The Impersonated Self

by fourleggedfish

Summary:

What if Arthur gave a different answer to the Disir, but no one knew it?

Notes:

Further warnings at the end if you want them. They may spoil a bit though.

Chapter 1

PROLOGUE: The Disir

 

“I would have you become the king you’re destined to be.”

Arthur leaned upright, gaze calculating. Even so, what he actually felt was more akin to curiosity. “If I do save Mordred, all my father’s work will be for nothing. Sorcery will reign once more in Camelot.” He watched Merlin, intent. “Is that what you’d want?”

Merlin seemed to be shaking, a subtle inability to hold still, and though he likely didn’t realize it, his face – his eyes, fixed on Arthur – gave away so much. But he didn’t speak.

“Perhaps my father was wrong.” Arthur was willing to grant that – he’d said as much before, fought with him over his unyielding stance on magic, his paranoia about it, his lack of discernment or justice or mercy where it was concerned. This was nothing Merlin hadn’t heard before, of course. But Arthur hadn’t previously stared at him as he said it, trying to fathom out this…sorcerer. This man who stood by Arthur when by rights, Merlin should hate him like all the rest seemed to do. “Perhaps the old ways aren’t as evil as we thought.”

Across the fire, Merlin’s breathing had picked up, but not in fear – not in anything so simple. He watched Arthur with the rims of his eyes reddened, a sheen over the irises. There was fear there, but more of other things – a terrible hope, and despair, and a perilous, treacherous want. And sadness. Because to counter that hope, something else seemed to seep in around the edges, and Arthur couldn’t, for the life of him, parse it out just then, for all that Merlin’s gaze never really wavered from his.

“So what should we do? Accept magic?”

Merlin was biting the inside of his cheek, agitated, and his nostrils flared as he exhaled through his nose, finally breaking eye contact for a moment. He was on the verge of tears, the giant petticoat. They weren’t relieved or happy tears, though. That thing curling at the edges of the expression on his face seemed to be something else.

“Or let Mordred die?”

Merlin shook his head, sort of – it wasn’t a very committed response, more a negation at being asked to choose at all. He looked down, still minutely shaking his head and holding back whatever it was he truly thought or wanted to say. The struggle fascinated Arthur, but in a terrible way. He looked at Merlin and saw a conflict that, to Arthur, was pointless. Surely the answer was obvious. Merlin was a sorcerer. Merlin was a good man. Magic had never been the problem – men were the problem. And a man’s life was at stake. Merlin was not the sort of person to allow an innocent man to die for the sake of a principle – certainly not the same innocent man he’d saved once as a child.

Finally, some of the tension left Merlin’s frame, and it was obvious that he’d come to a decision. He sank back a bit, more relaxed, and swallowed the vestiges of whatever emotion had left him in such turmoil. He took another moment to gather his thoughts though, words stuck behind downcast eyes, and then he leaned forward, swallowed several times. Nerves, likely. It had to be terrifying, Arthur thought, to keep a secret your whole life, one that could get you killed, and then one day just….tell it. To the very king who may kill you for it. Arthur nodded to encourage him. There was no better moment; the time for secrets had to be over.

“There can be no place for magic in Camelot.”

Arthur didn’t react at first. He’d heard the words, and the way Merlin forced the first half of them, but he couldn’t quite believe it. He watched Merlin give those tiny head shakes, still denying, maybe some part of him refusing the lie he’d just told. Arthur narrowed his eyes and leaned back against his pack, still looking at Merlin, and the way Merlin had finally turned away, eyes downcast, not at ease, not pleased with himself. Just… He looked like saying that to Arthur had broken something in him. In which case, why say it?

Arthur nodded to himself, eyes straying to the cave, and contemplated his choice.

* * *

In the morning, Arthur ordered Merlin to wait outside with the horses while he spoke to the Disir. In the afternoon, when they returned to Camelot, it was to the news that Mordred had succumbed to his wound. Arthur’s initial response was rage at the betrayal of the Disir. His next was confusion, because when he looked back at Merlin, he saw only relief on the man’s face. Was it relief at thinking that Arthur had refused to cede to the demands of the triple goddess, or relief that Mordred – who Merlin had never really seemed to like or trust since meeting the boy again as an adult – was dead?

Arthur wasn’t sure. But it gave him pause enough to reserve his anger until he could be certain that it was justified.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 1

 

Arthur remembered, vividly, the day Guinevere died.

