is extraordinary, it’s a substantial size, likely as large as Arthur’s chambers, lined with
gold and jewels as big as Merlin’s fist. It is obvious the person buried here was ostensibly wealthy.
Antiques are stacked in messy piles, tarnished with age but still in ample condition and piles of
coins fill the spaces between the more fanciful objects. The feature piece is a glowing, blue, heart
shaped jewel embedded in the centre of the stone coffin.

It glitters enticingly in the torchlight, almost glowing with radiance. The blue is astonishingly
vibrant, a stark contrast to the shades of brown and gold that surround it. It reminds Merlin of the
waves of the ocean, glittering in the warmth of summer sun. The piece demands the attention of all
who enter the room.

Merlin is so engrossed in admiration that he doesn’t notice a bowl in his path. His foot strikes the
rim and sends it clattering across the floor right into Uther’s leg. Naturally. Merlin winces as the
king looks at him with a contemptuous glare.

“Idiot,” he mutters coldly. It holds none of the fondness that Arthur has when he says it.

Arthur seizes Merlin by the shoulder and pulls him closer to his side, somewhat protectively but
also simultaneously irritated.

“Were you born clumsy, or do you practise?” Arthur mutters. Despite the insult, Merlin is
momentarily distracted by how Arthur’s nose almost brushes his cheek as he leans close to speak.

“Just one of my many gifts,” he returns with a grimace.

Thankfully Uther is diverted from his annoyance to the treasures that surround them.

“This is quite a find,” the King says with an eager smile, lifting a jewel to his eye and peering at
the sharp and sparkling lines of the gem. “Which of my predecessors do I have to thank for all this,
Gaius?”

Gaius hums. “I’d have to look into it, Sire,” he admits.

Merlin doesn’t dare touch anything. Despite the opulence of the room he feels a sense of unease
among the treasures. There is a stench of dark magic that filters through the room, it tinges the air
with a musty smell that is inescapable no matter where Merlin stands. He can feel the malignance
omitting from every object. It is like the entire tomb is stained by the dark influence of cruel
enchantments.

He stumbles as his foot nearly strikes a man lying dead on the floor; the body has bloodshot eyes
and pallid grey skin, and his mouth is frozen in the midst of a scream, lips still parted in fear.

Arthur glances over with a frown but follows Merlin’s gaze to the corpse.

“How did he die?” he asks, edging around the room to Merlin’s side and peering down at the body
lying before them.

Gaius looks up from where he is inspecting a small scroll written in a dead language.

“He seems to have unwittingly triggered a trap here.” He points to the stone plates around the
coffin. One panel has sunk into the ground, likely a trigger for the poisoned arrow now embedded
in the man’s side.

“To deter grave robbers?” Merlin guesses.

Arthur glances at him with an expression that seems to say ‘I’m almost surprised you managed to
have a thought’, which is somewhat insulting. Merlin pulls a face at him.
Gaius nods his agreement.

“I’m not surprised,” Uther says with a gleeful smile, peering at the lavish jewel. “There is plenty in
here that someone would want to steal.”

The dark magic murmurs with delight around Merlin, and a nervous feeling trails a sharp fingernail
down his spine.

“Have the tomb secured. Guarding it is your responsibility Arthur,” Uther orders with a snap of his
fingers.

“Yes Father.” Arthur nods.

Uther marches out of the tomb looking pleased with himself for the day’s work.

~-~-~

Arthur hoists himself onto his horse and Merlin watches in horror as the entire saddle slides off,
taking the prince with it. The horse gallops off through the courtyard and several people leap out to
chase after it.

“Merlin!” Arthur admonishes with a frustrated groan as he heaves himself to his feet.

“I don’t understand!” Merlin stares helplessly at the runaway horse. He had been very careful to
ensure that the buckle was fastened properly, fed up with Arthur chastising him.

“Well there’s a surprise,” Arthur mocks and rolls his eyes.

“I did that girth up myself—” Merlin tries to explain.

“Funnily enough Merlin, I think that might have been the problem!” Arthur speaks over him in a
scathing tone fuelled by frustration that flashes in his eyes like lightning.

Merlin splutters. “It wasn’t my fault!”

Arthur steps close to him with narrowed eyes. “Then tell me Merlin, whose fault was it?”

Merlin opens his mouth and then closes it with a snap when he realises he has no good answer.

Merlin is saved from any further of Arthur’s ire by another figure stepping into their conversation.
He’s a skinny man, a few inches taller than Merlin and he bears a striking resemblance to a weasel.
His lips are curled into a nervous smile which makes his wispy moustache twist upwards as he
leads Arthur’s horse back towards the prince.

“Would you like me to fit the girth properly for you Sire?” the man offers, completely ignoring
Merlin and devoting his undivided attention on the prince.

A flash of indignance burns through Merlin at the implication that he couldn’t fit the damn thing
himself.

Arthur’s temper simmers immediately, placated by the man’s offer. He nods in permission, sending
a sharp glare Merlin’s way.

“Thank you,” Arthur enunciates the words very carefully, so it feels more like a pointed remark
towards Merlin than genuine gratitude towards the man.
The man shrugs nervously. “It’s an honour to be of service to the prince,” he says with a bow so
low that his nose almost brushes his knees.

Arthur perks up delightedly at the display, turning to Merlin with a grin.

“An honour,” he repeats, raising his eyebrows teasingly. “Did you hear that Merlin?”

The indignance that filled him transforms into simmering irritation that itches under Merlin’s skin
and burns. His cheeks flush a bright shade of scarlet and his stomach twists like a rag in a mutt’s
mouth. He has to take a deep breath to keep himself calm.

Arthur watches in bemusement as the weaselly man steps forward and brushes his hands over
Arthur’s jacket, ridding him of any dust and dirt from his fall.

“Allow me the honour of brushing your clothes down,” the man says graciously. Merlin clenches
his hands into tight fists by his side to keep himself from batting the man’s hands away from
Arthur.

Merlin hates him.

Arthur’s eyes glitter with amusement as he looks at Merlin teasingly and mouths, “The honour.”

Merlin hates him so much.

He grinds his teeth together and doesn’t even bother hiding his scowl as the man straightens with
an obedient little nod. He’s stooping to ensure he appears shorter than Arthur, it’s pathetic and
Merlin sort of wants to punch him for it.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Sire?” The man asks, blinking hopefully at Arthur.

“You can give Merlin here a kick up the backside,” Arthur jokes, nudging Merlin sharply with his
elbow. His frustration rears its head as the man speaks again with a sly smile.

“Oh I wouldn’t wish to deprive you of the pleasure, Sire.”

Merlin begins to imagine a myriad of creative insults for the weasel of a man but is distracted by
Arthur letting out a bark of surprised laughter. The bright and loud type of laugh that Merlin is
always trying to draw out of the prince. There is an uncomfortable scratching at the bottom of
Merlin’s stomach, like a furious creature desperate to escape. He feels flushed to the tips of his
ears, his skin hot and he’s tempted to trod hard on the man’s toes just to watch him yelp. He’s not
entirely sure what is making him so utterly furious about the skinny twig of a man, all he knows is
he absolutely despises him.

Arthur claps the man on the shoulder, Merlin resists the urge to growl.

“What’s your name?” He asks amicably.

“Cedric, Sire.” The man bows again and this time Merlin is sure he’s going to put his head
between his knees. “I’ve come to Camelot in search of work,” he explains.

Arthur nods, striding towards his horse.

“Good. You can be a beater on the hunt. We’re short of a man or two.”

“Here—” Merlin grabs a beater stick from the floor, “—you’ll need a beater.”
He takes great pleasure in shoving it into Cedric’s chest with a little too much force. Cedric grunts
and staggers backwards, just barely catching the stick as Merlin lets go, and Merlin struggles to
restrain a grin. Cedric glares at him and the furious clawing in Merlin’s chest eases with a happy
thrill.

“Oh, sorry.” He smiles as insincerely as possible and hurries after Arthur.

~-~-~

Merlin trudges glumly beside Arthur’s horse. He hates hunts on the best of days, so Cedric’s
presence is only exacerbating his already horrid mood. The weasel turns around a few times like he
can sense Merlin’s furious glare burning into the back of his head.

He even has the gall to smirk and wave at one point; Merlin contemplates using magic to make him
trip but decides it would be too great a risk with Arthur by his side.

“You’re sulking, Merlin,” Arthur says cooly, glancing down at Merlin with a raised eyebrow. “It
isn’t my fault that you made a mistake.”

Merlin scowls, kicking at the dirt irritably.

“I just don’t think it’s fair to insult me because of it,” he grumbles. He doesn’t bother mentioning
that he’s certain he fit the girth properly, because he knows Arthur won’t believe him.

“I’m allowed to tell you what I like,” Arthur reminds him. “It’s my princely right”

“Princely right to be an arse maybe,” Merlin mutters under his breath.

“Merlin,” Arthur chides with a huff; but Merlin can see that he’s biting his cheek to keep himself
from chuckling and that makes the whole horrid morning just a little bit worth it.

Arthur holds up a hand and the procession pulls to a halt. His eyes narrow as he scans the leafy
surroundings, tipping his head towards the left and listening carefully. Merlin tries to listen for
whatever made him stop but all he hears is the rustling sounds of the forest and the faint whistle of
birds.

“This way,” Arthur murmurs, dismounting from his horse and leading them into the thick of the
forest. He stops again only a few paces into the undergrowth, and this time Merlin hears the heavy
grunting of a boar nearby. Merlin notices Cedric cowering backwards, shaking like a newborn colt
and he has to duck his head to hide his smirk.

The boar charges through the forest, it’s twice Arthur’s size, with massive tusks that protrude from
its lower lip, and beady black eyes, manic with rage. The beast pauses a moment, before lunging
through the forest towards them with a vicious snort. It tramples over bushes with hooves that
thump menacingly and drool that flies from its growling mouth. Arthur, ever confident, lunges
forwards, thrusting his spear towards its front flank with a shout. The spear bounces harmlessly off
the boar, and it continues its assault unharmed.

It charges at Arthur with a snarl, tusks geared towards the prince who is now unable to protect
himself. Merlin’s heart jumps to his throat as Arthur trips backwards in his scramble to get away.

He only has a second to react. He lets his magic lash forwards, wrapping itself around the
abandoned spear and sends it hurtling towards the boar. It strikes the creature in the meaty flank of
its neck, piercing through the flesh and sending it crashing to the ground with a shriek. The party
exhales when the creature falls still.
Arthur rushes to stand over the beast, inspecting the animal with an elated smile that makes
Merlin’s heart jump.

“Who threw that?” He asks, turning to look over the group. His eyes are sparkling with glee,
jumping from face to face as he searches for the hero of the group.

It doesn’t escape Merlin’s notice that Arthur’s gaze skips him altogether, something which stings
more than it should.

No one speaks up. Merlin bites hard on his tongue to keep himself from saying anything.

“Come on! Who threw that?” Arthur asks again, looking hopefully at some of his younger squires
who shake their heads sadly. Merlin knows they must wish they could take credit for the kill, it
would certainly give them a good opportunity to earn their knighthood.

Cedric’s soft cough draws everyone’s attention.

Arthur turns to him with awestruck eyes. Merlin absolutely despises him.

“Was it you?”

Merlin’s jaw drops open as Cedric shrugs and nods shyly in confirmation. He can hardly believe
the lying, sneaky weasel is taking credit.

“You saved my life.”

Cedric waves Arthur off. “Honestly Sire, it was nothing.”

No kidding it was nothing, you did absolutely nothing, Merlin fumes silently and his jaw clicks as
he grinds his teeth in an effort to contain himself.

“It’s not nothing! You must be rewarded.” Arthur nods decisively.

“No I couldn’t possibly—” Cedric protests weakly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. What do you wish for?” Arthur insists.

Merlin narrows his eyes as Cedric shrugs. He toes at the floor so innocently it makes Merlin’s skin
crawl, he wouldn’t trust the lying bastard farther than he could throw him.

“I desire only one thing, my Lord.”

“Anything.”

“A position in the royal household?” Cedric asks hopefully.

Merlin doesn’t bother to hide his horror. The little shit. Merlin wants to kick him in the leg, or
ideally somewhere much more painful. He inhales deeply, and indulges in the fantasy of doing
both to soothe his frustration.

“Done,” Arthur agrees with a grin and a clap to Cedric’s shoulder. “Merlin could do with the
assistance, couldn’t you Merlin,” he teases.

Merlin seethes, and works hard on breathing evenly to keep down the crackling magic building in
his belly. A few of the knights glance towards him nervously and Sir Leon even has the decency to
grimace apologetically. Merlin likely isn’t doing a very good job of appearing detached about the
whole ordeal.

Cedric marches over to him with a conniving grin, the innocence from his expression is lost,
replaced with a fiendish amusement.

“You can have this back now,” Cedric offers, hitting the beater stick into Merlin’s stomach so
forcibly he doubles over with an ‘oof’ of pain.

“Oops,” Cedric smirks, devoid of any form of sympathy. “Sorry.”

Merlin takes a deep breath and imagines turning the weasel into a worm.

~-~-~

By the time he reaches his chambers the anger has settled into dismayed acceptance. Merlin
traipses through the door with slumped shoulders and a heavy frown, dropping his bag and jacket
onto the first chair he sees and sinking into it glumly.

“What’s wrong?” Gaius asks, looking up from a huge book almost three times the size of Merlin’s
head.

Merlin smiles thinly. “I saved Arthur’s life, someone else got the credit. The usual.”

It’s actually becoming an unfortunate pattern. If Merlin were to keep count — which he isn’t — he
has saved Arthur from grievous injury seven times since the turn of the season. Even with the
exclusion of potentially fatal situations (of which there have now been two) Merlin has prevented
several broken bones and one instance where Arthur nearly landed a concussion from being thrown
off his horse. It’s enough to have him question whether Arthur does actually have a grand destiny,
or if their entwined fate is simply because the universe knew Arthur would never survive on his
own.

He should be used to his efforts going unacknowledged. He has to get used to it. However, Cedric
of all people taking the credit is one insult too far.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Gaius asks cautiously, a concerned frown twisting his brows.

Merlin forces a brighter smile, and nods. “Of course.”

He takes better notice of what Gaius is doing by peering at the table littered with ancient scripts
and diagrams of various objects.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, moving to look over Gaius' shoulder.

Gaius squints at Merlin like he doesn’t believe his lie but doesn’t push the matter.

“I found this inscription on the sceptre,” he explains to Merlin, tapping his finger against a
handwritten script sitting on the book’s open pages. It’s indecipherable, symbols Merlin doesn’t
recognise twisting and curling on the page.

“What language is that?” He asks, frowning at the strange lettering. It’s unlike any language he has
ever seen before, to Merlin it only passes resemblance to the script engraved on the plates of
Excalibur.

“I don’t know,” Gaius admits.

He pulls his reading glasses down his nose and peers at the letters curiously.
“Sigan would have known many languages, many of which are no longer spoken.”

“Sigan?” Merlin questions, the name is completely unfamiliar to him.

Gaius nods, continuing to analyse the various calligraphy written in the large volume.

“It’s his tomb.”

“Who was he?” Merlin asks and Gaius turns to look at him with surprise. His eyebrows are raised
so high that they disappear into his thinning hairline.

“Merlin, Sigan was the most powerful sorcerer to have ever lived,” he says. “Maybe, aside from
yourself,” Gaius amends with a reconsidering tip of his head.

“Really?”

Merlin takes the seat beside Gaius, meeting his pensive gaze.

“You didn’t grow up in Camelot, but for those of us who did, Cornelius Sigan was a figure of
nightmare,” Gaius explains. “Sigan had powers beyond mortal comprehension. There were those
who said he could turn day into night, or turn the tides. Legend has it, his magic helped to build
Camelot itself.”

Merlin frowns, though the thought of power to such an extent brings a chill to his spine, it does not
explain Gaius’ evident fear of the man. He can understand any other citizen of Camelot being
afraid, who would fear the common milkmaid if she completed her laundry with an enchantment;
but Gaius does not fear magic in the same way.

“What happened?”

Gaius sighs, lacing his fingers together and folding his hands on the table thoughtfully.

“In the end… he grew too powerful. He craved total domination, ‘the world at his feet’ so to
speak.”

The tale is extravagant, dramatised by decades of storytelling transforming truth into words of
legend, but Gaius’ face is solemn and his tone is sure, the warning behind the story remains true.

“The King at that time ordered his execution,” Gaius reveals.

“If he’s dead, why are you so worried?” Merlin asks, taking note of the worried wrinkle in Gaius’
brow and the anxious way his fingers are twitching against the hardwood table.

“Sigan couldn’t bear the thought that his wealth and power would die with him. So he became
obsessed with finding a way to defeat death itself.”

Merlin’s eyes widen, a nervous shiver works its way through his body.

“Do you think he might have succeeded?”

Gaius takes a deep breath, eyes distant with consideration.

“Let’s hope not,” he decides eventually. “For all of our sake.”

~-~-~
Arthur can’t deny that it’s relaxing to have a competent servant for once.

Cedric wakes him with a gentle easing of his curtains, giving way to the sunlight and allowing it to
stream slowly over Arthur’s face until he blinks groggily awake. Unlike Merlin’s routine, which
involves ripping the sheets off of Arthur and blinding him with bright light by wrenching the
curtains open.

“Good morning, Sire,” Cedric greets with an obedient bow. Arthur is pleased to notice that his
hands are clasped behind his back. He considers taking Cedric to his father to show him what sort
of person he should offer a position in the Royal Household. However that might make Uther
relieve Merlin of his position, and though Arthur is grateful to have a capable manservant for once
he doesn’t want Merlin out of his life completely.

He begrudgingly has to admit that he finds joy in Merlin’s sarcastic quips and witty sense of
humour. Cedric is a competent and skilled worker, but he’s not great company. Like the rest of the
kingdom, he simpers at Arthur’s every whim. He reacts to Arthur’s requests like he would do
anything if it meant pleasing him, and whilst that is efficient and should be the ways of a servant,
it’s dreadfully boring.

Still, Arthur thinks, as Cedric fetches a delicious banquet of breakfast food, there are more benefits
to competent service than disadvantages.

Merlin enters the room with a meagre tray of food just as Arthur is finishing his meal.

“Is that lunch?” Arthur asks around a mouthful of cheese.

Merlin bumps the door closed and looks up with a frown already half formed on his face.

“What? No, it’s breakfast…” he trails off when he sees the piled plates on the table and Cedric
serving Arthur another piece of roast beef.

Arthur watches curiously as a muscle in Merlin’s jaw twitches. He doesn’t know what to make of
his odd reactions, but they’re intriguing nonetheless.

“Is there anything else you need, Sire?” Merlin asks, voice oddly well mannered compared to
Merlin’s usual brazenness.

Arthur glances around the room, all the morning’s tasks have been completed and he’s well looked
after. It’s quite a relieving realisation.

“No, I think Cedric has it covered actually,” Arthur says with a nod, returning to his beef.

“Oh,” Cedric catches his attention with an apologetic grimace. “I regret Sire, there is one thing I
failed to do.” Cedric pauses and Arthur waits with brows raised.

“Muck out your horses.”

The glare Merlin offers Cedric has Arthur briefly worried Cedric will burst into flames.

“Alright Merlin, off you go then,” Arthur ushers him away with a flippant wave of his hand.

The steady, furious glare is directed at him briefly, and absurdly, it makes Arthur nervous.

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin answers bitterly.

Arthur is somewhat impressed by Merlin’s ability to make his obedience sound like an insult.
‘Sire’ in Merlin’s biting tone is just a kind replacement for ‘chamberpot’; the underlying disrespect
is palpable in Merlin’s inflection. He slams the door shut behind himself and Arthur winces.

“More water, Sire?” Cedric asks. There is no ‘chamberpot’ present in the way he respectfully
speaks the title.

“Yes, thank you,” he says with a nod, unaware that Cedric’s eyes stray to the key sitting on his hip.

~-~-~

Merlin wrinkles his nose at the foul stench of the stable as he shovels a heap of dung into a pile. He
works monotonously, muttering a furious litany about Arthur and how little he appreciates
everything Merlin does for him. Cedric continues to make an appearance in his grumbling, his
stupid wispy moustache, weaselly face and affinity for getting under Merlin’s skin are recurring
targets.

His continuous grouching slowly eases away at the uncomfortable feeling that has settled under his
skin. The uncomfortable sensation that Arthur might be replacing him, exiling Merlin to the
outskirts of his life until he’s no longer there at all. He wouldn’t, surely. Not unless Cedric
convinced him.

“He’s an absolute prick,” Merlin says, harshly jabbing his shovel into the ground with a huff.
Arthur’s favourite horse, Llamrei, nickers in what Merlin assumes to be agreement. He pats her
flank affectionately, appreciating the show of support.

Merlin is so caught up in his task that he doesn’t notice a smoke bomb roll into the stable. The
thick smell of lavender and burning poppy seeds seeps into his nose and his eyelids begin to droop.
Exhaustion swallows him whole before he has the chance to even question what is happening. He
crumples to the floor, unconscious.

~-~-~

The first thing Merlin sees when he wakes is a boot, followed by the strong muscled line of
Arthur’s calf, and then the prince glaring reproachfully down at him. His brain takes a moment to
cotton on, he’s incredibly dazed and the grogginess makes him slow.

Arthur raises an eyebrow and blessedly Merlin’s brain wakes up with a start.

“Sire!” He shouts, too loud for the small space. He scrambles to his knees, concerned by the
horrifying combination of the smell of horse excrement that accompanies him and the suspicious
crust on the side of his face.

Arthur stares at him with an unamused frown, crouched in front of Merlin so that he’s looking
down at him.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks, voice suspiciously pleasant which contrasts the flash of
warning in his eyes.

“Nothing,” Merlin bleats nervously.

“I can see that.”

Merlin glances around wildly as he gets to his feet, he finds his mind void of any explanation for
his thoughts seem to have fled out of his reach. He can’t understand what occurred. One moment
he was working, the next he was on the ground, and he knows he didn’t simply go to sleep. No
matter how incompetent Arthur insists Merlin is, he’s not utterly useless, he doesn’t just give up to
take a quick nap in horse shit.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he scrambles for excuses to defend himself. Regardless of how he fell asleep,
he can’t have Arthur thinking he doesn’t care about his work. Especially not with Cedric around.

Arthur raises his eyebrows disbelievingly.

“I wasn’t!” Merlin insists. “I was just… bending down.”

“I see,” Arthur intones with a nod, narrowing his eyes. “Looking for something, were you?”

Merlin senses that he’s walking into a trap.

“Yes?” He says but his voice squeaks, making the word sound more like a question rather than an
answer.

Arthur hums, standing to meet him and crossing his arms tightly over his chest. Merlin is definitely
walking into a trap.

“Maybe we’re looking for the same thing?” Arthur suggests, looking around the stable slowly.

“What?”

Arthur scratches his chin. “Oh I don’t know. The horses?”

Merlin blinks. For the first time he observes the state of the stable. There were four horses in here
earlier, each carefully tied to their respective posts and whinnying at him kindly as he moved
around their hooves. Now the room is completely empty.

“Oh,” he breathes.

Arthur stalks forward with frustration gleaming in his blue eyes.

“Yeah, oh!” He shouts. “One mistake I can understand, everyone has a bad day every now and
then! But this is one thing after another.”

Merlin splutters, chest clenching as he struggles to make sense of the situation as it steadily whirls
out of his control.

“I don’t understand—” he tries to make sense of the situation, pressing his fingers into his temples
to try to stabilise his spinning head.

“Neither do I!”

“Sire,” another voice says from the doorway.

Both Merlin and Arthur spin to meet the voice and Merlin scowls when his eyes fall on Cedric.
He’s leading two of the horses into the stable with their harnesses wrapped around his wrists.
Merlin is pleased to see that Llamrei is trying to chew on his hair, something she never does to
Merlin.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Cedric pleads. The contrast between the contemptuous look he offers
Merlin and the way he begs Arthur to be kind to him is jarring.

“He’s a good servant,” Cedric continues. “He’s just tired.”

“I am not!” Merlin splutters in protest and his hackles rise.

Cedric tries to reach out a hand to pat Merlin on the shoulder and Merlin bites back the urge to
growl as he jerks out of his reach.

Arthur looks at Cedric, interested and welcome to the advice; he never reacts like this when Merlin
dares to suggest how he should make his decisions. Seeing Cedric provoke such a reaction in
Arthur makes something hard and prickly burrow its way into Merlin’s chest.

“Maybe if he had the evening off…” Cedric suggests.

“I don’t want the evening off!” Merlin gapes at Cedric horrified, and then back to Arthur
pleadingly.

He feels like one of the butterflies Gaius had been admiring in the marketplace; pinned to a piece
of wood and frantically trying to get himself free as Arthur and Cedric gaze at him like a specimen.

“A good night’s rest would do him good—”

“—I did not fall asleep!” Merlin protests, trying to drown out Cedric’s words but the bastard
ploughs on.

“I am more than happy to take over his duties for the rest of the evening.”

Arthur hums and looks at Merlin, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. Merlin’s heart clenches,
anticipating what decision he has come to.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he says with a frown,

“No!”

“Shut up Merlin.”

Merlin’s frustration spikes, his heartbeat pumps rushing blood into his ears until he can barely hear
his own breathing. The adrenaline coursing through him is like liquid fire, filling him with energy
that makes him feel frenetic. His hands slice through the air as he gestures sharply to Cedric.

“Can’t you see what he’s trying to do?” He practically shouts. “He’s trying to get rid of me!”

“Merlin you’re being ridiculous—” Arthur rolls his eyes dismissively.

Merlin resists the urge to scream.

“I’m not being ridiculous! And if you weren’t such a clotpole you’d see that!” Frustration makes
the words fly straight from his brain to his mouth without giving him a chance to consider them.
He tries to clamp his lips shut before they can spill out but it’s far too late.

Arthur blinks, face hardened and impassive.

“A what?” He asks, dangerously calm as he tips his head to peer at Merlin.

Merlin chews on his cheek, trying to find a way from the hole he has dug himself.

“Clotpole,” Cedric supplies and Merlin just barely refrains from strangling him.

“He said clotpole.”

Arthur’s jaw goes extremely tense, like clay hardening in the sun, and his eyes flash.

The irritation that had been simmering under Merlin’s skin suddenly evaporates, turning cold and
leaving him with a nervous hollow feeling that seeps through his whole body.

“Cedric’s right,” Arthur announces with a decisive nod that stabs sharply into Merlin’s chest. “He
can take care of me tonight.”

“Arthur please—” His voice comes out broken and strangled from the way his chest is
progressively tightening, like ropes pulling around his ribcage until his bones crack and splinter.

“No.” Arthur interrupts, holding up a sharp hand. “You can go home, and decide whether you want
to be my servant or not.”

Merlin bites at his cheek to keep his devastation from showing on his face, but from the falter in
Arthur’s stoic expression, he knows he’s failed. The sadness rages through, destroying everything
it passes like a forest fire. He tries to protect himself from it, curling his shoulders in and shielding
his heart but it does nothing. It shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does. It shouldn’t feel like his chest
is crushing in on itself, like it would have hurt less if Arthur had taken his heaviest boots and
stomped on his heart, but it does.

He tastes the metallic tang of blood, and blinks quickly to dispel the sting of tears.

“Arthur—”

“Go,” Arthur hisses, remaining firm.

Cedric holds out Merlin’s brown jacket for him. He is careful to keep his expression neutral in
front of Arthur, but Merlin swears he can see the smug edges of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
He snatches the jacket back and digs his fingers into the fabric to keep himself from punching
Cedric in his conceited mouth like he wants to.

He storms out before Arthur can see the hot tears stinging his eyes.

~-~-~

Merlin tries to hurry past Gaius, turning his face so the physician won’t see the dried manure
coating the side of his face or the red of his eyes. However Gaius doesn’t let him pass
unquestioned. Merlin hesitates at the call of his name, pausing with one foot on the first step of the
stairs that lead up to his room.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles unconvincingly. Arthur’s words are shards left embedded into his skin that
Merlin can’t ignore no matter how hard he tries. He can feel the hot sting of tears behind his eyes,
and the pressure of a sob building in his chest but he forces them away.

“What’s that on your face?” Gaius asks.

Even though Merlin isn’t facing Gaius he can still hear the frown in his voice.

“Nothing,” he replies in a carefully even tone, before trudging the rest of the way up the staircase.

He knows that if he spends another moment with Gaius then he will begin to cry, and he can’t let
that happen. If he cries it means he is admitting to himself just how badly Arthur has hurt him. He
can’t react like this. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and wills back tears.
“Stupid,” he hisses to himself; the insult does nothing to quell the ache in his chest.

The honest truth is that it hurts like a rejection. Merlin has spent the last few months coming to
terms with the truth, that he will never have Arthur the way he wants him. He understands that, he
has accepted it. Despite the way his heart still skips when Arthur smiles and his pulse flutters when
he stands close. He wants him, but he knows he can't have him, so he consoled himself with their
friendship.

As Arthur’s servant he is close to Arthur’s side at all times. He has the opportunity to tease him,
and smile with him secretly before meetings and between training. Arthur is always within arm’s
distance. So in a way, as his servant, Merlin is closer to him than anyone in the world.

Until now. Until Cedric.

Jealousy spikes in his chest, sharp barbs that extend outwards like a spiny armour. His skin grows
hot and irritated just at the thought of Arthur’s newest servant. Not only did Cedric take Merlin’s
job, he is managing to weasel his way into every aspect of Merlin’s shared life with Arthur. He
makes Arthur laugh, smile, he fills his goblet and retrieves banquets for breakfast. Merlin does all
that too, and Merlin keeps Arthur safe, he protects him with his own life. He would do anything for
him. Cedric doesn’t care for Arthur, and Cedric doesn’t protect him; but Arthur doesn’t think he is
stupid, or an idiot. Only Merlin.

Gaius eases the door open with a creak and his face softens when he meets Merlin’s eyes. He
hasn’t been able to convince himself to move yet, still perched on the edge of the bed with manure
and mud caked over the side of his face. Merlin lets his eyes fall back to the floor, and stares at the
ridges in the boards to will away the hot stinging of his eyes.

“Here,” Gaius murmurs, nudging Merlin’s head to the side and gently wiping away the crusted
muck from his face with a wet rag. He doesn’t say anything else, giving Merlin time to process the
weight of his chest, his emotions are thick like fog filling his lungs, slowly suffocating him with
their dense fumes.

“I’m not an idiot,” Merlin says finally, closing his eyes.

He hears the sad noise Gaius makes, but doesn’t dare look at the expression on his face.

“Of course you’re not… What happened?”

Gaius is careful around Merlin’s eyes as he cleans, one hand steadying the back of Merlin’s head
with considerate care. Merlin considers explaining the whole situation to him, the sleep and the
horses and Cedric barging his way into Arthur’s life; but it’s too much and just the thought of
forcing the words around the growing lump in his throat makes his sinuses prickle and his Adam’s
apple bob.

“I just want Arthur to trust me,” he says instead. Images of Arthur’s frustrated eyes and
disappointed frown flicker before his eyes. They dig into Merlin’s skin like claws, scratching down
his spine and ripping into his stomach. If Arthur knew everything Merlin has done for him, he
would never look at Merlin that way.

“I want him to see me for who I really am,” he confides, risking a glance at Gaius and meeting his
pensive expression.

“One day he will,” Gaius answers reassuringly, stroking the rag over the bridge of Merlin’s nose.

“When?” Merlin asks in a raw voice that reveals his desperation.

He turns to look at Gaius, veering away from his attempts to clean him and meeting his kind,
weathered eyes with frantic need. The deep sense of rejection rings through his body like an ache
in his bones. It’s inescapable and consuming, like the waves of the ocean crashing over his head,
sending him sinking into its depths. The feeling chokes him, like water filling his lungs. He feels
untethered, helpless to stop himself from drowning. He doesn’t bother trying to hide it from Gaius
any longer, there’s no point when he’s already confessing his most intimate fears and desires.

“Everything I do is for him, and he just thinks I’m an idiot,” Merlin says sadly. A tinge of
bitterness sits on the edge of his words, like the sour aftertaste of lemon.

Gaius’ face is twisted in contemplation, a frown creases around the corners of his mouth and
between his eyebrows, while his eyes grow deep with understanding.

Merlin wonders if Gaius knows how he feels about Arthur. Beyond destiny, beyond everything
The Dragon has said about their souls being two halves of a whole. If he knows that Merlin cares
for Arthur in a way that he shouldn’t.

If Gaius knows more than he lets on he doesn’t say anything about it. He simply sighs and
continues working on getting Merlin clean.

“Not everyone thinks you’re an idiot,” he assures Merlin kindly.

Merlin exhales slowly, trying not to let his dejection show. Gaius doesn’t deny that Arthur thinks
he is an idiot, and the omission is a sad confirmation of the one thing Merlin wishes weren’t true.

“Although—” Gaius catches Merlin’s thoughts before they can spiral down into despondency once
more. “Looking at you now…”

Gaius pokes Merlin’s dirty cheek affectionately, with a warm smile that Merlin can’t help but
return. He laughs softly in spite of himself and Gaius seems pleased.

He hands the rag to Merlin and shuffles to sit on the bed before him.

“Now is not the time to be questioning these things Merlin,” Gaius says warmly, laying a hand on
Merlin’s knee in quiet support. “I believe that you and Arthur are destined for greatness, and that
your calling is to serve and protect him.”

Merlin lets the assurance warm his skin, allows it to slowly nestle inside him, make a home in his
heart with shifting increments. His eyes are still hot with unshed tears and his chest shakes with
every exhale, but he feels comforted by Gaius’ words. No matter what Cedric tries to do, or how
much Arthur seems to like him; it is Merlin that shares a destiny with Arthur, and he must answer
to that calling no matter what.

“It’s hard,” he admits weakly, rubbing the cloth over his cheek for something to do with his hands.

Gaius smiles sadly. “I know it’s hard, but you are strong.”

Merlin nods sharply, staring at his threadbare blanket to recollect himself without Gaius’ scrutiny.

“Arthur needs you, and Camelot needs you, now more than ever,” Gaius’ voice turns serious.

Merlin looks up sharply. “What are you talking about?”

Gaius exhales slowly through his nose.

“I’ve translated the inscription,” he explains to Merlin. He quotes the script, “He who breaks my
heart, completes my work.”

Merlin frowns, turning over the words in his mind like fascinating artefacts he might find in the
tomb.

“What does it mean?”

With a sigh Gaius folds his hands in his lap, pursing his lips.

“Do you remember the stone in the tomb?” He asks, looking intently at Merlin to ensure his
understanding. “How it glowed?”

Merlin nods, recalling the way he had been entranced by the jewel’s otherworldly appearance. He
remembers thinking that it was the most astonishing stone he’s ever laid eyes on.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ve never seen a jewel like it.”

Gaius nods slowly, his words take on a heavy and solemn quality. “That’s because it’s not a jewel,
it’s the soul of Cornelius Sigan.”

A nervous shiver runs up Merlin’s spine, trepidation blowing along the back of his neck like a hot
breath.

“You think he’s alive?” He asks in horror.

“His soul is, but in order to truly live a soul needs a body.”

Merlin’s mind is working with fervour in an attempt to piece together Gaius’ thoughts.

“So, if the stone were to be removed from the setting…” Merlin strings his thoughts together
slowly. Gaius waits patiently for him to finish. “Then the heart is broken, and the soul is released?”

Gaius nods. “That’s what I fear.”

“What do we do?” Merlin asks anxiously, already itching to run from his chambers to ensure the
stone’s safety.

Gaius pulls a face. “There is nothing we can do but hope that Arthur has the tomb well protected.”

~-~-~

The door to the physician’s chambers slams open and Arthur thunders in. Merlin trips down the
stairs in his haste to meet him but Arthur isn’t looking for him.

“Gaius! Someone has broken into the tomb,” Arthur explains hurriedly. “I need your help to assess
what has been stolen.”

He glances at Merlin, still halfway up the stairs to his room and hovering nervously. Merlin is
anxious to accompany them as a hollow dread slowly crawls into his stomach when he remembers
Gaius’ warning about Sigan’s soul.

“You come too,” Arthur says to Merlin sharply.

Merlin’s failings from the day before are forgotten in the face of a new foe. He tries not to be too
pleased about how despite Arthur’s constant belittling, he still turns to Merlin in his hour of need.
“Quickly!” Arthur urges with gritted teeth and a frustrated grimace.

Merlin nods obediently. “Yes Sire!” He chirps, running the rest of the way down the stairs.

He shares an anxious look with Gaius as the three of them hurry to the lower floor.

It’s obvious that someone has ransacked the tomb but not much is missing. Some chests are tipped
on their sides, a few of the shinier jewels are missing and someone has scooped handfuls of coins
away, but otherwise the majority has been left untouched. It’s almost more concerning than if the
entire place had been stripped, because for so little to be removed, something must have stopped
the thief.

Merlin’s breath catches as his eyes fall on the hollow hole in the coffin where the magnificent
jewel containing the soul of Cornelius Sigan had once sat. He knows Gaius sees it too, his eyes
dart up to meet Merlin’s with a heavy solemn fear that makes Merlin’s blood cold.

“Is much missing?” Arthur asks restlessly, fingers jumping against his clenched jaw and eyes
stewing with layers of sentiments Merlin couldn’t hope to unravel. He knows that Arthur will be
hating himself for failing a task set specifically for him by his father, he can see it in the twitching
of his jaw and the irritated way he storms around the tomb.

Gaius shakes his head. “Hardly anything, Sire.”

Arthur nods as his hand brushes along the empty crevice where the soul stone sat, expression
guarded aside from the anxiety that slips through the cracks of his mask.

“I’m going to sound the warning bell,” he says decisively, storming from the room before Gaius
and Merlin have a chance to respond.

Merlin turns to follow Arthur but Gaius stops him, reaching down to the floor with old and slow
muscles. He holds up the jewel for Merlin to see, it is recognisable by its familiar heart shape, but
its defining blue glow is lost. The stone is simply a husk of what it was, a vessel for a soul now
emptied.

“Whoever did this got more than they bargained for,” Gaius says in a worried tone.

Merlin gulps.

“How bad is it?” He asks shakily.

Gaius’ frown is so severe his face buckles underneath it. “If Sigan’s soul has truly latched onto
another and he has returned… I fear for us all.”

Merlin’s stomach twists and he steadies himself against the gate as his knees weaken and tremble
with nerves for what is to come. The gate creaks under his hand and for the first time he looks at
the entrance to the tomb properly.

He stares at the unmarred gate in fear and bewilderment.

“What is it?” Gaius asks.

“I just don’t understand how they got in,” Merlin says, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion as he
shifts the gate back and forth. “The gate’s not even damaged.”

Gaius hums, moving to inspect the gate with Merlin.

“They must have used a key,” he observes thoughtfully.

Merlin shakes his head. “Arthur has the only key.”

Gaius’ eyebrows scrunch deeply as he looks over the entrance.

“Where does he keep it?”

“On his belt with the others.” Merlin shrugs.

“Does he ever take it off?”

The keys are a constant presence on Arthur’s belt, even during training he has them tucked under
his plates of armour. Merlin has begun to associate their jangle with Arthur himself, along with
golden light and his braying laugh.

He shakes his head no. “Only when he’s asleep, he keeps it next to his bed.”

Gaius turns to Merlin with his patented contemplative expression that indicates he’s on the edge of
a conclusion and wants Merlin to join him making the final leap.

“Who had access to his chambers last night?”

Merlin chews on the side of his mouth. “No one. Just me, and…”

His eyes go wide in realisation. Dread surges through him, ice cold as it rushes through his
bloodstream and seizes his heart. It makes perfect sense, he almost feels stupid for not realising it
before. Cedric’s eagerness to get close to Arthur, his desperation to get rid of Merlin for the night;
he needed Arthur alone to get to the keys.

It’s clear as he meets Gaius’ eyes that the physician has come to the same conclusion.

“Cedric.”

~-~-~

Merlin storms into Arthur’s room like a tormented soul escaping hell.

“Christ Merlin!” Arthur shouts as his quill shoots across the parchment and smears a line of ink
behind.

“Sorry. There’s just something you need to know,” Merlin blurts out, chest heaving with exertion.

Arthur raises an unamused eyebrow. It isn’t permission to speak but it is the best Merlin can hope
for. It’s obvious that whatever forgiveness he had earnt in Arthur’s moment of crisis earlier has
dissipated.

“Cedric is possessed by an evil spirit,” Merlin says all at once. The words are already out there
before he considers that he probably should have started with something more believable. The look
on Arthur’s face confirms that.

“What?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Sorry, I’ll go from the start. Cedric tried to steal the jewel only it wasn’t a
jewel— wait. Do you know of Cornelius Sigan?” “Of course I know of Sigan Merlin, every child
in Camelot knows of Sigan.” Arthur rolls his eyes, frustration mounting the longer Merlin babbles.
“Alright, well his soul was being sustained in the stone, and now that Cedric has touched it he has
been possessed.”

Arthur frowns, leaning across his desk to look at Merlin.

“Have you been on the cider?”

Merlin exhales sharply, gritting his teeth until his jaw throbs.

“Arthur, please. Camelot is in mortal danger,” he tries fruitlessly to persuade Arthur.

Arthur sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“Merlin. I know you don’t like Cedric very much,” Arthur says placatingly.

A flash of panic zips through Merlin at the confirmation that Arthur has noticed his disdain for
Cedric; but luckily the prince seems oblivious to the jealousy that had underpinned Merlin’s
apprehension of Cedric.

“But this is going too far,” Arthur continues. “Coming up with outlandish stories about legendary
sorcerers isn’t going to help you keep your job.”

Anxiety grips Merlin like a hand around his throat.

“You’re not listening to me!” Merlin huffs in frustration, clenching his fists by his side until he can
feel his nails digging into his bones.

Arthur’s conciliatory expression turns stoney and frustrated. He stands to meet Merlin so they’re
eye to eye, almost butting heads with him like a ram asserting his dominance.

“Right, I thought I would give you another chance today but clearly staying in my service isn’t that
much of a priority for you,” he growls.

The lining of Merlin’s stomach drops, he might be sick.

“Please—”

“No. Cedric!” Arthur calls. “Kindly escort Merlin from the castle.”

The other servant enters the room with efficient obedience, hands folded behind his back and eyes
fastened on Arthur. Merlin can see the obvious difference. Though Cedric physically looks the
same, the way he holds himself is more confident rather than sly. The smugness that Cedric carried
is familiar however his smirk, which had been snide, is now sinister and cold. His expression is
that of a man who believes he has already won, it’s the same face that Cedric wore when he leered
at Merlin as Arthur banished him and he wears it like he is certain that Camelot’s destruction is
within his grasp.

Something inside Merlin snaps.

He tackles Cedric to the ground, ignoring Arthur shouting his name in favour of attempting to wrap
his hands around Cedric’s throat. He wants to put an end to this. Sigan may be the most powerful
sorcerer who ever lived, but he’s threatening Arthur, and for that Merlin will make him wish he
never lived.

Cedric kicks him in the stomach. Merlin grunts as he’s slammed into the base of Arthur’s bed.
With Merlin winded Cedric takes the opportunity to roll out from underneath him. Kicks strike
Merlin's wrists and elbows as he struggles. Merlin manages to grab him by the ankle, hauling
Cedric back and squashing his face into the floor as he struggles to get a better hold.

Merlin’s fury lines his veins like flames, it burns him from the inside, consuming his organs,
scorching the inner lining of his skin. He hisses as Cedric’s nails scrape painfully down the side of
his face. He bites down a roar of frustration as Cedric seizes a fistful of Merlin’s hair and tugs his
head back so sharply his neck jolts. Pain flares at his nape but he barely feels it over the rush of his
ire.

“You little shit!” Merlin growls, kicking Cedric hard in the side.

The kick distracts Cedric, allowing Merlin to seize him by the tunic and prepare to deliver his final
blow. Just as he finally gains the upper hand, strong hands seize Merlin by the scruff of his neck
and jerk him backwards.

He feverishly struggles against Arthur’s hold, lashing out against the prince’s steely grip.

“You’ve gone too far this time Merlin,” Arthur growls.

“You don’t understand!” Merlin shouts as Arthur jostles him forward and frog marches him from
his chambers.

“You can spend a few days cooling off in the cells.” Arthur hands him over to the guards with a
furious, disappointed glare that pierces sharply into Merlin’s heart.

“He’s going to destroy Camelot!” He cries to Arthur as he’s ushered away; but the prince either
doesn’t hear him, or chooses not to respond.

~-~-~

From the courtyard demonic creatures roar at the sky with such power that the windows tremble in
their frames. The drag of sharp claws over the castle’s ceiling sends a horrified shiver down
Arthur’s spine. The torches on the wall flicker with every growl, and heavy footfalls echo from the
roof as the animated gargoyles land. Arthur’s heart is so loud he thinks it will deafen him, but still
he manages to hear the creatures.

Though he loathes to admit it, Merlin was telling the truth when he claimed Cedric was possessed.
Arthur has seen him stalking through the courtyard, donning a raven feathered coat and grinning
like a maniac as his beasts stalk around him. They’re huge and hunched over on all fours, made
entirely of stone yet lithe like any other beast. Their eyes glow with a cruel red that hollows out
Arthur’s soul. Their snarls bare long teeth, sharp as blades and strong enough to tear through flesh.
Some of the creatures have already feasted, blood drips from their stone mouths and trickles on the
cobbled floor. The sight of that shining dark liquid glistening in the moonlight makes Arthur’s
stomach turn. The beasts have painted his beloved kingdom with the blood of his people.

He and his knights had barely survived the first assault against the magical beasts. They could
barely hold their own against the creatures, and were battling for their survival. The creatures
possess a strength Arthur cannot fathom; their sharp claws tore through their chainmail like
parchment and their immense wings sent the knights staggering backwards. The advancement they
made was minuscule, and for what little ground they made they lost a number of good men. Arthur
feels their loss like an aching limb.

Arthur might have died alongside them if Guinevere hadn’t saved him. One of the beasts slashed
their claws along his side and sent him crashing to the floor. Blood runs down his torso, making
his chainmail stick to the raw flesh with a searing burn. Guinevere’s hands clutch around his arm
and heave him to his feet, his vision turns white as her hand brushes against his open wound. She
supports most of his weight as they stagger towards the castle.

Fear flickers in her eyes as she lowers him onto one of the cots. He stifles his groan of pain through
clenched teeth, gasping hollowly as the ache drums through his weak frame.

“I’ll get something to stop the bleeding,” she assures him, touching a warm hand to his arm.

He nods, squeezing his eyes shut as the point where the beast struck him throbs. His side feels raw,
scraped to his insides and aching from his bones to the top layer of skin. He tries to lean away from
that side of his body, convinced if he eases himself away from the pain it will alleviate.

Guinevere begins to hurry away but he stops her with a stifled groan of her name.

She turns back to face him, her dark eyes shining in the flickering candlelight.

“I wanted to say,” Arthur grits out through his teeth. The expression of gratitude gets stuck on his
tongue, refusing to be dislodged under her watchful stare. “I— Just… you always surprise me.”

She raises a bemused eyebrow, struggling to keep her smile stifled. “Is that all, Sire?”

He nods, wincing at his own idiocy. “That’s all.”

She attempts to leave once more and he can’t stop the words that babble out of him in a hurried
wave.

“Oh and thank you, that’s what I meant to say,” he says in a rush.

She looks over her shoulder and smiles, her expression is embroidered with warmth and affection.

“You’re welcome, Sire.”

~-~-~

Merlin listens to the unmistakable sounds of battle with his heart in his mouth. He can’t stop
himself from picturing the horrors beyond the dungeon’s walls; every sound could be a wall
collapsing in on Gaius, or Gwen and Morgana falling to a vicious swipe. His thoughts of Arthur are
the worst, he imagines him falling in a million different ways. He sees monsters tearing into
Arthur’s flesh. He sees Arthur being run through on a blade. He sees Sigan attacking, firing a blast
into Arthur’s chest. The fear is a noose, he tries to breathe but the rope tightens with every
resounding crash from above, pulling until he is choking on his own terror.

A boom echoes from above and the dungeon walls rattle, dislodging stones and causing them to
fall from the weaker foundations. A layer of dust cascades from the roof, Merlin coughs raspily,
blinking away the sting with watery eyes. His fear, a living entity in his chest, rearing and writhing
with terror with every unknown sound.

Merlin runs to the gate.

“Hello?” He calls out, his voice echoing through the empty corridor. The dungeons are deserted,
every guard has abandoned their post to help protect the city under siege.

Another crash shakes the walls and Merlin inhales sharply.

“Okay,” he murmurs to himself, willing his courage and magic to the surface and channels it
towards the lock on the gate. His eyes flash gold and the gate flies from the hinges with a sparking
explosion.

He winces at the damage which will be difficult to explain once the battle is over — assuming he
survives — and dashes up the stairs. He takes them two at a time, lungs straining as he rushes for
the North Wing of the castle, recalling how Gaius had explained that during an emergency it’s
transformed into a makeshift hospital wing.

He’s grateful he remembered that detail correctly, for when he reaches that part of the castle Gaius
is there, tending to the wounded. Arthur is there too, injured, but thankfully alive. The relief at
seeing his golden hair hits Merlin in such a heavy rush that he has to steady himself against a wall
to keep from sagging to the floor.

Morgana is wrapping a bandage around his torso, treating a sizeable gash on his right pectoral that
is steadily bleeding. Arthur winces with every brush of the fabric against the injury but otherwise
doesn’t complain.

The doors to the wing slam open and Uther stalks in shouting Arthur’s name. Merlin presses his
back flat against the wall to keep to the shadows.

“What happened?” Uther demands, managing to sound more stern than concerned.

“It’s nothing,” Arthur promises, but the clenched hiss of pain he makes when Uther pats his
shoulder consolingly indicates otherwise. Uther doesn’t seem to notice his son’s pain as he is too
distracted by the number of wounded bodies filling the cots of the hall.

Merlin watches from the dark alcove as the king’s eyes scan the entire perimeter.

“How many dead?” Uther asks distractedly.

Arthur shakes his head with a tormented expression. “Too many to number.”

“Have we driven the creatures out?” Uther asks, turning to face Arthur once again.

Though Merlin didn’t think it possible, Arthur’s eyes grow more forlorn at Uther’s question.

“No. They’ve captured the lower town, and the marketplace is all but destroyed.”

Uther scowls, a dark expression falling over his eyes and Merlin winces at the crestfallen way
Arthur’s face falls. He doubts that Uther’s disappointment is directed specifically towards, but it’s
obvious to Merlin that Arthur perceives it to be.

“I’m sealing off the citadel,” The King announces.

Arthur’s jaw drops open. “You can’t,” he says in horror.

“I have no choice. I have to protect those who have a chance, if I don’t we will all fall.”

Merlin watches a thousand different expressions flicker over Arthur’s face as he digests his father’s
words.

He stands with a groan, Merlin has to dig his nails into his leg to keep himself from rushing to his
side and forcing him back onto the cot.

“Where are you going?” Uther asks with a challenging edge in his voice.
Arthur stubbornly ignores the warning in his father’s voice. His jaw clenching is the only
indication of his anxiousness at disregarding the King.

“There are people trapped in the drawbridge,” he begins to explain but Uther speaks over him.

“I forbid it—”

Arthur shakes his head. “I can’t leave them to die.”

He makes to hurry from the room, and Merlin shifts along the wall in plans to follow when Uther
grabs his arm. Arthur lets out a sharp cry of pain but yanks himself free.

“It’s suicide,” Uther hisses.

“It’s my duty to Camelot,” Arthur counters fiercely. “And to myself.”

Arthur runs out but Merlin stays. He fights every urge within him that draws him to Arthur and
forces himself to stay put. He needs to speak to Gaius.

“Psst,” he catches Gaius’ attention as he hurries past with bandages heaped in his arms. Merlin
sticks his head out of the shadows and waves Gaius over.

Gaius’ eyes are wild with uncontained fear as he scans over Merlin, relaxing indiscriminately when
he realises that Merlin isn’t hurt.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have to help Arthur.”

Gaius sighs. “Merlin, Sigan’s power is far beyond your own. If you had been training for years
perhaps—”

“—It doesn’t matter. I don’t have another choice.”

Gaius does not allow him to nullify his point, remaining steadfast as he lays a protective hand on
Merlin’s elbow.

“Sigan is immortal, you are not. If you face him he will destroy you.”

“And if I don’t he will destroy Arthur,” Merlin argues, eyes shining with stressed tears and
harrowing fear. “There must be a way.”

Gaius sags in defeat, exhaling slowly.

“For you and I alone, there is not… but there is one alive who is old enough to give us the answers
we need,” Gaius says.

His voice hints at something, nudging Merlin towards the answer hesitantly, like he’s reluctant to
divulge the knowledge despite its importance.

“What do you mean?” Merlin asks hollowly. He senses the answer with a sinking feeling in his
chest before Gaius provides it.

“The Great Dragon.”

Merlin’s face falls. The wound left by The Dragon’s selfishness is one that has not faded since
Merlin’s trip to the Isle of the Blessed no matter how he attempts to ignore it. The ache throbs and
stings as it pushes against the back of his skull; Gaius’ words are salt, pressed into the open
wound.

“You knew then?” He murmurs. “That I used to see him?”

Gaius’ eyes soften in understanding, affectionate even through the thick layer of worry clouding
his eyes.

“Of course I knew Merlin. Your tie to magic is immense, as is his. I hoped that he could help you.”

Merlin shakes his head. “He helps no one but himself.”

Gaius sighs knowingly, pressing his lips tightly together and regarding Merlin with an intensity that
makes Merlin long to shrink away.

“You must seek his help once more,” Gaius says firmly.

“I can’t.”

Gaius continues to stare imploringly at Merlin, unwilling to relent.

“We have no other choice. For Arthur’s sake, you must.”

Merlin almost resents Gaius for knowing which vulnerabilities to target in order to spur Merlin into
action. He hesitates for only a moment before dashing towards The Dragon’s cave with a heavy
feeling in his heart. His unease rises with every familiar step down the dark staircase, and as he
enters the cavern he feels weary.

Of course The Dragon is nowhere to be seen, hiding in some dark crevice and likely laughing at
Merlin for daring to return. The thought is enough to grind Merlin’s teeth and frustration fills his
mouth with a bitter taste. He can’t shake the sensation that the great creature is toying with him.

“Hello!” He calls into the empty cavern, his voice reverberates off the walls and echoes in his ear
canals. “Please! I need you!”

With the heavy clanking of chains and loud flaps of his enormous wings The Dragon lands before
Merlin. His expression is unamused as he leans forward, the air from his nostrils is a searing wall
of heat as he leers down at the warlock.

“You told me I would never see you again,” The Dragon reminds him coldly.

Merlin lifts his chin, meeting the creature’s eyes without cowering.

“I’m not here for myself, I’m here for Arthur,” Merlin answers with a threatening glare. He
despises that he needs to ask The Dragon for help once again; but with Arthur at stake, he would
grovel before the great creature if need be.

The Dragon seems intrigued, tilting his huge head to inspect Merlin.

“Those two things are one and the same. Arthur’s path lies with yours. Therefore, you are here on
your own behalf.”

Merlin scowls. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” The Dragon snaps. “And you have proven that you do not walk in step
with me.”

He crouches as though to fly away, concluding their conversation with his usual enigmatic
evasiveness. Merlin’s heart pounds in his throat, pressing uncomfortably against his airway with
every loud thump.

“Surely you don’t want Cornelius Sigan’s triumph, you’ve never been wicked.”

While The Dragon is self serving and narcissistic he has never been cruel. Despite being driven by
his own gain, he has assisted Merlin in overcoming every obstacle, and for that Merlin is forced to
acknowledge that deep down he will do the right thing, if not for the right intentions.

The Dragon’s eyes squint in disdain.

“At least Sigan knows where his loyalties lie,” he scorns, baring his fangs at Merlin with a low
hiss. “You have shown that you do not.”

Merlin’s nostrils flare. “So you will let Camelot fall?”

The Dragon hesitates, yellow eyes still glaring at Merlin with frigid derision.

“I did not say that,” he says eventually.

Merlin lowers his shoulders, staring up at the creature impatiently.

“To defeat Sigan you will need a spell more powerful than anything you know. I can give you this
spell, if you want it…”

The end of his sentence trails off and Merlin can hear the edges of a condition attached to the
heavy silence.

“But?”

“But you must give me something in return.”

Merlin clenches his jaw so tight his veins throb, indignance and frustration itching in the lines of
his muscles and underneath his skin.

“What? What do you want?”

“A promise,” The Dragon answers simply, his typical amused demeanour returning much to
Merlin’s displeasure.

“A promise?”

The Dragon nods slowly. “That one day you will set me free.”

Understanding slumps over Merlin with frustrated resignation. He huffs a disbelieving and
humourless laugh, almost furious at his own stupidity for not realising what The Dragon’s requisite
would be.

There is too much risk in the promise. The Dragon has been imprisoned for longer than Merlin has
been alive. His resentment for Uther has festered and fortified in this cavern, it drips from the walls
and pools in the craters. If he were free, Merlin can’t in good faith believe he would not attempt to
enact revenge.
“If I free you, what will you do?” Merlin asks cautiously.

The Dragon’s eyes flash with annoyance. “That is not your concern.”

“I don’t trust you!”

“Nevertheless, you must promise, or Camelot will fall.”

As if to emphasise The Dragon’s words the cavern trembles with another distant crash. Merlin
looks to the ceiling where the kingdom above is under siege. Arthur amongst the dangerous beasts,
risking his own life for the sake of the people he cares about more than his own life. He cannot
leave him without protection.

“I promise,” he decides recklessly despite the dreadful feeling weighing in his gut. He clenches his
jaw, squeezing his eyes shut to dispel the horrific apprehension and keeping himself in the present.

“Now give me the spell,” he demands.

The Dragon smiles widely. “Very well.”

When the spell hits him it’s like nothing Merlin has ever felt before. He feels his thoughts realign,
making space in his brain for this new information. It’s so expansive it seems to take over his entire
skull, pressing against the outer walls like it can’t possibly be contained. Merlin screws his eyes
shut as the warmth of sorcery floods through him like a heavy current, making his own magic hum
so violently he thinks he might shake apart at the seams and collapse. Spots of vibrant colour dance
behind his eyelids and his stomach lurches like he might vomit and then the sensation is over and
he’s completely fine.

He exhales shakily.

“Few men have ever been gifted with such knowledge,” The Dragon says solemnly, leaning in to
look at Merlin steadily. “Use it wisely.”

Merlin nods, trembling from head to toe and clutching at his heart to keep his weak bones from
falling apart.

“I will,” he promises.

As he turns to leave the cave The Dragon’s words stop him, heavy with unspoken threat and tone
frozen cold.

“You made a promise young warlock,” he says, returning to his old nickname for Merlin. “And
one day, I shall keep you to it.”

Merlin stiffens, straightening his spine and clenching his jaw as he meets The Dragon’s steady
gaze. He says nothing, stalking from the cave feeling just as uneasy as he did when he entered; but
with the knowledge he needs to save Camelot, and that’s all that matters.

~-~-~

Despair crashes over Arthur as they reach the drawbridge to find his citizens already dead. Their
unmoving bodies are abandoned in heaps, chunks of flesh have been torn from their sides and their
necks are limp at odd angles.

He swallows roughly but it does nothing to force down the cold grief seeping through him.
“Check for any survivors,” he orders hollowly. The words have hardly left his lips before one of
the creatures swoops down from the sky, the wind rushes over his head as it soars over them and
lands with a snarl at the exit.

Arthur’s heart races, but his hands are steady against the hilt of his sword as he draws it out of its
sheath. This is what he does best, he cannot falter in battle, that is as good as surrendering to the
beast. He lets his fear turn to adrenaline that courses through him. It rushes loudly in his ears, like
the deafening splash of a waterfall cascading over his head it pours over him. He feels the power of
it zip through his veins, a current of lightning stretching from the soles of his feet to his fingertips.
He uses the tightness of his muscles as strength, the fast pounding of his heart as drums building
up to his attack.

He shouts to the other knights, pulling them into formation with a single word.

“Charge!” He screams over the roars of the creature, and they all rush forward. Their swords grate
against the stone of the animated gargoyle. The sounds of the creature’s stone claws against their
blades resonate through the courtyard, it is a vicious grinding sound that scrapes down Arthur’s
spine like claws dragging through his back.

There isn’t a falter amongst the knights, as a group they barrage the creature with endless strikes
and attacks. Arthur is in the centre of the fray, urging his men forward, shouting instructions as
their swords scrape along the stone creature’s wings and arms. But the creature is beyond their
strength. As they attack it only grows angrier.

“Retreat!” Arthur cries as the creature descends on them with a furious shriek. The knights fall
back without hesitation, running for the castle as the gargoyle follows them with loud flaps of its
stone wings.

The beast leaps, soaring over their heads and landing between Arthur and the other knights. It
roars, baring sharp teeth that seem eager to rip into their flesh. Arthur’s heart plummets and takes
the air from his lungs with it.

“Save yourself!” He bellows. The knights hesitate, unwilling to leave their prince behind. “That’s
an order!”

He sees the fear in Sir Leon’s eyes, the desperation in Sir Kay’s, but he feels nothing but
confidence that he must save his men. If he must choose between their lives and his then Arthur
will not hesitate.

Finally, after seconds that pass like hours, the knights hurry into action and flee back into the
castle.

The beast snarls as its meal runs to freedom, spinning to face Arthur with a furious glare. For a
moment Arthur thinks that maybe the creature has thoughts; it seems to know that Arthur is
responsible for the knights retreating to safety. Or maybe he’s just scared of its anger. He doesn’t
have time to consider the possibilities as the beast lunges at him.

He manages to block the brunt of the attack with his shield but the force still knocks him off
balance. The last thing he thinks before his head hits the floor is shit.

~-~-~

Merlin’s eyes fall on Arthur’s unconscious body the moment he steps into the courtyard. A winged
beast is surging through the sky towards him, screeching monstrously with talons that stretch
towards the fallen prince. Merlin doesn’t hesitate for even a second, throwing his hand up to shield
Arthur. The gargoyle explodes into a pile of rocks, disintegrating over Merlin and Arthur in a
cloud of dust.

Merlin sprints through the courtyard, falling to Arthur’s side with his heartbeat pounding and
fingers shaking. He lays a tentative hand on Arthur’s shoulder as the prince groans, his head shifts
away from Merlin and his eyelashes flutter. He combs Arthur’s hair from his forehead, checking
over the prince’s face for any injuries that could have left him concussed or injured. Luckily, aside
from his unconsciousness, and the gash left from his earlier encounter with the beasts, Arthur
appears completely fine. Merlin exhales in relief, taking comfort in the gentle rise and fall of
Arthur’s chain mail beneath his fingertips.

“Well well,” Cedric’s voice slices through the fog, the force of his words is enough to make
ripples in the mist, parting it like a miracle worker would part waves. Merlin’s head snaps up. As
Cedric stalks forward the smoke crawls away from him. He’s almost an entirely new person, to
call him Cedric seems inaccurate, the spirit of Cornelius Sigan has stripped away what was the
weaselly young man. His hair is combed neatly, his eyes are dark and sharp with power and he has
donned a thick coat of raven feathers. There is no humanity behind those dark eyes, they are sharp
like the point of a dagger.

“Who would have believed it?” Sigan continues. “You, a sorcerer, and a powerful one.”

Merlin swallows roughly, shifting so his body shields Arthur from view. His fingers stay on the
heavy armour of Arthur’s breastplate as he moves, keeping the single point of connection between
them as long as he can allow.

“I won’t let you hurt him,” he says. Determination reverberates through every bone in his body,
like the resonating sound of a bell after it has been struck. He would be Arthur’s shield if
necessary, he would do anything in his worldly power to keep Sigan from him.

Sigan’s eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “And you’re going to stop me?”

Merlin squares his shoulders, rueing the loss of Arthur’s touch under his hand as he moves to
stand, to meet Sigan’s cold eyes with his own.

“Yes,” he says, mustering more confidence than he feels into his words. His eyes flit to Arthur,
helpless and unprotected on the cobblestone floor. “If you threaten him, you leave me no choice.”

Sigan’s eyes narrow and scan over him thoughtfully. Merlin squirms as the dark pupils trail over
his body; the sorcerer seems to be pulling him apart, squinting at the vulnerable pieces that stitch
him together, dissecting him with only his gaze. Sigan’s eyes then wander over to Arthur and
Merlin’s hackles rise, furious that he even dares to look at the prince.

“He does not deserve your loyalty,” Sigan says maliciously. “He treats you like you’re nothing.”

Merlin shakes his head roughly, voice cracking as he answers. “That’s not true.”

He thinks of the small ways Arthur shows he cares. The way he laughs at Merlin’s jokes even
when his father is around, burying them in his fist or under the guise of a cough. How he hardly
reprimands Merlin even when he definitely should, smiling when Merlin teases him instead of
sending him to the stocks, laughing and returning with quips of his own. Arthur might not value
Merlin the way Merlin wishes, but he is more than just Arthur’s servant.

“He cast you aside without a moment’s thought,” Sigan reminds him coldly.
Merlin’s words catch on the lump in his throat. “That doesn’t matter.”

“But it must hurt so much,” Sigan says, his voice oozing with faux sincerity that strokes at Merlin.
“It must hurt, to be so overlooked, so put down, when all the while you have such power.”

Tears spring to Merlin’s eyes. He would do anything for Arthur, and he wishes the prince knew it,
just how much power Merlin would bend to Arthur’s command.

“That’s the way it has to be.”

“Does it?” Sigan challenges and Merlin takes a shuddering breath. The foundations of his beliefs
are crumbling like dust, they have been weakened by days of feeling overlooked and forgotten and
jealousy has eroded his usually unshakeable certainty that he is doing the right thing.

“You’re young Merlin. Look inside yourself, you have yet to discover the true extent of your
power. I can help you,” Sigan says soothingly and his words are so assuring, his tone so confident,
it settles something inside Merlin despite his best efforts to keep up his guard.

“Think! You could have the world appreciate your greatness.” Sigan looks intently at him, seeing
right through Merlin’s skin to the truth he so desperately tries to hide. “Arthur could know you, for
who you truly are.”

The idea is more wonderful than Merlin can dare to dream. For Arthur to look at him and see him
for everything he really is. Not weak, or an idiot, or someone to be overlooked; but his true self. He
can’t, Merlin knows it isn’t possible, but still the dream dances temptingly within his reach.

“That can never be,” he manages to argue but it sounds weak even to his own ears. Merlin attempts
to stifle his growing desire to accept Sigan’s words. It’s as ineffective as using a damp cloth to
smother a scorching fire. The flames dim and flicker but they do not die.

“It can.” Sigan reaches out a hand. “If you join me.”

Merlin’s resolve wavers just slightly. The temptation to give in to Sigan is so much stronger than
Merlin would like to admit. It sounds so easy, so reassuring. It’s everything Merlin has longed for,
so within reach that he can practically feel it brush against his fingertips. To be known, to be
valued, by Camelot, by Arthur.

“Together we can rule over this land! Arthur will tremble at your voice, he will kneel at your feet!”

The incremental piece of Merlin that had fallen to the temptation of Sigan’s offer hardens like a
stone and sinks into the pit of his stomach. When Sigan spoke Merlin’s anger had slowly
dissipated, but now it returns in a rush that burns through him and roars in his ears. He grits his
teeth, glaring at Sigan and letting his magic crackle in his fingertips as his fury rages within him.

He sees how Sigan’s eyes widen in surprise, and confusion flickers across his face, as fast as a
blink but a momentary crack in composure.

“I don’t want that,” Merlin says scathingly.

“You’d rather be a servant?” Sigan asks derisively, screwing up his nose like he can’t think of a
worse fate.

Merlin’s magic crackles under his skin, it hisses in his veins. He can feel his potential and power in
its raw form, wild and alive in his chest, bursting with the desire to be free. Wind whistles in his
ears, energy stirs in his fingertips. It thrums like the fast moving wings of a hummingbird,
vibrating with eager activity. He feels like the spark made when flint strikes steel, he is the build
up of electricity before a bolt of lightning strikes the ground, the static that enters the air.

“Better to serve a good man, than to rule alongside a wicked one.”

Sigan inhales sharply. His demeanour turns icy, his eyes darken and his jaw clenches as he turns
his nose up at Merlin.

“So be it,” he sneers, baring his teeth like a predator issuing a challenge. “If you will not join me I
will become you, and your power will be harnessed to my will.”

Cedric’s body convulses, his eyes go glassy and his mouth opens wide as he screams in silent
terror.

Merlin’s heart is pounding against his chest, but he swallows his fear in large gulps. He cannot
afford to be lost to panic now. Camelot needs him, Arthur needs him. The Dragon has given him
the knowledge he needs to defeat Sigan, Merlin can only hope it’s enough.

Cedric’s eyes roll back, he heaves for air with ragged hollow gasps that rattle as they leave his
lungs. Merlin forces himself into action, squeezing his hands into fists by his side as Cedric
collapses.

He fumbles within himself for the magic The Dragon offered him, it’s slippery and difficult to
grasp, darting away from his hold and impossibly heavy once he seizes it. Merlin has never
harnessed anything so powerful; the magic is almost beyond him, reminiscent of the potent magic
that he had felt on the Isle of Blessed. It is stronger than anything he knows, beyond anything he
has tried to control, his own magic pales in contrast to this ancient knowledge.

Sigan’s soul claws its way from Cedric’s mouth, pouring through the hollows of his eyes and the
crevices of his ears. It glows an eerie, luminescent blue, slithering like a snake towards Merlin,
eager to feast.

Merlin strengthens his hold on the ancient magic, speaking the spell under his breath like a prayer.
His pulse rabbits in his throat as the soul slinks up his leg and coils towards his mouth. He
squeezes his eyes shut, continuing to mumble the spell over and over, feeling the magic pour out of
him as the soul squeezes its way into his body.

It feels like a second skeleton is sitting under his skin. He can feel Sigan behind his eyes, pressing
against his skull, his bones taking up the spaces between the rungs of Merlin’s ribs. Merlin’s skin
is pulled so tight it’s impossible to breathe. Merlin can hear Sigan breathing in his ears, and a new
heartbeat joining his own, pounding so violently his chest seems like it will crack open under the
force. He can feel Sigan’s voice stuffing itself down his throat. His power entangles with Merlin’s
like chains locking around the wrists of a captive, appropriating Merlin’s magic to control as his
own. Black spots dance in front of his eyes, Merlin feels himself lose consciousness as he crumbles
to the floor and shudders violently.

And then everything goes still, and Sigan evaporates like steam over a warm bath. The stone
presses hard against Merlin’s joints as he feels Sigan’s soul extract itself from his body, pulling
away and into the heart shaped receptacle.

Merlin pushes himself to his knees with trembling arms that threaten to give way beneath him. As
he sits up stomach lurches and he dry heaves onto the stone ground, clutching at his stomach and
shaking fiercely. It feels like someone has gouged everything from his body and left him empty,
boneless, he trembles with the effort to keep himself upright. The sudden absence of Sigan inside
his body is both a welcome relief and lurchingly uncomfortable; Merlin can feel every gap
between his bones and every hollow in his joints. He gags again, spitting out the taste of Sigan
from his lips with a violent shudder. Merlin wipes his sweaty upper lip and brow on his sleeve,
taking slow heaving breaths as his heart rate calms.

He can only just hear Gaius’ voice calling his name over the sound of his pulse ringing in his ears.

“I’m here,” Merlin manages, his legs wobble like a newborn foal as he stands but he doesn’t fall.

Gaius hurries over the courtyard toward him, eyes cautious as he scans him over, searching for
signs of Sigan Merlin notes.

He holds up the jewel, encasing the sorcerer, binding him inside. He watches as relief floods
Gaius’ eyes at the sight of the familiar blue shine and smiles shakily in response.

“You did it my boy,” Gaius says proudly, pulling Merlin into a tight hug.

Merlin trembles into the hold, grateful for how tightly Gaius clings to him as it keeps him from
falling apart. He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales in heavy relief.

~-~-~

“You know you won’t get any thanks, Merlin,” Gaius says as he heaps some stew into a bowl.

“Really?” Merlin replies sarcastically with a mischievous grin. “I thought Uther might pop down to
thank me personally.”

Gaius chuckles, rolling his eyes. “I’m afraid not.”

“Here.” He places the bowl in front of Merlin. It’s Merlin’s favourite, a potato and tomato stew
with pieces of chicken that soak up the rich flavour. His mouth waters at the aromatic smell.

“It’s not much, but you deserve something for saving us all.”

Merlin smiles gratefully at Gaius, shovelling a spoonful into his mouth happily.

A knock at the door draws both of their attention. Merlin’s spine straightens when Arthur steps
through, uncharacteristically sheepish and sporting a grimace.

“I’ve come to speak with Merlin,” he says in lieu of greeting, shuffling from foot to foot.

Merlin blinks up at him.

“I wanted to say that I’m…” Arthur screws up his nose, visibly struggling to wrestle the words out.
“I didn’t treat you fairly. I underestimated you and I didn’t value you, and I’m— I— well, that
must have… hurt.”

Merlin struggles not to smile, hopelessly endeared by the awkward way Arthur dances around the
apology. Merlin thinks he could count the amount of times Arthur has said the word ‘sorry’ on one
hand. It shouldn’t make Merlin’s heart flutter to see him trying — and failing — to be genuinely
nice to Merlin; but then again he’s beginning to accept that Arthur can do just about anything and
make Merlin’s heart flutter.

“I got distracted by how nice it was to have a proper servant—”

Merlin thins his lips to stifle his smile, lest he encourage Arthur’s shoddy approach to an apology.
 “—that I forgot to appreciate what you do for me.”

Arthur offers Merlin a small smile, eyes crinkling with warmth that makes Merlin’s stomach
clench and flood with affection.

“And… I have to admit there was… some truth in your accusations against Cedric,” Arthur says
reluctantly. His tone suggests that conceding such a point to Merlin is like pulling a tooth.

Before Merlin has the chance to reply Arthur continues speaking.

“But it doesn’t change your laziness, or your insolence, or the fact that you called me a clotpole.”
Arthur enunciates Merlin’s insult carefully, and with a pointed glare in Merlin’s direction.

“So I think we’re even.”

All in all it’s possibly the worst apology Merlin has ever received; as Arthur managed to insult
Merlin three times and skip saying sorry all together. It makes Merlin so unbearably fond that he
wonders whether there might be something psychologically wrong with him.

He bites down the besotted smile that threatens to escape.

“If you say so, Sire,” he says with a grin. “Does this mean I can come back to work?”

Arthur nods stiffly.

“Yes. In fact you can start right now—”

Merlin’s eyes widen as Arthur lugs a sack onto the table and tips out a huge pile of armour beside
his stew.

“I have a knighthood to bestow in the morning, so I’ll need this armour cleaned and ready to be
worn by morning.”

Merlin gapes at Arthur. “All of this?’

Arthur beams, and Merlin’s heart clenches fondly.

“Yep!” He chirps, throwing the sack in Merlin’s face and sauntering from the room.

Merlin covers his mouth to hide his endeared smile from Gaius.

“Clotpole?” Gaius echoes incredulously, raising his eyebrow at Merlin.

Chapter End Notes

welcome to season 2 !!!! im so excited to share this season with you !!

i hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know in the comments what you thought !!
i will see you very soon with chapter 12 on the 18th of december (aest) !!
 Under False Pretences
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Arthur first learned to wield a sword at four years old.

His father gifted him a wooden sword and with the instruction of the older knights, he began his
training. He was given a real sword at the age of seven. It was an honour, the trust of his
swordsmaster and the weight of the sword in his hand made him feel like the prince he was born to
be. The first time he used it he was disarmed and the blade struck his leg. He remembers his
father’s stern voice lecturing him on his duty as prince, and a protector of Camelot, as the blood
dripped slowly down his leg. He still has a small pencil thin scar on his shin.

At eight he was placed on a horse and began jousting lessons with the sergeant-in-arms. His small
arms were too weak to carry the lance, it would dip low and dig into the dirt and send him flying
from the horse. He spent many days falling into the hard dirt, coughing up mouthfuls of mud and
wiping blood from his nose.

Arthur earnt his knighthood at only fourteen. His muscles were so scrawny that he almost buckled
under the weight of his armour. He became first knight at sixteen, the youngest to ever earn the
title, and then captain of the guard at nineteen.

He has spent years of hard training, ensuring that he is the best he can be. He knows the art of
combat inside and out. Every movement and rhythm to it is memorised and perfected. No less is
expected of him. No less would be accepted.

All this to say, he knows when someone is pulling their punches.

He and Leon ride at each other, lances outstretched and eyes narrowed as they charge. Arthur can
feel the fault in his own technique from the moment he spurs his horse into action, and he knows
he has lost the round. Leon’s lance should strike him, he winces in preparation for the blow. It
doesn’t land.

Arthur tears his helmet from his head the moment he dismounts, storming up the pavilion towards
Leon with a furious scowl.

“Why did you pull out?” He demands. “I was wide open! You could have unhorsed me.”

Leon turns to him with a confused expression, like he can’t understand why Arthur would ask such
a question.

“I was afraid that I might injure you, Sire.”

“You had the advantage! You can’t afford to hesitate like that.”

Leon tips his head almost pityingly at Arthur.

“I wouldn’t have done. Had I been facing a different opponent.”

Apprehension prickles at the back of Arthur’s neck, before he even asks his question he knows
Leon’s answer.
“What do you mean?”

“You’re the future king, my Lord.”

Leon has known Arthur for his entire life, four years Arthur’s senior he became a knight not long
before the prince and they have trained alongside each other for years. They’re not close, but
Arthur has always respected Leon greatly. The knowledge that he has been coddling him like a
child strikes something painful in Arthur’s chest.

Another terrible thought dawns on him.

“You jousted against me in the tournament last year… are you suggesting you let me win?”

“No Sire,” Leon replies hesitantly. It’s obvious he’s lying; his mouth presses thin and he shuffles
listlessly as his eyes glance from the ground, to Arthur’s face and back again.

Something tightens in Arthur’s chest, clenching like a fist and his nostrils flare. It stings like lemon
juice in an open cut, the confirmation of his fear that he would always be treated differently is true,
even here, on the training field. Arthur knows he is different. He is held to a standard that no man
of twenty one years could feasibly achieve, and expected to perform beyond it. He is isolated and
alone, emotions are one of the few luxuries he cannot afford.

Yet he had always thought that as a knight he was an equal.

He turns to look at the other knights who mill around with sheepish expressions, each careful not to
make eye contact with him. Only Merlin meets his sharp gaze looking concerned from where he is
waiting by Arthur’s horse.

“It doesn’t matter who I am. I do not expect any special treatment from you.” He jabs his finger
first in Leon’s direction, and then the rest of the knights. “From any of you!”

Leon has the decency to look abashed, and he ducks his head with a frown that he attempts to hide
behind his hand as he rubs it over his beard.

“Don’t let it happen again.”

“Yes Sire.”

Though Arthur knows Leon is far too loyal and well mannered to outright disobey him, he can see
on the first knight’s face that Arthur’s order is inconsequential.

“You’re all dismissed,” Arthur growls, stalking away before he says anything that will later weigh
on his conscience. Merlin follows tight on his heels, obediently a pace behind, rather than walking
by Arthur’s side like he usually does. The knights flounder awkwardly behind him, unsure how to
proceed. He doesn’t give a shit.

He slams the doors to his chambers open, taking satisfaction in the way they shudder on their
hinges. He was too infuriated and humming with energy to bother stopping by the armoury so he’s
still fully armoured as he stomps his way in.

“I can’t believe this!” He shouts, finally breaking the fuming tension between him and Merlin. He
throws his helmet hard onto the table and it skitters over the surface before crashing to the floor.
“How am I meant to prove myself if my opponents aren’t trying their hardest? How can I stand a
chance in battle if all my own knights are going easy on me?”
Arthur continues furiously undressing himself, yanking his sword out of his sheath. He’s seething,
his anger makes the nerves under his skin grow hot, like his heart is a furnace pumping his body
full of fury.

“I’m sure it’s not happening all the time,” Merlin attempts to placate him.

Arthur spins around with a furious glint in his eye. “So it is happening some of the time?”

Merlin stands from where he was retrieving Arthur’s abandoned helmet with a nervous squeak.

“No! I’m sure it isn’t.”

Arthur gapes at him.

“Now you’re doing it!” He shouts, frustration bubbling in him like an overflowing cauldron.
“You’re telling me exactly what you think I want to hear!”

Merlin wrinkles his nose, finally losing the nervous quality in his eyes and returning to his usual
brazen nature. “Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur. When have I ever just told you what you wanted to
hear?”

“Just now!” Arthur hisses lividly. He paces around the room, unleashing some of the vicious
energy swirling in his stomach by his flexing hands and stomping feet.

“In my defence.” Merlin raises an eyebrow at him. “When you’re angry you have a tendency to
throw things in my direction, and right now you’re holding a sword.”

Arthur freezes, looking down at his sword in surprise, he forgot that he had drawn it.

“Don’t be ridiculous Merlin. I’m not going to throw a sword at you,” he mutters, rolling his eyes,
but he drops the sword onto the table to acknowledge Merlin’s point.

“Are you done with your temper tantrum?” Merlin asks cheekily as Arthur pulls his chestplate over
his head.

Arthur glares hotly at Merlin when he emerges.

Merlin’s mouth twists. “Guess not.”

Though it makes Arthur want to throttle him — or at least sentence him to a week in the stocks —
he has to admit that there’s something soothing about Merlin teasing him. The realisation that the
knights don’t actually treat him as their equal is painful enough; he doesn’t think he could stand it
from Merlin too.

“Everyone treats me like I’m special,” Arthur mutters, dropping his armour to the floor and
storming over to the window. “For once I just want to be normal.”

“Really?” Merlin asks and Arthur can hear the incredulity in his voice.

“Yes. I don’t want special treatment. I just want to be like everybody else.”

Merlin scoffs. “Right. You realise I’m currently picking up your sweaty armour right?”

Arthur glances over his shoulder to see Merlin precariously balancing the large pile of armour in
his arms.
“Normal people don’t have servants,” Merlin points out, raising an eyebrow.

Arthur’s mouth twitches. “And normal princes have servants who do their jobs without
complaining.”

“That sounds boring,” Merlin says with a smile. He stumbles and all the armour almost clatters to
the floor.

“I’m serious, Merlin. It’s lonely, being treated like I’m different...”

The anger burning in Arthur’s chest has dulled to a faint murmur, like a hurricane ravaged through
him and decimated his insides; leaving ghost towns and the wreckage of wilderness behind. He just
feels hollow, and so goddamn lonely. Every friendship he had attempted to form, every bond with
the knights has suddenly come undone before his eyes. He’s realising now with startling clarity
that at least on some part, every person he has grown close to has been pretending. He’s an island,
fated to be isolated and alone for the duration of his lifetime. He had thought he’d come to terms
with that, but today has renewed that ache, and he forgot how persistently it hurt.

The cheeky expression on Merlin’s face slips away to genuine sympathy.

“I know,” he says softly.

No one actually cares, except for Merlin that is.

Arthur squirms under his watchful gaze. The softness of the moment trails itching patterns onto his
already uncomfortable skin, and he can’t stand it. He shrugs it off.

“You have no idea how lucky you are,” he says with an accusatory sniff in Merlin’s general
direction.

Merlin scoffs, hiking Arthur’s armour more comfortably into his arms.

“Sure. Well, anytime you want to swap places, just let me know.”

Arthur blinks, an idea slowly filters into his mind and stitches itself together.

“That’s not a totally stupid idea.”

Merlin laughs like Arthur’s joking. “You’re the crown prince. You can’t change who you are.”

Merlin hurries out of the room, dropping one of Arthur’s gauntlets as he stumbles through the
doorway, but his words stay with Arthur. The idea is knitting into something strong and resolute.
A way to prove himself, and his worth. That he’s so much more than the circlet of gold he wears
on his head, the mark of a would-be king.

He is Arthur, strong of his own right.

~-~-~

Arthur takes a sip of his goblet but his mouth remains unreasonably dry and refuses to be
quenched. His father is eating pleasantly at the other side of the table, completely unaware of
Arthur’s stomach which rolls with nerves.

He chews on a grape for the sole purpose of keeping himself from sitting idly.

“We have received reports that a beast has been sighted roaming the forests by the northern
borders,” he lies smoothly, sounding far more relaxed and nonchalant than he feels.

His father lifts his head with a raised eyebrow.

“What is the nature of this beast?” He asks with a heavy frown.

Uther extends his goblet towards Merlin, brandishing it around when Merlin fails to understand the
wordless communication. Arthur coughs and finally Merlin scurries over to the king.

“It um… it has the body of a lion, the wings of an eagle and the face of a…” Arthur scrambles for
another animal. “Bear?”

With a clatter Merlin just manages to save the goblet from toppling off the table. Uther glares at
him like he’s committed some grievous insult by being clumsy. Arthur shoots him a look. Merlin
turns away from the table with a poorly stifled snicker, amusement written in the thinly pressed
line of his mouth.

He had informed Merlin of his plan earlier in the afternoon. Merlin had been somewhat dubious
about the idea but it hadn’t taken much convincing to persuade him. As much as Merlin likes to
pretend to be responsible, Arthur always knows Merlin will eventually join him in any ridiculous
plan he concocts.

“I believe it has been conjured by sorcery,” Arthur continues, returning his father’s attention to the
conversation at hand. When the king is busy cutting a piece of meat he directs a glare in Merlin’s
direction who pulls a face in response.

“Then we must destroy it,” Uther says simply.

Arthur nods, pleased his plan is coming along so splendidly.

“I will leave for the northern borders in the morning,” he says, trying not to draw attention to the
fact. His father notices regardless.

“But you’ll miss the tournament,” he says, looking at Arthur with a frown.

Arthur sighs, attempting to look put out. “I know, and although I would love to compete… my duty
to Camelot comes first.”

Of course his father is unable to resist the temptation of Arthur’s duty to Camelot and he settles
back into his chair with a pleased nod.

“You’re right of course,” he concedes. “I am sure you will have great success with the beast. Far
greater glory than a tournament.”

Arthur nods so rigorously it feels like his head will bounce right off his shoulders.

From behind Uther’s chair Merlin blinks at him innocently, blatantly failing in hiding his
amusement. Arthur grits his teeth and swears at him around the rim of his goblet, pretending he
doesn’t enjoy Merlin’s dopey grin.

~-~-~

Merlin stumbles towards the clearing in the forest where Arthur is waiting for him. He can’t help
but feel like the prince is potentially making a terrible mistake. Merlin should have done a better
job at talking Arthur out of his plan, too much could go awry. Arthur could end up being a truly
awful jouster and be publicly humiliated. He could be grievously injured in the tournament and
they’ll have no one to turn to for aid. The plot could unravel and wind up exposing Arthur.

But Arthur had asked nicely and with enough convincing Merlin would probably do anything
Arthur asked of him.

Besides, he tries to reason to himself, the worst that happens is Arthur makes a fool of himself in
the tournament and is in a foul mood for a few weeks... or months. Nevermind. Merlin is just
beginning to truly consider how awful of an idea this is when he reaches Arthur.

The prince is tapping his foot restlessly on the muddy ground and is still dressed in his armour.
Merlin doesn’t realise how out of breath he is until he comes to a stop.

“You’re late,” Arthur accuses, folding his arms over his chest as Merlin doubles over.

“Sorry,” Merlin wheezes. “I was… Gaius…” He mimes sweeping. Arthur doesn’t seem impressed.

The issue with Arthur’s super secret plan is that Gaius is unaware that Merlin still has to tend to
Arthur. According to their story, Arthur has gone off on his own to face the ‘beast’. When Merlin
told Gaius, the physician had been dubious about Merlin staying behind. Which is just ridiculous,
Merlin and Arthur aren’t connected at the hip; Merlin is perfectly capable of being away from
Arthur. The fact that Arthur actually wasn’t going anywhere without Merlin notwithstanding of
course. It’s the principle of the thing.

Eventually Merlin managed to convince Gaius that Arthur really was going and no, for the last
time, Merlin would not be accompanying him. However, it does mean that now Gaius believes
Merlin has no other tasks and has been piling on his chores.

“Just give me the stuff Merlin,” Arthur says impatiently.

Merlin hands over the bag wordlessly. He keeps an eye on the surrounding trees as Arthur strips
like he’s in his chambers with nothing to hide. He might be relaxed as anything, but Merlin is on
high alert. He figures now would be a pretty shoddy time to let their guard down and be attacked by
bandits, what with Arthur’s trousers down and all.

Merlin allows his attention to return to Arthur once he’s pulling Merlin’s tunic over his head. He
looks quite becoming in the shades of blue and grey Merlin has selected for him; which can
probably be attributed less to the colours themselves and more to Arthur consistently looking
attractive. He would probably look good in those stupid hats Arthur is constantly trying to stuff
Merlin into.

There’s a part of Merlin that warms with a thrill at seeing Arthur in his clothes; but he ignores that
part with vehement passion because that is the last thing he needs to be thinking about. Especially
as Arthur lifts the sleeve to his face and sniffs it.

“What is that smell? Whose clothes are these?” Arthur asks with a confused grimace.

Merlin does try not to be offended but it isn’t easy.

“They’re mine! I washed them specially, you prick.”

Arthur blinks, seeming to realise how bad what he said sounds. “No it’s not a bad smell,” he
corrects. “It’s just nothing like my clothes.”

“That’s because I wash your clothes with fancy soap so it doesn’t offend your royal nose. All of
yours smell like lavender.”

Arthur nods, sniffing the sleeve again and dear God he has to stop doing that.

“I guess that makes sense. It does smell like you now that you mention it.”

Merlin cannot linger on the information that Arthur knows what he smells like.

“Are you sure this is the best plan?” He asks. It’s a touch too late now, everything has been
organised and they’ve already lied to the king, but it never fails to be too cautious.

Arthur throws the blue cloak Merlin offered him around his shoulders. The colour is a perfect
match to his dazzling eyes.

“It seems pretending to be somebody else is the only way to get people to be honest with me,”
Arthur says. “So, yes.”

“I’m just saying, there are easier ways to prove yourself.”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

Arthur stands straight, his outfit the perfect disguise to conceal him as a member of the lower town.
He looks like he might ask Merlin how he looks but decides against it.

“Grab my bag, will you?” Arthur says, the request is more of an order than anything else.

“To pass as a peasant you should probably carry your own bag,” Merlin reminds him.

“You’re forgetting something, Merlin.” Arthur bends down and retrieves the satchel with a twinkle
in his eye. “No one will know it’s my bag.”

He throws the bag into Merlin’s face and swaggers off with a grin. Merlin fights down a smile of
his own.

~-~-~

Arthur follows Merlin through the lower town, the hood of his cloak pulled over his head to
maintain anonymity and ensure he goes unspotted. It’s odd being in Camelot and walking the
streets unrecognised. In other kingdoms it’s natural for him to enter a tavern and have no one know
his name; but in Camelot he can hardly walk two paces without someone wishing him a good day
or stopping him to talk. Today he is completely anonymous, passing amongst his people as one of
them.

In fact, Merlin is the one who garners them some attention. A few other townspeople wave hello or
offer him smiles as they pass. Arthur hadn’t realised Merlin knew so many people. When he
shoots Merlin a quizzical look Merlin just shrugs dismissively.

“I’ve helped to treat them when they come to see Gaius,” he explains, knocking on the door to
Guinevere’s cottage.

Merlin lets himself through the door, greeting Guinevere with a warm hug and a smile.

Arthur just manages to hear her hiss, “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” into Merlin’s ear.
If he weren’t so distracted by the state of her house Arthur might have been more offended, as he
had thought he and Guinevere were amiable. However as it stands Arthur struggles not to wrinkle
his nose as he inspects the space. It is a bit smaller than his chambers, neatly compacted into two
rooms with walls that are a dirty shade of grey and minimal furniture. The bed and dining table are
packed into the first room and the second leads to the forge where her father once worked.

“Sire.” Guinevere catches his attention with a bobbing curtsy.

He smiles thinly. “Guinevere,” he nods, “it’s good of you to let me stay in your home.”

Regardless of how meagre it is.

She returns his smile and it’s pleasant if a little forced. “I’m happy to help.”

Merlin wanders over to Arthur as Guinevere sets about preparing some food for them all. Once
he’s in earshot Arthur mutters, “you can’t really expect me to stay here.”

“Well why not?”

Arthur looks at him with wild eyes, and waits for the punchline, convinced Merlin must have lost
his mind.

“Why not?” He echoes incredulously but doesn’t expand. Merlin’s not stupid enough to not know
why Arthur doesn’t want to stay here.

“Why can’t I stay with you?” Arthur asks, staring spurningly at a stain on the floor.

This time, Merlin looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Because I live with Gaius?” He reminds him. “You would definitely get caught if you stayed in
the castle. Besides, Gaius would never approve and he would give you the eyebrow.” Arthur can
hear the emphasis on the phrase.

He concedes the point with a pout, crossing his arms tight over his chest like armour.

“Besides,” Merlin says, “Gwen has been nice enough to offer her home to your pompous arse—”

“—You can’t call me that,” Arthur reminds him with a sigh.

“Fine, your royal pompous arse then,” Merlin corrects dismissively, rolling his eyes.