It felt surreal, still. The sun had been high. Bright. It was a beautiful day, and the water at the cauldron had been so blue that Arthur found it hard to look at. He remembered pleading with Guinevere to remember her love for him. He remembered the bright, pure light of a goddess on the water, and Merlin wearing someone else’s face, dressed up like an idiot as if Arthur wouldn’t notice his worn, familiar boots poking out of the bottom of that hideous dress, giving him away. He remembered his sister, and yelling, blood and a small, crippled white dragon, and Guinevere stilled in his arms. And he remembered like sounds echoing in a thick fog, or heard from underwater, Merlin’s voice crying, pleading with the light on the lake to save her, just please, in the name of all that was good, please save the queen.

Even Arthur knew that it was too late, however sympathetic the formless goddess might be. Guinevere was already gone. Her body died in his arms, but his wife, his first love, had been gone for far longer than he had noticed. He should have noticed. It would have made mourning her easier, he thought, if he had known when they rescued her from the tower that she was, for all intents and purposes, already dead. Arthur had been prepared for that – he could have handled that. It was the months that followed, the false security, the misplaced trust, the knowledge of his own blindness and the disservice that it did to his queen – his own betrayal of their love and knowledge of each other, for not even noticing that it wasn’t her. That was what caused his grief to linger so strong, festering. The guilt that he felt at letting her down had nothing, in the end, to do with her actual death, and everything to do with how he had missed it entirely. He had defiled her by continuing to blindly love and trust her imposter. For gods’ sakes, he had been intimate with her, with the perversion of her, right up until learning the truth.

They didn’t bury his sister. The last Arthur saw of Morgana, the little white dragon had twisted its unnaturally angled limbs around her body, and though Merlin tried to convince him to pass it off as a mourning embrace, Arthur couldn’t avoid the realization that it was probably eating her. He had no sorrow left for that, though. It seemed fitting that a predator and a betrayer should be betrayed and consumed by a predator, at the last.

Over a year had passed since that day. Arthur mourned, of course he did, and sealed the queen’s chambers in a manner far too reminiscent of his father sealing Ygraine’s. Merlin recovered from the head wound he sustained falling off of the path to the cauldron, though it caused some worry at first, and took a fair bit of time. Arthur recovered from the broken wrist he suffered from going down after him. They buried Guinevere near her brother and her father, on the hillside, where the sun would shine every day. It had become a pilgrim’s path since then, and the entire hill was covered in flowers from the seeds that her mourning subjects spread. Arthur couldn’t bring himself to go there anymore; it was too beautiful a place for a grave.

Arthur didn’t think that Merlin visited her either, not since the ceremony itself. The only time Arthur really heard him speak of her was in the beginning, when Merlin tried to apologize for breaking his promise to Arthur – for failing to break Morgana’s curse and restore Gwen to him. That should have been the moment when Arthur told him that he knew how hard Merlin had tried to keep his word – that he knew it was Merlin who summoned the goddess and drove the dragon away from Arthur where he crouched, refusing to weep on the shore, uncaring as the beast charged him. That it was Merlin, not some recluse lady sorcerer, who picked Excalibur up from where Arthur dropped it and drove it through Morgana from behind, so hard…so hard that a solid eight inches protruded out the other side of her. Driven by the kind of rage that can only come from grief. There was a terrible strength in grief.

But he didn’t. Arthur yelled at him a bit, but not about the broken promise, and definitely not about the secret magic. In truth, he had no idea what he’d gone on about, only that eventually, he looked up to find his chambers empty, and a trail of broken crockery to show Arthur’s path through the room. Merlin disappeared for a few days, and then showed up one dawn again as if nothing had happened. They went on as they always had, for the most part. Except that now, Merlin was quieter, and Arthur still didn’t know why Merlin didn’t trust him with the truth of his magic when it was clear that his loyalty to Camelot – to Arthur – could never be called a sham. He contradicted everything that Arthur thought he might understand about a sorcerer – he was good, and he was loyal, and he risked his life without even the slightest hope of gratitude, and he chose to be a servant. Merlin asked for nothing but that – he asked for that, to be allowed to keep his station. Arthur didn’t even know why Merlin was there in the first place. Arthur’s Camelot was not Uther’s, it had no purge and never would, but it was still hostile to magic, and Arthur knew it just as surely as he knew that Merlin would never betray him, sorcerer or no. Surely that made Merlin a traitor to his own people – to those with magic – which was mystery enough in itself, but Arthur found himself far more preoccupied with why someone of Merlin’s power would consent to lower themselves to be a servant at all, than with why he had turned so far against magic that he even advised Arthur to renounce it to the Triple Goddess herself.

Arthur could not pretend to understand Merlin’s motivations, but he understood Merlin just fine. He was far too gregarious for a man who had no secrets, and far too simplistic for a truly simple man. Everybody liked him. He liked everybody back. Everybody looked at Merlin and thought, “That is a man I can trust with my life.” And then they would make sure that they didn’t let him carry anything fragile because he’d certainly trip or run into a wall and break it. But the reverse of that trust was not true; Merlin gave away nothing, and he did it with the guile of someone who has kept his secrets for so long that it no longer occurred to him not to. He was secrets. He was confidences unshared. He was… alone in a way that Arthur understood. Never show anything vulnerable – never let them see the cracks or the weaknesses or the way you doubt yourself at night. Never let them see you, or the things you love, or the things you believe in, or they might gain power over you, and end you. Of course Arthur understood that. He was King. A king can never be weak, which meant that he could also never be known.

It was second nature for Merlin to smile, bumble, grin, gripe and give the very skin off of his back if someone else needed it more. But he didn’t confide. He shared something like wisdom when Arthur needed it, but he didn’t do so the way other men did – by relating personal anecdotes. Everyone knew Merlin. But no one knew him. It took Arthur far too long to figure that out. When he finally parsed out what Merlin was hiding, it wasn’t the sorcery that shocked him. It was realizing that as far as he was able, Merlin had been telling Arthur the truth about himself all along, and Arthur had dismissed him for a fool every time. Merlin never truly lied. Dissembled, yes. Misled, disguised, diverted, omitted – he did all of those things out of self-preservation. But otherwise, he was shockingly open for a man carrying a heritage that could get him killed. And he kept using his forbidden gifts to save the lives of people who would show their gratitude for it with a pyre.

It took a certain cunning to hide in plain sight like that, right under Arthur’s nose. Right under Uther’s, usually telling nothing but the plain truth, and yet still never seen.

It was disturbing.

It should have been terrifying.

Arthur should have wondered if Merlin’s lies, his veiled truths, spelled treachery.

All Arthur wanted to do was grab him around the neck, squeeze a little bit, and then hang onto him for a while, waiting for the struggling and the squirming and the indignant (poor cover for terrified) protests to fade away. Long enough for Merlin to get it through his thick skull that Arthur knew. That Arthur understood, and why on earth shouldn’t they finally just share the burden? Just a bit, sometimes, over mulled wine at night or under a canopy of stars by a campfire after a good hunt. The hardest part of being king was that Arthur found himself surrounded by people every hour of every day, alone in a sea of flesh and words and thoughts, and fetid breath, and false obeisance, in a shiny citadel where everyone knew his name and what he did and how to speak to him, how best to use him, and everything about him except who and what Arthur was. And none of those people knew what that felt like.

Merlin knew exactly what that felt like.

Once he’d recategorized his manservant in his mind (loyal, stupid, insubordinate, noble, magical idiot), his first unfettered reaction to the new picture of Merlin in his mind had not been anger. Neither was it fear, or betrayal, or suspicion, or anything else that a sane king should feel upon discovering a liar and technical traitor sharing his most personal spaces. It was affection, and some kind of want that touched on a dark part of Arthur that he didn’t much like. Some stupid part of himself simply wanted to grab it, wrestle it down, and own it. He always had, and it made him think of maces swung in the marketplace at a mouthy, gangly boy who dared call Arthur a bully to his face, at a time when he needed to be told it most.

Arthur frowned into the fire in front of him, the sky dark outside his chamber windows and the air sweet with peat and a waft of early autumn. The mulled wine tasted warm and spicy-sweet on his tongue, a billowing heat suffused in his veins. He had no idea where Merlin had found it; Cook wouldn’t normally make it until closer to midwinter. It was Arthur’s favorite drink of the season, though, and he’d mentioned it just that morning at court, wistfully, in a room filled with councilors, and Merlin lurking around the edges.

Speaking of Merlin, the (in)sufferable idiot hadn’t once stopped chattering, his back bent in a curl over Arthur’s chainmail as he inspected it for rust and breaks, sat on the floor near the fire at Arthur’s feet. It had been a long time since Merlin last babbled on about nothing, his voice a soothing background to Arthur’s thoughts the way rain or wind might be. Arthur eyed the lanky frame of the man, like a rack of antlers dressed in old peasant clothes. And he thought to himself, Yes, I want that. A giant, blabbering, grinning coat rack who always but never told the truth, would happily go to his death for the sake of men who would never stand by him if they knew what he was, who juggled to entertain street children and wrote noble speeches and lied by omission every day, and whose once brilliant smiles no longer reached his eyes. Where on earth did such a man even come from, let alone come to him?

“Where did you learn to read?”

“ – and then Thomas told him to – what?”

“Read, Merlin. Where did you learn to do it?”

Merlin started to shake his head, but the confusion appeared too much for him and he cocked his head instead. “You…want to know where I learned to read?”