Arthur rubs at the bridge of his nose but doesn’t bother correcting him.

“So you should be grateful for her kindness,” Merlin finishes with a glare in Arthur’s direction.

Arthur wrinkles his nose to show how stubbornly defiant he is at the idea of staying the night in
these conditions.

“What were you expecting? A lavish country house?” Merlin asks sarcastically. To be honest it
would be closer to Arthur’s expectations.

“I’m not sure,” Arthur admits with a scowl.

“Look,” Merlin says, grabbing Arthur’s elbow to hold his attention. “We can trust Gwen, we need
to keep you out of sight and we know she won’t tell anyone where you are.”

“Not that anyone would believe it,” Arthur mutters, but he can feel his resolve wavering under
Merlin’s watchful eyes.
“I mean… if you really can’t go without your big poncy bed and your fluffy pillows…” Merlin
teases, trailing off with innocent blinks.

Arthur clenches his jaw and glares at him but still meets Merlin’s bait with a grunt.

“Fine. This will be… perfectly adequate.”

“Splendid,” Merlin grins like the cat who got the cream. “I’m sure Gwen will be pleased.”

Considering what Arthur heard at the door he doubts that’s the case but he doesn’t argue.

“How are the preparations coming along?” He asks, focusing instead on his plan to prove himself.
“Have you found someone to play our knight for the tournament?”

Merlin smiles. “Absolutely!” He says. There’s so much confidence in his words that it makes
Arthur pause in his inspection of Guinevere’s curtains which are moth-eaten but are at least a
pretty shade of yellow.

“He’s a farmer from one of the outlying villages, willing to participate and no one will recognise
him.”

“But does he look the part?” Arthur asks, sensing hesitation in how Merlin dances around his
words.

Merlin sucks in air through his teeth and grins.

The answer to Arthur’s question should have been a resounding, no, he does not look the part. The
farmer Merlin has procured, Stuart, is skinny with a bird's nest for hair, and he stares dopily into
the distance like he hasn’t produced a thought in a very long time.

“This is never going to work.”

Merlin claps Arthur’s shoulder. “Just trust me.”

It’s actually impressive how well Stuart cleans up. By the time Merlin and Guinevere are finished
with him he’s barely recognisable as the scruffy farmer that walked in. His hair is combed, his
beard is trimmed and the dirty tunic he was wearing is replaced with heavy chainmail and a teal
knight’s uniform.

“Wow,” Arthur murmurs, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

Merlin grins, supremely proud of himself.

“I told you.”

“It’s not enough just to look like a knight,” Arthur reminds Merlin, watching with a wrinkled nose
as Stuart slouches and scratches his nose. “He has to behave like one too.”

Merlin winces. “That might be more difficult.”

Merlin’s statement proves true. Stuart might look like a knight, but coaching him to behave like
one proves fruitless. Arthur, Guinevere and Merlin are gathered before him, attempting to teach
him how to stand in a knightly manner.

“Imagine you’re really arrogant,” Merlin advises, tipping his head at Stuart. “Knights are big
headed, conceited, they like to think they’re better than everyone else.”
“Don’t listen to Merlin, he's an idiot,” Arthur interrupts with a scowl. His words essentially prove
Merlin’s point, but Arthur dutifully ignores the irony and the amused smile on Merlin’s face. He’s
not willing to entertain Merlin’s ridiculous notions of knighthood and egotism.

“To be a knight is to act with honour and nobility—”

“—Arrogance,” Merlin comments cheekily.

“—you have to show in the way you hold yourself that you’re from a noble family—”

“—Conceited!”

Arthur scowls at Merlin and restrains himself from slapping up the side of his head. Merlin just
beams back at him, highly amused with his own antics. To Arthur’s disgruntlement even
Guinevere is concealing an entertained smile of her own.

Merlin’s crudeness almost proves itself to be worthwhile when something appears to click in
Stuart’s mind. Whether by Arthur’s instructions or Merlin’s — he’s going to assume it was his
own, for his sanity — Stuart suddenly assumes the appearance of a knight.

His spine straightens, his chin tips skywards and he stares over them with appraising eyes and a
solemnity to his gaze. Arthur glances at Guinevere and Merlin and finds them just as bewildered
by the sudden comprehension

“Polish my armour boy,” Stuart orders.

Arthur lets out a bark of surprised laughter. Merlin blinks in shock.

“Now you’re getting the hang of it!” Arthur congratulates him with a grin. Stuart bursts into eager
snickers.

“I almost believed him,” Guinevere mumbles, covering her smile with her fingertips.

“Although,” Arthur says, turning to look at Merlin. “That’s a good point, you do need to polish our
armour.”

Merlin scowls at Stuart like it’s a grievous insult to be reminded of his responsibilities.

~-~-~

The first two rounds of the tournament take place successfully.

The plan goes as such. Stuart greets the crowd without a helmet, giving the impression he is a
lowly knight that no one has heard of before. Then when the jousts occur, Arthur competes in
identical armour; allowing him to remain anonymous and ensure that he receives no special
treatment.

It comes as no surprise to Merlin that Arthur is performing marvellously, winning every round with
ease and a brilliant grin on his face. No matter how much Arthur brags, Merlin knows that the last
few days have left him unsure and insecure; but Merlin has always known that Arthur is talented.
Anyone can see that Arthur fights with more than skill, his proficiency is intuitive; he has a knack
for fighting which comes to him as naturally as magic does to Merlin. When he wields a sword, he
makes it seem like an art form.

He defeats a knight from a bordering village, and then Sir Leon, much to Arthur’s immense joy.
Stuart runs out onto the field to receive the praise.

“No one can say Sir Leon let me win this time!” Arthur grins at Merlin. The full force of his smile
directed at Merlin makes something in Merlin’s chest clench tightly.

“They certainly can’t, Sire,” Merlin agrees, helping Arthur out of his chest plate.

Arthur grins, practically dancing as he watches Stuart receive his glory.

“I can’t wait to see their faces when they realise the truth.”

Merlin smirks. “You really miss getting all the attention don’t you.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Shut up Merlin. Just… go water the horse or something will you?”

Merlin laughs under his breath as he does Arthur’s bidding. However the amusement fades and
exhaustion settles as he makes his way through his assigned tasks for the day. He barely makes it
back to Gaius’ chambers, eager for a chance to actually stop for a moment after days of endless
work. Arthur might be enjoying his double life but Merlin is struggling to keep himself afloat.

He has barely sat his arse in the seat of the chair when Gaius marches into the room with a critical
raise of his eyebrow.

“Resting Merlin? What gives you the idea you can sit around and do nothing?”

The simple question is enough to make something in Merlin snap like a twig. He didn’t realise it
sooner, but Merlin has been carefully building a dam inside himself. With every hardship that he
faces he carefully places sticks and rocks in place to keep the rising water of his frustration at bay.
The system has been operating fine for the last ten months because dams, as a rule, tend to be well
structured and sound; however in rare cases they can fail. They are vulnerable to disasters like
landslides, and Arthur and Gaius’ constant demand for him over the last few days has caused a
landslide like no other, sending Merlin’s frustration to the surface in a colossal and deadly wave.

“You think I sit around and do nothing?” Merlin surges to his feet so he’s glaring down at Gaius.
“When do I ever have a chance to sit around and do nothing? I haven’t had a chance to rest since I
arrived in Camelot! I was barely here for a day when the Great fucking Dragon dropped my
destiny into my fucking lap.”

Gaius blinks in surprise but Merlin barely even notices, completely lost to the anger clouding his
vision and rushing in his ears. He feels trapped in the walls of their chambers as they restrict and
close on him. The claustrophobia is suffocating, the room so small that he can’t hear anything
beyond the thumping of his own heartbeat in his ears.

“I’m constantly running around after Arthur.” Merlin waves his arms around wildly, desperate to
prove that he can still fill space, that he isn’t confined. “Do this Merlin, do that Merlin. I haven’t
had a single day off since I was given the job, and when I’m not running around after Arthur, I’m
doing chores for you.”

Merlin paces back and forth like a caged animal stalking the four walls of his cell. He feels
cornered, his haunches raise and his teeth bare.

“And when I’m not doing that I’m making sure Arthur doesn’t go and get himself bloody killed!”
The thought of Arthur in danger sets off fear in Merlin that equals his already burning anger, a
duel spark that catches on the alcohol lining his lungs and sets him alight. Gaius flinches as
something shatters on the wall behind Merlin, but Merlin doesn’t even notice.
He stops and spins on his heel, pointing an accusatory finger at Gaius.

“Do you know how many times I’ve saved Arthur’s life?” He speaks over Gaius when the
physician opens his mouth. “I’ve lost count! I have battled witches, griffins, bandits. I have been
punched, poisoned and pelted with fruit!”

Merlin’s stomach clenches tight. Another jar shatters as his hands fist by his side.

“And as if that wasn’t enough, I have to hide who I really am because if anyone found out Uther
would have me executed!”

Merlin inhales sharply, his furious mouth finally slowing to a stop. Guilt launches him back into
his body as he sees the surprised look on Gaius’ face. His eyebrows have crept so far up his
forehead they practically disappear into his hairline, and his jaw hangs open dumbly, unsure how
to reply to Merlin’s tirade. Everything Merlin said was true, he had simply opened the door to
emotions he hadn’t been aware were building up in the first place and let them surge out of him in
a torrential avalanche; but he already feels terrible for unleashing that on Gaius.

The anger isn’t gone, it stews inside him, still buzzing with energy after finally being released from
its cage, but he can’t let Gaius bear the brunt of it. He needs time to cool off and gather himself
before he faces the physician again. Merlin storms from the room, biting down on his tongue to
stave off any words he might regret.

Merlin can feel Gaius’ eyes on his back as he marches out the door but thankfully he has the sense
not to say anything.

~-~-~

“Guinevere?” Arthur calls as he enters the house. There’s a muffled clanging, some unidentifiable
scuffling and swearing before Guinevere’s head pops out from behind the curtain.

“Sire! You’re back early.”

Arthur shrugs. “Merlin left to run errands so I figured I’d just come back here.”

He joins her and looks around with a frown. There isn’t a bed, but he could have sworn this is
where she slept the night before.

“Is this where you sleep? Where’s your bed?” He asks with a frown, looking around like he could
have misplaced an entire bed.

Guinevere sets her jaw. “You’re sleeping in it.”

Arthur freezes. Guilt curdles in his gut like milk left in the warm sun as he stares at the sacks and
straw she spent the night in.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“How could I?” She returns with a sad smile. “You’re Prince Arthur.”

You’re the future king, my Lord. It’s the same tone, the same notion as Leon’s explanation. There
is no need to expand, nothing more to offer. Arthur is placed in a different box to everyone else,
held to a different standard, treated differently. He struggles to hide how crestfallen Guinevere’s
words leave him but he must fail because her mouth bows with displeasure.

“Besides, you didn’t give me the chance. You just assumed the bed was yours.”

Arthur frowns and irritation sparks under his skin as the ache from being reminded that he is so
different to everyone else fades.

“Well how am I supposed to know if you don’t tell me?” He points out grumpily.

“You shouldn’t need to be reminded to think of other people! You’re not a child,” Guinevere snaps
and for a brief moment anger contorts her features.

Arthur blinks. Guinevere looks equally as shocked as he is, horrified that she allowed such words
to leave her mouth. Her eyes widen and her jaw snaps shut with a click. No one else but Merlin has
ever dared to say something like that to him. Arthur is unsure how to respond as he is equally
intrigued to see this side of Guinevere and also frustrated that she would dare say such a thing;
leaving him dumbstruck before her.

“Is there anything else you’d like to say to me?” Arthur eventually asks in a clipped tone. He
hasn’t yet decided whether to be furious and storm away, or stay to hear what Guinevere has to say.

Guinevere’s jaw flexes like she is trying to bite back her words.

“Yes,” she admits quietly.

“Well… go on then, don’t let me stop you.” Arthur waves his hand in permission, curiosity
burning even as his eyes harden and his arms tighten over his chest protectively.

Guinevere scoffs. “You really have no idea do you?”

“No idea about what?”

“About how arrogant you can be!” Guinevere says scaldingly, unable to tamp down her frustration
any longer.

Arthur’s eyes widen but he stays silent.

Guinevere continues, now that the gates have opened the words come spilling out of her like a tidal
wave.

“This is my home and you are my guest in it! You have been nothing but snide since you arrived
and it isn’t fair! I know you are used to more luxurious quarters but that is not an excuse to be so
rude.” Guinevere’s shoulders shake with pent up irritation. “You claim titles do not matter to you,
yet you behave like a prince and expect me to wait on you like a servant! You can say it all you
like, but it means nothing if your actions betray you.”

“It isn’t even difficult! Just simple manners! Would it kill you to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ once
in a while!” She exclaims almost desperately, eyes wild and dark skin flushed.

The sting of her words is like a whip striking Arthur across his chest. He can see the truth in it even
though he’s desperate to argue against her allegations. He doesn’t want to believe that he could be
as egotistical as she has portrayed him to be, but he knows she is right. He has been arrogant and
selfish.

He assumed her bed was his, he forced her to fetch water for his bath and make him dinner. He
hasn’t so much as lifted a finger since he arrived, and she has extended the kindness of her home to
him.

He wants to be treated normally so badly, but he had never really considered what that entailed.
Now he realises what Merlin meant when he’d sniped that Arthur should consider swapping places
with him. Not that he should don the appearance of peasant and no more; but that he should
recognise the duties and responsibilities that came with being an ordinary citizen of Camelot.

He’s silent for so long considering her words that Guinevere seems to remember herself, shaking
her head slightly.

“My Lord,” she finishes with an awkward bow of her head.

It’s so contradictory from her long winded speech that it’s difficult not to smile.

“Is there anything else you’d like to add?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

Guinevere’s eyes widen and she shakes her head minutely, sheepish now that her anger has calmed.

“No, I think that’s all.”

He nods slowly, rubbing a hand over his chin. It’s difficult to label what is twisting and muddling
in his mind, creating heavy knots that sit in his chest and tangle between the rungs of his rib cage.

He’s upset at his own selfishness, and for not recognising his own behaviour. It’s reminiscent of
months ago when Merlin first explained that not everyone wants to do Arthur’s bidding. He’s
blindsided by the knowledge and the sensation prickles along his spine as he looks back with wide
eyes over interactions he has no chance of fixing now.

Guinevere doesn’t speak, mollified by her outspokenness but reluctant to take back her words and
so rendered silent. She stares unflinchingly at Arthur but her nerves are obvious as she twists her
skirt between her flexing fingers.

“You’re right,” Arthur breaks the silence, recognising that she is waiting for him to speak,
expecting punishment.

His admission takes Guinevere by surprise, her lips part in a soft gasp and her eyes are so wide
they’re practically the size of saucers. The tension eases from her shoulders but her eyebrows still
twist in defensive confusion.

“You have invited me to your home and I have behaved appallingly,” Arthur admits, struggling not
to wince as his mouth forms around the unfamiliar feeling of regret. “If I could retract my actions I
would.”

Guinevere nods slowly, the defensiveness slipping away to reveal the warmth he knows so well.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” she says apologetically.

“Oh really?” Arthur mutters sarcastically, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.

She giggles and fondness swells in Arthur’s chest, sitting alongside his guilt and humming
pleasantly. He never realised how much he appreciates Guinevere’s smile until this moment.

“Well… perhaps a little.”

He smiles crookedly, and she answers with one of her own, radiant and beautiful.
“There’s no excuse. I’ll make it up to you.”

Arthur only realises once the words are spoken that he actually has no plan for how to do that, but
Guinevere is looking at him expectantly and he can’t find it in himself to disappoint her.

“I… will… make dinner for you!”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “You’re going to make me dinner?” She confirms with an incredulous
twitch in the corner of her mouth.

“Yes!”

He takes her by the shoulders and frogmarches her from the cottage.

“Now run along and go for a walk, or whatever it is girls like to do in the evening. Dinner will be
ready when you return.”

“A walk would be lovely,” Guinevere says happily, her voice as bright as bells and ringing with
laughter as he steers her out the door.

She turns to look at him with a warm smile, glowing in the evening sun with pride that makes
something in Arthur’s chest lift just at the sight of it.

“Thank you, Sire.”

As he smiles back he decides that there’s a strong chance he’s in love with Guinevere.

~-~-~

Merlin discovers Arthur staring at an uncooked chicken. Much to Merlin’s horror he’s actually
endeared by Arthur’s obvious inability to do anything that remotely resembles cooking. He
struggles to bite back his fond smile as Arthur steps away from the unprepared meat and looks
helplessly to Merlin.

He’s even charmed when Arthur orders him to retrieve two plates of dinner from the palace. There
might be something seriously wrong with him.

Arthur lets him keep the chicken he failed to cook and Merlin uses it to fashion a dinner for
himself and Gaius. Usually on Thursday nights Merlin has dinner with Gwen, but as Arthur
occupies Gwen’s table, Merlin uses the time to extend an olive branch to his father figure in the
hopes of repairing whatever damage he inflicted this morning.

However, when Gaius enters he doesn’t look angry with Merlin, but guilty.

“I made dinner,” Merlin says hesitantly, bouncing on his toes with nervous energy.

Gaius smiles softly at him, eyes still sad and heavy with something Merlin can barely discern.

“Listen… about what I said this morning—” Merlin tries but Gaius stops him with a raise of his
hand.

“It is I who should be apologising to you,” Gaius says. “I did not stop to think about how heavy
your burden must be.”

Merlin shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper with you.”
“It’s no wonder you were upset, I don’t blame you for losing control. You have so much resting on
your shoulders and I didn’t consider how difficult it must be to bear at such a young age.”

The words nestle into Merlin’s sternum in a way that feels warm and solid. It’s comforting to have
Gaius care so much about Merlin’s destiny and the weight that he bears everyday. Gaius ensures
he does not have to face the insurmountable burden alone.

“Now that Arthur’s away you must take the time to enjoy yourself,” Gaius says kindly. He
obviously means his words as gentle reassurance, but they make guilt flare in Merlin’s belly. He
doesn’t like lying to Gaius, and his sympathy for Merlin is a reminder of the web of lies he has
woven this weekend.

“Come on now,” Gaius says, patting Merlin on the back and steering him towards the table.
“You’ve prepared this nice dinner for us, the least we can do is enjoy it.”

Merlin smiles, settling in his seat across from Gaius and pulls the chicken towards himself to begin
separating it into two portions.

Gaius’ eyebrow leaps when his eyes land on the chicken for the first time.

“Where did that come from?”

Luckily Merlin is saved from having to answer by a knock at the door.

Sir Leon’s head pops through the doorway, a harried and fearful look in his eyes.

“The King requests your presence immediately.”

They are led in commotions to where Uther is waiting, standing over the limp body of a guard with
a heavy frown that pulls his face into strong wrinkles.

“Can you determine a cause of death?” Uther asks as Gaius bends over to inspect the body with
creaking knees.

Gaius nods slowly, tipping the guard’s head to the side, it is supple in his hold, significantly more
slack than just a typical corpse.

“His neck has been broken,” Gaius identifies softly. “There’s barely even a mark on the flesh, the
killer knew exactly what he was doing.”

“Earlier this evening an intruder was spotted in the lower town,” Leon contributes, standing
straight and to attention by Merlin’s side.

The heavy frown on Uther’s face darkens, like the gathering of clouds before lightning strikes.

“Then I fear it is true, Odin has sent an assassin to kill Arthur.” Merlin freezes, blood running icy
cold and heart staggering to a halt.

“What? An assassin?” He’s speaking out of turn but for once Uther does not look inclined to
punish him for it.

He blinks in surprise at Merlin like he’d forgotten he was even there, or forgotten he even existed.

“Have you heard any word from Arthur since he left?” The King asks, seeming to remember
Merlin’s role in the royal household.
“No, none,” Merlin lies hurriedly, eyes wide and heart gathering speed in his chest.

“Good, with this assassin in Camelot we must be thankful that Arthur isn’t here.”

Merlin’s stomach sinks, contorting itself into an elaborate knot at the base of his gut as nerves
prickle into his skin. He struggles to keep himself still, practically vibrating with the need to run to
Arthur. He can't help but imagine a thousand horrible ways the assassin could have found and
killed Arthur in the time Merlin has been apart from him.

He manages to control himself until Uther has left with an instruction to Leon to scour the entire
town for the assassin. As soon as the King has departed, Merlin sprints towards Gwen’s house.

~-~-~

Arthur scrapes the last mouthful of chicken from his plate with a smile, listening to the pleasant
sound of Guinevere chuckling at the story Arthur was telling her.

“So,” he says, leaning his head on his hand. “Do I possess any other annoying habits you wish to
tell me?”

Her mouth twists like she’s biting back a smile and her eyes dart away from his.

“No, none,” she says with a pleasant tinkle of a laugh in her voice.

Arthur’s eyes widen. “There is, isn’t there?”

“No, Sire. Nothing at all.”

“What is it?”

She says nothing but is obviously trying to fight a smile now and Arthur finds himself unable to
stop himself from mirroring her.

“Go on! Tell me!”

“Well… the truth is, you snore,” she says, meeting his eyes with a sparkling gleam.

Arthur’s jaw drops open, sitting up with a horrified look on his face.

“I do not snore!”

“You do,” she laughs. Guinevere’s smile truly is something to behold, it’s like the warmth of
sunshine gleaming on his face; he can’t help but chase it at every opportunity.

“Princes don’t snore.”

“But you do,” she teases. “The first night you arrived I thought a pig had snuck into the house.”

He huffs disbelievingly, completely failing in hiding his own amusement.

“So now I’m a pig?”

“No,” she corrects, giggling into her goblet. “You just sound like one.”

Arthur laughs at that, it’s offensive — and a lie, Arthur does not snore — but it’s good spirited and
kind. The glittering amusement in Guinevere’s eyes settles something in Arthur’s chest. Where he
might usually respond icily he is thawed by the warm glow that Guinevere radiates.

She makes to stand and clear their dishes but Arthur stops her before she has the chance, taking the
plate out of her hand.

“No, I’ll do that,” he says firmly, offering her a pleasant smile as he takes the dishes to the bench.

He doesn’t see the way Guinevere’s smile slowly fades, but he does hear the change in her voice as
she approaches him.

“Where did you get those plates?” He hopes that the knowing lilt in her voice is his own
imagination, and she isn’t really aware of the answer.

“From the cupboard,” he lies through his teeth.

Guinevere frowns, taking the plate back as he goes to place it in the wash bucket. She points to a
small golden symbol engraved onto the lip of the plate.

“They bear the royal seal, they’re from the palace kitchens. I would know, I’ve washed plenty of
them.”

Arthur winces, turning his face away from her so he won’t have to face her ire.

She doesn’t relent. “I take it that’s where our food came from too?”

Her words feel like an attack, and Arthur bunches his shoulders like a shield. He turns his back on
Guinevere with his hackles raised and storms across the small space. He is once again frustrated by
the size of the house; in his chambers he could have had a much more dramatic pace, here he can
barely manage three large steps before reaching the wall.

He turns to face her again, trying to appeal to her understanding nature.

“Look, we had a nice meal, why does it matter where it came from?”

“Because you lied!” Guinevere shouts, tears springing to her eyes. “Because I thought you had
shown some humility, that you had done something kind for me, even though I’m just a servant.”

Arthur’s defensiveness crumbles immediately, leaving him with a sick feeling roiling in his
stomach. She’s right, he realises with dawning horror. Just like earlier when she revealed how
terribly he had been acting. Once again he has acted selfishly and without concern for anyone, let
alone Guinevere.

Arthur opens his mouth but can’t find any words that remotely resemble what he wants to say. It’s
unbelievably frustrating, and it’s a feeling he’s all too familiar with. Concepts like instructions,
orders, mirth, leadership, those words come to him as easily as air comes to his lungs, he knows
them like oxygen. Feelings and emotions, the things he longs to say, those get lodged in his throat.
They stick to his windpipe and cling to his tongue ignorant of his attempts to dislodge them.

Guinevere sighs, unlike Arthur she wears her emotions plainly, she speaks them out loud without
hesitation or difficulty. Arthur wishes he could be like that.

“A good king should respect his people, no matter their standing.”

She makes to walk away from him and Arthur’s arm surges out in a desperate attempt to catch her.
Her elbow is warm under his touch and her eyes are open, willing to listen even despite her obvious
disappointment.

He wets his lips, throat dry and sticky as he tries to force the words to the surface.

“I can’t cook,” he confesses. It wasn’t what he wanted to say but he is glad to have wrestled any
words out at all. Guinevere’s eyebrows furrow as she waits for him to continue.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, or that I think I’m above it. I don’t know how. I was never
taught…” He takes a deep shuddering breath and as he does he can taste the stale air between them.
He can feel her warmth under his fingertips and yet she seems miles away. “I didn’t want to fail… I
didn’t… I didn’t want you to see me fail.”

Guinevere’s eyes soften, and the colossal distance between them shrinks.

“I thought it would be better to offer you something good, even if it wasn’t made by me, than to
embarrass myself and disappoint you.”

“I wouldn’t have been disappointed,” she whispers.

“I think you seriously underestimate how terribly that chicken would have been cooked. I might
have made you ill,” he jokes halfheartedly and she smiles, it’s wan and teary but still there.

He longs to step away from the seriousness of the moment, discomfort rolls within him in waves,
they swallow him and he wishes he could escape it; but he knows this is different to moments with
Merlin. He can’t make a dumb joke and force the moment to end. He can’t ignore this. He has to
approach it.

“I know there is still much I have to learn. There are things I am terrible at, cooking being one of
them… but also…” he hesitates, the sentiment catches in his throat and clings there. “Also...
knowing what to say to someone I care about.”

The confession is more vulnerable than Arthur ever allows himself to be. He feels like he’s pried
his ribs open and let Guinevere see the truth inside. It terrifies him more than he would like to
admit. He struggles not to recoil as he anticipates her response, but she only stares back at him with
unguarded trust.

Guinevere parts her lips to say something but is stopped when her front door is slammed open.
Merlin rushes in with wild eyes, ashen pale skin and chest heaving with exertion. Arthur wants to
be furious at him for interrupting but he bites his tongue when he sees the terror in Merlin’s eyes
and his sag of relief when his eyes scan Arthur and find him healthy and unharmed.

“Arthur!” He gasps. “There’s an assassin in Camelot. He’s here to kill you.”

Arthur goes very still, the muscles in his arms and legs tense like he’s about to run. He wants to
flee. His escalated anxiety from his conversation with Guinevere hasn’t eased, so the news of the
assassin slams into him like a horse and carriage colliding with his body.

He turns to Merlin, almost hoping that he misheard, but the frankly terrified look in Merlin’s eyes
is enough to convince him of the truth.

“What other information do you have?” He asks, stalking the perimeter of the room and rubbing at
his jaw.

Merlin stammers, fingers twitching around the edges of his tunic anxiously.
“The assassin murdered a guard,” Merlin says. “Your father said that Odin sent him. That’s all I
know.”

Guinevere frowns, leaning her hip against the table and looking at Arthur with concern.

“But why would Odin want you dead?”

Understanding settles into Arthur’s stomach like acid, it burns the lining of his belly and
incinerates his insides. He squeezes his eyes shut against the bombardment of memories that strike
him.

“Because I killed his son,” he answers solemnly, his voice comes out clipped and short, unable to
bear the grief from his past mistakes.

Merlin’s fingers twitch towards Arthur like he desperately wants to touch and console him. To
Arthur’s surprise he inclines towards the extended fingers, but pulls himself away at the last
moment. Neither Merlin nor Guinevere say a word, they stay quiet as they wait for him to explain.
Arthur doesn’t want to. He wants to keep the memories locked in the tight chest where he has
stored them, abandoned them to rot. No matter how much he wishes he could ignore the past it has
come to haunt him.

“Odin’s son challenged me to a duel,” he explains flatly. “I had no quarrel with him so I asked him
to withdraw. Perhaps he felt he had to prove himself… I’m not sure.” Arthur will never know for
certain what inspired the boy to fight him; but he knows the feeling, and the need to prove himself
better than anyone. As a young prince, Odin’s son would have felt immense pressure loaded onto
his shoulders. Maybe he saw Arthur as a challenge to overcome, a way to validate his strength.

Arthur meets Merlin’s eyes, he is saddened by Arthur’s words but there is no judgement in his blue
eyes. Only understanding. It’s reassuring even if it brings Arthur no comfort. Understanding does
not return the life he took.

“It was a fight to the death, I didn’t have a choice…” Arthur swallows roughly. The image of the
boy’s final moments haunt him. The way his green eyes had gone wide as Arthur’s sword impaled
him, filled with tears but jaw set and unwilling to surrender even to the end. Only Arthur could see
how afraid he really was.

“I can still see his face,” he divulges quietly, voice barely louder than a whisper. “He looked so
scared.”

“You cannot blame yourself,” Guinevere says. It’s meant as comfort, and it helps somewhat, but
no matter what she says, he can’t help the doubt that burrows between the layers of his skin. He
could have acted differently, he could have sacrificed his own honour and withdrawn, he could
have spared the boy’s life.

Merlin doesn’t bother with placid reassurances. He takes one look at Arthur, nods and changes the
topic of conversation. Gratitude swells in Arthur, filling him with a reassuring warmth that doesn’t
alleviate the guilt but does help settle it.

“No one but us knows where you are,” Merlin reminds him. “So you’re safe here. If the assassin
can’t find you, he can’t kill you.”

Arthur nods, it’s a reassuring thought. Things have unravelled upsettingly quickly and Merlin’s
words are the only stable ground he has to cling to in this whole mess. He buoys himself on them,
tethering his spiralling mind to the steady calm of Merlin’s plan.
He has learnt his lesson about simply assuming people will do his bidding and so he turns to
Guinevere.

“May I continue to stay here?”

Guinevere blinks in surprise before quickly recovering and schooling her features.

“Of course,” she replies genuinely. “For as long as you need.”

“Thank you.”

He’s suddenly exhausted, the turmoil of the day, in addition to the tournament, has left him weak,
like his energy has been sapped from his body leaving him a hollow husk.

“If you both don’t mind, I will take my leave. I’ll sleep on the floor tonight.” He nods to them both
and makes his way towards the pile of sacks Guinevere had been using as a makeshift cot.

“No! Take my bed, you need to be well rested for the tournament tomorrow,” Guinevere tries to
argue but he holds up a hand to stop her.

“I won’t hear of it. Goodnight.”

She nods, looking at him with awe and something indescribably affectionate.

“Goodnight, Sire.”

Arthur stares in disdain at the pile of sacks and lumpy cushioning he was to call a bed for the night.
Behind him he can hear Merlin and Guinevere talking in hushed tones but he doesn’t eavesdrop.
He waits patiently, and eventually — as expected — Merlin comes to join him in the corner of the
room.

Arthur doesn’t think he can deal with any genuity after the day he’s had, and Merlin seems to
recognise that. He follows Arthur’s gaze to the uncomfortable bedding and snorts.

“Fetch me a mattress from the palace and bring it here,” Arthur orders.

Merlin looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

“How am I supposed to carry a mattress on my own?”

“I don’t know, strap it to your back or something,” Arthur retorts with a wrinkle of his nose.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re absolutely mad?”

Arthur grins and the tight knot of emotions in his chest unravels slightly.

~-~-~

Despite how tired he was Arthur struggles to sleep. His mind is whirring with thoughts of
Guinevere and what his newfound feelings mean for them. He shifts on the uncomfortable pile of
sacks — Merlin refused to fetch a mattress for him, the insolent prick — but despite the external
discomfort, his internal turmoil is worse.

He doesn’t usually like to pick apart his emotions, he despises the tangled web of thoughts that
grow into something twisted and impossible to decipher. However he can’t leave these thoughts
untouched, they’re far too consuming.
He’s never been in love before. Until today he didn’t even know what it felt like. Sophia hardly
counts; though he found her splendidly attractive he hadn’t cared for her, and they hardly knew
each other. It was a whirlwind romance, and one could hardly call it love.

Before that he has never experienced more than passing fancy, if that. He had agreed readily
whenever his father pointed out beautiful princesses as they came to visit Camelot; but beyond
that, love had never been much cause for thought. He wasn’t yet of age, and as such, he wasn’t
expected to pay the topic any attention, so he never did.

He decides it would be easier to distinguish what he was feeling if he had a point of comparison.
Friendship is different to love, and he should be able to compare the two and come to a conclusion
about what he feels for Gwen. The issue is that Arthur isn’t exactly inundated with friends.

His father has always taught Arthur that he can trust no one’s judgement but his own; and it would
be improper for him to befriend anyone below his station. As prince, Arthur’s station is higher than
everyone in the kingdom so as a result friends of any kind weren’t accepted. In the last week he has
discovered that the knights, people he at least thought were near-friends, did not see or treat him in
the same way. So the closest thing he has to a friend is Merlin.

That could work, Arthur thinks, blinking at the splintering ceiling thoughtfully.

It’s obvious that his interactions with Merlin and Guinevere are starkly different. With Merlin,
Arthur doesn’t care what he thinks. He can be himself without worrying about impressing him or
saving face because Merlin doesn’t expect anything from him. It’s all about the thrill of the fight,
the exhilaration from bickering. He wants to draw out Merlin’s loud laughter, his flushed cheeks
and furious stammering, he wants to lure him into arguments that leave them both sniggering into
their fists. It’s childish, and fun, and easy.

Arthur isn’t relaxed around Guinevere. He desperately wants to impress her, to show her the best
version of himself that she believes he can achieve. He knows she sees a worthy king, capable and
deserving of the crown, she trusts that he will wield it as a tool for good. He wants to bring that to
fruition, which is a nerve wracking thought but also one that is encouraging. When he’s around her
he’s happy, but he isn’t settled. Maybe that’s love. The constant push to better yourself to make the
person you love happy. Compromises that bring about reassuring smiles.

That’s the difference he decides.

Friendship, Merlin, it’s natural.

Love, Guinevere, it’s growth.

He loves Guinevere.

The revelation does not make addressing his feelings easy. The next morning he doesn’t know how
to break the heavy silence between them. There is so much unsaid in the space between them,
unable to be addressed. There is a cavern between them of things they could discuss, and Arthur
doesn’t know how to bridge it.

Finally Guinevere speaks through the thick quiet.

“Last round before the tournament ends. You can go back to being Prince Arthur.” She smiles but
it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Arthur can’t find it within himself to be excited to return to palace life.

He nods, unsure what to say.

Guinevere hesitates, like she wants to speak but can’t find the words. Arthur waits with his heart in
his throat. For a moment he lets himself entertain the idea that she might feel the same. The way
her eyes hold his, warm as a lit hearth, makes him feel that perhaps she does.

She shakes her head to clear her head and smiles gently at him.

“I thought—” she swallows. “I thought you might wear this, for luck.”

In her outstretched hand is a white handkerchief. It’s customary that when a knight fancies a
woman she might offer him a favour to wear in a tournament. Like Arthur, Guinevere has grown
up around tournaments. She knows their customs and she knows the meaning behind her offer.

Her stiff posture is shy but her dark eyes never stray from his, confident in the implication of her
gift.

He nods slowly as he takes it from her. Her fingers brush his as they trade hands, warm even
through the leather of his gloves.

“Thank you,” he says in a hushed voice. His words barely make an impact in the silent air.

She is so close to him, the pads of her fingers are still resting on his knuckles, her breath a soft
whisper on his cheek. He should kiss her. He thinks that would be the right thing to do, but he
doesn’t know how to move. He isn’t sure if she wants it, should he check first? His fingers twitch
in her grip, anxious for something to hold onto to steady himself. Where Arthur is shaking,
Guinevere is completely stable. She doesn’t move, and her facial expression gives away nothing.

He can’t kiss her if he doesn’t know for certain that she wants to be kissed. He wills himself to ask,
to force the words from the tight confines of his throat, but as he grasps for them he finds nothing.

Arthur is almost sure Guinevere feels the same as he does about her. It’s obvious in the way her
eyes shine with devotion and her cheeks dust with a dark blush. She wants him. He wants her. He
should kiss her.

It feels too soon. He steps back, breaking their contact with a small smile that she returns in kind.

“I have to go,” he says, gesturing awkwardly to the door and the tournament that awaits him
outside.

She nods. “Of course, Sire.”

That is why he didn’t kiss her, he realises as he makes his way along the streets, hood pulled low
over his face. He cannot pursue their relationship now. The king would never allow it. Perhaps one
day, they could have something, but not now.

~-~-~

Since arriving in Camelot, Merlin has done his best to learn the different styles of combat. Arthur
is expected to participate in every tournament Camelot hosts, and though he tries to hide it, they
mean a lot to him. There are melees, fighting tournaments — either between knights or open to the
public — and jousts. Each entails their own set of rules.

Jousting is different to tournaments in standard combat. Rather than intense skill and long term
stamina it all rests on a single moment. The impact between the two knights in the centre of the
field. There is one chance to get it right, or risk being unhorsed.

The whole thing happens in the space of a breath. Inhale. The knights take off down the field.
Exhale. They collide, and a winner is decided. It’s brutal, efficient and intense. Merlin
simultaneously hates it and is exhilarated watching it.

His eyes never stray from Arthur. Even from across the field Merlin can see the rise and fall of
Arthur’s chest plate as he inspects his opponent.

With a single command the horses are spurred into action, galloping down the stretch of grass with
ruthless efficiency. Arthur’s lance is well positioned but the other knight’s form is better. The
lance strikes.

Merlin has watched this moment hundreds of times now on the training field. The lance might
splinter, or knock the knight backwards and off his horse. From what he’s observed it’s callously
painful every time, but it’s never like this.

Arthur crumples over the spear with a shout of pain. The lance doesn’t break but collides with his
body and comes back dripping red.

Merlin is at Arthur’s side before he even realises he’s moving. His thoughts have streamlined to a
litany of ‘Arthur’ and ‘blood’ and his body acts of its own accord, pulling him close to the prince.
He helps Arthur dismount, taking note of the protective way he leans away from his left side and
the sound of him biting down on a low groan.

Gwen arrives too, hooking Arthur’s right arm over her shoulder and helping him towards the tent.
The worry on her face is a mirror image of Merlin’s.

“What happened?” Merlin asks as they lower Arthur onto a bench.

“The lance pierced my armour,” Arthur grits out.

Merlin forces himself not to think of Will as Arthur shudders. This is different. Arthur is in pain,
significant pain, he can see the heavy sweat on Arthur’s brow and the way his breaths whistle
between his clenched teeth; but he isn’t dying.

“You’re losing too much blood!” Gwen says, her eyes are downturned with worry as she begins
wrapping gauze around the wound with trembling fingers. Merlin considers taking over, he’s been
trained by Gaius and he might be faster but his own hands are shaking far more than hers and he
doesn’t trust himself not to hurt Arthur more.

Arthur shakes his head, groaning as the gauze brushes against the wound.

“Do what you can. Quickly. I have to be back on the court—” his breath hitches. “In five minutes
— or I forfeit the match.”

Merlin opens his mouth to tell Arthur he’s an idiot but Gwen beats him to it, albeit more kindly.

“You can’t possibly joust! You’re too badly injured.”

Arthur huffs a pained laugh. “I have never withdrawn from a match, and I do not intend to start
now.”

Stubborn idiot Merlin thinks with no shortage of fondness.

“You would risk your life to protect your pride?” Gwen asks incredulously; her face is torn with
worry and stress as her fingers slowly stain red with Arthur’s blood.

“It is not pride, but honour,” he explains hoarsely.

“You have nothing to prove,” Gwen insists with tears in her eyes. “Least of all to me.”

Arthur smiles.

“I have everything to prove, to myself.”

Merlin ignores the way his heart clenches as he looks at the two of them. He wants to believe that
he is interpreting the moment incorrectly, but the way Arthur stares at Gwen indicates otherwise.
He looks at her the way Merlin longs for Arthur to look at him. He treasures her with his eyes, they
hold her in gentle palms like she’s precious, something to be revered. There is an unspoken tension
in the air between them, a longing that threads itself into the things they do not say.

The sweetness of it is stifling, a thick fog that gathers in Merlin’s lungs. He feels the ache of his
longing like a bruise, tender across his heart. Without a word he leaves the tent, unable to bear it.

As Arthur and Sir Alwyn had been riding at each other, apprehension had prickled at the back of
his neck. He had the uncomfortable sense that something wrong was afoot. Rather than sitting with
the discomfort of Gwen and Arthur, and whatever that unnamed tension may be, Merlin decides to
investigate. He tiptoes over to Sir Alwyn’s tent, scanning for the sign of something amiss.

He finds it immediately. Merlin has met Sir Alwyn before, he’s a thin and lean man, with olive
skin and a dark beard. This man is someone else. His posture is stiff, and his eyes are dark as he
sands his lance. His piercing irises are as cold as the edge of a dagger, sharpened with the
ruthlessness of someone who has killed before and would comfortably do so again.

Merlin’s heart lurches as the assassin thunders from his tent towards the field. He sprints back
where he came from, weaving between people and ducking around obstacles in a mad hurry to
reach Arthur. By the time he gets there it’s too late.

“Gwen! Where’s Arthur?” He asks, gasping as he comes to a stop. His heart is clattering like a
horse’s galloping hooves in his chest.

Gwen looks at him worriedly. “He’s just about to joust,” she answers, pointing towards the
expansive field just before them.

Sure enough Merlin’s eyes find Arthur, blond hair covered by his helmet and sitting stiffly on his
horse with pain.

“He’s jousting against the assassin.”

They both take off in a run towards the stands for a better vantage point to watch the joust. Merlin
can hardly breathe around the fear that stuffs itself into his chest, suffocating his rib cage with
oppressive layers of anxiety and desperation. He and Gwen don’t manage to see the signal being
waved, by the time they are able to see over the large crowd gathered the two horses have already
started charging towards each other.

Gwen grabs Merlin’s arm and hauls him onto a crate at the side of the crowd. Immediately his eyes
find Arthur. It’s a miracle he’s even staying on his horse, his position is unsteady and his entire
body wobbles with every stride his horse takes. Merlin inhales unsteadily as Arthur attempts to
weakly line up his lance with his oncoming opponent. He doesn’t stand a chance.
Now that he’s paying closer attention Merlin sees the moment when the assassin intends to kill
Arthur. A sharp metal end extends from his lance as he approaches the prince, almost invisible to
the naked eye but fatal. There is a second’s opening, but that is all Merlin needs.

The rushing wind in his hair slows as his eyes flash gold. Time inches by slowly.

Merlin can see each individual hoof of the two horses strike the ground. One. He fastens his magic
around the fastening of the assassin’s girth. Two. He tugs sharply and it flies open. Three. The
leather snaps, ripped by the force of Merlin’s magic. Four. The assassin slips and his deadly lance
is thrust off target.

Time returns to speed as Arthur’s lance strikes the assassin in the head, sending him crashing
headfirst to the ground. The crowd gasps in unison, Merlin exhales.

He doesn’t wait to see Gwen’s reaction, or to see if the assassin moves. He doesn’t think about
anything but reaching Arthur’s side. He runs the length of the field in mere moments, hands gently
easing around Arthur’s elbows and lowering him to the ground. Arthur topples from the horse,
leaning into Merlin’s side gratefully.

“Are you okay?” Merlin asks as Arthur staggers with him towards the tent. He can hear and feel
each of Arthur’s laboured breaths as if they are his own. His arm is a heavy but reassuring weight
over Merlin’s shoulders.

“Of course. It’s going to take more than a bad joust to take me down,” Arthur laughs weakly.
“Why? Were you worried about me?” he manages a strained smile even through his pain.

“I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to your armour. Would it kill you to keep blood off it? You
know I’m the one who has to clean that thing?”

Arthur sniggers and the tight pressure that had been building in Merlin’s rib cage since the lance
pierced Arthur’s armour melts away.

“It’ll do you good. Practice makes perfect.” Arthur nudges Merlin with his hip as they enter the
tent. He smiles at Merlin, warm eyed and crinkled around the edges with fondness. Merlin hates
himself a little bit for being glad that the smile is directed at him and not Gwen. He hates that he
clings to the knowledge that no matter how the prince might feel, it’s Merlin he turns to.

As if summoned by Merlin’s thoughts, Gwen bursts through the tent, hurrying to Arthur’s side with
a face of worry Merlin has not seen since her father was in danger.

“Arthur!” She gasps, reaching him just as Arthur slumps into a chair.

“I’m fine, Guinevere,” he assures her with a shallow smile. “What happened?”

“You were jousting against the assassin,” Merlin explains shortly. Now that Arthur’s weight is off
his body he is hit in full force by the wave of exhaustion that follows panic. “He killed Sir Alwyn
and took his place.”

Arthur’s eyes widen in horror and he sinks back against the table limply.

Merlin feels a clawing need to make him smile again. It’s wrong for Arthur to look so deeply
forlorn after winning a tournament. He should be beaming with joy and pride, or laughing deeply
and informing Merlin of all the little details that his ‘untrained eyes’ obviously missed. Merlin
should be retorting about how that’s just a kind way of saying Merlin is too stupid to understand
tournaments.
“The people are waiting for their champion,” Merlin reminds Arthur with a small smile, drawing
his attention to the muffled sounds of the crowd cheering and calling out for their victor. “It’s time
to reveal yourself.”

Arthur doesn’t smile, his eyebrows slowly furrow and his mouth pinches in thought. He doesn’t
look at Merlin, but first at Gwen, and then Stuart standing a few paces behind them.

“You should go and collect the trophy,” he instructs quietly.

Merlin blinks in surprise, Gwen just barely stops her jaw from dropping open.

“I thought this was to be your moment of glory?” She asks with a confused wrinkle in her brow.

“Perhaps this is a time for humility,” he answers, never breaking their gaze.

~-~-~

Arthur is hailed to the throne room before he has a chance to seek Gaius out. He struggles not to
sigh and follows willingly. His wound is steadily bleeding and he was seeing white spots in his
vision earlier but who is he to argue with the king.

Of course father, he thinks grouchily, this is the perfect time for a chat.

Morgana stops him just before he enters with a gentle hand on his elbow.

“Arthur, are you alright?” She asks, looking worriedly at Arthur’s bloodstained hand staunching
his wound.

“I’m fine,” he promises her with a small smile.

His father is seated at the far end of the hall, staring appraisingly at Arthur as he enters. His
demeanour gives no indication of how he feels. Perhaps the attempts on Arthur’s life are just a blip
in his otherwise busy schedule, or perhaps they have left him with sleepless nights, though Arthur
doubts that, for how little Uther’s face reveals either could be true.

His eyebrows do furrow when they land on Arthur’s sluggishly bleeding wound.

“What happened?”

Arthur is glad Merlin had the good sense to suggest they come up with a cover story for the event.

“The assassin attacked us whilst we were returning to Camelot, I was injured as I killed him,” he
lies easily, meeting his father’s steely gaze with assured confidence.

Uther grips his hands over the arms of his throne.

“Odin must pay for his actions. We must strike back,” The King says decisively. Arthur can hear
the war in his words; the screams of anguish, the innocent lives that will be lost, the carnage and
bloodshed. He doesn’t want that.

“Surely you can understand the grief he feels for the loss of his son?” He says carefully.

His father pauses, settling back in his throne to watch Arthur thoughtfully. Arthur forces himself to
keep still, smoothing and unclenching his fingers and tipping his chin steadily. When his father
doesn’t argue he takes it as permission to keep talking.
“We should try to make peace with him,” he suggests. “There has been enough bloodshed.”

Uther frowns in consideration. Arthur glances at Merlin who is bouncing on his toes in the far
corner of the throne room. He smiles at Arthur with a hint of pride and it makes Arthur feel warm.
He turns to see Guinevere looking at him in a similar manner from Morgana’s side.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Uther finally concedes.

It isn’t quite agreement but it’s the most Arthur can ask for out of his father so he lets the
conversation ease to a halt.

“How was the rest of your trip?” His father asks. “Fruitful?”

“Very.” Arthur nods. He looks at Guinevere, meeting her dark eyes. “I learnt a great deal.”

She ducks her head to hide her slight smile. Arthur watches the movement with a smile of his own
in his eyes. He shakes himself to force his mind back to the present.

“How was the tournament?” He asks, remembering himself.

Uther shrugs. “Excellent. We have a new champion. Sir William of Deira.” Arthur struggles not to
smile at the fake name they gave to Stuart.

He looks over at Merlin who is doing a poor job of stifling his own smile and in return is being
sent a heavy look of disapproval from Gaius. Arthur grins as a warm fuzzy feeling settles beside
his heart.

He might not have proven to his knights or his father that he is strong in his own right. He might
not have gotten the chance to be like everyone else. However this week has not been for naught.
Arthur now knows that he still has a long way to go in terms of truly understanding what his
peoples’ lives are like; and he knows of the people who truly care for him, without pretence.

“I’m sorry I missed all the excitement,” Arthur says, a laugh in his voice. He watches gleefully as
Merlin almost loses control of his own concealed laughter. However, when he glances at
Guinevere he remembers the revelation he had before the tournament, and his laugh fades away
into sad understanding.

He manages to make it through the rest of the conversation even as his attention dwindles.
Thankfully his father finally seems to remember that Arthur is still slowly bleeding and that it
should probably be addressed and the conversation doesn’t last much longer.

As they all filter out of the throne room Arthur catches Guinevere’s attention. She makes her way
over to him with a resigned look on her face, like she’s already prepared for what he will say before
he even begins.

“What… what we— I felt, while I was staying with you,” Arthur clears his throat awkwardly,
backtracking over his own words when he remembers he doesn’t know how Guinevere feels.

She smiles sadly. “I felt it too.”

“Oh. Good.” It does nothing to ease the solemn feeling that this is the end before it has even begun.
“But I’m afraid my father would never understand.”

She takes a deep breath, Arthur waits and listens to the slow inhale and then watches the way her
shoulders sag.
 “I understand. You don’t have to explain,” she says. She hesitates before laying a comforting hand
on his wrist. The warmth of her fingers against his bare wrist immediately eases the tension from
his muscles. He didn’t realise how much he was longing for that contact until she provided it.

“Perhaps when you are king, things will be different,” she suggests with reassuring hope
embroidered into her words like the edges of lace.

He smiles sadly, biting back the urge to draw her into an embrace. If his father saw he would see
through Arthur’s actions to the feelings concealed within. It’s too unmistakeable, too shamelessly
obvious. Arthur can’t possibly act on such impulses. Even if he were to draw Merlin into a hug it
would be considered an offence to his title. Much less Guinevere, with whom it means so much
more.

“I hope so,” he admits openly, careful to speak softly so the words are for Guinevere and her alone.

His father barks his name from down the corridor and Arthur turns away. He only just sees
Guinevere’s small hopeful smile, and lets her faith plant something deep in his chest.

Even though as he walks away he feels like he’s leaving something behind.

Chapter End Notes

i hope you liked this chapter !! i know it might not be what you were expecting in this
rewrite but i promise i have a plan, i am very curious what your thoughts are on
arthur's feelings for gwen and merlin in this fic so feel free to leave a comment !!

as always any comments or kudos are unbelievably appreciated !!!

in terms of next chapter's posting well.... as we all know there is a special 10 year
anniversary coming up next week ..... so keep an eye on this space is all i'll say
 The Nightmare Begins
Chapter Notes

in honour of the 10 year anniversary since this beloved show ended, it felt only right
that i post a bonus chapter to celebrate !!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Morgana wakes with a scream on her lips.

She knows she’s safe, that the horrors pursuing her were no more than a dream, but that does
nothing to ease her frightened pulse. Her heart is clamouring in her chest, pounding so loudly she
can taste her heartbeat. Her breaths whistle in her ears as she tries desperately to heave air into her
lungs.

Her eyes fall on the lit candle as she scours the room for something to tether her to the present. The
moment she connects with the flame something erupts within her. The candle seems to react to an
energy enclosed inside her. It surges through her body in a rushing electric current, like lightning
striking in her chest.

The flame leaps and she scrambles backwards. As her fear grows, it climbs higher, until it reaches
the curtains and they catch alight in a searing blaze. She screams, covering her horrified mouth
with clawed hands. Her window shatters, smashing in a glittering explosion that shines in the
moonlight.

“Morgana!”

Morgana didn’t hear Gwen come in but just her presence is enough to make the roaring fear in her
chest ease. Gwen screams for the guards but her hands as they touch Morgana’s arms are gentle.
The flames die as Morgana’s sharp breaths ease to a calm. She tries to rationalise that the flames
aren’t dying because of her, but because of the rain coming through the window; but deep down
she knows it isn’t true.

Gwen’s hands cup her cheeks and soothe over her fevered forehead. She pulls Morgana into her
arms and holds her tightly as she trembles with wracking sobs.

“You’re alright, you’re safe now,” she whispers assurances softly into Morgana’s hair. She cards
her fingers through the tangled strands, gently easing them apart and combing them off her
forehead.

It’s so soothing that it brings Morgana to the verge of tears. She loves Gwen so much it hurts
sometimes. In moments like these she wishes she could tell Gwen how she feels. She wishes she
could whisper how thankful she is for Gwen, and how she still longs for more. She won’t, it would
be selfish. It would cross their line from the unspoken into the spoken. She knows Gwen knows
that she loves her; and she knows Gwen loves her too, but not in the same way. She doesn’t need
more than that, even though she longs for it, because Gwen’s friendship is enough.

Usually the longing is something she can manage; but sometimes she thinks it would be easier if
she didn’t have these perfect moments where Gwen is truly wonderful and she just wishes it could
mean something more.

“It’s okay Morgana,” Gwen continues to whisper. Her hands are steady as she tucks Morgana into
her side. Gwen doesn’t let go even as the guards burst into the room and observe the wreckage she
made. (It was her, she knows it was). Gwen keeps holding her until the moment when Uther steps
into the room and she has to let go. Arthur follows closely on her heels and his eyes widen when he
sees Morgana.

They make her relay the whole event. She doesn’t know how to explain any of it so she just recites
the simple events. There was a fire, it caught her curtains, she screamed for help. She is made to
repeat the same story over and over until Uther has drawn every little detail from her monotonous
tale. She doesn’t mention the candle, or how she made it climb higher and higher. Uther might
claim to love her, but she’s not stupid enough to think he would spare her if he suspected anything
was amiss.

When she’s finally relinquished from the King’s endless barrage of questions she leaves
immediately for Gaius’ chambers. He is the only one she can trust.

~-~-~

The entire night has bombarded Merlin with a thousand questions and approximately zero answers.
He was pulled from his bed by Gaius who informed him that Arthur was at the door and refused to
leave without Merlin, so would you please go with him.

Then Merlin didn’t leave Arthur’s side until he had no other choice; he watched Arthur follow after
his father with an anxious rigidity in his strong shoulders. Uther, of course, blames magic for what
occurred. So Merlin presumes he’s enlisting Arthur to help him in his paranoid hunt for the
magical culprit.

The thing that irks Merlin is that whatever happened to Morgana is still a mystery. He listened to
her repeat her story over and over, enough times that Merlin could recite it himself if he tried. Yet
he still doesn’t understand the shifty way her eyes skitted away from Uther and the pauses in her
tale that seem to be filled with secrets she refuses to share.

He reaches his chambers but hesitates at the door when he hears Morgana’s lilting voice speaking
with Gaius. Her words tremble with fear and shallow sobs, Merlin has never heard anyone so
terrified.

“It was me,” Morgana says. “I started the fire.”

Merlin can’t see Gaius’ face but he can hear the frown in his voice.

“Did you knock over a candle?”

“No. I looked at it and the flames leapt higher… It was magic.” Morgana’s voice cracks on the
word with sheer terror. Her green eyes are glazed with tears that trickle slowly down her cheeks.

Gaius’ shoulders heave with a sigh.

“My child—” he begins but Morgana yells over him.

“I’m not a child!”

Gaius doesn’t comment on her furious outburst.

“Last night was an accident, it had nothing to do with you. How could it have?”

Morgana opens her mouth to reply but Gaius doesn’t give her the chance.

“I will draw you up a fresh remedy that will help you feel better, I promise.”

“But—”

“You must trust me,” Gaius says imploringly. Merlin watches as hesitation flickers over Morgana’s
anguished face before settling into resignation and confusion. She looks just as afraid as when
Uther was interrogating her.

When Merlin was three years old he smashed his mother’s vase with his eyes. He was furious
because she wouldn’t let him go into the woods to play with Will. In a fit of rage he had willed her
vase to explode and just like that it had shattered into a thousand pieces.

He doesn’t remember anything much from that age, but that memory has stayed clear and
preserved from the fear that flooded through him. He didn’t understand what happened, he only
knew that it was his fault. He remembers being terrified.

His mother hadn’t minded, more fearful of him hurting himself in the smash than any damage he
caused. She had scooped him into her arms, pressed kisses to his forehead and held him close until
his blubbering sobs turned to soft whimpers and then to a snotty nose. With careful words she
explained the power he concealed in his bone marrow and the magic that was laced between his
veins. The feeling he’d always known but hadn’t understood came into clarity with every word she
spoke. She assured him that it was okay, that he was safe and that his magic was a wonderful part
of himself. It hadn’t always been easy to accept, even less so in Camelot, but he doesn’t know how
he would have reacted without her kindness.

Morgana needs that, but Gaius refuses to listen to him. No matter how much Merlin attempts to
persuade him, his pleas fall on deaf ears. Gaius is determined that it would be more dangerous for
Morgana to know the truth about herself while living in Uther’s castle. Merlin argues that if she
doesn’t know she is at risk of performing magic in a fit of emotion and revealing herself. That logic
does nothing to persuade the physician and the argument dies with heavy glares on both sides and
stifling silence over breakfast.

Gaius made Merlin promise he wouldn’t intervene, but honestly he should know Merlin better by
now.

~-~-~

Arthur spots Merlin hurrying the opposite way down the hall and calls out to him.

“Merlin I need you to…”

Merlin staggers to a halt and shoves his hands behind his back, with a stupid grin that is too wide to
be anything but extremely suspicious. Arthur makes his way over with a frown, trying to peer
around Merlin but he infuriatingly twists to keep whatever is in his hands hidden from Arthur’s
view.

“What are you hiding behind your back?”

Merlin blinks innocently, pretending to be surprised at Arthur’s question as though it’s not
perfectly logical.
“Nothing.” Merlin quite obviously shoves whatever he’s holding into the hem of his trousers and
waves his empty palms at Arthur like a court jester. “See?”

Arthur scowls, peering over Merlin’s shoulder and around him. He bites back a growl as Merlin
wriggles and twists, dancing on his toes around Arthur to keep whatever he’s hiding out of sight.

“What are you up to?”

Merlin laughs at an awkwardly high pitch.

“Nothing!” He insists. “Honestly. Arthur, I would never lie to you. I respect you far too much for
that.”

Liar. Arthur raises an eyebrow disbelievingly.

Merlin keeps grinning that stupid smile of his back at him. The picture of contrived nonchalance.

“You wanted me to do something for you?” Merlin offers.

Another sign that he’s definitely up to something. Merlin never reminds Arthur that he has tasks
for him. He’s the worst manservant to ever exist for he puts in a lot of effort into avoiding his
chores.

“My chain mail needs cleaning,” Arthur says suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at Merlin’s
exemplary behaviour.

“Of course. I’ll see to it right away.”

Arthur’s sceptical look deepens.

However, he doesn’t have much reason to keep Merlin there if he’s readily agreeing to his job, so
he lets him go with a wave of his hand. Merlin stumbles backwards, grinning at Arthur stupidly the
whole way. Arthur bites back a smile as he almost trips into a wall.

To dissuade Merlin from continuing the frankly ridiculous charade he pretends to make his way
down the stairs, but quickly doubles back on himself once Merlin’s guard is down. Arthur peers
around the corner and spots the bunch of flowers that Merlin was concealing behind his back. He’s
heading in the direction of Morgana’s bedroom.

Arthur’s stomach does an odd twist, it clenches tight like there’s a rope tied around his waist. He’s
worried about Merlin, he realises. Morgana has no interest in him, so if he’s in love with her his
feelings will never be reciprocated. Besides, Uther would never allow the match even if Morgana
were to feel the same. His chest gives another odd pang but this time it makes sense, Merlin’s
situation is uncomfortably similar to his own with Gwen.

Further, Arthur realises, almost tripping over his own feet as a horrible revelation crashes over his
head. If his father were to find out about Merlin’s feelings for Morgana he would have his head.
There would be no chances, no opportunity for Arthur to protect him. Such a dalliance would
sentence Merlin to exile if not execution.

He needs to put a stop to Merlin’s feelings, that much is clear. With a firm nod he resolves to speak
to Merlin about it the first chance he gets.

~-~-~
Merlin hands Gwen the flowers with a small smile. She looks beyond tired, driven to exhaustion by
the consuming worry that leaves heavy dark circles under her eyes and a sadness to her face.

“How is she?” He asks carefully.

Gwen sighs, glancing over her shoulder at where Morgana is sleeping fitfully with tosses and turns.

“I’ve never seen her this bad. I’m afraid to leave her.”

Merlin frowns. “Have you had a chance to rest?” He suspects the answer before Gwen even shakes
her head.

“Let me sit with her for a bit. You go get some air,” Merlin offers, steering Gwen out of the room
without giving her a chance to protest.

“Won’t Arthur miss you?” She asks, worrying her lip between her teeth.

“Prince prat can look after himself for an hour or so, it’ll be fine.”

He gives her a final shove and she leaves the room with a grateful smile and a kiss to his cheek.

Morgana whimpers in her sleep, writhing like a snake caught in a lion’s maw. Her legs kick like
she’s trying to escape something in her dream. Her head shakes back and forth as she fights
invisible dangers.

It’s heartbreaking to watch and know there is nothing he can do. Merlin can only hope that the
information he’s found will be enough to help.

Morgana wakes with a scream, snapping him from his thoughts like a clap of thunder.

She bolts upright, eyes glazed and unfocused as her chest trembles with unsteady breaths. Merlin,
attuned as he is to magic, can see the edging of gold lining her eyes. She’s terrified, and her magic
is leaping to respond to that fear, it is the exact scenario that makes cold dread gather in his
stomach.

“Gwen?” She says fearfully, recoiling when she sees him by her bedside.

“Gwen’s just gone to rest,” he says placatingly, holding his hands out to calm her like he would a
spooked animal. “I said I’d stay with you a while.”

Morgana nods shakily, her shoulders ease away from her ears but her posture doesn’t ease.

“Are you alright?” Merlin asks gently, placing his hands flat on the edge of her bed so she can
always see them.

Morgana shudders, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes and sniffing back tears.

“I— I—” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. It’s usually Gwen who deals with me when I’m like
this.”

“I don’t mind,” Merlin promises sincerely.

She glances over at him with a thankful look in her green eyes before returning them to the bed.

“Maybe I could help?” Merlin suggests.

Morgana laughs bitterly. “I doubt that.”

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he urges. Gaius’ warnings sit in the back of his mind. The promises
he asked Merlin to make. “You can trust me Morgana, you know you can.”

Morgana finally looks up properly, meeting his gaze without the hesitation that had shrouded her
before. He can see the terror in her quivering mouth, the layers of self doubt, hatred and
overwhelming fear in the irises of her eyes.

“I’m scared,” she confesses. “It’s magic, Merlin, I know it is.” Her voice is so soft he has to lean
closer to hear it. “No one will say it. I just need to hear someone say it so I know it’s not all in my
head.”

She looks hopefully to him, pleading for him to give her the assurance she craves.

Under no cost must Morgana know the truth, it would endanger her far too much, Gaius’ voice
echoes in Merlin’s mind.

He bites down on his cheek.

“I realise… how frightening this must be for you— especially for you,” Merlin says, careful not to
confirm her suspicions outright. If he doesn’t tell her the truth Gaius can’t accuse him of breaking
their promise.

He won’t tell Morgana about his own magic, if too many people know there runs a great risk of it
reaching Uther. He understands Gaius’ caution and he knows it is the right thing to do, no matter
how painful it is to see Morgana suffer alone. Even while maintaining caution he still wants to help
her in whatever way he can.

“Why especially for me?” Morgana asks, her eyebrows furrowing defensively. Her shoulders
square and for a moment, she looks truly dangerous, and then, as if nothing happened, the
fierceness is gone.

“You’re the king’s ward… You know his hatred of magic better than anyone,” Merlin says. He
feels like he’s toeing a treacherous line and any moment he will fall to his doom, but he doesn’t
back away.

Morgana’s eyes widen. “So you agree? That’s what you think has been happening to me? The
dreams, the fire. You think it was magic?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“But it could be, couldn’t it?” Morgana snaps and her words scrape with desperation.

“I’m not sure. I really wouldn’t know,” Merlin answers quickly.

Guilt claws at his stomach with every barbed lie he tells, it catches on his skin as he forces it to the
surface, leaving stinging wounds in its wake. He feels like a fraud. Morgana’s shoulders slump
with resignation.

“But there are people who can help you,” Merlin hastens to add. He takes Morgana’s cool palm
between his own hands. He can tell that the touch eases something within her, touching her acts as
an unmistakable demonstration that he isn’t afraid of her.

“Who?”
“The druids. They can help people like you.”

Morgana scoffs, taking her hand back from Merlin. “No druid would dare show their face in
Camelot. It’s too dangerous.”

“You’re right,” Merlin agrees with a heavy nod. “But I know where you can find them.”

The Dragon had refused to help Merlin in locating the druids. He was determined that Morgana is
a witch, and refused to help her come to terms with her magic. Merlin was forced to resort to
snooping through Arthur’s records of potential sorcerers to find someone connected to the druids.
It was dangerous and tricky work but it had proven valuable. Merlin might not be able to help
Morgana, but he would do whatever he could to lead her to people who can.

~-~-~

Once Merlin told her where she could find the druids, Morgana left that very night. She brought
only the clothes on her back, not caring about what she was leaving behind. Material possessions
meant nothing to her now, all she wanted was answers. She made it all the way to the druid
encampment before she was met with danger.

The field is abandoned, but there are the low sounds of movements amongst the trees. Morgana’s
heart strikes against her breastbone as she listens to the creatures circle her and close in. She feels
impossibly weak in the face of these vicious predators; the creatures emerge, revealing their black
exoskeletons that gleam under the moonlight and send a shock of fear through Morgana. She
identifies them immediately as Serkets, vicious scorpion beasts twice the length of her torso. Their
tails twitch eagerly as they close in on her. She tries to shrink, tucking her arms into her sides and
feeling her breath catch in her chest. It is futile, with a sudden lash one of the Serket’s tails strikes
her stomach and she falls to the floor, unconscious.

She wakes in a strange bedroll, tucked into warm bearskins like an infant swaddled by a loving
mother. By her bedside is a strange man who she has never seen before.

“Where am I?” She shouts, lashing out her arm in a vague muddled attempt at self defence.

The man catches her wrist and lays it on her lap with care.

“It’s alright Morgana, you’re safe here.”

Her stomach clenches. “How do you know my name?” She demands. “Who told you?”

“I did,” a small voice says from the entrance to the warm orange tent. The druid boy from Camelot
peers through the flap, offering a small smile. He’s grown somewhat in the months that have
passed but his blue solemn stare, years more mature than his age, is exactly the same.

“Hello Morgana.”

“Mordred felt your distress and led us to you,” the man explains.

Mordred. The name suits the boy, she’s grateful to finally know it.

“Thank you,” Morgana says sincerely. She twists her fingers through the coarse fur of the bearskin.
“I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t.”

“I’m happy to protect you, as you protected me,” Mordred answers without hesitation. His voice is
more soft spoken than she expected. She never heard him speak in all the time he was in Camelot,
but his tiny voice demands attention in spite of its quiet demeanour.

“I am Aglain,” the man introduces himself. “I sense you have many questions.”

Merlin was right, the druids welcome her with open arms. She expected them to be hesitant, even
afraid of her, and some are, but the majority are willing to show her their way of life and integrate
her into a part of their chosen family. For the first time in her life she doesn’t feel isolated. She is a
part of something.

The encampment is nothing like Camelot which is a constant hubbub of noise and activity. The
druids chatter and bustle about their daily lives but the trees muffle the noise and sometimes as
Morgana watches, they seem to speak without words. Their daily routines are intertwined naturally
with magic, watching it makes Morgana’s heart skip with excitement even as her stomach clenches
with fear.

Aglain explains to her that she does indeed possess magic, but it is not yet developed enough for
her to control or manipulate it. She has repressed the growing sorcery inside her for years, and so
her magic has dulled and grown atypically unpredictable for someone of her age. He teaches her
that she doesn’t have to be afraid of herself, that Uther’s views of magic — which she always
suspected to be wrong — are dangerous and cruel, and that he should be pitied for his hatred.

“I was always taught that magic is evil…” Her eyes fill with tears and she furiously swipes them
away. “That it corrupts you.”

Aglain shakes his head, a calm teacher unbothered by her crassness or blunt questions.

“It is not magic that corrupts but the way we choose to wield it. Power corrupts, and magic can be
used to access that power, but it is nothing more than a tool.”

There is a commotion outside that cuts through the earlier quiet. Aglain excuses himself
apologetically. The moment he leaves the tent Merlin comes bursting in.

“Merlin? What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to take you back to Camelot,” Merlin answers. Morgana’s heart squeezes, stomach
lurching even at the idea of returning to her prison. She cannot chain her heart again, not when she
knows what it feels like to be free.

“Then I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey,” she says. “I’m never going back.”

Merlin’s eyes go wide with fear. “You have to.”

“Why? You’re the one who said I should seek out the druids.”

She can’t help but feel that Merlin looks incredibly small compared to the gaping tent. He
resembles a lost animal, small and afraid, swallowed by the huge world around him.

“I know, but I never considered what the repercussions would be.”

Morgana’s heart sinks like a ship struck down by a storm.

“What repercussions?” She asks cautiously as a sense of dread descends over her. Her breaths
catch in her chest like bugs in a spider’s web. Trepidation creeps up her spine, its spindly legs
sending shivers along her body and goose pimples down her flesh.
Merlin swallows. “The king thinks you’ve been kidnapped.”

Morgana’s face pales, her sinking heart plummets to her feet.

“He’s already arrested dozens of people, they all face execution. We have to get you back.”

Morgana’s hands shake and she shoves them in her lap to hide their weak tremors.

“If I return the same fate awaits me,” she notes fearfully.

“No. The King doesn’t know about this, no one does. I won’t tell a soul.”

It would be so easy to return, to spare those lives. They don’t deserve to die for her desire for
freedom. She thinks of the life that waits for her in Camelot, locking away this joyous life of
liberation for the cold walls and stares that lack understanding. She cannot give up this life she’s
found, not for anything.

“I can’t.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m never going back.”

Merlin looks at her with distressed horror and she looks away.

“These are my people. No one in Camelot understands me but here… I am part of something. It’s
the first time in my life I don’t feel so alone,” she explains. She doesn’t look at him, but towards
the rest of the encampment, where magic flows from person to person with reckless abandon.
Where it is able to exist without borders.

She can already picture herself as a link in that chain of enchantment. She wants to share her magic
with others, and to know it within herself. She sees the bright coloured tents of the druids’ homes
and the way they dance barefoot way over the grass and touch nature with both the soles of their
feet and the souls of their magic. Morgana longs for a life like that. She needs a life like that.

She meets Merlin’s eyes. “Do you understand?”

Morgana doesn’t recognise the weight in Merlin’s eyes, they are stoic and guarded, reminiscent of
herself and Arthur. Merlin is usually open with his feelings, typically she can understand why
Arthur is so drawn to him. He is someone who balances him out perfectly like Gwen balances her.
Right now he is unrecognisable.

“I understand,” he says softly. “Probably better than anyone.”

She doesn’t have the chance to question him on the weight behind his stare, or thank him for his
empathy, because they are interrupted by Aglain bursting into the tent.

“Morgana! We must go!” He says. His eyes find Merlin and his face hardens first in confusion,
then smooths into an expression she can’t decipher. “Why are you here?”

“He’s a friend,” she explains, grabbing Merlin’s arm and hauling him to his feet. “What’s wrong?
What’s happening?”

“We’re under attack. Prince Arthur and his men, they’ve found us.”

Morgana knows with a single sentence that her dream of leading her life without fear has died
before it even began.

~-~-~
Gwen spends the entire day with her eyes fixed out the windows. As she walks through the castle
her eyes stare through the panes of glass, looking hopefully across Camelot in the hopes of
glimpsing one of Morgana’s familiar dresses or her midnight black hair. Her efforts are fruitless
and every time she is away in disappointment her heart sinks further.

Despite spending the whole day waiting, Gwen actually misses the news that Arthur has found
Morgana and brought her home. By the time word reaches her Morgana has already returned to the
palace.

Gwen’s heart leaps and she profusely thanks the girl who informed her, taking off in a run towards
Morgana’s chambers. It isn’t appropriate behaviour and if Uther were to see her she would have to
answer to his ire, but she hardly cares.

Morgana looks worn, her hair is bedraggled and scooped messily over her back and her dress is
torn at the hem, but she’s alive. The relief strikes Gwen with such force she has to stop and take a
heaving breath to calm herself. She hadn’t realised how afraid she was at the possibility that
Morgana would never return until her eyes fell on her again.

“Gwen,” Morgana gasps. “I missed you.”

There is more in her voice than Gwen could hope to uncover. Morgana has always kept her
feelings close to her, guarded and protected like a locked chest, but this is more than that. Her
relief is starker than just a single night warrants, and there is grief in the spaces between her words
that Gwen doesn’t understand. She doesn’t pry, she knows how much Morgana values her privacy.

“I missed you too,” she answers, falling gratefulling into Morgana’s open arms.

~-~-~

Arthur knocking on the door startles Morgana out of her thoughts. She has been staring at the walls
of her room since she arrived back in Camelot. They have never felt so confining before, in all her
life her room has never felt so small. She can hardly breathe without feeling like she is filling the
entire space, like the expansion of her lungs is too large for such a compact room.Out of the corner
of her eye, the stone walls look like the bars of a cage.

She knows the knock at the door was Arthur. Uther’s knock is more like pounding, demanding
entry because as king he knows he will not be denied. Arthur knocks with purpose but it is a
question, asking if she will open the door for him. It is a small thing that highlights in her mind just
how different the two men are.

Arthur smiles as she opens the door and tips his head, silently asking for permission to enter. She
nods and beckons him in, closing the door carefully behind him.

“I just wanted to come and make sure you’re alright,” Arthur says, leaning against the door. He’s
trying to appear casual but Morgana can see the edges of discomfort, he has never been one for
quiet comfort, it’s telling of his worry that he even came to check on her.

“I’m fine,” she assures him.

She ignores the relentless ache of the wound opened on her heart. She knows it will scar and
pucker, that it will never fully heal.

“You aren’t hurt?” Arthur asks.

She not, at least, not in any way that Arthur would understand; but maybe he could. Morgana
doesn’t know if she can keep her magic locked inside like everything else in her life. She wants to
nurture it, to cup it in both hands and show it to the world. She knows she cannot let that grow
outwards, but she wonders if she could let Arthur look in.

“No,” she promises. “They didn’t hurt me, they wouldn’t hurt me.”

Arthur frowns and the small wrinkle between his brows is like a chasm. Morgana’s hands are
shaking, she clings tightly to her skirt to disguise their quivering.

“Arthur, do you ever think magic isn’t as terrible as Uther wants us to believe?”

As she asks the question she feels like she is standing on the tips of her toes at the edge of a cliff.
Her stomach drops with the fear of the fall.

Arthur hesitates for a moment, she notices his brief flinch even though he tries to hide it and it’s
like ice water thrown in her face. She is forced back into her body, suddenly horrifically aware of
the danger she has put herself in.

“Nevermind,” she says quickly before he can speak. Her skin is crawling with horror at her own
recklessness. Her heartbeat is pounding in every bone of her body, clinging to her skirt is no longer
steadying but makes the soft fabric rustle.

“Morgana—” Arthur still looks hesitant and she can taste bile in her throat. She can’t stand to hear
him repeat Uther’s bigotry, she loves him too much and she fears that hearing the words come
from his mouth will make her ears bleed.

“Pretend I didn’t say anything, I think I’m just in shock,” she laughs but the excuse leaves her lips
cold.

“Are you sure?” Arthur reaches out carefully and Morgana hopes he can’t feel her trembling under
his touch.

“I’m sure,” she says quietly. “I don’t even know what I was saying.”

She leads him over to the door with a fragile smile.

“I think I need some rest.”

Arthur seems reluctant to leave, he opens his mouth like he’s about to say something and then
seems to think better of it and closes it.

“Goodnight, Morgana.”

Morgana smiles tightly. “Goodnight Arthur.”

~-~-~

Merlin never anticipated the consequences that would follow Morgana’s sudden disappearance. He
didn’t consider how it would appear to an outsider, he only wanted to offer her as much support as
he could without endangering himself. Instead he endangered the druids who only seek peace, and
a life free from Uther’s tyranny.

Merlin tried to help Morgana escape with the druids but it was futile. They ran through the forest
with the knights of Camelot in pursuit, but Morgana was injured and they quickly found she
couldn’t make it far. Arthur and the knights caught up to her easily, and Merlin only just managed
to keep himself out of sight.

Morgana was despondent the entire journey home. Her guide, Aglain, had been slain by the
knights in their attempts to protect Morgana. Merlin can tell that Arthur had tried to avoid attacking
anyone who didn’t seem to pose an immediate danger to Morgana, but that does little to ease the
guilt Merlin feels as he thinks of the lives lost due to his mistake.

He knocks at Morgana’s door. Since they arrived back in Camelot he hasn’t been able to see her.
Uther hadn’t wanted to let her out of his sight, caught up in the fear that something could have
happened to her; and Merlin wasn’t permitted anywhere near the ordeal, even when he was at
Arthur’s side.

Morgana opens the door with a cautious expression that lowers when she meets his eyes. “Merlin,”
she says softly. Her eyes are sadder than when she left, they seem hollow and distant, like she’s
standing beside him but out of reach. They ache with an agonising grief that cracks his heart into
pieces. She seems unable to bear meeting his eyes, like she knows her pain is under a looking glass
for him to observe. However, she simultaneously looks less tormented. Her skin is healthier, her
eyes aren’t bowing under the weight of the bags sitting under them. The anguish from her
expression is gone, the placid exhaustion that has taken its place is not much better, but he’s
relieved that she at least looks settled.

She steps aside so he can come in.

“I just… wanted to check you were okay,” Merlin says, he speaks quietly, feeling as though this
moment needs to be shrouded from the eavesdropping walls of the castle.

Morgana nods, with a small smile that quirks at the edges of her lips.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

Her eyes flicker with nervousness, and her expression grows anxious and tight.

“Listen, about what I said in the woods”

Merlin shakes his head before she can continue. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. You can trust me
Morgana.”

“I do trust you.” The smile she offers him is genuine, resounding with kindness that makes him feel
safe, like the warmth of a hearth in the cold of winter.

Her eyes go distant again, like she’s seeing something unfold on the wall of her room that Merlin
isn’t privy to.

“I know now who I really am. It isn’t something to be scared of… I can only hope that one day I
won’t have to hide it.”

Merlin smiles sadly, his heart aches to tell her how much he understands. He can’t, with every
person that learns of his magic there is a small but inescapable chance of being caught. It’s far too
dangerous; but he wishes he could tell her that he longs for that day just as much as she does.

One day he will tell her, and Arthur, the truth. He can only hope when the day comes, they will
forgive him.

~-~-~
Merlin is making his way back to his chambers when Arthur catches his arm. His fingers are warm
through the elbow of Merlin’s tunic, and the touch makes something tight under Merlin’s skin
relax.

“This has to stop,” Arthur says seriously. “The king would have your head if he found out.”

Merlin blinks at him. His insides constrict into tight knots, twisting and writhing anxiously under
Arthur’s stare.

“There’s no point denying it,” Arthur continues when Merlin says nothing.

“Denying what?” Merlin asks nervously in a voice that is pitched entirely too high.

“Your affections for the Lady Morgana,” Arthur replies with a serious look.

Merlin almost chokes on his tongue. He snorts unflatteringly, nodding sarcastically with a roll of
his eyes and tries to walk away from Arthur.

“Right,” he drawls sarcastically.

“I’m serious Merlin,” Arthur says, pulling him back to his side by keeping a firm grip on Merlin’s
elbow.

Merlin accidentally oversteps and ends up within a few inches of Arthur’s nose. His heart patters in
his chest and he takes a half a step back to give them some space. Arthur’s hand still lingers on his
arm, he doesn’t seem to have any thought about removing it.

“I know you brought her flowers the other day,” Arthur says in a miffed tone.

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “I was just being nice.”

“If it wasn’t a token of your affections, why were you trying to hide them from me?”

Merlin struggles not to gape at Arthur. The flowers were almost a week ago, he can’t help but
consider how much Arthur is reading into Merlin’s interactions with Morgana if it has plagued him
this long.

“I wasn’t— I mean I was but just because I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

“What’s the right impression?”

“That I was trying to cheer her up after the fire.” Merlin shrugs. There really isn’t more to it, not
that Arthur needs to know anyway. It is irrelevant to Arthur’s line of questioning that Merlin was
using the flowers as an excuse to talk to Morgana about her magic.

Arthur hums in understanding, apparently conceding the excuse.

Then he asks. “What about right now then?”

“Right now?” Merlin tips his head.

“You were in her chambers weren’t you? Why were you there?”

Ah. That one was a little harder for Merlin to explain. Thankfully Arthur takes pity on him after a
few seconds of stammering and comes to his own conclusions.
“Listen,” Arthur says, moving his hand from Merlin’s elbow to clap him on the shoulder. “Take a
bit of advice from someone who knows about women.”

Merlin bites back laughter. It’s almost impressive how utterly oblivious Arthur can be.

“Stick to girls who are more… How can I put this kindly? On your level.”

Merlin would hate to hear what Arthur would say if he weren’t ‘putting things kindly’, it’s lucky
he isn’t remotely interested in women or he might be offended.

Arthur’s fingers shift against Merlin’s shoulder, brushing over the point where his neckerchief
meets the seam of his tunic. The pad of his thumb is warm against Merlin’s collarbone and it takes
every ounce of Merlin’s self control to not lean into the touch.

Arthur’s eyes take on a serious quality, and he stares forlornly at Merlin.

“She can’t even be your friend… let alone anything else.”

There’s something behind his words, an ache that Merlin doesn’t understand. Arthur is always
layered with his feelings, he puts one emotion forward when he really means something else. It’s
impossible to read at times, and leaves Merlin with questions that eat away at his longing heart.

“I know,” he replies, because he doesn’t know what else he can say.

It stings to be reminded that Arthur has never considered him romantically. That he’s more willing
to pawn off Merlin’s attentions to his adoptive sister than contemplate that Merlin could like
Arthur in that way. Plus, it was paired with the reminder of the fact that even if Arthur were to
return his feelings they could never be together, because they can’t even be friends.

Still there’s some humour in Arthur’s useless advice. The fact that Arthur hasn’t realised that
Merlin isn’t attracted to women is funny in its own right. Let alone the idea that Merlin would be
interested in pursuing Morgana, he’s pretty sure she would sooner kill him than kiss him.

Arthur slaps him on the shoulder in a friendly manner and waggles his finger at Merlin.

“You can’t hide anything from me,” he says as he walks away.

Merlin bites down on his lip to smother his laughter.

“Of course not, Sire.”

When Arthur is out of sight his face falls.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

One day I’ll tell them both, he promises himself once more to be sure.

~-~-~

Morgana has only been home safe for two weeks when a genuine ploy to kidnap her is carried out.
Hengist’s men had ambushed Morgana’s party just outside Camelot. They were brutal, they wore
cruelty in their eyes like the swords holstered at their hips. Morgana cringes at the memory of the
blood dripping from their weapons; the knights accompanying her had been good men who died in
the service of protecting her. If she isn’t fast enough she fears Gwen will suffer the same fate.

She spurs her horse faster, tears streaking her wind whipped face as she rides into Camelot.
Hengist had planned to ransom Morgana to Uther for a hefty price, she was a body to him, a body
worth a significant sum of money. She doubted that the men would dare hurt her, she only had
worth to them alive but Gwen held no such value, and it was only fear for her friend’s life that had
stopped Morgana from acting recklessly.

They came up with a plan which was tenuous at best. Morgana had requested to bathe and when
the men had been distracted by her stripping down Gwen had stolen one of their swords. It gave
them enough time to escape, and would have resulted in a successful escape had Gwen not injured
her ankle turning a corner.

She had begged Morgana to go on without her, to get help. The memory of Gwen's fearful but
determined eyes is like a brand seared into Morgana’s brain. She can’t help but think that if Uther
would just allow her to carry a sword with her, this all would have been avoided.

She can see in Arthur’s eyes that he knows what occurred. He meets her at Camelot’s gates, horror
is splayed across his face when she enters his view and he can see her dishevelled appearance. She
is dressed only in her chemise, and her escape left her with a gash along her temple and cheeks
smeared with tears and dirt. She can only imagine the sight she is to behold.

He helps her down from her horse with solid hands on her hips, steadying her when she shudders in
his hold.

“Gwen— she—” she tries to say but sobs overcome her ability to explain and she collapses against
his chest. Arthur tenses for a moment before his hands tentatively come to cradle her head. She
can’t remember the last time they hugged.

Morgana is only given enough time to pull on a new dress before she is summoned to the throne
room to give an explanation. She manages to explain the situation to Uther and the court with more
success.

Her voice catches when she reaches Gwen.

“They still have Gwen,” she says hoarsely.

Uther frowns heavily, turning to Arthur instead of Morgana and ignoring her words of Gwen.

“Who were these men?”

Arthur’s jaw is firm as he replies. “We believe they were Mercian. There is word that Hengist has
crossed the border.”

Morgana interrupts them. Her pulse is ricocheting between her lungs, she can feel it pound with
every breath. Gwen is out there somewhere, in danger, they shouldn’t be concerned with Hengist
but deciding on a way to get her back safely.

“We need to send a search party,” she insists and her chest trembles with every heaving breath. She
feels untethered without Gwen there to guide her, like a ship lost in a terrible storm. She needs her.

Uther turns to her with a patronising expression. “If Hengist is holding her hostage it would require
a small army to rescue your maid.”

Your maid. Not her name. She is not a person to Uther but an employee. Morgana can taste blood.

“We can’t abandon her!” She croaks, urging Uther with pleading eyes to understand.
“How many men would you have me sacrifice to save a servant?”

If it were a nobleman, a search party would have already left the citadel. Every knight in Camelot
would be deployed. It is obvious that Gwen’s position has reduced her to something disposable in
the eyes of the King.

“As many as it takes,” Morgana hisses. The waves of desperation in her stomach crash and roil,
eroding her bones to dust until she feels cold and hollow.

She takes a deep breath through her nose, willing herself to remain calm or risk being ignored
entirely. If she loses herself to tears she will be deemed hysteric and out of her right mind.

“Gwen gave herself up so that I might escape,” Morgana says; her voice rings clear in the echoing
chamber. “I owe her my life.”

Uther nods. “And for that she will be honoured.”

She struggles to bridle her anger as it writhes in her stomach like a wild horse.

“I don’t want her honoured,” she says bitingly, grabbing his hand to keep him still as he moves to
turn away. “I want her rescued.”

There is a moment where she fears Uther will lose his temper, his jaw clenches, a vein in his
forehead throbs; but then he relaxes again, looking pityingly at Morgana. She hates it, she hates
that he still perceives her as an irresponsible child for wanting to protect one of the only people she
loves.

These two weeks since she returned to Camelot have been agony. It is living torture to hold within
her the knowledge of what freedom would be like, and know she can never have it. She feels like a
drunkard barred from the intoxicating taste of liquor, she got a taste of what she could have and
now she craves it. She feels more trapped than she ever has before in her life. It feels as if eyes are
watching her wherever she goes, like everyone in the kingdom knows she is not one of them. Gwen
is the one piece of good in Camelot. Without her Morgana doesn’t know if she could cope.

“She is more than just my maid,” she tells Uther softly and her voice cracks around the display of
vulnerability.

The king sighs heavily through his nose.

“A servant is of no value to these bandits,” he says. “I fear she is dead already.”

Morgana recoils with a hiss. She feels like a small bird crushed under the weight of a cruel boot,
her ribs crack inwards, her chest concaves, she can’t breathe.

“No!” She wrenches herself from Uther’s grip, twisting away from his outstretched hands. The
places his hands make contact with her skin burns, she wants to claw it off, scrape her fingernails
down the lines of her arms until his touch is gone and all is left is torn skin.

“What is wrong with you! We can’t just give up! We can’t give up hope.”

I love her. I love her. I love her. The image of Gwen dead is like acid in her brain, consuming her
from the inside out.

She turns on Arthur with wild eyes. She doesn’t even care that her emotions are being laid out for
the court to see. She needs to see Gwen home safe, nothing else matters.
“Arthur, I’m begging you. You have to do something—”

“My father is right,” Arthur speaks over her. “I’m afraid there is nothing we can do.”

His face is like stone, staring at the opposite wall instead of her face, more rigid than a suit of
armour. His hard mask protects any emotions from shining through, he is completely unreadable
and cold.

Her heart crumbles to dust. She bites down the urge to unleash a wailing scream and tastes the
metallic copper of blood. The world tears itself down around her, until she is the only thing in the
room. She has never felt so unbelievably alone.

“How can you say that?” She roars. “How can you—” her words fail her, catching on a heavy sob
as Gaius’ arms encircle her. He eases her from the room with careful steps but she digs her nails
into his arms and screams around her tears.

“How can you live with yourselves?” She asks the entire court who stand like motionless statues.
She looks at Arthur as she speaks, but he doesn’t look at her.

~-~-~

Arthur forces himself to keep a steady face for the rest of the court proceedings. He is thankful that
his father adjourns the session soon after Morgana was dragged out, because Arthur’s racing heart
and pounding temples are sure to overcome him at any moment. He isn’t sure how long he can
pretend to be indifferent when he knows Gwen is in danger.

As they exit the throne room Arthur hurries to catch Merlin, grabbing him by the elbow and
hauling him into the first empty corridor he finds. Merlin bumps into him when they pull to a stop,
stumbling clumsily before righting himself.

“Pack your things. We’re going to save Gwen,” Arthur says, careful not to let anyone overhear him.

“Oh thank God,” Merlin exhales, sagging like he really believed Arthur’s feigned detachment in
the courtroom. They both smile at a passing nobleman and nod their heads, careful to maintain the
charade of calm. As soon as the man is once again out of earshot Arthur turns to Merlin again.

“I’ll meet you at the West Gate at nightfall,” he instructs, marching away from Merlin to his own
room.

Arthur desperately tries to wrangle his fear mangled mind away from thoughts of what could be
happening to Gwen as he begins shoving things into a satchel. If he gives himself the opportunity
to dwell on what kind of torture or pain she could be enduring he will sink into despair and will be
of no use to her. He can’t even consider his father’s suggestion that she might not even be alive, the
thought alone is too horrible to even acknowledge.

The doors to his chambers are thrown open, their hinges rattle as they crash into the walls. At this
rate he’s going to need new doors before the year is through. Morgana tears through the door, her
face red and blotchy with tears and her eyes burning with fury.

“You are a coward Arthur Pendragon!” She yells. “How can you be so heartless?”

Arthur doesn’t pause packing his things, watching as Morgana heaves a breath and blusters in her
fury. He’s almost offended that both Merlin and Morgana believed he would truly leave Gwen in
the hands of these mercenaries. Do they really think so little of him?
“Gwen is the most kind and loyal person you will ever meet and she has been more than a friend to
all of us! And you would leave her at the mercy of those animals?”

“Morgana—” Arthur tries to interrupt but she ploughs on.

“Have you no shame? Do you think of no one but yourself?”

“Morgana—”

“I knew you were many things Arthur but I didn’t know you were a gutless coward.”

“Morgana!” Arthur shouts, slapping his gloves on the table and turning to look at her properly.

She falls silent but her eyes stew with unspoken fury.

“Perhaps if you would stop shouting at me for one moment, you would notice that I am packing,”
Arthur says pointedly, closing his bag with a snap.

Morgana finally takes note of Arthur and the bag of things on the table between them. Her eyes
soften, the rage that had hardened those kind green eyes disappear, like it had never been present at
all. Her lips quirk up slightly in embarrassment.

“You’re going after Gwen,” she says softly.

“Of course I’m going after her. What do you take me for?” He asks sarcastically, stuffing his
gloves into the bag. “I couldn’t disagree with father in public.”

Morgana blinks tears from her eyes and nods. She makes an aborted movement with her hand, like
she was going to reach out to him and thought better of it.

Arthur shoulders his bag and walks from the room.

“Arthur?” Morgana says, stopping him at the door. He turns back to look at her and she takes a
deep breath. He can see the gratefulness in her eyes, but he knows she won’t thank him. They have
not been taught to show recognition of grace, but to offer respect to those who earn it.

“Bring her home,” she says instead.

He nods with a small smile.

~-~-~

Merlin stares at the back of Arthur’s blond head as he fills their water canisters. He’s been in a
sullen and distant mood since they departed from Camelot, barely speaking a word to Merlin
except to order him in a certain direction or tell him to shut up. He was also visibly anxious,
running his thumb along the seam of his reins until the cotton frayed under his calloused touch,
and he’s shifting in his saddle so often Merlin is worried he’ll fall off.