“Is it that complicated a question?” Arthur frowned into his goblet, which was still mostly full, and then looked at Merlin again, all sharp angles set off by the fire lighting him from behind. “You know, I could hang hats off of your shoulder blades.” That was not what he’d meant to say, surely. The wine really was very nice.

Merlin blinked. “…you don’t own any hats.”

Arthur squinted at him. “I own all the hats. I’m the king, Merlin.”

“You don’t even like hats.”

“I don’t have to like hats. I’m the – “

“ – king, yes, you said.” Merlin paused. “Did you want me to fetch you a hat?”

Arthur glared at him for good measure. “Don’t be ridiculous; I despise hats. Messy, wooly things.” He waved the whole notion off with his goblet, which splattered around a bit, and then sipped at his wine some more. Or gulped. He tried to sip, really, but he came near to choking on it so he must have miscalculated. The sweetness of it carried just the right amount of heat to balance the sharpness of clove and cinnamon, and Arthur twisted his head around to lick the spatter from his thumb. When he looked up, he found Merlin staring, his eyes blank but his cheeks flushed.

Arthur cocked his head at him. Merlin shook himself and went back to the chainmail, sans blathering. Wine forgotten in his hand, Arthur stared at the knob of a vertebra at the base of Merlin’s neck long enough that it, too, flushed pink.

Interesting. “Do you remember when you juggled?”

“Oh, not that again.” Merlins scrubbed the back of his hand over his forehead, a cleaning rag dangling from his fingers.

“You were…” He twiddled his fingers a bit, expression distant. “…dexterous. Not like you. Clumsy.”

“I told you, I have many talents, you’re just not looking.”

“Yes.” It must have been magic juggling, the cheat. Arthur felt his mouth smear – he must be smiling. Good. Smiling was good. He set his goblet aside and struggled upright from his sprawl in the chair. “I have decided to look.” He eyed Merlin’s face, and then the rest of him for good measure. He twiddled his fingers, possibly too close to Merlin’s face if the way he flinched back was anything to go by. “I would like to know what other sorts of talented things you might be able to do.”

Merlin’s mouth did something complicated and then his eyes went wide over a bit of slack jaw before it really occurred to Arthur how suggestive that sounded, and that he had purred a little too much.

“Oh god, no. No, sorry.” Arthur shoved himself back again as Merlin balked, a proper balk at that, and let the chair catch him again when he couldn’t quite stand as intended. “No, that was entirely inappropriate.” He dug his palms into his eye sockets.

“It’s alright,” Merlin offered, but he sounded too cautious now.

“God, just, the wine,” Arthur tried to explain. He could feel it thumping all of a sudden in his ear drums, a cadence to match the beat of his heart. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Merlin was on his feet when Arthur looked up again, chainmail and armor discarded on the floor. “It’s alright. Come on.” He gripped at Arthur’s bicep and tugged. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“I drank too much. How did I drink too much?”

“It wasn’t watered down as much as usual,” Merlin said. “I know you like the taste better that way.”

Arthur nodded, somehow on his feet and pointed at his empty bed with Merlin pressing lightly between his shoulder blades. God, he missed Guinevere, the ache more fierce tonight than it had been for the past year. He bumped into the bed and dropped his hands to sit. At least he felt more miserable over what he’d said to Merlin than over his absent wife, for once. He looked up when Merlin tugged at his tunic, and Merlin returned his gaze in only a flicker, wary, or maybe just contemplative, before focusing on the laces again at Arthur’s throat. Just in case it was the former, Arthur said, “Don’t be offended. I didn’t mean it like that. I wouldn’t. You’re a servant, and I wouldn’t make you do that. It’s not right.”

Merlin raised a brow, a bit like Gaius in that affect, and offered, his voice hesitant, “I’m not offended. I would, though. If it… If you wanted. I wouldn’t mind, if you did mean it.”

“What?”

“I mean, it’s fine,” Merlin backpedaled, one hand waving off while the other tugged the last of the knot out and loosened the tunic. “If you just need, you know…something. If you’re lonely, I mean, or just cold, or whatever. With Gwen gone, I mean, you might…have needs, or just…” He flapped his hand, which really conveyed nothing as far as clarity went. “And I know some of the servants do that, sometimes. I wouldn’t mind if you wanted a hand or something – ”

Arthur was moving before he’d really registered the intent to do so in his wine-addled mind. Merlin squawked and it took a moment for Arthur realize that he’d made that noise upon Arthur slamming his back into the wall, one hand fisted in Merlin’s collar and neckerchief, pulling it tight up against his throat. “Don’t you ever – ever – “

“Arthur!” Merlin grabbed at his wrist to try and pry it off. “I won’t – I’m sorry – I just thought it might – “

“What, help?! You are never to imply that you can take Guinevere’s place!”

“I wasn’t – !”

“That’s not your place! It’s never your place! You never – “

“Arthur, please…”

Arthur dropped his hand as if scalded and breathed heavily, stumbling back a step as he watched Merlin cough and tug his neckerchief off to one side to better catch his breath. When he reached to help, Merlin skittered away without showing Arthur his back, his hand held up in that strange warding gesture that Arthur had seen him make whenever they were under attack. At a loss, Arthur retreated and sank back down onto his mattress, trembling. He was more drunk than he’d thought, and his temper, familiar as it was, had come just as unexpectedly as it had gone. He recognized Uther in that. It made him feel slightly sick.

Merlin lowered his hand and straightened, and his face hardened in anger. “For the record, sire, you are not the only one who misses her.”

“I know that. Merlin – “

“No.” Merlin strode to the cupboard, drew out Arthur’s night clothes, and flung them across the room. They smacked Arthur in the face and fell into his lap, followed by Merlin appearing in front of him with alarming stealth to all but rip Arthur’s arms off along with his tunic. “And in case you forgot, she was my friend first. If you really think I would disrespect her by trying to take her place, then you are an absolute cabbage head.”

Arthur allowed the manhandling because really, Merlin probably deserved to get some of his own back, and he didn’t like hearing the hitch and crack in Merlin’s voice as he spoke back. Arthur waited for Merlin to turn away with his dirty tunic and then offered, “I don’t want you whoring yourself out. That’s all.”

Merlin paused, and the very silence was murderous; Arthur didn’t need to look at his face to know as much. “Whoring myself,” he echoed, his voice deceptively flat.

“I mean, you’re a servant, Merlin.” He should probably stop trying to explain himself, since the words weren’t coming out right at all. “And you shouldn’t even be a servant, really, much less – “ He didn’t get a chance to finish that, for which he was perversely thankful, as Merlin chose that moment to try to suffocate him with his sleeping tunic. Once it was on all of the way, and Merlin had tugged his suspiciously heavy arms through the right holes, Arthur added, “Because of your birth. It’s really not proper.”

Merlin’s face did something blank, and Arthur blinked at it, trying to figure it out. “You mean because of my parentage.” Flat.

Arthur nodded. “Exactly! See? You understand.” At least they could have that out in the open, finally.

“So, since I’m a fatherless bastard, I’m not good enough to be a whore, much less your servant.”

Arthur’s brow creased. “No, because your father – “

“Will there be anything more, sire?”

– was a noble. Had to be, really. Why else would a peasant know how to read? And lords should not be servants. And dragons had lords – some kind of lord – because Merlin told the white dragon off for trying to attack them, and it listened, and something… Arthur shut his eyes for a moment and knuckled his forehead. He was going to have a horrible headache in the morning. “No – look, Merlin, I know that – “ The click of the door interrupted him and he looked up, only to find the space before him lacking in manservants. For good measure, he scanned the rest of the room as well to confirm that yes, he was alone. “Dammit.” He was too drunk for this.

It was too much trouble just then to find a way under his blankets, and he was wearing riding trousers still, and he was the damn king, and why was everything so difficult all of a sudden? Stupid secret magical lord manservant. Arthur flopped back and let his body just sink into the mattress. Good enough. He could berate himself for his drunken idiocy in the morning.

* * *

“Merlin. Merlin! Wake up.” Arthur flailed a foot out and tried to kick at him but missed. He could see Gwen lying on the path above them. “Merlin…”

He was free suddenly, sword bent, hilt scuffed from being used as a lever, arm throbbing and likely broken. He shook Merlin’s limp form, blood along his hairline, and disentangled him from the multitude of packs. He’d made Merlin bring them all, but why? They didn’t need everything. Petty – Arthur was being petty to make him carry them all like a pack mule, and now he wasn’t moving. “Wake up, wake up, wake up – ”

* * *

The shush of the curtains woke Arthur, followed by a stab of sunlight that he could have done without. He growled something inquisitive that sounded like, “Mrrrrln.”

“Good morning, sire.”

Arthur groaned. He really couldn’t stand proper-servant Merlin. “Why must you do that?” Something needed to be done; he couldn’t deal with Merlin being all…servant-y.

Merlin paused in arranging breakfast, then apparently deemed that rhetorical and went back to placing cutlery. The tray only held enough food for one. Arthur was convinced that Merlin previously only ate enough because he stole extras from Arthur’s plate. He would need to have words with the kitchen staff about portion size going forward. It had been months since Merlin last ate with him. Well…with being a relative thing when one of the participants was consensually stealing the other’s food.