They had been riding for seven hours without a single pause when Merlin finally convinced Arthur
to let them stop. He can’t take much more of this oppressive silence while they have at least a two
day’s ride ahead of them. Arthur’s anxiety is palpable, it radiates off him like smoke and fills the
air. Merlin watches as the prince almost tosses his waterskin into the lake in fury as he struggles to
uncap it and he decides it’s probably time to intervene.

“I’ve never seen you this way about anyone,” Merlin says, taking the waterskin from the prince.
Arthur frowns and snatches the now capped waterskin back from Merlin.

“Like what?” He demands, snapping like an angry hound eager for a fight.

“Worried. Stressed,” Merlin clarifies. “You care about Gwen, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, she’s Morgana’s maid.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, sometimes he thinks Arthur is being deliberately obtuse.

“She’s also our friend,” Merlin points out.

“She can’t—”

“—be your friend because you’re a prince and she’s a servant,” Merlin finishes and bitterness
seeps into his words.

He shouldn’t care what Arthur thinks, because regardless of what the emotionally constipated
prince believes, he and Merlin are friends. Friendship cannot be denied based on the arbitrary rules
of class, it’s not a choice but a bond, and it’s one they share. Still it stings whenever Arthur
reminds him of his thoughts on the matter and the reality they live.

“I guess I just,” Merlin stops himself and changes tact. “Okay don’t take this the wrong way…” he
begins, which only succeeds to make Arthur glare at him before he’s even finished his sentence.
“But why are you doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… you don’t have to rescue Gwen, but you are.”

Arthur’s jaw twitches but he doesn’t say anything.

“I know why I’m going after Gwen, she’s practically my best friend, but you’re a prince… I guess I
wanted to know… why?”

“Just because I’m a prince doesn’t mean I will allow good people to die,” Arthur argues stiffly,
refusing to meet Merlin’s eyes.

Merlin doesn’t know why he’s arguing, but now that he’s begun he has to finish.

“Why, Arthur?” He presses even as his stomach clenches in terrified anticipation of the answer.

Arthur’s shoulders stiffen.

“You love her, don’t you?”

Merlin must hate himself because the question is out of his mouth before he can bite his tongue to
stop it.

From the way Arthur’s head snaps up with wide eyes and a bobbing Adam’s apple, it’s obvious
that Merlin has guessed correctly.

“Of course—” Arthur clears his throat. “Of course not. I don’t— I can’t—”

Merlin watches silently as Arthur closes his eyes and inhales deeply.
“Why can’t you just say it?” Merlin urges. He knows he should stop asking, that this can only end
in heartache, but he has to hear Arthur say it. He needs to hear the truth.

“Because nothing can ever happen between us!” Arthur snaps, eyes wild like a cornered animal.

“I care about her more than anyone,” Arthur says with a crack in his voice. “It hurts too much… to
admit my feelings knowing nothing could ever happen between us,” Arthur confesses, his eyes
fixed on the ground between them.

It hurts more than Merlin thought it would. His chest aches, it hits like a punch in his windpipe
which then continues to strike until he’s breathless. The pain seizes hold of his heart and squeezes
until he thinks he will keel over with it and then squeezes tighter still. Tears sting his eyes but he
wills them away, inhaling heavily through his nose and letting it slowly sink out of him. His nails
bite into the soft palms of his hands as he struggles to keep himself composed.

Merlin lets himself feel the pain for a heartbeat, two, three, and then he scoops the feelings and
tucks them into a small crevice of his chest. This isn’t what he promised, he scolds himself. He
knew from the moment that he realised his feelings for Arthur that he would have to bear them
alone. Arthur will never feel the same.

However, he had forgotten that Arthur would one day fall in love. He knew that Arthur would
never care for him that way, but it didn’t occur to him that he could still feel those feelings for
someone else. Perhaps selfishly, he had thought that even if Arthur would never love him that he
would also never truly love.

He can’t react. Arthur can never know how he feels. This is the only way.

Merlin takes a deep breath and forces an encouraging tone of voice.

“Who’s to say nothing can happen?”

Arthur laughs humourlessly. “My father wouldn’t even let me rescue a servant, do you honestly
believe he’d let me marry one?”

Merlin’s eyes widen. “You want to marry Gwen?”

“No! I— I don’t know, okay?” Arthur splutters. He looks at Merlin like he’s pleading with him,
just short of getting on his knees and begging Merlin to let the conversation drop.

Merlin can tell that Arthur is painfully confused, there’s a franticity in his eyes that speaks of
layers of tangled and indistinguishable emotions under the surface. He’s pushed far enough and is
more than willing to let this conversation end so he nods, raising his hands in surrender.

“You don’t need to do anything now.” “I can’t do anything, ever,” Arthur reminds him in a
resigned tone. “It’s all talk, and that’s all it can ever be.”

“When you’re king, you won’t need to follow your father’s rules. You can change that,” Merlin
reassures. He longs to reach out and touch Arthur’s shoulder in support, but he doesn’t know how
the prince would respond so he keeps his hands firmly by his side.

“I can’t expect Guinevere to wait for me,” Arthur says; his tone is oddly calm, like he’s come to
peace with the knowledge that he will never have Guinevere. The only indication it hurts is the
sadness around his eyes.

“She’ll wait for you. I know it,” Merlin promises. It doesn’t seem to console Arthur but he at least
smiles again, which makes the whole dreadful conversation worth it.

“Come on, we’ve spent long enough dawdling,” Arthur says, returning to his militant tone. He
snaps his fingers at Merlin and directs him towards his horse.

As they each mount their horses Arthur glances over his shoulder back at Merlin.

“Oh and Merlin? If you dare speak a word of this to anyone, I will make your life a living hell,” he
promises with a threatening leer.

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “More than you already do?”

A slow grin creeps over Arthur’s face, genuine joy crinkles into the corners of his eyes as he
blatantly struggles not to laugh.

“Yeah,” he agrees, tipping his chin in challenge.

The return to normal is a relief, but Merlin can’t stop thinking about the idea of Arthur and Gwen
together.

~-~-~

Gwen is more frightened than she has ever been. Morgana’s borrowed clothes itch despite being
made from finer silks and materials than she has ever worn before. They itch against her skin,
pulling in the wrong places, shifting when they should lie still, it’s like they know that they don’t
belong to her.

Hengist’s men had been horrified to realise all they had left to barter with was Gwen, a simple
servant, and not the Lady Morgana. Henigst intended to use Morgana as bait, and garner a hefty
ransom from the king in exchange for her safe return to Camelot. Gwen would receive no such
ransom, she doubted Uther would even allow a single man to risk his life to rescue her, let alone
waste the kingdom’s gold.

She would be dead now if Hengist’s men had not formed a cunning plan. Hengist himself had
never seen Morgana, and as a result would have no way of distinguishing Gwen from her mistress.
They forced her to charade as Morgana for Hengist, or else be slaughtered.

It was an easy choice, but she hates pretending to be Morgana. It feels like she is doing an injustice
to her closest friend by stepping into her shoes and performing under her name; like she is making
a mockery of who Morgana is.

She had felt entirely alone. Until she saw Lancelot.

Even now she hardly dares to believe that he’s really here. That the man she had thought would
never see again, is really here. The one who had stolen her breath with a single glance, taken hold
of her heart with a small smile.

The cell she’s been detained to is meagre, even Camelot’s dungeons are luxury by comparison. It
is a simple four walled room of stone, there is no point of interest but the heavy oak door and a
small grate above the slate of wood that serves as her bed. The air is thin, and Morgana’s silk dress
does nothing to shield her from the cold that seeps through the dungeons.

A small sound from the grate draws her attention, like someone is rapping their knuckles against
the metal.
“Gwen.”

Gwen stands on her makeshift bed and peers through, heart jumping as she meets Lancelot’s warm
eyes. He smiles when he sees her, the affection in his expression draws her in like the comfort of a
warm hearth.

“Lancelot,” she breathes with joy, so bright and wonderful it seems to fill her from head to toe.

“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you,” he says. His soft smile is like the embrace of warm
arms and is the only thing keeping her steady in this terrifying situation.

“I thought my mind was deceiving me,” she admits quietly.

He has only grown more handsome over the time apart. From the small glimpse she can see, his
shoulders are more defined and as he leans down in the hallway to meet her she notices a thin scar
that cuts across his cheek just below his eyes. His hair is shorter, cropped around his ears and
combed neatly out of his face. It suits him, allowing her to easily see his inviting dark eyes, deep
and comforting in comparison to the frigid dungeon.

She frowns inwardly at herself for even feeling such things when the feelings she has for Arthur
are only just taking root. The two loves are so different she hardly knows how to consider them;
but with Lancelot before her it’s difficult to even think of Arthur.

“Why does Hengist believe you are the Lady Morgana?” Lancelot asks, drawing her from her
thoughts with a crucial question.

Gwen’s eyes dart nervously to the door, unable to shake the fear that anyone could be waiting with
their ear pressed to the wood.

“He believes he is holding Morgana to ransom,” she explains in a hushed tone.

Her heart thuds against her chest in fear, remembering the horrible beasts that Hengist possessed.
The Wildeorren are disgusting creatures, the size of a lion but shaped like a rat scalped of its fur
and they possess a keen sense of smell which allow them to scope out their prey, human flesh
making up for their bloodshot blind eyes. Dying at their hand would be a horrific end to meet.

“When no ransom is paid…” she swallows roughly. “He will realise the truth, and then I will be
thrown to those horrible beasts.”

“I will not let that happen,” Lancelot promises her, and he sounds so sure of himself that she has to
believe him. It sends warmth caressing down the lines of her arms and spine, warming her down to
the tips of her toes.

“What are you doing here?” She asks softly. She couldn’t be more grateful for his company, but
Lancelot is so out of place in this home of murderers that she cannot help but feel jarred by his
presence.

He grimaces. “Time has not been kind to me since I left Camelot.”

“Are you one of Hengist’s men?” The idea is too horrible to even consider, but thankfully,
Lancelot is quick to dismiss the notion.

“No!” He says sharply, before relaxing with a heavy sigh that is too defeated for a man that had
once been so enthused by Camelot.
“There are few opportunities for men like me, so I’ve been making a living the only way I know
how, with a sword in my hand.” He smiles bitterly. “It seems my destiny is to entertain men like
Hengist.”

Lancelot had performed earlier that day in a duel to the death with another entertainer. Gwen had
watched with her heart in her throat as he sweat and bled, while the men around her laughed. He
had won, and spared his opponent, and the man had been fed to the Wildeorren. For ridicule and
barbarism to be the fate bestowed onto such a lovely man is an injustice.

She shakes her head roughly.

“I don’t believe that,” Gwen says firmly. “You were so full of hope.”

Lancelot avoids her eyes. “I was wrong.”

“No.” She extends her hand to the grate and presses her fingers through the small crevices,
reaching for him as much as the cell will allow. “I still see the hope in you. I do not accept it is
gone.”

Lancelot’s eyes dart to meet hers, filled with that beautiful hope that had drawn her to him when
they met all those months ago.

He lets his hand meet hers, stretching his fingers over her smaller ones and covering them with his.
His fingertips are calloused, and his hands are warm. Her heart flutters at their touch.

“I have thought of you often,” Lancelot confesses; the admission makes Gwen’s heart skip. There
is a sense of hopeful anticipation in his gaze as he smiles at her. “Have you thought of me at all?”

“I thought I would never see you again,” she half answers. She is unwilling to divulge the truth,
that the honest answer is yes; she had thought of Lancelot every day since the moment he left. That
she had desperately tried to forget Lancelot’s eyes, and smile, and kindness, and yet every day she
remembered them. That she had rejected the feelings flowing through her even now, because she
had thought he would never return to Camelot. She loves Arthur, she’s sure of it. She had to move
on from Lancelot, she had no other choice, and so she had.

His smile dims but he doesn’t falter, she has to admire his strength for not leaving her alone in this
frightening place even when she doesn’t reciprocate his affections. He remains kind to a fault, and
she longs to thank him for that.

The heavy sounds of footsteps echo in the corridor and Gwen’s eyes jump to the door.

“Someone’s coming.”

“No matter what happens,” Lancelot says, squeezing her fingers one last time before releasing
them. “I will find a way to get you out of here.”

Gwen can only hope that is true.

~-~-~

Merlin takes one look at the caves and decides they should avoid them at any cost. Their wide
mouths are pitch black, crumbling at the edges and undoubtedly harbour any number of disgusting
pests. They might as well have a sign in front of them saying ‘Danger: Do Not Enter’.

Arthur, of course, does not afford them the fear they warrant and walks directly for them; because
he has a death wish and lives to make Merlin’s life as difficult as possible.

“Arthur, why are you going towards the Caves of Doom?” Merlin asks, tripping over his feet in his
haste to catch up.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Because, Merlin, the ‘caves of doom’ as you put it, will shave a day off our
journey.”

He continues heading towards the caves’ mouths.

“I don’t know if you know this,” Merlin mutters. “But when most people see creepy caves that will
cause their imminent death, they walk away.”

“It’s a shortcut,” Arthur tries to argue but Merlin will hear none of it.

“It’s not a shortcut if we die. I’m not going in there.”

“The sooner we reach Guinevere the more likely she is to be alive,” Arthur answers simply.

Which really isn’t fair, because Merlin can’t very well argue with that. His jaw snaps shut with a
click and he glowers at the back of Arthur’s head.

Arthur stops with his hands on his hips, inspecting the caves with a scrutiny Merlin has come to
learn means that he is worried about something.

“Alright,” he says with a sigh. “Give it to me straight. How likely are we to die in there?”

Arthur hesitates.

“It’s perfectly safe,” he lies through his teeth.

Merlin narrows his eyes at him. “I know that face, you’re lying to me. Tell me the truth.”

Arthur sighs. “They’re infested with Wildeorren.”

“What’re Wildeorren?”

“They’re giant—“ Arthur opens his arms wide to demonstrate and then sees the look on Merlin’s
face and narrows the space between his hands. “—baby rats.”

“Baby rats?” Merlin tips his head at Arthur. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

Arthur scratches the back of his head, avoiding Merlin’s eyes.

“They… somewhat… feast on human flesh.”

Merlin gapes at him. “They somewhat feast on human flesh,” he repeats incredulously. “Arthur,
something cannot somewhat feast on human flesh. It either eats us or it doesn’t.”

Arthur grimaces. “Alright, they eat us.”

“You’re sure we can’t just go over the mountains?”

Arthur shakes his head. “It’s quickest this way.”

Arthur starts scanning the area and Merlin watches confused as he looks around with a thoughtful
expression.
“What are you doing?” Merlin finally asks as Arthur crouches by a bush and squeezes a berry,
sniffing the juice that oozes onto his fingers.

“Gaja berries,” Arthur answers, still busy with his inspection of the fruit.

“Wow, thanks, that explains so much,” Merlin replies with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

Arthur rolls his eyes like Merlin is inconveniencing him by failing to understand his cryptic
behaviour.

“Wildeorren are completely blind,” he explains. “They hunt using their sense of smell. Gaja berries
are extremely pungent in nature. So, if we smear ourselves with them, we can put them off our
scent and pass through the tunnels undetected.”

With that brief explanation Arthur begins to tear berries from the bush and smear them over his
face until he has a thin coating of red juice over his skin. Merlin follows suit because he puts way
too much faith in this dumb idiot.

He recoils as soon as the smell hits his nose. When Arthur said they were pungent he was clearly
under exaggerating. The berries smell like fish that were dipped in putrid milk and left to rot in the
sun.

“Uck!” Merlin screws up his face. “These stink! They’re awful!” He groans, almost swiping them
completely off his face in his desperation to relieve himself of the odour.

Arthur raises an unamused eyebrow at him, somehow appearing completely unaffected by the
smell.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to be eaten alive?” He suggests sardonically with a leering grin.

Merlin pauses, blinks and then nods.

“Right, pass me some more, will you?” He says reaching out a hand for more berries.

Arthur nods in the picture of perfect innocence. He pretends to pass the berries politely to Merlin
and instead shoves them in his face. Merlin recoils with a groan as the smell is smushed over his
skin and he opens his eyes with a scowl. His complaining is cut short by Arthur’s boyish laughter.
He’s come close in order to mess around with Merlin and the curve of his endeared smile that
appears when he grins proudly at Merlin is enough to make Merlin's heart flutter and then clench
at the reminder of what he has learnt today.

“Come on,” Arthur says, nodding his head towards the caves. “Guinevere is waiting for us.”

They creep into the darkness, footfalls treading with slow precision as they tiptoe over the fallen
rocks and rubble. The caves swallow them; Arthur’s torch is the only light as darkness presses in
from every angle and it casts a halo of light around them that bounces off the walls. They make
their way through the perilous tunnels slowly, their footsteps padding over the smooth stone with
careful precise movements.

Merlin’s stomach clenches at every shadow, every time his feet brush rocks a little too noisily he
holds his breath. His heart is hammering in his chest and in the silence of the caves he fears it will
be enough for the Wildeorren to sense their presence.

“I just stood on something,” Merlin gasps, recoiling his foot with his heart in his mouth.
“That was my foot,” Arthur answers, rolling his eyes.

“Oh,” Merlin nods shakily, his pulse still racing from the shock of adrenaline. “Right. Sorry.”

They travel in silence for what feels like hours when Arthur suddenly tenses and holds up a hand.
Merlin doesn’t dare make a sound, every muscle in his body taught like a bowstring as Arthur
scans the area hearing something Merlin’s unaccustomed ears do not.

“Wildeorren,” Arthur confirms the question Merlin didn’t ask in a voice so soft it can hardly be
defined as a whisper. His hands are firm and steady as he takes Merlin by the shoulders and steers
them against the wall.

“Don’t make a sound,” Arthur warns. “Whatever happens, stay completely still.”

Merlin nods shakily. His heart is pounding through his whole body. The scratching sounds of large
claws against stone echoes through the cavern. Merlin can feel his pulse in his stomach as he tries
to keep himself as still and silent as possible. The beast rounds the corner and Merlin bites hard on
his tongue to keep himself from reacting.

Arthur’s description was surprisingly apt for the creature. It strongly resembles a baby rat, aside
from the fact that it is the size of a large horse, with naked wrinkled skin and buck teeth the length
of Merlin’s arm that curl out of its slobbering mouth. Its eyes are bloodshot and unseeing but its
snuffling snout is powerful as it drags over the ground hunting their scent.

Arthur holds a finger to his lips to remind Merlin not to make a sound as the creature approaches.
While Merlin is trembling with fear Arthur is steady and confident, the only hint he is afraid is the
wideness of his eyes, which are a deep blue in the darkness.

Merlin holds his breath. He can feel every knob of his spine pressing into the cold stone. The
Wildeorren approaches Merlin with heavy footsteps. Its long thick tail swings through the corridor,
knocking against the walls and sending rubble falling from the ceiling. The beast comes so close to
Merlin that he can smell its hot, musty breath over the potent scent of the gaja berries. He forces
himself not to recoil even as his chest trembles with the desperate desire to breathe and his stomach
quivers as he holds himself still.

The Wildeorren snuffles and backs away. Merlin bites back a terrified whimper. By his side Merlin
can feel Arthur’s heavy exhale once the beast is far enough away and he follows his guide and lets
out his own breath.

They make it the rest of the way from the caves unscathed but Merlin doesn’t fully allow himself
to breathe until they are well away from the tunnels’ mouths.

Arthur leads them to a river and they both crouch beside the running water and wash their faces of
the berries. Merlin’s heart is still pounding with adrenaline, and his hands shake as he dips them
into the water.

“The gaja berries worked,” Arthur says smugly, running his hand over his mouth and jaw.

Merlin freezes with his hands cupped above the river surface, letting the water slowly trickle from
his palms as he stares in disbelief at Arthur.

“You didn’t know they would work?” He asks through gritted teeth. He waits for Arthur to assure
him that he absolutely knew what he was doing, don’t be daft, or something of a similar sentiment;
just to assure Merlin he didn’t walk into danger without absolute certainty Arthur’s plan would
work.
Arthur shrugs. “Not completely, no.” He sees the look on Merlin’s face and rectifies, “I was pretty
sure.”

“Pretty sure is not sure enough!” Merlin screeches.

Arthur stands and Merlin follows so they are standing face to face on the bank of the river.

“Oh what’s that Wildeorren eating? Oh it’s alright, it’s just Merlin!” Merlin mimics Arthur with
wild gesticulations. Arthur chuckles with an endeared smile at Merlin’s antics and Merlin ignores
the way it makes him feel.

“Are you trying to get us both killed?” He asks instead of acknowledging his own traitorous
feelings.

“You’re right,” Arthur concedes. “I shouldn’t have risked your life like that.”

Merlin nods with a haughty sniff before letting his shoulders drop. He tries not to think about
Arthur’s willingness to risk everything for Gwen. It shouldn’t matter, because Merlin would gladly
go through the Wildeorren ten more times if it meant ensuring Gwen’s safety. Except it’s different,
knowing Arthur’s feelings.

Still, he nudges Arthur’s shoulder with his own and smiles.

“It’s fine,” he promises. “I know you were only thinking of Gwen.”

Arthur flushes a charming shade of red and shoves Merlin away.

~-~-~

Morgana’s heart aches from being stretched in two places at once. She can feel it beating in her
chest, a steady thump that pounds against her ribs but it is also being pulled to Gwen’s side,
reaching across the vast difference between them.

She presses her hand to the cool glass of the window and imagines crossing the divide between her
and Gwen. She imagines stretching far until her hand reaches the warmth of Gwen’s skin, until she
can feel the callouses on her fingertips, cherish the gentleness of her hands.

Morgana misses her like air, she doesn’t know how to breathe without her. Without Gwen she feels
unanchored. The world is spinning around her like a hurricane and she is in the eye of the storm
watching it hurtle, knowing there is no way she can escape it. She needs Gwen so she can drag
herself out, and find a safe haven once more.

She loves her, God above, she loves her.

Morgana squeezes her eyes shut and imagines what Gwen would say if she was here. She can
almost imagine her hands squeezing Morgana’s shoulders reassuringly.

You’re strong Morgana, you’ll be okay.

Morgana exhales steadily and begs that the same can be said for Gwen, wherever she is.

“Bring her home, Arthur,” she begs in the silent room.

She receives no answer.

~-~-~
Gwen can’t deny the rush of comfort she feels when she hears Lancelot calling her name once
more. When he sees her he releases a shaky exhale of relief and lets his forehead fall forward
against the grate.

“I was terrified I might find your cell empty,” he confesses with a crack in his voice. She had been
trying to stifle her own fear, but his wavering words set her anxiety alight like a candle wick being
held to a flame.

“There has been no word from Uther, I fear Hengist is growing suspicious,” she says softly. Her
eyes flit to the door like men might crash through and seize her, but thankfully nothing happens.

She does not blame Hengist’s suspicion. Though Uther and Morgana’s relationship is riddled with
difficulty, he does truly care for her. If Morgana was actually being held to ransom then a raven
with Uther’s compliance to whatever cost necessary would have been sent before a full day had
elapsed.

Lancelot shakes his head.

“It will be okay, I have a plan. I will not allow you to die here.”

Gwen frowns, understanding the things he isn’t saying in the gaps between his words and the
hesitation in his tone. His wording is specific and pointed, he will not allow Gwen to die here.

“What about you?” She asks pointedly, urging him not to give the reply she expects.

His face falls and he stares at the ground as he answers her.

“I have little to live for.”

“Don’t say that,” Gwen tries to argue but he just stares at her with wide and unfailingly honest
eyes.

“It is the truth,” he counters with a sad smile. “For all that I believed, I have come to nothing.”

The words strike at Gwen’s chest like a sword. Her heart drops at his candidness, surely it should
be impossible for a man as lovely and wonderful as Lancelot to truly believe he is nothing. She
wants to show him the version of himself that is so clear to her eyes. She wishes he understood
how much goodness and light he brings to the world. Even in this desolate place where she has
been brought to die he makes the dark corners seem that little bit brighter, and the silence seems to
settle into gentle calm when he is near. The thought that he doesn’t realise all that he brings strikes
her so deeply that before she can stop herself the truth pours out.

“You are everything that is right with this world,” she says, pressing her hand to the grate
desperately to reach him.

She doesn’t understand how she feels about him, about Arthur. The feelings are all too new and
intense for her to decipher. They are like riddles told out of order and tangled together, impossible
to separate and understand.

All she knows is that the surprised joy in Lancelot’s eyes at her words sends a thrill down her
spine. He reaches out to touch her hand and butterflies erupt in her stomach, fluttering inside her
with eager wings.

“I did not know you felt that way,” Lancelot says quietly, so as not to break the bubble they have
built around themselves.
“I didn’t even know I could feel this way about someone,” she admits honestly.

He smiles brilliantly and her heart skips a beat. “Then you have given me a reason to live.”

“Be ready. I will return for you by nightfall,” Lancelot promises, pressing a kiss to the tips of her
fingers before he leaves.

He keeps to his word and the sun has barely dipped below the horizon when he returns. The door
crashes open and finally she can touch him truly. His hand grapples for hers and together they
escape. Gwen draws comfort from the comforting feel of his calluses and worn palms, they anchor
her even in the madness of their dashing through the winding corridors into the bowels of the
dilapidated castle.

Her heart pounds a frantic rhythm against her chest as they pull to a stop. Distantly she can hear
Hengist and his men discovering her hollow cell and beginning the hunt with hollers and growls.

“Follow this tunnel,” Lancelot says, pointing down the hallway they are standing at the entrance
of. “It will take you out beyond the castle walls. I will buy you as much time as I can.”

Gwen’s stomach drops as she recognises what he truly means. She grabs his hands before he can
turn away.

“I’m not leaving you,” she says determinedly as she looks into his sorrowful eyes.

“You must,” Lancelot insists but she shakes her head desperately.

“Absolutely not. I am not leaving you here to die,” she clings to his hands like they are her only
tether in a torrential storm.

He smiles sadly, squeezing her hands in return. “I would die for you a hundred times over.”

His hands shift out her grip and she struggles not to cry. She holds his shoulders desperately, trying
to keep him from moving away but he doesn’t, he only moves closer. His hands cup her cheeks,
encouraging her to meet his eyes as if she could look anywhere else.

“Live for me,” he pleads. “Or everything that I am has been for nothing.”

She surges forward and their lips meet. It is desperate and firm, a short press that means more
words than she can find in herself to say. She loves Lancelot, Gwen realises, possibly more than
she’s ever loved anyone before. It is unlike anything she has felt before, not momentous and
electrifying like her love for Arthur but deep and rich. It is surprising like the explosion of
sweetness when one bites into a plum, the shock of it is a revelation. The danger, the far sounds of
Hengist’s hunt and even her own beating heart fall away. At this moment, she cannot think of
anything but him, and the startling truth that she loves him.

When they part his eyes are wide and openly honest in their returned love for her. He stares at her
like she is something to be cherished, a wonderful gift bestowed upon him.

“Run,” he begs, stroking his thumbs over her cheekbones tenderly before stepping away. “Run, and
don’t stop running until you are well away from here.”

Gwen shakes her head, but he urges her away.

“Run. Run!”
Finally she listens. She sprints through the hallway with tears streaming down her cheeks and
Morgana’s borrowed dress billowing behind her.

She doesn’t even make it to the gate before Hengist’s men seize her.

~-~-~

They sneak into the castle relatively easily. Although Merlin could do with a little less throwing
themselves at bandits like sacrificial meat, and a little more solid planning. He is however
beginning to recognise that for someone raised with tactical devising and military strategy,
Arthur’s plans tend to include a noticeable lack of precaution.

The sounds of jeering and laughter lead them to a large hall where at least a hundred cruel men are
gathered around a gated cage twice their height. Merlin initially assumes it is some form of
spectator sport until Arthur gasps, “Guinevere,” and takes off through the crowd.

Only then is Merlin able to understand the gravity of the situation. Gwen is in the centre of the
floor, tied back to back with Lancelot and both are struggling against their ropes. A frenzied
Wildeorren has just been released and is snuffling around the edges of the cage slobbering eagerly.

Arthur uses a bandit as leverage to hoist himself over the bars of the cage and Merlin watches with
his heart in his mouth as he frees Lancelot and Gwen with a single swipe of his sword. Arthur
tosses Lancelot a sword and they both prepare to take on the beast. It growls menacingly, rearing
high on its hind legs and snarls as it senses the meal moving about the cage.

Hengist roars in fury and Merlin runs around the edge of the cage, desperately glancing from his
friends to the furious man. Hengist loads a crossbow and squints along the line of the arrow,
aiming it at Arthur. Merlin’s heart drops. He lets his instincts take hold and ducks and weaves
between bandits as he flicks his wrist towards a light fixture above Hengist’s head.

The fixture crashes to the ground, it fails to strike Hengist but causes enough pandemonium that
the brutal man loses his crossbow.

“Merlin!” Arthur bellows, and Merlin glances back towards the cage.

Arthur inclines his head toward the tunnel behind him, the entrance where the Wildeorren must
have been released from. “Any time now!” Arthur shouts.

Merlin scrambles over the edge of the cage and topples to the floor. Arthur’s hands seize his
shoulders and hoist him to his feet. Arthur uses his firm hold on Merlin to push Merlin behind him
so he and Gwen are protected by Lancelot and Arthur’s swords.

They back away into the passage. The Wildeorren snaps at them, drool pooling beneath its fleshy
claws and saliva clinging to its snarling buck teeth, Hengist yells at his men, ordering them to
follow. Merlin watches in terror as Hengist and several other bandits obey his motions and scale
the walls of the cage.

“Take Guinevere and go!” Lancelot yells.

“No!” Gwen screams, but aside from a small wince of apology it is impossible to tell that Lancelot
heard her.

“Merlin! Go with Gwen!” Arthur tries to order and Merlin glares at him.

“Absolutely not! You go! We’ll be right behind you!” Merlin says, shoving Arthur a few steps
away from them.

“Merlin—”

“If anything happens to you, your father will kill Gwen and I himself,” Merlin points out, wincing
as the Wildeorren snarls at them and Lancelot’s sword crashes against its gnashing buck teeth.

Arthur opens his mouth to oppose him.

“We don’t have time to argue!” Merlin yells, shoving Arthur once again. “Just go!”

He practically sags in relief when Arthur nods. He grabs Gwen by the arm and hauls her down the
narrow corridor towards safety.

The second Arthur has rounded the corner Merlin turns to the pulley system far above their heads.

“Get the Wildeorren on the other side of the door!” Merlin commands, focusing his attention on
the different ropes and cogs holding the door in the air. Lancelot doesn’t hesitate to listen. He
doesn’t question his intentions, just follows his instruction with precision. Merlin is infinitely
grateful for him.

Merlin identifies the correct rope just as Lancelot is able to drive the Wildeorren back two steps.
Just far enough that it is back in the cage. Merlin’s eyes flash gold and the rope snaps. The door
falls to the floor with a crash, entrapping the Wildeorren with Hengist and his men. The
Wildeorren creeps forward, snuffling at the air eagerly. The beast doesn’t care that its meal is
different to the one intended, only that it is able to gorge itself on flesh.

“Open the door!” Hengist screams, throwing himself against the closed bars. There is something
horrifying about hearing a man so callous scream so shrilly.

Merlin turns away as the Wildeorren’s teeth rip into Hengist’s body, tearing his flesh apart with
greedy guzzling sounds. He tries not to think about how much blood he has on his hands. This man
would have killed Gwen and Lancelot, he deserved this end.

“I see you’re still up to your old tricks, Merlin,” Lancelot teases, nudging his shoulder.

Merlin chuckles, the words ease the tightness that had grown in his chest.

“Probably best if you don’t tell anyone about that,” he says with a grin.

Lancelot smiles back and claps him on the back.

They catch up with Arthur and Gwen quickly and Lancelot stops by Gwen’s side while Merlin
runs to Arthur.

“It’s good to see you both,” Lancelot says gratefully. “Where are your knights?”

Arthur smiles awkwardly, looking back over his shoulder from where he is manoeuvring the gate
that leads outside.

“It’s just us,” he admits.

The gate opens with a clang and Merlin gratefully slips through it into the night chill, relieved to be
rid of that horrible place. He turns back to see Lancelot helping Gwen to her feet. There is a deep
affection running between them, it seems to weave a tangible tapestry of admiration between their
bodies. They don’t let go of the other even once Gwen is comfortable on her feet. Merlin glances
nervously at Arthur who is standing at the gate with wide eyes and an expression that is telling of
the pain concealed underneath.

Gwen drops Lancelot’s hand like she’s been burned when she turns to look at Arthur but the
damage has already been done.

~-~-~

The tension around the fire is so palpable it is practically a fifth unwelcome guest sitting in their
sombre circle. Merlin fiddles uncomfortably with the edge of his tunic and waits for someone to
say something.

Finally, it is Lancelot who breaks the silence.

“I’m surprised you would undertake such a rescue mission, with just the two of you,” he comments
idly. Merlin decides quickly he preferred the uncomfortable silence.

Both Gwen and Merlin glance at Arthur to gauge his reaction. His head bobs awkwardly and his
lips thin but thankfully he answers the question with honesty.

“My father would not risk the lives of his knights for a servant,” he admits, poking at the perfectly
healthy fire with his stick.

Lancelot doesn’t seem surprised.

“Yet… you disobeyed him and came here anyway?” He says, looking at the prince in awe and
confusion.

Merlin tries to silently tell him to shut the hell up but it’s too late anyway.

Arthur swallows roughly, his Adam’s apple bobs and his uncomfortable expression is highlighted
in the warm light of the fire.

“The truth is I only came because Morgana begged me,” Arthur lies.

Merlin’s head snaps up and his eyebrows raise. Neither Gwen nor Lancelot seem any more
convinced than he is. It’s obvious that Arthur is lying to shield himself from his emotions but he’s
so unsuccessful that he would have been better off just admitting his feelings for Gwen.

Still, fairly, Gwen’s shoulders slump at the reply and she quickly stands.

“I think I will get some rest,” she says with a forced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Goodnight,
Merlin, Lancelot.” She nods to both of them.

“Sire.” She bobs a curtsey in Arthur’s direction and he winces.

Arthur doesn’t even wait until she is two steps away when he says the same and stalks off into the
forest in the opposite direction.

Merlin sighs heavily. He looks at Lancelot’s pensive expression and tries to divulge what he could
possibly be thinking. Merlin is so used to Arthur and his emotionally constipated method of
avoiding conversations about feelings that it surprises him when Lancelot speaks.

“It isn’t true is it?” He asks. “That Arthur only came to rescue Gwen because Morgana begged
him?”
Merlin avoids Lancelot’s eyes. “No, of course not.”

“He has feelings for her… doesn’t he?”

Merlin hears the familiar hurt in Lancelot’s voice. It is his own pain in another’s mouth, the
knowledge that the one you care for has feelings for another. He can’t bring himself to answer but
his silence is answer enough for Lancelot. Merlin glances up and regrets it as soon as he sees the
poorly hidden suffering on Lancelot’s face.

“What about you?” Merlin asks. “Do you have feelings for Gwen?”

He knows the answer but he only wishes someone would ask the same about him with Arthur, just
so he has the chance to talk about it. He might not be granted that, but he can offer that opportunity
to Lancelot.

Lancelot sighs heavily. “My feelings do not matter,” he says decisively. “I will not come between
them.”

Merlin blinks in surprise. “Won’t that hurt you?”

“Of course,” Lancelot answers honestly. “But I would rather her be happy, and it be without me,
than not be happy at all.”

Merlin lets the words sink over him slowly. Lancelot has unknowingly stumbled upon the exact
sentiment Merlin has craved.

He cannot help Arthur’s feelings, and he knows that he will never share Merlin’s adoration for
him; but he deserves to be happy. Merlin wants him to be happy. Merlin wants to see that for
Arthur. He decides at that moment that this is the advice he will carry with him into the future. He
promises himself that he will never let his feelings get in the way of Arthur’s happiness. As long as
Arthur is happy, that’s all that matters.

Arthur deserves someone like Gwen, someone wonderful and kind, who won’t hesitate to offer him
advice but would never hurt him; and if there’s anyone in this world who deserves Arthur, it’s
Gwen. She deserves someone who would love every inch of her, every movement, every smile,
every thought, who respects her as the responsible and intelligent woman she is and not demean
her to her position.

This is the best case scenario, he tells himself, this way two of his best friends will get to be happy.
It doesn’t erase the painful clench in his chest, but it somewhat alleviates it, which is as much as he
can hope for.

“That is… very noble of you,” Merlin manages to say in a dazed way, still distracted by his own
revelation.

Lancelot looks at him knowingly and Merlin squirms and looks down to avoid his eyes. He thinks
Lancelot might be too observant for his own good.

Thankfully he doesn’t comment on Merlin’s distraction. His voice is solemn when he speaks,
heavy with regret and emotion.

“Tell Gwen… that she has changed me forever, but some things cannot be,” Lancelot says softly.

Merlin jerks up. “You’re leaving?” He says, unable to disguise the hurt in his voice.
Lancelot’s company has reminded him how wonderful it felt to have someone around other than
Gaius who knows about his magic. He is so unimaginably tired of pretending that he is no one, and
ignoring a huge part of himself daily. Gaius listens, but Merlin knows that he tires of Merlin’s
complaining when there is nothing either of them can do about it. It would be a relief to have
someone to tell his stories to, after almost a year of bearing them alone.

Lancelot smiles sadly at Merlin and touches his shoulder reassuringly, like he understands the ache
between Merlin’s words.

“I’m sorry Merlin, but I cannot bear to stay.”

Merlin can understand that, even if it only makes him want to scream.

What about me? He wants to say. Why do I have to bear it, and you don’t?

He nods, swallowing down the feelings in his throat and repeats his new promise to himself. As
long as Arthur is happy.

“I understand. I’ll tell her,” he promises, returning Lancelot’s touch and squeezing his shoulder.

When Gwen wakes Merlin almost regrets his promise. He watches the hope die from her eyes as
she glances around and finds Lancelot missing.

“Where is Lancelot?” She asks, but Merlin can see she already knows the answer by the stiffness in
her shoulders and the way she clamps down on her bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

“Where is he?” She asks again when Merlin doesn’t answer.

He takes a slow breath. “He’s gone,” he answers, meeting her eyes.

“No… why would he—” Gwen presses her fingers to her lips and inhales slowly, her breath
shudders on the exhale but otherwise she stays completely composed.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says honestly, stepping forward with his arms out and letting Gwen fold into
them. “He said that some things cannot be, but he wanted you to know that you have changed him
forever,” he says into her curly hair.

He can feel her whole body shake as she tries not to cry, and he can’t imagine what she feels like.

He doesn’t know of Gwen’s feelings for Lancelot, not for certain, but he senses that she might love
him. Perhaps more so than she loves Arthur, perhaps not. It isn’t his place to ask, particularly not
when she is in such a vulnerable state. She would have had to make an impossible choice, and
Lancelot has spared her from that. However, that doesn’t erase what she is feeling. So he just holds
her through the pain.

Unknowingly, she holds him through his as well.

~-~-~

Gwen doesn’t speak as they ride to Camelot. She doesn’t have it within herself. She is exhausted
after days of being confined to a dungeon, verbally abused by Hengist and malnourished; Lancelot
tearing apart her heart and leaving her with the pieces is too much to bear.

That and her feelings for Arthur, which are just as impossible to handle. She knows he didn’t mean
what he said, and was only reacting to his fears. She knows that he would always come for her; but
 that doesn’t quell the sting of hurt at the fact that he was able to pretend he didn’t care for her at
all.

Gwen cares about him, she possibly loves him, but right now she cannot stand him.

She still doesn’t speak as they enter Camelot, not as Arthur ushers her through the gate and not
when he leads her up the stairs. Her pain eases when she sees Morgana, who is waiting anxiously
by the window, watching the sky and fretting with the green silk of her sleeves.

“Morgana,” Arthur catches her attention. Gwen is standing behind him, concealed from Morgana’s
view, so she cannot see her reaction. She does however see her brilliant smile when Arthur steps
aside to reveal her.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

Gwen can’t keep herself back any longer and runs up the stairs to throw her arms around Morgana.
She is received with equal joy, Morgana gasps her name and squeezes her back tightly, burying her
face into Gwen’s shoulder.

“I thought I would never see you again,” Morgana whimpers, tightening her grip on Gwen like
she’s afraid Gwen will disappear.

“I’m okay. I promise I will always be right by your side,” Gwen says in return, pressing her cheek
to Morgana’s cool neck and revelling in the safety of finally being home.

Chapter End Notes

i hope you liked this chapter !!!

as always your every word leaves me endless amounts of joy, please comment, kudos
and all that wonderful jazz, you are all my absolute favourites !!

the next chapter will be posted as it would usually be, next week on january 1st AEST
(a new years treat for all my fellow timezone buddies)
can't wait to see you then !!
 Beauty and the Beast
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Arthur has never been a fan of dinners spent with his father and Morgana. They tend to be tense,
awkward affairs, consisting of long silences and the scraping of cutlery. He has always preferred
the meals he’s able to spend in his chambers, relaxed and comfortable without the watchful eyes of
his father. In his room he receives no criticism, he can eat in peace. Those meals have only grown
more enjoyable now that Merlin is his manservant and Arthur actually has some good company
while he eats. Not that he’d admit that aloud.

He prefers the shared dinners even less when they have company, as they require him to continue
his daily performance of well mannered diplomacy.

“Well this is truly wonderful,” the Lady Catrina says and all three Pendragons smile.

“It is wonderful to have you here,” Arthur answers with a forced smile.

“It is an honour,” Uther corrects with a simpering smile in Catrina’s direction. Arthur downs a
swig of wine.

Lady Catrina is staying with them indefinitely — Arthur tries not to think about the number of
diplomatic dinners that will ensue — after her family, the House of Tregor, was attacked and killed.
Arthur has sympathy for her plight, the tragic end to her family must be difficult to bear. He is
simply also thinking of his own cheeks which are growing increasingly sore from enduring a
forced smile.

“The houses of Tregor and Pendragon have been allies for as long as anyone can remember,” Uther
recalls fondly, as he speaks his eyes don’t stray from Lady Catrina.

“My father always spoke of you fondly, my Lord,” Catrina says, equally entranced by Arthur’s
father.

“And I will always remember him.”

It’s like Arthur and Morgana aren’t even at the table. If he didn’t need to be here then Arthur
would love to leave and spend the rest of the dwindling evening complaining to Merlin.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to meet him,” Arthur says apologetically, managing to draw his
father and Catrina’s attention for a short moment.

“I am sorry too,” Catrina says with a heavy sigh, pushing her untouched plate of food away. “For
the House of Tregor is gone.”

“Nonsense,” Uther says, laying his hand over Catrina’s. Arthur struggles not to wrinkle his nose.
“It lives on in you. Your courage, your modesty… I cannot begin to list all of your best qualities.”

This is torture. If Arthur had to describe hell this would be it — watching his father flirt with a
Lady who must be half his age. Catrina giggles in a manner that makes it seem like his father said
something significantly more suave than he did.

“You are too kind, my Lord.”

“I didn’t even mention your outstanding beauty.” Uther smiles and curls his fingers over hers.

Morgana buries her laugh into her goblet, and Arthur stifles the urge to gag.

Meanwhile, Catrina blushes and Arthur decides that yes, he’s subjected himself to enough of this
for one night. He fakes a yawn into his fist and shoots Morgana a withering glare when she only
laughs harder.

“Apologies,” he says with a tight smile at Catrina. “Hard day’s training. You know how it is. If
you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” Catrina grants his permission to leave and he offers her another half hearted smile. He
waits for his father’s nod and pushes his chair back.

As he’s leaving the dining hall he hears Morgana retire as well and waits outside for her.

“You are a menace,” Arthur says with an accusatory point of his finger as they walk towards their
chambers. Morgana just cackles.

~-~-~

Merlin knocks on the door and quickly makes his way into Lady Catrina’s room. He’s sure his
eyes must be deceiving him, because for a moment it looked like the aristocratic lady was hunched
over and devouring a bowl of rotten fruit. However, in an instant she is standing straight, dabbing
at her mouth with a handkerchief in a well bred way and smiling at him pleasantly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Merlin apologises hurriedly. He vows internally to never
mention this incident to Arthur who is already pestering him enough about the whole knocking
thing.

“That’s quite alright,” Lady Catrina assures him. “At least I wasn’t undressing,” she says with a
salacious wink.

Merlin forces an awkward laugh.

“Right. Yes, wouldn’t want that.” He coughs. “Anyway!”

He ignores the surprised look on Catrina’s face. Merlin has long since realised that noblewomen
are always surprised when men don’t find them attractive. Gwen has assured him that noblemen
are just the same.

“Gaius, the court physician, wanted me to give you this,” Merlin says, holding out the vial Gaius
had instructed him to take to Catrina.

Catrina’s servant, Jonas, a short man with an expression that made him appear perpetually
judgemental, intercepts Merlin and takes the medicine from him.

“What is it?” he asks with a suspicious air.

Merlin tries not to make a face that would insult a fellow servant and forces a smile.

“Gaius didn’t say.”

Catrina clasps her hands and stares at Merlin.

“There must be some mistake, I requested no medicine,” she says with wide innocent eyes.
“Oh,” Merlin says, taking the vial back as Jonas presses it into his hands. “Are you sure?”

“Quite. I am in perfect health,” Catrina says and gestures to her body to illustrate the point.

The entire interaction leaves Merlin feeling dumbfounded and somewhat bewildered as he trundles
his way back to his chambers.

He places the vial in front of Gaius with an expectant look.

“She didn’t want it, she didn’t even need it,” Merlin says, waiting for what he’s sure will be a good
explanation.

Gaius folds his fingers under his chin and frowns contemplatively.

“Interesting,” he says with a thoughtful air.

“What is it?”

Gaius sighs. “When she was a child, I treated her for an incurable disease,” he explains. “Catrina
had a rare bone disorder affecting her joints, she often had difficulty walking, especially after a
long ride. My tonic was the only thing that brought her relief.”

Merlin frowns, remembering how Lady Catrina had approached them after her day of travel asking
to find Uther. She’d had no difficulty walking, despite the fact that she would have been riding for
days from Mercia.

“But she walks as well as you or I,” Merlin observes slowly.

Gaius nods, his lips thinning. “So I noticed.”

“So the tonic was some kind of test?” Merlin asks.

“Indeed… one that she failed. I am beginning to wonder if the Lady Catrina is really the woman
she claims she is.” As he says this Gaius steeples his fingers under his chin and looks solemnly at
Merlin.

Merlin struggles not to sigh as a trepidatious feeling worms its way into his gut. Just once it would
be nice to have a visitor come to Camelot who didn’t threaten his, or Arthur’s livelihood.

~-~-~

Arthur bypasses Merlin completely as he blunders into his chambers and flops face first onto his
bed, letting out a low groan of pain. Merlin hides a fond smile into his fist and follows him into the
room.

“Arthur?” He asks, poking at the prince’s foot when he doesn’t move for quite some time.

Arthur just groans again.

“I know basic language is hard for you but I’m not fluent in sulking so you’re going to have to try,”
Merlin teases.

He’s pleased when Arthur turns his head to look at him with a pout, messing up his fringe in the
process which makes it stick up like a burst of static on the top of his head.

“I’m not sulking.”

“I beg to differ,” Merlin replies with a laugh. He tugs at Arthur’s ankle. “Come on, I’ve got to get
you ready for bed.”

Arthur rolls his eyes but obliges, standing and lifting his chin so Merlin can untie the laces of his
tunic.

“I’m not. I’m rightfully complaining about the torturous dinner I just endured. I can’t take it
anymore.”

“You’ve only been to five,” Merlin argues, tugging the hem of Arthur’s shirt over his head.

Arthur emerges with a scandalised expression. “That is five too many, Merlin.”

He waves away Merlin’s offer of a sleep shirt. As summer is settling over Camelot the nights are
growing warm and Arthur has often been forgoing a shirt at night. Now that Merlin has been
noticing.

“At every one of these dinners I’m forced to listen to Lady Catrina speak about heaven knows what
and pretend it’s even remotely interesting. And then I have to endure my father’s horrendous
flirting, all without gauging my eyes out,” Arthur complains with a disgruntled expression.

Merlin struggles not to laugh as he bends down to remove Arthur’s boots.

“It’s torture!”

Merlin glances up at Arthur, aside from the entertainment of his complaining he has actually
touched on something Merlin was hoping to bring up with him.

“Don’t you think it’s strange how close Lady Catrina and your father have gotten?” Merlin asks
with a casual air as he stows Arthur’s boots in his armoire.

Arthur shrugs, flopping backwards onto the bed and tucking his arms behind his head. His
shoulders flex and Merlin pointedly looks anywhere else.

“Not really,” he says dismissively. “My father is a wealthy and powerful man, it makes sense she
would be interested.” He says interested with such disgust one would think he was talking about
sewerage.

“But your father’s interest in the Lady Catrina… that’s not so typical,” Merlin nudges Arthur
hopefully towards a more clear answer but the prince doesn’t assist him.

“My father is always interested in beautiful women,” Arthur says, waving his hand nonchalantly.
“He’s never had much interest in love beyond my mother, but it’s been... many years since her
death…”

Arthur trails off with a thoughtful and somewhat uncomfortable expression that gives the
impression that he’s eaten something foul tasting and is trying to decipher the distasteful flavour.

Arthur doesn’t talk about his mother, and Merlin knows better than to push. If he ever tells Merlin
about her then it will be of his own accord. He knows enough. That Ygraine was a well loved
queen and that she died giving birth to Arthur. Anything in addition to that has never been
forthcoming and Merlin doesn’t expect it ever will be.

He changes the topic to spare Arthur from his emotional discomfort.

“Well I’ve been told by your father that you are expected at breakfast, so might want to prepare for
that,” Merlin warns.

Arthur sits up with a look of horror. “You’re joking.”

“I’m really not.”

Arthur keels over sideways with a long pained sound that makes Merlin snort.

“Will I never be spared?” He asks pitifully.

Merlin pats his shoulder as he passes in teasing consolation.

“The princely life is a tale of woes,” he teases.

Arthur sticks his tongue out in response but there’s laughter in his eyes.

~-~-~

Later in the night Merlin creeps back into Arthur’s room. He quietly pads past Arthur’s bed,
careful to avoid the creaking floorboard near his door. Arthur’s snores are like a rumble of thunder
and Merlin can’t help but smile fondly at the sound. During the day, he does his best to be the
model of perfection, but at night his normality shines through, and Merlin is quite enamoured with
it.

He takes the mirror from Arthur’s nightstand and with a whispered incantation under his breath
floats it down toward the chamber below. Lady Catrina is staying in the room directly under
Arthur’s and Gaius suggested using this to their advantage to investigate and see if anything was
amiss. Their suspicions of her have only grown in the week she has been staying at the castle and it
is about time they find some truth.

Merlin has to concentrate as he slowly lowers the mirror to the floor below. He’s adept at moving
things with magic, but never with such careful precision. It’s a more finicky task than he imagined
and he has to move slower than he would like.

Finally, the mirror reaches the open window at the far side of Lady Catrina’s chambers. Merlin
tips the angle so he can see inside and struggles to clamp down his gasp of horror. Rather than the
beautiful lady he has come to recognise, he sees a horrific boil and sludge covered troll. Its nose is
bulbous and round, it’s easily the size of Merlin’s head, and bears beady eyes with short yellowing
tusks that curl from an overbite. It is speaking to someone, Jonas undoubtedly, and its yellow,
rotten teeth gnash together with every word.

“Merlin,” Arthur’s voice snaps him out of his horror and with a jolt Merlin drops the mirror.

He turns to meet Arthur’s unamused gaze. He’s standing by his bed with a single eyebrow lifted
and his arms crossed over his bare chest.

“I have no doubt that you have prepared a very good explanation for this,” Arthur says expectantly,
tapping his fingers against his arm.

“Yes, I well— no,” Merlin stammers and Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Apparently I’m wrong.”

He marches over and leans over Merlin’s shoulder to see out the window. Merlin scrambles for an
excuse, any excuse, that would explain why he is in Arthur’s room but he comes up short.

Merlin can feel Arthur’s disappointed sigh from where their shoulders are firmly pressed together.

“Please tell me you weren’t spying on the Lady Catrina,” Arthur says in a resigned monotone.

“It’s not what it seems!” Merlin blurts out, and then remembers that he really doesn’t have any
better excuse. Thankfully Arthur doesn’t believe him anyway.

“Yes, Merlin. It’s exactly what it seems.” He shuts the window with a clatter.

“I understand that you’ve lived a sheltered life and that you have no social skills whatsoever.”

While it provides a good excuse for Merlin, the sentiment is just unnecessarily rude.

“And whilst Catrina is an…” Arthur hesitates with a curled lip, “attractive woman, I will admit. If I
ever catch you doing it again, I will feed you to the dogs. Understood?”

Arthur smiles but it feels like a threat.

Merlin’s head bobs furiously in agreement even though he would never plan on spying on Catrina
again even if she weren’t a troll.

“Yes! Absolutely Sire.”

Merlin scurries from the room before Arthur can lecture him any further.

~-~-~

Gaius waits patiently as Merlin relays everything he saw to him in an endless babble.

“What you saw is seldom witnessed. Trolls despise all other living things, especially humans,” he
says when Merlin comes to a stop. “They prefer to lurk in their caves, isolated, feasting on rot and
filth.”

A shiver traces its way up Merlin’s spine. He recalls the mirage he dismissed of Catrina feasting on
rotten fruit, and the disgusted and cold nature of the troll’s eyes, sneering at the lavish, tidy room
around her.

“I don’t understand,” he says, shaking his head to clear the memory. “If trolls hate humans so
much, and prefer to stay in their caves, what’s this one doing in Camelot?”

“Greed,” he says with the weight of a lengthy explanation.

“Trolls lust after wealth and power…” Gaius trails off, eyebrows drawing over his thoughtful eyes.

Realisation hits Merlin like a heavy gust of wind flying into his face.

“Uther’s wealth and power,” he murmurs, looking up at Gaius with wide eyes.

Gaius sits up with a start, hands clenching over the arms of his chair and face torn with worry.

“We have reached the point of no return. We need to tell Uther,” Gaius says decisively as he stands
from his chair and fetches his cloak.

Merlin watches Gaius move around the room in disbelief, mouth hanging open.
“You’re going to tell Uther that his new lady friend is a troll?” He confirms.

Gaius hesitates at the door but nods firmly. “Yes, Merlin. I am.”

Merlin blows out air slowly and raises his eyebrows.

“Good luck.”

~-~-~

Unsurprisingly, Uther does not take well to being told he is attracted to a troll.

Although Gaius assured Merlin that the King would acquiesce eventually, it doesn’t appear that
way. The very next morning Uther calls a congregation and enters with Catrina on his arm. He
looks positively besotted with her, so it looks like he’s not taking Gaius’ words to heart.

Confused eyes follow the pair down the length of the throne room. As usual, heads dip obediently
into reverent bows as he glides past them, but today their low dipped heads conceal expressions
pinched by confusion.

“Thank you all for coming,” Uther says when he reaches the front of the room. His tone is
surprisingly joyous in contrast to the stoic king’s usual gravel. Arthur is on the opposite side of the
room from Merlin and they share a bemused glance.

“You are no doubt wondering why I have gathered you here today.” Uther smiles around the room
and it's so unnerving that Merlin is immediately on edge. “Though we live in dark times, today, I
bring you light… and love.”

Even through his festering unease the way Arthur’s nose wrinkles in obvious distaste towards his
father’s confession of love makes Merlin smile.

“It gives me the greatest pleasure,” Uther continues, “to inform you that the houses of Tregor and
Pendragon will be united in the closest bond of all. I am to marry Lady Catrina of Treg—”
Catrina’s leans and whispers something in Uther’s ear. “I am to marry her tomorrow!”

Merlin’s heart drops. He looks to Gaius and finds a similar expression of horror on the physician’s
face. They should have thought of this. Of course the troll has come to Camelot in search of wealth
and power, and to marry Uther would ensure access to all the riches the kingdom has to offer.

“You have to expose her, now,” Gaius hisses in Merlin’s ear. Merlin and Gaius had spent the
whole night scouring for a spell that would allow them to forcibly reveal Catrina’s true form. It
was intended as a last resort should Uther not believe Gaius, which was always more likely than
not.

Merlin had hoped for a more private opportunity to use the spell. Or to at least have the chance to
practise first, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He focuses his attention on Catrina,
letting the magic flow through him like air in his lungs and blood in his veins. He schools his
features into something as neutral as possible and fervently tries not to consider that if Uther sees
him use magic he is as good as dead.

He backs away into the corner as Uther continues speaking about the monumental nature of this
union and whispers the incantation. Catrina stiffens, her spine clicks into a straight line and her
eyes go wide. Merlin repeats the incantation, urging his magic forward and towards the troll.

Catrina’s skin bubbles, like there’s something underneath crawling under the layers of flesh trying
to escape. Merlin pushes at the crawling skin with the edges of his magic, poking and prodding at
it and urging it forward.

Suddenly his magic lashes back, crashing into him almost painfully as it tucks itself into his body.
Catrina’s skin returns to normal and her pained stature relaxes.

The entire court fails to notice the momentary shift in Uther’s newly betrothed.

~-~-~

While Uther did not react well to being told Catrina is a troll, Merlin is hopeful that Arthur’s
reaction will be better. The prince is more open minded than his father — although that was a
rather low standard to surpass — and isn’t currently in love with said troll. So telling Arthur seems
to be a more viable option.

Still, Merlin finds as he enters Arthur’s chambers he has no idea what to say. Arthur doesn’t even
notice Merlin dawdling into the room, far too busy preparing for training.

Merlin is aware that he’s standing stiff as a wooden chair in the centre of Arthur’s room but it’s
like he’s forgotten how to appear casual. His arms are tense and uncomfortably present by his side
and his feet are pressed together like a soldier. Arthur turns and sees him, raising an eyebrow in
silent question.

“Arthur,” Merlin says.

“Merlin,” Arthur says back, echoing Merlin’s tone.

“I’m going to tell you something,” Merlin says decisively, “It’s… not going to be easy.”

Arthur looks at him with a bemused expression. “Right.”

“It concerns the Lady Catrina,” Merlin blurts out loudly, too loudly, he takes a deep breath to
steady it.

“You’re not using my chambers to spy on her again,” Arthur says, strapping his sword to his hip.

Of course he would come to that conclusion. Merlin manages not to roll his eyes but it’s a near
thing.

“No, Arthur, I don’t want to spy on her. Believe me, even you wouldn’t,” Merlin mutters,
shuddering as he thinks of the thick grey hide and oozing boils that mar the troll’s face.

Arthur shoots him an odd look. “Obviously I wouldn’t, she’s soon to be my stepmother.”

“About that,” it’s harder than Merlin thought to say this.

“She’s a troll,” Merlin finally manages to blurt out.

Arthur blinks and then bursts into laughter. Not just small chortles but a proper full bellied guffaw,
accompanied by a chummy slap to Merlin’s back.

“She isn’t that bad,” Arthur protests weakly, still breathless with laughter.

Merlin realises his error with a sigh. “No she is, she’s an actual troll.”

Arthur chuckles. “Look, Merlin, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I will admit I was a little
blindsided by my father’s declaration of marriage. I can’t say I like her all that much, but you know
what? It isn’t about whether I like her or not but about whether she makes my father happy, and she
does.” Arthur’s mouth pinches at the edges like he’s tasting the sour aftertaste of a lemon which
makes his words a little more difficult to believe.

“He won’t be so happy when he discovers his wife is a monster,” Merlin argues.

Arthur’s expression grows serious. “That’s enough Merlin.”

“But—” “She’s the future queen of Camelot.”

Arthur’s dangerous tone is a clear end to the conversation. It’s obvious he won’t humour any more
of Merlin’s arguments. He and Gaius will just have to find another way to expose Catrina. A troll
cannot be allowed to ascend to the throne, as queen she would have access to Camelot’s spoils and
riches, the people and their belongings would be commodities to her.

“You will respect her as such.”

Merlin sighs heavily as Arthur marches from the room towards the training grounds.

As he’s making his dejected way back to his chambers he’s interrupted by the sound of someone
weeping. He peers down a corridor that leads to some of the spare bedrooms in the castle, typically
left used unless there is a large feast and many noblemen are visiting Camelot. At the end of the
passage is Jonas, Catrina’s servant, snivelling into the dirtiest handkerchief Merlin has ever seen.

He startles when he sees Merlin and shoves the cloth into his pocket as he stands hurriedly.

“Mister Merlin,” Jonas says with a bob of his head. “Many apologies.”

He sniffs and wipes his nose on the edge of his sleeve.

“What’s wrong?” Merlin asks, watching him with narrow eyes.

Jonas rushes over and Merlin stumbles a few paces back. He glances around nervously, checking
once and then twice that they are completely alone before leaning close to Merlin.

“I am a slave, a prisoner,” he explains. “My mistress. She is not as she seems.”

Merlin’s eyes widen.

“But you know as much,” Jonas guesses, pointing a shaking finger at Merlin.

Merlin watches him suspiciously, unwilling to let his guard down. He has seemed besotted with his
mistress thus far, Merlin doubts that Jonas is not in Camelot willingly. However, the opportunity to
learn something about Catrina is too tempting.

“Go on, I’m listening,” he prompts with narrowed eyes.

“She is a cruel, wicked creature,” Jonas says in a rasping whisper. “She has me enslaved, her
magic, I can’t escape it. She is twisting my mind, like she is twisting the mind of your king.”

The implication that Uther is under an enchantment makes Merlin nervous.

He peers warily at Jonas. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I can help you, and in turn, you can help me.”
“How?”

Jonas anxiously checks the halls once more.

“Below the castle where she sleeps, she keeps her potions there. They transform her from beast to
beauty, and she must take them each night. If you were to take them from her, she would be forced
to remain a troll… and I think then your King would not be so keen.”

Hope pounds in Merlin’s chest but he forces himself to remain stoic as he looks into Jonas’ eyes.

“Tell me, why should I believe any of this?”

Jonas shrugs, but there is a sense of knowing in his eyes. “You must do as you see fit… but if my
mistress is not stopped by morning… she will be Queen,” his voice drops on the final words,
letting them hang over Merlin’s head.

Merlin’s stomach clenches, and though he doesn’t trust Jonas, he knows what he will do.

~-~-~

His stomach is in knots as he creeps into the caves below the castle.

Merlin smells the caves before he sees them, a horrific stench wafts up the stairs and makes him
choke on his own bile. It’s putrid, like something has been left to die and rot in the deserted rooms.
Merlin coughs, pulling his neckerchief over his nose to mask the smell and blinks away the tears in
his eyes as he forces himself to keep walking.

The source of the stench becomes obvious when he finally reaches the caves. It appears that
Catrina has made use of the abandoned part of the castle to build a den for herself, rotten fruit is
piled in the corners and dung litters the floor creating a squelching carpet that sticks to Merlin’s
feet as he enters the space. Against the far wall a pile of mildewing straw is heaped together,
presumably as a sort of bed, and that is where the worst of the stench emanates from.

Merlin’s stomach turns as he stares around the dank space. He feels like his clothes are moulding
just from standing in the room, and he has the desperate urge to dive into a lake and not emerge for
a very long while.

He crouches carefully by a towering pile of stewing fruit, it squelches under his touch, falling apart
in rotting strands at just the lightest brush of his fingers. Merlin gags at the slimy feeling. He has
barely begun searching the repulsive space when a cackle echoes through the room.

Merlin freezes, the dread makes his muscles seize and his blood turn cold. His head snaps to the
doorway to meet Catrina’s beady eyes. She has shed her human skin for her natural form, and the
curl of her tusks form an eager grin as drool drips from her wide boarish smile.

“You idiot,” she sneers and Merlin stumbles to his feet. “You won’t find anything in there.”

Merlin throws out his hand defensively and lets his magic rush forward but Catrina just laughs,
tossing his magic aside.

“You may have some magic wretch, but you are no match for me,” she says with a growl. She
throws her arms up and a cascade of boulders fall from the ceiling. Merlin lunges for the arch,
slipping on rotten fruit in his desperate attempt to flee, but by the time he reaches the doorway it is
sealed shut.
“Shit!” Merlin curses, trying to ram his shoulder through the thick stone. It remains immovable
and as every one of his strikes fails to make any impact Merlin’s heartbeat picks up speed. He
scratches at the wall like he will be able to claw his way to freedom. It does nothing but he
scrabbles frantically anyway until his nails are bleeding and his fingers are numb. “Fuck!”

Merlin steps back and looks over the wall. There are no gaps, no fault in the cracks. The stones that
fell have fused together to form a wall of stone. He can feel the troll’s magic in the seams between
the stones keeping them bound together. Merlin won’t have more than a day before the oxygen in
the room depletes, if he’s lucky.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, tugging on his hair until black strands rip from the roots. He deeply
regrets not informing Gaius of his plans to venture into the troll’s cave, as now he has no chance of
being rescued.

Magic is his only chance of survival. His ability to work with stone is weak, and the troll wields a
powerful form of magic Merlin has never combatted. His own magic feels frail by comparison to
the thick formations of the troll’s old magic. Merlin lets his head fall forward, feeling the
temptation to give in like the press of a headache against the back of his skull and then forces it
down.

He takes a deep breath and steps back, with all his might he pulls his magic to the surface of his
mind. He speaks the only spell he can think of, a heavy strike of power through the air that might
shatter the stone. It should strike like lightning but instead the spell skitters off the rocks and
dissipates into the air, burning away into smoke and ash. He tries again.

He tries, and tries, and tries. He lights a spark only for it to die at his fingertips and then he lights it
again. He continues through the night until his arm aches and his eyelids are sinking, and then he
tries again. Every time he wants to give in and stop he remembers the wedding and he forces
himself to attempt the spell again.

The rocks remain firm.

Merlin feels like he’s on the precipice of insanity. He screams into his hands. His brain feels like
it’s trying to itch its way out of his skull, he’s so tired. If he has to do the spell one more time only
for it to fail he will sob. His head feels a thousand times heavier than it should and his eyes are
stinging with unshed tears. He can’t do it anymore. He has to, but he can’t.

His magic is restless, stirring within him and weaving around his bones. It wants to do something,
it desperately needs to do something.

“Fuck this shit,” he spits furiously. “I don’t just have ‘some magic’,” he says, remembering
Catrina’s insult as she left him here to suffocate. “I am going to be the most powerful warlock who
ever lived. Some stupid troll’s magic isn’t enough to stop me.”

The words alight something in him. A confident burn eases the horrible itch under his skin, as if
he’s cauterising an irritated wound. Maybe he’s over exhausted, or delirious, but he feels like his
magic comes alive.

He thrusts out his arm and repeats the incantation. This time his magic claps like thunder as it
erupts from him, surging forward in a gust that slams into the wall of stone. It crumbles and cracks
under the pressure, bursting open with just enough space for Merlin to squeeze through.

He would collapse with relief, but he doesn’t have time.

Instead, he runs.

He takes the stairs two at a time, skids around corners, launches himself between passing servants
and sprints down the long hallways of the castle. He keeps running even as his lungs heave in
protest and his legs ache.

He clatters through the servant’s entrance to the great hall but it’s too late.

“I now pronounce you to be husband and wife,” Geoffrey says with a pleasant smile.

Uther and Catrina kiss sweetly and the vow is cemented. Catrina has been crowned.

Merlin’s legs go weak with horror. Catrina pulls away from Uther and looks over the assembly.
Her eyes narrow as they fall on Merlin.

Merlin knows as he meets Catrina’s furious gaze that he is in danger.

~-~-~

“Your servant, Merlin,” Uther says Merlin’s name like a disease, “has stolen Catrina’s family
seal.”

Arthur stares at his father and waits for the punchline. He’s sure it must be a joke, his father isn’t
really one for humour, but his suggestion is so ludicrous that he is sure it must be a poor attempt.

When Uther continues to make no indication that the situation at hand is humorous Arthur’s heart
starts to sink.

“There’s no way Merlin would do something like that,” he insists. Even if Merlin would dare to
lay a hand on Catrina’s possessions — and Arthur knows him well enough to be sure he would
never — he lacks the general taste to even be inclined towards something as prestigious as a royal
seal.

“He is to be arrested.”

“Arrested? Father you can’t be serious,” Arthur attempts to protest but Uther’s glare makes him
shut his jaw so quickly he almost bites his tongue.

“Deadly,” Uther hisses, like if Merlin was in his reach he would do much worse than arrest him.
“Can you be trusted to arrest the boy? I know you have had a… soft spot for him in the past.”

A soft spot. As if Merlin isn’t the closest thing Arthur has to a friend. As if they haven’t risked
their lives for each other, and wouldn’t do so again. As if Merlin is just a servant who Arthur
occasionally favours. To call him a ‘soft spot’ for Arthur is to demean everything they share; but
his father would never understand that.

Arthur nods.

“You can trust me,” he promises his father.

The knights follow his instructions without hesitation. Arthur is almost a little worried at how
readily they accept his betrayal of Merlin, someone he values and cares for.

“Check Gaius’ chambers, the market, the kitchens. I’m not sure where he would be at this time, we
cannot leave any stone unturned,” Arthur lies convincingly.
The knights nod and run off in various directions. Arthur waits until they are just out of sight
before taking off in a jog towards his chambers. He does his best to keep himself as composed as
possible, nodding at servants as he passes and keeping a smile on his face; but internally he’s
desperate to sprint through the halls towards Merlin.

Merlin is folding Arthur’s sheets when he bursts into the chambers, completely unaware of the
warrant for his arrest.

“You need to get out of here, right now,” Arthur says harriedly. He’s inordinately relieved that
Merlin hasn’t been found yet, it’s coursing through him like pure energy, but he knows they don’t
have a moment to lose.

Merlin looks up at him in alarm. “What? Why?”

“The king has ordered me to arrest you. Catrina has accused you of stealing her family seal.”

Merlin drops the sheets into a lump on the floor with eyes wide like a startled fawn and pale
cheeks.

“But I didn’t. I swear!” He says in a frantic rush, looking pleadingly for Arthur to believe him.

Arthur glances through the curtains of the servant’s entrance nervously. He can’t help but feel like
the knights will knock down his door at any moment and seize Merlin.

His father does not take accusations of theft lightly. Especially not when the victim is his newly
wedded wife and when the thief is a lowly servant. Merlin would be lucky to receive a public
flogging, if he managed to avoid execution.

“I honestly don’t care to know, and you haven’t got time to explain,” Arthur says, and takes Merlin
by the shoulders in an attempt to push him from the room. “If you value your life you will leave
Camelot. Right now.”

Merlin stammers and wriggles his way out of Arthur’s grip, turning so they’re eye to eye.

“Arthur, she is a troll! She’s trying to set me up,” Merlin says with a desperate insistence to his
tone.

Arthur hesitates, meeting the firmness of Merlin’s eyes with consideration. He wants to believe
Merlin, but what he’s claiming is so outlandish that he doesn’t know how to react.

Someone knocks hard on the door, calling out for Arthur.

“I don’t care. You need to leave, Merlin,” Arthur says, swallowing down his doubt and sticking
firm. If Merlin doesn’t leave now there is no telling what will happen to him.

“Arthur—”

“Go, Merlin. Please.”

Merlin wavers in the doorway, his mouth opens like there’s something he wants to say. His hand
twitches for Arthur but he quickly pulls back and nods stiffly. He runs without saying another
word. The curtains of the servants exist billow behind him.

~-~-~

“Unfortunately Merlin seems to have evaded us,” Arthur says with the most apologetic tone he can
muster.

Catrina scowls at him, leering over her throne with a suspicious upturn of her nose.

“You are very quick to give up the chase,” she says accusingly.

Arthur offers her a tight lipped smile.

“That is because I know he is long gone,” he replies, hoping that his words are true.

“How can you be so certain?” His father demands impatiently. The king does not like to be denied.

Arthur sighs. “Because, despite appearances, Merlin isn’t as stupid as he looks. He must have
caught wind that we were pursuing him and fled,” he says, scratching at his nose to hide his fond
smile. “We don’t even know if he’s still in Camelot.”

“And that’s a good enough reason to give up?” Catrina sneers, her bottom jaw sticking forward
contemptuously like a beast.

“No…” Arthur can feel the start of a headache forming behind his eyes. “But I believe our
resources would be better suited to—”

“I’ve heard enough of your excuses,” Uther inserts, forcing Arthur to stop talking. “I want the boy
found.”

Arthur swallows roughly and prays that Merlin has found himself sanctuary far from Camelot. He
ignores the way his heart twinges at the very idea. He wants Merlin safe, which means away from
Camelot, but he can’t help but worry that he might have seen Merlin for the last time. That thought
hurts more than it should.

“Yes Sire. My Lady.” He bows his head to his father and then Catrina in turn.

Over the following week Merlin continues to evade capture — hopefully because he took Arthur’s
advice and ran far from the citadel — but Arthur is continuously summoned before the King and
newly crowned Queen.

“You called for me?” Arthur asks as he enters the throne room once again. His hands are clasped
obediently behind his back as he stands before the two thrones.

“Yes,” his father says, looking at Catrina dotingly. The sight of it makes Arthur feel vaguely sick.
“I have something important to discuss with you.”

“For too long the people have had it easy, they have grown indulgent and idle,” Uther says cooly,
as if he is simply stating fact and not something that makes little sense.

Arthur pauses. Of all the outlandish things his father has summoned him for over the last week,
this, he was not prepared for.

“How so?” He asks curiously. Camelot’s people are hard workers, proud of their country and eager
to serve. There are many words that could be used to describe them, but neither idle nor indulgent
are ones that come to mind.

“We provide peace, protection, food. They provide us very little in return.”

“Most of our people are poor, they survive off the few crops they are able to grow,” Arthur says
with furrowed eyebrows.
“That is what they would have you believe,” Catrina sniffs with a pompous wave of her hand.

Arthur struggles to hide his contempt for her. Over the last week she has continuously undermined
his opinions, and his father’s views on running the kingdom seem to have changed drastically with
her at his side.

“That is what I see every day,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“We are going to impose a new tax,” Uther continues, brushing over Arthur’s protests.

“The people must pay for the sanctuary that Camelot provides,” Catrina adds with an impervious
sniff.

Arthur’s mouth drops open in horror.

“You can’t!”

Both his father and Catrina pause, staring at him with judgemental twists to their matching sneers.
Arthur’s stomach feels too tight, he knows the people can’t afford such an expense, they are often
living subsistently as it stands. He doesn’t understand what could influence his father to expect
such an unjust demand from his people.

“The majority are barely able to get by as it is,” Arthur implores his father to see reason.

“Those who evade the tax will be arrested and publicly flogged,” Uther says as though Arthur had
never spoken. He hardly even seems to be looking at Arthur, his eyes are cold and unseeing. His
blank face seems completely removed from the burden he is heaving onto his subjects, as if he
doesn’t even care.

Arthur hesitates. His father isn’t necessarily a just man, and his kindness does not extend far, but he
is not usually needlessly cruel. This tax does not seem like something of his own invention. Arthur
can’t help but glance at Catrina’s icy demeanour and an uncomfortable feeling prickles up his
spine.

“We’ve lived this way for years… you’ve never suggested anything like this before…” Arthur
says cautiously, looking to his father.

“Maybe not to you,” Catrina snaps. “But the King confided in me that he has been considering this
for quite some time.”

She smiles saccharinely at Uther and Arthur doesn’t bother to hide his disgust. She has not earned
his respect.

“Yes, I have,” his father agrees in that odd jovial tone.

Arthur watches the interaction suspiciously, furrowing his eyebrows at his father’s odd behaviour.

“You are to begin the collection at once,” Uther orders in a detached, monotone, completely
ambivalent to the impact his action will create.

Arthur nods once, and makes his way from the room. He purposefully does not offer any sign of
respect, or agreement to his father’s demands.

~-~-~

Merlin doesn’t leave Camelot. Arthur would probably keel over if he knew; but then again Merlin
could make a list of things he’s done that would send Arthur to an early death bed if he knew. Not
least of all that he is a powerful warlock practising magic. By comparison this is hardly a big deal.

It’s actually easier to sneak around the castle when no one is expecting him to be there. He doesn’t
have other responsibilities to tend to so he’s able to weave his way through the castle at all odd
hours. He trails after Catrina like a hound on a hunt, scouring for something to weaponise against
her.

All the while he listens to the idle conversations of servants as they pass. Catrina is a recurring
topic of discussion as the new Queen. She is not well liked, that much is obvious. She treats the
servants with ill respect, and in contrast makes Uther appear welcoming and easy mannered.
Beyond that, Merlin hears of a tax possibly being imposed, which he can only hope was a rumour.
Lastly, he hears murmurs about the continuing search for himself; apparently Arthur is willing to
give up the chase, but Catrina and Uther are determined to have him found and dutifully punished.

After a week of sneaking into Catrina’s chambers and following her around the castle Merlin
finally strikes gold.

He’s surprised to learn that there was some truth to what Jonas told him about the potions Catrina
needed to make herself beautiful. It was a technique Merlin recognised well, hiding lies amongst
truth to make them believable.

She does indeed hold her human form by drinking a potion daily, and without its magical
properties she would soon return to the body of a troll. Gaius has him steal small increments of the
stuff for a few days until they accumulate an entire vial, which the physician is then able to
replicate almost exactly in taste and smell.

“You’re sure she won’t be able to taste the difference,” Merlin asks nervously, peering at the
opaque liquid as it swirls around the vial.

Gaius nods. “Quite sure.”

Merlin is tasked with creeping into the troll’s bedroom to substitute Gaius’ replica for Catrina’s
real potion. He can only hope, as he swaps the two, that the potion will wear off quickly and
Catrina’s true form will be revealed.

Preferably before anything too drastic happens.

~-~-~

Arthur is wandering the lower town on his daily round when he hears a commotion taking place.
There’s a large horde of people gathered around soldiers bearing the red cloaks of Camelot. The
scene has garnered a fair amount of frustration and there’s shouting and resistance from the
villagers around them.

Arthur pushes his way through the crowd with a frown. The villagers part for him without
hesitation, shuffling out of his way so he clears a path to the centre of the fuss.

“What’s going on here?”

Sir Bors has one of the villagers in a tight hold, and a few other knights are gathered around him,
hands on their swords threateningly.

“He’s refusing to pay the King’s taxes,” Bors explains. The man in his hands whimpers as he is
tossed around by the knight’s firm grip.
“You ask for too much!” The man cries. “I’ve given all that I can.”

“It’s not enough,” another knight says firmly.

Arthur’s heartstrings twist, pulling tight until they’re aching as he looks over his people’s desolate
faces. They all look to him, the people, the knights. As their prince, this is his responsibility.

He swallows roughly, holding out his hand for the purse of coins Bors is holding.

“Let me see.”

Arthur opens the small leather purse and the awful feeling in his gut boils. The insides barely
contain half of what his father has demanded, and it’s all in petty coin that the man would have
earned. If this meagre money is what he has resorted to paying with, then he can’t have any left for
his own family. The idea of taking this makes Arthur feel sick.

He tastes bile in his mouth. He can’t do this.

Arthur hands the purse back to the man who takes in from him with trembling hands and hope
filled eyes.

“Release him,” he orders the knights.

“But the king said—”

“Release him.”

The knights hesitate but finally nod, stepping away from the man with bowed heads.

“Give them back their money.” Arthur hesitates and looks around at his hopeful people before
adding firmly, “All of it.”

The villagers around them are generous in their relief and gratitude as they gaze on Arthur. They
murmur reverently and press their coins hard into their palms, clinging to them with abject relief.
As he wanders back through the shifting crowd their hands graze his sides with words of thanks.
None speak louder than a whisper, as if they are afraid that if they put their words too loudly into
the citadel the kindness will be stolen from them. Arthur’s shoulders scrunch tighter with every
murmured gratitude. It feels wrong to take thanks, to be being so encompassed in appreciation, just
for standing up against what is obviously unjust.

He walks away quickly, stepping out of the crowd and hurrying back towards the castle. Fear itches
along the back of his neck at the thought of his father’s reaction but he forces it down. He has done
the right thing, and that is all that matters.

~-~-~

It is harder to be confident after enduring his father’s lecture. He bore his ire like a batton, striking
Arthur brutally with it, every sharp word directed at him cut into Arthur’s skin and confidence
until he was in tatters. He didn’t allow himself to stand down, his people needed him too much for
that, but inside he could feel his spirit cow and shrivel.

As soon as his father gave him an out he ran from the room. He needed time to be by himself, so he
went to the kennels.

The kennels are Arthur’s safe place. He’s been coming here ever since he was a boy. He doesn’t
go often because he relies on it to be the only place he can be alone with his thoughts. If his father
were ever to catch wind of where to find Arthur his sanctuary would be ruined. However,
whenever the need is great enough it is the perfect place to go. The hounds don’t judge him, they
accept him as one of his own, allowing him to sit amongst them as they snuffle at his cheekbones
and lick his ears.

The room is warm and padded with straw for the dogs to sleep and roll, creating a comfortable seat
for Arthur to lounge on. HIs hands always have something to do, whether it be a hound within
reach to be petted or a piece of straw to toy with. He remembers a time when he was a boy and he
hid here for an entire day, belly to the ground with one of the dog’s steadying weight on his back.
He fell asleep like that, until eventually a servant stumbled upon him and sent him to dinner.

His favourite hound Cavall comes to him and lays his head on Arthur’s knee for affection.

“Hey boy,” Arthur murmurs fondly, ruffling the dog’s ears and running his fingers through the
fluff at the base of his scruffy neck.

His father had been furious to learn about him returning the villagers’ money, which was to be
expected. It just stings to be reminded how different their methods of ruling are. Arthur wants to be
a respected king, but Uther is determined that can never happen with the way he treats the people.
Arthur can’t help but worry he might be right.

His father is not well liked —Arthur isn’t stupid enough to be oblivious to that — but he has the
firm respect of the people. The villagers follow his ruling with precision and without revolt. How
can Arthur hope to rule a kingdom with the same strength if his people expect him to bend to their
every will?

Cavall flips over to show his tummy and Arthur pats him fondly.

There’s a knock and Arthur looks up in surprise to see Gwen standing in the doorway looking at
him with an affectionate smile.

“Sire?”

Arthur coughs, trying to position himself in a more orderly manner and nods at her.

“Guinevere.”

“I saw what you did earlier,” Gwen says. She comes and sits beside him on the dirt covered floor,
tucking her skirt under her knees and rubbing Cavall’s snout when he sniffs her curiously.

“The people owe you a debt of gratitude,” she continues, offering Arthur a warm smile that he feels
utterly undeserving of.

“The people owe me nothing,” he sighs, shame like tar in his blood. “My father is still going to
impose the tax.”

Gwen’s face flickers in pain. As Morgana’s maid she would make enough to pay the new taxes,
but only barely. He knows she would need to budget her coin carefully in order to ensure she had
enough food on the table. If Gwen, a peasant in such a privileged position, couldn’t afford the tax
comfortably, what hope did the everyday farmer have of surviving?

“Will he not be persuaded?” She asks worriedly. She chews on the corner of her lip as she waits for
Arthur’s answer, a nervous habit Arthur has never noticed until now.
Arthur shakes his head. “Not by me.” He can’t help the bitterness that seeps into his tone. “He
can’t stand the sight of me.”

“That’s not true,” Gwen says. “The King loves you.”

Love. She says it like it is such a simple fact, but the way his father looked at him earlier, with
such a disgusted expression, was not one of love.

“You should have heard the way he spoke to me… I felt like a child again.”

A child being scolded by his father. Small and frail, and unaware of what it could possibly take to
be king. How could he?

“You’ve grown soft,” his father sneered. “Remember these are your subjects, not your friends.”

“Why can’t they be both?” Arthur retaliated stubbornly. He jutted his chin forward and stared his
father straight in the eye, if he showed any weakness his father would exploit it. He knew that he
could rule with benevolence and be respected, he had to believe that.

“Because you rule the people, not the other way around.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

Uther went very still, turning slowly to face Arthur with burning contempt contorting his face, he
stalked across the room towards Arthur with fury driving his large strides. It had taken everything
in Arthur’s power not to stumble backwards.

“I beg your pardon?” He hissed, so low Arthur had to lean in to hear it. A cold shiver scratched
down Arthur’s back and his heart thudded fearfully in his chest but he stood with his words
unrepentantly.

“I think you’re wrong,” Arthur repeated firmly. “Without the people there is no Camelot. We are
as much their servant as they are ours.”

His father’s lip curled. “Then you are an idiot, who will make a poor king.”

The words lashed into Arthur like a whip, and he still feels the sore welts they left behind cutting
across his ribs.

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “Maybe he’s right.”

Gwen looks horrified at the prospect, “No!” she exclaims, shaking her head and leaning forward
towards him, before remembering herself and settling again.

“One day I will be king. I cannot be a friend to the people and be their ruler,” Arthur explains
carefully. He avoids her eyes and strokes between Cavall’s ears.

“Why not?” Gwen demands. “Because your father demands it is so?”

Arthur looks up in alarm at her bluntness but Gwen barely notices his surprise.

She sighs. “I know you respect your father and want to make him proud, but he is not always right.
You can be both a friend and a ruler, and you will prove it when you become king.”

Gwen speaks with a surety that the tension in Arthur’s shoulders unwinds slightly. She sounds so
confident that he will make a good king that he can’t help but believe her despite his father’s insult
still on his mind.

“You have a kind heart, Arthur,” Gwen continues, laying her hand over his on the ground. “Don’t
ever change.”

Her palms are rough and worn with callouses from years of hard work but her touch is gentle. A
smile warms Arthur’s face without control and he turns his hand so their palms are touching.

“Thank you, Gwen.”

~-~-~

Arthur is on edge from the moment he receives a summons from his father. Typically after a
disagreement, Uther will ignore Arthur’s existence for at least a day before acknowledging him
again. To be summoned by him within a few hours of their argument sends a chill up Arthur’s
spine.

He walks slowly into the room, peering around with heavy apprehension. He almost expects to be
met with something fatalistic, a magical terror threatening the kingdom or a battalion at the
doorstep, but the room appears no different than any other meeting. His father has called the entire
court, as well as a handful of knights, Morgana, Gwen and Gaius. They look as unsure as he,
glancing around, constantly moving and murmuring so that the room feels like the inside of a hive.
Catrina is of course, lounging in her throne, settled comfortably into the seat like it had been hers
all her life. Her hand is possessively folded over Uther’s, gripping his fingers like one might hold
their hound’s leash. The space by Arthur’s side is noticeably empty.

“Father?”

Uther is busy with a document and barely glances at Arthur as he speaks.

“I’m relaxing your duties,” he says. “And revoking your title.”

The hive buzzes, counsellors muttering to each other in disbelief. Arthur almost laughs at the
absurdity of it. Surely he heard his father wrong, the statement is so outlandish it barely even
sounds possible.

“What?”

“I cannot allow you to undermine my authority,” Uther spits, finally looking up at Arthur with a
frigidity that makes Arthur pause.

“You’ve always welcomed my counsel in the past,” Arthur says, unable to help from glancing at
Catrina who smiles at him coldly. His ribs tighten like a noose as his father doesn’t waver.

“You stood against me publicly, for all the people to see,” Uther growls and there is no warmth in
his pale eyes as he glares at Arthur.

Arthur glances around at the crowded room, dumbfounded by the hypocrisy of the statement.

“I apologise,” he says carefully. “Any future grievance I have will be aired in private,” he
promises.”

“It’s too late for that,” his father says dismissively.

“Father—” he tries to protest but Uther shouts over him.

“You are to be disinherited with immediate effect,” his voice echoes around the chamber. “You are
no longer Crown prince of Camelot.”

The air in the room seems to empty out. Arthur can hear his heartbeat in his ears. He stares at his
father in horror. Suddenly the meaning of this counsel is upsettingly obvious. He is being
disinherited, he will no longer be heir, he will never be king. The thing he has been preparing for
his entire life, the purpose he has always been building towards, is gone. One moment it is solid
and tangible in his hands and the next he is watching it dissipate like fog that he tries desperately to
grasp.

This can’t be real, it has to be a dream, a terrible, terrible dream. Any moment now Arthur will
wake and his father won’t be married, and Merlin won’t have left and he will still be next in line.
Everything will be as it should be. Arthur digs his nails into his palm until they’re cutting into the
flesh but he still doesn’t wake.

“Sire, Arthur is your son, your natural heir—” Gaius tries to protest but Arthur stops.

“Gaius,” he says simply and Gaius falls silent. He won’t let anyone fight his own battles and make
this any more humiliating than it already is.

The room is impossibly quiet, as if no one dares to breathe, and Arthur’s footsteps echo in his head
as he steps closer to his father. He swallows roughly, mouth dry and ashen and fingers shaking as
he meets the king’s steely gaze.

“All I have ever tried to do is live up to the man you wanted me to be,” Arthur admits, quietly but
firmly. In the silent chamber it leaves his lips like a shout. “I wanted to be someone you would be
proud to call your son. So I could be someone you would be proud to take your throne.”

Something flickers in Uther’s eyes, grief or guilt, Arthur isn’t sure. For a moment it seems as if he
will ease and Arthur’s withering hope reaches out like a child, but his gaze quickly hardens once
more and the hope is dashed.

“My decision is final,” he says firmly. “Queen Catrina will be named as rightful heir to the throne.”

Arthur’s breath rushes out of him shakily, and he stumbles backwards away from his father and his
new Queen. His pulse races in his ears and his stomach clenches like he’s about to vomit. The one
pillar of stability throughout his whole life has crumbled beneath his feet and he’s left on unsteady
ground, shaking like a newborn colt.

All eyes in the room are on him. He can feel their watchful gazes like claws dragging over his skin.
Everyone waits for him to break. He knows they’re expecting a reaction, but he won’t give them
the satisfaction. He won’t grovel at his father’s feet, or break down screaming. It isn’t in his nature
to beg.

He storms from the room with hot tears pricking his eyes and doesn’t look back.

~-~-~

Merlin thinks it’s horrible that Arthur is forced to attend Catrina’s induction.

Merlin is watching the events from the above where he’s hidden in the rafters. He’s pressed into
the shadows to be safe — he doesn’t doubt that Uther would cease the entire ceremony just to
ensure Merlin receives his punishment— but no one even glances his way.

From this angle, he can see Arthur clearly and what he witnesses leaves his chest aching with
worry. His face is stoic and guarded, stiff like every ounce of his willpower is devoted to masking
his pain. His shoulders are drawn in until he appears practically invisible despite being dressed in
fine lavish clothing.

He knows this must be beyond heartbreaking for Arthur. For all he complains about his royal
duties and desire to be treated with normalcy, Merlin knows that being king means the world to
him. He loves Camelot with every fibre within him, and to be stripped of his right to rule his
beloved kingdom is the worst punishment Uther could charge him with.

Geoffrey addresses the crowd, his hands sweeping dramatically as he speaks.

“We are gathered today to bear witness to the crowning of Queen Catrina as the rightful heir to
Camelot.”

Merlin scowls from where he is perched. Rightful heir his arse.

He watches with an aching heart as Arthur’s Adam’s apple bobs. It is agonising to watch Arthur be
in misery from far above, unable to console him. This is not the type of thing that Merlin can
protect Arthur from, he cannot shield him from this pain, and that knowledge is like a sword
driving through his chest.

“Are you willing to take the oath and take your place as heir of Camelot?” Geoffrey asks with a
bow of his head.

Catrina smiles and tips her chin upward. “I certainly am.”

With her declaration the ceremony begins. Geoffrey reads a line of his lengthy script and Catrina
agrees to each statement individually. They have barely sworn two promises when Catrina begins
to itch at her arm violently. Her nails claw at her arm like she’s trying to tear a layer of her skin off
and when she pulls away she has left thin tears in the delicate fabric of her gown. Merlin’s eyes
widen hopefully as he watches her squirm and her discomfort grow.

He struggles not to laugh as her composure visibly wears thin, until she finally snaps at Geoffrey,
“Yes! Yes I swear I will, now is it done?”

Geoffrey’s bushy eyebrows draw low over his eyes and he hesitates anxiously. The poor man
seems unsure how to proceed without causing offence and spends a moment stammering before
shaking his head.

“I’m sorry my Lady. The wording must be precise to be binding.”

“Well get on with it then!”

The crowd hums nervously in unison and their murmurs of surprise echo around the room, growing
in a crescendo like a swelling wave. Geoffrey lifts his hand, asking them to return to silence and
the wave stills. Merlin grins to himself and sees Gaius doing the same below.

“She’s right. Hurry it along,” Uther says with a dazed expression. Merlin raises an eyebrow in
tandem with Arthur, they’re both remembering the tedious nature of Arthur’s crowning ceremony.

Geoffrey huffs loftily but does as he’s instructed, reading Catrina’s oath over her desperate
attempts to accede and have the thing be done. Her itching has grown so furious she’s practically
clawing off her arm and Merlin can see beads of sweat gathering along her brow.

“I will do it all!” She shrieks anxiously, her voice as shrill a chisel scraping down steel. “Just shut
up and give me the crown!”

The crowd gasps as one. Merlin grins as Arthur and Morgana’s faces twist into equally scandalised
expressions, their mouths hanging agape. Geoffrey bristles anxiously but complies, he lifts the
crown from its velvet cushion with theatricality and taking long gliding steps begins the procession
to bring it to her.

“Oh will you just hurry up!” Catrina snatches the crown and jams it onto her head.

She takes off in a sprint down the hall, past the crowds who have gathered to watch her become the
sworn heir of Camelot, through the throne room doors and then out of sight. Merlin hurries along
the rafters after her, keeping time with the royal family as they chase the runaway queen.