“Breakfast is served.” He approached Arthur and held out a bottle of foul green-brown sludge. “Hangover remedy. Gaius made it fresh this morning.”

“Ugh.” Arthur held his hand out for it without bothering to sit up. “Cheers.”

“Down in one,” Merlin echoed absently. Habit. He fussed with the breakfast service some more, poured a goblet of water, and then moved away to start tidying.

For lack of anything better to do, Arthur forced down the hangover remedy, gagged for a moment, then stumbled over to his chair and spent some time staring blankly at the food arranged neatly on a trencher. Clearly, no one had picked it over or filched any sausages from it, other than the necessary nibbles to test for poisons. It was hateful. “I can’t eat this.” Arthur thumped his elbow onto the table and smashed his face into his palm for good measure. And if Merlin was the one doing the poison-testing again, Arthur was going to throttle him. There were people for that – other people. People Arthur needed less. And of course, when he put it that way, it was a horrid thing to think. He smooshed his face a bit harder against his hand and dug his fingers in around the thumping places in his head.

“Can I get you something else, sire? There’s probably pudding, or eggs and porridge.”

“No…no food. You eat it.” Arthur blinked his eyes open wide to peer through the webs of his fingers. The plate slid out from in front of him, and the whole situation made him want to shout. “Merlin, about last night.”

“Nothing to worry about, sire.” Merlin took the plate to the door and placed it on a side table. He pointedly did not eat it himself. “I shouldn’t have kept your cup topped off – you didn’t realize how much you drank.”

“Right.” Arthur gave him the side eye and hoped that Gaius’s foul concoction kicked in soon.  “Did I hit you?” He didn’t think he did, but it was fuzzy, and he could recall thinking, at one point, that Merlin might use his magic to keep Arthur away from him.

“No, sire.” He was picking up clothes now and tossing them into the laundry basket, seemingly pointed in how he kept his back turned. “Nothing but a little friendly asphyxiation.”

“What? Merlin!” Arthur stumbled to his feet and tried not to notice how Merlin’s eyes darted back and forth for a moment the way Arthur’s might when under attack. He would have to think about that at some point, why Merlin seemed to think him a threat nowadays – why he always mapped the rooms he entered and checked for escape routes. But for the time being, Arthur reached out and managed to grab at the stupid neckerchief rag thing that Merlin was wearing, in spite of Merlin’s flinching back, which seemed involuntary. Arthur froze at the sight of purple marks – a clear thumb on one side and three fingers blurred together on the other. “Merlin,” he breathed. He wondered if he sounded or looked as horrified as he felt.

Merlin stepped back, his expression more ambiguous than impassive while the action itself could be nothing but calculated. Arthur’s fingers slipped from the fabric of the neckerchief, and he let his hand fall slowly back to his side. After meeting Arthur’s gaze for slightly longer than was comfortable, Merlin turned away and resumed picking up Arthur’s mess from the night before, silent.

Arthur watched him for long enough to realize two things. First, that Merlin wasn’t going to offer anything more, and second, that the mess wasn’t really getting any better; Merlin was just moving it around in some sort of nervous need not to stand still or look at Arthur. Eventually, he passed close enough for Arthur to snag an elbow and use the momentum to propel Merlin around to face him. Rather than submit to a conversation, Merlin hunched up the shoulder nearest Arthur’s hand, and simply waited, unmoving, with his eyes downcast. The Good Servant, as it were. On anyone else, it would be perfectly acceptable – even proper. On Merlin, it was just wrong.

Arthur shook his head at the lowered lashes and the thin line of Merlin’s mouth, but he maintained his grip, which was more restraint than it should have been. Merlin could have been on the verge of being dragged to the cells by it, to judge by the stiffness of his limbs and the care with which he held his arm perfectly still in Arthur’s hand, as if not to offer resistance that might be taken the wrong way by an overzealous guard. Merlin was passive. Merlin should never be passive.

“Tell me what happened last night.”

Merlin twitched his chin to one side, but his eyes remained elsewhere. “You were drunk, sire. I put you to bed.”

“That doesn’t explain why I tried to choke you.”

Merlin flinched. It was subtle, but there.

“Look.” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment to gather his thoughts, and then tried for soothing. “Obviously, something else happened. You don’t need to spare my pride.” He paused, then added, “It’s not like to you pass on an opportunity to tell me I’ve done something wrong. You should be rubbing it my face.”

“I apologize if I fail to live up to my lord’s standards.”

Arthur blinked a few times, more shocked than anything else. A wave of anger followed, unexpected in its intensity, and far beyond Arthur’s ability to control in that moment. “What the hell is wrong with you?! This isn’t you! You don’t do this!”