They follow her to the council chambers. Merlin murmurs a quick spell, bolting the huge doors at
the end of the room so she can’t leave the chamber as Uther, Morgana and Arthur block her exit
from the other side.

“Catrina, my love, what is the matter?” Uther asks with a worried frown, he reaches for her and
Catrina lunges away with a shriek.

“Nothing!” She yells unconvincingly, shaking the door desperately.

“Are you alright?” Morgana asks nervously.

“Perfectly fine!”

Merlin stifles his smile into his hand as Arthur raises a sceptical eyebrow.

“Allow me to help,” he says, moving forward to aid Catrina with the door before reeling away in
horror. “What in fresh hell is that?”

Merlin follows his eyes to the greying and gnarled hand Arthur has spotted.

“It’s nothing,” Catrina squeaks, hiding the hand behind her back and laughing shrilly.

“Are you dying?” Morgana asks in a horrified tone.

Catrina doesn’t have the chance to answer as she doubles over with a groan. Her skin stretches and
expands to accommodate an entire new set of bones and muscles. Morgana screams in horror as it
bubbles and twists itself into a new configuration before settling on her face once more. However,
instead of the immaculate face of Queen Catrina it is the face of the troll once more, complete with
curled tusks and beady black eyes.

“You’re a troll!” Arthur says with wide eyes. Both he and Morgana look utterly horrified, their
faces pallid with shock as they gape at the troll before them.

Merlin grins smugly, a small petty part of him is grateful for Arthur to realise that Merlin was
telling him the truth all along.

However, the grin immediately slips from his face when Uther speaks.

“How dare you speak about her like that!” He scolds, glaring at Arthur before turning back to gaze
lovingly at his Queen.

Morgana and Arthur share an incredulous look and from the shadows Merlin shares their disbelief.
“What is wrong with you?” Arthur gestures madly to where Catrina is hyperventilating and
stumbling in front of the still locked doors. “Look at the state of her.”

“She’s beautiful,” Uther says stubbornly, gazing at Catrina in wonderment.

“She’s literally a troll,” Morgana disputes.

Catrina, clearly unable to handle the dissection any longer, seizes the door by its handle and tears it
from its hinges.

“Look what you’ve done,” Uther accuses Morgana and Arthur. “You’ve upset her.”

Arthur’s jaw drops open.

“She ripped a door off its hinges!” He screams. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Enough!” Uther says furiously.

“She’s a troll!” Arthur gesticulates wildly with his hands as he yells. “She is a giant, grey—”

“Stinking!” Morgana provides.

“—Stinking troll!”

Uther stalks over to the crown Catrina abandoned in her mad dash out of the chamber and glares at
both of them.

“That is quite enough. Haven’t you hurt her feelings enough?” He picks up Catrina’s crown and
dusts it off. “Insult my wife again and it will be the last thing you ever do!” He threatens, before
storming out of the room.

Merlin is left with a terrible taste in his mouth as he watches Morgana and Arthur stare blankly at
each other.

~-~-~

The Dragon won’t stop laughing, which is frankly not helpful, and incredibly frustrating.

“It’s not funny!” Merlin yells over the booming laughter, which only serves to make the great beast
laugh louder.

“Oh it is, it is,” he chortles. Merlin imagines if he were human he would be wiping tears of joy
from his eyes. “The image of Uther marrying a troll—” he collapses into another peal of laughter.

Merlin rolls his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose irritably as The Dragon continues.

“Was it a very public affair?” The Dragon asks with an amused tone.

“It was a royal wedding so… public enough yes,” Merlin grumbles and The Dragon sniggers.

“This is serious,” Merlin insists. “If this continues, Arthur will never be king and there will be no
Albion!”

Blessedly, The Dragon finally sobers with a nod.

“You are right of course.”

Merlin sighs. “How can we break the enchantment?” He asks, stressing each word so The Dragon
won’t fall to distraction again.

The Dragon hums and his claws scrape on the boulder thoughtfully.

“This is no trifling trick. Troll magic is extremely powerful,” he explains. “The only way you
could break this enchantment is if Uther were to cry tears of true remorse.”

Merlin nods and then considers what the Dragon has said and pauses.

“How do we make him do that?” He asks with a frown.

The Dragon’s scaled eyebrows lift. “That I cannot answer, for Uther’s heart is cold as stone.”

Merlin grimaces, unable to argue with The Dragon’s harsh assessment. He and the Dragon
disagree on much, but Merlin commiserates his hatred towards Uther. Merlin might protect the
king on Arthur’s behalf, but he will not dispute that he is a miserable and cold man.

Still, it isn’t the most helpful advice. Not that helpful advice appears to be in The Dragon’s
repertoire.

“Thanks… I think,” Merlin says, pulling a face and turning to make his way from the cave.

The Dragon stops him. “Young warlock.”

Merlin turns with stiff shoulders drawn to his ears and an uncomfortable feeling of apprehension
for the words he suspects are forthcoming.

“It was some time ago now that you promised to set me free,” The Dragon says with narrowed
eyes. “The help I give is not unconditional.”

Merlin’s stomach plummets to his feet, leaving him with a hollow anxiety that resonates through
his bones. He forces himself to nod and leaves without another word.

Merlin’s hope is not restored by Gaius’ reaction. The more Merlin explains the further his frown
dips, until the corners of his lips are practically touching his chin in a solemn expression. Merlin’s
stomach swirls nervously in anticipation for what Gaius will say. Gaius knows Uther better than
anyone, and cares for him despite his faults, he should have more sympathy for the king’s ability to
care than Merlin does. Instead he thins his lips and says, “Well that isn’t going to be easy. The
King’s heart is sealed to everyone.”

Merlin considers and shakes his head, drawing the chair across from Gaius.

“Not everyone.”

Gaius frowns at Merlin as he contemplates what he is saying, when the realisation strikes him his
eyes shoot open wide.

“Then there is only one course of action we can take,” he says decisively, Merlin can see the
workings of a plan forming in the physician’s mind. “Uther must see his son die.”

~-~-~

“Arthur.”

Arthur’s eyes snap open but he stays in bed with his heart clamouring in his chest. He lies very still
and tries to convince himself that he imagined the whisper.

“Arthur,” the voice whispers again and this time he knows that this is no figment of his
imagination. Within seconds he is out of bed, fumbling for his sword where it lies strewn on his
desk and brandishes it around the room. His eyes squint in the dim light for a sign of a figure.

“Who’s there?” He demands gruffly, grateful that he remains steady even though his heart is
racing.

A head pops out from under the bed, wearing a massive grin that is so blissfully familiar it makes
Arthur’s heart squeeze.

“Merlin!” Merlin announces himself cheerfully, smiling from ear to ear.

Arthur is hit with a rush of, not affection because this is Merlin for god’s sake, but something like
endearment. It’s just such a relief to see Merlin is alright, with his big ears, dopey grin and messy
hair. Arthur would never admit aloud that he has missed him, but he has.

Arthur sags and lets his sword drop.

“You’re back,” he says, grateful that the stupid amount of joy he’s feeling doesn’t seep into his
words.

Merlin doesn’t stop beaming. “I never left,” he informs him in a chirpy tone. The realisation that
Merlin never escaped Camelot at all, that at any moment he could have been caught and be
subjugated to his father’s punishing hand has Arthur’s heart shuddering to a halt. Then Merlin’s
words register further and he looks with horror at Merlin’s apparent hiding place.

Arthur frowns. “You mean to tell me… you’ve been under there this whole time?”

Merlin blinks. “What? No!” He pulls a face and slips out from under the bed. “Absolutely not.”

Arthur takes a seat on his desk as Merlin perches on his bed looking at home in Arthur’s room. It’s
not an unwelcome sight after the last few weeks alone, Arthur hadn’t realised how he had grown
used to having Merlin constantly being in his space until he was suddenly torn away.

“So... your stepmother’s a troll then,” Merlin says cheekily, raising his eyebrows at Arthur in a
silent challenge.

“I swear if you say I told you so…” Arthur points the dagger at Merlin threateningly. Merlin
doesn’t seem bothered by the aloof threat, probably because he knows Arthur would never follow
through.

“I wasn’t going to,” Merlin assures him, raising his hands and waits until Arthur’s shoulders
unwind to tip his head and mutter under his breath, “but it is true that if you had listened to me
earlier…”

Arthur raises his eyebrows warningly, and that is enough to make Merlin trail off with a sheepish
smile.

“Shutting up now,” he agrees to Arthur’s silent warning.

Arthur stares at Merlin, almost worried that he’s a mirage that will flicker away if he dares to take
his eyes off him for a moment. The last few weeks have been an arduous ordeal which has done
nothing but overwhelm and confuse him at every turn. Merlin being gone, but not having really left
at all, and now suddenly being back is all a bit too much for him to handle. He doesn’t understand
why he’s returned now at all, Camelot is no safer for him than it ever was previously. Merlin beats
him to an explanation before he has a chance to ask.

“Gaius and I believe your father has been enchanted,” Merlin says, jumping straight to the chase.
“We’ve found a way to break the enchantment but we need your help.”

Arthur should feel more hesitant about agreeing to Merlin’s plan, he hasn’t even heard what it is
and he’s already ready to agree. But for some strange reason he trusts Merlin, he knows he won’t
lead him astray. It’s probably just relief at seeing Merlin again. Or maybe he was dropped on his
head too many times as a child. Whatever the reason, Arthur would probably do anything Merlin
suggests, as long as it means his father will no longer be married to a troll and Merlin will stay in
Camelot.

At least that’s what he thinks until Merlin explains the plan and then he’s a little bit more dubious.

“So your great plan is to kill me?” He confirms with an unconvinced raise of his eyebrow.

Gaius — who came in while Merlin was detailing the plan to Arthur — and Merlin both look at
him, then at each other, and nod.

“Not exactly,” Merlin amends. “The potion Gaius has made only gives the appearance of death,”
he clarifies. “Without the actual death bit.”

Arthur gives him a look that he hopes conveys how little that helps.

“Don’t worry!” Merlin says in what is meant to be a reassuring tone but just sounds vaguely
constipated. “There’s nothing to worry about, it’ll only bring you to the brink of death.”

Arthur’s eyebrows twitch violently as he struggles to maintain a passive expression.

“Oh. Only to the brink,” he mutters. “Much better.”

“We haven’t got a choice,” Gaius says solemnly. “We have to make your father cry.”

Arthur swallows, insecurity crawling its way into his gut like a worm. Gaius and Merlin seem so
convinced that their plan will work, but Arthur doubts his death will mean much of anything to his
father. Why should he care? Now that Catrina is next in line for the throne Arthur’s death bears no
impact on Camelot.

He usually does his best not to linger on it, but Arthur knows that when his father looks at him he
first sees the crown he’s destined to bear, and then Arthur himself. Now that crown is not even his,
and so Arthur is not convinced his father sees him at all.

“You’re so sure this will work,” Arthur says accusingly. “I’m not so certain. My father doesn’t care
about me anymore.”

He isn’t sure what would be worse, suspecting that his father does not care about him, or having it
confirmed. This plan is dependent on the fact that his father will cry over his death. If he doesn’t,
Arthur will always have to live knowing with certainty that his father did not care enough to shed a
tear.

Gaius’ eyebrow lifts and Arthur’s own raised eyebrows pale in comparison.

“Nonsense, that is Catrina’s influence,” Gaius dismisses his concern assuredly. “I have known your
father for many years, and there has been nothing and no one he has treasured more than you.
Aside from perhaps your mother.”

Arthur purses his lips but doesn’t argue.

“Besides it’s perfectly safe,” Gaius promises, waving the small vial towards Arthur. “A single drop
of the antidote and you’ll be perfectly fine.”

Arthur pauses with his hand outstretched to take the potion.

“Antidote?” He says sharply. “What antidote?”

Merlin is stepping back slowly, almost like he’s hoping Arthur won’t notice him if he’s out of
Arthur’s line of sight. Arthur sends him a blazing dark look to ensure he knows that is not the case
and Merlin shrinks sheepishly, ducking his head like a turtle retreating into his shell.

“You didn’t say anything about an antidote,” he accuses, jabbing a finger at Merlin’s chest.

Merlin offers Arthur a tense, overly innocent smile.

“I uh… didn’t think it was important?” He says, voice pitching up nervously.

Arthur stares at him without amusement.

Gaius interjects before either of them can say anything else. “The potion is designed to lower your
heartbeat and slow your breathing. For all intents and purposes you will be dead.”

Incredibly reassuring.

“But the antidote will reverse the effects?” Arthur confirms fervently. With every word a tight knot
of nerves has formed around his heart, so his heartbeat seems to jar his entire body with each beat.

“Yes,” Gaius nods slowly and Arthur senses the ‘but’ before it comes. “So long as it is
administered in time.”

“And if it isn’t?”

Gaius hesitates. “You will be dead.”

Arthur’s jaw drops open like a trapdoor and he spins around to glare at Merlin.

“You just said it wasn’t important!” He says shrilly.

Merlin winces. “Yeah I guess it’s a bit important.”

“A bit—”

“Merlin will have the antidote,” Gaius says in an attempt to placate Arthur. His voice reminds
Arthur of the one he uses to sooth the horses, it does nothing to calm him now.

Instead of answering Arthur buries his face in his hands and groans.

“It will all be perfectly fine,” Gaius continues. “Once I have administered the poison— potion.”

Arthur’s head snaps up with wide eyes. Gaius speaks over his blunder quickly like nothing
happened. “Merlin will have half an hour to deliver you the antidote.”
Arthur looks at Merlin hesitantly and is offered a dopey smile which is probably meant to be
encouraging. To Arthur’s immense frustration the stupid expression does actually somewhat ease
the knot in his chest. He thins his lips and holds Merlin’s gaze. This is a gamble, a dangerous one,
but with a troll as Queen who is next in line for the throne, Camelot is in peril and Arthur can’t
stand by and do nothing. His father may have stripped away his title and removed his crown, but
Arthur has always been loyal to him and to Camelot, not only because it is his duty, but because he
truly loves his kingdom. This is his opportunity to make things right.

“Don’t be late,” he says, pointing a threatening finger at Merlin as he snatches the potion from
Gaius’ grip.

“When am I ever?” Merlin replies with an anxious smile.

Arthur doesn’t deem that with a response since there was once an entire week where each day
Merlin was consistently late for breakfast.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Gaius asks.

Arthur’s stomach rolls anxiously and he thinks, not really.

“It’s the only way to save Camelot,” he replies seriously, staring at the small bottle.

He can’t afford to hesitate. Arthur takes a huge breath, uncorks the vial and swallows the contents.

~-~-~

Merlin watches as Arthur downs the entire bottle of poison in a single gulp.

Merlin’s heart is beating a panicked rhythm in his chest. He can’t tear his eyes away as Arthur
licks the stuff from his lips with a grimace and waits for the effects to take hold. There is a pause,
long enough that Merlin begins to wonder if the potion was effective, before Arthur slumps
forward into Gaius and Merlin’s arms.

“Okay,” Merlin murmurs, easing Arthur to the floor as gently as possible. He’s careful with
Arthur’s limp head, cradling it so it doesn’t hit the floor. “There we go.”

Merlin ignores Gaius’ side eye and carefully closes Arthur’s eyes so his death appears genuine.
Even though Merlin knows Arthur is only under the effect of a potion it disconcerts him to see the
prince so still. He plays the perfect role of a corpse, his skin is frighteningly pale, almost
translucent, the underneath of his eyes are stained with purple discolouration and his chest is
completely still. The sight makes Merlin’s stomach ill, no matter how disingenuous he knows
Arthur’s death to be. He doesn’t doubt that Uther will fall for the farce.

“Time to break the news to Uther,” Gaius says, hurrying from the room toward the King’s
chambers. Merlin nods and exits the room after him. He can’t be found with Arthur lest he be
accused of doing harm to the prince, so he makes his way around a loop in the corridors with the
intention to enter Arthur’s chambers soon after Gaius and the King.

The vial of antidote is heavy in his palm, the smooth glass is cool where it touches his skin, a
constant reminder of its presence. Merlin cups it carefully, like a great treasure to be held with the
utmost care, it feels like he is literally holding Arthur’s life in his careful fingers.

He rounds the second corner and is knocked unconscious as a vase is dropped on his head.

When Merlin comes to his first thought is ‘Shit, that hurt’ and his second thought is Arthur. He
scrambles to his feet and ignores the shards of porcelain that nick his palms. As he stands his head
sways, like the entire ground is shifting beneath his feet. His eyes dart over the ground in search of
the small vial of antidote, and a terrified feeling wraps itself around his windpipe and squeezes.

He finally sees it, four steps down from where he fell, shattered into pieces.

“Oh god.” Merlin can taste bile at the back of his throat, his heartbeat is in his mouth, pumping
blood into his head as his fingers fumble to pull his neckerchief off and mop up the pool on the
floor. Once he’s soaked as much of the liquid as he can he sprints to Arthur’s chambers. It’s
impossible to tell how long he was unconscious for but he can only hope it was much less than half
an hour.

When he charges through the servant entrance he can hear Uther crying over Arthur’s prone body
and Catrina trying desperately to pull him away. Merlin exhales steadily, letting the realisation that
their plan is working help to reign the wild bucking horse of his terror. He can still taste his
heartbeat, and is disturbingly aware that the damp rag in his hands is all he has to rouse Arthur
from the dead, but at least it isn’t all for naught.

“Catrina?” Uther says in horrified confusion, looking up at the troll. “What kind of trickery is
this?”

She growls, giving up the pretence as soon as she realises her enchantment has failed.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” she says and licks her chops gleefully, her grey lumpy tongue
lavishes along her protruding tusks before she lunges at the King with a growl.

Guards come clattering into the room on Uther’s command. Merlin ignores everything, the room
around him is unnecessary, all that matters is Arthur.

Merlin dances around the guards’ attempts to capture Catrina, weaving through the room until he’s
at Arthur’s side. He desperately wrings his neckerchief, trying to draw out some of the antidote.

Merlin squeezes the fabric until his fingers are aching with the pressure. A single drop threatens to
fall, dangling on the precipice above Arthur. It hangs there, frozen in the moment of time and
Merlin wants to scream. Finally, it falls.

The moment the antidote touches Arthur’s lips he stirs and Merlin could kiss him he’s so relieved.
He moves away to avoid doing anything of the sort just as Arthur’s eyes blink open. Merlin’s
hands are trembling with relief and his pulse is thrumming in his chest, like his heart is practically
singing with joy to see Arthur shifting awake.

“Wha’s happenin’?” Arthur slurs, looking at Merlin with a dazed kind of wonder.

“Come on, we gotta get you to safety,” Merlin says, ducking under one of Catrina’s blows and
tugging at Arthur’s arm.

Arthur finally takes in the room with furrowed eyebrows and heavy confusion that make him look
astoundingly young.

At the same moment both Merlin and Arthur see Catrina about to attack Uther. She has cornered
him against Arthur’s desk, her broad stance prevents the king from escaping and her gnarled fingers
curve towards Uther in preparation to seize him. Her grey lips are stretched into a wide eager smile
that glistens with drool and she laughs maliciously as Uther cowers away from her imposing
height. Arthur squirms out of Merlin’s grip and charges at the troll, his limbs are still sluggish so
he throws his entire body at her and sends her careening away from the king. He distracts her long
enough to force her away from his father but she seizes his weak shoulders and tosses him towards
the far wall.

“God, Arthur,” Merlin groans, once more lamenting the fact that his destiny is to protect someone
who seems absolutely determined to get himself killed.

He runs across the room to the fallen prince who is sitting up with a disoriented groan. Merlin’s
chest which clenched when Arthur was tossed aside relaxes at the sound, he’s in pain, that much is
obvious, but he’s not so badly injured that he can’t speak or move. Merlin moves to take his place
at Arthur’s side and protect him but Catrina stops him before he has a chance.

Her hand lanches onto his shoulder, her claws digging deep into the flesh until he screams. As he
wrenches his arm away she leaves two deep gashes along his collarbone. Merlin knows he has
endured worse, but the pain is still enough to blur the edges of his vision as tears spring to his eyes.
Catrina moves in, taking advantage of Merlin’s vulnerability and raises her fist to strike him.
Merlin squeezes his eyes shut in preparation for the blow but Uther surges in before it can fall. He
is wielding the splintered leg of a chair like a sword and he cracks it across the troll's face. Merlin
heaves with relief, leaving Uther to manage Catrina on his own as he staggers over towards Arthur.
While Merlin was preoccupied with Catrina, her slimy servant Jonas clearly took it upon himself to
attempt to finish Arthur off, and he creeps behind Arthur with a dagger glinting in his hand.

Arthur rolls out of the way before Merlin can make an aborted gesture to protect him. Even in his
poison-addled state Arthur is strong enough to kick Jonas backwards. Merlin watches with his
heart in his throat as Arthur grabs his abandoned sword and runs Jonas through with it. The
squelch of the blade is audible, it slides with a slick glugging noise through Jonas’ body that makes
Merlin’s stomach turn. Jonas lets out a shocked gasp that gurgles at the end and then he doesn’t
make another sound.

Catrina bellows with rage, her mouth unhinges so wide that Merlin can see the yellowing molars at
the back of her mouth. She charges towards Arthur’s turned back with a murderous glint in her
beady eyes. Merlin ducks his head, eyes flashing gold as he rips the carpet from under the troll’s
feet. She staggers backwards, hand flying into the table and sending goblets and cutlery flying to
the floor.

Arthur whirls around with wide eyes that quickly assess the damage. Arthur doesn’t hesitate or
waver in the split second he has to respond. His eyes catalogue the danger, and in the next moment
he is in motion, taking his sword and thrusting it down into the beast.

She screams before going still with a disgusting belch.

~-~-~

The silence in the dining hall is overwhelming. Arthur’s fork scrapes on his plate and he winces,
glancing up at his father at the other end of the long table. Uther doesn’t even notice, his eyes are
far away and haunted and he looks sick as he pushes around his food on his plate.

Arthur can’t help but smirk a bit. It feels like a sort of retribution for his father to wallow for a
short while. He did force Arthur to endure a troll for a stepmother, publicly humiliate him and
stripped him of his birthright.

“I suppose I will be reinstated as crown prince then?” Arthur says, unable to keep the edge of
tartness from his voice. He can’t find it in himself to feel bad about the gibe. His father deserves a
bit of humiliation after literally disinheriting Arthur for a troll.
Uther’s eye twitches but he manages to keep his temper in check with pursed lips.

“Yes,” he replies simply. “I will have Geoffrey address it first thing tomorrow.”

Arthur nods, returning to his meal and letting the uncomfortable silence thicken between them once
again.

“I…” Uther clears his throat. “I wanted to thank you for exposing this attack on our state.”

Arthur nods with as much solemnity as he can muster.

“Once again, magic was used to strike at the heart of Camelot.”

Arthur considers leaving his father’s dignity in peace, he has endured much after all; but there is a
part of him that wants to needle him, and who is he to deny that?

“You mean your heart,” he corrects, stifling his smile into a piece of chicken. “How many nights
did you share your bed with a troll?” He asks with an innocent grin.

Uther closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath.

“Obviously I was under its spell.”

Arthur snorts, struggling to conceal the sound into his fist.

“I did many things I regret…”

The teasing suddenly loses its appeal and Arthur quickly loses his appetite.

“Father,” he stops the King with a raised hand. “Please, I really don’t want to know the details.”

Uther nods, seemingly glad to be given the opportunity to let the conversation cease, and they both
return to their meals in silence once more.

When Arthur leaves the dining hall he sees the back of Merlin’s head bouncing down the corridor.

“Merlin!” He shouts, jogging to catch up with his servant.

Merlin turns around with a confused expression that brightens when he sees Arthur. He slows
down so they are standing in the corridor together, facing each other like they’re holding some kind
of counsel. Isn’t that an odd thought, Merlin as a part of his counsel.

“I want you to know,” Arthur says, “that I never doubted you for a second.”

Merlin nods and then seems to register Arthur’s words and looks at Arthur disbelievingly.

“Alright fine, but it’s your own fault, you’ve got a shifty look about you.” Merlin chuckles.
“Whatever you say, Sire.”

“No I’m serious,” Arthur says, narrowing his eyes teasingly. “It’s like you’ve got something to
hide.”

Merlin gasps but Arthur knows he’s only teasing. “I am an open book.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

Merlin smiles dopily and Arthur can’t help but begin to smile back.
 “However,” he concedes with a tip of his head. “I have to admit, if it weren’t for you, I’d still have
a troll for a stepmother.”

Merlin sniggers and quickly tries to reign in the laughter at Arthur’s scandalised expression.

Arthur hesitates, unsure what to do now. He wanted to acknowledge Merlin’s help, and he’s proud
of himself for doing so; but now they’re standing facing each other with no real clear continuation
for the conversation.

“Well… Thanks.”

At the same time Arthur moves to pat Merlin on the shoulder Merlin goes for a hug, and they end
up in a sort of awkward fumble where Arthur jumps away from Merlin and Merlin tries to fold in
on himself before the situation gets painfully uncomfortable.

“Woah,” Arthur says, freezing with his hands raised in an almost surrender. Merlin mirrors his
position with his hands in the air and a blush that stretches right up to the tips of his ears.

“Sorry, thought you were going for a hug,” Merlin says, his voice caught somewhere between
embarrassment and laughter.

“No.” Arthur shakes his head and lowers his hands.

He ignores the odd little twist somewhere inside him that thinks a hug might be nice. Princes do
not hug servants.

“No,” Merlin echoes with a smile that makes him look a little crazed.

Arthur nods stiffly, stepping back and putting his hands behind his back to keep himself from doing
something idiotic like stepping forward and actually hugging Merlin. It has nothing to do with
Merlin of course, and mostly to do with the fact that he can’t remember the last proper hug he
received.

“Right then.” Arthur nods again. “Go muck out my stables or something.”

Merlin smiles and it crinkles around his eyes. “Yes, Sire.”

With that Arthur turns and leaves.

He doesn’t see Merlin’s fond smile as he’s walking away.

Chapter End Notes

regretfully i couldn't include a tasteful fade to black while uther makes out with a troll,
but i feel like the vibe was there anyway

i tried to keep this chapter funny but with a bit more emotion behind it, hopefully that
was achieved !! you can let me know ghfdjhds

let me know your favourite bit and if you enjoyed the chapter !! i love hearing from
you guys it gives me utter joy
i will see you again on january 15th aest with chapter 15 (ooo how fitting) !!!
 The Witchfinder
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Merlin’s magic is restless.

It crawls under his skin and itches at his bones. Every creak or skitter in the forest is amplified in
his ears, and the restless sounds make him jump and twitch. The snap of a twig grates down his
spine, the twitter of a bird echoes in his mind.

His magic isn’t meant to be stifled, it requires constant motion, it’s meant to move like a river
flowing, ever changing and shifting. Merlin can feel it trapped inside himself and the longer he
doesn’t exercise its potential the worse it fights against him. Every day that he keeps it suppressed
it grows more agitated, shifting anxiously inside him, fighting for freedom.

Merlins’ magic is as much a part of him as any other vital organ, and to deny it is like denying a
lung, he can’t bear the thought of being separated from it. He has never thought of what it would
be like to hold his magic hostage, because until Camelot he never would have dared try. Not to say
that he never uses magic at all — Arthur’s constant penchant for getting himself into near death
experiences gives him no choice — but he never uses it for himself anymore.

Growing up Merlin was able to use magic every day. He would help his mother with the laundry,
conserve the prosperity of their garden, and pull pranks on Will. When his mother needed cheering
up he would create dazzling shapes for her from the sparks of the fire. When he wanted to smile he
would dig his fingers into the dirt and watch flowers and grass sprout around his fingertips. In
Essetir he needed to keep his magic concealed but he didn’t need to guard it with his life. He was
concerned with protecting himself from being drafted into the army, rather than worrying about his
death being on the line.

In Camelot he doesn’t perform magic unless he has no other choice. The threat is too monumental.
Everywhere he goes Uther’s eyes follow him, and he can feel the king’s breath prickle on the back
of his neck. He’s always aware that he is being watched, the other servants, the nobility, even the
guards, they see his every movement. Anyone could report him to the king, Uther’s cold eyes seem
to be embedded into every person in Camelot. He can’t risk even a whisper of magic bursting out
of him.

Merlin is the most powerful he has ever been, but also the most constrained.

He longs to let his magic free. He wants— no, he needs to express it. It feels like he’s chaining a
part of himself and every day, it tugs at the chains within him and he grows weaker and weaker to
stop it. All he craves now is to do one small act of magic all for himself. He needs to feel the
enjoyment of it, the rush of warmth, the spark of something wonderful deep within him. He wants
to create something beautiful, rather than force it into battle. His magic is not a weapon, it is an
instrument, and he wants to play it.

Merlin looks at Camelot’s citadel. It appears so small from where Merlin stands in the forest on
the outskirts of town with a bundle of herbs in his arms. In the dense and bustling city of Camelot
he is never truly alone, but right now there is no one, this could be his only chance.

Impulsively, Merlin outstretches his hand towards a plume of smoke which drifts just before the
castle. It morphs under his gentle touch and shifts into the image of a galloping horse. Just this
modest performance of magic is enough to soothe the restlessness under Merlin’s skin.

He smiles at the sight of the wispy legs of the horse as it rears into the air, its smokey mane and
tail trailing behind. The image reminds Merlin of Arthur’s horse Llamrei which makes his smile
turn bittersweet.

If Merlin were to show Arthur a small display of magic it would be something like this. He would
conjure a beautiful animal for Arthur and say, here, I made this for you. He would conjure him a
horse like this one, or a dog like Cavall or a lion to match Arthur’s favourite animal. Something he
could cherish, a treasure as beautiful as him. The daydream falls apart when he considers how
Arthur would respond.

Merlin sighs and lets the horse collapse into smoke once more. His magic has settled and it coils
pleasantly within him, returning to its natural state of calm.

The peace sits over him for no more than ten seconds before a woman comes crashing into the
field out of nowhere.

“Did you see that?” She gasps hoarsely, clutching at Merlin’s arms with curled fingers that press
against his bone. “The smoke? Did you see it?”

Merlin’s heart plummets.

“No, I saw nothing,” he lies quickly.

The woman looks at him like he’s insane. “Are you blind? You were right here.”

Merlin shakes his head so hard he practically throws himself off balance.

“There is sorcery here I tell you,” she hisses.

Horror overcomes Merlin like a sickness as her eyes grow huge, consuming her face with fear. She
reminds Merlin of a frightened child, when faced with fear desperate to turn to the one figure who
can provide security. Merlin dreads the next words to come from her mouth.

“We must tell the king,” she says, running frantically towards the citadel.

~-~-~

“It was sorcery you saw, you’re certain of it?” Uther confirms.

“Yes Sire,” the woman says, nodding her head so vigorously it seems like it will shake right off her
shoulders.

Merlin wouldn’t actually be too disappointed if that happened, it might resolve his predicament.

Arthur frowns from where he stands two paces behind Uther.

“Perhaps your eyes deceived you?” He suggests. “A trick of the light.”

Merlin could kiss him.

The lady shakes her head emphatically. “I know what I saw and my eyes did not lie. The smoke
was alive I tell you.” She glances around nervously. “I feared for my life.”

Merlin only just manages to keep himself from rolling his eyes.
Uther nods. “I thank you for bringing this to my attention. Your loyalty will not go unrewarded.”

The lady curtsies reverently. “Thank you, Sire.”

“This cannot continue,” Uther says coldly once she has been ushered from the room.

“I will find those responsible father, and I promise they will not escape without punishment,”
Arthur says in an attempt to appease his father’s rage.

“No,” Uther dismisses Arthur with a sharp flick of his wrist. “For too long we have allowed sorcery
to strike at the heart of our kingdom. It is time for harsher measures.”

The embarrassment Uther experienced after being married to a troll appears to have faded over the
last few days; in its place a hardened fury lives that makes Merlin’s stomach cold. Uther’s hatred
of magic was only compounded by the humiliating experience, and that puts Merlin and every
other magic wielder in Camelot in greater peril than usual.

“Send for the Witchfinder,” Uther announces and a ripple of fear echoes around the room.

Merlin doesn’t know who the Witchfinder is, but he can recognise the gravity that the name holds.

Morgana pales until she is white as snow. Merlin feels like he might be sick on the stone floor. He
hopes against all reason that the name Witchfinder is just a pretentious pseudonym and not an
accurate reflection of the man’s ability to hunt anything, magic or otherwise. Somehow he thinks
he won’t be so lucky.

“Sire. Is it necessary to resort to such measures?” Gaius asks the King almost pleadingly. As soon
as the Witchfinder’s name was mentioned Gaius’ expression changed from his patented irritation
to downright murderous, and it makes Merlin feel all the more afraid for what is to follow.

Uther’s face is stony as he glances at the physician. “The Witchfinder is a trusted ally. His help
will be invaluable. I have allowed Camelot to be tainted by the poison of magic for too long.”

Gaius hesitates but nods.

When Uther looks away Gaius turns to stare angrily at the side of Merlin’s head who pointedly
doesn’t meet the physician’s eyes. As he cowers under Gaius’ glare, Merlin considers whether it
would be better to face this witchfinder or Gaius’ wrath. At least the witchfinder might not kill him.

Gaius doesn’t say a word until they reach their chambers. He seizes Merlin by the arm and hauls
him through the main chambers and up to Merlin's room, slamming both doors behind them. Only
once they are completely out of earshot of the rest of the castle does he yell.

“How could you be so stupid?” He asks furiously. “How many times must I drive it through that
thick skull of yours, that your magic is a secret to be guarded with your life!”

Merlin feels like a small child being scolded by his father, he toes the ground and squirms under
the weight of Gaius’ angry stare.

“What were you thinking?” Gaius demands, his cheeks stained red with fury.

Merlin shrugs stiffly. “I wasn’t thinking,” he admits. “I’m sorry. It was just a bit of fun.”

“A bit of fun that could very well get you killed.”

Merlin’s stomach clenches.

“You must hide the book, anything that could connect you to sorcery,” Gaius explains as he
restlessly paces across Merlin’s room.

“Surely it can’t be that bad,” Merlin says before he can consider the consequences. The look Gaius
gives him would be enough to curdle milk.

“It is indeed ‘that bad’, Merlin. The man that Uther has sent for, I know him.”

“The Witchfinder?”

Gaius wrinkles his nose. “Some know him by that name, I know him as Aredian. He is a force to
be reckoned with.”

Merlin swallows. “But I’m not a witch,” he says in as bright a tone as he can summon. “Look, no
dress or anything,” he jokes weakly, hoping to cheer Gaius up somewhat.

Gaius’ unamused expression doesn’t so much as twitch. His right eyebrow has crept so far up his
face it almost disappears into his hairline.

“Right, not funny, got it,” Merlin says awkwardly, crouching down to retrieve the grimoire from its
hiding spot under his bed.

“The danger you are in is like never before,” Gaius says darkly. “Aredian will not stop until he
finds the sorcerer, and I might not be able to protect you.”

This would not have happened if Merlin had not been so reckless, the thought is like bitter acid,
burning his insides as it traverses through his organs.

“I just wanted to use magic for myself for once. It hurts, to keep it all bottled inside,” Merlin
admits, staring at the floor so he doesn’t have to face Gaius’ disappointment. He doesn’t think he
could stand the physician’s displeasure on top of his own.

To his surprise Gaius mollifies at the words with a heavy sigh.

“No one understands that more than I do, Merlin, but you must be more careful.”

Merlin nods roughly, looking up at Gaius’ anxious expression.

“I really am sorry,” Merlin’s voice comes out weak and nervous, a testament to the guilt building
inside him.

“I know my boy. I can only hope nothing comes of this.”

~-~-~

Morgana shakes as she watches the Witchfinder’s creaking coach clatter through Camelot’s gates.
It arrives in the dead of night, under the blanket of darkness like a harbinger of evil. The carriage is
coated in rust and completely constructed of iron, it clangs and rattles as it rolls over the cobbled
streets. Whips and shackles hang from the sides, clattering whenever the carriage rolls over a rock
or stone, like a prisoner shaking their chains.

Morgana watches his entire progression into the citadel with her breath caught in her throat. She’s
trembling so badly that she feels like she might collapse. Her heart is clamouring in her chest like a
flighty bird desperate to break free from the cage that is her ribs. She clutches the windowsill to
keep herself steady so Gwen won’t notice how furiously her hands are shaking.
“Is that him?” Gwen asks, coming to stand behind Morgana. She is so close that her chin is almost
resting on Morgana’s shoulder; she can feel the warmth of her skin, smell the sweetness of her
perfume. Morgana takes comfort in the gentle brushes of her sleeves against Morgana’s, letting the
closeness ease the stiffness of her shoulders.

“Yes,” she answers in a tone barely louder than a whisper.

The Witchfinder steps from his coach and glances around the streets cooly. Just the sight of him
brings a chill to the summer air. He scours the street like a wild hound sniffing out vulnerable prey.
Morgana’s dinner rolls uncomfortably in her gut.

“What is that cage for?” Gwen asks with a frown in her voice.

Morgana’s throat squeezes and her head swims. Her mind conjures a horrifying array of all the
ways she could be detained in that cage. Tortured, dead, or worse.

“It hardly bears thinking about,” she manages.

Gwen nods and squeezes her arm reassuringly. Though she doesn’t understand Morgana’s fear she
recognises her distress, and the small touch of kindness is enough to make Morgana’s eyes prick
with tears.

The Witchfinder looks up at them in the window. His soulless eyes meet Morgana’s like a hook
catching in a fish’s throat, she gasps and recoils in fear. She could have sworn in those cold eyes
she saw her own death already planned.

~-~-~

Merlin sits across from Aredian in his chambers, sweating through his tunic as he waits for the
questioning to commence. While Aredian had expressed he simply wanted to ‘ask Merlin a few
questions’, Merlin thinks he should call it what it is: an interrogation.

It’s impossible to appear nonchalant in the face of an interrogation with the Witchfinder. Merlin is
focusing so hard on trying to appear normal that he is probably only making himself look more
suspicious. His spine is rigid, his arms are dead weights by his side and he has to put his elbow on
his knee to keep it from bouncing.

Aredian let him into the room at least five minutes ago but hasn’t spoken a word since. He leaves
Merlin in his own thoughts. Stewing, squirming and sweating, until it’s taking all of Merlin’s
willpower not to wriggle in his seat, and then, finally, Aredian looks up.

“You are aware that sorcery has been practised in the vicinity of Camelot?” Aredian says, looking
down at his parchment. He dips his quill into a hollowed out skull — because of course the man
has a skull for an ink well — and scribbles something at the top of the page.

“Yes,” Merlin answers too quickly and backtracks. “I mean apparently. Supposedly.”

Aredian glances up. “It cannot be denied, there was a witness.”

Merlin bites his cheek to keep from scowling. He knows he shouldn’t have risked performing
magic like that, but he also can’t help but blame the woman for being a tattling coward and landing
Merlin in this mess.

“Yes I know,” he says stiffly.

Aredian continues to jot down information in what seems to be an illegible script even if Merlin
weren’t attempting to read it upside down.

“Do you also know that the woman named you as a witness?”

Merlin’s heart forgets to beat for a moment. “B-but… but I wasn’t a witness.”

Aredian raises an eyebrow, and there is cold amusement in his gaze as he preys upon Merlin like a
hound at the barest hint of blood, it’s enough to send a chill down Merlin’s spine.

“Hm perhaps I misheard,” Aredian says with the clarity of someone who knows they made no
error. “Do you deny that you were present at the time of the incident?”

Merlin flounders, feeling like a fish thrust upon the shore.

“No, I was there.”

“So you saw the horse conjured from smoke?”

“I saw the smoke,” Merlin corrects, clenching his teeth until he doesn’t feel like he will be able to
pry them apart again. “But it was only smoke.”

“So you are suggesting this woman lied to her King and the court?” Aredian muses, his mouth
twisting in wry amusement as he taps a nail against the desk, with each anxiety provoking tap
Merlin feels his heart thud against his chest.

As much as Merlin harbours a hatred for this woman he does not wish death upon her — just a
good kick would do nicely — and he knows that is what an accusation of perjury will result in.

“I didn’t say she lied,” he scrambles to amend the confusion. “I just said that I didn’t see what she
did.”

Aredian folds his hands on the table and peers at Merlin in interest.

“Well that is confusing. How can that be, I wonder? How can one person see one thing but the
other not?” He muses, waiting for Merlin to provide the answer for him.

Merlin swallows and forces himself to keep a pleasant expression.

“I can’t explain it.”

Aredian chuckles good humouredly. “Nor can I.”

“Unless it was you who performed the magic,” he says pensively.

Merlin’s breath catches in his throat. The sentence catches him off guard and it’s all he can do to
not react. His nails dig into the flesh of his thighs but he manages to keep himself steady.

“It wasn’t,” he replies with a more even tone than he expected.

Aredian raises his eyebrows disbelievingly and hums.

“Can you prove that it wasn’t?” He asks with a cold knowingness.

Merlin’s stomach wrings itself like a wet cloth. He can taste bile in the back of his throat.
“No.”

Aredian seems unsurprised, and a cruel smile quirks at the corners of his lips as he returns to his
parchment.

“That will be all,” he dismisses Merlin without looking up.

Merlin staggers to his feet with the uncomfortable feeling that this interrogation went very poorly.

Aredian waits until Merlin’s hand is on the door handle before adding, “for now.”

~-~-~

Aredian calls witnesses before the King to speak of their encounters with sorcery. Three people, all
pale faced and shaking so violently one would assume they were in the middle of winter. They tell
Uther of the images they saw. Faces screaming from the bottom of the well, a goblin dancing in the
coals of their hearth, a sorcerer with toads jumping from his mouth as he laughed maniacally.

Merlin sees Gaius look at him from the corner of his eye and shakes his head imperceptibly.

“I didn’t do anything,” he promises in a whisper.

“So you see,” Aredian booms, pointing at the shaken women dramatically. “Even now, magic
flourishes on the streets of Camelot.”

“I scarcely believe it,” Uther says in a distraught tone.

“Yet it is the truth, my Lord.” Aredian paces before the King, milking every bit of attention the
room bestows upon him.

The court glance amongst each other, a sea of anxious faces all looking back and forth like the
sorcerer might be standing over their shoulder. It’s appalling to see how entrenched terror is
amongst the people, to see how Uther has sown seeds of distrust all throughout the kingdom and
how they have flowered into something so paranoid.

“Do you have a suspect?” Uther asks hopefully.

“I do not,” Aredian says.

While Uther sinks into his throne in disappointment, Merlin exhales in relief.

“I do not suspect anything. I know exactly who the sorcerer is,” Aredian corrects with a smug
smile.

“And I regret to say they stand among us in this very room,” Aredian says with a sly smile that
makes Merlin’s stomach coil. Aredian relishes in the titters of nervousness that hums through the
room like he enjoys the anxiety he creates. He probably does. The man has a penchant for
dramatics worse than Uther.

“My methods are infallible and my findings are incontestable. The evidence points to one person,
and one person alone,” Aredian announces, whirling around to point at Merlin.

“The boy, Merlin!”

In the devastating silence one could have heard a butterfly flap its wings. Merlin is sure his
pounding heart is audible to the entire room as it crashes against his chest in deafening booms. It
almost doesn’t feel real. This is a nightmare, his worst nightmare come to life. Every person in the
room turns to look at him, he can feel their eyes on him.

Arthur is the one to break the silence, because of course he is.

“Merlin?” He repeats incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”

Merlin bites down hard on his cheek to keep himself from reacting. His knuckles are white as he
grips the edge of his tunic behind his back, and even then it doesn’t disguise their horrible tremor.
His knees ache with the effort of keeping himself standing even as his legs buckle with fear.

“This is outrageous! You have no evidence,” Gaius says in his defence. Merlin hopes he is the only
one who can hear the fear in his voice.

Aredian scoffs dismissively. “The tools of magic cannot be hidden from me.”

He turns back to the King with a dark look.

“I am certain that a thorough search of the boy’s chambers will deliver us all we need,” he says
confidently.

Merlin’s stomach sinks when no one comes to his defence. He wonders if the air in the room is
actually growing thin or if it’s his own inability to draw a breath that is making his lungs ache.

“Merlin?” Uther prompts. He thinks it might be the first time the King has ever actually said his
name. It only adds gravity to Aredian’s accusation, piling unbearable weight into the base of
Merlin’s belly.

“I have nothing to hide,” Merlin forces the words out of his dry throat.

Uther nods. “Very well. Guards, restrain the boy. Let the search begin.”

Merlin bites down on his tongue until he tastes blood to keep from fighting the guards’ tight hold
as they seize his shoulders.

“Father—” Arthur begins to protest but stops as Merlin sends him a pointed look.

Merlin hopes that Gaius found a decent hiding spot for the grimoire. He really doesn’t fancy the
pyre.

~-~-~

Arthur watches as his knights tear into Gaius and Merlin’s chambers. They pull books from the
shelves, upend tables, smash jars, canisters and bottles until the floor is littered with smashed glass.
Gaius protests as they go, trying to protect valuable items and brewing tinctures.

“There’s nothing here Aredian,” Arthur insists on Merlin’s behalf. The whole situation is frankly
ridiculous. There is no scenario in which Merlin could be harbouring powerful magical abilities.
He’s all knobby elbows, big ears and dopey smiles. If magic is as evil as Arthur’s father would
have him believe (he pointedly doesn't think about Will, or Anhora) then there isn’t a bone in
Merlin’s body cruel enough to wield it.

Arthur is almost tempted to thrust Merlin in front of Aredian and say ‘would you just look at him?’.

Leon smashes a powder jar and a gleaming cuffed bracelet falls from the pile of dust. An amber
coloured jewel is set into the cuff and it glitters in the morning light. The entire room stops to stare
at it, but Aredian only smirks knowingly.

“An amulet of enchantment,” he drawls, plucking it from the dust and blowing away the excess
smugly.

Arthur steps forward to get a closer look at the amulet. He waits for someone to tell him this is a
strange joke. This situation is impossible, so much so that Arthur doesn’t dare believe it. The idea
that Merlin — clumsy, idiotic and frankly scrawny, Merlin — could ever be a sorcerer is
inconceivable.

“Were you aware, physician, that your assistant harbours instruments of sorcery?” Aredian pushes
when Gaius says nothing.

Gaius’ eyebrows furrow heavily. “No.”

“Well, our work is done,” Aredian shrugs, still smiling in a self satisfied way. Arthur wants to
punch him in his face for daring to smile at a time like this. “I must inform the king.”

His father. Oh God, Arthur’s father would send Merlin to the pyre without a second of hesitation.
His kindling will be lit before Arthur can protest. He can’t move, even as Aredian and his knights
begin to exit the physician’s chambers, Arthur is stuck in place. Once again he is faced with the
unbearable prospect of losing Merlin and he’s powerless to stop it. What is the point of being a
prince if he can’t even protect people that matter to him?

“Aredian,” Gaius says, drawing Arthur’s attention along with the Witchfinder. “I know for certain
that the amulet does not belong to Merlin.”

Aredian smiles bemusedly. “Oh? Who does it belong to then?”

Gaius takes a deep breath. Arthur can see his mind working and considering, weighing something
Arthur can’t hope to decipher.

“It belongs to me.”

Arthur’s heart sinks as Aredian smiles.

~-~-~

The door to Merlin’s cell swings open and his head snaps up. The movement makes his head spin
and his breakfast rise in his throat. Aredian’s accusation of sorcery has resulted in his
imprisonment in a dungeon designed especially for sorcerers. It has the same stone paving and
cold air as the other cells, but that is where the similarities cease. Sorcerers are not offered the
luxury of a pile of straw to sleep on, nor a window to catch a glimpse of light. The front wall is
lined with iron bars instead of the typical steel and Merlin has pushed himself against the far wall
to keep away from them. Even still their potency is still strong enough to ring in his teeth, it
unnervingly resembles the harrowing pain that lingers after a punch to the mouth, leaving a tender
bruised ache around his gums. In the corner are ice cold iron shackles which thankfully they didn’t
strap him in, Merlin is grateful for that much.

Arthur is standing in the doorway with an unreadable expression on his face. The terrified feeling
that has been clawing at Merlin’s chest settles at the sight of Arthur.

“You’re free to go,” Arthur says stiffly.

He is trying to appear detached but Merlin can see through the guarded expression to the hidden
warmth in his eyes. He’s relieved that Merlin is being set free; but there’s something else there too.
A nervousness that Merlin doesn’t understand.

“I’m being released?” Merlin says, hardly daring to believe Arthur. He has seen what Uther
becomes when he’s presented with the allure of sorcery. He is vicious like a wild dog on the brink
of starvation, he tears into the first weak prey in sight mercilessly.

Arthur nods, reaching out a hand and helping Merlin to his feet.

“Come on,” he tips his head. “We need to go.”

There’s urgency under Arthur’s voice, like he’s spurring Merlin from the room. Merlin frowns. He
knows what Arthur is like when he is relieved or relaxed, but at this moment he is neither. His
shoulders are a hard stiff line and his jaw twitches, a nervous habit Merlin has come to know well.

“What’s going on?” Merlin asks, he stumbles as Arthur leads him from the cell. The iron is still
thick and cumbersome between his bones, leaving his whole body heavy and difficult to control, he
is dizzy and weak as a baby bird thrust from its nest before it is ready to fly.

Even as the room sways and Merlin struggles to place one foot in front of the other, Arthur’s firm
grip on his elbow keeps him steady.

“There has been a… misunderstanding,” he explains vaguely. “It will all be amended I’m sure of
it.”

Merlin plants his feet in the ground, forcing them to a stop.

“What aren’t you telling me?” He demands, staring down Arthur until he crumbles with a sigh.

“We searched your chambers and found something,” Arthur explains. Merlin’s heartbeat picks up
speed as he meets Arthur’s serious expression. He’s still edging around details.

“Then why am I being released?”

Arthur hesitates but he isn’t given the chance to answer. A guard storms into the dungeons, seizing
Merlin’s shoulders and begins to pull him towards his chambers. Arthur steps back, releasing his
own hold on Merlin, but his fingers tighten for a second like he doesn’t want to let go.

Merlin trips over his feet as he’s pulled forward, still shaking and weak from the hours trapped as
the iron’s captive. He can feel Arthur watching him as he goes and wonders what he could be
thinking behind those unreadable eyes.

They have barely made it two steps down the corridor when the guards’ hands tighten around his
shoulders. He doesn’t have a chance to question why before he sees Gaius being pulled in the other
direction. The bad feeling that had been stewing in his gut corrupts into putrid acid that burns him
from the inside. His heart sinks into the base of his stomach and pounds, sending fear coursing
through his veins.

“Gaius what—” Merlin starts to say but they are pulled past each other.

“Say nothing Merlin! Do nothing!” Gaius shouts over his shoulder back at Merlin. He can hear the
terror in the man’s voice, but it is impossible to tell whether he is concerned for Merlin or for
himself.

Merlin struggles, jerking in the guards’ strong grip as they force him down the corridor, leaving
Gaius far behind. Merlin wouldn’t be strong enough to fight them even in his normal state, but he
tries all the same the entire way to his chambers, attempting to heave his way back to Gaius. They
toss him away like he’s dirty into Gwen’s waiting arms, as she squeezes him tight to her in a strong
hug he can feel her tremble.

“Oh Merlin!”

Gwen’s touch is a comfort in the face of the confusion attacking Merlin’s mind, but he can’t revel
in it for long.

“Gwen,” Merlin says, pulling away and holding her by the shoulders so they’re eye to eye. “What
happened?”

Gwen’s deep brown eyes are shining with tears as she explains. Despair rushes through Merlin the
more that she reveals, every word chips away at the strings holding his heart in place until it
hurtles plummeting to his feet.

He had thought he was doomed when the Witchfinder accused him. Even if they didn’t discover
the Grimoire, he is certain that Aredian would have found a way to prove Merlin’s guilt. It
wouldn’t be difficult given that he is guilty of practising sorcery. He never considered that when
the knights searched their chambers, something of Gaius’ would be found. He didn’t even know
Gaius had kept such things.

With horror digging its claws into his heart he realises that in the face of such evidence, there is no
chance Gaius will avoid being sentenced with sorcery.

He will die.

~-~-~

Arthur tries to focus on the plans that detail the new grain repurposing system but it’s impossible
with Merlin hovering in his chambers. He’s moving around Arthur’s room sluggishly, completing
each task at a pace even slower than his usual leisurely pace.

Arthur watches as Merlin takes a rag and dips it into the bucket of soapy water and proceeds to
scrub it over the ground. He completes two lathers successfully before his shoulders start to shake.
His back is to Arthur but Arthur can hear the soft sounds of him whimpering and he realises with
horror that Merlin is crying.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, crossing the room quickly and kneeling down beside his manservant.

Merlin refuses to meet his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Sire,” Merlin replies unconvincingly as he swipes at the tears trickling down his cheeks.

“Well that’s obviously not true.” Arthur settles onto the floor beside Merlin, close enough that if he
reached out he could touch him. He hesitates, unsure whether to reach out, or whether he should
say something. If he says something he isn’t sure what the appropriate thing would be.

Eventually he settles on, “it’s going to be okay.”

Merlin swallows roughly. “Yeah,” he replies in a hollow tone, like he doesn’t believe himself. He
sniffles and looks up at Arthur. His cheeks are pale and the red rims of his eyes contrast with the
heavy bags below them which are so deep they are beginning to purple.
“God Merlin you look horrible,” Arthur says, aghast as he takes in the sight of Merlin’s sickly
pallor.

Merlin huffs without amusement. “Thanks,” he says sarcastically. “You always know just what to
say.”

Arthur winces internally. God he’s bad at this.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says apologetically. “I just meant— did you sleep at all last night?”

Merlin hesitates. “Yes?” He says unconvincingly.

“For longer than an hour,” Arthur corrects himself with a pointed glare.

Merlin’s shoulders sag. “Barely,” he admits quietly.

The exhaustion is obvious in the slump of his back and the bow of his head as he avoids Arthur’s
eyes.

“Merlin,” Arthur sighs.

Merlin doesn’t say anything and returns to washing the floor.

“Merlin,” Arthur says again. “Take the rest of the day off, get some rest.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin insists, despite the tears steadily dripping down his cheeks. He continues to
scrub at the floor with more vigour than necessary, interrupting himself every few scrubs to swipe
irritatedly at the streams of tears.

“You’re not fine,” Arthur argues. “It’s going to be…”

Arthur pauses, he wants to tell Merlin it will all be alright, but how can he console him when he
knows Gaius has been sentenced to torture in order to prove his innocence? Arthur always has
wondered what would happen if someone close to Uther was proven to wield magic. If, maybe, he
could find it within himself to forgive that person. Now it seems he has his answer.

Arthur changes tact. “I believe in Gaius. He would never get mixed up in sorcery. So, it will all be
okay.”

Merlin’s face spasms in a wince that blends into a small sob that he hastily covers.

“Right, of course, Sire,” Merlin says shakily, still scrubbing the floor.

“For God’s sake Merlin would you stop that?” Arthur says putting his hand on Merlin’s and
forcing him to stop. “Take the rest of the day off. That’s not a request.”

Merlin finally meets his eyes again, flint and steel clash together in those bright blue irises as he
glares at Arthur.

“And what if I don’t want to?”

“You need to. Take the day off, get some rest.”

Merlin scowls.

“That’s an order, Merlin,” Arthur adds when it seems like Merlin might try to argue further.
“Fine,” Merlin hisses, throwing his rag into the bucket with a splash.

“Good.” Arthur nods, unsure how to proceed.

Merlin does it for him by snapping to his feet and storming from the room, the bucket in his grasp
trailing splashes of water as he stomps out. Arthur watches his retreating back with worry
weighting in his stomach like a heavy stone. He can’t go after him, Merlin needs time to himself
and anyhow, he wouldn’t know what to say to help. Still, he feels like he should be doing
something, anything.

He can only hope that the day off gives Merlin some respite, it’s as much as he is able to offer.

~-~-~

Merlin barely lasts a few hours alone in his chambers. He knows Arthur is right and that he needs
to rest, but he can’t sleep knowing Gaius is practically steps away from execution.

It has been a very long time since he felt as alone as he does lying in his bed trying to fall asleep.
The oppressive emptiness of their chambers is uncomfortably obvious as he tosses and turns. The
silence presses in on Merlin. It is never quiet in their rooms, even when Gaius isn’t here his
presence is usually audible. Merlin can always hear the sound of bubbling tinctures in cauldrons,
the crackle of the fire as a potion boils; and when Gaius returns there is a quiet hum of noise in the
background as he moves around. His absence is obvious, and oppressive. Merlin can’t stand it.

He gives up on trying to rest and makes his way towards The Dragon’s cavern beneath the castle.
Rest be damned, he needs to do something to fix this.

The Dragon regards him with intrigue as he enters. He peers at Merlin with narrowed great yellow
eyes, which wield simultaneously more knowledge than Merlin could hope for, and curiosity for
the unknown. Usually Merlin would be irked by being regarded with such patronisation, he usually
hates the sense that he is nothing more than entertainment; but today he doesn’t care, so long as the
great creature will help him.

“What is wrong, young warlock? You look so pale,” The Dragon asks, looking down at Merlin.

“I did a stupid thing. A stupid, stupid thing,” Merlin says. His throat aches with the pressure of a
sob he refuses to release. “And now Gaius is going to die.”

The Dragon’s scales eyebrows lift.

“Gaius means nothing to me,” he replies in an unbothered tone.

Anger rushes through Merlin in a wave and expels out of him in sparks around his head. He
struggles to wrangle his magic back inside him while his fury stokes the flame.

“But he means a great deal to me.”

The Dragon sighs with a weighty air of reluctance.

“Very well,” he relents. “Tell me what has happened.”

Merlin swallows and his anger dissipates, leaving behind only the bitter sting of guilt and the
hollow ache of grief.

“A witchfinder has come,” he croaks. “He has accused Gaius of sorcery but I was the one who
performed magic.” His voice catches, “I am the reason he was in Camelot.”

“I see,” The Dragon says thoughtfully, tipping his head at Merlin. “And what do you intend to do
about it?”

Merlin resists the urge to scream ‘that’s why I need your help’ because if he’s honest he has
already decided what he wants to do. He only came to The Dragon because without Gaius, he is the
only being that Merlin can talk to about this kind of thing.

“I’m going to confess,” he says decisively.

“Then your stupidity perseveres,” The Dragon scorns.

Merlin’s chest goes cold. “I won’t sacrifice someone I love to save myself.”

“Bravely spoken,” The Dragon praises, but it sounds more patronising than anything else. “But
Gaius is already doomed. If you confess, Uther will just burn you both.”

The truth of his words impales Merlin like a sword; but he can’t accept it.

“But it’s my fault. Don’t you understand that?”

The Dragon is slow to answer but there is pain in his voice when he does.

“I do, young warlock. More than you can know.”

Merlin is sharply reminded that The Dragon is the last of his kind. He can’t imagine living with
that kind of guilt day after day, in a huge cavern with nothing but his own thoughts to entertain
himself. He thinks that such a fate would destroy him.

“But understand this,” The Dragon continues, “If you die you would endanger the lives of all those
who rely upon you.”

Camelot. Arthur. The lives of all the magical community that one day will be allowed to flourish.
The pressure is unbearable, all Merlin wants is to protect the people he loves and he can’t even do
that. Gaius is going to die, because of him. How can he be expected to bring about such a glorious
future when he can’t even keep his loved ones safe?

His eyes well with tears, he inhales sharply to keep them at bay.

“There must be something I can do,” Merlin says desperately. “There must be. Please, help me.”

The Dragon’s eyes soften as he frowns. “Merlin,” he says softly. His tone is more genuine than
Merlin has ever heard before. “I see you are distressed by this.”

Merlin’s chest heaves as he struggles not to cry, grappling for a breath to fill his waterlogged lungs.

“But I cannot help you, because I do not know how to,” The Dragon says slowly.

Merlin shakes his head.

“I can’t just stand by and watch Gaius die,” he shouts. “I can’t.”

The Dragon bows his great head shamefully and nods.

“I am sorry.”
~-~-~

Merlin stands in what is left of Gaius’ treasured chambers following the knights’ ransacking. The
entire space is torn apart, tables have been left upturned, there are chairs strewn across the room
and shattered glass littering the floor amidst the wreckage of torn books and destroyed potions and
medicines left to congeal against the floorboards. It is the decimated relic of what was once a
comfortable home.

Merlin has walked through the room multiple times since Gaius was arrested, but after speaking to
The Dragon the sight of it is too much. The sob he has been holding in bubbles in his throat and
claws its way out. He can’t hold back anymore, the grief he kept locked inside spills through his
defences and escapes.

He covers his mouth to catch the first sob, but the second bubbles through as his shoulders begin to
shake. Hot tears stream down his face. They’re salty, and bitter with the guilt that corrodes his
insides; it breaks down his lungs until they are useless. His chest heaves as he struggles to inhale
but each breath is impossible to trap in his lungs. His shoulders shudder as he gasps weakly and the
air empties out of him.

His hands grapple at his chest as it attempts to concave in on itself. His sobs catch the wind around
him and spurs it into a roar, catching the dust in the room, flicking at the pages of books as they
are torn from the shelves. It whistles in his ears as the breezes turn to heavy gusts, whipping into a
gale of his own making.

He has never felt so alone. Gaius is gone, The Dragon can’t assist him, no one else knows that
Merlin is responsible. He can tell no one, and can receive no help. He is entirely alone and it’s his
own fault. Now more than ever he is desperate for the arms of someone trusted to fall into. His
body is made from paper thin glass, threatening to erode and crack under the force of the wind that
tears through his hair.

He needs to calm down, anyone could walk in and see him like this. He hiccups and chokes on the
sobs erupting out of him as he tries frantically to inhale. He can’t steady himself, and the wind only
grows worse. Gaius would know what to do, he would be able to soothe him with comforting
strokes of his hair and gentle words. He understands Merlin like no one else in Camelot. The
thought doesn’t help to console Merlin now.

He has sentenced the man he loves like a father to die.

For all that counts Merlin might as well have built Gaius’ pyre himself, lit the match and watched
him burn.

He gasps an apology to the empty room and presses his forehead to the cold stone floor. His arms
wrap around himself in semblance of the comforting hug he could be receiving if Gaius were there.

“I’m so sorry.”

He sobs until there is nothing left in him to exhaust. The wind eventually dies down as Merlin’s
magic tires itself and he is so worn out that his pain can no longer fight its way out of him.

He manages to pull himself to Gaius’ bed, crying silently into the thin pillow that smells like
familiar herbs and spices.

~-~-~

Gaius can feel his exhaustion in every nerve and muscle of his body. He is weak in every muscle,
even the small tendons of his little finger are feeble, down to the sinew in his toes. Trying to
breathe is almost more effort than Gaius can stand to bear. He has never felt so tired.

Aredian’s methods of seeking out sorcery are brutal and callous. He is more ruthless than an
executioner, he takes pleasure in his torture. He lashes the prisoners with deprivation, beating and
prolonged suffering, waiting for the moment there is no strength left to deny him and then strikes
with questions worded like riddles. He leaves no sympathy for age, or lack of strength, breaking
down his victims to their core until they crack under the pressure of his demands.

Gaius has been withheld food, water, sleep. He is existing on the remnants of life, the scraps
Aredian allows him to try and salvage on. It isn’t enough. He will soon die, regardless of whether
or not he submits and willingly steps up to the pyre.

He hasn’t slept in what must be days. Every time his eyes slip closed Aredian or a guard will throw
icy water in his face. He can feel the ache of sleep deprivation under his eyelids, pressing into his
skull like knives. His tongue is heavy, and it sticks to the roof of his mouth, he manages to wet his
lips with a few stray drops from the water in his face but it isn’t enough. Nothing could be enough.
Gaius thinks at this moment he could empty a well and still not be satiated. His bones have never
felt so brittle, every movement is agony, but it hardly matters because he doesn’t even bother
moving unless Aredian forces him.

A guard had left to relieve himself and Gaius was able to seize a few minutes of sleep when
Aredian wakes him.

“Are you ready to confess?” He asks in a derisive voice.

Gaius is too exhausted to open his eyes to look at the man or lift his head.

“I would rather die first.”

“Good,” Aredian says pleased. “And die you shall.”

Gaius thinks that perhaps death would be more merciful than what he is suffering.

“But,” Aredian continues, “I am pleased to say that you won’t be alone. You shall have company.”

That catches Gaius’ attention like a fish hook.

“What?”

“Merlin and the Lady Morgana are to join you in the flames,” Aredian says gleefully, his lips
curling back over his teeth in a sneer.

Gaius’ heart seizes. “No.” He manages to drag his head up to look at Aredian, horror thick in his
throat like tar. The image of Merlin tied to a pyre, a captive in the flames as he struggles against the
bonds, brands Gaius’ mind. He feels his throat close on a sob he can’t form. He won’t let that
happen, no matter what the cost. Aredian smirks, pleased by the reaction he is able to elicit.

“This is a trick,” Gaius says, desperately trying to convince himself.

Aredian shakes his head with a taunting pout.

“You’ve corrupted them and they must answer to their king,” Aredian says simply, shrugging as if
to say ‘what can you do?’. Gaius’ stomach squeezes like he might vomit and then remembers there
is nothing in him to retch and he is left simply heaving for air.
“Unless…” Aredian prompts, raising his eyebrows.

A sinking feeling falls over Gaius.

“Unless what?”

~-~-~

Arthur’s spine is a hard rigid line against his throne as he watches Aredian enter alongside Gaius’
frail body being dragged between two guards to the front of the room. He swallows the desire to
urge them to be more careful with the man. He wants to demand them to be gentle, to allow the old
man to rest his injured and aching body. Arthur knows he can’t do that under the circumstances, so
he grits his jaw and clenches his fists until he can feel his fingernails in his bones.

Gaius is thrust to his knees before the King’s feet.

“Confess!” Aredian roars, grabbing Gaius’ shoulder and forcing him to look up at the King. Arthur
bites down on his cheek until he can taste blood.

Gaius ignores Aredian shaking his body, instead closing his eyes as one would before saying a
prayer and takes a deep breath. While the entire court waits with their breath caught in the air,
Gaius does not say a word, instead he looks back over his shoulder. It is obvious to everyone that
he is looking to Merlin. Arthur’s heart clenches at Merlin’s tear filled eyes as he meets the
physician’s gaze.

He watches as Gaius’ shoulders slump in resignation and he turns back to the royal family.

“I am a sorcerer, Sire,” he confesses, his voice booming around the court as every member holds
their breath. “I am responsible for conjuring the smoke; and I am guilty of practising magic in
Camelot.”

Horror rises in Arthur like vomit. He can hardly believe what he is hearing. He can’t stomach the
idea that Gaius would do such a thing. He has always been a member of Arthur’s family. Arthur
knows he once practised magic, but surely he cares too much for Uther and for Camelot to break
such a law now? There is something terribly wrong about the whole situation.

He knows what comes next. What should come next, he reminds himself; but he can’t help but
think of the hole that will be left that Gaius once filled. It seems wrong that Camelot would exist
without Gaius. A new court physician would be appointed, but no one could fill the space in
Arthur’s life. No one could be what Gaius was to Morgana. What he was to Merlin.

Shit. Arthur glances over at Merlin. The expression on his face is devastating. He is pallid and
white, visibly trembling as he stares at Gaius like his world is crumbling before his eyes. After a
moment he glances at Arthur almost desperately, his blue eyes brimming with tears. It is possibly
the worst thing Arthur has ever seen.

Uther stands and captures the room’s attention. Arthur’s eyes stay on Merlin.

“You have betrayed me, Gaius,” Uther says, staring down at Gaius. Nothing about the scene is
conceivable. Gaius has always been a pillar of wisdom and stability in Arthur’s life and to see him
now, quivering and weak at the King’s feet, is impossible to stomach.

“You’ve betrayed your kingdom, but mostly, you’ve betrayed yourself.”

Uther looks away like the sight of Gaius sickens him.

“Much as it pains me, your failure, and your treason cannot go unpunished. By the laws of Camelot
I must sentence you…” Uther hesitates. It is the most conflicted Arthur has ever seen him
regarding a sentence of sorcery. For a second he lets himself hope that maybe his father will show
mercy.

He should have known it was a pointless thing to hope.

“To death.”

Aredian seizes the sentence like a child gleefully receiving a gift. He grins and thrusts his arms
open wide, a performer basking in the light of his stage, he revels in the attention.

“The sorcerer will be purged of his magic by means of fire!” He announces to the court and the
words reverberate from every corner of the room.

The bottom of Arthur’s stomach falls away but he ignores the sickening sensation, looking instead
at Merlin. His expression flickers through horror, distress and shock as Gaius is dragged from the
room, before finally settling on incandescent rage when he looks at Aredian.

Arthur is launching out of his throne before Merlin has even begun to advance on the Witchfinder.
He grabs Merlin around his waist, hauling him back and away from Aredian.

“You’re a liar!” Merlin cries over Arthur’s shoulder, resisting Arthur’s hold on him with clenched
fists and a furious growl. “A liar!”

Arthur hears his father call for the guards but he waves them off with a shake of his head.

“I’ll handle this,” he assures them and pulls Merlin from the room.

Merlin resists him all the way to the dungeons. Arthur ignores his fists beating at Arthur’s back
and toes kicking sharply at Arthur’s legs. He hisses and stumbles as Merlin manages to strike the
painful joint of his ankle but he doesn’t stop walking.

“Stop it,” he finally orders, as he pushes Merlin off him in the dungeon hallway.

Merlin glares icily at Arthur, his eyes dark and his chest heaving with exertion, he looks utterly
furious, like he could tear down the world in a heartbeat, and for a moment Arthur believes he
could.

Arthur easily catches the punch Merlin throws and twists his arm behind his back so he can’t
attack further. It reminds him of the day they met. Merlin hasn’t grown much stronger since then
and Arthur can still easily overpower him. Physically at least.

“Alright,” he says firmly, “I know you’re upset. I know you’re angry. You have every right to be,
but calm down.”

Merlin struggles against his hold, scowling viciously and bristling like a cornered animal.

“I’m not going to arrest you,” Arthur promises.

“Then what are you doing?” Merlin asks, malice sharp in his words.

Arthur releases Merlin abruptly, letting him stumble forward. “Breaking the law.”

He can’t really believe he’s doing this as he unlocks the door to Gaius’ cell, nor when he tells
Merlin, “I can only give you a few minutes.”
But the risk is worth it for the sight of Merlin slumping gratefully into Gaius’ arms with a relieved
noise. The sight of them in a tight embrace, and Merlin happy for the first time in days, soothes
something within Arthur.

He steps down the hall to give them some privacy.

It’s not as much as he wants to offer. It won’t do much in the face of Gaius’ looming execution.
Arthur can only hope it helps to ease Merlin’s pain somewhat.

~-~-~

“They wouldn’t let me see you,” Merlin says shakily, pressing his forehead into the warmth of
Gaius’ shoulder and shuddering. “There was nothing I could do.”

“I know,” Gaius murmurs, rubbing Merlin’s back comfortingly. “I understand, it’s alright Merlin.”

“It’s not alright,” Merlin sobs, his tears soak into the threadbare fabric of Gaius’ tunic. Now that he
has Gaius within reach the idea of losing him is all the more worse. He can’t stand the thought of
never holding him close again, never breathing in the scent of spices or hearing the low measured
tone of exasperation he is so often subject to. The thought is akin to cleaving his heart from his
chest, he couldn’t possibly continue to survive after enduring it.

Gaius shushes him gently, and squeezes him tight.

“I can’t believe Uther would do this to you,” Merlin says in a choked voice, pulling away. He
knows they don’t have long so he forces the words out around his tears.

Gaius sighs, patting Merlin’s cheek fondly.

“There wasn’t much that could be done,” he says with a frown. “Once Aredian found that
amulet…”

“I didn’t even know you had such a thing.”

Gaius shakes his head. “It isn’t mine.”

Merlin freezes, confusion rattling in his brain. His stomach twists uncomfortably, stewing with
disorientation as he tries to fathom what Gaius is saying.

“I don’t understand,” he says, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to fathom the situation. “Why did you
say it was yours?”

“I was trying to protect you,” Gaius replies without hesitation.

Merlin’s eyes sting with tears. No one but his mother has ever loved him so unwaveringly. No one
would care enough to risk himself body and soul, on the small chance it might work to keep Merlin
safe.

He chooses to focus on the issue at hand rather than the overwhelming feelings bubbling in his
chest, for fear of falling into incomprehensible sobbing and wasting what could be his last
moments with Gaius.

“But the amulet isn’t mine either,” he tells Gaius.

Gaius’ eyebrow creeps to his hairline. “Then how did it get there?”
Merlin considers their chambers, so few people have access to the rooms when Gaius isn’t present.
Gaius and Merlin clean the rooms themselves, they both sleep there and prepare the meals, it
would have to be someone within the royal family, or someone who was performing the search.

“Aredian,” Merlin speaks his realisation out loud. Hope begins to bloom in his chest, stretching its
face towards the peeking sunlight.

“Aredian?”

“It’s the only explanation,” Merlin murmurs, already turning over ways he can sneak into
Aredian’s chambers to search for evidence.

“But why?” Gaius asks and Merlin shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter why. All that matters is if I can prove he planted it, you’re saved.”

He expects Gaius’ face to brighten, to help Merlin to form a plan and grasp onto the thin strand of
hope Merlin is fostering with both hands, but Gaius shocks him.

“No,” he says firmly. “You must let this go.”

Merlin stammers, horrified at what Gaius is saying.

“But you were falsely accused, I have a chance to prove that. I must take that chance,” he says
desperately.

Gaius takes his hand between his own aged palms and squeezes reassuringly.

“No, Merlin. You must not.”

Merlin takes a shaky breath, his eyes are red and stinging with tears as he looks at the face of his
mentor.

“I don’t understand,” he murmurs. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Do you want to die?”

“No,” Gaius replies immediately. “But I don’t want you to die; and die you surely will if you get
too close to Aredian.”

“But—” Merlin tries to protest, but Gaius doesn’t allow him.

“You must let this go.”

Merlin can hear the words unsaid in Gaius’ urgent plea. They scratch and tear at his heart and rib
cage until Merlin is red with blood and aching with the burden of unshed tears.

“I must let you go,” he translates quietly.

Gaius sighs heavily, but nods. His age is evident for the first time since the day they met. He is
usually so bright for a man of his age, full of confidence and strength that assures one that he is
stronger than most. In this dank cell, with bedraggled hair and a thin tunic, he looks weak. It breaks
the last pieces of Merlin’s already fragile heart.

He leans forward into Gaius’ arms again and holds him tight. Even in what could be his final
moments Gaius is focused on ensuring that Merlin is safe and okay.

Merlin doesn’t promise to stay away from Aredian. He won’t lie to Gaius, not in a moment so
precious; but he won’t succumb to the Witchfinder and surrender Gaius’ life.

~-~-~

Morgana doesn’t even wait until the room clears to storm in on Uther. From the corner of her eyes
she sees the last remaining council members scurry from the room with wide eyes as she screams,
but she doesn’t care.

“How dare you, Uther Pendragon!” Her shoulders heave, she feels her heartstrings twisting at the
thought of Gaius dying, rubbing themselves raw with the friction of her pain. “How can you do this
to Gaius?”

Uther sighs heavily, his exhaustion is obvious as he sags against his throne in a manner that is unfit
for a king. If Morgana wasn’t choking on her own rage she might have been touched by how
plainly Gaius’ sentence is affecting Uther.

“Gaius knows the law, Morgana. He brought this sentence upon himself.”

“He has done nothing wrong!”

“He practised sorcery,” Uther rebuts with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

Morgana laughs, sharp and cold as a blade. “He supposedly conjured a horse from smoke, a
parlour trick that is hardly going to bring Camelot to its knees.”

Morgana’s attention is briefly snagged by Arthur reentering the room, his posture is curled on
itself like a tortoise retreating into its shell and his head is hung low, though his eyes dart between
Morgana and Uther apprehensively. Arthur enters alone, Morgana does not spare any thought to
where Merlin could be, though she does sympathise for what he must be enduring with his mentor
sentenced to death.

“It brings me no pleasure to carry out this sentence, Morgana, but I cannot afford to grow
complacent—”

“Fuck you!” Morgana shrieks, and finally Uther reacts.

He jolts upright, head slipping from his hand to stare down his nose at her. His forehead flushes red
with fury, neck muscles tensing like a barbarian about to enter a duel.

“I am your king, you will address me with the respect that I deserve.”

Morgana sneers, baring her teeth like a rabid hound trapped in a corner. “I will not respect a king
who would send his most trusted friend to the grave. Gaius has stood by your side and supported
you even when you did not deserve it and this is how you repay him.”

“As king—”

“As king you should show yourself to be merciful! Maybe then you would be beloved!” She shouts
over him.

Uther launches to his feet. “You have no idea what it means to be king, to rule a kingdom, and you
never will!”

Morgana reels back as if she were struck, she feels the sting of the words on her cheek, the gasp of
her breath catching in her throat. She gathers herself quickly, to show Uther how his vitriol affects
her would be to turn up her belly and admit weakness. She is stronger than that.

“I am right and you know it,” she hisses, forked tongue flicking around the words. “Arthur agrees
with me, don’t you?”

She turns to Arthur and is met with silence. He falters, teeth gritted and eyes wide. Arthur is a
strong person, he faces battle without the fear they warrant, he meets enemies with teeth gritted
and a glint in his eye; but against his own father he cowers, unfailingly.

It is impossible to tell by the flickering of his face whether he agrees with her or not, but she knows
he will not stand against his father. He will not be at her side when the time comes to it, and if it
were Morgana being tied to the pyre, she isn’t sure if he would stop Uther from lighting the
kindling.

The realisation strikes Morgana like the plummet off a cliff face, sudden, like gravity is claiming
her. Her stomach drops, her hands turn ice cold, the sharp bitter taste of bile hits the back of her
throat as her breakfast rises in her stomach. The entire kingdom seems to tip off kilter, she feels her
head spin as her blood turns cold with horror.

“Unbelievable,” she murmurs, stepping backwards. The clip of her heel echoes in the silent
chamber.

“You’re both cowards.”

~-~-~

Against Gaius’ best wishes, Merlin sneaks into Aredian’s chambers, although he barely manages
to discover anything that could be useful. There were piles of papers containing suspected names,
ingredients for poultices, and most concerningly, lists of methods to ‘extract the truth from
sorcerers’ which appeared to be a list of torture methods; but there is nothing that could
incriminate the Witchfinder.

The only item that made Merlin suspicious was a jar of sweet smelling flower petals. They were
bright orange in colour, and the length of Merlin’s smallest finger. He took one petal and snuck out
of the room before Aredian could catch him.

Merlin has barely lugged down Gaius’ enormous book on flora properties when Gwen bursts into
the room. Merlin flinches and just manages not to drop the book onto his toes. He carefully places
it down as Gwen runs to his side.

“He won’t stop!” She says, clutching his sleeve tight between her fingers.

“What’s happened?”

“The Witchfinder is questioning Morgana again,” Gwen says fearfully. “I’m worried about her, I
know she can’t keep going much longer.”

Merlin’s throat stings like he has swallowed a mouthful of acid, scathing down with the burn of
fury and resentment for the man who has stolen his father and now dares to attempt to take his
friend.

“That’s what he does,” he says bitterly. “He breaks you down and then in the end you confess,
whether you’re guilty or not.”

Gwen’s eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“Gaius was framed,” he explains. “Aredian planted the amulet.”

“Why would he do such a thing?” Gwen asks. Her fingers tighten their hold on the fabric of
Merlin’s jacket.

“Aredian is paid to catch sorcerers,” Merlin says, and the realisation comes to him all at once. He
paces the floor as he speaks, gesticulating wildly. “Maybe he doesn’t care whether someone is
guilty or not. Maybe, he gets confessions through deception and planting evidence.” He feels like
his mind is moving faster than his mouth can keep up with.

“Just as long as he gets them to admit their guilt. He gets his money,” he finishes, stopping in front
of Gwen and looking at her wildly.

Gwen’s eyes are huge but she believes him, he can see it in the firmness of her gaze and the trust
deeply rooted in her expression.

“But what can we do? We have no proof,” She points out, ever reasonable and responsible.

Merlin swallows. “I might have some.”

Together they pore over all of Gaius' books on flowers, medicinal herbs and plant life. They turn
pages until their fingers are numb and when Merlin closes his eyes he sees the names of flowers
under his eyelids. With every useless page his patience frays, he is wild with an itch that grows
more irritable with every passing second where Gaius’ fate grows closer to being sealed.

At one point Gwen groans, “this is hopeless.”

Merlin nods. “I know, but keep looking.”

“We don’t even know if this flower means anything.”

“No, we don’t,” Merlin agrees, looking up from the book to meet her eyes with a sort of desperate
haze. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

Gwen’s lips thin but she must see something meaningful in his expression because she nods and
keeps turning pages.

The words are a blur on the page but they continue and continue until finally Merlin finds an
illustration that he recognises.

“Gwen!” He shouts. The flower is inked with a bright paint stroke of orange that stands out against
the black printed words.

Gwen hurries to his side and peers over his shoulder at it.

“Belladonna,” Merlin reads.

“Used for treating allergies,” Gwen continues. “Merlin, this is hopeless.” Merlin shakes his head,
eyes jumping across the page as hope urges him forwards.

“No listen, ‘when combined in a tincture with Betony the flower can create powerful
hallucinations’,” he says, pointing to the line of text. His mind races to connect the pieces together.

He laughs almost disbelievingly.

“Aredian’s witnesses,” he says, looking at Gwen. “It wasn’t magic they were seeing, it was
visions.”

Gwen’s expression shifts into understanding. “It makes sense, if he’s forging the evidence. How
can we prove it?”

Merlin chews on his lip, glancing around the room like he might find an idea lurking in one of the
corners. He feels the urge to spring to his feet and run as fast as they can take him, desperate to
solve this problem as soon as possible, but he has no idea where he is going and no clear plan. He
forces himself to keep still.

“Aredian is too clever to give the tincture to them directly. They must have gotten it from someone
else.”

Gwen pulls a face. “They could have gotten it from anyone.”

Merlin feels like he’s grasping in the dark for something he knows is there, but is being pulled just
beyond the reaches of his fingertips. They trail along the edge of the idea but can’t seize hold,
falling through like the impossible act of trying to grasp smoke.

“Is there anything at all that these people had in common?” He asks almost frantically. It must be
past midnight, it feels like at any moment the sun will begin to rouse itself and stretch its rays of
light into the sky.

Gwen shakes her head. “All the witnesses were entirely different, none the same age, sex, nor
class,” she says.

Merlin can’t help but feel that there is a connection he should be seeing. Although each witness
seemed to share no similarities Merlin knows that he’s heard their names grouped together before,
but where, he isn’t sure.

He looks at the page of information they have on Belladonna, hoping it will provide some useful
information. The paragraph has not shifted since the last time he looked, but his eyes snag on one
word like a hook catching on fabric. Betony. Merlin knows the plant well, it’s a pain to harvest;
grown only on tall mountains, of which there are none close to the citadel, and that makes it rare to
seek out. Gaius made him collect some whilst he was last away with Arthur and Merlin nearly fell
off a cliff face trying to fetch some. It isn’t used often because of its scarcity, and only in a tincture
to heal an equally rare chronic knee condition.

Merlin lurches to his feet, ignoring Gwen’s questions following him as he crosses the room to
Gaius’ medical records. He flicks frantically through the pages, almost slicing his fingertips across
the paper from the speed of his rifling. He finally reaches a list of affected patients and his finger
drags along the page. His heartbeat is wild in his ears as he follows the list. One name, two, three,
they’re all here.

“I found it.”

Gwen comes behind him, looking over his shoulder at the book in abject confusion. She skims over
the page and as she finds all three names her eyes widen to the size of saucers.

“But what does this condition have to do with the hallucinations?”

“This condition is treated with a tincture of Betony,” Merlin explains hurriedly, his heart racing
with hope, “Aredian must have convinced the physician who administered their weekly medicine
to combine Belladonna in the tincture.”
“Gaius would never agree to do that.”

There is only one other physician in Camelot with the skill to create such a complicated tincture,
and to have access to a plant as rare as Betony.

“No,” Merlin agrees. “He wouldn’t.”

~-~-~

The physician lets them into his home without hesitation when he sees Gwen but eyes Merlin with
suspicion. Merlin is immensely grateful for Gwen’s kind heart, everyone is inclined to help her.

“Do you have a tincture of Betony?” Gwen asks casually as they make their way through the front
room and into his workspace.

He nods, but looks confused. “I’m sure I have some somewhere, but it won’t be much good to
you.” He pokes around through various vials and pots. Merlin fights the urge to push past him and
start hunting through the shelves, they don’t have time for slow trifling, Gaius has only hours left
at best.

He finds what he was looking for and holds it out for Gwen to take. It’s a small pot, small enough
to fit into Merlin’s palm but monumental enough to do vast damage in the wrong hands.

“You were right,” Gwen breathes, taking the pot and inspecting it.

“Does this tincture contain Belladonna?” Merlin asks bluntly, too impatient to deal with niceties.

The man immediately stiffens, his spine seizes and his eyes glance to the side to avoid Merlin’s
heavy gaze.

“That would be malpractice, and I do not appreciate the insinuation,” he says stiffly. “Now if it’s
all the same to you, I’d really like to get some sleep—” he attempts to usher them from the room
but Gwen shakes her head, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Aredian gave you Belladonna, didn’t he? He asked you to add it to the usual tincture you make.”

Sweat beads collect on the man’s brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you know that Gaius is going to be executed tomorrow?” Merlin snaps, his patience is thin
and frayed from fear.

“Yes, and I’m sorry for it, but that has nothing to do with me,” the man answers with genuine
sympathy.

“It does,” Merlin insists. “Aredian’s witnesses saw visions, visions that were produced by the
Belladonna in this tincture.”

He holds the pot up for emphasis and the stubbornness in the man’s stance weakens to allow real
guilt to peek through his anxious posture.

“If we can prove this, we might be able to save Gaius,” Merlin urges, eyes stinging with tears.
“Please.”

The man stares at them for a long moment before swallowing roughly.

He looks down. “He forced me to make and sell it,” he admits. “He said he’d kill me if I said
anything to anyone.”

“It was Aredian?” Gwen confirms.

Merlin doesn’t dare inhale as they anticipate an answer. He can feel the stillness of the air in his
bones. The entire lower town seems to have caught their breath as they wait for this final piece of
evidence to fall into place.

The air catches and holds as the man hesitates and then finally he nods.

“Yes, it was him.”

~-~-~

“We have to tell Uther,” Merlin says.

He grabs the petals of Belladonna and the sullied tincture, making to run from his chambers. Gwen
stops him with a hand on his arm.

“But is it enough?” She asks like she’s imploring him to see reason.

“We’ve got a witness as well, surely that’s enough.” Even as he says it the words ring hollow in
Merlin’s ears.

Gwen looks at him pityingly. “It’s still our word against Aredian’s. Uther respects him…” She
trails off but she doesn’t need to finish her sentence. Uther would value Aredian’s word a thousand
times more than the testimonies of two servants and a physician.

“We don’t have a choice,” Merlin rasps. “By dawn tomorrow Gaius will be dead.”

“Merlin,” Gwen pushes, squeezing his arm comfortingly. “We only have one chance at this. You
know Uther, we have to show him something he cannot deny.”

Merlin grits his teeth and turns his face away. Frustration flares through him even though the
accuracy of her words ring true.

“We need something not even Aredian can wriggle his way out of,” Gwen continues, unbothered
by his irritated response.

An idea comes to mind. It’s dangerous, but Merlin would risk almost anything to ensure Gaius’
safety.

“I have an idea,” he says, dropping the Belladonna and tincture onto the table and running from the
room. “I’ll be as quick as I can!”

~-~-~

Merlin’s footsteps seem impossibly loud as he tiptoes into Aredian’s room, in the still of night
every shift of clothing echoes. Merlin moves as slow as slow as he can, careful not to let his feet
fall too heavily on the ground, skirting around the bed and towards the cupboard at the back of the
room where he found the petals of belladonna.

Merlin holds his breath as Aredian grunts and shifts in his sleep, he doesn’t exhale until the
Witchfinder has settled again. He breathes as quietly as he can manage and continues to creep
across the room. With every second in Aredian’s room his chance of being caught increases, and
he has no way to defend himself if he is. If Gaius was here he would be berating Merlin for his
stupidity in exasperation, but Gaius isn’t here and that is exactly why Merlin has to do this.

He carries out the plan as swiftly as he can manage, administering a silent spell. His eyes cast a
golden glow over the cupboard for a moment as the spell takes hold and then the room is
encompassed by darkness once more. His magic tugs insistently, urging him to do more and leave
Aredian with no hope of escaping sentence. Any other time he might have suppressed that urge,
tucked his magic deep within himself and convinced it to settle, but he is furious, and Gaius
deserves vindication.

Merlin extends his hand over the sleeping Witchfinder. His fingers twitch nervously as Aredian
grunts in his sleep but he doesn’t wake. With another short shine of gold he pushes his magic
forward into Aredian. It’s impossibly petty and childish of him, but after everything he and Gaius
have been through, it’s well deserved.

With that done he hurries from the room just as the sun begins to rise.

~-~-~

Gwen watches the sun as it first peeks over the horizon and then enters into full view. It rises
impossibly fast and she wills it to slow as she waits in Gaius’ chambers for Merlin to return. She
wrings her hands anxiously, watching as the sun separates from the line of Earth behind it and
crests into the sky. Dawn.

Merlin rushes in, panting and exhausted but with hopeful eyes.

“It’s done,” he says. “Everything is in place.”

Gwen shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes despite herself. “It’s too late! Gaius has already
been taken from the dungeon.”

Merlin’s mouth twists and he shakes his head.

“We have to stop the execution,” he says with a confidence Gwen can’t feel herself.

“How?” She asks desperately. Her heart feels trapped. refusing to make a single beat until she
knows how to save Gaius, something that feels less possible with every passing moment.

Merlin’s mouth opens and shuts before he clicks his fingers decisively.

“Arthur. I’ll talk to Arthur.”

“No,” Gwen interjects, she knows deep in her belly that if anyone has a chance of convincing
Arthur. It’s her. “Leave Arthur to me.”

An odd shadow passes over Merlin’s eyes, but it’s gone before Gwen can begin to decipher it. His
jaw sets firmly and he nods.

“Okay.”

They race through the castle, breaths panting and feet pounding on the cobbled floor as they weave
through passerbys. The sunlight glowing through the windows taunts them. Gwen can hear the
rattle of Aredian’s coach as he drives Gaius through the streets to the pyre. Unlike the usual
executions which — while being open for the public to attend — are simple and fast affairs,
Aredian has ensured Gaius’ execution is as public and humiliating as possible. It makes Gwen’s
blood boil to think of Gaius in that cage being paraded around Camelot like an animal.
Gwen elbows her way through the crowd. It feels like the entirety of Camelot has come to watch
the execution. Gaius is beloved and well respected by almost everybody in the kingdom, it isn’t a
surprise to Gwen that they want to pay their last respects. At some point she loses her grip on
Merlin’s sleeve but she continues shoving through the crowd, murmuring apologies until she
reaches Arthur’s side.

“Arthur!” She gasps breathlessly. “You have to stop this.”

Gaius is already being tied to the pyre, his eyes staring into the distance and face unreadably calm
even as he faces his death. Gwen is flooded with respect for his strength, for his ability to endure
Arecian’s cruelty without cowering.

Arthur’s face twists in pain. “You know I can’t.”

His arms are crossed over his chest, his own makeshift plate of armour. She can see the strong
muscles of his jaw clenched like a bear trap as he watches the proceedings of the execution begin.
His eyes are carefully guarded, but she knows he is not as indifferent to this as he pretends to be.

“Merlin has proof that Gaius is innocent,” Gwen says, the words spilling from her mouth in a
frantic rush.

Hope pounds like drums in her chest as Arthur’s eyes dart to look at her. He swallows heavily,
throat bobbing as he struggles with what he must be feeling and the knowledge of the way he must
behave.

“My father has already passed sentence,” Arthur says firmly, but underneath his words there is the
faintest tremor of doubt. He returns his gaze to Gaius. “It’s too late.”

Gwen scoffs. “That is a coward’s answer and you know it.”

Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise as they meet hers once again.

“There is nothing I can do.” He says helplessly, and he sounds truly torn, like he’s caught on the
edge of a cliff and can’t make the choice.

“You can do the right thing,” Gwen insists. “You can show faith in a loyal friend! Or you can stand
by and let an innocent man die.”

“Guinevere,” Arthur says warningly but she ignores it.

“You did it once with my father.” Gwen swallows down the pain that still clings to her at the
memory of her father and stares unflinchingly at Arthur. His eyes flicker at the reminder and she
can see the last of his defences crumbling away.

“Are you really willing to let it happen again?” She challenges.

Aredian lights the torch, marching towards Gaius like a performer on a stage. He relishes in the
attention of the crowd and the anxious and grieving murmurs that hum in the air like a hive of
unsettled bees.

“After everything he has been through, Merlin deserves your trust,” she pushes. “I deserve your
strength. We are only servants, but I thought you were a prince, so start acting like one!”