He watched Merlin angling away, elbow still caught fast, lashes lowered so that Arthur couldn’t see his eyes, as if in anticipation of a blow. Perhaps it was the resignation that did it – Merlin would have let him. Something in his posture screamed that Arthur could hit if he wanted, and Merlin wouldn’t necessarily stop him.

Arthur released him and shoved them apart from each other as if one of them had the plague. His fury dispersed like smoke. “Merlin, I don’t want this from you.” It was perhaps the most honest thing he could have said, and yet still, it sounded wrong – could be taken so wrong. “You don’t grovel. You don’t keep silent. You’re of no use to me like this.” When Merlin still didn’t say anything, Arthur sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose before turning away. “Look, just…pull yourself together. I need a servant I can rely on.” Which was unfair, since no one he had ever met was more reliable, if he discounted actual cleanliness, punctuality and coordination.

Hesitant, Merlin simply asked, “Will you be joining the knights for practice this morning, sire?”

Arthur straightened up, facing the window. For no reason he could really pinpoint – though he suspected it was the sire that did it – he reached back, hooked Merlin by the scruff, pulled him around and squished him a bit.

Merlin went stiff and still in his grasp. “Sire – Arthur?”

“Just hold still.” Arthur manhandled him into a more comfortable position, and then resumed the squishing. He had no idea how long these things were supposed to last, but Merlin wasn’t trying to get away, so that had to be a good sign, right? Once he deemed a sufficient duration had passed, and before things could get any more awkward, Arthur patted Merlin’s shoulder blades – really too sharp – and then nudged him back.

Merlin stumbled a bit, righted himself, and then stared. “Did you just hug me?”

Arthur shrugged and turned away toward the changing screen. “Looked like you needed it.”

“Right.” A shuffle of soft-soled shoes betrayed Merlin fidgeting but otherwise not moving away. “Is that an apology or something? Because that was hardly adequate as far as hugs go.”

“Surely there’s some etiquette about insulting the way a king bestows his embraces.”

Silence.

“Look, if it was that horrible, then just forget about it.” Arthur came out from behind the screen and put his hands on his hips. When Merlin merely stared at him a bit, he sighed and prompted, “Clothes? You know, those things in the wardrobe that you never fold correctly?”

“Oh.” Merlin looked at the wardrobe, then shook himself as if from a stupor. “Yes. Clothes.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and went back behind the screen. “Today, Merlin.”

“Don’t get your britches in a twist; I’m getting them.”

“Get yourself something more suitable too; I don’t want to listen to you complaining that I’ve ruined your only pair of trousers or some other ridiculous thing. You’re sparing with me today.”

“What?! No. No, I’m not. Why would you say that?”

With his head ducked over the wash basin, Arthur smiled. But he hadn’t forgotten that he owed far more of an apology than one awkward hug and some banter could satisfy. And he wanted to know what happened last night so that whatever apology was due, he could be certain of making proper redress. Maybe bashing Merlin around the training ground for a while would make him more pliable.

* * *

“Merlin!”

Merlin rolled – flailed? – underneath the pile of armor, shield and sword that Arthur had shoved him into earlier that morning. 

Arthur sighed at the clanking pile of manservant spilled over the practice field. “Honestly, it’s like you’re not even trying here. Get up.”

“I am trying!”

“You’re embarrassing yourself.”

A flare of blue peeked out from one eyehole of the battered old helm crammed over Merlin’s head. It was a surprisingly effective glare for being singular, and mostly hidden. “If you’re so keen for a sparing partner, why don’t you ask one of them?!”

Arthur glanced up at the collection of knights trying not to be noticed on the other side of the field. He might need to go a bit easier on them for a while; they were cringing again whenever he stepped onto the field. Rather than addressing anything in that vein, Arthur replied, “They already know how to defend themselves. You, on the other hand…” He regarded his heap of manservant with a sad frown. “I despair of you sometimes, Merlin. It’s a miracle you haven’t been killed already.”

Merlin struggled and waved his armor-clad limbs around well enough that he managed to flop into a new position. “Maybe you just need to stop getting into so much trouble. Honestly, you can hardly walk through the market without getting attacked or enchanted, and then I have to – OW!”

“Stop squirming.” Arthur hauled up on a pauldron until he’d dragged Merlin upright by it. They eyed each other, Arthur critical and Merlin wary. “I think you’ve had enough for today; you’ll be useless at your chores later. Come on.” He slapped Merlin’s metal-clad arm and Merlin staggered again. “Just try not to fall over again.”