Arthur stares at her and then looks at Gaius. She watches the muscle in his jaw twitch and his blue
eyes flicker.
Aredian begins to bow the torch towards the alcohol-drenched kindling.

“Stop!”

The torch is pulled away abruptly, only a breath short of lighting Gaius alight. The fire had been so
close that the flames practically kissed the edges of the pyre, a moment longer and it would have
been too late.

“Stop.”

~-~-~

Merlin fidgets with the pot of tincture, turning the ceramic over in his hands as he stands before the
King’s scrutiny.

“The testimonies provided by Aredian’s witnesses were nothing more than hallucinations produced
by the Belladonna infused into this tincture of Betony,” he says weakly, holding up the small pot to
the light.

His heart is tight in his chest, and the pot is slippery in his sweaty hold, threatening to fall to the
ground and break over the throne room floor. Uther frowns, leaning forward to peer at the pot and
Merlin swears his own heart is the loudest thing in the room.

He makes eye contact with Arthur and it helps his nerves somewhat. There is faith in those blue
eyes, paired with understandable levels of curiosity and scepticism; but he trusts Merlin. It’s
steadying in a crowd of nerves and disbelief.

“You bought this tincture from this man?” Uther asks the three witnesses, gathered together in a
nervous huddle, they all nod nervously with a glance at the chemist.

“Yes m’Lord,” one says to the King, bobbing a curtsy.

“And who told you to prepare this tincture with Belladonna?” Uther demands of the physician.

The man glances at Aredian nervously and presses his lips tightly together. Merlin’s stomach
clenches anxiously like he’s about to fall, the anticipation seizes his gut and squeezes.

“Don’t be afraid,” Uther says, “no harm will come to you here.”

The man nods fearfully, but he still hesitates before speaking.

“The Witchfinder, he told me to,” he finally admits.

“Did he tell you what it was for?” Uther presses.

“No. Only that if I didn’t make and sell it he would have me burned at the stake.”

An anxious titter murmurs through the crowd, rippling and catching in corners in frenetic pockets
of activity.

“How do you answer to these accusations?” Uther demands, turning to Aredian.

The Witchfinder scowls at Merlin darkly before turning to the king with a confident smile. His
frustration is masked so impressively that Merlin can hardly even tell he is hiding anything.

“They are absurd,” he laughs, like the accusations against his name are a mere trifle.
He gestures to Merlin benignly.

“I mean really,” he says with amusement in his voice, “it is no secret the boy is close with the
physician. He has clearly concocted these lies in the hopes of saving his master.”

Before Merlin can bite his tongue he retorts, “So you won’t mind if we search your chambers?”

“Silence!” Uther barks. The word claps like thunder around the throne room. His face is scorched
red with fury, and a vein in his temple throbs dangerously. “You have no authority here!”

“Father,” Arthur interjects. He steps down from the elevated platform where the thrones loom and
moves to stand beside Merlin. “Let’s settle this once and for all. If what Merlin says is wrong, then
he must bear the consequences.”

He looks intently at Merlin. There’s a warning that flashes in his eyes, as if he’s silently saying
‘I’m taking a risk for you, don’t you dare mess this up for me’. However there’s also faith, a surety
to his strong jaw and raised eyebrows that speaks to his confidence in Merlin.

Merlin can see just from Arthur’s eyes that he truly believes in Merlin, that he trusts him. That
counts for something.

“But,” Arthur continues, turning back to his father, “if there is some validity in what he says…”

He raises his eyebrows at Aredian. He takes control in his unfinished sentence, the silent threat,
smug and cautionary, all in one little glint of his bright blue eyes.

Merlin can barely tamp down his smirk as Aredian glares at the two of them.

“I have nothing to hide.”

~-~-~

For someone who was so adamant he has nothing to hide, Aredian seems eager to hurry the search
party out of his room. Merlin is amused as he watches the Witchfinder’s poor attempts at appearing
unbothered while the knights rifle through his belongings. Arthur seems to be taking as much joy
as Merlin from the endeavour.

He points at a chest.

“Upturn that,” he instructs. “Check in those cupboards there.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Aredian says insistently. His eyes are nervous as he watches the
guards dig through his chests.

Merlin is focused on the knight who is walking towards the far cupboard. He watches eagerly as
the door is thrown open and with it a cascade of amulets clatter to the ground. They clang as they
hit the floor and bounce off each other, falling into a towering pile. The room holds its breath until
the last amulet hits the floor.

“These things don’t belong to me!” Aredian shouts, storming over to the amulets. He kicks at them
with a snarl, one bounces along the floor and rolls to a stop by Uther’s ankle.

“Don’t you see?” Aredian says furiously. “It’s the boy! It is him who is the liar, the traitor to the
crown—”

“Watch yourself, Aredian,” Arthur warns in a clipped tone, with anger flashing in his blue eyes.
“He plots against me!” Aredian bellows, but his voice is overcome by a cough.

Merlin is barely able to contain his smirk as he watches the Witchfinder rub at his throat in a
horrified way. He coughs again and this time it sounds wet and unnervingly slimy. He heaves and
chokes, staggering against the table, gagging as something crawls from the depths of his throat.

With a hacking noise a toad jumps free from Aredian’s lips, still connected to his mouth by a string
of spit. It croaks at them, and hops across the floor.

“Sorcerer!” Uther gasps, drawing his sword.

Aredian leaps into action before Uther has the chance, grabbing Morgana by the arm and pulling
her against his chest. The blade of his dagger sits near her throat.

“Aredian, think carefully about what you are doing,” Uther says threateningly. “You won’t escape
from Camelot alive.”

“I will if you value the life of your ward, hmm?” Aredian says, raising his eyebrows at the
enclosing party.

Morgana’s eyes flicker with fear and fury at once. She doesn’t dare move with the edge of
Aredian’s blade against the pale column of her throat but Merlin can see the spark of anger in her
eyes which longs to lash out. Before Merlin has a chance to do anything Morgana’s eyes flash.
Only the well trained eye would see the gold of magic in her irises.

Aredian drops his dagger with a shout, clutching his burning hand. Morgana’s elbow thrusts
backwards into the man’s gut and he staggers backwards. Merlin isn’t able to warn him — he isn’t
even sure if he would want to — before Aredian’s knees hit an upturned chest behind him and he
falls. The window behind him shatters, littering shards of broken glass over the courtyard below.

Aredian shouts in fear, and then there is a sickening crunch. The Pendragon family rush forward to
the window but Merlin doesn’t move.

Aredian is dead, Merlin can tell by the look on Arthur’s face as he turns away from the window.

~-~-~

Despite proving Aredian’s lies, and therefore Gaius’ innocence, Merlin hadn’t allowed himself to
fully relax until Gaius was back home in their chambers. The physician barely makes it through the
door before Merlin throws himself into his arms and holds him tightly.

“Merlin!” Gaius says happily, squeezing Merlin in return.

He pulls away and clips around Merlin’s ear.

“Ow!” Merlin yelps, rubbing at the tender spot with a pout. “What was that for?”

“That’s for not listening to me,” Gaius scolds, but his face immediately softens into a fond
expression as he pulls Merlin back into a warm embrace, “you wonderful boy.”

“Sorry, I’ll just let you die next time,” Merlin says drily, pressing his face into Gaius’ shoulder.
The knots in his shoulders unwind as he feels Gaius’ body shake with laughter. He holds Merlin
tighter, both equally unwilling to let go after the ordeal they have endured.

“Do you promise?”

“Absolutely.”

They stand in the centre of their chambers tucked in each other's arms. Merlin’s tightly wound
muscles slowly release in small trembles as he feels the scratchy knit of Gaius’ coat, the specific
way his weathered and herb stained fingers tighten and flex against Merlin’s back as they hug. It’s
undeniably Gaius, completely and wholly safe. The thought is filled with such relief it’s like a
hurricane gale, strong enough to bowl Merlin over.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he sniffs. “You can’t leave me. Don’t leave me.”

He can feel Gaius’ exhale ruffle the short hairs around his ear.

“I will do my best,” he promises, stroking Merlin’s back reassuringly until he melts under the
pressure.

Merlin sniffles.

“I will too.”

Gaius’ hand continues to stroke Merlin’s back soothingly, until the worst of his shakes have worn
away and he’s no longer fighting back tears. Once the trembling earthquake of his relief has settled
into stillness Gaius pulls away and raises one of his eyebrows at Merlin.

“But really, Merlin, the toad was a step too far,” he teases.

A laughter splutters from Merlin’s lips.

“You should have seen the look on his face,” he giggles, remembering Aredian’s horrified eyes.

Gaius laughs loudly and the sound is so infectious Merlin can’t help but follow.

~-~-~

The chambers have been left a mess in Gaius’ absence. Gaius potters his way around the room,
arranging his things and sweeping away the shards of broken crockery and pots. The work is
methodical and calming, easing the anxiety that has sewn its way under his skin.

“Gaius,” Uther says, hovering in the doorway. Gaius looks up quickly, unable to shake the unease
that the sight of the king brings. Beneath his fear there is also a current of betrayal, it is one thing to
know that Uther despises sorcery and any who practise it, it is quite another to have confirmed that
he would kill Gaius without a second thought. He is unusually furious with the king. Gaius knows
that their once strongly forged friendship has corroded with time, and that while he may care for
Uther he no longer likes him much; but this is the first time in years he has truly wished ill will of
him. It is almost pleasing to see him so nervous in Gaius’ presence; unlike his usual imposing
stature, he appears feeble, hunched inwards at the shoulder and unsure of where to place his feet.

“I’m glad I found you here,” Uther says.

“As am I, my Lord,” Gaius nods. “I feared I would never see these chambers again.”

Uther pales at the mention of Gaius’ experience in the dungeons but says nothing else on the
subject. His frustration coats his tongue like brittle sand, gritty and uncomfortable. He longs to spit
it in Uther’s face and rid himself of the bitter taste.

“If anything was damaged in the search, I will be only too glad to replace it,” Uther offers.
Gaius stares unblinkingly at him, his jaw working slowly.

“You are too kind, my Lord,” he replies flatly.

Uther nods for slightly longer than necessary but Gaius makes no move to interrupt him.

“Aredian…” the king says eventually, making an odd shrugging gesture. “I can still scarcely
believe he was a sorcerer.”

“Indeed,” Gaius agrees, thinning his lips.

Uncomfortable silence crawls in the gap between them like ants. Gaius waits, until it becomes
obvious Uther will make no move to fill the silence and sighs.

“Is there something you needed from me, Sire?”

Uther fumbles. “I… Yes,” he says stiffly.

“I wanted to say, I’m sorry if you suffered at Aredian’s hands.”

The little patience Gaius had left disintegrates into ash that lines the walls of his mouth.

“But I did not suffer at his hands, Uther,” Gaius says solemnly. “I suffered at yours.”

Uther’s expression is one of confusion and resistance to the truth of Gaius’ words.

“He worked for you, my Lord. He was merely following your orders.”

“But I was deceived—” Uther tries to argue.

“No,” Gaius interrupts. “You were deceived long before Aredian, for you deceived yourself.”

The words Gaius has kept locked within himself since the Great Purge, alongside the dwindling
tendrils of his magic, well to the surface and push past his lips. He can’t contain them for the sake
of the king’s fragile temperament any longer. He has borne too much for the sake of shielding
Uther from harsh truths.

“You see foes where there are friends, and you see sorcerers where there are merely servants. I am
not the first to be wrongly accused in your crusade against magic, and not all have been as lucky as
I.”

He tips his chin at Uther, daring him to argue but for once the king appears mollified and
genuinely remorseful in the face of Gaius’ words.

“I assure you Gaius, that every measure will be taken to ensure nothing like this ever happens
again,” Uther promises.

The words ring empty and hollow, and Gaius purses his lips at the unlikelihood of his promise but
nods.

“I hope that is true, for all our sakes,” he answers honestly.

He returns to tidying the damaged mess of his chambers. When Uther makes no move to leave he
turns to look at him again with an unamused expression.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do,” he dismisses the King shortly.
He waits with his back turned until he hears the King’s footsteps retreat, and only then does he let
exhaustion overtake him. His spine slumps and his shoulders hunch, he takes a steadying breath to
keep his emotions in check and returns to his work.

~-~-~

“Arthur?” Merlin says nervously from the doorway.

He hasn’t seen Arthur since their encounter with Aredian, his priority was on Gaius and ensuring
he was alright. Now he almost regrets not thanking earlier for what he did. It would be less
awkward than having to return to the topic of conversation now, but he doesn’t feel like he can just
let it slip away.

Arthur looks up from the papers he is reviewing in surprise.

“Merlin,” he says in a pleased way. Merlin pretends it doesn’t make something inside him warm
like a hearth. “How is Gaius?”

“He’s as well as he can be,” Merlin says carefully.

Gaius hasn’t said anything exactly, but Merlin can see the heaviness under his eyes and the weight
on his shoulders. Aredian’s torture and his close scrape with death have left the physician shaken.
Almost more so than when Nimueh actually killed him.

Arthur nods like he expected as much, a sad pinch to his mouth.

“I hope he’s resting,” he says genuinely.

“I doubt it. I’m not sure Gaius knows the meaning of rest,” Merlin replies with an amused smile.

Arthur chuckles. “You could stand to learn a thing or two from him,” he teases.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my work ethic is flawless.”

“Riddled with flaws, more like.”

Merlin smiles because he can’t help it. Arthur looks back down at his paper in an attempt to hide
his own smile but it doesn’t work, Merlin can see it easily in the crinkles around his eyes and the
apples of his cheeks.

“Was there something you needed?” Arthur asks after a beat of silence. “Or are you here to
actually do your job?”

Merlin offers Arthur a crooked smile. “Not willing to give me another day off?” He asks, equal
parts teasing and hopeful.

Arthur raises his eyebrow wryly glancing up from the document. “This here, this is why I mock
your work ethic, Merlin.”

“Oh come on, I saw someone die today,” Merlin argues for the sake of seeing Arthur’s affronted
expression.

“So did I,” he points out, and gestures to the grain plans Uther has him looking over “and yet here I
am.”

In spite of his protests Merlin does start bustling around Arthur’s room. How the prince is able to
 make such a mess in such a short space of time is beyond him. He retrieves at least eight socks
from the ground, which is five more than he ought to have worn in the time, and several tunics.

“I wanted to thank you,” Merlin says with his back turned to Arthur so he won’t have to see his
face. “For stopping Gaius’ execution.”

He hears Arthur clear his throat. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” Arthur says.

Merlin glances over his shoulder at him. He’s pink cheeked and staring hard at the surface of his
desk.

“I should have done it anyway. Gaius didn’t deserve to die.”

Merlin’s throat feels tight so he just nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“I’m just glad we were able to prove Aredian’s lies. I don’t know what my father would have done
otherwise,” Arthur says. His face is creased with a frown, like he really is worried about what
outcome would have occurred if Aredian weren’t proven guilty.

“I’m glad too,” Merlin says, drawing Arthur’s attention to his face finally. His eyes are wide and
honest and their regard makes Merlin’s heart beat faster.

“Thank you, for trusting me,” Merlin says softly.

The moment stretches between them, long and charged with something Merlin can’t put a name to.
He can feel it in every inch of the room, filling the space, bridging the chasm between them.
Arthur stares at him in surprise, lips parted slightly and eyes huge and wide. Merlin stares back,
waiting for Arthur to say something and grows stiff with every passing second.

Arthur coughs, shattering the stillness and with it the strange moment.

“Well, I won’t be making a habit of it. Most of what comes out of your mouth is utter rubbish
anyway,” he says. It’s meant as an insult, but just comes off somewhat fond.

“Oh of course,” Merlin agrees with a slight smile.

The tension that built in his chest evaporates with Arthur’s words. It leaves him feeling relaxed and
comfortable and he smiles as he busies himself with cleaning Arthur’s room.

Chapter End Notes

i hope you enjoyed this chapter !! let me know your favourite part and/or the part that
hurt the most ghfjdjd it isnt a very happy one i know

pre warning that after next chapter will be the mid season break !!

i will see you all on january 29th AEST for chapter 16 !!!
 The Sins of the Father
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Arthur stares through the window blankly, recounting the events that lead to the predicament he is
facing.

Earlier that evening an unknown figure had interrupted a knighting by storming through the doors
of the throne room. The figure, who had donned a knight’s armour, commanded everyone’s
attention, parting the crowd without so much as a word. They marched across the room, and it was
obvious that Arthur was their intended target.

When they reached the thrones the knight stopped, three paces away from Arthur they took their
gauntlet and tossed it at Arthur’s feet. It immediately reminded him of the Black Knight, and
unwilling to be humiliated again, Arthur snatched the gauntlet from the ground.

“Alright,” he said with a steady voice that rang around the chamber, “I’ve accepted your challenge.
If I am to face you in combat, do me the courtesy of revealing your identity.”

The knight paused for a long moment that seemed to stretch for aeons before nodding.

They reached up and unclasped the helmet from their head. Long blonde hair fell in waves down
the knight’s back. Arthur’s eyes widened at the realisation that the knight was a woman. She was
slim faced with pensive eyes and her mouth was set in a hard line. Though she was undeniably
feminine she had the same imposing stance of any of the knights of Camelot.

“My name is Morgause,” she introduced. Her voice was smooth as silk as it glided off her tongue,
but her words were tainted with sobriety. “We battle tomorrow, single combat, at high noon. To the
death.”

That is how Arthur finds himself in his room with a stewing stomach, watching Merlin prepare his
armour for the battle to commence the next morning.

“Do you know why she challenged you?” Merlin asks, breaking the silence. He doesn’t look up the
armour he is mending even as Arthur looks over at him.

“I’m the king’s son,” he answers with a shrug. “Perhaps she believes she will prove herself…”

It isn’t the first time someone has challenged Arthur, motivated by the desire to prove their self
worth. His stomach clenches at the memory of Odin’s son and his wide fearful eyes as Arthur ran
him through.

He realises he trailed off at the end of his sentence and glances over at Merlin. He’s already
looking at him, a knowing expression on his thin face.

“You don’t want to fight her do you?” Merlin asks slowly.

Arthur bristles, marching across the room for something to do. “It isn’t about what I want. I have
no choice.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow in silent question and Arthur huffs.

“If I refuse to fight her, then I’m a coward. If I kill her, what am I then?”

He doesn’t like the idea of killing a woman, regardless of the circumstances. He doesn’t like the
idea of killing anyone at all if he’s honest. Winning in combat gives Arthur a rush of joy, it is a
thrill, but winning at the death of his opponent does not offer the same excitement.

Merlin glances at him in a nervous way that makes Arthur scowl.

“What is it?” He demands.

“No, nothing,” Merlin says quickly, looking intently at a small dent in Arthur’s armour he’s trying
to even out.

“Merlin,” Arthur says warningly. “What?”

Merlin sighs, and says, carefully avoiding Arthur’s eyes, “you’ve just never faced a woman in
combat before. If you hesitate, she could use that to her advantage.”

Arthur gapes as he realises the implications of what Merlin means.

“You think she’ll beat me,” he says accusingly.

Merlin opens his mouth.

“I didn’t say that,” he corrects.

Arthur narrows his eyes.

“But you do, don’t you?”

Merlin sucks on his teeth. “No. I’m just saying you need to be cautious. It sounds like she’s pretty
handy with a sword.”

Arthur wrinkles his nose. “She isn’t that good.”

“Didn’t she kill five guards?”

Arthur ignores that, for no reason other than he has no rebuttal and refuses to concede that Merlin
might be right.

Merlin rolls his eyes.

“I’m just saying you shouldn’t underestimate her.”

Arthur scowls and goes back to glaring out of the window. He can feel Merlin’s eyes on him,
anticipating Arthur’s response, and it has the same effect as Merlin continuously poking at his side
like a pest until he gives him an answer.

Arthur sighs.

“I need you to take a message to Morgause for me,” he says without looking at Merlin. Even still
he knows Merlin is looking at him with those big, hopeful, blue eyes. “If I sent it, it could be
viewed as cowardice.”

From the corner of his eye he sees Merlin nod.

“You must persuade her to withdraw her challenge,” Arthur says finally. Even if no one ever
discovered his role in encouraging it, Arthur still feels queasy at displaying weakness.

He glances at Merlin but finds no hint of judgement in his eyes.

“Alright,” Merlin agrees easily and it makes a knot of tight muscle loosen somewhere in Arthur’s
chest. Merlin hesitates by the doorway, his long pale fingers tapping at the frame thoughtfully. “Do
you think she will do it?” Merlin asks.

Arthur nods. “If she values her life, she will resign.”

~-~-~

Morgause doesn’t resign.

Arthur pretends that he isn’t anxious about it, but inside he can feel nervousness itching his veins.
For all his dismissals to Merlin he can’t deny that the skill Morgause displayed with the sword is
admirable. Dangerous, in fact. Arthur is talented, he knows he is, but she is a formidable opponent
whom he knows nothing about.

He keeps a tight grip on his confidence and manages to mould his face into something braver than
he feels. He and Morgause stand in the centre of the arena facing Uther. It is mere moments before
the duel will be over, and one of them will be dead.

“The fight is by the knight’s code,” Uther announces, and with a solemn voice he finishes, “and to
the death.”

As a last resort Arthur turns to Morgause.

“I am offering you a final chance to withdraw,” he says quietly. “I suggest you take it.”

Morgause does not seem intimidated, instead she smiles in an almost amused manner.

“Perhaps you would like to withdraw instead?” She says coolly.

Arthur clenches his jaw.

“Then you leave me no choice.”

They both take stance. Arthur takes a steadying breath, the exhale echoes in his metal helmet.

The pause before battle is more important than many of his opponents realise. He takes the time to
scan his eyes over Morgause, tracking for any weaknesses. She stands firmly on her right leg, so
she will likely favour her right side and it would be prudent to attack her from the left. The angle of
her sword is slightly crooked, indicating a weakness in one of her wrists, likely due to a previous
injury. Otherwise, her form is flawless.

A knight may reveal fifteen or so weaknesses to Arthur in the first moment before a battle.
Morgause has only shown two.

She strikes first. She lunges for his underside, forcing him to take the defensive in order to block
her blade. Their swords ring loudly as they collide. Arthur parries her backwards. Her eyes narrow
as their blades drag and she has no choice but to retreat.

The crowd applauds but to Arthur’s ears it is barely audible. His whole attention is attuned to
Morgause and her movements. He can see her eyes jump over his stance, he can hear her breaths
and the scrape of her feet against the gravel floor as she shifts.

He doesn’t give her a chance to launch into a decisive attack. He strikes forwards, driving her
around the ring. His heartbeat is synchronised with the strikes of their swords. He blocks her blow,
and retaliates with one of his own. She side steps just out of the range of his blade and attacks his
left side.

Their movements are rapid, a quick exchange of protecting their own vulnerabilities and striking at
the others.

Morgause targets his left flank, leading ruthless attacks on his weaker side, but in doing so leaves
herself unprepared for Arthur’s retaliating blow. He catches her blade with his in a block and twists
it so it falls from her grip.

Newly disarmed, she is unable to defend herself against him, and his swing down slices her arm.
His sword is precise, striking the vulnerable point between notches of her armour that allows him
to cut under the mail and break the sensitive skin beneath.

She hisses in pain and staggers backward. The crowd applauds.

Arthur could end it now. Morgause is defenceless and weakened by her injury. He could strike her
down where she stands.

But he can’t do it. Perhaps it is the memory of Odin’s son, vulnerable and afraid in his last
moments. Perhaps he does feel guilty killing a woman as Merlin believed he would. All Arthur
knows is he can’t kill her without a sword in her hand. He isn’t a monster. He wants his opponents
to have the chance to protect themselves.

He steps back and gestures for her to take her sword. He can’t read the look in her eyes as she
retrieves her weapon. It is impossible to tell whether she is surprised by his courtesy.

They retake their stances, but this time Morgause doesn’t even give Arthur time to finish his exhale
before attacking with vigour.

Her blows are wilder than before. It’s obvious that the injury is somewhat hindering her, but she
makes up for it with lashing strokes at Arthur that he can hardly keep up with. He jumps backwards
from a wide swing that comes so close to his chest that he feels the sharp tip of the blade skim his
mail.

The message is obvious. No further mercy can be spared.

Arthur steps away from a jab at his side causing her to over swing. He takes advantage of her
misstep to take the offensive. With heavy blows he forces her backwards, tripping over her own
feet in a desperate attempt to stave off his strikes.

He backs her against the barricade. The peasants in the front row shout and throw themselves out of
the path of the swinging blades. Morgause’s elbow ploughs into Arthur’s gut and he wheezes in
pain.

Arthur swings his sword down on Morgause. She rolls out of the way along the barrier at the last
moment and his sword wedges into the wood. He barely has a chance to realise what has happened
before her foot kicks hard into his knee caps and he collapses to the floor.

His back hits the ground first, knocking the air from his lungs. His helmet flies from his head. The
tip of Morgause’s sword presses into his sternum, right over his heart, forcing him backwards until
he’s laid flat on the ground.

Arthur wants to be brave in the face of his death. It is already humiliation enough for his father that
he is losing this battle at all, he should do so with honour. However, to his mortification, he is
terrified.

His breaths are tight. His heart is pounding under the tip of her sword. His fingers tremble at his
side as he struggles to keep still.

Morgause rips her helmet from her head and throws it aside. Her blonde hair falls from her helmet
in a tangled braid, the strands around her face are plastered to her cheeks with sweat.

“Make me a promise and I will spare your life,” she says.

Arthur shakes, when he swallows he can feel his chest press up to the blade.

“What is it you ask?” He asks carefully, proud of the steady resolve in his voice.

Morgause’s eyes are steely, a hard brown that reminds him of the unyielding bark of a cedar tree.

“Come to me in three days hence, and accept the challenge I set for you.”

Arthur’s eyebrows furrow. “And the nature of this challenge?”

“That is for me to decide.”

Arthur doesn’t trust it for a moment, and his hesitation must show in his eyes.

Morgause glares at him.

“Do I have your word that you will accept, no matter what?”

It is a dangerous bargain, but Arthur is in no position to negotiate. He must either face her
unknown challenge or accept his death now. He glances at the platform where the royal family sit.
He knows his father would rather be killed than surrender his pride; but Arthur isn’t ready to die.

“You have my word.”

Morgause steps away immediately, extending her hand to help him to his feet. His stomach stews
in embarrassment as she hauls him up.

Arthur looks at the ground, humiliation crawling under his skin as the crowd murmurs around
them. He can feel their eyes on him, but more than anyone he can feel his father’s furious stare like
a tight hand around his throat.

Morgause turns to the royal family and bows, before leaving the arena. Arthur doesn’t look up
even as his father storms away.

~-~-~

Morgana is in her room preparing for the night when a knock at the door interrupts the silence.

“Come in!” She beckons.

She wasn’t expecting any visitors, so she has no guesses as to who could be calling on her, but
nothing could have prepared her to see Morgause entering her chambers.
“I apologise for bothering you, my Lady,” Morgause says sincerely with a bow far too deep to be
bestowed on someone of Morgana’s title. Morgana struggles to control her confusion, she can’t
conceive of any reason Morgause would be calling on her now, but even stranger still, she feels no
urge to turn her away.

“Not at all.”

Since Morgause’s arrival in Camelot, Morgana has been unable to shake the strange impression
that she knows the woman. Her magic also seems to feel that sense of familiarity, it recognises her,
extending towards her like arms searching for an embrace.

“Could it be that we have met before?” Morgana asks before she can stop herself.

Morgause doesn’t answer, but instead says, “I am glad that we have met now.”

Instinctively Morgana wants to agree. She has to pinch her wrist to remind herself that this woman
tried to kill Arthur.

But she didn’t, her traitorous mind reminds her. Morgause could have killed Arthur today and
chose not to. That must count for something.

“Your arm,” Morgana says. “How is it? You were wounded.”

Morgause smiles ruefully. “It will heal soon enough,” she says in an unbothered way.

There is a pause where Morgause looks at Morgana intently, her light brown eyes search
Morgana’s face with such an intensity Morgana feels the urge to shy away.

“You look tired,” she says softly. Her voice holds such genuine concern and care that it makes
Morgana falter.

“I haven’t been sleeping,” she admits equally quietly, surprising herself with her own honesty.

She can’t remember the last time someone noticed her exhaustion. Her lack of sleep has become so
typical she almost forgot it wasn’t normal. Every day she painstakingly applies products to the
underneath of her eyes to hide the heavy signs of exhaustion. Yet Morgause has paid enough
attention to her to notice.

“I understand better than anyone how troubling that can be,” Morgause reassures kindly. Her voice
is so considerate and supportive that Morgana feels the tightness of impending tears behind her
eyes.

“Thank you,” Morgana manages to say though her voice comes out barely louder than a whisper.

She looks away to gather herself, to take a steadying breath through her nose and force away the
sting of tears. Morgause’s presence is overwhelming, she is so intimate with Morgana, treating her
like a close relative rather than a stranger; forthcoming with affection and sharing words of
consideration and consolation in a way Morgana is not used to. She’s drawn towards Morgause,
unconsciously leaning into the orbit of kindness that Morgause seems to emulate, making her all
the more aware of how rarely she usually receives such grace.

“Here,” Morgause says, drawing Morgana’s attention back to her. She is holding out the golden
circlet that had been circling her wrist. It is a wide cuff but fabricated of intricately embossed metal
bearing a family seal in the centre. The emblem is as strangely familiar as the woman herself.
“What?” Morgana says, frowning at the bracelet.

“It was a gift from my mother,” Morgause explains. “It’s a healing bracelet, it will help you sleep.”

Morgana shakes her head roughly, eyes going wide.

“No, I couldn’t possibly,” she protests.

“I insist.”

Morgana steps back. “I really couldn’t, but thank you.”

Morgause pauses but eventually concedes and slips the bracelet back onto her thin wrist.

“I will leave you to rest,” she says with another low bow of her head. “It was a pleasure to meet
you, Lady Morgana.”

Morgana blinks rapidly. “And a pleasure to meet you as well,” she says, realising it isn’t even a lie.

“I hope you will think of me fondly,” Morgause says and with her parting words lingering in the air
she leaves before Morgana can even think to reply.

She stares at her closed door long after Morgause has left.

~-~-~

Arthur is preparing to take Llamrei out for his morning patrols when he finds Morgause who is
similarly preparing her horse for departure. It is a white steed, as sleek as her long blonde hair and
just as poised as herself, the two make an intimidating pair.

Morgause nods to him respectfully.

“I wanted to congratulate you on your victory.” Arthur clears his throat uncomfortably. “You’re a
talented swordsman— woman! Swords… woman.”

He closes his eyes and suppresses a groan. If any sorcerer with a vendetta against Arthur’s father
feels like killing him, now would be the ideal opportunity.

Morgause raises her eyebrows like she’s amused but says nothing.

She walks over to Arthur and lays a gentle hand on Llamrei’s nose, stroking along her muzzle
gently.

“You have a beautiful horse,” she comments idly, patting Llamrei on the nose.

Arthur furrows his eyebrows at her but can’t help the small swell of pride in his chest.

“Thank you, I care greatly for her,” he admits. His father would call it a weakness to love an
animal who could so soon die in battle. But his father would also claim that women are weaker
than men, and Morgause is certainly a more capable swordswoman than Arthur.

He strokes Llamrei’s flank affectionately, feeling the flex of the horse's muscles under his gentle
palm. While he is looking at his horse he fails to see Morgause’s eyes shine amber and gold.

“I expect to see you in three days' time,” Morgause instructs.

“How will I find you?” Arthur asks.

“When the time comes, you will know your way,” she answers cryptically.

Arthur raises his eyebrows.

“Right…” he drawls. “Well if I don’t show up it might be because I don’t know where I’m going.”

Morgause smiles secretively and hoists herself onto her horse.

“The path you must follow will become clear to you.”

Arthur does his best not to let his incredulity show on his face, but he’s not sure he does a good job
of it.

“I should thank you,” Morgause says, drawing his attention back to her, “for allowing me to
retrieve my sword.”

Arthur fights the urge to wince. “I’m starting to wish I hadn’t,” he replies honestly. He stares at the
ground and wishes she would leave. His father still hasn’t looked at him since the duel, and even
though he knows he did a noble thing when he allowed her to fetch her sword, he can’t help but
worry his father sees it as an act of weakness. Sometimes it feels as though he will never be the
man his father hopes he will be, that he will never become the king he should.

Morgause shakes her head. “You showed yourself to be a man of honour. You inherited that trait
from your mother.”

Arthur looks up so quickly he almost strains something in his neck. His eyes are wide as he stares
at Morgause.

“You knew my mother?”

“I knew her very well,” is all she says in return, before spurring her horse and taking off down the
long stretch of road towards the gates of Camelot.

She leaves Arthur with a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue, and only their arranged
meeting in three days time to hope to have them answered.

~-~-~

“You were stupid to have made such a promise,” Uther says scornfully, not looking up from the
document he is reading through. “You have no clue what she could ask of you.”

Arthur blinks. “She had her sword to my chest, it wasn’t as though I had much of a choice.”

Uther says nothing. He dips his stamp into the ink dish and carefully presses it to the paper before
moving it to the pile of completed decrees. Arthur watches the progression with clenched teeth.

He inhales slowly through his nose.

“Morgause said she knew my mother,” he says.

Uther’s eyes snap up with a steely darkness in their depths.

“She said this to you?”

Arthur nods.

An odd expression passes over his father’s face, as it always does when Arthur’s mother is
mentioned. Arthur knows very little about his mother, although he has always wanted to know
more. His father rarely speaks about her. Only when very drunk will he divulge stories of their
love, but even then asking questions about Ygraine is always just as likely to inspire Uther’s wrath.

The expression flickers to be replaced with cold impassivity.

“Obviously she is lying,” Uther says, waving a dismissive hand in Arthur’s direction. “She is
playing on your… affections for your mother to lure you into a trap.” The way he speaks makes the
situation sound like a fault of Arthur’s. He makes it seem like the desire he has to know more about
his own mother is a childish fancy that he ought to have grown out of by now.

Arthur frowns. “That makes no sense,” he argues. “She spared my life.”

“It confirms my suspicions,” Uther continues as though he did not hear Arthur at all. “I believe
Morgause to be an enchantress. How else could she have defeated you?”

Arthur feels shame burn his throat like bile. He ducks his head as his cheeks flush. His father has
said nothing about Arthur’s loss, but his contempt for the circumstances is so distinct Arthur can
taste the sharpness of it in the air. It is almost worse for him to stay silent.

“I don’t believe she was using magic,” he admits, the words hook into his throat but he cannot
deny the truth. Morgause beat him with her skill alone.

“If she were using magic, would you know that for certain?” Uther challenges, patronisingly
raising his eyebrows at his son.

Arthur opens his mouth and closes it when he realises he doesn’t know how to answer.

Uther takes his silence as agreement and continues.

“Under no circumstances will you go to meet her, or accept her challenge,” he orders, returning to
his documentation.

“I gave her my word!” Arthur remains firm.

“You owe this woman nothing,” Uther says with disdain.

Arthur stares at him. “I owe her my life.”

“You will not go to her, I forbid it,” Uther growls.

“So I am to break my word?” Arthur retorts, slamming his hand down on the table. The loud slap
cracks like thunder as his palm meets the mahogany surface, and Uther’s eyes jump to him. The
glare he levels Arthur with is severe enough to make an entire army quiver.

Rather than replying to Arthur he turns to the guards standing by the door of the room.

“Escort my son to his chambers,” he instructs them, “ and under no circumstances will he be
permitted to leave.”

Arthur steps back with a disbelieving laugh.

“You’re confining me to my chambers?”

“I am protecting you from your own foolishness!” Uther shouts, slamming his fist on the table,
Arthur flinches away from the sound.

“Get him out of my sight.”

~-~-~

Merlin pauses when he sees Arthur’s door barricaded by two royal guards. They’re burly and tall,
each with at least half a head on Merlin, and while he has seen them around the castle he’s not well
acquainted with them. He offers a nod as he enters Arthur’s chambers and tries not to make it
obvious that he is clinging tightly to the basket in his arms.

Arthur is sitting on the sill of one of the windows, and his demeanour can only be described as
sulking, with his bottom lip jutted out in a pout, he is picking at the grout between the stones with
one of his daggers.

“Why are there guards outside the door?” Merlin asks in a hushed voice. He glances nervously to
the door, almost afraid the guards will burst in and pull him from the room.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “My father has confined me to my chambers.” He spits the word ‘father’ like
it’s rotten.

“And he has forbidden me from accepting Morgause’s challenge,” Arthur adds bitterly, returning to
scraping the stone with his dagger.

“Oh. Well, that might be for the best.”

Merlin can’t deny the fact that he’s somewhat relieved by the news. He isn’t entirely comfortable
with the idea of Arthur accepting the challenge, especially when they have no idea what it could
entail. There is something about Morgause that Merlin doesn’t trust. He is unsettled by her
sternness and confidence. Her ability to defeat Arthur frankly terrifies him.

She could have killed Arthur yesterday. According to the knight’s code she should have.
Obviously, Merlin was never going to let her. He had been moments away from sending her flying
back when she stopped herself. However, it doesn’t change that she was able to put Arthur in that
vulnerable position. In this challenge there is no saying she couldn’t do so again.

The unimpressed look Arthur sends Merlin suggests he might not feel the same way.

“You don’t know what she might have asked of you,” Merlin points out helplessly.

Arthur continues to stare at him.

“It could be dangerous?” Merlin suggests, voice growing weaker as Arthur continues to pin him
under his vivid blue stare.

“I gave her my word,” Arthur says simply, leaving no room for argument. There is a determined
and eager glint in his eye, with a hint of danger that Merlin is hopelessly drawn to. He feels his
resolve disintegrate without Arthur even trying.

Merlin sighs. “So I take it we’re going anyway?”

Arthur smiles in a pleased way and it trills in Merlin’s stomach.

“You’re smarter than you look.”

Merlin is instructed to fetch supplies for them so they can set out that night, and somehow find a
way to get Arthur out of his room. His barricaded room. Simple, really.

He is able to scavenge some rope from Gaius’ stores unnoticed, which solves the ‘getting Arthur
out of his room’ predicament. He then spends the rest of the early evening running around the
castle preparing things for their journey, while trying to appear as though he is doing nothing of the
sort. It is a balanced act of trickery that Merlin isn’t entirely sure he has mastered, but no one
questions him so he can’t complain.

As the moon rises in the sky he makes his way back to Arthur’s chambers. He walks past the
guards with a pleasant smile and they let him through easily.

Arthur is dressed in his chainmail and tapping his foot as he waits. The look of impatience
brightens when Merlin enters but he quickly hides it.

“Took you long enough,” Arthur grumbles, holding his hand out for the satchel Merlin has
brought.

Merlin watches as Arthur’s eyes catch on his body and pause. His eyebrows creep down his face.

“Merlin, am I imagining things or have you gotten fat in the couple of hours you were gone?” He
asks with a suspicious inspection of Merlin’s lumpy tunic.

Merlin can’t keep the proud smile off his face as he lifts the hem of his tunic to reveal the coil of
rope wrapped around his body. Arthur’s face loses its usual mask of indifference, catching
somewhere between admiration and affection.

“Sometimes Merlin, you truly amaze me,” Arthur says in a wonderstruck tone.

Merlin swallows roughly.

“Careful Sire, you might accidentally give me a compliment,” he teases to dispel the dangerous
affection.

Arthur grins wickedly.

“It’s very rare, don’t worry. You’re plenty stupid enough the rest of the time to make up for it,”
Arthur retaliates and gets to his feet. He was smart enough to dress in something that will be easy
to ride in for a few days, and he is already wearing his boots, he has clearly been waiting for Merlin
for quite some time.

“Come on,” Arthur beckons Merlin towards the window.

It’s astonishingly easy to sneak Arthur out of the castle. So easy in fact that Merlin says so as
they’re riding out of the citadel.

“I think Camelot ought to invest in some better security.”

He receives a barking laugh in return.

After a couple hours of riding they reach a fork in the road. Arthur pulls his horse to a stop at the
junction and looks both ways.

“Which way?” Merlin asks when he doesn’t move.

Arthur continues to squint at the two paths like he’s hoping one will beckon to him and say ‘this is
the road you should follow’.

Merlin sighs. “Do you actually know where we’re going?”

“It’s this way,” Arthur blurts out, pointing down the leftmost path.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, Merlin, I’m sure,” Arthur says with an indignant expression.

He clicks his heels against Llamrei to urge her towards his chosen path but she stays stubbornly
still. Merlin watches curiously as Arthur tries again to spur her into movement but she only huffs in
refusal.

“Come on,” Arthur says in a frustrated growl.

Llamrei ignores his command and instead begins to walk down the path to the right.

“Where are you going? I thought you said it was left,” Merlin calls after him.

“It isn’t me!” Arthur yells back. “It’s the horse!”

He’s halfway down the path when he turns back to Merlin with an impatient huff.

“Well come on Merlin!”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “I assumed you were going to get control of her and take us down the
right path?”

“Morgause said that ‘when the time comes, you’ll know your way’ ,” Arthur shakes his head, like
what he’s saying is obvious and not utterly insane.

Merlin stares after him in disbelief for a few seconds.

“So the horse knows where we’re going,” he mutters under his breath. Hearing it aloud doesn’t
make it any more believable.

~-~-~

Morgana lets Gaius into her chambers with an easy smile and a greeting.

“Good evening, my dear,” he answers with a fond smile. “I’ve brought you your sleeping draught.”

Gaius approaches to hand her the vial but she turns it away with a shake of her head, privately
thrilled at the opportunity to deny it.

“I could have saved you the trouble. I can’t remember having a better night’s sleep.”

Gaius raises an eyebrow in disbelief but it’s the truth, Morgana slept through the night without so
much as a stir and she awoke in the morning feeling refreshed. For once it was not a chore to rouse
herself, and her eyelids did not beg her to close them once again. She can’t remember the last time
she had such a pleasant night.

“No nightmares?” Gaius says, raising one of his eyebrows.

“I can’t tell you what a relief it is,” Morgana admits with a pleased sigh.
She can feel that even after a single night of good sleep her smiles have become more forthcoming
and her temperament is eased. Gaius must notice how much better she feels because he returns her
smile with a warm one of his own.

“I only wish I could thank Morgause for her gift,” she says softly, looking down at the bracelet
around her wrist. Even after she refused Morgause’s offer of the cuff, Morgana found it that
morning, laid on her bedside table, glinting in the late morning light.

Gaius’ eyes narrow in suspicion as he looks down at the cuff.

“Morgause gave you this bracelet?” He asks in a strange tone, like his mind is elsewhere, lost in
thought.

“She told me it would help me sleep,” she explains, “she spoke the truth.”

Gaius continues to stare at her bracelet thoughtfully and Morgana holds it to her chest protectively.

“Gaius, what is it?”

Gaius shakes his head and smiles at her, but the muscles around eyes are tense with discomfort.

“Nothing,” he assures her but she knows he is lying. “I’m merely surprised it is so effective.”

Morgana narrows her eyes at him as suspicion prickles at the back of her neck. She forces herself to
lower her defences. She trusts Gaius. He wouldn’t keep anything from her. He has always been
kind to her and protected her when no one else would.

“I am pleased you are feeling better,” Gaius says kindly.

He pats her hand in a paternal way and after a few minutes of small talk takes his leave. Morgana
stares after him, left with the itching sensation that there is something being concealed from her.

~-~-~

They’ve been riding for an entire day but Merlin hasn’t made any progress in his attempts to
dissuade Arthur from meeting with Morgause. He knows he was largely responsible for helping
him escape the castle. However, he wasn’t happy about it then, and he certainly isn’t happy about
it now.

“What if Morgause challenges you to do something you don’t want to do?” He asks, riding a few
paces behind Arthur.

He can practically see Arthur’s eyes roll. “I’m not expecting it to be easy, Merlin. That’s why it’s
called a challenge.”

“So… you’d do anything she asked of you?” Merlin says, and he can’t help the concern that seeps
into his voice. He’s not really fond of that idea. Arthur can be self sacrificing at the best of times,
he doesn’t need any encouragement from people like Morgause.

Arthur pauses but eventually nods.

Merlin swallows the urge to groan.

“I gave her my word, it’s a matter of honour.”

“What if she asks you to do something that’s less honourable than breaking your word?” Merlin
challenges hopefully.

Arthur sighs so deeply that his armour visibly shifts.

“Will you stop rabbiting on? We’re in Odin’s territory now, there could be bandits anywhere.”

Merlin tenses. “Maybe we should turn back.”

Arthur ignores him. He unsaddles and begins to tie Llamrei to a nearby tree. “We’ll set up camp
here, the sun has almost set anyway.”

“Arthur, I really think we should turn back.”

“You can turn back if you like, I won’t stop you.”

It’s a stupid suggestion, there is no scenario in which Merlin would ever leave Arthur alone.

“I’m just saying you don’t know anything about Morgause!” Merlin tries to convince him,
reaching desperately for any scrap of reason that might persuade Arthur to change his mind. Arthur
doesn’t turn around, he continues to pull bits of food from Llamrei’s saddlebag.

“You don’t know what she’ll ask of you! We don’t even know where we’re going! We’re
following a horse.”

Arthur remains silent.

“Give me one good reason we should do this,” Merlin dares. “And don’t you dare say honour.”

“Morgause said she knew my mother,” Arthur says simply, turning to look at him. His expression
is firm and there is a hopeful twist to his mouth that Merlin has rarely seen before.

All of his protests die on his lips. There is nothing he can say to challenge that.

“Where am I lighting the fire?”

~-~-~

The silence is beginning to itch under Arthur’s skin. Every time he glances across he finds Merlin
already looking at him, and he watches his gaze skitter away. The light of the fire dances along his
cheekbones and big ears, it glows in his bright blue eyes as they glance over at Arthur.

Despite how uncomfortable Arthur is, Merlin is the one who breaks their tentative silence.

“What was she like?” He asks. “Your mother?”

Merlin’s frankness surprises Arthur and he blinks quickly to recover himself. Arthur had expected
Merlin to skirt around the question, if he dared address it at all. Instead, Merlin had simply asked,
as if it’s that easy to speak about something so monumental.

He thinks of everything he knows of his mother and it all feels insignificant. There is nothing he
can share with Merlin that isn’t already known. Arthur’s mother is as much a stranger to him as she
is to Merlin.

He swallows, looking into the flames so he doesn’t have to meet Merlin’s eyes.

“I never knew her,” he admits. “She died before I even opened my eyes.”
Merlin must have already known that. Arthur knows he didn’t grow up in Camelot but it is no
secret what happened to the Queen, and he would have heard mention of Ygraine’s passing in the
palace.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says softly. To Arthur’s frustration, the gentle lilt of his voice is enough to
make Arthur’s eyes sting. He swallows down the lump in his throat.

“I barely know anything about her.”

“You can’t ask your father?” Merlin suggests in a soft voice. If anyone else were to ask such a
thing a flare of anger would churn through Arthur’s veins, but he’s surprised to find himself
comfortable with Merlin’s question.

Arthur laughs humourlessly.

“No, he refuses to talk of her.” He risks a glance at Merlin and finds his blue eyes watching Arthur
with rapt attention. There is understanding and curiosity in equal parts on his face. Arthur shrugs
loosely. “I guess it must be too painful for him to remember. I just wish I knew more about her…
sometimes it’s as if she never existed.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything, leaving space for Arthur to sit with his admission and not pressing for
more than Arthur is willing to share.

“Sometimes,” he swallows, “I feel like I have a sense of her. Like she’s a part of me.”

He’s never admitted that to anyone before. He wants to take it back, to return it to the dark alcove
of his chest where he keeps frivolous, emotional confessions and let it wither there. He waits with
tensed muscles for Merlin’s inevitable tease.

“That’s exactly how I feel about my father. I never knew him,” Merlin says instead. “And my
mother has barely spoken of him.”

Arthur looks up with wide eyes. He didn’t know that. He was aware that Merlin’s father is absent
in his life, and had been for some time. He just assumed that the man had died in some sort of
conflict or from a health affliction. Arthur always thought that Merlin’s family was an open book,
he envied Merlin’s relationship with his mother, the close bond they share, and the impression she
has left on Merlin, like the imprint of a stamp. He thought that even if Merlin had lost his father, he
would have known him. He never considered that he and Merlin might have so much in common.
Oddly the thought makes him feel warm.

“She’s never even told me his name,” Merlin admits quietly.

Arthur stares at Merlin, holding his breath to not to break this tentative moment between them.

“I don’t mind usually, my mother has always been more than enough for me. I’m happy with her I
just…” Merlin toys with the stick in his hand. “Sometimes I just wish I had…”

“Even the vaguest memory,” Arthur finishes softly for him.

Merlin’s eyes dart up to meet Arthur’s with wonder.

“Yeah,” he breathes.

There’s a long pause and then Merlin speaks again.

“Is that why you’re so determined to find Morgause? To see what she knows about your mother?”
His voice is so soft it almost blends into the soft rustling of leaves in the forest.

“Is that so wrong?” Arthur asks defensively. His shoulders seize and he waits for Merlin’s scathing
retort or witty remark.

“No,” Merlin replies easily and it takes Arthur by surprise once more. A strange comfort wraps
around him like a shawl, swaddling him in its warmth, keeping him protected from the world. They
sit in silence, holding each other's eyes and let the moment stretch, pausing like a breath caught.

Arthur is only able to enjoy the peace for a few moments before mortification crawls up his spine
like ants. He doesn’t divulge this kind of information with anyone. His feelings are a closely
guarded secret that he defends with steel and sinew. To share them so openly, in the warmth of the
firelight, is both relieving and terrifying at once. He feels his stomach clench and then fall, like this
shared thing between them got caught in the air before plummeting to the ground.

He coughs to dispel the moment, unable to bear this vulnerability any longer.

“We should get some sleep,” he says gruffly, avoiding Merlin’s eyes as he makes his way to their
bedrolls.

“Goodnight,” Merlin says; his voice still has that softened lilt.

“Goodnight.”

~-~-~

Llamrei — the horse — leads them to a decrepit castle shrouded in magic like a mist that clings to
the turrets and lingers on the walls. It was initially invisible to the eye until they crossed the huge
lake, casting them in its hulking shadow as they approach.

It confirms Merlin’s suspicions that Morgause possesses magic and the thought makes him
nervous. He holds no mistrust for her enchantments in itself, but he fears the way she could
weaponise such a power. People with magic tend to have an inherent hatred of Arthur, fueled by
their preconceived beliefs regarding his father. Merlin wants to believe Morgause will be different,
but it is difficult to let down his guard after the myriad of magical threats that he and Arthur have
faced.

It’s a pattern that Merlin cannot and will not ignore. He can only hope that one day in Arthur’s
future, it will be remedied.

The castle reminds him of the Isle of the Blessed, which sends a chill down his spine. It was
clearly once a nucleus of magic; he can imagine a thriving magical community bustling in its
walls, much like the halls of Camelot today. However, time has been unkind and all that remains
are crumbling walls and hollow, uninhabited rooms. The shadows seem to conceal hidden
darknesses. What could have been a beautiful place is now a mass of rotten bricks and shadows,
each concealing any number of threats. It is exactly the type of place where one would be lured to
their demise.

“Do you get a kick out of walking into situations where you’re very likely to get yourself killed?”
Merlin goads as they make their way up a crumbling staircase towards the main courtyard.

He is looking at the back of Arthur’s head, but he can imagine Arthur rolling his eyes clear as day.

“I just think I ought to know, as someone with a vested interest in both of us making it out of here
alive.”

“We’re not going to die, Merlin,” Arthur scoffs. He leads the way into a large moss covered room,
it’s expansive, as large as the courtyard in Camelot, and by the far wall are the broken remains of
three thrones. In the centre of the room is a single chopping block with an axe wedged into its
rotting wooden surface. Its blade glints in the dull light and Merlin’s throat grows dry at the sight.

“No comment about enjoying walking into danger I notice,” Merlin mutters.

Arthur ignores him, looking around the empty courtyard for signs of Morgause. The hollow walls
give no indication as to where the enchantress could be.

“Now what?” Arthur asks with a frown.

“Maybe we should ask the horse?” Merlin suggests, he bites back a smile as Arthur scowls at him.

“Hilarious,” Arthur says with a deadpan expression.

They look around the courtyard once more but nothing happens.

“Well there’s no one here—” Merlin begins to say, intending to usher Arthur from the room.
Before he has a chance the air becomes frosty, sending a shiver down Merlin’s spine, and he looks
up to see Morgause standing at the top of a steep staircase.

“You kept your promise,” she says in a pleased tone, her eyes sharp as a newly carved spear.

Arthur whirls around to meet her eyes and she tips her chin in acknowledgement. She glides down
the stairs, maroon dress trailing along the debilitated steps behind her. From the way she carries
herself, Merlin can imagine that in another life she could have been a noblewoman.

Her gaze is piercing as she meets Arthur’s eyes and not once does she acknowledge Merlin’s
presence in the room.

“What is the nature of your challenge?” Arthur asks. He is using the same confident voice he uses
to command the knights, which is imbued with the poise of the prince he is. It is starkly different to
the boyish tone he takes on with Merlin in the safety of his chambers. Stern and measured, he takes
on the cadence of the king he will grow to be. Not a violent man like Uther, but an honourable ruler
with steady confidence, he sounds like a leader.

“Place your head on the block,” Morgause orders, taking the axe with both hands and lofting it into
the air.

When Arthur hesitates she raises her eyebrows. “You gave me your word that you would do
anything I asked,” she reminds him.

Merlin’s stomach drops. He knows Arthur, he’s stubborn as a mule and he adheres to his word like
gospel. He won’t break his promise.

“Arthur, don’t,” he says warningly.

“Stay out of this, Merlin,” Arthur replies evenly.

“Are you insane?” Merlin hisses as Arthur drops to his knees and places his neck along the worn
ridge of the chopping block.

Morgause’s eyes flick over to Merlin with thinly veiled amusement. He doesn’t trust the coldness
of her stare, she seems completely unbothered by the weight of the axe in her hands. Merlin’s
hands sweat anxiously at how at ease she is with a weapon. His stomach chews itself up with
nerves as she returns her gaze to Arthur.

He feels sick as the sharp blade grazes the short blond hairs at the nape of Arthur’s neck. She
brushes them aside with the cool metal and Arthur shivers but doesn’t move. Merlin is practically
shaking with the effort to keep himself still. He won’t do anything unless she actually tries to kill
Arthur, but he brushes over his magic just in case, preparing to launch it at Morgause if necessary.

She lifts the axe and Merlin’s hold on his magic tightens. She holds it there, ready to bring it down.
The blade glints.

The axe clunks as she places it beside the block.

“You have shown that you are truly a man of your word, Arthur Pendragon,” Morgause says in a
complimentary tone. “And for that I will grant you one wish.”

Merlin doesn’t trust anything she says. The anxiety in his stomach that sparked when she laid a
hand on the handle of the axe has not eased since she relinquished it. Morgause’s eyes are no softer
now than they had been moments earlier, she continues to stare at Arthur with a piercing and
unforgiving gaze. There is something about it that strikes at Merlin’s fear.

“Tell me what it is that your heart most desires,” Morgause beckons him.

Arthur marches over to her with a determined glint in his eyes. Merlin knows what he is going to
say before he even opens his mouth.

“You said you knew my mother,” Arthur says. “Tell me all you know about her.”

Morgause’s eyebrows lift as she looks at Arthur with intrigue.

“Perhaps you would like to see her?” She suggests and there is a knowing hint of amusement in her
voice, like she’s dangling bait under Arthur’s nose.

Merlin watches Arthur’s expression transform. The firm confidence he displayed flakes away into
vulnerable hope. Merlin has never seen Arthur behave like this, usually he is firm as a soldier in
battle keeping his shield over his heart. One mention of his mother and the shield falls to the floor.

“I want that more than anything,” he confesses. His voice cracks, betraying the undeniable truth of
the statement.

Morgause nods once with a small smirk gracing the corners of her lips.

“Very well.”

She leads them into a separate chamber, the remains of a bedroom or a nobleman’s quarters. In the
centre of the room Morgause begins to clear a space, lighting candles and incense and drawing
runic patterns with paint onto the crumbling walls. Arthur and Merlin stand in the corner out of her
way as she goes about the preparations.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Merlin can’t help but ask.

He looks into Arthur’s face but all that he holds there is firm confidence. His jaw is strong and his
eyes are clear, there is not a trace of hesitation in his expression.
“If you were granted the same opportunity, would you not want to meet your father?” Arthur asks.

Merlin hesitates, eyes falling to the ground. He knows Arthur is right. He would do anything to
meet his father, even just once. He has always wanted to know him, for as long as he can remember
he’s had that curiosity pressed on the back of his mind. To be given the chance to have that
resolved would be a miracle. All he wants is to truly know what his father would think of the man
Merlin has become. Arthur has that chance now, he can’t take that away from him no matter how
much he doubts Morgause’s intentions.

He still can’t let Arthur do this without knowing for certain he has considered the full extent of his
choices.

He changes tact.

“Uther won’t forgive you if he finds out you’ve collaborated with a sorcerer,” he reminds him
softly. His guilt is thick and tacky as tar, it constrains his ability to speak as the words stick to the
inside of his throat, tasting bitter on his tongue as he forces them forward into the cold air. They
aren’t lies but they feel traitorous leaving his lips.

“What if my father’s attitude to magic is wrong?” Arthur says, staring at Morgause and not Merlin.

Hope floods through Merlin like wonder. He can feel it in the tips of his fingers, buzzing in his
chest like a hummingbird spreading its wings. He stares at Arthur in amazement, unable to conceal
the delight rushing through him.

“You really think that?”

Arthur nods. “Perhaps it isn’t as simple as he would have us believe. Morgause is a sorceress, she
has caused us no harm.”

Arthur turns and meets Merlin’s gaze.

“Surely not everyone who practises magic can be evil,” Arthur says earnestly.

Merlin looks into Arthur’s brilliant blue eyes, which are shining with such firm belief and clarity.
There isn’t a speck of doubt in him. He is a beauty of which Merlin has never seen before. His
golden hair glows in the flickering light of the candles, and there is a kindness and honesty in the
lines of his face that makes Merlin’s heart jump. The hard lines of his jaw are cast in shadow but
his expression is startlingly bright.

His words mean more to Merlin than anything in the world. It is more than the threadbare hope
The Dragon has offered for the future, more than the glimpses of Arthur’s goodness that granted
Merlin optimism. It’s true hope, true acceptance.

Merlin looks into the sincere belief in Arthur’s face, his heart beating fast, and thinks,

Oh.

Realising he liked Arthur was like a blow to the head. It was abrupt, it was terrifying; like the
feeling of toes brushing the edge of a cliff and knowing he was about to fall. Merlin had fought it
tooth and nail, desperately trying to deny what he knew could never be.

Realising he is in love with Arthur is nothing like that at all. It is like coming into his mother’s
arms after months apart and realising that he is home. It is like breathing fresh air after a stiflingly
hot day. It isn’t difficult to swallow, or hard to decipher. It is the truth, and it is easy.
He loves Arthur.

Merlin loves Arthur, and Arthur accepts him, whether he knows it or not.

He swallows down a lump of tears. He’s sure that the personal significance of Arthur’s words is
splashed across his face.

He has to look away from Arthur in order to continue. “We don’t actually know why she’s doing
this,” he points out softly.

Before Arthur can answer Morgause interrupts, coming over to them with a pleasant smile that
doesn’t seem to reach her eyes.

“It is time,” she says, beckoning Arthur into the centre of the room.

~-~-~

Arthur’s heart has never been so loud. He can feel it in his throat, thumping a nervous rhythm
against his vocal cords like a drum. He swallows and tries to steady himself. He’s unable to keep
still, his knees are trembling, his breaths are short, his fingers twitch against his leg. He has never
felt so eager, and yet so frightened in his life.

This is the one thing he has wanted more than anything in the world. Now it is here, within arms
reach, and he is so terrified he can scarcely move.

“Close your eyes,” Morgause instructs in a smooth voice.

He swallows roughly. He looks at Merlin on the side of the room once more, who offers him a
timid shaky smile, before letting his eyes flutter closed.

Morgause begins to chant, speaking the foreign words of the Old Religion like they are her first
language, the incomprehensible lilts and falls roll from her tongue smoothly and clearly. Arthur
fights the instinct to shrink away from them, to succumb to the fear, the prejudice, his father has
instilled in him that magic is immoral and treacherous. These words will bring his mother to him,
he must embrace them.

Arthur keeps his eyes closed even once wind whipping through the room stills to a gentle breeze.
He can hear his breaths echoing in his head, trembling on every exhale, every pound of his heart
resounds through his spine.

“Arthur.” A gentle, soothing woman calls his name, her tone is kind with the rounded vowels and
clear diction of nobility.

Arthur’s eyes open. He recognises her immediately. There are scarcely any portraits of his mother
in the castle; but he has learnt where the few are and traced the path to their place many times. She
is the spitting image of those paintings that line the castle walls, except for the slope of her nose,
which is more pronounced than the portraiture illustrates. Arthur shares her blonde hair and blue
eyes, and when she smiles it is like seeing his own smile in a mirror.

“Mother.”

Ygraine bunches her skirts in her hands and rushes across the room. Arthur can’t breathe. He sags
forward into her arms, shivering as she holds him tight. Her arms are small but they encompass
him like he is a small boy.
“My boy,” Ygraine murmurs, stroking her fingers through the strands of his hair. Arthur’s breath
hitches on a sob and he buries his face into her shoulder.

All his life he had wondered what a mother’s arms would feel like. When he was small he would
dream of her, drawing an imaginary figure with only the contours of the portraits he viewed and the
longing of a boy torn from his mother too soon. In her arms now, he can imagine he is that boy
again, skinny ankled and boney wristed, aching from a fall and longing for the comfort of a parent
he could never have.

It is obvious she isn’t really there. Her touch is almost feathery, like if he pushed hard enough he
would fall right through her. It doesn’t matter, she is more present than she has ever been in
Arthur’s life.

“The last time I held you, you were just a baby,” his mother says, holding him tighter before
pulling away so she can look at him better. There is so much love in her blue eyes, exactly the
same shape and shade as Arthur’s, that it makes his heart ache.

“Those few seconds I had with you were the most precious of my life,” she confesses, stroking his
cheek.

Arthur shudders, blinking away the hot sting of tears beginning to form.

“I’m so sorry,” he croaks around the lump in his throat.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Ygraine assures him but he shakes his head.

“It was my birth that caused you to die—”

“No. It was not your fault.”

His mother cups his cheeks in her hands and he melts into her touch. His throat is clogged with
tears that won’t fall, even though now is the only time it would be alright. He closes his eyes and
leans his cheek into her warm palms, relishing the softness of her fingertips against his temples.

“You are not to blame, Arthur. Your father is the only one who should carry the guilt for what
happened,” she murmurs reassurances to him, her thumb stroking back and forth over his cheek
soothingly.

Arthur’s thoughts snag on her words. His brows knit together in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

Ygraine’s eyes widen like she didn’t realise what she said.

“It doesn’t matter, all that I care about is that you lived,” she says swiftly, attempting to distract
Arthur and dismiss the confession, but Arthur can’t let it pass.

“Why should my father feel guilty?”

Ygraine purses her lips, unwilling to divulge the secrets of the past but Arthur can’t let this go.

“Please,” he begs. “You can’t leave me with more questions.”

He has already spent his whole life with endless questions about his mother. Thousands of details
and memories he wants to know and could never learn. He has held every question in his chest and
felt the weight of them on his tongue as they are left unasked. He cannot add one as monumental as
this.

His mother looks away, like she can’t bear to meet his, her, eyes as she confesses to him.

“Your father… he was desperate for an heir. Without a son, the Pendragon bloodline would come
to an end.” Ygraine swallows roughly. “But I could not conceive.”

Confusion itches in Arthur’s veins, thick and cumbersome.

“I don’t understand… then how was I born?”

Ygraine sighs. “We employed the help of the sorceress Nimueh to help us conceive a child.”

Her words strike Arthur like a blow to the chest. Horror rears in him, a terrified, panting thing,
poised with its claws scraping over his insides, ready to tear him to shreds at the first sign of
danger.

“You were born of magic,” his mother explains slowly.

It can’t be. He can admit that his father’s views of magic might be flawed. He can believe that there
surely must be good sorcerers, good magic; but he cannot conceive that his father could have
believed the same, or that he would use magic to bring Arthur into this world. He can’t.

“That’s not true.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” his mother whispers. “Your father has deceived you, as he deceived me. He
did not share with me the laws of magic. To create a life, a life must be taken.”

Arthur’s throat closes. No.

“Your father knew that—” his mother is saying but Arthur can’t believe it.

“No,” he protests, tears spilling from his eyes and trickling down his cheeks.

“He sacrificed my life so that the Pendragon line would not perish.”

The words seize Arthur by the throat, squeezing until his vision spins and his eyes pop. His chest is
concaving, crushing inwards like walls trapping him and slowly closing, with every breath the
space to draw air from grows tighter and tighter. He gasps but it does nothing.

“This changes nothing Arthur,” his mother says firmly. “It makes you no less my son, nor me any
less proud of you.”

“But you died for me—” he tries to say.

Ygraine shushes him gently, her thumbs stroking away the hot tears on his cheeks. “Now that I
have seen you,” she takes a shaky breath. “I would have given my life willingly.”

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, his chest heaves as he works to control the sobs clawing their way
through his stomach and up his vocal chords. He feels the jagged edges of them burn his throat as
he swallows them down.

“Do not let this knowledge change you,” his mother begs but her voice sounds more distant than it
should.

He shakes his head, trying to clear his stuffy thoughts as they scatter in his mind like leaves in a
gale.

A gust of wind buffets through the abandoned room and Arthur’s eyes fly open in horror. His
mother is gone.

A scream tears out of him before he can stop it and his hands fly out like he might catch the last
wisp of her.

He turns to Morgause frantically while the breath that was stolen from his lungs comes back in
sharp desperate gasps.

“Bring her back,” he begs, hands still outstretched for his mother to hold again.

“I cannot,” Morgause says in a diplomatically apologetic tone. “Once the doorway is closed, it is
closed forever.”

Arthur manages to bite back a sob. He can taste blood in his mouth. She’s gone. He never
anticipated the ache of losing her a second time. His whole life he has survived without even a
memory of her, but to lose her now, after he has known her for the woman she was, is so much
worse. The wound that he has tended to since he was a child has been torn open. The ever present
hole in his chest that had always longed for his mother has been gauged wider. He feels her
absence like an ache.

Morgause steps towards him. “I am truly sorry that you learned of your mother’s fate this way. I
can only imagine how it must feel to learn your father is responsible for her death. It is an
unforgivable betrayal.”

Her words grate along his raw wounds like sandpaper. Anguish boils in his blood and it transforms
into frenzied rage that hisses and bubbles in his veins. All of this is his father’s fault. He grew up
his entire life without a mother, because of his father. He watched hundreds of innocent people die
at his father’s hands, all for a mistake Uther made. The fault does not lie with magic, not with
Arthur. It is Uther.

Arthur hardly notices Morgause leave the room as he stares at the place where his mother was
standing.

“Arthur? Are you alright?” Merlin’s voice draws him from his thoughts. His voice is tentative as it
reaches across the space between them like an outstretched hand. Arthur shies away from the
comfort.

“Fetch the horses,” he says stiffly. “We’re returning to Camelot.”

~-~-~

Arthur is blind with fury.

Before he didn’t understand what it meant to see red; but he does now. The world is stained in
shades of scarlet and rouge, rage bleeding in his vision. He can see Camelot for what it truly is; he
finally sees life beyond the king’s touch to the atrocities left in its wake. All of what Uther built is
riddled with the ragged wounds of broken families that can never be repaired, healed over with
mottled scars. The happy smiles of the common people feel shameful when so many die at Uther’s
guilty hands. Arthur is filled with so much anger he could choke, filling his lungs like blood
pouring from his wounded heart until all he can taste is the tang of metal and the ashy burn of his
furor. Blood rushes in his ears and his heart pounds like war drums against his rib cage,
accompanying his every step, preparing him for battle.
He marches through the hallways of the Camelot citadel blindly, the edges of his sight blurred with
furious tears that burn his skin when they touch his cheeks. Whatever look is in his eyes must be
terrifying, because servants and guards alike jump out of his path as he storms his way to the
throne room.

Arthur throws open the double doors, they crash as they hit the wall, rattling on their hinges. The
sight of the king in his throne makes Arthur’s stomach turn with disgust. At the sound of the doors
hitting stone both Sir Leon and Uther look up and the king meets Arthur’s eyes. Arthur does not
bother to hide his disdain, he’s never felt hatred like this before, it’s consuming. It burns the back
of his throat and roars in his chest; it makes him wish he could turn Uther to stone with his eyes,
that he could destroy him with his anger alone.

“Arthur,” Uther says sternly but with what might be relief. “Where have you been?”

Arthur can’t bring himself to speak, his anger is like a vice around his throat, constricting until he
can’t possibly speak around the fire curling in his windpipe.

When he says nothing Uther says his name again.

Arthur gulps a breath of air and forces himself to speak.

His words come out like a hiss that barely punctures the air but in Arthur’s fog filled mind they
echo like a clap of thunder.

“I know what you did to my mother,” he says, as sharp as a blade begging to draw blood.

Uther blinks, his face an impassive mask.

“Leave us,” he orders Sir Leon without turning away from his son.

Leon obeys without a word.

“No one is to enter,” The king adds as Leon closes the doors behind himself.

Uther waits until they are completely alone, his eyes fixed to the door and as silent as a sculpture
until the side of the bolt sliding into place resounds.

“What are you talking about?”

Arthur scoffs through his gritted teeth.

“You were so desperate for an heir, you were prepared to use magic—”

“Did Morgause tell you this?” Uther asks with an unbothered tip of his regal chin. “She’s lying.”

The words are barely audible through the anger pulsating in Arthur’s eardrums.

“My mother is dead because of your selfishness and arrogance,” he says. Each word emerges stiff
and punctuated like the final word of a sentence, gritted through his clenched jaw rather than
smooth and practised, because he knows if he attempted to speak eloquently nothing would come
out at all.

“Her blood is on your hands.”

Uther flinches with an expression Arthur couldn’t decipher if he tried, and he doesn’t care to try.
“That’s not true,” he says in a clipped tone, “But Morgause would have you believe that.”

Arthur speaks over him in a low growl that steadily rises to a shout.

“This is what fuels your hatred for those who practise magic. You use them as a scapegoat for your
own pathetic guilt. Rather, than blame yourself for what you did, you blame them.”

“You would believe the word of a sorceress over your own father? She who would destroy this
kingdom and for what purpose?”

“You have hunted her kind like animals!” Arthur roars. “How many hundreds have you killed to
ease your guilt?”

Uther doesn’t even flinch, Arthur’s words die in the air before they reach him.

“Those who practise magic will stop at nothing to destroy us,” Uther says, spitting out excuses like
a wild attempt to throw a shield over his defenceless chest. “I have only done what is necessary to
maintain the honour of this kingdom.”

“You speak of honour and nobility!” Arthur growls. “But you’re nothing but a hypocrite and a
liar.”

Uther’s face grows stony, his eyes flash with irritation that would usually make Arthur shrink and
obey. Not now. Today, the sight of that distaste makes something in Arthur’s chest growl in a
satiated way. He has broken through the king’s armour, he has dented the chestplate of his well
protected feelings and made his way to the heart.

“I am your king,” Uther says in a deceptively calm tone. “You will show me some respect.”

Respect.

Arthur has been taught all his life of the conducts that the king values. He has been taught to be
diplomatic, strong, noble. He is a knight, one of the best in the kingdom, because nothing else
would be acceptable. He knows how to live by the knight’s code better than he knows his own
mother. If it is respect the king wants, Arthur will challenge him by the code Uther has instilled in
him his entire life.

Arthur tears off his gauntlet without breaking eye contact. He tosses it at the king’s feet.

Uther watches him with wide eyes.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Pick it up,” Arthur orders emotionlessly.

“Arthur, I implore you, think about what you’re doing.”

I am, Arthur thinks wildly. He hates the implication that he wouldn’t commit to this, no matter
how much thought he put into it. That his mother, who died so that Arthur might live, was not
worth him fighting for her honour.

“Pick. It. Up.” Arthur hisses each word like poison.

Uther shakes his head. “I will not fight you.”

“If you will not defend yourself, I will be forced to strike you down where you stand,” Arthur
warns. It is more than the king deserves.

“No,” Uther says firmly. “You are my son, I know you won’t hurt me.”

Arthur can feel his blood pounding in his temples. His anger is coursing through the currents of his
veins. His heartbeat is staccato in his eardrums.

“I no longer think of myself as your son,” he snarls.

Their swords clash and it echoes through the throne room. .

~-~-~

Merlin goes directly to Gaius. He needs to confirm what Morgause revealed, even though he knows
deep in his gut that it is true.

He could tell when he was watching Arthur embrace his mother. There was no illusion, Morgause
had really brought Ygraine to the gate between the world of the dead and the living. When he
reached his magic towards her he felt nothing malevolent, nothing that could incriminate
Morgause. She was being honest.

Still, he had to hear it from Gaius.

“Merlin!” Gaius exclaims as he rushes into their chambers. “Where is Arthur?”

Merlin ignores the question, heart clamouring in the barrel of his chest like it is about to escape.

“Arthur was born of magic,” he says. He intended it to be a question, but it would be pointless to
ask.

Still, his heart clenches when Gaius’ face drops. He knows immediately that it really is true. Gaius
doesn’t lie to him. Sometimes it hurts how many secrets he keeps, when he only divulges
something when he has no other choice, but he doesn’t lie. The fear and guilt in his eyes is enough
to confirm Merlin’s suspicions.

“Uther used magic to conceive his own fucking son,” Merlin spits. He almost laughs at the
ridiculousness of the statement, at how utterly outlandish it sounds coming from his own lips.

“Merlin—” Gaius starts. Merlin can hear that he is going to come to Uther’s defence but he doesn’t
give him the chance.

“All those people he’s executed, and he’s as guilty as they are.”

Gaius’ lips press together but he doesn’t argue. Merlin catches a glimpse of the regret in Gaius’
eyes as he avoids Merlin’s gaze, it reflects a history he has wrongfully concealed from sight.

“He sacrificed Arthur’s mother, he as good as murdered her,” Merlin hisses. He is furious on
behalf of every person with magic both within and outside Camelot, he is furious on behalf of
Arthur, and himself, for not knowing; but more than anything he is furious for Ygraine.

Gaius shakes his head, looking up with wide eyes.

“I will not deny that Uther is guilty of sorcery, more than anyone else. Nor that it is his own guilt
that he forces sorcery to atone for. However, he never meant to hurt Ygraine. Of that I believe
wholeheartedly.”
Merlin can see that Gaius truly believes that, which is all well and good but changes nothing.

“But he killed her,” he says firmly.

Gaius hangs his head and doesn’t argue.

Merlin inhales sharply through his nose Merlin, somehow still shocked despite knowing the truth.

“How could you not tell me?”

His anger falls away into sadness. He can’t help but feel betrayed that Gaius kept something this
important from him.

Gaius sighs.

“I feared how Arthur would react if he ever found out,” he admits. “And I didn’t want to burden
you with something else to keep from him.”

Gaius’ words ring through the room like a baton hitting a gong. Arthur.

“Well he’s found out.”

With startling clarity Merlin knows where Arthur was going when he stormed away from their
horses upon their arrival in Camelot. Arthur, who has wanted to know his mother his entire life and
was never even spared scraps of information about her, and was all at once struck with this horrific
knowledge. He will seek revenge, and there is only one person responsible. Merlin doesn’t spare
Gaius a word. He runs towards the throne room like a madman, taking the stairs three at a time,
shoving past people traversing the halls. He doesn’t slow even as furious shouts follow his path
and his breaths begin to echo in his ears, only faltering when Sir Leon grabs him at the doors of the
throne room, stopping his entrance.

When Merlin tries to push past, Leon doesn’t hesitate to shove him out of the way.

“The king has forbidden anyone to enter!” Leon says firmly.

“They’re going to kill each other!” Merlin shouts, chest heaving with exertion and fear. He can
hear the sound of clanging inside the closed room and his heart seizes as a rush of scenarios
barrage his imagination, each worse than the last.

He can see Leon’s eyes go wide as he considers what Merlin is saying. There is a moment where he
thinks that Leon still might turn him away but then he releases Merlin, instead seizing the handles
and pulls the huge doors open.

Arthur’s sword is at Uther’s throat. There is rage in the prince’s eyes that Merlin has never seen
before. He looks ferocious, his teeth are bared, his eyes are frenzied. Merlin doesn’t doubt that he
will kill his father.

“Arthur don’t!”

He sprints across the throne room to them, as he grows closer he’s relieved at the sight of Arthur’s
sword arm trembling. There is none of his usual steadfast confidence in battle, he is torn and
hesitant, and Merlin might be able to stop him.

“I know you don’t want to do this,” Merlin says.

Arthur sobs through gritted teeth, his sword is still pressed into the soft skin of his father’s throat.
“My mother is dead because of him,” he says, his voice like broken glass scattered across the
ground.

“Killing your father won’t bring her back. You’ve already lost one parent. Do you really want to
lose another?”

Arthur’s lip is trembling, Merlin can hear the harsh pant of each breath. His arm droops slightly,
hesitating.

“Listen to him, Arthur,” Uther begs and Merlin wants to scream at him to shut up. Arthur’s stance
hardens again, fury striking in his eyes like swords colliding.

“Arthur, please,” Merlin says softly. “Put the sword down.”

“You heard what my mother said!” Arthur roars, he’s shaking so violently Merlin wonders how he
doesn’t collapse. “After everything that he has done, do you really believe he deserves to live?”

No, Merlin thinks. Uther does not deserve Merlin’s mercy. He does not deserve to be spared. He is
a hypocrite and a tyrant. He has executed hundreds of sorcerers, enchantresses and innocent
people, all to appease his own guilty conscience. He has let his heart grow hard, and has chosen to
rule with his sword, wielded by his own paranoia. He does not deserve to live.

Uther executes Merlin’s kind, and would not hesitate to do the same to Merlin, regardless of
whether he saves him now. Merlin’s life would be made better tenfold if he let Arthur kill the king
now, and begin his own reign.

For a split second, he considers it.

But he can’t.

Arthur might want to kill Uther now, but Merlin knows him better than anyone. He knows that in
this moment he is blinded by fury, he cannot see beyond the thick rage clouding his vision.
However, once the storm fades and his clarity is restored he will hate himself for it. If Arthur kills
his father now, he will never be able to live with himself.

He will lose himself, just as Uther has. Arthur is kind, and benevolent, beloved by the people for
his merciful hand and his understanding ear. He cannot begin his reign with blood staining his
hands. His own father’s blood, which Merlin knows will never wash off no matter how hard he
scrubs his skin raw. He will never again be the Arthur that Merlin knows, the Arthur that Merlin
loves.

Perhaps Merlin’s life will be eased in this potential future, but Arthur’s will be forever damaged.
Merlin won’t allow that.

“Morgause is lying.”

The air in the room stills. He sees Arthur tense, his sword dips slightly as he listens.

Merlin forces himself to take a deep breath.

“She’s an enchantress,” he continues, struggling to keep his voice steady as tears build behind his
eyes. The words taste like ash in his mouth, the lies coat his tongue, making it near impossible to
speak.

“She tricked you,” he says. “That was not your mother you saw, that was an illusion.”
Arthur’s hand trembles, his eyes are wide and shining with tears as he listens to Merlin.

“Everything your mother said about your father… those were Morgause’s words.”

Arthur shakes his head roughly, like he’s shaking water from his ears.

“You don’t know that!” He insists, his voice coming out battered and raw.

“Look at what you’re doing!” Merlin shouts. “This is what she wants! To turn you against your
father, so that you will kill him, and then the kingdom will be ruined. Camelot will be destroyed.”

Merlin hates himself for what he is saying. He thinks of Ygraine and with shaking hands, begs her
to forgive him. She said she loved her son more than anything, and as her parting words begged
Arthur not to change. Merlin is stopping him from doing just that, he only wishes he wasn’t
tarnishing the one moment Arthur had with her in the process.

“Listen to him Arthur, he is telling the truth,” Uther pleads softly. Merlin has never heard him
sound so weak.

Arthur grits his teeth. “Swear to me that it isn’t true. You were not responsible for my mother’s
death! Give me your word!”

Merlin watches Uther’s throat brush the point of the sword as he swallows.

“I swear on my life I loved your mother more than anything. There isn’t a day that passes that I do
not wish she were still here. I could never have done anything to hurt her,” Uther promises.

Arthur trembles, it rolls through him like a wave, from his hands holding his sword, rumbling
through his torso and then reaching his knees. Merlin watches the tremor as it trails through his
entire body. Arthur breathes raggedly, trying to keep himself steady but Merlin can see him
wavering.

His lip quivers and then the last of his resolve breaks and he shatters. Arthur’s knees hit the ground
with a crash, he collapses forwards and just catches himself on the edge of his father’s throne.
Merlin watches as sobs wrack through Arthur’s body.

“I’m so sorry.” Merlin can just hear Arthur whisper hoarsely to his father.

“It’s okay,” Uther assures him, embracing Arthur tightly and pressing his words into his blond
head. “You’re okay.”

~-~-~

Merlin stops and waits by the door to Arthur’s chambers for a moment. Arthur is standing by the
window, silhouetted in the soft light of the evening; he looks like something right out of a dream.
His arms are crossed and his eyes pensive as he stares into the courtyard below.

They haven’t spoken since the incident, when Arthur’s sword was at his father’s throat. Merlin
doesn’t know what to expect. He enters the room softly, almost hoping Arthur will ignore his
presence altogether. He should know better.

“I am indebted to you, Merlin,” Arthur says softly, not turning away from the window.

Merlin places the basket of laundry on Arthur’s table and looks up with wide eyes. His throat feels
impossibly dry.
“I had become confused, I was taken advantage of by Morgause and I lost my way,” Arthur
swallows heavily, his Adam’s apple bobs heavily as he hangs his head. No matter how much
strength he shows before his father, Merlin knows that it has hurt Arthur to have his moment with
his mother taken from him. He can only hope that one day he might be able to tell Arthur the truth.

Arthur clears his throat and shakes his head sharply like he is actively trying to dispel the thoughts
in his mind.

“It is once again clear to me that those who practise magic are evil and dangerous, and I have you
to thank for that.”

Merlin feels like a dagger has been forced through his chest. His ribs split open as the sharp blade
pierces through his heart. He bites down hard on his lip to stop it from quivering until his mouth is
flooded with the metallic sting of blood. The sharp pain does nothing to distract him from the way
his heart seems to be splintering apart.

He has never endured pain so terrible. Not even when Nimueh scorched his chest open did it burn
like this. He wants to keel under it, to let himself curl into his chest and hold his breaking heart
together with his palms.

His eyes sting with tears but he forces himself not to cry.

“Glad I could help,” he manages to croak, thankful that Arthur isn’t looking at him for how
unconvincing he knows his smile must be.

His throat is clogged with tears he can’t let fall. His heart is shattering in his chest, he can feel each
painful shard dragging through his body, scraping along the lining of his lungs and stomach,
leaving him bleeding sluggishly. He thins his lips and ignores the insistent ache.

“If you don’t mind, Sire. May I be excused?” He asks, the words come out slightly warbled by the
thick press of tears he’s holding back.

Arthur nods absently.

“Of course.”

It’s a testament to how raw Arthur is still feeling that he doesn’t question Merlin’s abrupt exit.
There is no forthcoming tease about Merlin trying to get out of doing work and for that Merlin is
grateful as he bows from the room.

Merlin walks into his chambers feeling like his insides have been scraped out with a blunt knife.
He feels impossibly cold, like everything that was once protecting him from the frigid temperature
has been stripped away. His breaths whistle as they come into his lungs and do nothing but allow
him to feel the hollowness of his chest with every inhale.

“Merlin?” Gaius says his name worriedly. “Are you alright?”

Merlin nods mutely, closing the door behind himself carefully and dropping his satchel onto a
chair.

“Arthur just… thanked me for helping him realise the truth about people with magic,” he says in
an empty tone. “That they’re evil and dangerous,” his voice cracks traitorously.

Gaius’ eyes soften in understanding as Merlin comes to sit in the chair opposite him. He lays a
weathered palm on Merlin’s knee and squeezes it with reassurance.
 “He will not believe that forever, one day you will help Arthur see the truth,” Gaius promises.

Merlin nods, squeezing his eyes shut and inhaling shakily.

“You made an impossible decision today, Merlin,” Gaius says with a commending tone. “Uther
should be grateful. Your life would have been easier and safer if you had just let him die.”

Merlin huffs humourlessly, staring at the ground.

“You must have been tempted,” Gaius acknowledges. There is no judgement in his voice, it sounds
like he truly understands and cannot fault Merlin for considering letting Uther die.

Merlin shrugs. “Maybe for a moment,” he concedes truthfully. “But Arthur wouldn’t have been
able to forgive himself if he’d gone through with it.”

The reminder doesn’t help repair the broken pieces of his heart that Merlin is holding tentatively in
his palms; but it does ease the ache of the wounds they left behind.

“It would have destroyed him.”

Gaius’ eyes are knowing as Merlin meets them, gentle and accepting.

“You really care for him, don’t you?” Gaius says softly.

Merlin has already been through so much today. He has lied so much that he thinks that the
deception will stain his tongue forever. He has broken his own heart. He can’t bring himself to tell
Gaius anything but the truth.

“I love him.”

The tears he has been holding back finally spill over and he can’t stop them any longer. He
shudders as the sobs break free, clawing their way out of him in violent shudders. Gaius’ arms
encompass him as he trembles. Hot and salty tears drip from his chin and soak into the fabric of
Gaius’ sleeve but he doesn’t pull away.

“Oh, my boy,” Gaius sighs, petting Merlin’s hair gently as he weeps.

“I love him,” Merlin sobs.

And he hates me.

Chapter End Notes

uhhh hi lmao. hope everyone enjoyed this one ?? it's honestly one of my favourites

let me know your thoughts !! what was your favourite part ?? what hit you the hardest
?? i eat up every comment they truly mean the world to me

we are entering the mid season break now !! so the next post will return on february
26th !!! see you all then !!
 The Lady of the Lake
Chapter Notes

see end notes for content warning !!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Merlin creeps around the bounty hunter’s chariot.

It more resembles a giant cage on wheels than a carriage, with thick iron bars that make Merlin’s
legs wobble and his stomach turn, lining the outside are curled spikes like teeth enclosing its
captives in its monstrous jaw. It is an iron fist, created to grasp sorcerers in its tight grip, and sitting
in the centre is a girl.

Merlin saw her earlier that day. She’s so thin her skin seems translucent in the moonlight, leaving
her elbows, knees and ribs protruding outwards like the spikes on her cage. Merlin can’t imagine
the last time her captor gave her a substantial meal. Her dress is raked with tears; only a few
remaining threads hold it together, and she’s shivering despite the warm night.

He wanted to help her when they passed earlier, but Gaius had warned him against it. Bounty
hunters are dangerous men to cross, and if caught Merlin would be accused of conspiring with
sorcery and be promptly executed. His own magic would be irrelevant, aiding her would be enough
to persecute him.

He doesn’t like going behind Gaius’ back, but he couldn’t leave the girl there to die.

Merlin tries to approach as calmly as he can so he won’t startle her but still she scrambles
backwards at the sight of him to cower in the corner. Her eyes are huge and round, encompassing
her face in fright as she stares, her shoulders shaking so violently he worries she might fall apart.

Merlin offers her a gentle smile in the hopes it will settle her. He can’t risk speaking, in case the
bounty hunter returns for his prize and overhears him.

He has to stand a few paces away from the chariot to summon his magic, and even then he
struggles with the iron looming over his shoulder. His magic is usually a sprightly force, quick to
spring to his touch at even the slightest nudge, but now it is thick and cumbersome as he wrestles it
forward.

Merlin’s eyes glow gold and with a flash her cuffs snap open.

“Come on,” Merlin whispers, holding out his hand.

She hesitates but takes it.

Merlin hurries her down into the catacombs beneath the castle, ignoring the bounty hunter’s shouts
of rage behind them as he finds his cage empty.

“He won’t find you here,” Merlin promises in an attempt to set her at ease.

She nods, staring at the wall blankly. Her shivering has deteriorated into heavy shudders that rattle
her teeth now that the chill of the catacombs has seeped into her bones.

“Here,” Merlin says, shrugging off his jacket.

As he holds it out she flinches away, bumping herself into the wall in her haste to get away.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says softly, he repeats it again when she sniffles. “I didn’t mean to frighten
you. I just thought you might be cold.”

The girl reaches out tentatively and snatches the jacket, pulling it over her shoulders.

“Why did you do that?” The girl asks. Merlin glances over at her in surprise, he honestly hadn’t
been expecting her to speak. Her voice has the soft and meek quality of someone who is more
accustomed to cruelty than kindness.

“Do what?”

“Help me,” she clarifies.

She shivers violently, pulling Merlin’s jacket tighter around her shoulders. Merlin’s heart clenches
and he fights the urge to wrap his arms around her. She’s traumatised, and terrified, he knows a hug
would do more harm than good. He tucks his hands firmly into his armpits to stop himself from
reaching out.

“I saw you and…” Merlin chews on his cheek, “Well… it could have been me in that cage. I
couldn’t leave you like that.”

The girl’s eyes are huge and round as she watches him. Merlin can see her thinking through his
answer.

“You’ll be safe down here,” Merlin assures her. “I’ll come back in the morning with some food
and candles.”

He’s careful to not break eye contact as he speaks to her and tries to keep his voice steady. He
doesn’t want to do anything that might further frighten her.

“Will you be alright till then?” He asks, offering her a small smile.

She continues to stare at him. Merlin waits patiently, giving her time to digest his words and
answer him. She hesitates but eventually nods, so shallowly it is barely a bob of her head. There is
distrust in her eyes but he can’t fault her for that. He suspects the only reason she followed him at
all was because he used magic to free her.

“Good,” he nods and turns to leave.

He stops, hesitating in the doorway. “I’m Merlin, by the way.”

The girl’s eyes scan over him thoughtfully.

“I’m Freya,” she introduces herself in a voice as soft as a breeze.

He is forced to leave shortly after, Gaius will soon notice he is missing and he needs to get some
sleep before meeting Arthur.

He is however able to return early the next morning bearing food he stole from Arthur’s breakfast
and some wax candles from Gaius’ stores.
“Freya?” He whispers into the tunnel.

Freya jerks up from where she had been half asleep, she hasn’t even sat up fully before her eyes
begin darting around the room, inspecting the darkest corners for dangers that might be lurking.

“Woah. It’s okay,” Merlin whispers soothingly, holding up his hands so she can see he is still
unarmed. “It’s just me, it’s Merlin.”

He eases slowly to the ground, careful to keep his movements slow and steady so he won’t startle
her. He watches as Freya settles again, though she still resembles a spooked animal she seems
calmer when she recognises Merlin. She watches Merlin's path to the floor with round cat-like
eyes.

“I brought you some food,” Merlin tells her, brandishing the small bundle and placing it between
them.

Freya reaches across the small space Merlin has kept between them and snatches the food like she
fears it will be stolen from her. She tears into it ravenously, teeth seizing chunks of bread, stuffing
cheese into her mouth before she even has the chance to chew, confirming Merlin’s suspicions that
she hasn’t been fed for some time.

She senses his eyes on her and looks up.

“It’s good,” she says gratefully, with a nervous smile that softens her features into something very
pretty.

“Believe me, it’s fit for a prince,” Merlin jokes.

Freya smiles absently and continues eating and he realises with a jolt that she doesn’t actually
know Merlin works for Arthur. He decided it’s probably best to keep it that way. She’s already
flighty and anxious, he doubts mention of the prejudiced royal family will be much help.

Merlin leaves her to eat in peace for a moment, lighting the candles with a quick spell. He can feel
Freya’s eyes on him as he does and wonders if she feels the same excitement at seeing acts of
magic as he does. He glances over at her but her eyes have returned to her meal.

As she tears a piece of bread off he sees a symbol tattooed on her arm. It’s one he remembers
seeing on Mordred’s shoulder; an orbiting pattern of three interlocking swirls.

“Is that a druid symbol?” He asks, curiosity burning.

Freya nods curtly.

“Were you born a druid?”

“Why are you asking me all these questions?” Freya asks with a defensive snap in her voice.

Merlin ducks his head in embarrassment. He has always struggled to keep his curiosity under
control, especially when it comes to magic.

“Sorry I didn’t mean to.”

Freya’s eyes soften and she looks apologetically at Merlin.

“I’m sorry,” she says in a whisper.

“It’s okay. I understand what it’s like to keep secrets,” Merlin says with a droll shrug.

There is a pause as Freya considers this before she asks, “does anyone know you have magic?”

“No, only you and one other person. He knows, but I’m not sure he understands.”

Merlin knows Gaius doesn’t struggle repressing his magic as Merlin does. Perhaps he never felt
that being a sorcerer was an important part of his identity, or perhaps the decades of concealing his
magic have made the pain easier to bear. Whatever his reasoning, Merlin knows that he does not
fully understand how difficult Merlin finds it to keep hidden. How much he longs to tell everyone
the truth. Merlin tries not to think of Arthur and how he might hate him if he did know.

Freya sighs. “I don’t know if many people can understand. It’s terrible to hide. Sometimes, I wish I
could be like everyone else…”

“But you always know deep down you wouldn’t be the same?” He suggests with an understanding
smile.

Freya looks at him with an astonished expression.

Merlin nods, folding his arms over his knees and watching as Freya continues to shovel portions of
food into her mouth.

“It’s alright to not be like everyone else,” Merlin promises her.

Freya smiles bitterly. “No, I’m cursed.”

“Don’t say that! Magic doesn’t have to be a curse, it can be a gift.”

She raises her eyebrows disbelievingly around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

“I wouldn’t trade my magic for anything,” Merlin says honestly.

Freya stares at him for a long moment, thinking, and then says, softly, “You’re braver than I am,
Merlin.”

Merlin shakes his head. “I really doubt that’s true.”

Freya smiles and he returns the expression easily. They sit in silence for a long pause until Merlin
has no choice but to say something. He’s already stretching how long he can be absent from the
castle without someone noticing. If he stays any longer he won’t be able to return later without
raising suspicion.

“I have to go,” he says regretfully. “Someone might notice I’m missing.”

At Freya’s crestfallen expression he hastens to promise, “but I’ll come back! And I’ll bring you
more food.”

She laughs softly at the teasing lilt in his voice and nods.

“Thank you.”

~-~-~

“You know Merlin,” Arthur says around a mouthful of food, “you’ve been even more useless than
usual today.”
Arthur watches in amusement as Merlin struggles to withhold an eye roll, and instead his eye
twitches.

“How so?” Merlin asks with blatantly feigned manners.

“Glad you asked.” Arthur smirks as Merlin’s eye twitches again. “First, you didn’t give me my
entire breakfast—”

“—No one needs cheese first thing in the morning,” Merlin argues with a sniff.

“You gave me two tunics to dress myself with, and no trousers.”

“I was giving you the chance to pick your own clothes, it isn’t my fault you aren’t clever enough to
have your own thoughts.”

“And you overheated my bath, I almost burnt my skin off.”

Arthur had actually thrown a jug of cold water over Merlin for that one. To be fair Merlin had
deserved it, the bathwater had been beyond scorching. Arthur was lucky he didn’t actually get
burnt.

Arthur looks down at his plate with a frown, he could have sworn he had two drumsticks when he
last looked. He was planning on saving the second one for the end of the meal, but as he looks
down now there is only the one remaining, sitting on the plate beside a pile of peas.

“Merlin,” Arthur says with a frown, “I had two drumsticks.”

“No you didn’t,” Merlin disagrees immediately, shaking his head. “I did too,” Arthur argues
immaturely, poking at his potatoes with his knife like the meat might have somehow hidden itself
between them. He can feel Merlin’s amused eyes on him as he goes scavenging for the offensive
drumstick. His fork clatters onto newly empty plate and he pauses, staring at the empty space
where his sausages once sat.

“And sausages!” He cries.

“You don’t have any,” Merlin observes idly.

“But I did.”

Merlin crouches by Arthur and inspects the plate. Arthur doesn’t trust the look on his face for a
second. There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that he knows well, and the corner of his lip
keeps twitching like he’s fighting back a smile.

“Maybe you ate them?” He suggests.

“I haven’t had the chance,” Arthur says in outrage. “I think I would notice if I had eaten them you
bumpkin!”

Merlin blinks owlishly. “Well don’t look at me, I didn’t take them.”

Arthur narrows his eyes challengingly but Merlin doesn’t shrink under his stare. He holds Arthur’s
gaze unflinchingly until finally Arthur relinquishes with a sigh and returns to his meal, sans second
drumstick and sausages.

“Did you hear about that druid girl?” Arthur asks, tearing a piece of bread off with his teeth.
An odd expression flickers over Merlin’s face but then he smiles and Arthur dismisses it as
nothing.

“No,” Merlin says, shaking his head, “What’s happened?”

Arthur shrugs absently with one shoulder. “Not really sure. Halig, one of father’s best bounty
hunters, captured her, but she escaped.”

“Water?” Merlin offers, holding up the jug for Arthur and on Arthur’s nod, pours. “Has the King
sent men after her?”

Arthur grunts his affirmation around a mouthful of potato.

“Halig and some guards are hunting,” he says, “supposedly she’s dangerous.”

A wry smile twists over Merlin’s mouth.

“How dangerous can one girl be?” He asks in amusement.

Arthur tries not to think of Morgause. This girl is simply a druid, if one were to put aside their
practises in sorcery then they are peaceful people. Nothing like Morgause who is a High Priestess
of the Old Religion.

“My thoughts exactly,” he agrees absently and lets the conversation cease.

~-~-~

Merlin sneaks back down to Freya with the sausages and drumstick he nicked from Arthur’s plate,
along with some bread. He even managed to sneak some strawberries from the kitchens, which he
has kept in his pocket, wrapped in some beeswax to surprise her.

She brightens when she sees him, the exhaustion that had been weighing her face seeming to grow
lighter.

“I’ve brought you more food,” he says with a grin, holding up the bundle proudly.

Her eyes crinkle happily as she smiles. “Thank you.”

Merlin sits beside her this time, and bumps her shoulder affectionately. Freya somewhat reminds
him of Gwen, with her soft demeanour and sweetness. Gwen is more bold, quick witted, bright as a
striking match, while Freya is subdued and gentle as a still lake in summer, but their shy smiles are
almost identical. Maybe that’s another reason why Merlin feels so inexplicably drawn to her.

“You know Merlin, you’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met before,” Freya says in a kind voice that lets
him know it’s meant as a compliment.

He turns to meet her eyes and smiles.

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met either,” he says warmly.

He looks down and notices that she has polished off the second meal he brought as quickly as the
first.

“Guess what? I brought a surprise,” Merlin says, wiggling his eyebrows until Freya laughs.

Her eyes are bright as she waits for Merlin’s surprise.

“What is it?” She asks eagerly.

He hands her the bundle of strawberries with a small flourish and feels immensely proud of the
smile it puts on her face.

She looks nothing like the bedraggled and terrified girl he rescued from the bounty hunter. Her
eyes are brighter, relieved of the deep shadows underneath them, and her skin has a healthy flush to
it. Her hair is still matted and tangled with knots, and she’s still only clothed in her ripped dress
and one of Merlin’s jackets; but she looks happier.

“Strawberries,” she gasps with almost childlike wonder as she unwraps them. She looks at Merlin
with a glittering gratefulness that brightens her whole face.

“Thank you,” she says with such genuineness that it makes Merlin want to fetch her a thousand
strawberries.

And then she’s kissing him.

Merlin freezes under the feeling of her lips. They’re extremely chapped and cold, but they push
delicately against his. He’s never kissed a girl before, the sensation is softer than a man. The first
thing he notices is the lack of stubble, and how he doesn’t really like it without that roughness, and
then how gentle her mouth is. Will was never gentle. He always kissed like he had something to
prove. Merlin really shouldn’t think about Will while someone is kissing him.

Freya pulls away and Merlin is grateful.

He’s breathless in all the wrong ways; like he was holding his breath the entire kiss.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says honestly. He feels unspeakably awkward, and unsure what to say to make
the situation better.

Thankfully Freya doesn’t seem upset, she just smiles in understanding and settles against the wall.

“You don’t have feelings for me, do you?” She asks softly.

“No,” he agrees.

“But it’s nothing to do with you!” He adds hurriedly. “I’m just not interested in… women,” he
explains with a nervous laugh.

Freya’s eyes widen and her mouth forms a small ‘o’ shape in shocked understanding.

“Yeah,” Merlin scratches at the back of his head, “plus I’m kind of in love with someone else.”

Merlin is expecting her to be upset, since she’s clearly interested enough to kiss him, but Freya
surprises him. Her eyes brighten, like a torch freshly lit in the dark of light, and she looks to Merlin
with an expectant look on her thin face. She shifts closer, like Merlin is a hearth and she is drawing
nearer to his warmth.

“Tell me about him?” She asks and there is a hopeful lilt in her voice. “It’s been so long since I
heard something nice.”

Instinctively Merlin wants to avoid her question. He’s so used to keeping his feelings about Arthur
a secret, like his magic, it is something only Gaius knows. If anyone were to learn that Merlin has
feelings for the prince he can’t imagine he would be able to keep his position, at best he would be
the laughing stock of the castle, and at worst he might be forced away from Arthur. He won’t even
tell Gwen for fear of ruining her blossoming relationship with Arthur. He can’t even talk to Gaius
about how he actually feels about Arthur for fear of creating awkwardness. He hasn’t brought the
feelings up since he confessed them through tears last week. Except, Freya doesn’t know who
Arthur is. She doesn’t know Merlin has any ties to the prince, and she wants to listen. Who is
Merlin to turn down this opportunity?

“He’s… the best person I know,” he says with a fond smile and Freya stares widely at him like an
eager child seeking a bedtime story. “Don’t get me wrong he’s a total arse, but I kind of like that
about him. Not that I’d ever tell him that.”

Freya giggles and nods, encouraging Merlin to continue.

“He’s kind to everyone, even when he doesn’t have to be. Even when he’s been taught otherwise.
He assumes the best in everyone.”

He used to at least. Merlin doesn’t mention that Arthur no longer trusts people with magic, people
like them, or that it’s Merlin’s fault. Freya’s eyes on him are big and curious, she’s so visibly
happy to hear his gentle words; the sadness that comes with remembering Arthur’s hatred of magic
is something he doesn’t want to entertain in such a comforting space. So, he swallows the lump in
his throat and smiles.

He thinks of Arthur, beautiful, wonderful Arthur. There isn’t a piece of him that Merlin isn’t in
love with.

“He’s got this loud laugh,” Merlin chuckles, “when he laughs he’s all that you can hear or look at.”

He grins. “And when he doesn’t want to admit that he finds me funny, he pulls this face.” Merlin
tries to imitate it to show Freya but he’s smiling too much. “He scrunches his nose and bites at the
corner of his lip so he won’t smile. Always the right corner because that’s where his smile starts.”

Merlin has thought of pressing his thumb to the start of that smile so many times, of feeling the
way it spreads beneath his touch, tracing the line of Arthur’s growing grin with his fingerprint.

“What else?” Freya urges him. She’s watching him with a wistful look on her face.

Merlin thinks about it. He tries to remember all the things he’s thought about Arthur but had no
one to tell. It’s difficult to turn the affectionate flutter of his chest when he thinks of Arthur into
words, like translating his first language into a foreign tongue.

“He… he has a crooked smile, his teeth are the only imperfect thing about him, the front one’s
stick out you know? And he has this bump in his nose,” Merlin points to the bridge of Freya’s nose
delicately, “right there. I’ve thought about kissing it more times than I can count.”

He ducks his head self consciously but Freya takes his hand between her two and squeezes gently.

“He sounds wonderful,” she says kindly.

Merlin exhales, smiling at the ground with affection he doesn’t bother trying to hide.

“He is.”

“Have you told him how you feel?” Freya asks, tilting her head to look at Merlin.

A laugh splutters out of Merlin despite himself.

“No, absolutely not, and I never will.”

“Why not?”

Merlin blows out his cheeks. “Where to start? I mean… He would never settle for someone like
me.”

Freya seems affronted on his behalf.

“I doubt that’s true,” she argues, her eyebrows drawn together. She’s so naive to the reality of his
situation that it almost startles a laugh out of Merlin. Without knowing who Arthur is she must
think that Merlin is being self deprecating rather than realistic, and her eagerness to jump to his
defence is both amusing and charming.

“Believe me, it will never happen,” he settles on saying. “I don’t think he likes men, and he’s in
love with someone else,” he shrugs helplessly. “He’ll never want me.”

An expression passes over Freya’s face almost like she wants to argue but decides against it. She
sighs mournfully for him and cuddles into Merlin’s side, laying her head on his shoulder and
wrapping her arms around his arm.

“I think he’d be lucky to have you,” she says assuredly and with a kindness that makes Merlin’s
heart warm, he lets the words settle around him like a blanket, cocooning him from the cold.

“Thank you,” he whispers, leaning his cheek against the top of her hair.

~-~-~

Arthur glares at his empty chambers almost hoping that if he scowls hard enough Merlin will pop
out from behind some furniture and shout “here I am!”

Of course nothing of the sort happens. Infuriatingly, the room stays empty and Merlin is nowhere
in sight. Honestly it’s like he doesn’t even realise he has a job.

Arthur stomps out of his room in search of his manservant. He probably doesn’t actually need
Merlin right at this very moment. But Arthur’s boots need polishing and Arthur had just escaped a
horrifically boring meeting about a new beast that appeared in Camelot overnight and he needs
someone to complain about it to — obviously this is the lesser of the two problems and he really
only wants Merlin for the boots, obviously.

He checks the kitchens, washing room, stables and even peers out the windows to the well, but
there is no sign of Merlin.

“Where is that useless excuse for a servant?” Arthur grumbles as he stomps back up the stairs into
the castle.

“Is you lookin’ for Merlin, Sire?” A maid, Maree, asks as he stomps past her. She has a bit of dirt
on the tip of her nose.

Arthur nods, stopping and turning to face her. “Yes, have you seen him?”

“Ay m’Lord. He was stopped by Halig and taken straight to the dungeons. Halig looked proper
furious too, I figured Merlin might be in a bit of trouble.”

A cold feeling sinks in Arthur’s chest. Halig is known for being one of the most brutal bounty
hunters alive. He will stop at nothing to achieve what he wants, in this case retrieving the druid girl
he has lost. Arthur doesn’t know why he suspects Merlin of all people, but if Halig is able to get
his hands on him there won’t be much left of Merlin when he’s done.

Arthur thanks Maree and runs toward the dungeon, all the while he tries to convince himself that
he’s not actually worried about Merlin. He isn’t. All he’s worried about is that if Halig hurts
Merlin he’ll be incapable of doing his job properly.

That reasoning evaporates when he enters the dungeon and sees Halig’s henchmen with their hands
on Merlin. Halig himself is standing in front of Merlin, with a heavy chain in his hand clearly
intended for lashing. Anger roars in Arthur’s chest, like a beast rearing on its hind legs. He’s
overcome with a strange need to protect Merlin.

Halig growls, “I think you’re lying to me,” about what, Arthur doesn’t know. The leather of
Halig’s glove creaks as he clenches his fist.

“I’m not!” Merlin swears, trembling in the hold of the two henchmen.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Halig!” Arthur barks.

The bounty hunter stills with his hand still clenched in the air and prepared to strike Merlin. Even
from behind Arthur can see the frustrated way he recoils, and he can imagine the grimace on his
face as he does so, even though his expression is nothing but polite once he turns.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Arthur asks, tipping his head at Halig.

Halig’s teeth grind together but he does an impressive job of remaining courteous in Arthur’s
presence. Arthur struggles not to smile. Good, Halig deserves to be left to squirm after
disrespecting a member of the royal household. That’s what he gets for trying to lay a finger on
Merlin.

“We caught the boy behaving suspiciously, Sire,” Halig tacks on the title as an afterthought and his
teeth clench around it like the word tastes foul on his tongue.

“Merlin?” Arthur says with amused disbelief.

He meets Merlin’s wide and nervous eyes. It’s difficult to imagine him doing anything nefarious,
when he looks like he might sweat through his tunic in fear at even the slightest provocation.

“He could be harbouring the girl,” Halig growls. “And he’s going to tell us where.”

The furious beast lying low in Arthur’s stomach growls angrily as Halig turns back to Merlin.
Merlin flinches in preparation for the blow to come. Arthur grabs Halig by the shoulder.

“Leave him alone,” he orders with more malice than he intended.

He shoves Halig away and the bounty hunter only just manages to catch himself from falling to the
floor.

“Merlin is my manservant,” he says as he moves forward and helps Merlin to his feet. He glares at
each of the henchmen on either side of Merlin’s chair as he does so and they shrink under the force
of his ire.
“He has my absolute trust.”

Halig bristles as Arthur positions himself in front of Merlin protectively.

“If you have a problem with him, you come to me.” Arthur offers Halig a false smile. There is a
threat in his eyes that he knows Halig sees. If he dares to cross this line again, then Arthur will
personally make sure he faces the due consequences he deserves. Even the thought of Halig laying
a finger on Merlin makes Arthur want to break every single one of his knuckles.

“Am I understood?” Arthur asks coldly.

“Yes, Sire,” Halig bows, though it looks like it takes him great pain to do so.

Arthur watches him with critical eyes as he leaves the room with his men on his heels.

Merlin turns to Arthur once they have left.

“Thank you, Arthur,” he says with no small amount of gratitude.

Arthur shakes him off and elbows him in the side boisterously.

“Don’t mention it. If you’re all battered, who will polish my boots?”

“Oh of course, can’t have the prince walking around with unpolished boots,” Merlin returns with a
grin.

He side eyes Arthur like he knows that wasn’t the only reason Arthur rose to his defence. Arthur
avoids his gaze, but doesn’t hide his small smile as they make their way back to Arthur’s chambers
together.

~-~-~

Merlin’s heart is in his throat as he creeps back into the catacombs to where Freya is hidden. He
keeps checking over his shoulder with every few steps, certain Halig will be watching from the
shadows.

If Arthur hadn’t shown up earlier, well… Merlin doesn’t want to think about what might have
happened. It was clear that the bounty hunter had no qualms about causing Merlin harm, whether
he was a member of the royal household or not. Halig is growing more rash, willing to take risks
where he shouldn’t, which means Freya is in more danger than ever.

“Merlin,” she says gratefully when she sees him, peeking out from the small hollowed section of
the wall they found for her to hide in.

The anxious clench in Merlin’s chest eases at the sight of her. He can’t deny that he was afraid she
wouldn’t be there when he returned.

She looks worse than the day before. The night has burdened the weight under her eyes and there
are fresh tears in her dress. She looks exhausted, like she didn’t sleep at all through the night and
her eyes are red rimmed like she’s been crying.

“I’m going to get you out of Camelot,” Merlin tells her without greeting.

Her eyes go huge and amazed. “How?”

“I’ll get you some clothes, disguise you.”

The plan makes the whole situation sound much simpler than the reality will be. It won’t be easy to
get Freya out of the citadel without anyone taking notice. Not with so many people looking for her.
At the best there would only be Halig and his men, at the worst, the whole castle. It isn’t hard to
identify her with her sharp features and the symbol of druidic magic painted on her arm, even a
fool could identify her.

Then there is the issue of Merlin’s involvement. If he is caught even in the vicinity of her escape,
and could be tied to it in any way, he’s as good as dead. Halig already suspects him, and despite
Arthur’s warnings Merlin doesn’t doubt that he’ll be watching Merlin’s every move. Arthur might
protect him when he thinks Merlin is innocent, but since Morgause, Merlin can’t be certain what
would happen if Merlin was caught red handed. He isn’t sure he would be able to avoid the
chopping block.

It doesn’t matter. Merlin is going to get her to safety anyway.

If he hadn’t already made up his mind, the look on Freya’s face would have convinced him. She’s
staring at him with round, hopeful eyes. When she usually looks so desolate and worried, it is
worth any risk to keep that expression on her face.

“Where will I go?” She asks with a wonderstruck voice.

Merlin pauses. “Well, where is home?”

“Home… was in the mountains, with wildflowers and strawberries, and a lake,” she smiles
nostalgically, the longing expression of someone remembering a fond memory long faded. “I loved
that lake, it was my favourite place of all. In the winter, the storms whipped up the water into
waves and we would worry they’d crash down and take away all the houses.” Even when she’s
describing something frightening, Freya’s voice is dreamlike, lilting like a storyteller. “But in the
summer…” she sighs fondly, “the air was perfumed with wildflowers, and the lake shone. It was
like heaven.”

“It sounds perfect,” Merlin says gently.

“It was… it’s gone now, and my family too.”

Merlin’s heart aches for her. He doesn’t know how he would cope without his family, he thinks it
would be the thing to destroy him. His mother is fields and kingdoms away and yet still he feels
her presence in his life like warm arms embracing him every day. Her letters bring him comfort
even when he feels he cannot be consoled, just to have the tangible evidence of her continuing love
and affection. He cannot imagine how Freya feels, to have that taken from her.

“Have you been alone ever since?” He asks cautiously, reaching out his hand for her. He hopes she
knows that he won’t leave her now, her family might be gone but that doesn’t mean she has to have
no one.

She smiles at him like she understands and squeezes his hand gratefully as she nods.

“Well, I’ll find you somewhere with a lake, somewhere you can build a new home,” he promises.

Freya smiles, but it quickly falls into a heartbroken expression.

“What is it?” Merlin asks in concern.

“It’s just… I’ll miss you,” Freya admits in a choked voice.

For a second Merlin considers going with her. He longs to indulge in the temptation of a life
without the fear he lives with every day. It would be so easy to be free of the dangers that Camelot
poses at every turn. To no longer have Uther’s laws prickling at the back of his neck like a hot
breath as someone looms over his shoulder. Away from Camelot he could practise magic every day
and never have to worry about putting himself or someone he loves in terrible danger. He would
never have to bear watching Arthur fall in love with someone else.

But he would also never see Arthur again. He would surrender his destiny, and the man he loves,
and he would lose them both. If he left Camelot he wouldn’t be able to ensure Arthur’s safety, and
he could be dooming him. Merlin would never be able to live with himself. The fear that every day
might be Arthur’s last and Merlin wouldn’t even know, it would gnaw at his bones and tear away
strips of his flesh until he was reduced to nothing.

Besides, it might be torture to watch Arthur and know he can never have him; but Merlin thinks it
would be worse to not be near him at all.

“I’ll miss you too,” Merlin says, drawing her into a hug. “I wish I could come with you.”

~-~-~-

Merlin is halfway through packing a bag for Freya when Gaius walks into their chambers. He is
wearing a solemn expression that replaces the youthful appearance from his gaze, making him
seem his age.

“Sit down,” he says to Merlin, nodding to the bench seat by the fireplace. “I want to talk to you.”

The phrase is enough to make Merlin’s mouth dry.

“Is everything alright?” He asks nervously as he takes a seat beside Gaius. “You look worried.”

The expression on Gaius’ face doesn’t soften, if anything he looks more serious than when he
walked in.

“There was another attack last night,” he says in a strange tone Merlin can’t read, like there’s more
behind every word he’s saying but Merlin just doesn’t know how to understand it.

“Arthur told me,” he replies because he doesn’t know what else to say and Gaius is still looking at
him with that sombre expression.

Gaius nods like it doesn’t surprise him. “The beast killed two more people in the lower town.”

“That’s horrible. Do you have any idea what it is?”

Merlin’s stomach twinges with guilt for being so absent and leaving Gaius in the lurch to deal with
the threat alone. Usually when Gaius is trying to uncover situations such as this he would help the
physician scour through books to find the answer. Their combined effort makes the workload
significantly easier to manage, and they are usually able to arrive at a conclusion faster than the old
physician can manage alone; but Merlin has been so busy helping Freya he hadn’t even thought to
assist Gaius.

“I do,” Gaius nods. “At first I was perplexed. The recent attacks were exactly the same as the last.
No visible tracks around the bodies, but human footprints leading away. There didn’t seem to be a
probable answer.”

Merlin nods. “Right.”

“The footprints would indicate that a human was responsible, but the wounds inflicted are
definitely the work of a beast.”

Gaius’ eyebrow is doing its threatening climb up his face and Merlin is certain there is some detail
about this conversation he is missing.

“Strange,” Merlin says.

Gaius purses his lips. “Yes, until I remembered what Halig said about the druid girl. That she’s
cursed.”

A chill creeps into Merlin’s veins, scuttling down his spine like the crawling legs of a bug.

“What does that have to do with the monster?”

Gaius sighs. “Ancient chronicles speak of a heinous curse that dooms its victim to turn at the
stroke of midnight into a vicious and bloodthirsty beast. The writers of old called this creature a
Bastet.”

Merlin’s stomach cramps, clenching like teeth, until he thinks he might empty his lunch across the
stone floor of their chambers. He struggles to school his expression into something neutral and
knows he fails terribly. The idea that Freya could be in any way connected to that beast is
unthinkable, but he can’t deny the signs that she has shown since he met her a few days ago. She
even told him outright that she was cursed.

“Merlin,” Gaius says firmly, “I want the truth. Did you release the druid girl from the cage?”

“Of course not,” Merlin says quickly.

A hurt look flashes over Gaius’ face.

“I never thought I’d see the day when you would be so comfortable lying to me.”

Merlin’s guilt is as immediate as a whip striking skin, he flinches away from the sting and ducks
his head so Gaius won’t see the regret on his face. He wishes he could pluck the lie straight from
the air and stuff it back into his mouth so Gaius would never have heard it. He just wants to protect
Freya. He doesn’t know what else to do.

“I did what was right,” Merlin says, amending his lie quickly. His life is already tangled with
deceit, he doesn’t need to lie to another loved one.

“The creature and the girl are one and the same,” Gaius tries to explain but the words grate on
Merlin like sandpaper.

“You’re wrong,” he insists. “Freya is just a girl. She’s kind and she would never hurt anyone.
Maybe she is cursed, but I know she would not kill willingly.”

“Merlin, think about what I’m saying. She’s killed before and she will kill again,” Gaius squeezes
Merlin’s knee. “She is not in control of this.”

Merlin shakes his head roughly.

“Where is she now?” Gaius asks, pressing Merlin for the answer.

“No.”
“Merlin—” Gaius tries but Merlin doesn’t let him finish.

“No! You’re going to hurt her. No matter what she has done she doesn’t deserve to die. We can
find another way.”

“There is no other way—”

“You would have her dead!”

They are interrupted by the loud clanging of the alarm bells.

The air turns as brittle as a tree after a forest fire, Merlin can practically hear his chest shift like the
snapping of bark as he breathes. He knows, with horrific certainty, that the bells are tolling for
Freya. His stare with Gaius holds for a long pause and Merlin knows that the resigned horror on his
face conveys more than words ever could to his mentor.

He runs from the room without a word.

~-~-~

Merlin knows with a sinking heart that he’s already too late as he reaches the courtyard.

The beast, Freya, is ensnared by the knights, backed into the looming walls of the castle, like a
mouse trapped by an eagle; but she is no mouse. Her huge leathery wings quiver with fury,
brushing the ground and surrounding herself in clouds of dust that billow and smoke around her
haunches. She resembles a black jungle cat, if one were to grow to the size of a cottage, her lip is
curled back over sharp teeth as long as Merlin’s hand. As the knights of Camelot close in on her
she growls, and the sound rattles in Merlin’s chest; a vicious, cruel sound that has no place being
attached to such a sweet girl.

She’s holding one of her legs to her body gingerly, and as Merlin squints through the darkness he
can see that she has been injured. There is a dark trail of blood along the cobbled floor, pooling
around Freya’s feet as she whimpers and growls at the oncoming knights.

She stops growling when she sees him, glowing green eyes going soft. He knows that this isn’t
actually Freya, she is not in control, but there has to be enough of her still concealed inside. Enough
that she knows him. Enough that she cares.

Arthur stalks forward and Merlin’s heart clatters in his chest. He needs to get Freya out of there.
There is no doubt that they will kill her. In the eyes of Camelot she is nothing more than a
dangerous and horrific monster to be feared, they see the damage she can do and nowhere beyond
that. She is not someone who can be helped, she is someone who needs to be stopped.

He scans frantically around the empty courtyard for something he can do. His eyes skitter from
place to place, struggling to find any way of rescuing his friend. If it were anyone else he would
send a wave of wind through the knights and send them flying. He could knock them all
unconscious if he wanted, it would be all too simple, but it would reveal his magic without
question, and it might hurt Arthur.

His eyes seize on a gargoyle above them. The same gargoyles that Sigan animated with his sorcery
months ago, even the sight of them now brings back to Merlin the phantom memories of his terror
as they loomed over Arthur’s prone body. There is no time to think of that now.

Before he can doubt himself he lets his magic rush out of him, through his fingertips and seizing
the gargoyle around its stone base. In a bright flash of gold he tugs it free from the ceiling, it makes
a terrible cracking sound as it pulls debris and rubble free with it and then topples. It plummets to
the ground with a crash, creating a barricade between the enclosing knights and Freya. Merlin lets
his magic act instinctively, scooping around Arthur like a gentle hand and pulling him to safety
several paces from the crash. His heart is thundering as he presses himself into the shadows,
watching for a reaction in case a knight thinks to look around. None do.

It’s enough of a distraction that Freya is able to take flight. She’s unsteady in the air, having
already lost a lot of blood, and it continues to trickle down her leg as she flies towards the
catacombs entrance. Merlin hesitates, taking a moment to check on Arthur. He’s staggering to his
feet, clearly dazed but thankfully completely uninjured. As he reaches his feet he begins to look
around, sharp eyes scanning the area for any sign of danger, Merlin runs after Freya before Arthur
has a chance to spot him.

~-~-~

He can hear sobs as he makes his way through the tunnels, he utilises the sound in a sick, but
effective way to guide him to Freya.

She is curled in the corner of the room, a sprawl of limbs and torn fabric. Her dress has been
damaged beyond repair, it sits pooled around her waist and drenched in blood. The gash in her side
cuts from her shoulder to her ribcage. Merlin has never seen so much blood at the one time, it seeps
into her hands and slicks the floor. Merlin knows with a sinking heart that she doesn’t have much
time, even though he wants to convince himself that she might be okay, he knows better.

He averts his eyes as he hands her his discarded jacket in the corner of the room and wraps it
around her. She deserves modesty even now.

Merlin gently strokes her matted hair out of her face.

“You must hate me,” Freya sobs. She shudders as a fresh wave of pain rolls over her and Merlin
shushes her gently.

“No,” he promises, and it’s true. He doesn’t hate her. He couldn’t.

“I wasn’t always like this, there was a man—” the effort to speak wracks through her and Freya
chokes on a sob. Merlin’s heart seizes, he holds her closer to his chest and imagines that he could
transfer his good health to her, that through proximity alone he might be able to keep her safe.

“Shh,” Merlin strokes her hair. “You shouldn’t try to talk.”

Freya shakes her head roughly. “I want to tell you.”

Merlin nods and listens.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him, but I thought he was going to kill me. His mother was a sorceress.
When she found out that I’d killed her son, she cursed me to kill forever more.” A tear slips down
Freya’s cheek, tracing the curve of her soft face.

“It’s not your fault,” Merlin insists.

“I never wanted to hurt anyone,” Freya whimpers, the tears are coming heavily now, wetting her
cheeks with salt and dripping from her chin. She grits her teeth around a groan and shakes violently
in Merlin’s arms.

“There must be something I can do,” Merlin says, lip trembling with the effort to keep himself
from crying. “I have to save you.”

“Oh Merlin, you’ve already saved me,” Freya says, her voice is as gentle as the surface of a lake in
summertime. Her hand comes to cup his cheek, it shakes as she moves, flickering like a flame
under heavy wind.

“You made me feel loved.”

Merlin’s sob builds in his throat and sticks there until he gasps around it.

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Please don’t blame yourself,” Freya begs him. Her voice is
getting weaker, and it breaks Merlin’s heart to hear her fading.

“And don’t blame Arthur,” Freya adds and Merlin jerks without meaning to. She smiles like he’s
answered a question she never asked.

“I would have killed him, he was only protecting himself.”

Merlin nods, tears pressing painfully against the walls of his throat. “He would hate to know he
hurt you,” he says softly.

“I know,” Freya smiles, “I forgive him.”

Merlin manages to smile wetly. “Thank you.”

“No. Thank you, Merlin. You have done so much for me,” Freya says. “One day, I will repay you.
I promise.”

He can’t swallow down the tears any longer and they spill in hot drips down his face.

“I would do it a thousand times,” he swears, stroking her hair out of her face.

He can see her dwindling. Her breaths are becoming shallow, her eyelids flickering as she struggles
against the urge to close them. Pleas for her to keep them open sit heavily on Merlin’s tongue, but
he knows she doesn’t have a choice, and he won’t let her die plagued with guilt.

“Merlin?” Freya says softly, her fragile voice no louder than a whisper. “Will you do something
for me?”

“Yes, of course, anything,” he promises as he strokes at the hairs around her sweaty forehead.

“Take me to a lake when I’m gone?”

Merlin’s tears drip from his chin as he nods. His chest clenches and concaves, he can feel it
pressing in on his lungs sharply.

“Of course,” he whispers hoarsely.

She smiles serenely, and her eyelashes flutter and then fall still. She grows heavy in his arms and
there is no doubt that she is gone. Still he calls her name softly, hoping against all odds she will
respond.

She doesn’t.
It almost takes him too long to realise that she never will again. The world moves sluggishly, as if
he has only just woken from a long nightmare and now his brain is addled and slow to grasp the
truth. Merlin is too shocked to even notice the grief, but it feels like he has been hacked with a
knife, the blade scrapes through his body like he’s an animal being stripped for meat, his chest too
hollow to still contain a beating heart. He stares at her prone body for a very long time, still held
tight in his arms.

Merlin decides to lay her to rest at the Lake of Avalon.

Her head rests against his shoulder as he holds her on his horse the entire journey. Her eyelids are
shut gently, as if she’s having a peaceful nap and at any moment she might wake and smile. Merlin
can hardly see where he is going from the tears blurring his eyes. He manages to direct his horse
almost without thought, too consumed with ensuring she isn’t jostled too much, and that she stays
safe in his arms.

He can’t explain it, but when he lays her in the confines of a small rowboat, she looks at peace, at
home. She drifts into the lake and becomes one with the water.

~-~-~

Arthur finds Merlin in his chambers, which really should have been the obvious place search but
he’s so rarely where he needs to be. Merlin is sitting on the floor, a gloomy look on his face as he
polishes Arthur’s boots. He’s been in an odd mood for days now. He rarely smiles and any time
Arthur speaks to him he looks concerningly close to tears.

It’s stupid, but Arthur has to admit he almost misses him.

“There you are,” Arthur says, drawing Merlin’s attention to him. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Merlin nods, swallowing audibly.

“Right yeah, you’re going to ask me to polish your armour, wash your clothes and—” he makes a
sound like he’s trying hard not to cry and Arthur feels a wave of panic descend over him. He
doesn’t know what to do about crying. “And clean your chambers.”

Merlin returns to looking at the boots with a jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. Arthur frowns.
He rocks on his heels as he debates between approaching this oddly sullen Merlin or dropping the
subject once again. Recently Arthur has taken to tiptoeing around Merlin, unsure how to address
his melancholy without making everything worse. He’s not good at managing things of this nature.
He doesn’t know how to go about helping, if there even is anything he can do. Still, he doesn’t
want to leave Merlin alone like this any longer.

Mind made up, he makes his way over and sits on the floor beside Merlin. He watches with
furrowed brows as Merlin doesn’t look up, continuing to scrub uselessly at the same boot. Every
few seconds his breath trembles and he clamps down on his lips to keep himself calm. Arthur’s
heart squeezes with worry.

“Something's upset you, hasn’t it?” He observes gently.

Merlin hesitates, hand stalling midway through polishing.

“Maybe,” he concedes cautiously. Over the last few days he has forged walls around himself,
impenetrable as the fortified blockades of a fortress; while Merlin is usually open in every way,
now the bricks are laid so tightly packed that Arthur can hardly see through to him. He hates it.
Merlin goes back to polishing the boot. Arthur sits on his hands to stifle the odd desire to grab it
out of his hands just to make Merlin look at him.

“Is it because I threw water at you?” Arthur guesses. He does feel sort of bad about that, even
though Merlin deserved it. He was being an idiot that day.

Merlin chuckles, it’s wet sounding but real.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he agrees.

“It was a bit unfair,” Arthur concedes.

“Wow, Prince Arthur admitting he was wrong? This must be my lucky day,” Merlin teases weakly.

“I said a bit unfair, you were still a total idiot that day.”

Arthur wants to stuff the words back into his mouth. He’s meant to be comforting Merlin, not
insulting him. But to his surprise Merlin brightens, his smile transforms into something more
genuine, the sadness behind his eyes becomes less poignant and some of the colour returns to his
cheeks. A glimpse of his usual self shines through, like sunlight peeking through a gap in the
clouds.

“I should have known it was too good to last,” Merlin sighs dramatically. “You’re back to being a
prat.”

“I am not a prat—” Arthur stops himself at the fond look on Merlin’s face.

He might still be useless at understanding feelings, and he might not understand what is wrong
with Merlin. But he knows what Merlin needs, and what he needs is to be treated normally. To be
prodded and poked and teased so he has the opportunity to retaliate.

So he draws Merlin in, tucking an arm around his head in a headlock and ruffling his hair until he’s
begging Arthur to release him. His arms slap uselessly at Arthur’s stronger arm. Despite his
protests Merlin’s eyes are scrunched happily and he keeps letting out little giggles between his
pleas for escape.

“Admit I’m not a prat!” Arthur knuckles at Merlin’s hair.

“Okay!” Merlin shouts, giggling and tugging at Arthur’s hold. “I give in! You’re not a prat!”

Arthur releases him, grinning as Merlin swings out of his hold and glares at him without heat. He
looks miles better than when Arthur entered the room. There’s a familiar glow in his eyes and a
brightness to his smile that wasn’t there before. His shoulders that have been bunched around his
ears and stiff for days have eased. It makes something in Arthur hum in a pleased way, satisfied.

“That’s better,” Arthur murmurs.

He can’t help but smile at Merlin, chest warming at the sight of Merlin’s familiar smile.

Merlin shrugs, raising an eyebrow at Arthur.

“Thanks?”

Arthur nods, nudging his shoulder into Merlin’s.

Merlin doesn’t necessarily look okay. There’s still a pinched quality around the corners of his
 mouth and eyes and sadness that Arthur doesn’t understand. But he looks happier.

In turn it makes something in Arthur feel better too.

Chapter End Notes

cw// character death and subsequent mourning

welcome back everybody !!! i hope you enjoyed this chapter !!

see you all again in 2 weeks on the 12th of march !!

as always comments and kudos are greatly beloved <33 !!!!

 To Discover the Heart's Delight
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Eventually Merlin’s grief from losing Freya begins to ease, it wears way into something
manageable like the slow erosion of a cliff face.

In the month since her death, Merlin’s breaths have come easier, the tender bruising around his
heart has abated to a dull throb. It isn’t that the pain of losing her dissipates, or even decreases, it
simply transforms into something that he can grapple with. It sits inside him alongside his feelings
about Will, a continuous grief that follows him like a shadow. The loss won’t retire, but Merlin
will learn how to live alongside it.

As the weeks pass Merlin learns to enjoy the memories of the days he was able to have with Freya.
He wouldn’t trade them for anything. Even if it means he has to suffer with the pain of losing her.

What doesn’t ease at all are his feelings for Arthur. Which is fine. Completely fine. Merlin is
doing so well at coping with being head over heels in love with Arthur.

“Hurry it up Merlin,” Arthur snaps impatiently. “The kings will arrive at any minute.”

The kings of The Five Kingdoms are gathering in Camelot in order to undergo peace talks in the
hopes of negotiating a treaty that will benefit all of them. It is a momentous occasion, as well as a
precarious one, any incident could lead to war. Merlin has never seen Arthur so anxious. Not even
when King Bayard was visiting from Mercia with his delegation last year.

All the Kings are due to arrive promptly, so Arthur has been a flustered mess all morning. Merlin
isn’t sure what the rest of their kingdoms are doing while all their kings go trolloping off to agree
not to kill each other anymore, but he supposes he doesn’t know enough about matters of state to
question them.

Merlin fetches Arthur’s cloak, drawing it around his shoulders and clasping it at the base of his
throat. Despite his best efforts he’s overly aware of how handsome Arthur looks in his ceremonial
robes. He will always prefer Arthur dressed down, when he looks more like himself and less like
the prince he feels obliged to be. However, he can’t deny the appeal of the gentle slope of Arthur’s
shoulders under his red cloak.

“Father has asked me to show the Lady Vivian to her room, as a gesture of goodwill or something
like that,” Arthur explains as Merlin continues preparing him to greet the visiting Lords. “While
I’m doing that you will bring Lord Olaf and her belongings to their rooms.”

Merlin nods absently. “Of course, Sire.”

“I have a horrible feeling you’re not going to do it properly.”

Merlin meets Arthur’s bemused expression with an offended one of his own.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re useless.” Arthur flicks Merlin between the eyebrows.

Arthur dips his head slightly so Merlin can easily position his circlet on his hair. Merlin snatches
his hands back quickly to keep himself from surrendering to the urge to trail his fingers through the
soft blond hair around Arthur’s ears.

“A servant is only as good as his prince,” Merlin digs.

Arthur raises his eyebrows and valiantly fights the smile Merlin can see twitching at his lips.

~-~-~

Arthur presses his lips thinly together to keep his face diplomatically clear as Vivian sneers around
the room.

She might be the most distasteful person he’s ever met, and Arthur has met people who tried to kill
him on sight. He would rather choose an evening with the enchantress Nimueh than in Vivian’s
company. She has turned her nose up the entire way through the castle, staring in contempt at
everything from the window dressings to the rugs.

“I hope everything is to your satisfaction,” Arthur says pleasantly.

Vivian smiles back at him. “It is…” she tips her head as she searches for an appropriate word,
“Adequate.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows and fumbles for a response. He has never met a noblewoman so
difficult to converse politely with.

“Most of our guests are extremely happy here,” he says eventually.

Vivian flicks her hair in amusement. “I am not most of your guests.”

“Indeed,” he says stiffly, accidentally making it sound more like a question than a decisive
response.

Thankfully Gwen chooses that moment to enter the room. Uther had wanted to ensure King Olaf —
the most powerful of the five kings, and also one of Uther’s closest friends — remained as
comfortable as possible during his stay. As a result, Morgana was willing to be served by others
whilst Gwen attended to Vivian.

“May I present Guinevere!” Arthur says gratefully. “She’ll be looking after you for the duration of
your stay.” Vivian looks Gwen up and down with a disdainful wrinkle in her thin pointed nose.

“You will want for nothing, she is truly one of Camelot’s finest,” Arthur continues.

Vivian laughs. “Then I fear for Camelot,” she says in a sickly sweet voice.

Arthur has to clamp his jaw to keep down the disbelieving laughter that bubbles in his throat;
instead he and Gwen stand there with matching gobsmacked expressions. They say nothing —
what could they possibly say to that? — and bow out of the room.

He manages to hold his laughter in until the door has closed behind Gwen’s back and then he can’t
help it any longer. He leans forward with laughter shaking his shoulders, and grins as Gwen starts
to giggle too, trying and failing to conceal the sound in her fist. They fall against each other, quiet
laughter ringing through the hall.

Once Arthur recovers himself he shakes his head incredulously.

“Well,” he sniggers, “good luck with that one.”

Gwen hums. “I’ll do my best.”

A warm silence settles over them. These are the moments Arthur likes, when he and Gwen can just
spend time with each other. He wishes they could find more time like this, but she is so often
drawn away by her duties, and the risk of his father seeing them together is too immense. Still he
revels in this short moment until Gwen shatters it by stepping back with an abrupt curtsey.

“I’ll see you this evening, Sire.”

“Yes,” Arthur nods. He sort of wishes he could suspend this moment, catch it in the air before it
flies away and hold onto it for a while longer. He wants to make her laugh again, to hear her gossip
about the spoiled princess behind them and see the mischievous side of her that she so often hides.
He wishes he could say, stay.

“I need to prepare for the feast,” he says instead.

~-~-~

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts in an exasperated tone even though Merlin is about two feet away from
him.

“Arthur!” Merlin shouts back just for the fun of it.

He tries not to smile fondly as Arthur’s head pops out from behind the changing screen with a
disgruntled expression. His hair is a total mess after being pulled through a shirt.

“What kind of impression does this give?” Arthur asks, holding up his shirt and displaying his
thumb wiggling through a hole in the cuff.

“That we have moths?” Merlin answers with a cheeky smile.

Arthur rolls his eyes in an unimpressed way.

“Fetch me another,” he orders.

He shrugs it off and chucks it at Merlin’s head.

Merlin smiles giddily, because he kind of loves when Arthur is an arse, even if he would rather die
than admit it.

“Who might you be trying to impress?” Merlin asks as he pulls the shirt off his head and finds
Arthur a fresh one, sans holes in the cuffs.

Arthur hummed in an exaggerated way. “Well, let me see. Perhaps the five kings sitting in the
banquet hall below?”

Merlin raises his eyebrows and returns to brushing off Arthur’s coat.

“Oh? Not King Olaf’s daughter then? The Lady Vivian, she is very beautiful.” Merlin wants to bite
his own tongue to shut himself up. Why is he trying to subject himself to talk of women Arthur
might want to court?

Thankfully Arthur just huffs in an amused way and emerges from behind the changing screen.

“Anyone wanting to court the Lady Vivian does so at their own peril. Olaf would have their head
in a vat of hot oil before they had the chance to say hello,” Arthur mutters.
His hair is an even worse mess than before, sticking in every direction and fuzzy around his ears.
Merlin is hopelessly endeared by it.

“Besides she’s not my type,” Arthur says.

Something in Merlin is pleased to hear that a beautiful woman isn’t Arthur Pendragon’s type. He
knows better than to let himself have any grain of hope. It would hurt too much when he’s
inevitably crushed; but it’s nice to hear all the same.

“Vivian may be beautiful but she’s incredibly rude,” Arthur goes on as Merlin smooths down his
hair. “I don’t think there’s a thing in the castle she didn’t insult.” Merlin snorts in agreement.
“When I brought her belongings she said I looked like I was about to take flight using my ears.”

Arthur looks at Merlin scandalised, even though he said something similar a few days ago.

“She’s quite horrible,” Arthur agrees absentmindedly. He seems to remember he shouldn’t be

insulting the visiting princess and adds with a threatening point, “don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“It stays between you and I, Sire,” Merlin promises.

“And! You should have heard what she said to Gwen.”

Merlin smiles and swallows down any resentment that threatens to rise. It is not Gwen’s fault that
Merlin is in love with Arthur, and he won’t let her bear the brunt of his own feelings.

“And anyone insulting Gwen should do so at extreme peril,” he teases under his breath.

Arthur’s glare could set a forest on fire, Merlin meets it with a grin.

“What are you implying?” Arthur asks like he’s daring Merlin.

Merlin shrugs. “I’m just saying, I care about Gwen too, she’s one of my best friends… but you care
in a different way than I do.”

Merlin thinks he must have a masochistic streak, why else would he be inviting this topic of
conversation. Or if he’s honest with himself, deep down he’s hoping Arthur’s feelings for Gwen
will have changed and he’s testing him.

Arthur’s cheeks go a brilliant shade of red, the flush spreading across his face like a flower
blooming. No such luck. It doesn’t matter, their coupling will make both Gwen and Arthur happy;
that’s all that matters to Merlin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re blushing,” Merlin informs him gleefully.

The flush on Arthur’s cheeks darken. “No I’m not.”

“You are, actually.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “I do have my own vat of hot oil you know.”

Merlin just laughs, because Arthur’s threats don’t scare him anymore.

Arthur extends his arms, signalling Merlin to help him with his jacket.
“Merlin.”

“Yes, Arthur,” Merlin smirks.

“Get out.”

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin bobs his head teasingly.

~-~-~

The next morning Merlin is astonished to find Arthur awake and dressed when he walks into the
room.

“You’re dressed,” he says, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“I’m the future king of Camelot, Merlin,” Arthur says in a haughty tone. “I can dress myself.”

“Sure you can.” Merlin nods and puts down the tray of breakfast he brought. “But you don’t. You
make me do it for you.”

“It is your job,” Arthur points out nonchalantly. “But today isn’t about you, today it is my job to
woo.”

Merlin looks at Arthur oddly as he sets about making his bed.

“To what?”

“To woo.”

Arthur twirls his hands fancifully.

“I wish to make a proclamation of love!” Arthur announces, turning around to look at Merlin with a
beaming smile.

Merlin knows that there is no chance that Arthur is talking about him, he shouldn’t even consider
the possibility, but he can’t help the small flicker of hope that alights in the centre of his chest. He
frantically tries to tamp it down, but it’s hard when Arthur is beaming at him like he’s something
special.

“Oh?” The hopeful fire is only stoked higher as Arthur comes over to him, standing so close that
Merlin can feel his breath in his hair.

“I thought— I didn’t think you were interested?” He manages.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Arthur asks, genuinely confused as he tips his head at Merlin.

A whole list of reasons. So many Merlin wouldn’t even have time to list them all. Instead he
shakes his head and straightens Arthur’s collar to busy his nervous hands.

“By the end of the day, I will have won my Lady,” Arthur says, like he’s very proud of his plan.

Merlin’s stomach sinks but he really should have known better. He can’t let himself stew in the
feeling, even if the sting is like salt pressed into a wound, because it’s entirely his fault. He knows
that Arthur doesn’t have feelings for him, he knows he never will. So of course Arthur would be
talking about Gwen, and it’s Merlin’s own idiocy for considering it would be him.
“Right,” he nods, doing his best to keep his disappointment out of his voice. A more pressing
matter than his own feelings comes to mind.

“What will you tell your father?”

“Why does my father matter?” Arthur asks flippantly, dancing out of Merlin’s reach with swinging
arms.

Merlin raises his eyebrows. He supposes that’s one way of dealing with things.

“So!” Arthur claps his hands together excitedly. “I need your help in expressing my… feelings.”
He turns the word over in his mouth like it’s foreign on his tongue.

Merlin stares blankly at him, his brain caught like a strand of thread snagging on a hook. No matter
how hard he attempts to pull it forward all he does is continue to unspool the absolute horror he
feels hearing Arthur’s suggestion. Merlin is acquainted with many kinds of pain, but nothing
sounds more torturous than helping Arthur to express his feelings for someone else.

He wants to say no, the word sits ready in his mouth. But then Arthur does an adorable little dance
on the spot, his eyes sparkle as he waits for Merlin to say something and Merlin can’t upset him.
He knows with a firm certainty that he would do anything for Arthur, even if it means he might
crush his own heart while doing so.

Arthur looks at Merlin expectantly.

“How do I express my feelings?” He asks insistently, waving his impatient hands for Merlin to
provide him with ideas. Sometimes Merlin forgets that Arthur wouldn’t know a feeling if it
clobbered him over the head and introduced itself.

“Ah okay.” Merlin nods, struggling not to smile as Arthur bounces on his toes eagerly.

It might be some kind of torture to do this for Arthur, but Merlin has never been any good at
denying him when he truly wants something. He sighs heavily, lamenting his own weak spine at
the sight of Arthur’s ardour.

“Feelings…” He says thoughtfully, trying to grasp at thoughts and scramble them together into
some sort of plan.

“Feelings,” Arthur echoes.

“Girls…” Merlin winces; wooing a woman has never exactly been a topic he has put much thought
into. Not that he has made Arthur aware of that fact.

“Girls,” Arthur nods, his mouth twisting in an equally perplexed pout.

Only one idea comes to mind. Merlin may not know how to ‘woo’ girls, but he knows what Gwen
likes.

“Flowers?” He suggests hopefully.

Arthur snaps his fingers. “Yes! And perhaps… a note?” He looks to Merlin hopefully who
desperately tries not to think about how nice it would be to be the recipient of Arthur’s romantic
gestures.

“I think a note is an excellent idea,” Merlin says encouragingly.

Arthur’s smile brightens and Merlin’s chest clenches tight.

“It has to be something moving,” Arthur says. “Something from the heart…” he twirls his hands
like he’s searching for something to grasp onto. “Something…”

Arthur shrugs, nudging his shoulder into Merlin’s. “Well, you’ll think of something.”

Writing a love note to Gwen, from Arthur, the love of his life. Great.

~-~-~

As the day progresses Arthur’s odd behaviour grows more apparent. Under normal circumstances
Arthur would avoid talking about his feelings for Gwen with an almost impressive vigour, yet
today he was cheery and strangely eager to divulge them to Merlin. It wasn’t that he was entirely
out of character, other than being excessively bubbly and dancing around more than usual, nothing
was particularly odd.

That morning Merlin had been able to chalk the strange behaviour up to having high spirits after
the first feast went so successfully. Now, he isn’t so sure.

“Did she get them?” Arthur asks, seizing Merlin by the arm and squeezing tightly. “The flowers?”

Merlin blinks in surprise, blushing as Arthur uses his grip on Merlin’s arm to pull him closer.
Surely Arthur is aware that Gwen won’t have time to return home until the afternoon.

“I’m sure she will get them?”

“Great! Now all we can do is wait.”

Merlin tries to surreptitiously look at Arthur’s eyes to check for signs of drunkenness. It’s too early
in the day to have paid a visit to the tavern, but from the way Arthur is behaving, Merlin wouldn’t
be surprised.

Arthur wrenches away from Merlin with a love stricken sigh.

“Oh but heaven has blessed me,” he melts.

Down the hall Gwen is walking alongside Princess Vivian with a politely indifferent expression as
Vivian chatters away angrily about something or other. Gwen meets Merlin’s eyes and widens her
eyes as if to say ‘save me’ before they turn the corner. Merlin struggles to stifle a smile.

“She is even more beautiful than before is she not?” Arthur says dreamily.

Merlin tries his best to look encouraging. “Yeah,” he says hesitantly, watching Arthur in concern.
“I’m… surprised to hear you talk about it so openly. Only yesterday you wouldn’t even admit it to
me.”

“Nonsense! I want to tell the world. I want to shout it through the kingdom.”

That sense of discontent grows in Merlin’s stomach as he becomes certain that something is wrong.
Arthur should know that what he is suggesting is a poor idea.

“Sure. Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Merlin says carefully, skirting towards the topic in the
same gentle and soothing tone he would use to attempt to coax a drunk person home. “I understand
your feelings, but other people may object.”
Arthur looks at him perplexed, genuine confusion wrinkling between his eyebrows as if he can’t
understand what Merlin is trying to say.

“Object? To what?”

Merlin can’t believe he has to spell this out.

“Well. You’re the future King of Camelot, and she’s just a serving girl. Not to say she isn’t the
most lovely serving girl but—”

He’s interrupted as Arthur slaps him across the face. It stings but Arthur certainly could have hit
him harder — Merlin’s seen him training with the knights. Still.

“Ow?” Merlin says grumpily, rubbing at his cheek with a heavy scowl.

Arthur’s expression is stony as he raises a threatening finger at Merlin.

“Lady Vivian is of royal blood. A future Queen. I will have your head if I hear such insolence
again, do you understand me?”

Lady Vivian?

Merlin stares after Arthur as he storms away. What is going on?

~-~-~

Arthur is in a significantly more despondent mood when Merlin sees him next.

He’s sulking in the centre of his stupidly large bed; the size of it makes him look incredibly small
where he is pressed up against the headboard, his arms crossed over his bare chest and bottom lip
pursed in a pout.

“Just say it,” Arthur says in a gloomy voice, he doesn’t even turn to look at Merlin, scowling at the
wall as if did him some grievous wrongdoing.

Merlin raises an eyebrow as he hands Arthur a goblet of water. Arthur’s hands are clumsy with
despair as he reaches for it, scrabbling at the side of the cup and almost emptying the entire thing
onto the bed as he swallows a heaving gulp.

“What?” Merlin asks.

“You do not think that I should pursue my love.”

Merlin seizes the opportunity.

“Well, seeing as you asked. Yes, I think a number of things stand in the way of a happy union
between you and the Lady Vivian. Her bloodthirsty father for one!”

Either Arthur doesn’t hear him or he is completely unbothered by King Olaf’s murderous nature,
and how that could affect their union. Instead of answering Merlin he continues to stare petulantly
off into the distance and mournfully says, “Her complete lack of interest for another.”

The frown on Arthur’s face is entirely genuine, his eyes even look on the brink of tears, this is truly
paining him; and no matter how little Merlin agrees with — or understands — his feelings for
Vivian, he hates seeing Arthur upset.
“I know it hurts to not be desired by your love,” Merlin says understandingly.

Arthur frowns. “What would you know about that?”

Merlin’s heart twinges and he forces a smile through the ache.

“More than you’d think.”

Merlin continues before Arthur can ask any more questions.

“I think it might be… worthwhile, to return to your previous love,” Merlin suggests carefully.

A union with Gwen would be better than anything else Merlin can imagine for Arthur. Merlin
loves her and wants her to be happy, and he knows that Arthur could make her so. Arthur would be
just as content at her side, and that is all that really matters to Merlin. He just needs to fix this mess
before one or both of his closest friends get hurt.

Arthur looks at Merlin strangely.

“What are you talking about Merlin?” Arthur asks with a frown. “I don’t have a previous love.”

Merlin stares at him. There is falling deeply in love with someone new in little over a day, and then
there is forgetting he ever loved Gwen altogether.

He has barely even begun considering what the problem could be when Arthur sits up with a
wrinkled nose and holds out a small parcel of hair for Merlin to take.

“You really need to pay better attention to the details,” Arthur says in a disgusted voice.

Merlin doesn’t answer, staring at the hair with horror sinking through him. It’s blonde, but
different to Arthur’s rich golden hair, lighter in tone and well kept. Vivan’s hair. Which can only
mean one thing.

~-~-~

“Arthur is enchanted?” Gaius murmurs, peering at the lock of hair through his glasses perched low
on his nose.

Merlin nods furiously, still trying to catch his breath after running across the castle and then
spilling his entire theory to Gaius.

“Yes, it’s so obvious now, I don’t know why I didn’t realise it sooner.”

Merlin starts pacing in front of Gaius as he speaks, his hands flying with his words.

“He was acting out of sorts all day. Was suddenly acting obsessed with Vivian even though only
yesterday he dismissed her as rude—” Only after he speaks does Merlin remember he was meant to
keep that detail to himself. “And then! He didn’t even remember he loved Gwen at all.”

Gaius looks at Merlin sympathetically, Merlin pretends not to see it.

“But who could have enchanted him?” Gaius asks, scratching thoughtfully at his chin as he
examines the enchanted hair.

Merlin picks apart the days that have passed since the kings and their delegations arrived, trying to
scour through the new people Arthur was introduced to and anyone who might have been able
target both him and Vivian. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, trying to force a thought, an idea, a
theory, something, to the surface as he sifts through the hundreds of possible moments. There are
too many potential options, with hundreds of guests visiting the castle alongside the calling kings,
it could be any number of people.

A memory of the night before comes to Merlin’s mind. The jester that had entertained the crowd
with displays of fire breathing, dancing, and most miraculously, conjuring butterflies from thin air.
Merlin had thought that the display was extremely impressive even in the moment. He had
performed with enthralling theatricality, interacting with many watching kings, queens and
princesses. In doing so he had gotten close to Vivian, close enough that he could have taken some
of her hair without her even noticing.

“The jester!” Merlin cries. “God, I should have realised he has magic, no one can make butterflies
just appear.”

“Trickler,” Gaius suggests the jester’s name thoughtfully.

“But why would he enchant Arthur?”

It doesn’t make sense, whilst it would be reasonable for him to hold a hatred for Uther, enchanting
Arthur achieves no benefit for the jester, as Vivian doesn’t even herald from his kingdom. A love
spell indicates hope for a marriage, but such an alliance would not benefit Trickler’s king, Alined.
Merlin and Gaius fall silent as they deliberate.

Gaius frowns. “An advance from Arthur would be a surefire way to ruin the peace conference.”
Gaius’ eyes widen in realisation. “Maybe Alined wants war.”

“Without creating it himself,” Merlin finishes.

Anger boils like hot oil in Merlin’s gut at the idea that Alined would manipulate Arthur in his
scheme, as if he is nothing more than a pawn to be sacrificed for a greater cause. He hates him for
treating Arthur as so disposable, as if he isn’t worth everything.

“It’s the type of cowardly behaviour you would expect from Alined,” Gaius says bitterly.
“Cowardly, but clever.”

Despite his anger Merlin can’t deny that it is an ingenious plan. Only someone who cares to know
Arthur deeply would notice anything was amiss. Even Uther likely wouldn’t see Arthur for
anything but a boy blinded by love. It isn’t common knowledge that Arthur can’t stand Vivian, nor
that Arthur has feelings for Gwen, so not a soul would question him falling for the princess. The
list of people who would notice something is wrong with Arthur would only contain Merlin.

Clever. Undoubtedly cowardly, but incredibly clever. Merlin hates the weasley king more than a
little for it.

“We need to find a way of returning Arthur to his normal self,” Merlin says resolutely. Not only
for the sake of preventing a war, but for Arthur himself. He deserves better than to be coerced into
the arms of some girl he doesn’t even love.

Gaius nods his agreement, clearly thinking more of the war that Merlin is dismissing.

“Before it’s too late.”

Their only saving grace is that Vivan wants no part of Arthur. It might give them enough time to
fix the situation before the peace conference is damaged for good.
~-~-~

The plan might have succeeded had Vivian not been enchanted by morning.

Merlin opens the door to Arthur’s chambers and is greeted by the sight of her standing lounged
against the frame, dressed only in her nightgown with a red rose held between her fingertips. Her
eyes have the same distant gaze as Arthur’s, like someone caught in a fanciful dream and only
barely tethered to reality. To make matters worse she smiles when her eyes fall on Merlin, which is
a terrible sign because the entire time Merlin has had the misfortune of knowing the princess she
has done nothing but scowl at him.

“I wish to see Arthur,” Vivian says brightly. “Your master,” she clarifies, as though Merlin might
somehow confuse him with a different Arthur.

“My Lord.” Her eyelashes flutter dreamily. Her expression is one that has graced many ladies of
the land, Merlin has seen it himself, all swooning and sighing when Arthur performs gallantly on
the training field, tripping over themselves to see him at feasts adorned in lavish clothes and
extravagant jewels. To see it on Vivian who had been so coldly indifferent to Arthur is bizarre.

Oh God.

“Your what?”

“My heart’s delight!” Vivian trills, pushing past Merlin and striding into Arthur’s rooms as if she
were invited.

Merlin forgets how to move as all the many, many horrible ways this will inevitably go wrong
flash through his mind.

“Where is he?” Vivian asks with an impatient huff.

“He’s not here!” Merlin answers, thanking every star in existence that Arthur had gone riding that
morning. “Which is a very good thing, I believe.”

Vivian marches over to Arthur’s bed and plops herself in the centre of the mattress. Merlin bites his
tongue to stop himself from ordering her to get off; even enchanted he isn’t sure that she wouldn’t
send him to the stocks.

“Then I shall wait.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, you’re not even dressed.”

Merlin feels very odd to be in the room with a girl who is only wearing her nightdress. She is
showing an obscene amount of skin, arms and legs are exposed to the cool air and the slip of her
nightclothes dipping to just below her collarbones. Merlin averts his eyes again, honestly unsure
whether he is uncomfortable simply due to his own preferences or because he has never seen a girl
dressed so scarcely.

“My love doesn’t care what I wear,” Vivian sighs. Merlin has his own doubts about that, though he
doesn’t voice them, when he isn’t enchanted Arthur has strong opinions about proprietary. He gets
very caught up on details of modesty and would probably sooner throw himself from a window
than want to see a woman in such a state. “Now go fetch him.”

Merlin shakes his head. “I cannot.”

“You will.”

“I shan’t.”

Vivian’s eyebrows crease furiously. “As he commands you, I command you!” She says with the
type of grumpiness a toddler displays when not granted their way. “Now fetch him!”

Rather than doing as she says Merlin stays planted before the bed. “I am asking you to leave,” he
begs, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice. He is just short of getting down on his knees
and pleading with her to get out of the room.

“Not without Arthur,” Vivan says shrilly, flopping backwards onto the bed. “I want my love, I need
my love.”

She hugs one of Arthur’s pillows to her chest and inhales deeply with a pleased moan. Merlin
thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Please Vivan,” he says hysterically, “I’m begging you—” Merlin is interrupted by the distant
sound of someone bellowing with anger. It sounds uncannily like Vivian’s father, and the thought
makes Merlin’s chest freeze with dread.

“Fuck… shit.”

Vivian has draped herself over Arthur’s bed like a lady in a lewd portrait about to participate in an
obscene act. She’s smiling seductively at the door, awaiting Arthur with eyelashes drawn low over
her pale eyes and cheeks rounded and pink. Merlin doesn’t want to think about where that look
could lead if he doesn’t interrupt this.

“You need to go! Now.”

Vivian giggles dreamily and doesn’t move an inch. Footsteps are approaching, heavy and
dangerous as they threaten to invade and reveal the uncouth scene. There is no telling whether the
incoming person is Arthur or Olaf, but both are equally unappealing options for the current
situation.

Merlin only has half a second to decide what he’s going to do, and even then as he whispers an
incantation he fears that it could be a death sentence. No one ever told him life in Camelot was
going to be such never ending stress.

Vivian falls to the bed in an unconscious heap, lips parted in sleep and snoring softly.

Merlin heaves her up by her armpits and carefully manoeuvres her into Arthur’s armoire. The door
has only just closed on her limp body when Arthur meanders into the room.

Merlin leans against the door, and Arthur looks at him strangely, raising his thick eyebrows at
Merlin.

“Why are you hanging around like a bad smell?” He asks with a frown. Nevermind that Merlin is
always in Arthur’s chambers at this time of day. “It’s me who needs to bathe. I can hardly win my
love if I smell like an old kipper.”

“No, my Lord,” Merlin answers stiffly, his words come out wheezy from lugging Vivian across the
room but thankfully Arthur doesn’t notice.

“Where is she, Arthur?”

Merlin jumps in terror as Olaf comes crashing into the room, bellowing for his daughter at the top
of his lungs. “I know she’s in here!”

Arthur blinks owlishly, looking to Merlin for explanation. Merlin shrugs, his heart is racing as he
surreptitiously attempts to position himself carefully in front of the armoire.

“Hand her over! Or feel my wrath,” Olaf continues with a threatening growl. He hasn’t drawn his
sword yet, but he might as well have a blade pointed at Arthur’s throat.

“What’s he talking about?” Arthur asks Merlin out of the side of his mouth.

Merlin shrugs again, feeling like a useless puppet and desperately hoping he doesn’t look as guilty
as he feels.

Arthur must manage to find some sense of diplomacy from under the influence of the love spell as
he looks Olaf confidently in the eye.

“If I have dishonoured you in some way, please, provide me with evidence and I will gladly face
the consequences.”

“Trickler here has told me that the Lady Vivian is in your chambers,” Olaf accuses coldly.

“If only that were true,” Arthur says with a lovesick laugh; apparently his diplomacy can only last
so long. Merlin swallows nervously as he watches Olaf’s forehead turn a dangerous shade of
purple.

“If only that were true, then you would not look so foolish!” Merlin covers quickly with a
hysterical laugh that has Trickler scowling at him.

To Merlin’s relief King Olaf doesn’t lob his head off for speaking out of turn as Uther might have
done. Instead he glares at Arthur for a moment more and then orders his men to search the room.

Merlin presses his back to the armoire and discretely lets his eyes flash gold to lock the doors
behind him.

Olaf’s men spread around the room in search while Trickler continues to eye Merlin with
suspicion. His beedy eyes glance over Merlin’s shoulder to the armoire and his face spreads into a
smirk. He twiddles his fingers eagerly as he goes to seize the door knobs but frowns when with a
pull nothing happens. Merlin exhales in relief.

“That hasn’t opened in years,” he lies smoothly.

He can see in Trickler’s eyes that he doesn’t believe Merlin, but it doesn’t matter. Olaf seizes the
jester by the shoulders and shakes him roughly.

“You buffoon!” He shouts, the purple of his forehead now shining with sweat. “You’ve made a
fool out of me!”

Olaf releases Trickler with a jolt that sends him staggering sideways before he is able to catch
himself. The king turns to Arthur, ignoring the stammering apologies of the jester and forcing a
smile onto his face that makes him look constipated.

“I apologise, Prince Arthur, for disturbing you,” Olaf says, bowing his head.

Arthur dismisses his concerns with flippant waving of his hands, smiling to assure him that it isn’t
an issue, and only Merlin seems to notice the far off look in his eyes.

The King, his men and Trickler depart the room quickly. The moment Arthur is distracted Merlin
follows with Lady Vivian’s arm slung over his shoulders. He only just manages to get her to her
chambers before Olaf’s men come to check on her.

~-~-~

Arthur is thrilled, elated, he imagines he must be glowing with joy.

His love has left him a letter, a summons to her chambers at sunset. He watches with eager
anticipation as the sun makes its slow descent down the sky, it seems to take aeons longer than
usual.

Oh how he loves the Lady Vivian.

She with the most marvellous hair, eyes, nose, and mouth. Truly, everything about her is
marvellous. Or perhaps, wondrous, would be a better term. Yes, wondrous.

Arthur wants to sing about her exceptionalism for the castle to hear. He wants to shout it in every
room of the castle. He wants to write sonnets and ballads of her beauty and perform them for every
member of the court, until no one can deny the lovely artistry of her every movement. The world
should know of her angelic face, her lovely hands, the extraordinary allure of her smooth skin.

He doesn’t remember making the journey to her chambers, why should he focus on the material
world when there are thoughts of her? He knocks lightly on the door to announce to his darling that
he has arrived.

“My love?”

The door flies open and his beloved is standing there before him. He could leap with joy at the
very sight of her.

“Arthur! My heart!” Vivian squeals gleefully, tugging him into her chambers.

They kiss furiously, their teeth scrape and tongues mash together. The room is filled with the
gorgeous sounds of their lips smacking and popping. Arthur does not know, nor care, how long
they kiss for. He hears Merlin enter but ignores him even when he shouts Arthur’s name. He can
hear nothing over the breathy gasps of his cherished Vivian.

Their saliva mixes as they kiss, creating a heavenly taste. It strings between them as they pull apart
and Arthur lunges in for more.

If Merlin’s entrance irritates him it is nothing compared to the frustration of Olaf’s furious shout as
he enters the room.

To Arthur’s dismay Vivian pulls away from him with a loud pop. Her chin is dripping with spit and
her hair flies in every direction. She is truly a wonder to behold.

“Father!” Vivian giggles. “We have something to tell you.”

Olaf doesn’t even acknowledge that his cherished daughter speaks, his dismissal makes Arthur
burn with fury. No one dares to ignore his love.

Rather than answer Vivian, the King throws down his glove with a smack — a challenge.
“Father,” Vivian groans.

“You once said if you truly offended my honour then you would gladly pay the price. What say
you now?” Olaf threatens.

Arthur stumbles forward on the squishy bed. “How have I offended your honour? Surely not with
my love alone.”

“Love?” Olaf scoffs and Arthur’s blood boils. “You don’t know the first thing about love! You’re
taking advantage of an innocent girl!”

Vivian pulls a face. “Father…”

“Arthur!” Uther protests but Arthur barely hears him.

“I assure you my feelings for your daughter are as real as they are strong,” he promises.

“Unhand her,” Olaf growls. “Or suffer the consequences. Is this really worth risking your life?”

Arthur looks to his beloved.

“Indeed it is. I would rather die than deny my feelings.”

He seizes the glove and accepts the challenge.

~-~-~

Merlin had never seen Arthur fight so poorly.

The first round of the tournament passes with Arthur dazed and distracted, giggling his way
through the match and failing to block strikes that he would usually easily obstruct. Merlin watches
the whole round with his heart in his mouth and the sinking feeling that if he doesn’t do something
soon this duel will inevitably end in Arthur’s death.

“One of your ribs is broken, Sire,” Gaius says in concern as he prods gently at the wounds along
Arthur’s side.

Arthur grins relaxedly. “Nothing can hurt me today. I am invincible.”

“But Sire—”

Arthur takes Gaius cheeks in his hands and squashes them together.

“Love really can conquer all, Gaius, it’s true.”

Merlin resists the urge to bury his face in his hands.

“This cannot go on,” Gaius says in a hushed voice as he and Merlin step away from Arthur. Merlin
doesn’t really think there’s any need to keep quiet, as Arthur is smiling dopily into space; far too
content in his lovesick daze to bother listening to them .

“The fight isn’t fair, Arthur’s head is in the clouds.”

Merlin’s stomach rolls. “I know, but I don’t know what to do.”

His magic hadn’t worked on Trickler’s love potion. Whatever he had enchanted Arthur with was
strong, and had seized Arthur’s heart, nothing Merlin could do would undo it.

“Then find someone who does,” Gaius says insistently, “before it’s too late.”

~-~-~

The Dragon laughs in hearty amusement. Merlin wishes he were twelve times larger so he could
strangle the beast.

“This is magic indeed,” he chuckles.

“Everything I have tried has failed,” Merlin says. “I can’t break the spell.”

The Dragon hums. “From what you tell me, the spell has captured his heart.”

Just once Merlin wishes The Dragon wouldn’t repeat the obvious.

“Yes, and his heart is controlling his brain.”

The Dragon’s scaled eyebrows lift. “There is no magic that can break this enchantment.”

Merlin’s muscles seize. “There must be.”

“It has too great a hold.”

“I cannot let Arthur die,” Merlin growls, failing to hide the animosity in his voice.

The Dragon laughs and it only makes Merlin more furious. There is nothing amusing about what
Arthur is enduring, his mind is captured and forced upon a girl he never even liked, he is at risk of
dying all for the sake of sparking a war he was actively working to prevent. Nothing about this
situation is fair.

“Patience, young warlock, I did not say he cannot be helped.”

Merlin wants to argue that actually you kind of did but bites his tongue, knowing The Dragon it
will only send him on a long winded tangent about what it means to help.

“The solution to the young prince’s problem lies in a force stronger than we can comprehend.”

Merlin opens his mouth to say that that means absolutely nothing, but The Dragon continues.

“It is a force that has puzzled many minds,” he says enigmatically.

Merlin grits his teeth. “Please, I have very little time—”

“A force—”

“Just tell me!” Merlin shouts, frenzied with anticipation. He doesn’t have time to spare, every
moment he spends here is another where Arthur could have returned to the tourney and is at risk of
injury, or worse

The Dragon bellows with laughter. Merlin takes a steeling breath through his nose to keep himself
from cursing the great creature.

“Why it is the greatest force of all… Love.”

“Love?” Merlin echoes.

The Dragon nods sagely. Finally he seems to be acknowledging the severity of the situation,
dipping his great head to look intently at Merlin.

“You must find the one that Arthur truly loves,” he instructs in a clear and heavy voice.

Gwen.

Merlin ignores the flare of jealousy in his stomach and the deep ache in his chest.

“Then what?” He asks quickly, hoping The Dragon can’t see the shifting pain in his expression.

“One kiss from them will break the enchantment, and Arthur will desire Vivian no more.”

It’s almost laughably simple. All Merlin needs to do is find Gwen, get her to kiss Arthur and he
will come back to his senses. Before Arthur goes and gets himself killed by Olaf that is.

“Okay,” he exhales, nodding at The Dragon in thanks and hurrying out of the cavern.

~-~-~

The second round of the tournament somehow manages to transpire worse than the first.

It’s horrible to watch Arthur perform uselessly against an opponent he would usually defeat. Olaf is
a good swordsman, what he lacks in skill he makes up for in sheer strength, but Arthur is better.
Olaf’s tactic appears to involve unrelenting attacks using the sheer force of his strength to avoid
giving his opponent the chance to attack in return.

Usually Arthur would be able to outmanoeuvre Olaf and force him into defence where his skill is
obviously inadequate. However, the enchantment has incapacitated him, like a blow to the head, he
has been left disoriented and addled and is completely overwhelmed by Olaf’s ruthless strikes.

Merlin winces on Arthur’s behalf as Olaf’s mace collides with his shoulder, his arm, his elbow.
Even when Arthur manages to get his shield to protect himself, the force of Olaf’s strike is
powerful enough that it knocks into Arthur’s skull.

“Christ,” Merlin mutters as Arthur’s forehead bleeds sluggishly, but he smiles like he doesn’t feel a
thing.

Merlin continues scouring the stands for Gwen with his heart pounding in his throat. He’s starting
to worry he might not even have time to find her before Arthur is killed. He stops, suddenly
realising that Gwen isn’t here. She never came. He isn’t sure why it took him so long to realise.
Everything he has endured over the last few days is the only excuse he can provide for neglecting
Gwen, for forgetting she would be just as upset as he is by the Vivian debacle. Merlin is not the
only person in love with Arthur, and Gwen has the additional pain of knowing Arthur loves her
back. To Gwen it would look like he had given up on her and chosen Vivian instead.

Olaf’s mace crunches as it hits Arthur in the ribs where he struck him in the first round. Even
through the haze of the love spell Arthur doubles over in pain with a groan, dropping to the ground.

Olaf raises his mace to bring down on Arthur for the killing blow.

The gong rings loud, signalling the end of the round.

Merlin exhales, momentarily halting his hunt for Gwen to hurry to the arena and help Arthur to his
feet.
“Not bad, eh Merlin?” Arthur mumbles dopily as Merlin tucks his arm under Arthur’s armpit and
aids him in hobbling off the arena.

“For God’s sake Arthur I think you were about to die,” Merlin grunts. Together they stumble into
Arthur’s tent, Merlin helps him onto the cot, his hands lingering on Arthur even once he’s sat
down, reluctant to move away.

“But I didn’t,” Arthur points out lethargically, and then proceeds to faint.

“Shit,” Merlin mutters, feeling on Arthur’s neck for a pulse with fumbling fingers. His shoulders
relax when he feels its steady pound against his fingertips.

He exhales in a rush. “You are going to be the death of me, Arthur Pendragon,” he mutters under
his breath, it comes out gentle and pouring with affection, far fonder than he intended.

“You’re going to be alright,” he promises Arthur even though he can’t hear him. “I’m going to get
Gwen now and make this right.”

Merlin strokes his fingers through the soft blond hairs of Arthur’s fringe, brushing them out of his
face with a tenderness he would never let him see while awake.

“You’ll be okay, I promise, because…” he swallows, knowing this might be his only chance to
confess to Arthur how he feels.

“Because… I love you, even if you’ll never love me back. I always will.”

Merlin’s heart feels like a raw tender thing. He has battered and bruised it over the last month, dealt
it blow after blow until each pound sends a wave of agony through his body. He still cannot think
on the fact that Arthur hates magic now, and that it is because of Merlin that he came to that
conclusion. His own feelings for Arthur, how much he desperately loves him, are ever present,
lingering like his own shadow. He can’t even speak it, telling Gaius and seeing the sympathy in his
mentor’s expression is almost worse than saying nothing at all. He had Freya to talk to and then
she was lost too, and rather than his feelings subsiding, his grief only climbed. Now, Arthur is once
more tousling with death, and it is almost too much to bear. Merlin feels like a frayed rope, flaking
apart with every attack he endures until he is nothing more than pieces. He has been left wounded,
struggling to hold himself together. He just needs something to cling to, some reprieve in the
neverending tumult that his life has become.

So, he allows himself this small confession to Arthur, this short point in time.

Merlin gently presses a kiss to Arthur’s strong brow. Arthur’s forehead is cool under the quick
pressure of Merlin’s lips. The touch zips through Merlin like magic, a bolt of lightning up his
spine. He feels something relax in Arthur, an ease in the air around the two of them like an exhale
finally being released. Merlin considers that maybe this was all he needed, just a short moment to
let his feelings loosen their painful hold around his chest and settle into him more comfortably.

“I really do love you, you absolute arse,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb along Arthur’s
cheekbone tenderly. He lets himself indulge, allowing the moment to linger as long as possible
before standing and squaring his shoulders.

He needs to find Gwen.

~-~-~

Gwen scrubs angrily at the same dish, imagining that destroying the invisible grime on the edges
of the rim will make up for the fact that Arthur is fighting a tourney for another girl’s hand. It
doesn’t.

Tears sting her eyes. It’s an odd kind of pain, not remotely similar to how she felt when Lancelot
left. When she lost Lancelot she had felt the ache of the future she imagined with him being ripped
away from her. She can still feel the rough seams where he tore their potential away in a sharp pull.
She had ached for what they could have been. But when it comes to Arthur she can hardly picture a
future, only the vague likeness of what it could be.

It’s understandable really, with Uther in their way and the expectations upon Arthur as their future
sovereign, she can hardly envision a realistic future with him. Not when it seems so distant and
unattainable. A future with the future King of Camelot is a dream that can never come true, the
fantasy of a child who doesn’t understand that a peasant has no chance of being Queen. She has no
future with Arthur, so having that torn away is not like opening a new wound but pressing her
fingers deep into a bruise.

No matter how prepared she was, it feels horrible to have Arthur abandon her so suddenly; to be
embraced in his arms and alone on the stone floor the next.

The door to her cottage flies open and Merlin rushes in. His hair is a mess, his skin flushed red as
he doubles over and pants with exertion, he looks like he just ran across the entire kingdom without
stopping to draw breath.

“Merlin?”

Merlin gasps. “I need your help,” he says anxiously. “Arthur needs your help.” Gwen scoffs. “I
don’t think Arthur needs me for anything.”

Merlin shakes his head emphatically.

“Gwen I know…” he seems to struggle to find the words through his gasps for breath.

“What do you know?” Gwen asks suspiciously.

“Everything. I know how you feel about Arthur.”

Gwen looks away as her cheeks burn, hiding their dark flush from Merlin’s watchful eyes. Merlin
is probably her best friend outside Morgana, and incredibly close to Arthur, so it is no surprise that
he has noticed her feelings; even still it's mortifying to have that exposed when Arthur has made it
very clear he no longer returns her feelings. If he ever did.

“I know how he feels about you,” Merlin continues.

Gwen’s heart squeezes.

“No,” she shakes her head, she can’t help but hate Merlin a little bit for giving her false hope. “He
seems quite infatuated with Lady Vivian.”

“He’s enchanted,” Merlin says and a flare of frustration bursts through Gwen, like the fire that
lights when flint strikes steel.

“Yes, enchanted with the Lady Vivian, I can see that,” she snaps.

“No! Gwen he’s literally enchanted.”

Gwen hardly dares to believe it.

“How can you be sure?”

Merlin shrugs loosely, avoiding her eyes as he mumbles, “I know Arthur.”

Her first instinct is to argue that no one really knows what Arthur feels, but that’s no longer the
truth. Perhaps if Merlin had just arrived in Camelot, it might be true, but everyone knows Arthur
has changed since then. He is kinder; he used to be harnessed with impenetrable armour and he is
now unguarded, he laughs and smiles freely, he shares his thoughts not like they are the kingdom's
vaulted secrets but with ease and gentleness. Merlin pushed him away from the arrogant bully he
was becoming, and has brought out softer sides of Arthur, Gwen didn’t even know existed. Arthur
trusts Merlin and they’re good for each other. If there is anyone in the castle who would know how
Arthur feels about her, it is Merlin.

“He’s been given some sort of love juice, potion, spell, whatever— the point is he needs your
help.”

Gwen hesitates. “When I saw him his feelings seemed real enough.”

“No Gwen, none of his feelings for Vivian are real,” Merlin promises, “but if you don’t break the
spell his death will be.”

An odd expression flickers over Merlins’ face, one she doesn’t understand.

“Search your heart, you know who he loves,” he says softly.

Gwen, against all reason, desperately wants to cringe away from his suggestion, shove Merlin out
onto the street, bar the doors and windows and never emerge. She knows that Merlin wouldn’t say
such things if they weren’t true, but something in her finds the idea daunting. Her stomach is
teetering as if her toes are brushing the edge of a cliff and she is peering over the edge.

“What do I need to do?” Gwen asks cautiously.

Merlin’s face brightens and he slumps in relief. “The spell will be broken if he is kissed by the one
he truly loves.”

Gwen is hit with a wave of nervousness, it buffets her face and crashes over her head. It is one
thing to have feelings for Arthur, even for him to return those feelings, but it is quite another to
even stomach the idea that she is Arthur’s true love. She has dreamt of love her entire life, she felt
it with Lancelot, and she thinks she feels it now, but true love is a terrifying prospect.

She knows it is the wrong reaction to have. She should be thrilled. Any girl would dream to have
this opportunity, she has dreamed of this opportunity, she doesn’t know why it seems so
frightening now. Although, Gwen has never kissed Arthur before, so she supposes it is perfectly
reasonable to feel butterflies at the idea.

She chews on her lip anxiously.

“Are you sure he would be alright with that?”

“He loves you Gwen, you’ll see when your kiss breaks the spell.”

The hesitation doesn’t ease, if anything Gwen feels more nervous at the prospect of being able to
break Arthur’s spell. It’s too much pressure upon her shoulders, if it doesn’t work then the outcome
would be worse than a rejection, it would not only humiliate her, but doom Arthur to his
enchantment with Vivian. She doesn’t want to risk it.

Merlin is doing a valiant job at restraining himself from seizing her and hauling her from the room,
but Gwen can tell his patience is dwindling. He keeps glancing at the door nervously, and bouncing
on his toes like he has ants crawling under his skin.

“Look, Gwen, it will be okay. Arthur needs you. If it doesn’t work, you have my full permission to
punch me in the arm.”

“Oh please,” Gwen says with a smile, “as if I need your permission to punch you.”

Merlin grins brightly, recognising the agreement in her answer.

~-~-~

Arthur wakes with a clearer head than he’s had in days, and to Gwen’s lips on his.

It isn’t what Arthur imagined kissing Guinevere would feel like. Arthur has always secretly been a
reader of romantic fiction; throughout his life he’d swipe them from the library whenever he had
the chance. He has fantasised endlessly about the wondrous feeling of a first kiss as it is inked onto
the pages of those well read books; but this is nothing like that. There are no sparks of elation, or
stomach swooping joy. The kiss is over in mere moments, a quick press of their mouths together,
holding for a moment, and then finished. He just feels sort of dumbfounded by it. Surprised.

He’s actually much more focused on the splitting pain in his ribs, and the pounding behind his
temples. He groans, clutching at his side and then hissing when his hand makes contact with the
ache and a crack of pain lashes through him like fire.

“Oh my God,” he manages to croak, wincing in pain.

To his surprise Gwen smiles. “You’re back,” she murmurs in relief, her hand resting against his
chest.

“Where have I been?” Arthur looks around and notices for the first time the red walls of the
Pendragon tent and the familiar armour and weapons of a tourney. “What’s happening?”

“You were under a love spell,” Gwen explains quickly. “You’re in a fight to the death, and you’re
losing.”

Arthur blinks at Gwen dumbly. That is far too much information to consider in such a small space
of time. “But—” he tries to protest, not really sure what he will say.

But I don’t remember any of this. But I don’t know what I’m fighting for.

Both would be good places to start.

Gwen doesn’t give him the chance, she shakes his head and cups his cheek gently.

“There’s no time to explain. Just… live for me, Arthur. You have to.”

“Gwen I—”

The horn blares, signalling the next round of the tournament.

Merlin’s head pokes into the tent, his blue eyes huge and wide as he looks at Arthur.
“Are you back?”

“Is one of my ribs broken?” He asks instead of answering, staggering his way over to Merlin.

Merlin beams as though Arthur just gave him the best news of his life. Arthur is surprised to find
himself endeared by the bright look on Merlin’s face.

“Two actually, and I think you have a concussion,” Merlin answers.

Arthur grunts. “Splendid.”

They make their way out to the arena. Merlin holds Arthur’s helmet and stands close enough that
he could catch Arthur if he were to collapse. On the short journey Merlin quickly explains that
Arthur is defending his love for Vivian — what the hell — and they only have the sword fighting
round left of the tourney. Out of everything in Merlin’s fast paced ramble that is the only part
Arthur can be grateful for, at least he is graced with a sword, his weapon of choice.

As they approach the stands Arthur sees Gwen taking her seat by Morgana’s side. He’s struck by a
sudden bolt of fear that if he were to die now he would never be able to protect her again. Which is
stupid, because he thinks Morgana would rather die than let anything happen to Gwen; but the fear
remains nonetheless.

“Merlin,” he turns to his manservant, “if anything should happen to me, look after Gwen. To the
world she may be just a servant, dispensable, but she isn’t to me.”

Merlin’s face is encompassed by warmth and affection as he meets Arthur’s gaze and it makes
Arthur warm in turn.

He feels the same rush of protectiveness towards Merlin.

“And make sure you get a different job alright, servitude doesn’t suit you.”

Merlin laughs, bright as the morning sun.

“Yes, Sire.”

Arthur takes his helmet and moves to walk away when Merlin catches his attention again.

“But Arthur,” he calls. “Don’t die.”

Arthur smiles. “I won’t.”

“Promise me?”

A surge of affection embraces Arthur. “I promise.”

The third round of the tournament begins. The loud trumpet announces the commencement of
battle and both Arthur and King Olaf drop into stance. Arthur can immediately identify that Olaf is
not a skilled fighter, perhaps he once was as a young man, but that skill has dwindled away after
years of idle sitting in a throne. It’s almost upsetting to see how easily Arthur could have won
earlier had he been in his right mind.

The pain from his injuries makes it difficult. His ribcage is throbbing sharply and every movement
causes a flare of pain to shoot through him. He forces himself to ignore the jolts and focus on the
weight of the sword moving in his hands. He grounds himself with the familiar feeling of the hilt
brushing against his worn callouses, and the clanging sounds of metal colliding.
Strike. Parry. Disarm.

Olaf hits the ground with a hard sound. The point of Arthur’s sword rests on the bob of his throat.

It’s such a familiar position. Arthur is here so often, with a person’s life held in his hands because
of a simple challenge. He pauses. This moment always stays with him, the breath before he has to
make the choice of whether his opponent should live or die. Sometimes the choice never bothers
him again, he’s certainly lost no sleep over Valiant. Sometimes it haunts him, Odin’s son, mistakes
he made in his youth. He thinks of them all, and then thinks how stupid this particular challenge is.

Olaf does not deserve to die. He is overprotective of his daughter, certainly, but Arthur has no
desire to defend his ‘love’ for Vivian, and Olaf has done nothing wrong. All killing him will
achieve is more war.

Arthur lowers his sword.

“This is no way to achieve peace.”

~-~-~

Merlin is grateful to learn that despite Olaf’s tight rein on his daughter’s love life, Vivian does
have a lover back home. He is even able to advise one of the kinder serving girls to have said lover
kiss the princess as soon as possible if they want her infatuation with Arthur to cease. He can only
hope now that they succeed.

Merlin watches Vivian sob as she saddles onto her horse and feels a wave of sympathy for the girl.
She might have been rude and stuck up, but she doesn’t deserve to be used as a pawn, and she
certainly doesn’t deserve to suffer under this love spell forever.

“Will we return?” She asks with a trembling bottom lip.

“You will always be welcome in Camelot,” Uther answers, offering her a conciliatory smile.

Vivian looks longingly at Arthur.

“Though I leave my heart remains, and I hope to join it again soon” she swoons.

Arthur tries to smile in return but he looks more terrified than anything else.

Merlin shares an amused look with Gwen, who seems to be having as much trouble as he is not to
laugh. Morgana doesn’t even bother trying, giggling openly and then covering it with a cough at
Uther’s disapproving expression.

The five kings leave one after the other in order of which kingdom has the most land. Usually
Merlin would find such a process grossly pretentious but considering that puts King Alined at the
back of the procession he enjoys it, just this once.

Alined waits his turn, growling angrily at Trickler. The man has been chained to the back of the
King’s horse, forced to run alongside the steed. Merlin doesn’t much like the jester, but he does
feel sorry for him.

“What’s wrong, Alined?” Arthur asks with innocent wide eyes. “Anyone would think you didn’t
want peace?”

Merlin stifles his smile into his fist.

 “But of course! Peace, love it,” Alined says, voice dripping with contemptful derision.

Arthur grins beautifully and waves goodbye with an excess of cheer. He agreed with Merlin and
Gaius’ choice to keep Alined’s use of sorcery from Uther’s ears, for the sake of the peace treaty.
However, Merlin can tell he enjoys this chance to be petty after what Alined put him through.

“Good riddance,” Arthur mumbles to Merlin as Alined rides away.

Merlin grins.

Chapter End Notes

this was one of the chapters i had the most fun adapting so it would still fit the flow of
the story !! i hope you enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed writing it !!

apologies for the vivian kissing scene, ive been told its horrific to read, which was
intentional but still... my bad

much love and see you all on march 26th for chapter 19 !! ( )
 The Fires of Idirsholas
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The Crystal of Neahtid has been stolen.

The vaults of Camelot are revered for being impenetrable, an untouchable fortress, buried deep in
the heart of the castle like a pirate’s treasure. In order to reach them one would need to pass a
dozen guards, break through the heavily locked door, and then escape back through the bustling
castle to escape. Nothing leaves the vaults.

Yet somehow, someone has achieved the impossible.

Arthur hasn’t said a word since they entered the vault and found the crystal missing. His eye is
twitching at a frankly dangerous pace, and his jaw is making a worrying clicking sound, but so far
he hasn’t thrown anything at Merlin’s head, so Merlin is impressed.

“The locks aren’t broken,” Arthur observes, running his finger along the undamaged lock
thoughtfully.

Merlin frowns. “What does that tell you?”

“It tells me that somebody stole my keys,” Arthur says stiffly.

The realisation hits Merlin in a rush.

Merlin has tried fervently to forget about the Mordred, the druid boy he helped escape Camelot a
year ago. Merlin won’t let anything happen to Arthur, no matter what prophecies or destiny may
say, he would lay down his own life before letting the supposed future come true. It wouldn’t do to
dwell on his fear. So he expelled the boy from his mind, he locked him in a dark chasm and
focused on what was in front of him, Arthur.

It had worked until last night when he heard Mordred within Camelot’s walls. A ghost in Merlin’s
head, Mordred’s presence was a cold shiver down his spine, he heard his voice calling out in his
mind, yet he was not searching for Merlin, but for Morgana. That was the only detail that
convinced Merlin that Mordred’s presence was real, not a nightmare come to taunt Merlin for his
potential mistakes. That, and the fact there was another sorcerer with him. Merlin followed their
voices in his mind, all the way to Morgana’s chambers, he could hear them speaking, a low hushed
conversation that whispered in the recesses of his skull and he could barely decipher. Yet when he
and Arthur burst into the chambers, Morgana claimed to be alone.

Merlin had tried to convince himself he had imagined it all. It wasn’t the first time he had thought
he’d seen or heard Mordred since he left Camelot; every small boy with dark hair that Merlin
glimpsed in the corner of his eye caused his heartbeat to spike and clenched his chest tight. He
sometimes thought he heard Mordred’s voice when it was nothing but the echo of people talking
further down the hall. It could have chalked down to his nerves.

Yet that didn’t explain why he found Morgana in Arthur’s chambers earlier that day. She claimed
she was there to apologise for snapping at Arthur the night before. However, she came at a time
when Arthur was training with the knights, as he did at that time every day without fail. Merlin had
thought it was strange at the time, but once again had dismissed it as his own nerves. Now he
realises that it can’t have been his imagination, he concludes that she must be working with
Mordred. The vaults are supposedly impenetrable, but if Morgana was able to steal Arthur’s keys it
wouldn’t be difficult at all.

Merlin is so distracted by this realisation he only hums in agreement with Arthur.

“Is that all you have to say?” Arthur snaps.

Merlin’s eyes jump to him. He can see the irritation rolling off Arthur in waves. His jaw is
creaking as he grinds his teeth and his eyes flash with anger.

“Um—”

“Who’s job is it to ensure that my chambers are kept locked at all times?”

Merlin opens his mouth to defend himself but Arthur ploughs over him.

“Who’s job is it to ensure something like this never happens?” He shouts. His cheeks have gone a
bright shade of red, flushed with shame and panic, and his eyes are sharp enough to strike a man
down.

It won’t do any good to point out that Merlin was careful to ensure Arthur’s chambers were locked;
nor to explain his theory about Morgana. While Arthur trusts Merlin, he loves Morgana as
dutifully as if she’s his sister; he would never believe she is responsible for this.

“Sorry?” He calls out to Arthur’s back as he storms away.

~-~-~

Arthur’s father stares at him coldly, a vein twitching in his temple and ire in his bared teeth. Arthur
straightens his spine and folds his hands behind his back to keep himself from fidgeting.

“You’re sorry?” Uther repeats in a hiss. “That isn’t good enough.”

Arthur’s fingers twitch against his palm but he doesn’t shrink away from his father.

“How did they get in? Did they damage the locks?”

“No, Sire.”

Uther blinks. “Then how did they gain access to the vault?”

Arthur can’t meet his father’s eyes any longer. He stares at a spot on his boot, he’ll have Merlin
clean it later.

“They stole my keys.”

He doesn’t need to look at his father to hear his fury.

“How is that possible?”

Arthur hesitates, he glances over to Merlin cowering in the corner. Bloody hell. His father is
unlikely to actually punish Arthur for this error, but Merlin would be lucky to escape with a simple
sentence to the stocks.

“They fell from my belt loop after training and I didn’t notice,” he lies smoothly.
He can feel Merlin’s eyes on the side of his head like a brand.

“These kinds of mistakes cannot continue, Arthur,” his father says icily. If Arthur was a small boy
the coldness of his father’s voice would be enough to make him shrink with fear; the tone of his
voice precedes at best, a blow, or at worst isolation in his room for the night. Arthur is too old for
that kind of discipline now, but the crawling fear in his chest remains even despite that knowledge.

He bows his head. “Yes, Sire.”

Uther tempers slightly at Arthur’s lack of resistance. He blusters around the room like a
thundercloud gathering before a great storm, fingers tapping on his chin.

“This is a grievous loss. The Crystal of Neahtid was locked away for good reason.”

“Why is it so important?”

“It is an instrument of magic,” Uther snaps. “In the time of the Purge a great many sorcerers died
trying to protect it. Whatever it is, it is important to them.”

The mention of magic makes the back of Arthur’s neck prickle. He had assumed the crystal was
valuable, but a magical artefact is a different danger altogether.

“I’ll search the town,” Arthur assures Uther, “find out what I can.”

“Arthur,” Uther stops him at the door. “This crystal cannot fall into enemy hands.”

Fear twists Arthur’s chest, hands seizing his muscles and wringing them like laundry. The fate of
Camelot rests on Arthur’s shoulders; there is no telling what this magic in the wrong hands could
do, and Arthur cannot risk waiting to see it come to pass.

He nods and leaves the room.

Arthur can hear Merlin on his heels as he storms down the hall but he doesn’t turn to acknowledge
him. He knows Merlin feels guilty because he shuffles his feet and stays a few paces behind
Arthur — as he should usually, but when does Merlin ever do what he should? — and Arthur feels
strangely pleased. Good. Merlin should feel guilty for putting him in that position.

“Arthur?” Merlin says tentatively, because Merlin has never learnt to leave well enough alone.
“Thank you.”

Arthur scowls and continues storming through the halls.

“For what exactly?” Arthur asks but doesn’t give Merlin the chance to answer. “For lying to my
father to save your worthless hide?”

Merlin makes a sheepish noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah.”

Arthur takes a sharp breath, trying to force a lid onto the bubbling cauldron of his temper.

He rounds on Merlin. “If you ever put me in that position again I will clap you in irons myself. Do
you understand me?”

It’s a lie. Both he and Merlin know it. Arthur wouldn’t do anything of the sort, he would stand up
for Merlin again and again if he had to. When did he become so soft that he can’t even discipline
his own servant?
Still, Merlin does look chastened. He looks at the floor and nods somberly.

“Yes, Sire.”

Arthur huffs. It is Merlin’s fault, he should be angrier at him, but in reality he’s only furious that
they have ended up in this situation.

“You’d better hope we find that crystal,” he mutters, and storms towards his chambers.

~-~-~

Gaius stares at Merlin in disbelief. His typically crooked eyebrows are raised so high that Merlin
thinks one might slip right off his forehead.

“You think Morgana stole the crystal?” He repeated incredulously.

Merlin nods.

“I’m certain of it, I caught her in Arthur’s chambers. She must have stolen his keys.”

Gaius’ eyebrows twitch thoughtfully.

“Can you prove any of this?”

Merlin winces. All too often he has been forced to face threats alone because Uther refuses to
accept any threat without proof; although Merlin has noticed that demand for proof disappears
rapidly when it is a threat of sorcery on the lower classes but that is neither here nor there. His only
saving grace has been that Arthur trusts him, and he can’t even rely on that when this threat is in
Arthur’s eyes, entirely Merlin’s fault, and in reality is caused by Morgana, which he would never
believe.

“Not exactly. I followed Morgana to where she delivered the crystal to a sorcerer, but I don’t have
any way to prove it was her but my own word.”

“Merlin…” Gaius begins to protest.

“She did it,” Merlin says. “I’d bet my life on it.”

“If you accuse the king’s ward without proof that is exactly what you will be doing.”

Merlin sighs heavily, he resists the very strong urge to let his head drop onto the table.

“I know.”

Gaius’ frown deepens, creasing in the divots of his cheeks.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” he says. “Why would Morgana want to steal such a thing?”

“For Mordred,” Merlin answers, ignoring the way his stomach churns at the thought of Mordred in
Camelot.

“The druid boy?”

Merlin nods. “I heard him here, in my head. He was working with Morgana, and the renegade
sorcerer. I think the sorcerer believes he can harness the crystal’s power.”
“Who is this sorcerer?” Gaius asks. “Did you hear a name?”

“Alvarr,” Merlin repeats the name carefully.

Gaius’ expression twists with fear. “This isn’t good Merlin. Alvarr has a fearsome reputation. He is
a fanatic, obsessed with overthrowing Uther. The crystal in his hands…” Gaius doesn’t need to
finish his sentence for Merlin to imagine all the terrible things that could happen if Alvarr were to
have a weapon against the king.

“What is the crystal?” Merlin asks and Gaius purses his lips thoughtfully.

“I don’t know much about it,” Gaius answers honestly. “The crystal is an artefact of the Old
Religion. There are many legends about its power but none are explicit. The sorcerers of the past
believed it held the secret of time itself.”

“Is it a weapon?”

Gaius shakes his head. “I’m not sure. All I know is we must get it back, in case the druid boy
possesses the power to harness it.”

“But if we can’t take it to Uther what can we do?” Merlin asks anxiously, pulling at a loose splinter
on the side of the table.

Gaius tips his head. “We can bend the truth a little.”

~-~-~

Apparently bending the truth means outright lying to the King. Merlin does his best to appear the
complete picture of innocence as Uther listens to Gaius. He folds his hands behind his back and
schools his expression into neutrality. He must be doing too good a job at pretending to have good
manners because Arthur is looking at him strangely.

“You know of the crystal’s whereabouts?” Uther says suddenly, talking straight over Gaius’
attempted explanation.

Gaius takes the interruption in his stride with grace. “I believe so, Sire.”

“How did you come by this information?”

“In my work as a physician I have dealings with many different individuals. They hear things, Sire,
and they see things. Last night I spoke with one such man who told me that the crystal had been
stolen by a band of renegades, led by a man named Alvarr.”

Merlin glances at Morgana and sees the flicker of fear in her eyes before she quickly recovers her
expression once more.

“Who exactly was this informant?” Uther asks with a heavy frown. Merlin holds his breath, it
seems as if a misplaced breath might invoke Uther’s wrath. This is their only chance to be granted
the support of the knights and potentially keep the crystal out of Alvarr’s hands, if anything goes
wrong the fate of the kingdom once again falls on Merlin alone.

Gaius’ lips thin. “I think it would only be fair to protect their identity. If news of the betrayal were
to reach the renegades it could endanger their life.”

“Very well,” Uther concedes.

Merlin’s exhale escapes him in a relieved rush.

Arthur stands from his own throne, apparently growing tired of the slow conversation.

“Where is Alvarr hiding?” He probes.

“He was last seen in the Valley of Chemry, Sire,” Gaius answers without hesitation, repeating the
information Merlin provided him.

“Assemble a guard, Arthur, I want this matter investigated immediately,” Uther instructs. The
entire room stands to attention at the sound of his voice.

“Yes, father,” Arthur complies, already hurrying from the chambers with a tip of his head in
Merlin’s direction to follow.

~-~-~

Morgana storms through Arthur’s door and quickly tempers her pace, she will get nowhere by
losing her head.

“You’re not seriously thinking of going on this mission are you?” Morgana says, trying to sound
reproving rather than terrified.

Arthur keeps bustling around his room, only throwing a cursory glance in her direction.

“No, I’m not thinking of going on this mission, I am going.”

Morgana forces a chuckle, trying to keep her tone light and dismissive so Arthur won’t notice
anything amiss.

“But you’re chasing nothing but a rumour.”

Arthur hums. “True, but for now it’s the only lead we have to go on.”

Morgana hesitates, the tightness of her chest and the shortness of her breaths are incriminating,
they implicate her guilt and Arthur is too smart not to notice if she doesn’t control herself. She
takes a slow breath to steady herself and forces a pleasant smile.

“You’re wasting your time, even if these renegades are responsible, what have they really done
wrong?”

Arthur finally halts his preparations, he stalls with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Morgana, what are you talking about?” He says incredulously. “They stole a crystal from the
vaults of Camelot.”

“We don’t even know what the crystal does, it might be nothing dangerous,” Morgana argues.

“And that’s a risk you’re willing to take?”

“I just think it’s ridiculous to assume that they’re dangerous,” she retorts. “How do you know they
want to hurt Camelot?”

Her firm grip on her calm disposition is slipping as Arthur’s stubbornness scrapes on her patience.

Arthur laughs sharply. “Please,” he scoffs, “they’re sorcerers.”

Morgana sucks in a sharp breath. Pain cracks her bones like a whip striking her insides. For a
moment, Arthur had been indistinguishable from his father; he held the same coldness to his gaze,
the same dismissive tone. There was no difference between king and prince.

“Of course,” she hisses, coiling on herself like a predator preparing to strike, “and that is enough.”

Arthur frowns. Uther’s expression falls away to be replaced with confusion, more reminiscent of
Arthur’s usual self; but Morgana can’t forget what she saw, the image is seared into her brain like a
brand. It sits in her gut like poison, blackening her insides and rising like vomit.

She knew that Arthur possessed the same views of magic as his father, she was aware of that fact;
but it’s different to hear it be spoken from his mouth. It is different to have that belief proven to be
true. Her body wants to reject the knowledge, it turns itself inside out to repel the betrayal burning
her blood.

“Morgana—”

Arthur starts but he stops abruptly as Merlin enters the room with Arthur’s armour heaped in his
arms. He glances between the two of them curiously with wide observant eyes. Morgana gathers
herself quickly, storing her betrayal and frustration deep in her chest where no one will be able to
seek them out. Merlin knows too much already, if he were to see her in this state it would not be
difficult for him to draw the connection between her and Alvarr. She steps back and smooths her
expression into something calm.

She cannot wish Arthur luck in good faith, so instead she nods her head and says, “I hope you
return safely,” — as at least then the sentiment will be genuine. She leaves the room clutching her
bleeding heart.

~-~-~

It felt like Merlin had held his breath for the entire journey to the Valley of Chemry. He did not
exhale once as they snuck into the forest, nor as they attacked the renegade encampment with
swords drawn. Throughout the entire battle Merlin felt as though he could not stop for a moment to
breathe lest the entire plan would unravel beneath his fingertips. It was only once the encampment
was defeated that he finally let his lungs relax.

Now that the Crystal has been returned to Camelot’s possession, held on Arthur’s person, he lets
himself breathe.

However, the Crystal’s retrieval from the renegade sorcerers does little to ease the tension in
Merlin’s shoulders. He should be relieved, he consulted The Dragon before they left, who revealed
the crystal’s power to Merlin, that it could show the future, but only to those powerful enough to
wield it. In Alvarr’s hands the crystal could have been weaponised against Uther, to know exactly
the moment he would be at his weakest. It had every potential to be impossibly dangerous, and that
at least brings some stark relief.

However Merlin cannot cleanse his mind of The Dragon’s premonitions, warnings which
reverberate in Merlin’s ears even after a day having passed. He spoke of Mordred again, the small
child who seems so harmless, yet would somehow bring about Arthur’s doom; the thought of it
alone cuts Merlin’s airway like the slash of a knife. He trembles, gripping his biceps until he fears
he will leave finger shaped bruises in his flesh. Merlin wants to dismiss the prophecy again, to
promise himself it won’t come true, that he would sooner die himself than let Arthur fall, but it is
hard to expunge from his mind. This time The Dragon had divulged more, hissing vitriol about the
Witch, Morgana, that she was prophesied to bring Arthur’s downfall with Mordred at her side.
Merlin shakes his head sharply, dispelling the thoughts. It makes sense that The Dragon would
retaliate against Merlin, lashing out like a forked tongue until his anger is satiated. He wants
freedom, and Merlin refuses to grant it to him, of course he would seek revenge on Merlin for not
helping him. That’s what the stupid lizard does.

The thought makes Merlin feel better.

“Merlin?” Arthur says, rapping him once on the forehead with his knuckles.

Merlin scowls up at him but it’s hard to stay mad when Arthur is grinning at him. Arthur has been
obscenely grumpy ever since the crystal was stolen, so it’s a welcome relief to have him smiling at
Merlin again.

“Yes, my Lord,” Merlin answers in a derisive tone, imbuing the honorific with as much sarcasm as
he can muster.

He knows Arthur is aware he’s mocking him from the way he wrinkles his nose. It makes him feel
pleasantly warm.

“Guard this with your life, would you?” Arthur says and drops the crystal onto his lap.

Merlin stares at it for a long moment and then looks at Arthur.

“Why me?”

Arthur looks at him like it’s a stupid question. Except it isn’t really. The reason Arthur has been so
grumpy with Merlin the last few days is because he thinks Merlin left his chambers unlocked and
allowed the crystal to be stolen. Now he’s letting Merlin keep watch over it.

“I can’t very well guard it while I’m sleeping can I?” Arthur says with that same look that seems to
say ‘well obviously, Merlin’.

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “Neither can I.”

Arthur grins. “Who said anything about you sleeping?”

Then he rolls over on his bedroll and promptly falls asleep; because he’s an arse. Merlin really
shouldn’t feel so much affection when he’s being such a prat.

He rolls his eyes and considers sticking his tongue out at Arthur, then decides it isn’t worth it, the
prince is asleep and won’t even know.

The amusement fades into apprehension as he observes the crystal. It is an onerous weight in
Merlin’s hands. He sits awake long after the knight's fall asleep staring at the wrapped parcel. He
knows he shouldn’t look at it. He is certain he would be able to see its hidden depths; if Mordred
wields enough power to see into the crystal Merlin undoubtedly does.

He tries to repress the urge to look at it, but there is something about the stone that is so beguiling.
He can feel it extend its magic towards him, beckoning him. It is alluring, like the temptation of
sleep after days of staying awake, or the gentle caress of hands over a body longing to be touched.
He wants to see what it can tell him. He wants it more than he thought he would.

Merlin holds his breath and dares to unwrap a small corner, letting his fingertips skim the smooth
edge of the crystal. It is cool beneath his touch, and hums with an energy like nothing Merlin has
felt before.
The crystal reaches out to him eagerly, like an infant for its mother. Who is Merlin to deny it?

Before he can think of the consequences he has unwrapped the crystal entirely and is staring into
its depths. It is cerulean in colour, about the size of a small pumpkin and glistening brighter than
the firelight should allow. However none of those things take Merlin’s notice, instead it is the tug
that draws him to stare deeper at the crystal that he is most aware of. There is a shape forming in
the sharp edges of the jewel’s bevelled edges, a figure coming into clarity the longer Merlin looks.

It is The Dragon, swooping from high above. Merlin watches in horror as heat erupts from The
Dragon’s wide open mouth, unleashing torrents of flame down on the familiar cobble of Camelot’s
courtyard. No longer is it a mere reflection Merlin is observing from afar, he is being drawn inside,
and it encompasses him in its colour and power. He can feel the searing heat all around him,
burning his cheeks, bringing sweat to the nape of his neck and soaking his forehead. His heart
races in his chest, like he is fearing for an imminent attack, no, that is already occurring.

They’re fragmented images, nothing stays in one place for longer than a few seconds. He sees The
Dragon flying from the West towards him and Arthur in a field. He ducks to avoid a wall of flame
directed to his head in the courtyard. He sees himself, like a ghost outside his own body, grieving
over the corpse of a loved one. Merlin clutches his heart, feeling the desperate pain in his own
chest, though he doesn’t know who he is mourning for. He glimpses Gwen and Morgana curled
together behind the wreckage of the well. He follows Arthur into battle. He watches Camelot’s
great city be scorched by The Dragon’s flames.

Merlin drops the crystal, hands flying to his mouth to muffle his own horrified gasp.

~-~-~

Morgana stands behind Uther’s throne as Alvarr kneels before it. She silently begs him to lie, to
plead for forgiveness and swear fealty to Uther. She knows he won’t.

“Do you admit that you are guilty of stealing the Crystal of Neahtid and therefore plotting against
your king?” Uther asks, baring his teeth like a hound leering at a rabbit.

Alvarr stares back at him proudly. “I do.”

“And you acted alone? You were not aided or abetted by any citizen of Camelot?”

Morgana’s heart seizes in her chest. She holds her breath, and forces herself to keep a straight face.
Arthur glances at her but doesn't appear to notice anything amiss.

Alvarr doesn’t blink.

“I acted alone,” he replies smoothly. His eyes don’t even flick towards Morgana, his lie is
indistinguishable from his honesty, and it is obvious he has practised.

“Then you alone are guilty of treason,” Uther sentences him without a thought. “You are an enemy
of Camelot, Alvarr, and I sentence you to death.”

Alvarr gives no reaction to his sentencing, he meets Uther’s eyes with steadfast confidence.

“Then I die with honour,” he answers. “To be an enemy of Camelot is no crime.”

He would not doubt his morals for a moment. Alvarr knows what he believes in: himself, magic,
righteousness. He would never even think to hide himself and pretend as Morgana does. He would
not wear a mask of fear day in and day out, all to maintain Uther’s impossible favour, a man who
has killed thousands like them. Alvarr, and every magic user like him, must think she is a coward.

She watches as Alvarr is escorted from the room and then the rest of the court follows. Arthur is
last to leave, with Merlin to his right as always. They all continue their day as if nothing has
changed, like this has not even made a fold in the smooth fabric of their lives. As she watches it all
her anger mounts, rising in her body like smoke until she can taste ash and could spit flames. The
flames of her anger grow with every person who walks from the room, unbothered, to never think
of Alvarr again. He is just another person borne of magic executed at the king’s hand, what does
he, or any of them matter? What does she matter?

She can’t help but realise that everything always leads her back to Uther. For so long she has clung
to the thread of love she has for him, gifted to her as a child when he first took her into his arms.
He acted as her father throughout her childhood, he gave her a home and a family. He loved her.
She has held onto the thread of that love feverishly, even as she watches it fray away.

He would slaughter her unthinkingly if he knew what she was. No matter how she loves him, and
he claims to love her, it is a conditional love. There one day, and easily tossed away the next.

Her anger fills Morgana’s lungs like she is drowning, her anger is like a rushing river, it pours
down her throat, roars in her ears, swelling in her until she could choke. How much longer will she
be forced to endure this? How can she stand by his side and do nothing as he murders people day
by day? People like her. She cannot live with herself in an existence like this.

“How many more must you kill before you are satisfied?” Morgana asks once the room has
cleared. Her voice rings like the clang of a bell, crisp and loud in the silence of the throne room.

Uther turns to look at her with a disappointed expression. Even now, when she feels so much fury,
the sight of that disappointment makes her want to drop to her knees and beg for his forgiveness.
She forces herself not to cow away even as her heart tugs against her, pulling her to plead his
mercy, retain his affection for as long as she can cling to it.

“He was guilty, he confessed his crimes,” he says slowly. “You heard him as well as I.”

“His only crime was defying you.”

Uther frowns, the sky between them seems to darken, like clouds drawing close around their heads.
“Why are you defending him? He is a sworn foe of Camelot, he announced so himself.”

Morgana wants to unleash her secrets in a scream, unlock the Pandora’s box and let the nightmares
and horrors that she keeps hidden away free to wreak their terrible havoc. She wants to tell him that
she defends Alvarr in order to defend herself. She is still too scared. Of what he could do to her. Of
what she would lose. Like a selfish little girl she still guards herself against the terrible fear of what
it would feel like to finally lose his approval for good.

“Is it any wonder he wanted you dead?” She asks, avoiding his question by asking one of her own.
“You have persecuted his kind, day after day, year after year.”

“I will hear no more of this,” Uther shouts. His hand slices through the air and she fights her
instinct to cringe away from it. He turns away, expecting the silence and obedience he taught her
from the moment she arrived in Camelot. She won’t grant it to him any longer.

“Because you are an arrogant fool.”

Uther head snaps to look at her. She’s almost thrilled by the shock in his heavy eyebrows. The
smell of an incoming storm is clinging to the air, she breathes it in with short sharp breaths.
“You are deaf and blind to the needs of the people you profess to serve and protect.” She trembles
as Uther marches towards her but doesn’t shy away.

“They won’t tolerate it any longer! They are rising up against you,” Morgana’s voice catches as
Uther grabs her arm but she doesn’t stop. She just wants to reach him, the weakest part of her is
still desperate to help him see reason so that she will never have to lose his love. She begs him to
understand, she needs him to understand.

“If you continue this way you will be helpless to stop them.”

Uther’s face is as dark as a stormcloud. Morgana can practically hear the rumble of thunder in the
twitches of his furious expression.

“And you would support them?”

“Better them, than to support your tyranny.”

The thunder she was waiting for booms. Uther’s expression grows murderous.

“You will go to your chambers!” He bellows, the words are a flash of lightning and a crack of
thunder that reverberates through the dark sky and bounces between the clouds.

Morgana meets his gaze unflinchingly, tipping her chin in defiance.

“And you Uther, you will go to hell.”

~-~-~

“Is there something interesting in there?” Gaius asks in a soft voice.

Merlin’s head snaps up. He doesn't know how long he was staring into the depths of his bowl, the
vision he saw in the crystal reflected in the thick stew, but it must have been long enough for Gaius
to be concerned.

“Merlin?”

“Sorry?” Merlin mumbles distractedly. The Dragon’s roar hums in his eardrums, still echoing
almost an entire day after he dared to look into the crystal’s depths.

“What’s the matter?” Gaius probes gently, his hand reaching out to still Merlin’s as he stirs
absently at his soup.

Camelot in flames. Merlin with tears dripping down his face. The loud shout of Arthur charging
into battle.

“It’s the crystal,” he says hollowly. “It harbours a terrible power, Gaius.”

Gaius pats his hand consolingly. “But it’s locked away now. It can do no harm.”

Merlin can’t meet Gaius’ eyes, he feels small and meek, like a young boy before a parent. He feels
painfully guilty for letting temptation best him and looking into the crystal. He knows Gaius would
have warned him against it.

“Unless… the damage is already done?” Gaius says slowly, looking intently at Merlin’s regret
ridden expression. Merlin glances up, sees his heavy gaze and looks back at the table.
“I looked into it,” Merlin confesses in a rush. “I knew I shouldn’t, I knew no good would come of
it. It compelled me, it was like I had to see.”

Gaius nods in understanding. There is no judgement in his eyes but it does nothing to dispel that
feeling of a child caught doing something wrong.

“The things I saw Gaius…” Merlin swallows roughly, tears prickle his eyes. “It was terrible.”

The apparitions the crystal showed him haunt his mind, wriggling amongst his thoughts like
worms and digging themselves into his skull. He can’t think of anything else, the premonitions
clinging to his thoughts and pushing themselves forward. If he thinks of his magic he remembers
The Dragon’s guidance, which is followed by the sensation of searing heat and furious roars. He
turns his mind to Gaius, sitting before him, but that only brings the memory of his heart breaking
with grief, and he is seized by the icy cold grip of fear. It could be Gaius that he is grieving, it
could be Gwen, Morgana, Arthur, his mother; he can’t lose any of them.

“There is nothing that can be done for it now,” Gaius says consolingly.

“But what I saw has not yet come to pass,” Merlin argues, “and I am scared. I am really really
scared for what the future may hold.”

His heart is racing as the confusion and terror tangles itself in his mind until he couldn’t hope to
pull it apart. He knows he has to prevent what he saw somehow, but how can he protect them
against a threat he doesn’t even know?

Gaius shakes his head. “There is nothing in this world that can know all possible futures Merlin.
Not even the crystal.”

“But what I saw, it felt so real.”

It still feels terrifyingly real. The images he saw were like memories, so vivid and clear it was like
they had already come to pass. He could feel his own heartache — he lost someone dear to him, it
felt like his chest was caving in — the heat of The Dragon’s flames as he lunged at him with
mouth gaping wide, the crunch of gravel beneath his feet as he ran. He can remember it all, even
though it is yet to happen and he has no context within to place these fragmented memories.

Gaius’ hand squeezes around his own, it is warm and comforting, a steady weight which grounds
Merlin in place.

“It was real, but it was just one reality,” Gaius assures Merlin.

“The future is as yet unshaped. It is we that shape it, it is you Merlin. The decisions you make, the
actions you take, they all play a part in determining what the future may bring. Remember that.”

Gaius’ words settle the anxiety in Merlin’s gut like a soothing hand stroking down the writhing
creature’s back.

He thinks of The Dragon’s warning about an alliance between Mordred and Morgana. He thinks
about the druid boy’s supposed destiny to kill Arthur. He thinks about The Dragon burning
Camelot to the ground. Then he reduces all these thoughts to mere possibilities. They could
happen, but they could not, Merlin can control that. It’s a relieving thought.

He manages a nod and Gaius smiles warmly.

“Eat your soup,” he says, nudging Merlin towards the bowl. “It’s no good when it’s cold.”
~-~-~

Arthur has been staring at the same dispute over farming borders for so long that a heavy shroud of
mist seems to have descended over his eyes. He offers a few lethargic blinks but they do nothing to
dispel the exhaustion pressing at his skull, so he’s thrilled for the distraction when Merlin comes in
with a bundle of laundry.

“Ah Merlin! Just the person I wanted to see,” Arthur says cheerfully.

Merlin looks sceptical as he places the bundle on Arthur’s bed slowly.

Arthur beckons him over with flapping hands. “Come on.”

“What exactly is happening right now?” Merlin asks cautiously even as he follows Arthur’s
instructions and joins Arthur at his desk.

“I have a gift for you,” Arthur says, retrieving the hastily wrapped parcel from where he stowed it
under the desk.

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “It isn’t Yuletide,” he points out carefully, “and my birthday’s just
passed.”

“Yes I’m aware of that, Merlin.” Arthur pauses and frowns at Merlin. “Wait, I missed your
birthday? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was at the beginning of summer,” Merlin says with a shrug. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Of course I’m interested, you’re my—” Arthur can’t say that, they aren’t friends, not really. “Tell
me next time,” he redirects.

Merlin smiles in a pleased way, like he could hear the tail end of Arthur’s sentence that he refuses
to say.

Arthur quickly shoves the parcel into Merlin’s hands before he has a chance to comment.

“Consider this a late birthday present in that case,” he decides hurriedly.

Arthur has to bite down the urge to rip the present from his arms and run away as Merlin slowly
unwraps the parcel. The longer Merlin holds the gift in his hands the more Arthur worries it's
inadequate, or ridiculously maudlin to give him such a thing with no occasion.

But Merlin has opened the cloth now so there’s no turning back.

“It’s a dagger,” Merlin says slowly, his finger running carefully along the bronze hilt delicately,
like he’s afraid it will break in his hold.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Nothing gets past your keen observational skills, does it?”

“No I just… Why did you give me a dagger?”

Arthur shrugs and tries to seem as nonchalant as possible.

“When we retrieved the Crystal from those renegade sorcerers you were defenceless,” he says
simply, staring at the wall to the left of Merlin’s ear so he doesn’t have to meet his eyes. “Since
you’re so determined to accompany me on dangerous missions, I would feel better if you at least
had something to arm yourself with.”
Even in his peripheral vision he can see a bright smile blossom on Merlin’s face, stretching from
ear to ear.

“You were worried about me,” Merlin teases quietly.

Arthur glances at him and he’s warmed by the brightness in Merlin’s eyes and the careful way he’s
holding the small blade.

“A little bit,” he concedes, tipping his head to the side.

Arthur clears his throat. “I thought a dagger would be more appropriate, seeing as you’re a shoddy
swordfighter.”

Merlin makes an offended noise. “I am not.”

“You can’t lie to me, Merlin, I’ve seen the frankly appalling way you wield a sword one too many
times.”

“I haven’t been stabbed yet,” Merlin argues childishly.

“Because I’m there to watch your back.”

Merlin’s eyes jump from the dagger to meet Arthur’s. There’s something like awe glistening in his
blue irises and it’s mixed with a fondness that he doesn’t even bother hiding.

“I don’t know how to fight with a dagger either,” Merlin notes instead of drawing attention to what
Arthur said, for which he is grateful.

Arthur makes a dismissive noise. “I’ll teach you.”

“You?”

“Who else?” Arthur is almost offended by the implication he would entrust the task to anyone else.

The pad of Merlin’s index finger trails over the engravings in the bronze hilt again and Arthur feels
absurdly nervous.

“So you like it?”

Merlin grins like a crazed person. “I love it,” he promises, and his voice is so earnest Arthur can’t
help but believe him.

“It’s beautiful,” Merlin points out as Arthur turns to return to his desk.

“Don’t get too excited, it was just a spare one I found lying around,” Arthur replies.

It’s a lie. He had been strangely picky about finding the perfect dagger to gift to Merlin. He
reasons with himself that it would reflect poorly on Arthur if his manservant was walking around
with a poorly crafted dagger. What kind of prince would allow such a thing?

Merlin smirks perceptively, like he doesn’t believe Arthur, but doesn’t comment.

“Thank you, Sire.”

Arthur huffs and ignores the hot feeling under the back of his collar.
“You’re welcome.”

~-~-~

Morgana shivers as she steps outside and wraps her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. There
is something about the first chill of autumn that always feels just that little bit cooler than the rest
of the season, the contrast to the warm summer sun creating a cool crispness to the air.

She squints into the darkness searching for Morgause, who sent her a letter beckoning her.

Deep down she knows that she shouldn’t trust Morgause. She doesn’t know exactly what
transpired between her and Arthur, but that since he returned to Camelot after their meeting Arthur
has grown even more distrustful of magic than ever before. Her name is like a curse within
Camelot’s walls.

However, she was kind to Morgana. She gave her the healing bracelet still clasped around
Morgana’s wrist and since that day Morgana hasn’t suffered from a single nightmare. Morgana
can’t help but trust in her kindness. She also possesses magic, and even though Morgana never told
her of her own ability she can tell the other woman knows. She understands Morgana in a way no
one in Camelot does.

There is the snap of a twig behind Morgana and she turns quickly. Her tense muscles unwind when
she lays eyes on Morgause.

Morgause smiles kindly, stepping forward and squeezing Morgana’s hands. It’s the same thing
Gwen does when she greets her which makes Morgana’s nerves dissipate altogether.

“You look well,” Morgause says in lieu of greeting.

“It’s thanks to you,” Morgana replies honestly. “I can’t remember the last time I had a bad dream.”

Morgause’s fingers come to rest on the bracelet around Morgana’s wrist.

“I am glad, you deserve happiness.”

Morgana’s heart clenches. She doesn’t feel happy in Camelot, not since she realised her magic. She
feels afraid, and dreadfully alone.

Morgause frowns and squeezes Morgana’s hands again.

“You do not seem happy,” she says softly, reading Morgana with such ease it almost startles her.

“I’m not,” Morgana confesses.

“Why is that?”

Morgana wants to hide her face in her cloak, turn away from Morgause’s watchful eyes, but
Morgause holds her in place. It is harder to hide like this, it makes Morgana feel vulnerable,
stripped to her true emotions and unable to shy away. She isn’t used to letting anyone see how she
is truly feeling, not even Gwen in recent days, it would mean admitting to the magic she is
concealing. Never let anyone see how you truly feel, emotions are weapons and they will be
wielded against you, Uther’s voice whispers, hot breath that is sticky in the shell of her ear. He
taught her and Arthur that since they were children, and it is a lesson they obeyed with diligence.
However, Uther isn’t right about everything, that much has been proven, and the kindness in
Morgause’s eyes doesn’t feel like a weapon, it feels safe.
“I am so alone in Camelot,” she admits slowly. “It is hard, having this magic, this part of myself,
and having to hide it. I don’t want to be alone.”

“You are not alone,” Morgause says firmly, like an oath. “I am here for you.”

“You are not here all the time,” Morgana reminds her with a deprecating laugh.

“It is Uther, he is the source of all of your troubles.”

Morgana blinks, startled.

“No,” she tries to protest, but the word feels thick in her mouth. “I know he doesn’t understand but
he…”

“He executes people like you,” Morgause says bluntly.

Morgana flinches hard, her breath snagging in her throat like a hook.

She doesn’t know why she feels the urge to defend Uther. She almost hates herself for it. Shouldn’t
she hate him?

“I know,” she whispers, voice croaky and hoarse.

“He is the reason you feel alone,” Morgause squeezes her hands again, “if he were not King you
could be free. Everyone could know of your gift.”

It sounds like a distant dream. The idea that she would not have to hide who she was. She imagines
Gwen knowing, and how she might smile at Morgana. She imagines the way Gwen would confirm
the truth, how her lips would sound wrapping around the words “you have magic”, how it would be
soft and gentle as a hand caressing her spine. Her eyes would hold nothing but trust, and most
importantly there would be no lies between them.

If Uther was gone, Morgana could tell everyone. Merlin has been nothing but kind since he found
out, she imagines how he might speak to Arthur for her. She wonders how Arthur would react
without Uther breathing on his neck, if knowing about her would allow the beginnings of hatred
for magic to float away like thin mist. She likes to think he would be understanding. She likes to
imagine he would love her still.

She could be herself, without fear.

Tears prick at the back of her eyes.

“That sounds wonderful.”

Morgause looks intently at her. “I can make it happen. Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“If I were to end Uther’s reign, is that something you would want?” Morgause probes carefully, her
hazel eyes are almost black in this light.

Morgana swallows heavily.

“I once had the chance to be his assassin,” Morgana professes in a rush.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Morgana thinks of the doting way Uther had looked at her that day. “I believed he
cared for me.”

Morgause’s expression is almost pitying as she tips her head in consideration.

“Do you still believe that?”

Morgana feels ashamed for the instinctual part of her that wants to answer yes. She feels seven
years old, settling into Camelot and wanting down to the very centre of her small chest for Uther to
care for her. She wants to hide that childish naivety from Morgause because she knows it is
shameful.

“If he knew of your magic, would he care for you?”

No.

Uther would not love Morgana if he knew the truth. He would despise her. He would kill her and
feel pleased to have rid another black stain from the white cloth of the world.

“No,” Morgana manages to whisper.

“I care for you,” Morgause promises, wiping away the stray tear that has trailed down Morgana’s
cheek.

“What do you want Morgana?” Morgause asks with a perceptive leer.

“I want to be free,” she whispers, the longing in her voice naked and undisguised.

“So, are you willing to help me bring about Uther’s downfall?”

Morgana hesitates. Uther is what stands between her and freedom. He is the living barrier to her
happiness.

“Yes. I am,” she says decisively.

“I am so glad to hear you say that,” Morgause smiles charmingly.

Her eyes flash gold and Morgana’s vision goes black.

~-~-~

“What is it, Merlin?” Arthur asks, looking over his shoulder at Merlin’s pinched expression. He
adds, “you look like you’ve swallowed a toad.”

“Just your presence, Sire,” Merlin grumbles loud enough for Arthur to hear.

“My presence is the light of your life.”

“More like the bane of my existence.”

Arthur slows his horse so he and Merlin are riding side by side. He can’t reach out and nudge him
with his elbow so he settles for a strong side eye. Merlin’s lips twitch into a small smile.

They ride a few more paces before Arthur speaks up again. He hates to admit it but he is unnerved
by Merlin’s anxious fumbling of his reins and the pale colour of his cheeks.
“So what is it? Don’t tell me you’ve been listening to Gaius’ bedtime stories again?”

“I just hope that’s all it is,” Merlin answers in a nervous tone, cryptically choosing not to explain
what he means.

Arthur rolls his eyes.

They have set off on a half day’s journey to the nearby castle of Idirsholas, an abandoned fortress
near the Northern border. Arthur is aware of the myths and legends that surround the palace. The
Knights of Medhir were supposedly once a swift force of death, undead soldiers who would answer
to the will of the dreaded High Priestesses. They were rumoured to be a harbinger of death,
unstoppable and ruthless, a living impossibility of seven knights who all operate under a single
mind and cannot be slain. It is believed that when the Fires of Idirsholas burn, they are destined to
rise again. A farmer had come to Camelot with the news that someone had lit the flames and Uther,
to Arthur’s surprise, had been concerned enough to send Arthur and a small detail of knights to
investigate.

The entire business sounds like nonsense to Arthur, but he knows Merlin takes such things to heart.

“Alright,” he says, turning to Merlin with a cocky grin. “Last one to the edge of the forest has to
prepare lunch.”

Without giving Merlin a chance to respond he spurs his horse’s sides and lunges into action,
galloping off through the trees.

Behind him he hears Merlin’s spluttered protest.

“I always prepare lunch, you arse!” He shouts at Arthur’s back. Despite his complaining Arthur
hears Merlin snap his horses reins and take chase.

“Then it’s a good thing you’re going to lose anyway!”

He can’t keep the smile off his face as they dash ahead of the rest of the knights. He can hear
Merlin on his tail, but still not close enough to overcome him. The wind whips his hair out of his
face, staining his nose and cheeks pink, he knows that he looks nothing like a prince should, but he
finds he doesn’t care a bit. He just grins against the cold air, and indulges in the thrill of having
fun.

Finally, as the trees start to thin he slows his horse into a trot, patting his flank in quiet praise.
Arthur turns to Merlin with a triumphant grin. His chest is inflated with joy, as if while he was
racing all his responsibilities fell away so he could just enjoy himself. It’s such a rare feeling that
he lets himself revel in it.

“I won,” he says smugly.

“You cheated,” Merlin retorts, but he’s grinning just as widely, flushed from the race and is
noticeably less tense than before.

“I did not.”

“You started riding before even telling me what was happening.”

“I would never do such a thing.”

They giggle like school children but fall quiet as the other knights finally catch up. They’re all well
trained enough not to comment on Arthur’s childishness, but Arthur does notice a few raised
brows.

“It’s not much further to Idirsholas,” Arthur says, assuming his position as leader once more. He
nods his head towards the fortress in the distance. It’s no clearer than a smudge on the horizon
now, but on horseback they shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to get there.

~-~-~

Arthur creeps towards the castle of Idirsholas with his men at his heels. There is no sound but the
crunching of their feet on gravel and the soft sounds of their breaths. Arthur scans the castle for
danger with practised movements. It’s an unassuming area, a darkened castle lit by the famous twin
flames of the fires of Idirsholas, so at least part of Joseph’s story had been true. However, the
courtyard is empty, containing none of the so-called Knights of Medhir, whom Arthur is convinced
are just the work of legends.

“What was that noise?” Merlin asks nervously.

Arthur glances back at him over his shoulder. “What noise?”

“It was a sort of trembling sound.”

“That’s your knees knocking together,” Arthur teases back.

He grins as Merlin pulls a face at him.

They creep into the castle, Arthur leading as his knights trail after him. Their footfalls echo in the
empty castle, each step bouncing off the dark stone walls. Despite Arthur’s surety that there is
nothing to fear in this castle, he can’t deny that the air possesses a sinister chill. The back of his
neck prickles with the sensation of eyes fixed on his turned back, but when he turns not even
Merlin is looking at him. The walls are laid with a dark stone, and the windows let through little
light, obstructed by an expanse of moss, a result of almost a century of abandonment. In the centre
of the derelict hall sits the third fire pit of the fires of Idirsholas.

“Probably just travellers passing through who spent the night,” Arthur muses, trailing his fingers
through the spent ash. A few knights nod their agreement but that doesn’t really mean much, as
most of the knights tend to take anything he says as gospel truth.

“Or not,” Merlin says lightly.

There’s something in his voice. The nervous edge of fear cutting through his usual sarcasm and
wit.

Arthur whirls around.

There is a group of knights occupying the previously empty room. Seven knights, all standing in a
rigid formation. There isn’t a foot or arm out of line, each looks like a replica of the one before it.
Even with years of training, Arthur could never get his men to look like that. No human could.

The Knights of Medhir. What Arthur had dismissed as legend and childish fairytales now stand
before him as a real entity.

As one unit the Knights unsheathe their swords. Arthur rushes forward, his own weapon already
drawn and jumps into the fray. Merlin had been drawing up the rear of their group, which means
when the Knights attack they will strike him down first. Arthur launches himself between Merlin
and the enemies.

Arthur never gave the order but his knights rush forward to join the battle, following his implicit
cue. The red of their surcoats is the only colour in the midst of the battle, and Arthur’s eyes track
the splotches in his periphery as he meets Knights before him. He can barely hear over the sounds
of swords meeting in loud clangs, Camelot blades scraping against the ancient steel of the mystical
soldiers. Battle cries fall from their lips, and Arthur grunts as he meets his first foe.

He breathes into the swings of his sword, letting the momentum carry him through the familiar
blows. He swings up, blocking a drive from one of the opposing Knights and uses the force to send
it staggering backwards. He thrusts his sword forward, impaling the Knight on his blade. Arthur is
distracted by the next Knight coming at him, expecting the usual fall of an enemy to his feet.

Instead, the first Knight attacks his unprotected flank and Arthur is only fast enough to side step
out of the way. Arthur remembers with a sudden sickening rush that The Knights cannot die, they
are unstoppable. His stomach falls to the floor even as he continues to fight through the curdling
horror. He loses himself in the familiar motions of battle, but through every swipe of his sword and
parry he grows more aware of how futile his efforts are. He can never win this battle, no matter
how skilled he is or how well he fights.

He hears the shout of a man falling and his heart seizes but he fights on. From the corner of his eye
he spies a flurry of brown and blue. Merlin.

These Knights are invincible, and Merlin is defenceless. The cold seep of fear rushes through
Arthur like a torrential wind. Arthur falters in step and just barely manages to block a strike
coming down on him.

Arthur doesn’t think he could live with himself if something happened to Merlin. Himself, and
even the other knights, are not so hard to put in danger; the knights willingly volunteer themselves
for battle. The risks and the rewards are a part of the red cape they don and the title they hold. He
still mourns every lost young man, their deaths are like notches in his ribcage, right over his heart;
Arthur carries them with him wherever he goes. However, the idea of losing Merlin is
inconceivably painful. He is under Arthur’s protection, if anything happened to him it would be
Arthur’s fault.

“Run, Merlin!”

The battle doesn’t cease for long enough for him to follow Merlin as he leaves. Arthur focuses on
the rhythm of the swords. Block. Strike. Step aside and bring his sword down. He keeps his
attention on pushing the Knights away from himself and further into the castle. He cannot defeat
them with blade alone, but if he can drive them away from him and his men they might have a
chance to escape.

He glances over his shoulder in search of the exit and sees that Merlin is still hovering just a few
paces behind him.

“Would you do as I say?” Arthur shoves Merlin away from himself and towards the exit.

“I never do as you say!”

Arthur is yanked back by Merlin’s hands on his shoulders. He can feel Merlin’s chest pressing into
his spine and pulling him backwards. In their wake the entire ceiling of the room comes crashing
down over the Knights, sending rubble and dust flaring in an enormous cloud. The castle must
have been more dilapidated than Arthur thought.
“Come on,” Arthur shouts, pulling out of Merlin’s hold and running for the exit. He tries not to
think about the men he is leaving behind. He fails.

~-~-~

Merlin gasps, hands gripping knees for balance as he swallows huge mouthfuls of air. He and
Arthur ran far beyond the boundaries of the castle, not stopping even when their legs begged for
release and their lungs stopped drawing oxygen. Arthur is in better shape beside him, better used to
the rigour of battle than Merlin, who is tempted to collapse onto the forest floor and never get back
up.

“Bloody hell,” Merlin mutters and lets his chin drop forward to hit his chest.

Arthur huffs a laugh and claps Merlin’s shoulder. “You’re alright.”

Merlin hisses in pain and shies away from the touch.

Arthur frowns down at the small trickle of blood on his hand.

“What happened to your arm?”

“A Knight must have nicked it,” Merlin answers without looking at Arthur as he does his best to
lift his arm so he can assess his injury. It’s a small slice across his bicep, no deeper than a
fingernail and unlikely to leave more than a small scar with Gaius’ treatment. Merlin wouldn’t
have even noticed it was there, but now that he is aware of it he can feel it sting with every
incremental movement.

“Let me see,” Arthur beckons him over. Merlin shrugs off his jacket and holds his arm out for
Arthur.

Arthur’s hands are surprisingly gentle as they touch Merlin’s forearm and shoulder, careful not to
touch the wound. He squints at it and then grins widely at Merlin.

“Your first battle wound!” He cheers, a sincere kind of pride adorning his face in a brilliant smile.

Merlin thinks of the scar tissue on his chest, burned by Nimueh’s flames and can’t help but smile
in amusement. This thin cut hardly measures up to his real first battle wound.

“Here,” Arthur says and reaches down to rip at the edge of his tunic.

“No don’t—” Merlin sighs heavily as Arthur tears away a strip of fabric. “You’ll ruin it,” he says
uselessly since Arthur’s already ripped it.

Arthur smirks. “Don’t worry, you can mend it.”

Merlin glares at him, because that is exactly what he was worried about.

He’s quickly distracted from his irritation by Arthur taking his arm again — just as gently as the
first time, who knew Arthur could be so careful? He watches enraptured as Arthur ties the strip of
fabric around Merlin’s arm to staunch the wound. The bright Camelot red is stark against Merlin’s
faded blue tunic. Merlin’s throat aches with the desperation for Arthur’s fingers to linger on his
arm, to feel the warmth of the pads of his fingers for a few moments more. He wants, so deeply
that he feels dizzy with it. He wishes stupidly that the sword had struck deeper so he would have to
remove his sleeve, just so that he might have felt the gentleness of Arthur’s touch against his skin.
Arthur pulls away and looks back in the direction of the Castle of Idirsholas with a frown.

“Did anyone else escape?” He asks, still looking at the distant wreckage. Merlin can imagine he is
probably thinking of the same things as Merlin, of the strangled cries of the other Camelot soldiers
as they fell to the Knights of Medhir’s swords.

Merlin shakes his head and focuses on pulling his jacket carefully over his wounded arm to give
Arthur a moment to gather himself.

“Alright,” Arthur says, shoulders pulled back and head tipped regally. “We need to get back to
Camelot, gather reinforcements.”

“Lead the way, Sire,” Merlin says with a knowing smile.

As predicted Arthur immediately glares at him.

“I always lead the way Merlin, I’m the prince.”

Merlin shrugs. “Maybe that should change. I do have a better sense of direction than you.”

“Better sense of—” Arthur splutters. “If what you’re trying to find is your own backside, maybe.”

He marches off into the forest and Merlin hastens to follow.

~-~-~

The streets of Camelot are littered with bodies, a massacre, but there isn’t a spot of blood in sight.
The bodies are laid carefully across the ground, curled up in carriages and sagging against the
fountain, not like corpses abandoned by an enemy, but as if the entire city had lowered themselves
down right where they stood.

Merlin follows Arthur towards a stopped cart where the rider has slumped over the neck of his
horse fast asleep.

“He’s alive,” Arthur says thoughtfully, touching his fingertips to the man’s pulse.

“What’s happened to him?” Merlin asks and leans towards the man to look at his face. He is
breathing lightly but doesn’t seem actually asleep, just unconscious.

“I don’t know.”

Merlin reaches forward with his magic and yanks it away when it brushes over something dark and
twisted. There is sinister magic deeply entangled with the man, darkness knotted with the man’s
life force so that it is trapping him in a heavy state of unconsciousness. Merlin tries to prod at the
twist with his own magic to draw it away, but the darkness only tangles tighter, threatening the
man’s pulse. He pulls away before he can do any damage.

“We need to find my father,” Arthur says, the edge of panic creeping into his voice.

At this time of day Uther should be in the throne room, but the room is devastatingly empty when
they enter. Arthur leads Merlin through the halls towards his father’s chambers like a soul
desperate to escape hell. Merlin’s legs are longer than Arthur’s and he still has to double his paces
to keep up with the prince.

“Wait,” Merlin says as they pass his chambers. “Gaius might be able to help us.”
Arthur glances at him knowingly but nods and they detour towards the physician’s chambers.
Gaius is slumped over his work bench, mouth hanging open and breathing shallowly. Merlin’s
heart sinks, part of him had been hoping Gaius might have stayed unaffected.

“It must be the work of magic,” he verbalises aloud what Arthur seems to be avoiding.

Arthur nods reluctantly and Merlin watches the stiff movement of his jaw. When Arthur is
particularly afraid he clenches his jaw, like he’s biting back any fear driven vulnerabilities behind
his teeth; Merlin knows the expression well, but he still hasn’t found a way to assure Arthur that he
can be more open when he’s afraid. He stays silent and waits for Arthur to speak.

“Come on, we need to find my father, and Morgana.”

They both almost trip over Gwen when entering Morgana’s silent chambers. She has fallen asleep
right in the doorway, curled up like a cat seeking out the sliver of sun shining in the room.

“Guinevere,” Arthur breathes, leaning down and lifting her easily. He lays her gently on Morgana’s
bed, careful not to jostle her even though she won’t wake. Merlin squeezes her hand gently.

The curtain rustles and both of their heads whip around to meet the threat.

Any horror could be concealed behind that curtain, a Knight of Medhir, a beast with hunger in its
eyes, an assassin, the sorcerer who enchanted the whole castle, Merlin’s mind runs with
possibilities. Arthur glances at him and Merlin can easily understand the silent instruction in his
eyes. He pads quietly around the bed and takes hold of the curtain, fingers trembling around the
thin fabric. Arthur unsheathes his sword slowly. The sound the blade makes against the fabric of
the sheath makes Merlin cringe, it seems impossibly loud in this quiet space.

Arthur meets Merlin’s eyes and nods.

Merlin rips the curtain away and in a blur the figure attacks Arthur wielding a candelabra like a
sword.

“Morgana!” Arthur shouts and grabs her wrists to hold her still. Morgana’s face is flushed with fear
and her eyes are red rimmed from crying. She struggles against Arthur’s hold like a trapped animal
trying to escape a hunter.

“It’s me, Morgana,” Arthur says placatingly. “It’s me.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” Morgana gasps, her breaths coming out too quickly, like she can’t keep
the air inside herself.

“Calm down, Morgana. What happened?” Arthur asks, keeping his voice even and his
temperament calm. Merlin is impressed, he doesn’t think he would stand a chance of sounding
calm, he personally feels wild with fear.

“People were complaining saying they were ill,” she explains, “then they started falling asleep.
Everyone, everywhere.”

Her voice hitches on a frightened sob.

“Was someone here?” Arthur asks, growing more urgent with his impatience.

Merlin can picture it, a sorcerer driven to fury by Uther’s reign marching the castle and enchanting
everyone; but Morgana shakes her head frantically.
“No one.”

Arthur frowns. “Then why were you hiding?”

Morgana stares at him like he’s a ghost. Her eyes seem to look right through him.

“I…” she looks at Merlin and suddenly Merlin understands.

She is awake because of her magic, the fact she doesn’t sleep like the rest of the castle incriminates
her. She hid because she thought guards would be battering her door bearing iron shackles for her
wrists. She expected a pyre already prepared in the courtyard.

“Morgana you must have seen something,” Arthur says roughly.

“I didn’t,” Morgana says in the same tone she might plead for her life.

“Arthur, she's distressed,” Merlin tries to supply.

Arthur completely ignores him. “Morgana, I don’t understand. Why is it that you are the only
person awake?”

Morgana looks at him with terrified eyes and cheeks still wet with tears.

“I don’t know.”

“Your father must be in his chambers,” Merlin interrupts quickly.

Thankfully the reminder that they still need to find and protect the king spurs Arthur into
movement and he forgets the answers he still wants from Morgana. He runs off without looking to
see if Merlin and Morgana are following.

“Come on, you should stay with us,” Merlin says, holding out his hand for Morgana. She takes it
with a grateful and watery smile, lacing their fingers together.

As they jog through the empty halls, barely able to keep up with Arthur, Merlin looks at Morgana.

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything,” he promises.

Her eyes dart to him. “About what?”

“The illness.”

“That has nothing to do with me,” Morgana says in a rush.

“I know,” Merlin assures her. “I just meant you’re magic—”

Morgana rips her hand from her grip and stares at him with panic flashing like lightning in her
eyes.

“You haven’t told anyone that.”

“No!” Merlin stops too and lets Arthur run far ahead. “Of course not, and I won’t tell Arthur.”

The tension in Morgana’s muscles eases but the fear doesn’t vanish from her expression.

“There must be something keeping you safe,” Merlin explains slowly. “I think that your magic
must be it.”
“Right,” Morgana says distantly.

Confusion burrows deep into his mind, digging itself into his thoughts and planting itself there. He
thought she was afraid because she knew her magic was what was keeping her safe, but until
Merlin explained she hadn’t seemed to understand what he meant. So why was she so afraid?

“I’ve found him!” Arthur’s shout draws Merlin from his thoughts. He is calling from his father’s
chambers, a corridor ahead of Merlin and Morgana, and they hurry to meet him.

Uther is asleep at his desk when they enter the room. Arthur has helped prop the king into a sitting
position and is trying to rouse him to no avail by tapping at his cheek.

“See, he’s alright,” Merlin says in an attempt to reassure him.

Arthur glares at him. “He is not alright, Merlin!”

“He’s just asleep.”

Uther tips forward and slams face forward into the desk.

“We just need to find a cure, a way to wake them.”

Arthur nods and frowns as he rubs a hand over his jaw thoughtfully. His eyes fall on Morgana and
Merlin gets a sinking feeling as he realises the question Arthur is about to ask.

“You’re the only one who hasn’t been affected, Morgana, there must be a reason.”

Morgana glances at Merlin nervously, silently pleading for aid. She looks so frightened, and
though she is older than Merlin, she seems impossibly young, like a child afraid of an adult’s
wrath. Her face is paler than Merlin has ever seen it and black cosmetic stains below her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she says, her warbling voice making it sound like she is pleading with Arthur.

“That’s all you keep saying! You must know something!” Arthur paces around the table,
impatience making his voice rise like a steadily growing wave threatening to crash.

“I don’t! They just fell asleep one by one!”

“It’s obvious,” Merlin interjects quickly, scrambling for an explanation that will appease Arthur.
“When she began to feel sick Gaius gave her a potion, isn’t that right?”

Morgana nods her agreement so quickly Merlin wonders how she doesn’t hurt her neck.

“When was she sick? She never said she was sick.”

“Yes she did, she was one of the last to be affected. Somehow, the potion must have helped.”

Merlin hates lying to Arthur, but if it will protect Morgana he’s more than willing.

“What about everyone else?” Arthur asks, he’s frowning but Merlin can see that his weak excuse
has worked and he no longer suspects Morgana. “Gaius must have fallen ill before he had a chance
to treat anyone else.”

Arthur hesitates and looks at Merlin. He fights the urge to squirm under the intensity of Arthur’s
gaze, it's like he is dissecting him. Merlin has always been an open book, save for a few things, and
now Arthur is rifling through the pages. He must believe whatever he finds there because he nods
solemnly.

“Alright, go and see if you can find this potion,” Arthur orders Merlin with a dismissive wave of
his hand. “I will search for signs of life in the lower town.”

Merlin agrees readily. He obviously won’t be able to find any potion in Gaius chambers, but he
might be able to use magic to wake Gaius. He’ll have a solution to this mess where Merlin cannot
find one. Camelot has never felt so empty, it is usually like living inside a beehive, buzzing and
alive with activity. It is unsettling to walk the halls and hear no other footsteps, and to glance at the
windows and see total stillness, like the world is holding its breath. Perhaps, with Gaius awake too,
the strange emptiness of the world won’t feel so unbearable.

Arthur turns to Morgana and Merlin hesitates by the door to see what he will say.

“Here.” Arthur hands her his sword and holds her gaze. “You stay here and keep my father safe.
Protect him with your life.”

Morgana’s eyes are wide as she nods, speechless with fear.

The last thing Merlin sees before he hurries out of the room is Morgana taking a seat by Uther’s
desk with a troubled expression twisting her beautiful face.

~-~-~

Morgana stares at the blade in her hands, turning it over and watching it glint in the light. It is a
dangerous weapon, freshly sharpened, and one that she knows how to wield expertly.

She looks at Uther. His cheek is pressed up against the desk and with every exhale, his breath
blows up the corner of a piece of parchment.

It would be upsettingly easy to kill him, she thinks. He’s asleep, utterly defenceless and Morgana is
armed. She could slice his throat, she could drive the sword through his stomach and with enough
force she could even sever his head from his shoulders; but, she doesn’t want to.

This isn’t what she wanted. She only wanted to be free. When Morgause offered to end Uther’s
reign Morgana had thought the high priestess would do it for her. Perhaps it is cowardly, but she
doesn’t want to be responsible for Uther’s death. She presses a hand to her chest to ground herself
and feels the rabbit fast patter of her heart against her palm.

She doesn’t want this.

Camelot has fallen to slumber, it could be her fault. She wants Uther gone, only because he is what
is stopping her from freedom, but what point is freedom if she doesn’t have anyone to share it
with?

Gwen was one of the first to fall to sleep, and Merlin and Arthur will be the last. She wonders how
much longer she has with them before they succumb to the illness too. Her heart folds inwards,
crushing itself, the drafted plan of her future is being crumpled in a fist and she struggles not to sob
at the ache it brings. She doesn’t want to live without them. She doesn’t want any of this.

Morgana reaches for the elusive magic inside her. It shies away from her touch and coils tight in a
deep place she can’t reach. She knows it is there, a heavy secret she can always feel, but she cannot
wield it. If she could, she would force it to stop this madness. She longs to erase whatever curse
she has pulled over the eyes of Camelot. She wants to fix this.
Uther stays unmoving even as she touches her fingertips to his shoulder. She can’t kill him. She
won’t.

~-~-~

Merlin isn’t able to rouse Gaius from his sleep. Arthur interrupts him after a few measly minutes of
trying to announce that the Knights of Medhir and Morgause are riding on Camelot.

“We need to move my father, his chambers are one of the first places they will look for him,”
Arthur says anxiously, pulling Merlin through the halls and back towards the king’s chambers
where Morgana is waiting. She is sitting across from Uther, watching over him, eyes still red with
tears and hands wringing nervously on the hilt of Arthur’s sword.

Together the three of them manage to carry Uther to Arthur’s chambers. Merlin’s breaths are
coming out in shallow pants by the time they reach Arthur’s rooms. There is a sheen of sweat over
his whole body, but Uther isn’t afraid to indulge at feasts so it isn’t hard to tell why he’s so winded.

“We can’t leave him there!” Arthur protests as Morgana and Merlin abandon Uther’s legs on the
floor.

“Why not?” Merlin asks. “He’s asleep, he won't know any different.”

“Merlin!”

Merlin raises his hands placatingly and hurries to Arthur’s bed.

“Fine, I’ll fetch him a pillow.”

“He’s the king.”

“Alright, two pillows!” Merlin shouts over his shoulder.

Even though he’s no longer carrying Uther, Merlin still feels hopelessly out of breath. His inhales
feel shallow and his pulse is clamouring desperately. His head spins as he leans down to tuck the
pillows under Uther’s head, bobbing nauseatingly like a boat caught on choppy waves. His vision
swims, two of Uther, then four, that merge back into a single blurry figure of the king. He presses
his lips tightly together as his stomach curdles, suddenly worried he might vomit.

Arthur doesn’t look much better off; his cheeks are flushed red like he’s just completed hours of
training and his fringe is sticking to his sweaty forehead. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes
hollowly.

“Are you alright?” Merlin asks worriedly.

Arthur groggily opens his eyes. “Are you feeling the same?”

Merlin touches his own forehead, his skin is burning under his fingertips.

“We’re getting sick,” he realises, horror cresting within him like the swell of a wave.

It doesn’t make any sense, if he’s getting sick then there’s no explanation for Morgana being
awake. Merlin glances at her, she is biting at her lip to keep it from quivering, and her eyes are still
firmly on Uther.

“No,” Arthur says and then thins his lips and takes a shaking breath through his nose. “No, we
can’t let that happen. We have to keep my father safe.”
Merlin’s head feels stuffed with thick sheep’s wool, making it difficult to breathe much less think
but he grapples through the stuffy feeling.

“What if we disguise him?” He suggests hopefully.

Arthur’s brows furrow, he looks like he is fumbling with his thoughts, struggling to neaten them
into something parsable.

“That might just work.” “We could dress him as a woman.”

Arthur pulls a face. “That on the other hand…”

“We could dress him as a servant,” Morgana suggests.

Arthur nods, bracketing himself against his table like he can’t stand on his own.

“That’s better.”

Merlin feels weak on his feet, swaying in place, he is an untethered boat in a wild storm. Arthur
reaches out feebly to grab his shoulder and steady him. It doesn’t really help, but the touch is
comforting, a warm and solid weight against Merlin’s shoulder, so he doesn’t bother correcting
him.

“We can’t carry him,” Merlin points out weakly.

“You’re right,” Arthur says. Merlin is too exhausted to bother teasing him about agreeing. “We
need a way to transport him out of the castle.”

“If he’s disguised as a servant why don’t we just leave him in the servant’s quarters?”

“Morgause might recognise him.”

They fall silent, considering this dilemma. They can’t leave Uther so vulnerable, but if they don’t
act soon Merlin and Arthur will too succumb to the spell plaguing Camelot. Merlin’s eyelids are
growing heavier by the second. He pinches his wrist hard to keep himself from succumbing to the
desire to slip into the tempting lull of sleep. It makes sense to him now why the courtyard is filled
with sleeping people, lying down wherever the sickness took them. Merlin is tempted to do the
same, if he weren’t aware of what was overcoming him, he may have given in to the temptation.

“There was a cart in the main square when we arrived, remember?”

Arthur looks at him with wonderment in his eyes. “Sometimes, you have brilliant ideas, you know
that?”

Merlin can’t help but smile. There is something wonderful about Arthur directing his full attention
on Merlin and truly noticing him. It makes Merlin feel like a flower, outstretching himself towards
the sun and basking in the rays.

Arthur pats Merlin’s shoulder.

“You go look,” he orders and rushes off in the opposite direction.

Merlin sighs but does as Arthur instructs, wobbling his way through the hallways with legs as
steady as a newborn colt’s. The tiredness is thickening in the sockets behind his eyes, putting a
heavy pressure on his eyelids. The spell is taking effect with astonishing speed and Merlin is afraid
that without Gaius to help him, he might not find a cure in time.
He knows who he needs to turn to, and with a hardened heart he takes a left instead of a right and
hurries towards The Dragon’s chamber.

~-~-~

The Dragon’s snores rattle the floor beneath Merlin’s feet. His heart sinks with dread as he enters
the cavern.

“No, not you as well,” he murmurs.

Merlin doesn’t have anyone else left who can help him, he needs The Dragon before he and Arthur
succumb to the curse too.

“Please!” He shouts, grasping desperately for the chance that The Dragon is still awake. “Please, I
need your help! I don’t know what to do!”

The Dragon doesn’t stir, its giant scaled shoulders continue to rise and fall in slumber and its snores
rumble in Merlin’s chest.

“Don’t pretend, I know you’re listening to me,” Merlin shouts, practically begging. He cannot
endure this alone, he needs help, and if the Dragon is trapped under the curse then Merlin has no
one left.

The Dragon sighs heavily and gets to his feet with a wide yawn. His wings flare out in a stretch and
his shoulders roll, making his dark scales flicker in the light of Merlin’s torch.

“I don’t need to listen to you, young warlock, you always say the same thing,” he drawls with an
air of boredom, glaring impatiently at Merlin. “Help me, help me,” he snides with a fraudulent
whimper, “and yet you refuse to give anything in return. Now you will face the consequences.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Camelot’s end is nigh and there is nothing you can do about it.”

“I promised to free you, and I will, ” Merlin assures him hurriedly, ignoring the crystal’s
premonition that presses insistently at the back of his mind.

The Dragon’s laugh sends a chill up Merlin’s spine. It is nothing like his usual amused chuckle,
devoid of genuine humour, it is empty as the cavern he has been isolated to.

“I will, I promise!” Merlin pleads.

“I no longer trust your promises.”

Merlin digs desperately in his mind for an idea. His eyelids sink heavily, and he sways on his feet,
the spell is slowly becoming unbearable and he can’t imagine Arthur is faring much better. He
needs The Dragon to believe him. Immediately. He needs to swear on something so important that
The Dragon cannot doubt it. His own life is meaningless in this, Arthur’s is already in danger, the
only other person he cares enough about for The Dragon to believe him is his mother. The prospect
holds such danger it makes his stomach roll with trepidation. The Dragon might be ensnared in
Uther’s hold but he still holds incredible leverage with magic; should Merlin break his promise he
knows her life might truly be in danger.

“I swear on my mother’s life!”

The Dragon freezes and looks at Merlin with a wicked smile.

“Careful what you say,” he growls lowly, leaning down to look Merlin in the eyes and grinning at
whatever he finds.

Merlin’s heart races in his chest and his hands feel weak with fear but he stands firm.

“You have to help me,” he whispers hoarsely. “Please.”

The Dragon looks at Merlin piercingly before slowly nodding with a satisfied smirk.

“Her life matters to you more than your own, this is a promise I believe you will keep.”

Merlin swallows heavily. “I will.”

The Dragon stands back to his full height, towering imposingly over Merlin.

“It is one thing to cast a spell that puts everyone to sleep, but the power to maintain it is a different
matter entirely. This enchantment will not be so easily broken.”

Merlin frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You will need to eradicate the source.”

A tangible solution, Merlin clasps at it gratefully.

“Great!” He says with palpable relief. “What is that?”

The Dragon’s eyes narrow into thin snakelike slits.

“Not what, but who. Such spells need a vessel, a constant living presence to give them strength.”

Morgause, Merlin realises, it must be.

The Dragon pauses with heavy theatricality that though silent seems to fill the space between him
and Merlin.

“The source of this pestilence is the witch, the Lady Morgana.”

The air in the cavern grows stale, whistling in his lungs with every trembling inhale and exhale.
Merlin stares at The Dragon with growing horror that curdles his blood.

“It can’t be,” he says, the words lurching from him like a gasp for air.

Not Morgana.

Not Morgana, who holds Merlin’s hand when she is afraid and pulls him into tight hugs when she
seeks comfort. Who seeks out Gwen and Merlin during one of Uther’s long winded speeches and
pulls silly faces, who can hide all her emotions but cannot disguise her laughter. Who gave up all
her own rations for the people of Camelot during the cursed famine, and who risked her own life
countless times for the sake of a young boy she only just met.

“I have warned you about her in the past,” The Dragon sneers, “but you have failed to take heed.
She is dangerous.”

Merlin shakes his head slowly. “No,” he protests weakly.

“And now she has chosen to turn her back on her own.”

Merlin wants to argue that Morgana could never do such a thing, but she could. He remembers the
darkness in her eyes when insisted upon her return to Camelot after she discovered her magic. She
helped Alvarr and his renegades steal the Crystal of Neahtid, despite the repercussions it might
have had. She had tried to kill Uther once before. He had almost forgotten, but now recalls with
startling clarity the cruel hatred in her eyes as she agreed to become his assassin.

She might not have been a danger to them yet, but she has always had the capacity for it, no matter
how much Merin denies it.

He swallows roughly and it feels like trying to choke down a mouthful of sand. His breath
scratches his throat, and each exhale that returns tastes like blood.

“How do I stop her?” He asks hoarsely.

The Dragon’s lips curl slowly.

“That is easy, young warlock. You must kill her.”

Merlin’s head spins and he doesn’t know if the sickness or his own terror is to blame. He scrabbles
at the rocky wall for purchase, heartbeat thundering in his ear canals and the taste of bile and blood
in his mouth.

“No,” he says around a hollow gasp.

“The spell is woven of magic with such power that even you cannot escape its grasp,” The Dragon
explains calmly. “You must act now, before it is too late.”

Merlin can’t. He won’t hurt Morgana.

The Dragon’s expression is rich with understanding as he leans his head down so they are eye to
eye.

“If you do not, then Camelot will fall, and Arthur will be killed; and the future you are destined to
share, will die with you both.”

His heart pounds a frantic, fast paced rhythm against the rungs of his ribs. His lungs heave with
effort but produce no air. He desperately wants to lay down on the floor and let the cold stone seep
into his body until he is calm but he knows if the sleep claims him then Arthur will be alone.

He leaves The Dragon’s cavern feeling like a hollow shell of himself. He’s unaware of his own
movements through the castle as he mindlessly checks on the cart as Arthur ordered and then
makes his way to the physician’s chambers.

His mind is so lost that every noise around him sounds distorted and distinctly wrong, his breathing
is a cacophony of noise, while his footsteps are almost silent. Each convulsion of his chest aches, it
makes a mockery of breathing, expanding and closing without drawing air to his desperate lungs.
His stomach turns with revulsion at what he is about to do, and his fingers tremble as he reaches
them out to retrieve the vial of hemlock. He can’t hear the sound of the glass bottles clinking
together over the sound of his own heartbeat.

I won’t use it, Merlin thinks as he pockets the poison. This is precautionary. I will find another
way.
Guilt drapes over Merlin like thick chains, cumbersome and weighing him into the ground until his
feet drag with every step. They tighten as he returns to Arthur’s chambers and sees Morgana. The
metal digs into his ribs, squeezes tight around his stomach, cuts into the skin of his wrists and
ankles.

While Merlin was gone Arthur and Morgana have manoeuvred a blanket under Uther to allow
them to drag him through the castle.

“What took you so long?” Arthur demands, snatching the clothes Merlin borrowed from Gaius for
Uther.

“I didn’t know Uther’s size,” Merlin blurts.

Arthur looks at him like he’s the stupidest person to enter Camelot’s walls, but at least he doesn’t
ask any further questions.

Arthur explains that Merlin and Morgana are to drag Uther to the North exit of the castle and then
he will carry his father to the cart. In the meantime he will lead the way and protect them from the
Knights should they attack.

Merlin nods his agreement hollowly. Every time he meets Morgana’s gaze it lashes across his
spine like a whip.

Arthur goes to the door to scout the way with his sword drawn and back pressed to the wood.

“Are you alright?” Morgana asks Merlin with a gentle touch to his wrist.

Merlin forces himself not to wrench his hand away. Her skin feels like acid against his, it burns a
hole in his wrist.

“I’m fine,” Merlin plasters a smile onto his face. It stretches at his skin and cracks around his eyes.

“You’re so pale,” Morgana says worriedly.

“Just sick,” Merlin dismisses her.

He watches her face shutter and finally realises the expression that has been on her face all day
isn’t fear, but guilt. Merlin’s stomach sinks at the confirmation that there was honesty in what The
Dragon told him. He had accepted it but hadn’t wanted to believe it, now he sees that his fears
were founded in truth.

“Now!” Arthur bellows just as a Knight of Medhir crashes into the room, sword already drawn.

Merlin and Morgana move in tandem, hauling Uther into the hall and hurrying towards the castle’s
exit. Merlin’s steps are slow with exhaustion and with every pull of the King he feels his body sag
with the urge to give in. Instead of surrendering to his temptation, he forces himself to step in time
with Morgana and continue down the hall.

As they haul Uther down the hallway Merlin can feel his pulse throbbing in his temples, he can
taste his heartbeat on his tongue. His vision is turning white and clouded at the edges but still he
pushes onward.

Merlin’s reactions are sluggish and delayed, so when Morgana’s foot twists in the blanket and she
stumbles to the floor with a shriek it takes him three steps to realise what happened.
“Merlin!”

One of the Knights has managed to slip past Arthur and is storming towards Morgana. Merlin
could pull her to safety, she isn’t that far away, he could grab her arm and haul her away.

He hesitates. A wave of self revulsion cripples him but still he hesitates. He can feel the guilt
clogging his veins, curdling in his bloodstream, but maybe this is the easiest way. It’s a horrible
thought, but if this Knight kills Morgana now it takes it out of Merlin’s hands. Perhaps he could
have saved her, but there is no guarantee, her death will not stain his hands red, it wouldn’t be his
fault. Camelot would be saved.

He musters his strength and pulls Uther an extra three steps. He pretends fervently that he can’t
hear Morgana screaming his name, begging him to come back and help her as she cowers against
the wall.

The Knight lifts his blade and Morgana flinches with a sob. Merlin can taste bile, he wants to look
away but he can’t, his eyes never once leave her.

The sword does not strike.

The Knight steps back and away from Morgana, looking down at her with an unreadable
expression on his masked face. Morgana’s cheeks are tear stained as she lifts her face in confusion.
Merlin’s chest feels unbearably empty. He’s overcome by questions of what this means, the
implications that drape over his shoulder like chains.

By not killing Morgana, the Knight of Medhir implicated her guilt and in the one killing blow he
did not make, forced the sword into Merlin’s hand.

~-~-~

Arthur sags against the door of the throne room, his muscles dripping with exhaustion, if he were
to be wrung out like a towel the lethargy would all drip out of him. His head pounds furiously, until
he can feel his heartbeat in his temples and the beginnings of a headache behind his eyes. He lets
the back of his skull hit the door with a thud and wills his head to stop spinning. The edge of his
vision is blurred so furiously that he can barely make out Morgana a few feet ahead of him where
she is tending to his father.

“Merlin, help me,” Arthur orders as he pushes himself off the door with a heave of effort. Together
they pull the drawbar into place, barring the doors from forced entry. The effort to carry the heavy
piece of wood leaves Arthur overwhelmed with dizziness, he places his forehead against the door
and breathes shakily, trying to steady himself.

He can feel his body desperately clawing for the tempting lull of sleep. His eyelids are laden with
heavy armour, tugging them closed. He dazedly fights the urge to let them sink shut, forcing them
open with the last of his remaining energy. The backs of his eyeballs ache with the effort of
resisting.

“We can’t go on much longer without a cure,” he says sluggishly.

Merlin makes a weak noise of agreement by his side, breathless, like he’s just ran the length of the
castle twice over. Arthur can commiserate.

Merlin pants. “We have to destroy the source of the magic.”

“Which is?” Arthur tilts his head to look at Merlin.

He has a green tinge to his cheeks but for his nose and cheeks which are a flushed red. His face is
covered in a sheen of sweat and there are heavy bags purpling around his eyes, like he hasn’t slept
in months. Arthur can’t imagine he looks much better.

“I don’t know,” Merlin says with his eyes fixed firmly on the stone floor.

Arthur exhales sharply and forces himself off the door.

“Then our only chance is to leave Camelot.”

Morgana meets his eyes with unconcealed fear and her hands are quick to reach out and steady his
shoulders when he staggers into her.

“You cut the blanket up, we’ll tie it to my father and we’ll lower him onto the cart,” Arthur
instructs.

“Arthur—” Morgana begins to protest but he shakes his head.

“Morgana, please just do as I say.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. He knows Morgana, and she knows him. She
knows what he is about to do, and he knows just from the look in her eyes that she is biting down a
thousand pleas for him to not go through with it. He doesn’t say anything, but after ten long
unflinching seconds she nods and looks away. It’s as good as a goodbye.

Arthur grabs Merlin by the arm and hauls him back towards the exit.

“I’ll fetch the cart round to the window,” Arthur tells Merlin his plan as they walk.

“You’re going out there?”

As soon as the door is within reach Arthur sags into it again. His body feels impossibly heavy, like
he is carrying the weight of another person over his spine, every step is an effort, even standing
feels like burning through stores of stamina he doesn’t have to spare; like he is operating on the
dwindling ashes of his energy.

“I’ll come with you,” Merlin tries to insist.

Arthur tries to shake his head but it’s more like a sway from side to side. “No. You stay. You
protect my father.”

“You won’t reach the cart alone,” Merlin protests. “It’s suicide.”

“We have no choice.”

Arthur wipes at his sweat soaked forehead with the back of his wrist. Arthur can’t even bring
himself to lift his head to look at Merlin. Sleep calls to him, a siren’s song drifting across the
waves, he longs to leap into its open arms.

“How are you feeling?” Merlin says breathlessly. He and Arthur are mirroring each other, both
leant on an angle over the drawbar with their heads resting against the cool wood.

“Not bad.”

“You sure?”
Arthur exhales heavily, letting his eyes sink closed. “Yeah. You?”

“Never better.”

His eyelids feel unbearably heavy, thick and laden with stone as they fall against his cheeks. He’ll
just rest them for five minutes, that’s all. Then he’ll have enough energy to face the Knights. Just
five minutes.

“Get me a pillow would you?” Arthur mumbles drowsily.

“Don’t mess around,” Merlin says, equally lethargic.

His words are faint as Arthur sinks gratefully into sleep’s soft embrace. It is such sweet relief to
finally succumb to the exhaustion that has been plaguing him. The thick fog behind his eyes
dispels, his breaths settle from ragged gasps to slow inhales and exhales.

Arthur jerks awake as Merlin’s hand strikes his cheek.

“Merlin!” He snaps.

Merlin scowls unapologetically. “That’s better.”

He should feel angry, Merlin just hit him after all, but he can’t find the energy to care. His anger
fades just as quickly as it appears, frustration as effective as sparks trying to light damp wood,
there’s nothing in him to make a flame.

“If you ever,” he points threateningly at Merlin, “do that again I will…” Arthur realises he’s far
too tired to make any threats.

“Well don’t fall asleep then!” Merlin sniffs, ducking away from Arthur’s flailing hand and shoving
it away.

They are interrupted by the clanking sounds of armour crashing together and a low growl that
resonates deep in Arthur’s gut. Fear slithers up Arthur’s spine, scratching in the gaps between his
vertebrae until he shivers.

“Are those your knees again?” He jokes weakly as both he and Merlin stare at the doors in fearful
anticipation.

Merlin manages a laugh that is barely audible over his heavy pants.

Arthur claps his shoulder and squeezes it tightly.

He strides forward and hauls the drawbar from the door before he can change his mind.

Arthur presses his back to the door as Merlin steadies the large plank of wood in his grasp and
watches anxiously. Arthur can hear the sounds of the Knights beyond the door. His stomach turns
but he muscles down his fear. He cannot afford to hesitate now.

“If I need a servant in the next life—”

Merlin grins. “Don’t ask me.”

Arthur barks a laugh.

He looks at Merlin one last time, perhaps the last face he’ll ever see, braces himself and surges
through the door.

~-~-~

Merlin braces his forehead against the door, breathing shallowly and blinking away the black spots
in his vision.

“He’s not going to survive out there!” Morgana says weakly.

“I know,” Merlin mumbles, too exhausted to manage anything louder.

“We have to do something.”

The weight of her words strikes him like a mace to his stomach. He has to do something. There are
no more options, there can be no more precautions. If he does nothing Arthur will die, and then he
soon will follow, and all of Camelot will fall to Morgause’s hands. He looks at Morgana as she
waits for his reply, wide eyed and shaking with terror, and he hates himself for considering hurting
her. He hates even more that he can’t do anything else.

Merlin feels the beginnings of a sob claw at the walls of his chest.

“I know.”

He swallows hard, his tongue feels as dry as the ashes left in a fire pit.

“You start tearing the sheet and I’ll tie it into ropes,” he says carefully and his voice almost cracks
around every word. Morgana follows his instruction without hesitation, hurrying to Uther’s side
where she begins tearing the blanket into thin strips; because she trusts Merlin, she trusts him. He
trusted her too. How could she do this to them?

Merlin traps a sob in his chest and holds it there until it dispels in a hitching gasp. With sluggish
movements he retrieves his waterskin and unstoppers the hemlock, careful not to draw Morgana’s
attention. Even though Merlin knows that hemlock is colourless, he still imagines that the poison
stains the liquid black as it mixes with the water. It feels fitting, that a murderous substance should
be dark and soulless.

“Here, have some water.”

He offers the waterskin to Morgana, watching as it wobbles in his trembling hand.

“I’m not thirsty,” Morgana says mildly, continuing to shred the blanket with diligent focus.

Merlin’s chest seizes with such constricting force he briefly entertains the notion that he was the
one poisoned.

“When we get out of here you might not get another chance to drink,” Merlin says carefully, trying
to keep the desperation out of his voice.

“If we get out of here,” Morgana corrects him, but she takes his waterskin. “Thank you.”

Merlin watches in horror as she unplugs the cork and brings the waterskin to her lips. His stomach
is ripping itself apart. He can’t tear his eyes away. It’s like watching a plague descend, the
whispers from house to house as illness befalls them, the sickly putrid smell beginning to waft from
doorways, the knowledge that soon death will come. She wets her lips against the rim. Her throat
bobs as she swallows a large mouthful, and then another.
He turns around, unable to watch anymore. Tears gather on his eyelashes like dew drops on grass,
they drip down his cheeks and trail from his chin. Behind him, Morgana retches. Once, twice, and
then again. He hears her draw a raspy gasp that sounds like she’s trying to pull her breath from the
depths of her stomach. She coughs a fourth time.

Merlin’s shoulders shake as he struggles to swallow down a building sob that rattles in his chest.
He can’t feel anything around the sensation of a jagged knife impaling his gut and twisting. He
tries to breathe around the blade but his guilt plunges it deeper.

He swipes away his tears with rough fingertips and turns to face her.

“You—” she gasps, hands flying to her throat and pulling at the skin like it has been stretched too
tight across her bones.

“No, Morgana no,” Merlin sobs, crumbling to his knees and trying to reach for her wrists. She pulls
them out of his reach with a pitiful noise of pain and scrambles backwards trying to get away from
him. Her breaths are so hollow Merlin can hear each one struggling for purchase in her lungs.

The knife twists deeper into his belly, it drags through his organs, until his dark blood spills across
the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “Does it hurt?”

Morgana makes a rasping noise. Her pupils are almost eclipsed by white.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Merlin reaches out for her again and this time she doesn’t resist. She sinks into his arms with a
terrified sound that would have been a sob if her lungs could manage it.

“You have to understand,” Merlin forces through tears. “I didn’t have a choice.”

He pulls her close to his chest, holding her tightly as she shakes and heaves for air with gasps that
are progressively growing shallower.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

Merlin bites down tears and buries his face in her dark hair. He wants to apologise a thousand
times, but nothing could be enough.

“You understand don’t you?” He whispers.

Morgana shudders violently, Merlin feels the tremor begin at the base of her neck and travel down
her spine.

“I swear, Morgana, I didn’t want to do this.”

The doors fly open, the drawbar goes crashing to the floor with a clap so loud that Merlin flinches.
He draws Morgana closer to his chest protectively. He can feel every tremble of her muscles
struggling to keep her alive and every hollow gasp that rattles in her throat and fails to reach her
lungs. His mouth moves around silent apologies that he buries into her hair.

Morgause blusters into the room with horror twisting her beautiful face.

“What have you done?” Morgause roars, dropping to her knees and drawing Morgana from
Merlin’s arms.
He doesn’t have any right, but still he clings to her, reluctant to let go. He feels like a child
clutching at his mother’s skirts, hiding from the dangerous world, he naively imagines that if he
holds tight enough he can protect them both. But the danger to Morgana is not with the outside
world, but with him. She does not deserve his poison stained fingers, the hands of her killer. Merlin
lets go with a gasp.

“What has he done to you?” Morgause whispers to Morgana as she gently strokes her dark curls out
of her rapidly paling face.

Merlin clutches his chest, trying to hold his heart in place. It feels like the aching centre of him
might smash itself into broken shards, that they might shred through his skin until he is a torn husk
of his former self.

“I had to,” he sobs.

Morgana’s skin has turned placid and white as snow, bar the column of her throat which is a
vicious angry red. He watches Morgause’s eyes scan over Morgana, her calculated gaze observing
all she can until finally she reaches the correct conclusion. Her eyes twitch wide open and her
mouth parts in horror.

“You’ve poisoned her.”

Anger and guilt crash over Merlin like a wave cresting over a rock. He feels himself crumble and
break apart in chunks under the force of it. He struggles for air but he is drowning, the water fills
his lungs and the salt lines the walls of his chest.

Here Morgause stands, acting as though Merlin would do this of his own volition. As if he would
ever choose to hurt someone he loves. He burns with hatred for her, he breathes fire into his lungs
and smoke pours from his mouth.

“You gave me no choice,” he growls. His anger is like a lion’s roar in his chest, it rumbles and
builds, making his bones tremble and his heart pound. He hates Morgause for forcing his hand, he
hates himself for letting her. His rage is so strong he can taste it, like the metallic sting of blood on
his tongue.

Morgause brushes over his accusation like it is meaningless. It is obvious that to her, she has done
nothing wrong. Or perhaps, she’s weighed her faulted actions against her goals until she does not
feel responsible. She blames Merlin; and he blames himself.

“Tell me what you gave her so I can cure her,” she demands.

Merlin swallows down the vomit in his mouth and forces himself to answer her.

“First, cease the attack,” he says firmly, “and cure Camelot.”

Morgause looks at him with a sneer.

“You’re nothing but a simple servant, you don’t tell me what to do.”

Merlin lets his anger stoke the flames in his chest. His magic is pounding in his fingertips so
severely he fears he won't be able to keep it at bay.

“The only way I will tell you what the poison is, is if you lift the magic that drives the Knights and
wake Camelot.”
“Tell me the poison or you will die!” A wave of wind rushes forward with Morgause’s viscous
shout and it is almost enough to bowl Merlin off his feet.

He swallows hard. “Then she will die with me.”

A stale silence drags over them. The weight of it presses down on Merlin like the sky has fallen
onto his shoulders and he is forced to bear it. He feels the clouds falling over his head, thick and
filling his mind with grief ridden fog, the layers of sky draping over his shoulders until his knees
tremble with the effort of holding himself up. He is condemned to bear the weight of his sins for
all eternity.

Morgause looks down at Morgana with the kind of desperation Merlin recognises in himself. He
knows suddenly that she would do anything to save Morgana. He can only hope that includes
surrendering her plan to conquer Camelot. Morgana has grown still, her ragged breaths are so
shallow Merlin has to strain to even hear them leave her lips.

“I don’t want this any more than you do,” Merlin says, his voice cracks on the honesty sewn into
it. “But you give me no choice. Stop the knights and you can save her.”

She stares at him, with malice that tells of a thousand manners of ways she longs to torture him, but
finally relinquishes. The words of the Old Religion start soft, mutterances under her breath that
Merlin can scarcely hear; as quiet as Morgana’s dying breaths. Morgause’s words grow louder and
stronger, until she is shouting ancient language that echoes off the throne room’s walls.

Merlin doesn’t look away from Morgana. Her eyelashes are fluttering with the struggle to keep
them open, every few empty breaths she heaves and coughs, clawing for air like she’s drowning.
Merlin feels like the guilt will eat him alive, it consumes him, tearing into his flesh and pulling it
away in raw chunks. Its teeth sink deep, and locks its jaw there, ripping through his skin and bones.
He wants to fall to his knees and apologise a thousand times, he wants to hug her and whisper that
it will be alright. He desperately wants this all to go away.

He knows the exact moment when Morgause’s spell lifts. He can feel the energy return to his
body, the plaguing tiredness falling away like leaves from a tree.

“Hemlock,” he manages to croak, despite feeling like his voice has plunged deep into his stomach.

Morgause bares her teeth at him, like a predator promising to one day return for her prey to finish
him. She pulls Morgana close to her chest and with another spell the two of them disappear in a
cloud of spoke.

Merlin stares at the place where Morgana was. An empty patch on the floor that held her form,
now without even a trace to show she was once there. Suddenly with startling clarity Merlin
realises that she is gone. He tried to kill her, and now she is gone.

The emptiness is like a cavernous drop, the room hollows and the air stills. Merlin feels his organs
carve themselves from his stomach. His heart seizes and stops beating. He feels pitifully empty;
there is nothing inside Merlin except a sob growing in his chest. It swells, pressing painfully
against every rung of his ribs before bursting from his lips in a haggard wail.

He presses his fingers to his lips, trying to swallow down the noises but each sob forces its way out
in painful hitches. His knees give out beneath him and he crumples to the floor. He can’t breathe,
his tears are drowning him.

Merlin is the scorched aftermath of a ravenous fire. The inside of his skin is blistered and worn,
aching with every raw sob that wracks his body. His tears leave scalding hot trails along his cheeks
as they drip from his chin. His sobs fall from his lips like dwindling ashes falling from a cloud of
smoke.

He hears Arthur come into the room but he can’t stop his tears.

“Merlin?”

Arthur sounds impossibly far away to Merlin’s ears. His voice is muffled and distant.

“Where’s Morgana?” Arthur asks and another sob seizes Merlin by the throat.

Merlin doesn’t hear Arthur cross the room, but he feels Arthur’s presence by his side. He presses a
firm hand to the top of Merlin’s spine. It’s strong enough to relieve Merlin’s sobs, a heavy pressure
that helps clear Merlin’s lungs just enough to answer him.

“Gone,” he croaks.

“Did Morgause take her?”

Merlin can hear the terror and fury in Arthur’s voice.

He nods shakily, unable to do anything else. His heart remembers it needs to beat and spurs back
into motion with a staggering jump that makes Merlin’s head spin.

“Did she hurt her?” Arthur demands, his patience as thin as a piece of thread.

“No,” Merlin whispers.

I did. He presses his lips together and ignores the guilt plunging its blade through his stomach.

I hurt her.

~-~-~

The silence at the dinner table is stifling. The air feels thick with the unsaid, it’s a smog that seeps
into Merlin’s lungs and hardens, making its presence known with every struggling breath. He has
used all his words explaining to Gaius what he did, and now he is empty. There is nothing else he
can say.

He stares at his bowl, mindlessly stirring away at a stew he would usually thoroughly enjoy but
tonight can’t even stomach a mouthful. He presses down on a piece of lamb until it squashes under
the flat of his spoon.

Finally, after what feels like hours of silence Gaius sighs.

“You did the right thing,” he says gingerly.

Merlin’s eyes snap to meet his.

“You don’t mean that,” he argues and his voice cracks around the tears still threatening to fall.
“Don’t say that when you don’t mean it.”

“I do—”

“No,” Merlin says, his voice rising. “You loved Morgana too, you cared for her. Don’t tell me I did
the right thing when I almost…”

He can’t bear to finish.

Gaius takes Merlin’s hands with slow careful movements, folding his palms around Merlin’s long
fingers and encasing them within his. He squeezes gently and the small act of support makes
Merlin’s breath catch.

“I did love her— I do love her,” Gaius corrects himself. “I cannot deny that, but I mean what I say
when I tell you that you did the right thing.”

Merlin stares at the ridges of the table as he fights the urge to cry. He doesn’t understand how he
has any tears left in him, surely at some point a river must run dry.

“I fear that Morgana,” Gaius pauses and takes a moment to collect himself. When Merlin glances
up he sees a sheen of tears gathering in the physician’s eyes, and the sight makes his heart squeeze
painfully tight.

Gaius begins again. “I fear that unlike you, Morgana has not chosen to use her powers for good.
She has turned down a path of which we cannot follow.”

A tear slips down Merlin’s cheek despite all his attempts to control himself.

“Oh my boy,” Gaius sighs, brushing the tear away with more tenderness than Merlin deserves.
“You didn’t have a choice.”

“I should have saved her,” Merlin whispers, his voice clings to his throat, dry with the remaining
ashes of his guilt, it comes out as no more than a rasp.

“Tell me, would we be sitting here now if you hadn’t made that decision?”

A sob breaks past Merlin’s lips. He feels like a broken shell left abandoned on the shoreline, his
body is hollow, his edges sharp and ruined. He feels irreparably broken, he doesn’t think if he
picks up the shattered pieces of himself he will be able to put them back as they were; the cracks
will forever be visible. He isn’t aware of anything until Gaius moves to his side and gathers him
into his arms. It’s warm and safe, smelling of familiar spices and makes Merlin feel encased and
protected even though Gaius is much smaller than he is. He sinks into the embrace gratefully,
letting the tears run their course.

His grief is heavy, iron chains that drape themselves along the rungs of his ribcage and sink into
his belly. The weight makes his bones splinter as they struggle to carry the burden, and they rattle
as he wheezes, making each breath an arduous thing, shackled by his own guilt. The familiar
sensation of iron coils through his stomach, sickening his insides and making his organs twist and
roll. He can’t forgive himself for hurting Morgana, even if Gaius does, even if it was the only
chance Camelot had. He would rather walk with the constant weight of his guilt, than be like
Morgause and delude himself into believing he did nothing wrong at all. He thinks it might be a
long time before he can breathe around the persistent ache. Maybe that’s okay.

“The choices you made today were the right ones,” Gaius promises into the crown of Merlin’s
head.

Choices, plural.

Gaius didn’t mean anything by it, he was likely thinking of the many decisions Merlin made that
led to him hurting Morgana. However, Merlin made another choice today that he has to honour. A
choice he wishes he could take back, but knows was necessary. It was a day full of horrible
decisions like that.

“There’s something I have to do,” Merlin mumbles and pulls out of Gaius’ embrace. He can feel
the physician’s eyes on the back of his head the whole journey up the stairs but he can’t explain.
Gaius might forgive him for what he did to Morgana — a wave of pain rolls over Merlin that he
has to grit his teeth to fight through — but he might not agree with what Merlin is about to do; and
Merlin once again, has no other choice.

~-~-~

The Dragon instructed Merlin to steal a sword from one of the Knights of Medhir, disclosing that
such a weapon would be powerful enough to free him. Merlin retrieves the sword from under his
bed and hurries past Gaius down into the dungeons.

His consuming guilt has left him weary and the weight of the sword in his hand is almost
impossible to bear. His conscience is plagued with remorse that makes his steps heavy and his
bones saturated with tiredness he can’t shake; not dissimilar from the spell that had befallen
Camelot.

He lifts his weary eyes to meet The Dragon’s as he enters the cavern.

“The time has come, young warlock,” The Dragon says darkly.

Merlin shrinks away from him, terror and guilt writhing in his stomach as one.

“Where will you go?” Merlin asks hoarsely. He doesn’t trust the darkness in The Dragon’s eyes,
the indecipherable shades of contempt, anger, amusement, and most terrifyingly, desire for
revenge.

“I am the last of my kind,” The Dragon says in a deliberately even tone. “There is only one road I
can take.”

Merlin’s stomach stews uncomfortably at those words. His trust for The Dragon has thinned over
the last year like a rope under a knife, fraying away in fine fibres; but now that rope snaps.

“You won’t hurt anyone,” Merlin says. He means it as a statement, but it comes out more like a
plea.

The Dragon stares down at Merlin with the evasiveness Merlin has come to expect from the great
beast. It usually makes Merlin exasperated, today it fills him with dread.

“You made a promise, young warlock. It is time you honour it.”

Merlin sags, guilt prickling up his spine and down his arms in pebbled gooseflesh. The lack of an
explicit answer is concerningly telling for what The Dragon plans to do. Merlin remembers the
vision in the crystal and forces himself to take a steadying breath. His heart is racing so quickly in
his chest he has to press a hand to his chest to make sure it stays inside.

Merlin recoils as The Dragon extends his wing towards him.

“You need to be closer in order to break the chain,” The Dragon explains in what seems to be
exasperation.

Merlin’s muscles twitch with the urge to flee in the opposite direction and never return to this cave.
Instead of succumbing to his instincts he steps forward and carefully levers himself onto The
Dragon’s wing. He’s sitting right on the rigid structure of a bone, with his legs strewn over one side
and his body resting on the thick leathery membrane that makes up most of The Dragon’s
enormous wings. It shifts underneath his hand and he struggles not to cringe away from it.

His stomach clenches painfully tight as he is lowered to the ground of the cavern. He feels
unbearably helpless. Merlin is uncomfortably aware that if The Dragon chose he could let him
plummet to his death, and there is nothing Merlin would be able to do to stop him. The only solace
he has is that The Dragon is unlikely to kill him while Merlin has not yet freed him. It is not a
comforting thought.

Merlin is flooded with relief when his feet touch the hard stone floor once again even, despite
knowing what is to come.

The chains are impossibly large, they are as wide as Merlin is long and as thick like tree trunks. As
Merlin steps closer their clinking and rattling grows so loud he is tempted to cover his ears against
the onslaught of sound. He had always thought the chain would be made of iron, but it is obsidian
black and oozes with dark magic that makes Merlin’s stomach turn.

How ironic, Merlin thinks with contemptful scorn, that Uther would use the magic he hates to
imprison a magical beast.

He can feel The Dragon eyeing Merlin’s journey as he finds steady footing on the rocky ground
and unsheathes the sword.

Merlin stares at the sword in his hands and the realisation of exactly what he is about to do crashes
down on him like a mace. The sword visibly trembles and he struggles to draw a breath. Fear digs
into his sternum like the sharp blade of a knife, it drags through him, cold and cruel, through his
ribcage and into the base of his stomach.

“Before I do this,” Merlin says, stopping to look up at The Dragon. “Promise me that you will not
hurt Camelot.”

The Dragon leers down at him. He smiles, wide and menacing, baring his sharp fangs at Merlin in
a way that makes Merlin tremble with fear even though he wants to stand firm.

“I think there have been enough bargains, don’t you?”

No. Never enough. Not if it endangers Camelot. Not if it endangers Arthur.

Merlin swallows down his protests, because for once The Dragon is entirely right. There is no
more opportunity for negotiation. Merlin has nothing The Dragon wants but what he has already
promised. There is nothing he can do. Once again he has no choice.

Merlin takes a deep breath to steel himself for what he is about to do. He takes the moment to
apologise to everyone in Camelot for what he is about to unleash — fear, searing heat, rubble,
Merlin’s tears — and then brings the sword down.

The chains break under the blow with a spark that flashes behind Merlin’s eyes and leaves the stain
of white light in his vision. The magic imbued in the chains and sword meet and repel each other,
shattering both with the blow.

The Dragon roars, so loudly Merlin can feel the vibrations of it rattle his ribcage and resonate into
the tips of his fingers. It is a sound of rejoice and of fury mingled into a single onslaught of noise.
Merlin flinches from the sound and by the time he opens his eyes The Dragon has spread his huge
 wings and taken flight.

He has his freedom for the first time in years; what Merlin fears is how he will use it.

Chapter End Notes

um... sorry ??
please forgive me HGJDHJS

hope you all,,,, it feels wrong to say enjoyed this one but you know !! i will see you all
very soon on april 9th for chapter 20 !! this next one is the season finale so just a
reminder that after that it will be another season break !!
 The Last Dragonlord
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The guilt is unbearable.

Every time Merlin thinks that he cannot possibly feel more remorse than he does, The Dragon
swoops down on them in another foul attack and Merlin dredges deeper into his shame. The heat
has become so thick Merlin can taste it in the air, after three days of relentless ambush, Camelot is
a cesspool of flames and humidity that sits under their clothes and clings to their skin. As Merlin
wades through the streets his tunic sticks to his chest with sweat, and the air he draws into his
lungs is sticky and does little to relieve him. Arthur leads the men through the courtyard, his
golden head their guiding torch through the destruction. He’s the one the men look to for their own
strength and faith in their ability to fight their foe. Arthur radiates confidence like a ray of light, but
Merlin can see it beginning to dim as the prolonged battle wears away at his strength.

Merlin stays as close by Arthur’s side as he can manage without resistance. He stands by him,
irrationally hoping that his proximity alone might be enough to keep Arthur safe. It doesn’t ease
his writhing guilt that plagues him like a sickness, but it at least reassures him that Arthur is safe.

“I’m sorry you have to do this,” Merlin says in a raw voice.

Arthur looks at him strangely. “Why are you sorry? It isn’t your fault.”

The guilt feels like it will eat Merlin alive. It gnaws on his insides and chews at his organs until
they are aching with every shift of his movement and with every hoarse breath, dragging its blunt
teeth along the walls of his stomach until it cramps and bruises. His remorse is a hound against his
bones, mauling them until he can’t move without feeling the repercussions of his actions. Morgana.
Camelot. It’s all his fault.

“Yeah.”

They both flinch and draw close to each other as The Dragon roars above them. The sound of his
cry is so all consuming it seems to take up the entire sky.

“Take shelter inside!” Arthur bellows to the knights gathered in the courtyard. “There’s nothing
more we can do tonight!”

The knights follow Arthur’s order with immediacy and precision, hurrying to the safety of the
castle. The Dragon above them roars his objection, flying low over the courtyard, sending flames
hurling towards them.

Arthur starts striding in the opposite direction to the castle and Merlin scrambles to keep up with
him.

“Where are you going? The castle is that way,” he says pointing in the direction of the great doors
leading to the entrance of the castle.

“I have to make sure everyone else gets in safely,” Arthur answers, not even turning to look at
Merlin as he stalks away.

“What about you?”

“I’ll come in once everyone is safe.” When Arthur realises Merlin is following him he stops,
turning back with his forehead scrunched and begins urging Merlin towards the castle. “You go
inside!”

“No, I’m not leaving you alone out here,” Merlin protests.

“It isn’t safe!” “I don’t care!”

Arthur growls but doesn’t argue when Merlin tails on his heels.

They hurry through the streets, peering into corners and ensuring no one is trapped under fallen
walls or between the broken beams of buildings. Arthur is meticulous in his search, his jaw is
locked and his eyebrows are furrowed as he inspects each corner, refusing to leave a single person
at the mercy of The Dragon.

“Arthur please,” Merlin begs as The Dragon roars again, the sound is cacophonous and the
cobblestones beneath their feet tremble with the noise. “We have to go inside.”

Arthur hesitates but nods. “Okay.”

They hurry towards the main square side by side, keeping close to piles of rubble in the hopes of
not being spotted but Merlin knows their effort is futile. The Dragon has keen eyes and even if he
didn’t, Merlin suspects that the creature might be able to detect the magic that flows in his blood.
Without warning Arthur breaks into a run, dashing into the open courtyard.

“Guinevere!”

Merlin only just catches a glimpse of Gwen, huddled in the wreckage of the well. His stomach
lurches as he realises that Morgana isn’t accompanying her as she was depicted in the Crystal of
Neahtid.

Merlin runs but can’t keep up with Arthur who disappears amongst the wreckage of the streets.
Merlin takes chase, swerving around piles of rubble as he tries to follow Arthur across the
courtyard, his heart staggering as his feet threaten to catch on every piece of broken debris that
litters the roads. No matter how fast he runs he can’t keep up with Arthur, and each moment the
prince is out of his sight, a hand seems to tighten around Merlin’s throat. When he reaches the
courtyard Arthur and Gwen are already gone, but The Dragon remains.

He might not get another opportunity to set things right, not without witnesses. Merlin summons
his magic like gathering a deep breath in his lungs. His guilt and anger draw his magic to the
surface of his consciousness and it’s easy to take hold of an abandoned spear and launch it at The
Dragon’s hide.

It bounces off as though it were no more than a splinter.

The Dragon sneers down at Merlin, the heavy flaps of his wings buffet against Merlin’s face like
the harsh winds of a hurricane.

“Do not imagine that your petty magic can harm me!”

“Why are you doing this?” Merlin screams hoarsely at the sky. His chest aches with betrayal and
loss. The Dragon had been his ally, someone he turned to for help, and although it was impossible
to trust him he had held faith that his actions were in the interest of Merlin and Camelot. He fears
that everything the Dragon told him was a lie, or that it simply doesn’t matter enough to the great
creature to make him worth protecting. “I thought you wanted to restore magic?”
The Dragon bares his teeth. “You will still have Albion, and you will still have your prince, but I
will destroy Uther Pendragon and everything he loves.”

“But he loves Arthur!” Merlin shouts. “He loves Camelot!”

The Dragon doesn’t answer.

~-~-~

“In terms of casualties there are forty-nine men and twenty-seven women dead, and a further
eighteen women and children are unaccounted for.”

Merlin watches from the sidelines as Arthur delivers the report to his father with a heavy-hearted
tone.

The assault is taking a clear toll on Arthur, he grows more despondent by the day, and though he
does not wear a mourning shroud his grief is just as obvious. It hangs from his shoulders like
chains, dragging them down and curving his spine with perpetual exhaustion and grief. Each day
he pulls on an expression of grim confidence for the sake of his knights, but his fear is starting to
tear through the thin fabric of his mask. As he stands before his father he looks small and weak,
exhausted from days without rest, staying up late into the night to prepare methods of attacks and
distribution of food. He swore to Merlin that he slept last night, but Merlin doubts it’s true. The
heavy bags under his eyes have deepened and his skin is gaunt and pale. He blames himself for the
trouble befalling Camelot just as he did during the unicorn’s curse, only this time it isn’t his fault at
all.

Merlin’s guilt sits like a knife point pressed against his spine, a persistent, sharp reminder that at
any moment it could impale him.

“Most of last night’s fires are out. However the castle walls and in particular the Western section
are near to collapse… I could go on,” Arthur finishes with a bitter shrug.

Merlin longs to reach out and rub Arthur’s back soothingly. Arthur would hate the touch, he’s
averse to that sort of affection, and would hate even more than it made him look weak. So Merlin
restrains himself, clenching his hands by his side, even though Arthur looks like he could use a
crutch to support his weight.

“Do we have any further idea of how The Dragon escaped?” Uther asks, his eyes are fixed out the
window on the burning remnants of Camelot.

“I regret to say Sire, we don’t,” Sir Leon answers solemnly.

Merlin does his best to stand tall and not let his grief and regret cripple his shoulders. He hopes that
he doesn’t appear suspicious, but no one is looking at him except Gaius. The physician hasn’t
asked anything of Merlin yet, but Merlin is sure that the conversation is coming at any moment.
His worried stare has followed Merlin like a shadow since The Dragon’s first attack.

“There must be some way to rid us of this aberration,” Uther hisses.

Merlin watches Arthur, hardly listening to Uther’s cold speech. He sinks into a chair with a heavy
slump, letting his head fall against the back of the chair and takes a heavy breath. He is like a worn
rope, fraying away, Merlin wonders how much longer he can keep this up.

“We need a Dragonlord, Sire,” Gaius proposes. His mouth is a thin line of hesitation as he faces the
king, expression twisting with reluctance.
“You know as well as I, that is not an option,” Uther answers coldly.

“Sire, what if there was indeed one last Dragonlord left?”

“That’s not possible,” Uther says firmly.

“But if there was?”

The entire chamber seems to hold its breath. Merlin’s chest inflates with a thrilling combination of
buoyant hope and itching curiosity. He doesn’t know what a Dragonlord is, much less if one is still
alive to help them, but the title itself evokes a feeling of awe within him. They may be able to do
what Merlin cannot. Gaius had told him his own magic would be useless against The Dragon; for
he is a creature of wonder, not a monster, no matter how he behaves. A Dragonlord could be their
only chance, and Merlin would seize any thread of hope if it meant he could atone for his mistakes
and alleviate the pain he has caused Camelot.

“It is just a rumour, but I believe his name is Balinor,” Gaius says carefully, with a side-eyed
glance in Merlin’s direction, so quick it would have been easily missed had Merlin not been so
focused on the physician’s words. He doesn’t know what Gaius’ look could imply, the name is
unfamiliar to him.

Uther echoes the name with trepidation, there is a deep furrow between his brows.

“Where does he reside?” Arthur asks, his words shine in the morning air with a glimmer of hope.

“He was last seen many years ago in Cendred’s Kingdom, in the bordering town of Enreg.”

“If this man still exists it is our duty to find him,” Arthur says confidently, rising from his chair
with strength Merlin has not seen from him in days. Arthur has sunken into despair since the first
attack, but now his face brightens and he looks more like the young and bright prince Merlin
knows him to be.

Uther shakes his head.

“Our treaty with Essetir no longer holds,” he argues. “If you are discovered beyond our border they
would kill you.”

Arthur swallows his father’s answer with a solemn nod.

“Then I will travel alone, we will have less chance of being detected that way.”

“No Arthur,” Uther snaps. “It is too dangerous.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows.

“More dangerous than staying here?” He asks with heavy handed sarcasm. “I will not let my men
die when I have a chance to save them.”

“I have given you my orders.” Uther whirls around to meet Arthur’s eyes. Fury glints in his gaze,
sharp as a sword’s blade and just as deadly, but Arthur does not shrink from it as he might have in
the past. He meets Uther with strength of his own, he is an army prepared for battle, and armies do
not cower before their enemy; he meets Uther’s blade with his own steel.

“Do not make this a test of wills father.”

“I am not talking to you as a father, I am talking to you as a King!”

Arthur stares silently, letting the silence speak volumes for himself. He tips his head at his father in
a way that is almost pitying, embarrassed for him.

Merlin cannot help but think Arthur looks so well suited to this. There are times when it is hard to
remember that Arthur is a prince. When he grouses at Merlin for waking him, or when he laughs
so hard water snorts out his nose, he seems like just a boy, immature and touchable. But moments
like this it is impossible to not recognise that Arthur was born for this. He tips his head to support a
crown he does not yet wear and meets the king’s gaze firmly. He will not cower under the intensity
of Uther’s stare. He is as bold as the striking red of his cape, a force to be reckoned with, and
Merlin is enamoured by him.

“I will ride immediately,” Arthur says simply, marching past his father. His voice is so soft it
hardly breaks the air, yet in the thick quiet it seems to reverberate around the room.

“My concern is for you,” Uther says, his voice is thick, surprisingly emotional for a king that is
usually so stoic.

“And mine is for Camelot.”

The candour seems to take Uther by surprise as he pauses with his jaw hanging open like an
unlatched trapdoor. Merlin wonders what he feels when he watches his son, if he is as astonished
as Merlin at the wisdom and strength that Arthur has grown into so quickly.

Arthur takes his father’s silence as blessing.

“I will send word when I find him,” he promises.

Before Arthur leaves he nods to Merlin. “Prepare the horses.”

Merlin bobs a bow to Uther and then scurries out of the room after Arthur.

~-~-~

Merlin folds spare tunics and stuffs them into his pack, glancing around the room for anything that
might aid him and Arthur on their quest. He is more adept at packing than he was when Arthur
first dragged him on such an endeavour but he always finds they forget something.

He retrieves the dagger Arthur gifted him, which is quickly becoming one of his most treasured
possessions. He is careful not to touch the blade as he sheathes the weapon. On the night Arthur
gave him the knife he had been turning it over with wonder when his finger brushed the smooth top
of the blade, though his finger went nowhere near the sharp edge he still felt a rush of pain and
dizziness surge through him. Arthur has no way of knowing of course, but the steel blade is
infused with iron; it’s still a rather small amount so it poses little trouble, but when Merlin touches
it he feels the effects like a plague overcoming him. It hardly matters to Merlin, he doesn’t make a
habit of touching the blades of daggers anyhow, and he would endure a blade forged entirely of
iron if Arthur gifted it to him.

“Who were the Dragonlords?” He asks Gaius absently as he sets about folding a large map of
Essetir for the front pocket of his satchel.

Gaius stares at Merlin distractedly, not answering until Merlin repeats the question a further two
times.

“There were once people who could talk to the dragons, tame them,” he explains.
“What happened to them?”

Gaius thins his lips. “The same as most. Uther believed that the art of a Dragonlord was too similar
to magic,” he sighs heavily, “so he had them all rounded up and slaughtered.”

Merlin exhales heavily. It is a familiar tale that appears to only be repeated the more Merlin asks of
life in Camelot. He knew Uther’s prohibition on magic had cost many lives, but the more he learns
of the past the more he realises just how much magical blood stains Camelot’s stone walls.

“But one survived,” Merlin says, clinging to that thread of hope. The irony of Uther needing the
last Dragonlord’s help after all he did does not escape him. “How did you know?”

“I helped him escape,” Gaius says with a dismissive shrug.

Merlin whistles. “Gaius!”

Merlin knows Gaius regrets not doing more to stand against Uther in the Purge, but he was not as
complicit as some, like Edwin, would have led Merlin to believe. His small acts of defiance have
carried forward into helping them all now.

Merlin returns to packing his bag, satisfied with the physician’s answer but Gaius places his
wrinkled palm over Merlin’s hand to still him.

“Merlin, have you never heard the name Balinor?” Gaius asks carefully, a notion in his voice
indicates that he is leading somewhere that Merlin doesn’t yet understand.

Merlin stares at him.

“No?” He answers slowly.

“Your mother never mentioned him?”

“My mother?” Merlin blinks. None of what Gaius is saying makes any sense, and Merlin has the
strange sensation that he is attempting to complete a puzzle without any clue as to the image he is
forming. “Why would my mother know him?”

“She took him in.”

“She stood up to Uther?”

Gaius nods.

“That’s brave of her.”

Gaius hesitates but nods again. “Extremely so, your mother is an incredible woman.”

A smile twitches on Merlin’s lips, pride and love blooming in his chest for his mother. He misses
her deeply, it has been far too long since he had the opportunity to return to Ealdor, and the last he
saw of her was after Nimueh cheated him and tried to take her life in exchange for Arthur’s.

“When Uther learned where Balinor was hiding he sent knights to Ealdor to hunt him down. He
was forced to flee,” Gaius continues.

Confusion clings to Merlin’s thoughts like heavy clouds. The more Gaius explains the less clarity
Merlin has as to what the physician is trying to tell him.
“Why didn’t my mother tell me any of this?” He asks with a frown.

Gaius sighs, taking Merlin’s hands between his own gingerly.

“I promised your mother I would never speak of these things,” he says. “I have always seen you as
my son.”

“And I, you, as my father,” Merlin answers without hesitation. It’s true, Gaius is as much a father
to him as anyone has ever been.

“However, that is not who I am,” Gaius says tentatively. “The man you are going to look for… is
your father.”

Suddenly the pieces fall into place, leaving Merlin dizzy as his thoughts rearrange. He blinks
rapidly, stretching his jaw as he struggles to respond to Gaius. The sting of betrayal strikes him like
a slap. The question of his father’s identity is one that has weighed upon Merlin’s mind for his
entire life. He loves his mother dearly, and never wished for more than her. When he met Gaius, he
no longer had cause to crave a father, all he ever needed was the old physician who loves him just
as the absent figure of his father never did. Yet that curiosity never faded. The weight of the
unknown never grew easier to bear, it was an itch he could never reach to scratch, a question that
has gone on unexplained. It hurts Merlin more than he ever could have anticipated to realise that
Gaius always knew the answer.

“My father?”

Gaius shrinks on himself but nods, his shoulders are hunched like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“Yes.”

“Why did no one ever tell me?” Merlin demands, frustration makes his eyes grow hot with tears
and his throat sticky.

“I wanted to, but your mother feared it would be too dangerous.”

Merlin shakes his head roughly. “I had a right to know,” he insists. His anger is bubbling in his
stomach, stirred by betrayal at having this secret kept from him. He shouldn’t have been kept in the
dark his whole life. His mother should have told him that his father was a Dragonlord, she should
have said that he didn’t abandon them, that he had no other choice. Gaius had no right to keep this
knowledge from him, not when Merlin wanted it so badly.

“She wanted to protect you.”

“No,” Merlin steps back. “I had a right to know.”

His anger dwindles as the hours slip past, easing from a boil to a simmer before falling still.
Despite his attempts, he can’t maintain his resentment for Gaius, he’s too fond of the physician to
stay angry at him, and the time apart gives Merlin the chance to see that there was truth to what
Gaius said. Hiding his own magic within Camelot has been dangerous enough, to also be the son of
a Dragonlord is significantly more dangerous. He lives in fear every day of being discovered, if he
had known he was the son of a Dragonlord when he first arrived in Camelot he might not have
been able to handle the pressure of concealing it. Even now it is a large burden to bear, but he no
longer has a choice.

It still takes him a few hours to come around to speaking to Gaius again. He doesn’t want to travel
to Essetir without reconciling with the physician. If anything were to happen to Merlin while
travelling, or to Gaius at the hands of The Dragon, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself
knowing their last moments together were fraught with tension.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean—” Merlin begins but Gaius stops him with a raised hand.

“I know,” he promises, patting Merlin’s arm gently. “I don’t blame you for being angry.”

Merlin sighs, shouldering his bag with a heavy heart.

“Merlin.” Gaius catches his attention before he leaves to meet Arthur by the horses. “Whatever
happens, you must not let Arthur know what Balinor is to you.”

Merlin’s heart clenches at the idea of keeping another secret from Arthur.

“Uther would inspect the son of a Dragonlord with great suspicion, it wouldn’t be safe for you.”

Merlin swallows roughly and it feels like his throat is filled with sand.

“Alright,” he says. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

~-~-~

Arthur lowers himself onto his bed with a wince, every shift of his body his skin pulls at the tender
edges of his wound until it's aggravated and smarting with pain. He didn’t do a great job of hiding
his discomfort and he waits expectantly for Merlin’s inevitable pestering. Whenever Arthur is
injured he has a tendency to fuss over Arthur like a flustered nurse. Usually Merlin would hear
Arthur’s quiet noise of pain and would immediately start hovering over him like a distressed bee,
but today he doesn’t even seem to take notice.

He has been sullenly silent since they left Camelot, and the quiet is crawling its way under
Arthur’s skin, itchy in places he can’t scratch. To his immense irritation he has grown fond of
Merlin’s usual teasing remarks and the familiar sound of his low grumbling whenever Arthur asks
him to do something. The heavy silence between them is a bad odour following them from the
gates of the city to this small inn room in Enreg.

When they arrived Merlin had sped through the motions of getting them settled; quickly stowing
away their valuables, ducking behind the changing screen and then proceeding to slump onto his
cot and stare at the wall. He hasn’t moved since. Arthur had essentially left him to it, expecting
him to recover from his momentary sulk, but now his patience has reached its end.

“What is wrong with you today?” Arthur asks bluntly, lying back on his pillow and looking over at
Merlin on the bed across from him.

Merlin glances over with his eyebrows drawn low over his eyes like curtains.

“What?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Much as it pains me to admit it, I do enjoy your surly retorts. In fact, they’re
probably your only redeemable feature.”

Merlin stares back at him. “Thanks,” he returns drily and his expression remains entirely
unamused. Arthur had been hoping to see the glitter of enjoyment that often reaches Merlin’s eyes
when he teases him, and his heart sinks at the hollow response.

“There are plenty of servants who can serve, but so few are capable of making a complete prat of
themselves,” Arthur tries teasing with an inviting smile. He waits for Merlin to take the bait and
return with a quip of his own. Perhaps something about so few princes being capable of being such
massive arses; but Merlin says nothing of the sort. He simply smiles mildly and resumes his empty
staring.

The odd funk Merlin is in reminds Arthur of that moment in the summer right after a basset
attacked Camelot, when Merlin had unexplainably fallen into a bad mood. Arthur remembers how
gloominess hung over Merlin’s head like storm clouds, and he remembers that treating him
normally was the only thing that had been able to draw him out of that smog of sadness. The fact
that it hasn’t worked now leaves him at a loss for how to proceed.

“So what is it? What’s wrong?” Arthur prods. Merlin doesn’t even offer a grunt in response, he
simply continues to stare at the ceiling. The prickly silence settles dejectedly in Arthur’s chest,
itching at the lining of his lungs and the inside of his skin. He wants to fix this, but he doesn’t
know how.

Arthur knows he isn’t good at this, being comforting, talking about feelings; he would much rather
a physical spar to an emotional conversation. Merlin is the one that is good at this kind of thing,
he’s usually an open book. He offers his thoughts like gifts, passing them to whoever is willing to
receive them, and Arthur is often the recipient. Merlin doesn’t stuff his feelings in boxes to bury at
the bottom of his wardrobe the way Arthur does, he lets them spill out of his chest,
unapologetically open. Arthur has grown used to being greeted by Merlin’s every whim, so it feels
odd to reach out and meet a closed door, not that Arthur is a stranger to closed doors, but he doesn’t
encounter them with Merlin, never from Merlin. It makes something in his stomach feel
irrationally tight.

“It’s nothing,” Merlin answers curtly.

“It’s something,” Arthur argues. “Tell me.”

“I ca— I don’t want to,” Merlin answers stiffly. He covers it quickly but Arthur hears the
implication nonetheless. I can’t.

Arthur digs into the sentence and finds the root of the issue. It is not that Merlin doesn’t want to
share, he feels he can’t share it with Arthur. It’s an out, Arthur could let them fall silent again and
accept the excuse. Usually he would leap at the opportunity to avoid such conversations, but
Arthur finds he doesn’t mind it with Merlin. If anything, he wants Merlin to tell him what’s wrong,
he wants to be there for him.

“Alright,” he sighs, staring at the ceiling alongside Merlin. “I know I’m a prince, so we can’t be
friends. But if I weren’t a prince…”

“What?” Merlin mutters.

“Well then, I reckon we might get on,” Arthur says with tenderness seeping into his words. His
affection lingers on the sentence like the taste after a glass of honeyed wine, sweet on his tongue
and pleasantly warm.

He hopes Merlin can decipher what he’s trying to say, what he actually means.

You are my friend, he wants to say. Prince or not. It doesn’t matter to me.

He knows that with his title, he and Merlin can’t be closer than they are, but it almost seems
irrelevant. As his servant, Merlin shouldn’t be someone who matters to Arthur, someone he values,
but he is. No matter how much Arthur initially denied it, without him even realising, he and Merlin
have become true friends. In fact, Merlin might be the best friend he’s ever had. What a strange
thought.

The corners of Merlin’s mouth twitch towards a smile before he tugs them back down. Even that
small shift in expression is a step in the right direction, the sight warms Arthur’s heart.

“So?” Merlin shrugs, intentionally antagonistic. He is clearly unwilling to relinquish his foul mood
so quickly.

Arthur smiles loosely. “So that means you can tell me.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “Well that’s true, but you see if you weren’t a prince I’d tell you to
mind your own damn business,” Merlin mutters petulantly and rolls over to face the opposite wall.

“Merlin!”

Arthur grabs his pillow from under his head and wacks Merlin in the head with it.

“Tell me what’s wrong!”

“No!”

Arthur hits him again and this time Merlin anticipates the attack and grabs the pillow, tearing it
from his hands.

“You’re such an arse!” He shouts, retaliating with a blow of his own, but there’s a smile in his
voice and it makes the shock of pain that shoots through Arthur’s injured chest worth it.

“Will you tell me?” Arthur presses, snatching the pillow before Merlin can attack again. Merlin
grunts and refuses to let go, clutching the pillow with clenched fists. They wrestle with it for a
moment, both tugging back and forth before Arthur manages to manoeuvre it out of Merlin’s
hands.

Merlin acquiesces with a huff, flopping back on his own bed.

“Fine, I’ll tell you.”

Arthur lies down as well, his injury gasping in relief. He’s pleased he managed to convince Merlin
to open up, it spreads through his muscles and bones, easing the ache down his back like a tincture.
It takes Merlin a long time to actually share what is on his mind. Arthur clamps his jaw to keep
himself from pushing, in an attempt to give Merlin the time he needs. He watches as Merlin stares
at the ceiling thoughtfully, his mouth is twisted tight, like a knot that is impossible to pick apart.

Finally Merlin sighs heavily and as his shoulders sag they seem to heave an impossible weight far
larger than himself.

“I’m just worried about everyone back in Camelot,” he admits quietly. “I hope they’re okay.”

Arthur slumps into the bed, his heart tender like an open wound as he thinks of his people. He
knows that it isn’t his fault the dragon was released; in fact, until it began its ruthless attacks he
hadn’t known there was a dragon in Camelot at all. Still, it is his responsibility as crown prince to
keep his people safe; he longs to be able to return and protect them, and he fears how many will be
lost to the mercy of the beast while he and Merlin try to find a hope for them.
“Me too.”

~-~-~

They’re able to weedle information regarding Balinor’s location out of the tavern owner with the
promise of a few gold pieces. They set off at dawn and have been riding since without taking a
moment’s pause.

While Enreg resided right on the border between Essetir and Camelot, the foot of Feorre mountain
is almost a day’s ride over the border. Merlin’s entire spine has grown stiff and sore from hours on
horseback and his neck has developed a crick from constantly glancing over his shoulder. He’s
sure that Cenred’s men must have heard word of Arthur crossing the border and he’s not willing to
take any chances of them getting caught in enemy territory.

Merlin’s back might feel as stiff as a plank of wood but it has nothing on the discomfort Arthur
seems to be in. He shifts again, for the fifth time in the last thirty seconds, hissing through
clenched teeth.

“Hey,” Merlin calls, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Arthur replies with a wheeze, his fists are clenched so tightly around his reins that
Merlin can see his knuckles turning white.

“You sure seem to be in a lot of pain over nothing,” Merlin drawls, narrowing his eyes in suspicion
as Arthur shifts again.

He smiles a little at Arthur’s eye roll but the amusement is tempered by another grunt of pain from
Arthur.

“It’s just a scratch, really Merlin.”

A wave of worry rises in Merlin’s gut, rising like vomit through his stomach and into his throat. He
knows he was distracted by the news of his father, but he has never overlooked something so
important as Arthur being injured before.

“You’re wounded?”

“The Dragon took a swipe at me back in Camelot, it’s nothing to worry about.” Arthur’s insistence
of his healthy state is undermined by the way he wheezes as his horse skips over a fallen tree.

“Get off your horse,” Merlin commands, already dismounting his own steed as he hurries to
Arthur’s side.

“I give the orders, Merlin,” Arthur mutters but he does slow his horse to stop.

“Arthur.” Merlin glares menacingly up at the prince, concern pounding in his chest like a drum
beating against his ribs.

Arthur sighs but carefully lowers himself from his mount. He practically sags into Merlin’s arms
when he reaches the ground and releases a stunted groan as the movement agitates his wound.

“Just a scratch?” Merlin says disbelievingly.

He tugs at the hem of Arthur's tunic, trying to help him lift the fabric so Merlin can inspect the
wound. Arthur is stubbornly defiant to his attempts, flapping Merlin’s hands away with a scowl.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were injured?” Merlin asks with a frown as he tries to bat away
Arthur’s hands. His worry alternates with complete exasperation at Arthur’s dedication to keeping
Merlin from seeing the wound. At his usual capacities Arthur could have Merlin on his backside
with one hand tied behind his back, but his face is gleaming with sweat from the exertion of just
keeping Merlin at bay.

“If you were any good at your job, Merlin, you would already know.”

Merlin gapes at him. “Is this why you were so insistent that you sleep in your tunic? How am I
meant to ‘do my job’ if you even give me the chance?”

Arthur pouts at being outwitted and Merlin is torn between fondness for his petulant face and
gratitude that Arthur at least knows he is being ridiculous.

“Let me see,” Merlin orders as Arthur thwarts his attempts once again to see his chest. Arthur
wheezes and sags forward as the swipe of his hand pulls on the wound. Merlin’s concern is thick
on his tongue even through his frustration at Arthur’s pigheaded stubbornness.

“Arthur.”

There is a snap of a twig only a few trees distance away from them. Merlin freezes with his wrist
caught in Arthur’s grip and his mouth open ready to chastise Arthur.

“Shit.”

He uses Arthur’s hold on his wrist to drag them behind a nearby log. Merlin tries to slow his
breathing, careful not to make a sound. His shoulder presses hard into the wood and his muscles
tense as the sounds of heavy footsteps stamp past them. He can decipher at least four different
men, although it could be more, and by the weight of their footfalls they must be wearing heavy
armour. Arthur’s ragged breaths puff against the side of Merlin’s neck. They remain there, as still
as the trees for long enough that Merlin’s leg begins to cramp, before finally he finally concludes
that Cenred’s men must be far away enough for them to move safely.

He peers over the edge of the log and quickly assesses the coast is clear.

“Okay,” he whispers, “we can go now.”

When Merlin doesn’t hear Arthur move, he turns around and his stomach falls when he sees the
prince sagged against the rock with his mouth parted in an unconscious daze.

“Arthur,” Merlin repeats, shaking Arthur’s shoulder but he doesn’t stir. Merlin’s fingers come back
sticky with blood and his heart lurches. He tries to steady his breathing as panic threatens to
overtake him. A quick examination under Arthur’s collar reveals a rough gash that stretches from
the top of his shoulder blade and Merlin’s eyes trace the wound as it travels down through the
middle of his back and possibly further. It has bled all the way through the coarse, hastily applied
bandages, and his tunic tries to stick to the wound as the blood seeps into the soft fabric. Merlin’s
stomach rolls like a fish caught in a wave, helpless against the sweep of the current, but he quashes
the fear. Arthur has survived much worse, and Merlin will make sure he does so again. He will be
fine, Merlin promises himself. If anything he should be irritated that Arthur kept something like
this from him. The thought brings some comfort even if it fails to appease the fear coursing his
veins.

“Just a scratch,” Merlin mutters. He pretends he is teasing Arthur and that the prince will retort
back at him, the semblance of normality offers him some comfort as he tries to gather his thoughts
enough to formulate a plan. He can’t adequately treat the wound out in the open like this, he’ll have
a better chance once he gets Arthur to Balinor. His father. Shit. Merlin’s stomach starts to develop
a cramp.

He heaves Arthur’s arm over his shoulder and manages to haul him up. He staggers under the
weight of the prince as he pulls him over to the horses and with great difficulty arranges him across
the saddle. The position can’t be good for Arthur’s injury but it seems to be the only option Merlin
has.

“I swear you try to make my life as difficult as possible,” Merlin complains to Arthur’s
unconscious form. He’s well aware Arthur can’t hear him, much less answer, but it feels better to
talk aloud and get his grumbling off his chest than repress it. He needs something to distract him
from his worry which is clawing inside his skin, desperate for release, and at least talking to Arthur
gives him a way to distract himself.

“Would it kill you to not be impossibly stubborn just once and actually ask for help?” He keeps one
hand on Arthur’s lax arm and the other tightly holds the reins of both of their horses. “It’s not like
it does you much good anyway, because I still end up protecting your worthless hide.”

Merlin sighs and it comes out equal parts fond and frustrated.

“Not that I wouldn’t protect you, I’ll always protect you. I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind if you
made it a touch easier for me. At this rate I’m going to go grey any day now, and I’m only going on
twenty one years.”

It’s slow moving, walking alongside the two horses while trying to keep them under control and
Merlin curses the lagging pace as he watches the sun crawl lower in the sky, edging towards the
horizon. They’ve already left Camelot at The Dragon’s mercy for a day; he abhors the idea of
extending that any longer.

Perhaps having more time to prepare to meet his father should be a good thing, but Merlin isn’t
sure that any length of time would leave him feeling ready for this.

“I wouldn’t mind someone to talk to actually, well, someone who could reply,” Merlin says quietly
as they come closer to the caves where his father may be dwelling. “It might help me feel less…”
There isn’t a word that exists for how he is feeling. Eager, apprehensive, terrified.

They come to a stop at an outcrop of trees by the mouth of a cave. It inexplicably reminds Merlin
of the cave where the Wildeorren lived, which doesn’t fill him with any eagerness to enter.

“You wait here,” Merlin says softly as if Arthur’s going to spring up and rush off if Merlin leaves
him unattended. He brushes Arthur’s fringe out of his eyes and feels a cold dread prick at his skin
like an icy winter wind. Arthur’s skin is pale and losing colour fast, while the rise and fall of his
shoulders has depleted to shallow gasps.

He rushes inside, no longer preoccupied with the intimidation of meeting his father. The thought
pales in contrast to the aching terror of anything threatening Arthur.

“Hello?” He shouts into the shadows. “Please, I need your help!”

The cave is poorly lit, only a few scraps of light which filter from the outside are able to brighten
the dank space. The stone walls drip with moisture and the air is thick with the smell of mildew
and soil, it is mostly empty but as Merlin looks around he spies the makings of furniture scrabbled
together. A bed made from ratty blankets and reeds sits in the corner, while stones acting as
makeshift chairs are gathered around a small wooden table. It’s hardly what he would call a home.

Suddenly Merlin is lurched backwards by an arm wrapped around his throat. He gasps haggardly
as it restricts his airflow.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” A low gravelly voice growls like a beast guarding its
territory.

“Please it’s my friend, he’s sick,” Merlin gasps. “He needs help.”

The man releases Merlin so suddenly he trips and stumbles forward. He staggers into the wall of
the cave and steadies himself, struggling to heave air into his lungs with ragged gasps. If this man
is his father they have hardly made a great first impression.

“Show me to him, boy.”

Merlin watches with wide eyes as the man steps out of the shadows into the small sliver of light.
He has shoulder length greasy and unkempt hair, his nail beds are thick with grime and his hands
are stained with soil. Merlin can’t recognise any of himself in the man’s face, but he has always
been told he looks like the spitting image of his mother so that doesn’t divulge anything. He might
detect a flicker of recognition in the man’s stern face, but it could easily be nothing.

“What are you waiting for?” The man snaps. “Fetch your friend.”

Merlin jerks out of his distraction and nods. He almost slaps himself for forgetting Arthur, no
matter how briefly. There will be time to speak with Balinor, if this is him, later. For now, he needs
to protect his prince.

~-~-~

The man heals Arthur with magic.

Merlin is so relieved he can taste it, like sweet honey on his tongue, it warms his body from the
crown of his head to his toes. If this is Balinor, and he’s sure it is, then this is where Merlin’s
magic comes from. Merlin has often wondered that, and the question was always eating away at
the back of his mind. Even after Nimueh explained how he contained so much magical power, he
still couldn’t help but wonder: why him? His mother has no magic, and he knew nothing of his
father. It is a comfort to finally have an answer.

They eat a pottage made of cabbage and grain in tense silence until Merlin finally can’t stand it any
longer.

“Thank you,” he says awkwardly, “for the food.” He glances across the room at Arthur, who
sleeps deeply on the pile of blankets, “and for healing my friend.”

The man grunts and says no more. The silence descends over them again, Merlin itches with every
clank of their wooden spoons against the rims of their bowls. It’s a weird temperature in the cave,
sticky enough that Merlin’s neckerchief sticks to the back of his neck but cold enough that he
periodically shivers. He has the odd sensation that he can feel the air, and with every passing
moment the silence grows heavier, until his shoulders are hunching under it.

“How long have you lived here?” He blurts out, staring at his bowl so he won’t have to meet the
man’s eyes.

Even without looking he can hear the hesitancy the man has to answer. The air sinks heavier over
them both, sinking into Merlin’s bowl and sticking uncomfortably to his skin, like a tunic in the
heat of summer.

Finally, “a few winters.”

“It must be hard,” Merlin says conversationally

The man seems to have grown tired of the small talk. His spoon hits the bowl with a clatter and
Merlin’s head jerks up.

“Why are you here?” He growls.

Merlin swallows and hesitates, settling his bowl and spoon down to give himself time to formulate
his answer. He knows that he needs to be delicate; this man’s patience has been sanded down to a
short fuse that burns bright and fast.

“Just travelling,” he says carefully.

“Travelling,” the man repeats incredulously.

Merlin swallows roughly. “We’re looking for someone,” he admits. “I was told… well it is said
that he lived somewhere hereabouts.”

“And who is this man you are looking for?”

“Balinor.”

The man stops, frozen like a rabbit caught in the path of a hunter’s crossbow.

“Do you know of him?” Merlin presses.

“He’s passed on,” the man says stiffly.

Merlin doesn’t believe that, he thinks that Balinor is sitting before him and is lying in an attempt to
protect himself. But he has to be sure. He needs to question the man without making him so
defensive, lest he throws Merlin and Arthur out of his home. Merlin decides not to challenge him
on his likely lie and instead asks: “You knew him?”

It doesn’t work to set the man at ease, he slams his bowl down and glares at Merlin with enough
burning fury to rival The Dragon’s fiery breath.

“Who are you?” He demands in a low growl.

“I’m…”

It occurs to him that this might be the moment the man recognises Merlin. If this man is Balinor,
surely he can’t have heard a name like Merlin’s often, it’s hardly commonplace.

“I’m Merlin.”

The man stares at him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed into reptilian like slits.

“And him?” He asks, pointing behind him to Arthur. There is no moment of realisation, or even a
glint of familiarity in his eyes. He doesn’t recognise Merlin at all.

“He’s my master,” Merlin says evasively. He carefully hides the way his shoulders sag in
disappointment.

“His name?”

Merlin can’t reveal Arthur’s name, not in Cenred’s kingdom. This man might not even be Balinor,
the threat is too great and Merlin is Arthur’s only defence.

“His name… is Lancelot,” he lies smoothly, “he’s a knight but you know, one of the good ones.”

The man stares at Merlin, unamused by his poor attempt at humour, his mouth doesn’t so much as
twitch towards a smile. If anything the distrust on his face only deepens.

“His name is Arthur Pendragon,” he says lowly, “he is Uther’s son.”

Merlin’s face falls. “Yes.”

“This is Cenred’s kingdom, if he is caught here he will be killed. He may be the son of a stupid
king but I doubt he is such an idiot not to know that much. So I ask you, what do you want from
me?”

Merlin leans forward, narrowing his eyes.

“Are you Balinor?”

The man doesn’t reply, but his hackles rise like a beast facing an opponent. His silence is an
answer all of itself. He could easily deny it, dispel Merlin’s hopes and dismiss him, but he says
nothing. This is Balinor. This is Merlin’s father.

The thought strikes Merlin with such a force that it winds him. It shouldn’t be such a shock, since
the moment that he met the man he suspected him to be Balinor. Still, hearing it out loud makes it
real. He feels the bizarre urge to run and hide, or perhaps to tell him everything and open himself
up to this practical stranger. The childish curiosity to know everything about his father fills Merlin
like it is expanding his ribcage, and he forces himself to swallow it down. He needs to focus on
what they came here to do. He cannot let his own feelings get in the way of saving Camelot from
the destruction he caused. The reminder of his guilt is enough to sober him.

“The Great Dragon is attacking Camelot,” Merlin explains. “He is burning the kingdom to the
ground and we cannot stop him, only you, a Dragonlord, can.”

Balinor pauses, his spoon held to his lips.

“He does not act blindly,” Balinor says solemnly with a simple shake of his head. “He is killing
with purpose, vengeance.”

“I know Uther hurt him—”

“Uther destroyed him.” Balinor’s temper is rising, his words grow clipped and sharp like the sharp
teeth of a dragon. “Do you understand that, boy? This is no one’s fault but Uther’s. He is finally
receiving what he deserves.”

Merlin protests, “The Dragon is killing innocent people. Women and children.”

“Uther hunted me,” Balinor snarls. In the flickering light of the fire he looks like a wild beast as he
bares his teeth. “He pursued me like an animal.”

“I know,” Merlin says softly.

“You know nothing. What could you possibly know of my life?” Balinor demands. “Of either of
our lives?”

Merlin stares at him with wide eyes as he rises and prowls around the cave.

“You say you know what we have been through, yet you call him the Great Dragon as if he is an
untouchable beast. He has a name, he has a heart.”

“I don’t know his name, how can I use it?” Merlin attempts to defend himself weakly.

Balinor scoffs. “Did you ever ask?”

The question startles Merlin. He never thought to ask The Dragon anything of his life. He has
visited The Dragon countless times, to beg him for help, to learn of his own destiny; but he knows
nothing of the great creature himself.

Balinor stares at Merlin with an unsurprised stoicness.

“His name is Kilgharrah.”

The name is fitting. It bends in the mouth, reminiscent of an ancient presence, and rolls across the
tongue, evocative of the curling language of the Old Religion.

“He was my friend, my ally,” Balinor says heavy heartedly. Merlin can see his anger rising once
again, like the smoke gathering in a dragon’s maw before he breathes fire.

“Uther betrayed us both. He took advantage of me,” Balinor sneers. “He asked me to use my power
to summon Kilgharrah to Camelot, he said he wanted to make peace with him. But he lied to me.
He forced me to betray my brethren and then he slaughtered every one of my kind.”

His fury burns the air between him and Merlin, igniting the space. Merlin feels like he should lean
away from the heat of his words and their potential to scorch his insides. He doesn’t know how to
move, he waits with his breath held for Balinor to speak again. He looks shockingly similar to
Kilgharrah, trapped in a huge isolated space, bitter and brimming with just anger that has festered
over the years.

“You want me to protect this man?”

Merlin shakes his head emphatically. “I want you to protect Camelot.”

“They are one and the same.”

“No, they aren’t.”

“They are,” Balinor spits. “Kilgharrah has lost every one of his kind, every one of his kin. I know
what that pain is like. It is time Uther felt the same.”

Merlin stares at Balinor, unable to summon a word as he watches the man stalk around his
territory.

“Let Uther die, let Camelot fall.”

Merlin swallows roughly, forcing himself to speak even though his throat feels stripped bare.

“You want everyone in Camelot to die?”

“Why should I care? Everyone I love is dead, I have no one there I care for.”

“Well I do,” Merlin says, his voice a low hiss.

Balinor pauses and Merlin doesn’t miss the way his eyes drift to Arthur. Merlin realises belatedly
that he has situated himself between Balinor and the sleeping prince, and he forces himself to
straighten his posture and relax.

“What if one of them was your son?” He challenges, as he speaks the words are brittle on his
tongue like sand. He both longs to hear Balinor’s answer and dreads it, he is drawn towards it like
a moth to a flame knowing it will likely set him alight.

Balinor’s frown is barely visible under the shadow of darkness. “I don’t have a son.”

“I—”

“Merlin,” Arthur mumbles in his sleep. His hand stretches across the blanket like he’s reaching for
something. The soft sound of his voice snaps Merlin back into himself and he swallows the truth
he was about to divulge so quickly he almost chokes.

He makes his way to Arthur’s side without another word to Balinor. For all he cares, this
conversation is over.

~-~-~

Arthur emerges from the cave with an exuberant laugh.

“I feel great!” He exclaims, clamouring over the rocks to reach Merlin’s side. As he makes his way
over his smile is so wide that it’s difficult for Merlin not to smile too. Still, the disappointment that
sits heavy and thick in his lungs keeps his happiness strained at the corners. “What the hell did you
give me?”

Merlin shakes his head. “It was all down to Balinor, he healed you.”

Arthur’s face brightens, his hope still burning while Merlin’s has been extinguished to ashes.

“So we found him then?” He says eagerly and the relief in his voice is obvious. “Thank heavens
for that.”

He’s so happy that Merlin feels sort of terrible having to tell him the truth.

“That doesn’t mean he will help,” he says irately. He can’t help the bitterness that seeps into his
voice. He had hoped for so much, perhaps unfairly expecting Balinor to fulfil his childish
fantasies. He always imagined his father to be kind, gentle, like Merlin’s mother, but he is selfish
and jaded with resentment.

Arthur blinks and the happiness slips from his face. “What?”

“He won’t be persuaded.”

Balinor stands across the small stream from them, staring into the water with a contemplative look
on his face. He is as still as the statues that line the palace courtyard.

“Does he know what’s at stake?” Arthur asks, turning to Merlin with a heavy frown shadowing his
bright eyes. In their blue depths Merlin can see the lives of Camelot’s citizens, burning and turning
to ash because they failed to protect them, because Merlin put them in danger. His throat burns
with guilt, like the dragon’s fire is growing there and will scorch him from the inside.

He nods solemnly, his disappointment and guilt too thick on his tongue to attempt speaking.

Arthur squares his shoulders and dons the expression he wears right before battle. “Right, I’ll talk
some sense into him. You’ll see.”

Merlin’s doubt itches insistently at his palms and along his arms as he watches Arthur walk over to
Balinor. They’re too far away for Merlin to hear what they’re saying, but he watches anyway.
Arthur is trying to appear confident, but Merlin can see the gathering tension in the muscles of his
neck, he doesn’t hide his concern for his people like he usually would with a stranger. Balinor,
however, is as unreadable as ever with his unkempt beard and unwavering gaze. The only slip in
his stoic facade had been when he lost his temper at Merlin, and even then there had been no
empathy for Camelot’s plight.

The conversation is unbearably long, every minute that passes Merlin feels his impatience mount,
growing hot and uncomfortable at the back of his neck as he waits. Finally, Arthur makes his way
back over to Merlin.

“What did he say?” Merlin asks anxiously. So much rests upon this one answer, the fate of
Camelot, the livelihoods of every person in the kingdom. Merlin can’t save Morgana, he can’t
bring back the lives that have already been lost in The Dragon’s tirade, but he can prevent more
lives being lost.

“He’ll change his mind,” Arthur assures him, his jaw tight in stubborn determination. His
expression is so resolute that Merlin is inclined to believe that he could take on The Dragon with
his will alone and come back unscathed.

Merlin looks at Arthur in stunned surprise. “He said that?”

It’s difficult to believe even if Merlin can’t help but foster a small flicker of optimism. He saw the
hatred in Balinor’s eyes when he spoke of Uther, he isn’t sure Balinor wouldn’t go to any length to
ensure the king suffered just as greatly as Kilgharrah and Balinor did.

Arthur winces. “Just give him a moment.”

Balinor picks his way over the rocks slowly and stops before them with a serious expression.
Merlin waits, hope glowing in his chest like a warm flame tended by a careful hand.

“Farewell, then,” Balinor says with a small bob of his head before turning to walk away.

“That’s your decision?” Arthur looks at Balinor with horror. Merlin knows that Arthur couldn’t
conceive someone making such a selfish choice, to him a decision like this is indisputable. He
believes in honour right down to the marrow of his bones, when lives may be lost there is no
choice to be made.

“I will not help Uther,” Balinor growls, turning to face them with malice in his eyes. Merlin knows
he shouldn’t have let himself hope, but still his heart feels chafed and worn with disappointment.

“Then the people of Camelot are damned!”

“So be it.” His voice echoes as he continues into the empty hollow of his cave.

“Have you no conscience?”

Balinor stops at the mouth of the cafe, turning to Arthur with fury glinting in his eyes like the
sparks of an open flame.

“You should ask that question of your father,” he says, his voice rumbles from the back of his
throat, like the growl of a beast defending his pack.

“And you are no better than him!” Merlin snaps, unable to help himself. His disappointment is
sour in his gut like spoilt milk, it curdles his blood and sickens his stomach until he feels nauseous.

“Shit,” Arthur mutters under his breath. “Come on, we have to get back as quickly as possible.”

Merlin can’t leave without one last attempt to persuade Balinor to join them. He can’t abandon
Camelot so easily after he doomed them. Merlin sentenced them all to this fate, so he will do
everything in his power to get them out of it. He can’t have more blood on his hands, he just can’t.

“You said there was no one you cared about in Camelot, and maybe that’s true,” he says to
Balinor’s back. He watches as the man stalls and his spine tenses, like an animal prepared to flee.

“But there are people there who care about you,” Merlin says thickly. “There are people who you
owe it to them, to protect.”

Balinor looks over his shoulder with his nose wrinkled as if Merlin’s words held a terrible stench.

“Like you?” He spits, sarcasm seeping into his saliva.

“Like Gaius.”

He takes great pleasure in the shock that flashes over Balinor’s face. His indifferent expression
slips away to reveal an awestruck gape. He is still impossible to read, but Merlin can see Balinor
recalling his memories, remembering all that Gaius did for him.

“You know Gaius?”

Merlin nods. “Yes.”

“He is a good man,” Balinor says softly.

Something settles in Merlin, like a trembling earthquake finally falling still.

“He is,” Merlin agrees. “He’s a great man. I thought you would be more like him.”

Arthur calls Merlin’s name from the trees where their horses are tethered. Merlin turns and walks
away without giving Balinor a chance to answer.

~-~-~

Merlin hasn’t spoken in at least an hour. Arthur knows. He has been keeping track since they left
Balinor’s cave. The silence crawls like ants on his skin, itching and trailing uncomfortable paths
over Arthur’s flesh, and he can’t do anything to squash them because Merlin isn’t talking.

They have stopped to make camp, not far from the caves of Feorre mountain, the sun has sunken
low enough towards the horizon that if they continue much longer their steeds won’t have any light
of day to guide them.

Arthur watches from his seat on a log as Merlin tends to the fire.
“You know,” he muses. “I always thought your silence would be a blessing, but I find it just as
annoying.”

Merlin hums, continuing to position sticks for the fire. Arthur huffs, his whole body thrumming
with the need for Merlin to respond to him, to look at him.

“You’re a riddle, Merlin.”

“A riddle?” Merlin echoes.

“Yes.” Arthur picks up a long stick by his side, flipping it in his hands absentmindedly. “But I’ve
grown to quite like you.”

Arthur isn’t sure why the admission makes his hands tremble slightly. Or why it makes his
stomach squeeze tightly, like a piece of parchment crumpled in a fist. It isn’t a wholly bad feeling,
just the odd sensation of admitting his feelings rather than keeping them under lock and key. It’s
nice.

“Yeah?” Merlin says lightly, there is a laugh teetering on the edge of his voice.

“Now that I realise you’re not as big a fool as you look,” Arthur teases, poking at Merlin’s
backside with the stick. He grins as Merlin tips forward with a grumble and scowls over his
shoulder.

Merlin’s irritation fades quickly into a gentle fondness.

“I feel the same,” he smiles and it makes Arthur feel warm all over. “Now that I realise you’re not
as arrogant as you sound.”

Arthur settles back against the log and kicks his feet out. The fear for what awaits them in Camelot
and the constant grief for the people at home is like a weight at the back of his mind, but he does
his best to ignore it for now. If Balinor isn’t willing to help, then Arthur doesn’t have a solution,
and it will do no good to wallow over what he cannot hope to fix. The thought doesn’t release the
heavy pressure at the base of his throat, but Merlin’s presence and easy teasing helps.

“You still think I’m arrogant?”

Merlin hums in exaggerated thought. “No. More supercilious.”

Arthur whistles. “That’s a big word, Merlin. You sure you know what it means?”

“Condescending,” Merlin answers blithely.

“Very good.”

“Patronising.”

Arthur tips his head. “It doesn’t quite mean that.”

Merlin glances over his shoulder at Arthur with a cheeky smirk.

“No, these are other things you are.”

“Now hang on,” Arthur protests with an affronted scowl.

Over the trees rustling and the distant sounds of forest life is the distinct sound of someone’s boot
trampling on a twig. Arthur sits up abruptly and the comfortable atmosphere he was relaxing into
drops away like a stone from a cliff.

Merlin continues to drone about Arthur’s worst qualities even as Arthur beckons him to quiet.

“Merlin!”

“But you wanted me to talk,” Merlin retorts with heavy handed sass, but quickly falls quiet when
another twig snaps. His back straightens like a rabbit anticipating a hunter.

Arthur inclines his head and together they tiptoe through the forest towards the sound. Arthur
draws his sword and to his pleasure Merlin unsheathes his dagger, holding it by his hip just as
Arthur taught him.

A third twig snaps behind them and they whirl around.

“Careful,” Balinor says with thick amusement. “This is dangerous country. I thought you might
need some help.”

Arthur lets his sword arm drop. “You’ll return to Camelot with us?”

Balinor spares him only a mere glance, nodding his acquiescence before looking directly at Merlin.

“You were right, Merlin,” he grants. “There are people in Camelot who risked their lives for me. I
owe them a debt that must be repaid.”

There is much in Balinor’s expression that Arthur doesn’t understand, an exhaustion that seems
impossibly deep in the weight under his eyes, and respect which Arthur doubts is for Camelot or
his father. Still, he is doing them a great service and Arthur wants to ensure he knows that.

“If you succeed in killing The Dragon you will not go unrewarded,” Arthur promises.

Balinor smiles but it is heavy with sadness at the edges of his eyes.

“I seek no reward.”

Arthur nods, all the better for it, he isn’t entirely sure how his father will react to a Dragonlord
saving them and can’t ensure a reward will be bestowed.

“Excellent!” He says happily. “Let’s eat.”

~-~-~

Balinor and Merlin collect firewood in silence. They’ve been granted some semblance of privacy
while Arthur is down by the stream attempting to catch a fish for their dinner. Thankfully he’s
close enough that Merlin could protect him if need be, but distant enough that this might be a
precious chance for Merlin to speak with Balinor openly.

Merlin swallows, willing the courage to say something.

“When you escaped Camelot, where did you go?” He asks carefully, keeping his eyes on the piece
of wood rather than looking at Balinor.

The forest waits, holding its breath for the other man to speak. The silence stretches so long that he
thinks Balinor will ignore his question entirely before the man answers.
“A small town just over the border of Essetir called Ealdor.”

Merlin’s stomach flips in anticipation to hear Balinor speak of his home town out loud. He believed
Gaius when he revealed that Balinor is Merlin’s father, he knew that it isn’t the kind of thing the
physician would lie about, yet he still had an inkling that it couldn’t be real. His father was such an
estranged figure from his life, never spoken of, simply a figure that must have existed. To hear him
speak about Ealdor, it somehow makes him real.

“Did you like it there?”

Balinor’s hand falters over a damp twig. “Very much. I had a good life there, a woman I loved.”

The conversation could fall to a close there if Merlin were to allow it, but he needs Balinor to know
the truth.

“I grew up there,” he admits quietly. His stomach has started to twist itself inside out from the
nerves, but he forces himself to be steady. He doesn’t dare look at Balinor, afraid it might make
him lose his nerve, but out of the corner of his eye he can see Balinor’s head snap up.

“Ealdor?”

“Yes.” He forces himself to look into Balinor’s face. “The woman you loved, I know her.”

“Hunith,” Balinor says Merlin’s mother’s name like he’s speaking of something holy; as if she is
something to be revered.

His eyes are mapping over Merlin with reinvigorated interest. Merlin can see him cataloguing
Merlin’s ink black hair, the exact hue of his eyes, the shape of his nose and the slope of his jaw.
His whole life Merlin has been told he is the spitting image of his mother, and he sees Balinor
recognising that now that he is allowing himself to look.

“She is my mother,” Merlin confirms with a trembling voice before Balinor has the chance to ask.
His heart is pounding so fiercely in his chest it is a wonder Arthur can’t hear it down by the
stream.

Pain flashes across Balinor’s face, so quickly it is no more noticeable than the flicker of a candle.

“Then she married,” he says, and Merlin doubts the happiness in his tone is true. Balinor’s smile is
tight, like the skin of a drum pulled taut. “That is good.”

“She never married,” Merlin says simply. “And I never knew my father.”

Merlin waits for Balinor to draw his own conclusions and he can see the moment he does.

“How old are you?”

Merlin forces himself to keep still even as anxiety crawls under his skin.

“I am just past twenty years,” he answers.

The breath rushes past Balinor’s lips.

Merlin doesn’t pull away from his heavy gaze. “I am your son.”

Balinor stares at Merlin for a pause long enough that Merlin counts twenty racing pounds of his
own heart.
“I never knew I had a son,” he says finally.

Merlin smiles bittersweetly. “Nor I, a father.”

The part of Merlin that is always intrinsically attuned to Arthur hears his heavy stomping boots
approaching. He swallows quickly, settling his mind and trying to calm his racing heart.

“You can’t tell Arthur, please. It will be too dangerous in Camelot for me.”

Balinor still looks dumbstruck, but he nods agreeably. “Of course.”

Merlin nods, taking a step back and away from his father.

~-~-~

They don’t get another chance to talk until the moon has graced the sky and the air is chirping with
the sounds of nightlife. The fire crackles, casting a warm glow over their makeshift campsite, and
Merlin is settled by the sound of Arthur snoring softly a few paces away. He watches as Balinor
wittles a small piece of wood with careful practised movements.

“Why did you never come back?” He blurts out. The question has been sitting on his tongue all
day, but he couldn’t ask with Arthur so close by. A part of Merlin is also worried that the question
is too harsh to demand of a stranger he barely knows, Merlin’s father or not, he met Balinor only
yesterday. To ask him why he didn’t return to Ealdor, the home of the woman he supposedly loves,
seems like too much to demand. However, as the day has gone on, the need to know has started to
weigh on Merlin’s mind, and he finds he doesn’t mind if it is demanding, as long as he gets the
answer. If Balinor loved Hunith like he claims he did, then why would he not try to return to her?

Balinor hesitates. “I thought her life would be better without me,” he admits gruffly.

“Why?” Merlin can’t help but press.

“Uther wanted me dead,” he answers plainly. “If he had found me, he would have killed me and
your mother both. I never wanted to put her in that kind of danger. I wanted her to be safe.”

As a child Merlin had always wished for someone to love his mother as much as he did. She hid it
well, but he knew even as a child she was lonely at times. Her eyes would stray to the window
when he was meant to be playing and he would watch her stare longingly out to the fields of
Ealdor, like she was waiting for someone to walk them with her.

He knows she would have been happy to face any danger if her love had stayed by her side.

“We could have come with you.” The words slip out of Merlin’s mouth before he can consider
them. It’s a childish longing, something he long outgrew and no longer yearns for as he once did.

Balinor smiles bitterly. “What kind of life would you have had here?”

For a moment, Merlin lets himself picture it. He imagines himself as a small boy with a father and
a mother, a small family amongst the trees. In this alternate life his mother never gets that far off
look in her eyes, and he never lies awake wondering if his father disappeared, died or just didn’t
want to stay. Merlin grows up always knowing where his magic comes from, and he is taught
exactly how to control it.

“We’d have been happy,” he answers with a distant smile.

However Balinor doesn’t smile, he frowns in concern. “Are you not happy?”

As he asks, the idyllic future becomes rough at the edges. It’s a lovely image, but it fits Merlin like
a too-small tunic. He can’t imagine who he would be, even in the abstract; and he can’t help but
think of what would change. If he had managed his magic from childhood he would never have
needed to go to Gaius, he might never have left Essetir at all. He wouldn’t have gone to Camelot,
he wouldn’t have met Arthur.

His life in Camelot doesn’t come easily, but it is good.

Merlin looks at Arthur, face turned to the moon and eyelashes settled comfortably on his cheeks.

“I am happy,” he says, quiet as a breath.

Balinor smiles in a pleased yet sad way and he continues to chisel away at his block of wood. It is
beginning to take form, a four legged creature Merlin cannot identify.

“When we have finished in Camelot, I’ll take you back to Ealdor,” Merlin promises.

“She won’t recognise me,” Balinor argues weakly, he doesn’t look up from his whittling.

Merlin doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t know what Balinor was like when he knew
Merlin’s mother, if he was not so rough at his edges, if perhaps there was a gentleness to him that
has been eroded away from years of isolation and resentment. There’s a long pause and then
Balinor sighs so heavily his shoulders slump.

“I see her in you,” he says. “You have her kindness.”

Merlin hears what he doesn’t say. I don’t see myself at all. It is true, and it is not something Merlin
is ashamed of. His mother has been there his whole life, in every moment, at every milestone, she
held him when he cried and hugged him when he was happy. She sent him to Camelot because she
knew what was best for him was not necessarily best for her. He is proud to resemble her in every
way.

“How did you become a Dragonlord?” Merlin asks, thinking it would not hurt to have one aspect
he is like his father.

Balinor smiles. “You do not choose to become a Dragonlord. It is not something you’re taught, it is
a sacred gift. For thousands of years it has been handed down through family lines, from parent to
child,” he looks intently at Merlin. “From father to son.”

Even the idea of such a family connection is unknown to Merlin. He has only ever had his mother,
he never knew his grandparents or possessed any extended family to speak of. Some people in
Ealdor saw the village as their family, but Merlin had never really fit in there. The only people he
had to claim for his own were his mother, and Will, and so the idea of something as connected as
an heirloom, sacred gift or otherwise, is completely foreign to him. His heart stretches out for it,
longing thick in his throat like syrup that makes him desperate for more to taste.

“You, Merlin, will be a Dragonlord one day,” Balinor says, and it sounds like a promise.

Merlin nods, unable to put words to how he is feeling. “I would like that.”

“Like all Dragonlords, you won’t know for certain that you possess the skill, until you face your
first dragon.”
Merlin’s heart sinks again, for he knows he can never be a Dragonlord. He has faced a dragon, and
could not tame him or even reason with him. He has failed to share the one connection he thought
he could have to a larger family, to another part of himself.

“You will see,” Balinor reassures him, as if he can hear Merlin’s uncertainty.

He hands Merlin the small wood carved figure, a little dragon.

~-~-~

Merlin is jarred awake by Arthur’s hand pressing hard over his mouth.

“Cenred’s men,” Arthur hisses low into Merlin’s ear.

Merlin can taste his heartbeat on his tongue, it pounds against his temples and seems to thump
directly in his ears. He holds his breath, terrified that even the shiver of his exhale will be loud
enough to be heard. He moves when Arthur does, and as one they haul themselves to their feet.
They stand spine to spine, listening to the rustle of the forest with bated breaths. Merlin retrieves
his dagger from its sheath, clutching the cool bronze like it is his tether to life. It’s more for show
than anything, despite growing more proficient under Arthur’s instruction, Merlin knows if danger
arises he will use his magic and not the blade.

The soldiers charge from the forest wearing the rich purple colour of Essetir, materialising as if
they were borne from the trees and leap straight into action. Arthur is quick to react, pushing
Merlin behind him before Merlin has even taken a breath and his sword doesn’t hesitate to block
the first strike. Arthur moves so swiftly Merlin can hardly see his attacks before he disarms the
soldier and runs him through.

“Stay with Balinor!” He orders, before rushing off into the forest to meet the other soldiers.
“Arthur!” Merlin screams furiously as he tries to follow but two more of Cenred’s men block his
path.

The men launch at Merlin, attacking him with a vicious rigour, sparing him no time to fret about
Arthur running off. He doesn’t doubt that they would strike him dead without hesitation, which
means he too, cannot hesitate to defend himself. He only just manages to pull his dagger up to
block a strike at his head. With a flash of gold the knight crumples under the intense weight of his
sword and Merlin knocks him out with the hilt of his dagger.

There are too many men to focus on at once. Merlin paces his strikes with his sharp exhales, using
Arthur’s dagger for defence and his magic to attack. It’s a brutal pace, but he is managing to defend
himself well enough. He disarms one of the soldiers, using magic to plunge his sword arm through
the bark of a tree, rendering it impossible for him to move before Merlin strikes him down. He
spins around and blocks a strike aimed at his head, breathing shakily through the motions of battle
just as Arthur taught him. He doesn't see a hulking brute armed with a huge sword longer than
Merlin’s arm approaching from behind him.

Balinor does.

His father dives forward and blocks the first strike, but the second ploughs through his stomach
with a squelch. Balinor gasps as the blade breaches his skin, his eyes going wide as he looks down
in surprise at the empty gaping wound left when the assailant pulls the sword back. Merlin catches
Balinor as staggers, his body going numb as his hand falls on sticky blood that drips down his
fingers.
Merlin screams, his anger rushes out of him in a roar that sends the four knights flying. He doesn’t
even hear their heads crack into the trunks of trees, too consumed by Balinor’s ragged breathing
and the sickening dread rotting his stomach lining.

“I see you have your father’s talent,” Balinor chuckles but his words trail into a pained groan that
undermines any trace of humour. He hisses through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut against the
onslaught of pain. Merlin trembles, trying to keep Balinor upright as his body grows heavier in
Merlin’s arms.

“Please,” Merlin says thickly.

Not again, he can’t lose someone again. Will and Freya’s faces in their moments before death are
like knives plunged in his throat. He can’t breathe, every attempt to draw air only slices his airway
open as the grief cuts his skin as surely as a real sword would.

“Merlin…”

“No please, I can save you,” Merlin pleads but his cries are laced with doubt. Merlin’s healing
magic is his weakest of all, he can’t treat a stab wound like this.

“Listen to me,” Balinor urges. “When you face the dragon remember, be strong. A dragon’s heart
is on its right side, not its left.”

Merlin chokes on tears. “I can't do this alone.”

“You can.” Balinor’s hand squeezes his shoulder weakly. “You are my son. I have seen enough in
you to know you will make me proud.”

Merlin nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“I am only sorry I did not get to see your mother… one last…” Balinor’s throat strains and before
he can finish his sentence his body sags in Merlin’s grip.

“No,” Merlin gasps raggedly, clutching Balinor’s body to his like he might be able to transfer his
life to him. The grief pounds at his weak body relentlessly, beating at his ragged bones until he
thinks he will erode away under the pressure.

The pain is augmented by the fact that he is hardly mourning Balinor himself at all. He is
mourning the person that Merlin could have gotten to know, the man he could have been to
Merlin. He taught Merlin so much even in the short space of time they knew each other, Merlin
can’t help but grieve what more he could have learned from him. He grieves for himself as a young
boy longing for a father. He grieves for his mother, who will never again see the love of her life.
And he grieves on behalf of Balinor, for the freedom he may have earnt back in Camelot and the
life he never gets to live.

Merlin sits over a man he doesn’t even know, but could have been his father, and tries to swallow
his tears.

He can hear Arthur’s footsteps behind him, his presence casting a shadow over Merlin’s shoulder.
Arthur can’t know. He swipes roughly at the tears dripping down his cheeks. Merlin presses his
palm hard to his mouth in an attempt to silence the sob that wracks through him. He feels the hot
salt of his tears slide down his face. He bites at the flesh of his hand until he tastes blood and even
still, it’s impossible to bury all the sounds of his cries.

“No!”
Merlin inhales sharply, and turns to face Arthur. He clenches his jaw until it aches, and manages to
keep his tears buried deep within him.

He doesn’t even attempt a smile and still the effort of appearing unaffected drives through him like
a sword. The lie he is being forced to tell makes the moment innumerably worse. Arthur is his best
friend, and he wants to trust him. He needs to. He wants to lean on his friend and be comforted. He
wants to confess to the pain he is enduring; and he can’t.

“Camelot is doomed,” Arthur says hoarsely.

Merlin says nothing.

~-~-~

Arthur feels the weight of his failure as he and Merlin trail into Camelot.

His kingdom is in flames. There are scorch marks on the stone walls and ashes in the streets, the
houses are concave, stripped of their life and hollow as corpses. He looks at their skeletons as
regret pools between his bones, making his steps heavier and his feet drag.

His father looks up as Arthur enters the throne room and the hope in his stern eyes is enough to
make Arthur’s ribs ache. Guilt stings his throat like he swallowed acid, each breath burns with his
failings.

“I’m sorry father,” Arthur says heavily. “The last Dragonlord is dead.”

Uther sags in his throne, resignation twitching in his hard jaw.

“There were many years where I might have wished for that news,” he says, rubbing his hand over
his jaw to mask his mourning.

It strikes Arthur how weary his father is. He has borne Camelot on his shoulders for years, and this
last disaster is one he cannot bear. He cannot stand up for Camelot because he no longer has the
strength. But Arthur does.

“Hope is not lost, father,” Arthur says firmly. “We have no choice but to face the monster
ourselves, so let us ride out and face it on our own terms. On open ground, on horseback, where we
can manoeuvre better—”

Uther shakes his head, the weight of his movements makes it seem like his crown is immensely
heavy.

“There is no point.”

“So what? We stand here and watch Camelot fall?”

Arthur cannot stand by and watch his kingdom keel over. He might not survive his attempt to
protect it, but at least he would have tried, instead of standing idly and waiting for The Dragon to
reduce Camelot to ash.

Uther hesitates and Arthur wonders if once more their wills will clash.

However his father sighs and nods minutely. “You have my blessing.”

Arthur nods his gratitude, careful not to do much more, so as to avoid inducing his father’s shame
and risk him revoking his blessing. Arthur turns to the room at large and summons his courage
with a deep inhale. He can feel all the eyes on him but it does not make him afraid, it lifts him
towards the sky.

“I need a dozen knights,” Arthur commands. “Those who do not wish to fight can do so without
stain on their character. For those brave enough, know that the chances of returning are slim.”

He will not coat his words with sugar or attempt to soften the blows. If his knights wish to join
him, then they should do so willingly and with their eyes wide open. He would not trick them into
risking their lives.

They all shy away from his searching gaze, afraid. Arthur’s heart sinks but he tries not to let it
show. The silence is like winter ice in the air.

Sir Leon steps forward, holding Arthur’s gaze without hesitation. He stands in front of Arthur and
puffs his chest, placing his trust in his prince. Others follow him, stepping from the shadows to
gather around him. They waver and fear twists their faces but they stand firm, faithfully putting
their trust in Camelot and in Arthur.

They circle around him in a ring of red capes.

~-~-~

Arthur watches as Merlin silently fiddles with the clasps of the armour around his wrist, the
familiar contact is a touchstone amongst his tumultuous nerves, it grounds Arthur as he
comprehends what he’s about to do. Merlin is still dreadfully silent, and without his voice the
room feels emptier. He has hardly spoken since The Dragon attacked and it has only grown worse
since Balinor’s death. But if Arthur is going to die today he’ll be damned if he doesn’t spend his
last moments happy.

“Well, look on the bright side, Merlin. Chances are you’re not going to have to clean this again,”
he jokes as a weak attempt to bring some humour into the space and maybe encourage Merlin to
brighten.

Merlin doesn’t even smile. “You need to be careful today. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“Yes, Sire!” Arthur teases.

“I’m serious.”

“Yes I can hear that.”

Merlin’s brows are drawn low over his eyes and his jaw is so tight Arthur worries it will stay fixed
in that solemn expression forever. He hates the prospect.

“Let matters take their course,” Merlin continues in that same heavy tone.

“Merlin, if I die please…”

Merlin’s head jerks up and the terror in his eyes makes Arthur immediately regret speaking of it.
They’ve known since Arthur announced that he would face The Dragon that his death is a very real
possibility, but perhaps it’s different for Merlin to hear it. His face does not resemble someone who
has come to terms with the potential of Arthur’s death, it is one of very raw distress.

“What?”
Arthur sighs. It is obvious he cannot ignore the thick fog of anguish hanging over Merlin like he
was hoping to. Merlin’s face is gaunt and his eyes have a hint of red to them that he probably
thinks Arthur won’t notice, his eyes keep darting away like he’s a guilty man on trial, like he’s
afraid for Arthur to see the truth; but Arthur is always keeping an eye on Merlin.

“The Dragonlord today… I saw you,” the words sit heavily in Arthur’s mouth and he considers
them carefully. He doesn’t know how to find the words that Merlin needs to hear, or how to go
about comforting him, he only knows that he wants to. Arthur knows he wasn’t meant to see
Merlin’s tears, he saw Merlin hurriedly swiping them away, trying to stay strong. Burying
emotions like that is something he expects from himself, or one of his knights, not from Merlin.

Merlin wears his heart embroidered on his sleeve. He feels deeply things in ways that Arthur can’t
even conceive; Merlin isn’t the kind to lock his feelings away but to let himself experience them
wholly. Arthur watched Merlin grieve a stranger they just met, and knows without a doubt that he
would do the same for Arthur. He would do more, he would mourn him. He would cry for Arthur,
grieve for him. The idea is unbearable, it digs its claws deep into Arthur’s chest and tugs until his
heartstrings threaten to snap.

Arthur grasps Merlin’s shoulder in a tight hold, steadying them both with the anchoring touch. He
squeezes his shoulder amiably, thumb pressed above Merlin’s collarbone under his neckerchief and
fingers wrapped over the edge of his neck.

“One thing I always tell my young knights is that no man is worth your tears.”

Don’t cry for me, please.

Merlin meets Arthur’s eyes with an intensity that makes Arthur burn.

“Yeah,” Merlin says in a choked voice. The moment stretches long between them, they don’t break
eye contact. Arthur wonders if he’ll ever look away but he finds he doesn’t want to.

Merlin is the first to breach the stillness, with a laugh that is drenched in unshed tears.

“You’re certainly not,” Merlin teases, finally leaning into their normal banter like a crutch to
support his weight. Arthur smiles easily, letting the familiarity of their teasing settle into his skin as
a soothing balm to ease away his nerves and exhaustion.

He retrieves his sword from where Merlin left it on the armoire and turns to see Merlin doing the
same. The sword looks ungainly in Merlin’s hand; he has a unique ability to make it look like he’s
never held a sword in his life, even though Arthur has seen him wield one on many occasions.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks with a bemused tilt of his head.

“I’m coming with you,” Merlin answers without hesitation.

Arthur raises his eyebrow already smiling at the absurdity of the response.

“Merlin, the chances are I’m going to die.”

Merlin grins shakily. “Yeah, you probably would if I wasn’t there.”

“Right,” Arthur says disbelievingly.

“Do you know how many times I’ve saved your royal backside?”
A laugh bubbles past Arthur’s lips. “Well at least you’ve got your sense of humour back.”

Arthur knocks their swords together playfully, grinning as Merlin stumbles backwards. Merlin
doesn’t put down the sword but instead follows Arthur to the doorway, determination glinting in
his eyes. He looks at Arthur expectantly, like he’s waiting for him to lead the way. Arthur stands
still, with his feet pinned to the floor.

“You're really coming with me, aren’t you?” He says slowly, looking at Merlin in astonishment.

“Well I’m not going to stand here and watch.” Merlin smiles, like it’s the most obvious thing in the
world that he would be following Arthur, like there’s nowhere else he would ever consider being.

An incomprehensible emotion washes over Arthur. There are some elements he can identify with
ease; awe, wonder, admiration. Awe, that Merlin is willing to follow Arthur into danger without
the strength to combat it. Merlin is not accustomed to battle like Arthur is, but he shows just as
much fortitude as a knight in the face of a dragon. Wonder at Merlin’s bravery, so often he acts a
coward but it’s obvious now that such has never been the case. Admiration, that although there is
fear in Merlin’s bright eyes as they meet Arthur, and his bold smile struggles not to waver, he still
tips his chin confidently and straightens his spine.

But underneath those layers of awe is something Arthur cannot name. A warm rushing feeling that
tingles in his fingertips, leaving him warm and slightly dizzy. His heart thunders in his chest, like a
wild horse running free. He struggles to identify the feeling, grappling with the sensation like if he
runs his fingers over it he will be able to understand it more clearly.

Merlin grins and leans a little closer, like he’s sharing a secret with Arthur.

“Look, I know it’s difficult for you to understand how I feel but…”

Arthur’s heart does a strange squeeze.

“I really care about that armour, I’m not about to let you mess it up.”

A laugh slips past Arthur’s lips before he can help it, a genuine giggle that sometimes he thinks he
might reserve for Merlin, because he’s the only one that can draw it out of him.

Merlin laughs too and it eases a weight of Arthur’s shoulders. His stomach is still a tight knot in his
belly, and his heart hasn’t slowed since he told his father what he planned to do; but here, with
Merlin, he feels okay.

“Come on,” he nudges Merlin with his shoulder. “Let’s go face a dragon.”

~-~-~

Merlin has never felt heat like this.

It sears all the way down to his bones, scorching the lining of his lungs, setting his ribs aflame, he
is being cooked alive, his skin so hot and sticky it seems to melt off him. His tunic is completely
soaked through, drenched in sweat so that every time he moves it sticks to him and rubs at the
inflamed skin until it blisters. With each breath he can feel smoke in his throat, and he can taste the
ash in the air mixed with the salty taste of his own sweat dripping from his upper lip.

The Dragon stalks around the open field, defending the territory as his own. His roars make the
ground tremble until Merlin’s kneecaps rattle and his bones quake. The moment they entered the
battlefield the Dragon unleashed fire at them, setting the air alight with his fury. He incapacitated
the other knights and left them like pieces of meat strewn across the ground. It’s impossible to tell
how many survived, or whether all the brave men who chose to accompany Arthur were
slaughtered. Merlin's legs twitch with the urge to run and check but he forces himself to stay rooted
to the ground. He cannot leave Arthur at the mercy of this beast.

Merlin never really noticed how large The Dragon was when he was in the cavern. He always
seemed smaller trapped in that monstrous cavern, the size of the chasm diminished him. Now he
towers over Merlin and Arthur. To him they are ants, small and meak, taking their stand against a
mountain.

Arthur takes up his sword, and Merlin tightens his grip on his magic. Together they charge.

The Dragon roars and Merlin throws himself to the ground, only narrowly escaping a torrent of
flames that sears over his head. His ears sing with the sound of fire, burning at their tips where the
flames skimmed too near. The heat is so thick Merlin almost chokes as he struggles for breath. He
looks around frantically for Arthur, his heart beating like war drums. The prince has gained ground
on the Dragon, somehow still standing despite the roars shaking the ground.

Merlin stumbles to his feet, all he can think is that he needs to be nearer to Arthur, he has to protect
him. The Dragon rears on his legs and buffets his wings, the huge flaps send cascading waves of
wind over the pair of them. Merlin stumbles, falling onto his back with a shout of pain he can’t
hear over the Dragon’s roars. Somehow, Arthur ploughs forward, ducking his head low like the
soldier he is and charges into battle.

Merlin watches in terror as Arthur ducks below the Dragon’s swinging claws and thrusts his sword
forward into The Dragon’s chest. He is aiming for a fatal blow, and as a trained hunter he knows
where a creature’s heart lies; but Balinor’s words return to Merlin.

A Dragon’s heart is on its right, not its left.

“Arthur!” The name tears from his throat in a scream. It’s too late. The beast bellows with rage,
rearing on his hind legs and swiping a giant clawed foot at Arthur. He falls as the claw strikes
across his chest, his head smacks against the ground, blonde head falling unconscious into the
muddy grass.

A scream tears from Merlin’s throat like a dragon’s roar.

He had been certain that he did not possess his father’s gift. He was convinced that the last
Dragonlord had died, and his ability was lost with him. But now he feels power rise in his chest
like nothing he has felt before, it surges from within, rushing under his skin and drumming in the
hollows of his chest. He no longer feels small before The Dragon, his power extends like a
wingspan, his chin tips and becomes The Dragon’s equal.

He can feel the tether between them, it extends from Merlin’s soul and joins to the heart that lies
underneath the scales of the beast. Their souls are brothers, their power is kin, Merlin and he share
a voice and a language that was a foreign tongue until this moment. He knows implicitly, as though
his father is telling him, that this shared voice will bridle Kilgharrah to his will.

“Kilgharrah!” He shouts and the name roars and buzzes through his body. “Listen to me!”

Kilgharrah goes very still, his golden eyes grow huge as he gapes down at Merlin. He settles onto
his four legs, leaning forward so he and Merlin are eye to eye. His giant wings curl into his body,
lifting upwards like hands raised in surrender. Merlin’s chest heaves but he says nothing more, his
ears ring at the sudden onset of quiet after such impossible noise. The silence itself seems to fill the
space where Merlin doesn’t yet have words. He slowly reaches down, holding Kilgharrah’s eyes
like a challenge and picks up an abandoned spear on the ground.

“Please,” Kilgharrah says softly, he crouches lower on one leg, like he is kneeling before Merlin. “I
am the last of my kind, Merlin. I know I have done wrong, but please, do not let me be responsible
for the death of my noble breed.”

Merlin’s heart beats in his throat, he feels it thump against his vocal chords and under his jaw. His
chest shudders as he takes a steeling breath. He should kill him, God knows that Kilgharrah
deserves it; but Merlin has never been a killer.

He thrusts the spear forwards threateningly and Kilgharrah flinches back.

“Go!” Merlin screams hoarsely. “Leave! If you ever attack Camelot again I swear…” he heaves a
breath, struggling to speak through the immense grief choking him. “I will kill you.”

Merlin shudders, tears dripping down his cheeks as he looks up at the great dragon. His guilt is like
a torrential wave colliding with relief, the two crash together and wash over Merlin, filling the
spaces in his bones, between the vertebrae of his spine and in his stomach. After all the immense
heat, Merlin feels suddenly cold. Kilgharrah bows his assent, his head dips so low that his snout
almost brushes the ground by Merlin’s feet.

The spear slips from Merlin’s sweaty fingers which are shaking too much to hold it any longer. His
shock rushes through him in a shudder so violent he fears that he will crumble apart completely.

“I have shown you mercy, now you must do the same for others.”

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah says gently, “young warlock. What you have shown is what is truly within
you, and the person you will continue to be. I will not forget your clemency.”

Merlin takes a deep breath and for the first time in days it comes into his lungs clean.

“I am sure our paths will cross again,” Kilgharrah says solemnly.

Whether it is a promise or a premonition Merlin isn’t sure.

With those final words the dragon takes off into the sky with huge beats of his wings. Merlin
watches until his figure is out of sight.

He doesn’t get a chance to reflect on Kilgharrah leaving, because within moments Arthur is
waking. His chest rouses first, followed by his lips parting to swallow a shuddering gasp and
finally his eyelashes fluttering open. Merlin hurries to his side, resisting the urge to run his hands
over his armour and check for injuries and instead lays a tentative hand on Arthur’s elbow.

“What happened?” Arthur asks dazedly. His eyes are slightly unfocused, looking somewhere by
Merlin’s left ear rather than his eyes, but even despite the lack of focus they search Merlin’s face
for his answer.

“You dealt him a mortal blow,” Merlin lies easily, but it doesn’t taste bitter with guilt as it usually
does. It can’t when it makes Arthur smile so wide. This lie is one that does good.

“He’s gone?” Arthur asks with wide innocent eyes.

“Yes,” Merlin smiles. “You did it.”

Arthur laughs, bright and loud, like his joy is so encompassing he can’t contain it within. It bursts
out of him as he throws his head back. Merlin doesn’t even care that he is giving someone else the
credit for his own success because Arthur’s beaming smile is worth everything. He looks so
beautiful like this, a starburst of joy basking in the light of the moon.

“You did it.”

Together they make their way to the fallen knights, with Merlin supporting most of Arthur’s
weight. A terrible number of them died at Kilgharrah’s hand; the sight of their mangled and burned
bodies curdles Merlin’s stomach. Only Sir Leon and Sir Bors survive and they hobble to their feet
with winces and hands gripping their burnt skin. As a group, the small portion of those that left,
they traipse back to the castle, the adrenaline from winning the battle has worn away, leaving them
threadbare and hanging with exhaustion.

Gwen and Gaius meet them at the gate, as well as Bors’ two brothers and Leon’s wife, Juliana.
Merlin watches as she embraces him with a heavy sob, pressing her face to his neck and burying
her tears there. Leon whispers something indiscernible to her and kisses her cheek before lowering
himself to his knee to kiss her round belly as well.

Gwen draws Merlin’s attention by throwing her arms around him and Arthur.

“I thought I lost you,” she says softly, tears thick in her voice. “I was so scared—”

“We’re not going anywhere, Gwen we won’t leave you,” Arthur promises, squeezing her back. She
continues to cling to him even as her grip on Merlin falters, and Merlin uses the opportunity to slip
away and instead fall into Gaius’ embrace.

In the physician’s arms he finally feels how exhausted he truly is, it seems to sink into his very
bones. He is shaking but Gaius doesn’t comment, he simply holds him tighter and whispers words
of praise.

“My boy,” he says fondly, stroking his fingers through Merlin’s hair.

“I did it,” Merlin says weakly, soft enough that he doesn’t worry he will be overheard by Arthur or
the other knights. “I carry my father’s gift.”

Gaius pulls away with a sad smile. He presses his palm to Merlin’s heart and holds it there firmly.

“I couldn’t be more proud of you, Merlin. He would be too.”

A sob catches in Merlin's chest, his breath hitches on the effort to keep it inside.

“I hope so.”

Gaius continues to rub reassuringly at Merlin’s shoulder until his breaths ease once again.

“Merlin,” Gaius sighs. “I know I can never compare to your father but… for what it’s worth. You
still have me.”

Tears fill Merlin’s eyes, warm and stinging as he sniffles and beams down at Gaius.

“Well,” Merlin laughs wetly. “I suppose I’ll just have to make do.”

Gaius laughs and knuckles at his head, pulling him into another tight hug.
 Chapter End Notes

aaa i hope you enjoyed this chapter !!

as season 2 comes to a close it feels like a good time to just give a little reminder that
this is a slow burn !! i know it feels like merlin and arthur are taking a long time to get
together but ultimately while this is a queer rewrite it isn't wholly dedicated to just the
two of them, but to telling the entire show in a reinvented way !!

a huge thank you to everyone who's being kind and patient !! and i hope you're
enjoying theirs, and all the other characters', development !!

we are now entering the season break so i will see you all again with the first episode
of season 3 on may 7th !!!
love you all !!

End Notes

im on tiktok (tjmcharg123) if you'd like updates and regular content about OAFK, twitter
(crystalskiess) and tumblr (crystalskiess) if you wanna check me out there, i'd love to hear
from you!

there is also a discord server if you want other people to talk about this fic and merlin with
!! linked here

please leave a comment and/or kudos !! they make my entire life, and i would love to know
what you're thinking so far !!!

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