“Easy for you to say,” Merlin muttered. “Do you know how much all of this weighs?” He flapped his gauntlet at his own chest.

“Yes,” Arthur replied. Because he did – he was wearing even more of it than Merlin. “Idiot.”

“Well, do you know how much I weigh?” Merlin demanded as they made their way toward the armory.

Arthur gave him an incredulous look, his nose wrinkling on one side. “Why on earth would I need to know that?”

Without missing a beat (in the conversation, that is – his feet were literally everywhere), Merlin replied, “Because then you would realize that I can’t stand up in all of this because it weighs as much as I do.” He huffed, and then added, “Prat!”

“Does it?” Arthur scrutinized the skinny frame of his manservant – that was right: antlers for legs, and a hat rack up top. “Well. That just means you need to train harder. Put some muscles on those bones.”

Merlin jammed his shoulder at the armory door until it opened for him, and Arthur suppressed the urge to either smirk at the spectacle of Merlin outdone by a door, or yell at him for going through before his king. “I have muscles,” he muttered. “I have plenty of muscles – I have to carry practically everything you own over the course of a day.”

“Stop exaggerating.” Arthur grabbed his shoulder again when Merlin went to claw at the straps holding the armor in place. “The only thing your muscles are any good for is folding laundry, carrying plants and holding quills. So basically useless.”

“What, because I’m bad with a sword, I’m not good for anything else?”

“Sir Hector is bad with a sword,” Arthur said. “You are worse than a kitchen maid with a stick.”

Merlin squinted at him but remained silent.

“See? Even you recognize it.” Technically, Merlin should be taking Arthur’s armor off first and then fending for himself on his own gear, but if Arthur insisted on propriety, neither of them would ever get out of their armor. And Merlin could barely move in his. “How did you even get this twisted like – Merlin, I put this on you myself! How do you manage these things?”

Merlin bared his teeth. It might have been a smile of some sort; Arthur rather thought he looked like a spitting kitten. “Maybe you did it wrong.”

Arthur scoffed. “I’ve been putting on armor since before I could walk.” He wasn’t smiling though; he could feel the edges of his mouth pulling down in thought. He had a hazy recollection of the previous night, of Merlin polishing armor by the fire, talking about hats. Arthur had been trying to bring up the nobility thing. Or the magic, or both, but instead, they ended up talking about…hat racks? Maybe now was as good a time as any to try having that conversation again. “Where did you learn to write?”

Whatever Merlin had been expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. He eyed Arthur, which had the side benefit of him holding still enough that Arthur finally untwisted the leather straps cutting up under Merlin’s right arm and got it unbuckled. “That’s what you focus on? Are you serious? How did you learn to write? Maybe just think about that and extrapolate.”

“Give me some credit, Merlin. I know where you grew up; there wasn’t a parchment in sight. And you certainly never had tutors in Ealdor.”

Merlin’s eyes shuttered and cut to the side, and there – that was the look Arthur was starting to notice more and more. Fear. Not the kind that knights displayed in battle, or that Arthur had seen even on Merlin’s face when a situation went pear-shaped. It was something else. Deeper. A fundamental thing, like he didn’t even need to think in order to feel it, and the feeling of it was so familiar that he took no notice of it at all. Like breathing. “I dunno. I suppose I picked it up from Gaius.”

Arthur jerked unnecessarily hard at the back strap and ignored Merlin’s faint grunt. “No one just picks up writing. Come on – who taught you? It couldn’t have been Gaius – you were reading his recipes practically since you got here. No one learns that fast.”

“…Arthur…”

“Your mother can write too. She sent the missive to Gaius asking for your apprenticeship. Is she the one who taught you?”

“Sure. Right. My mother taught me.”

“And how did she learn?”

They both paused, Merlin in his holding still and Arthur in his fruitless tugging of buckles.

After a moment, Arthur took a preparatory breath. He could feel it in the air, that subtle taste of all-or-nothing. He couldn’t leave this conversation now. It needed to be seen through. “Merlin, even I realize how unusual it is for a peasant to be literate. You write my speeches, for gods’ sake – I know how eloquent you are. And you don’t even do it in the common tongue half the time. You’ve obviously had a nobleman’s education.”

Merlin fumbled his feet a bit and Arthur was struck with the impression that Merlin was trying to give himself space to flee. He shook his head a bit as if to clear it, or obscure his intention, but that nebulous fear was still there.

It rankled. How could Merlin seriously stand there and deny what was obvious? “You speak more languages than I do, idiot. Latin, Greek, Nordic, Gaius’s old dusty pictograph things – you even talk to the traders from across the south sea, and I don’t even know what language that is! Do you speak the Gauls’ tongue too? The Saxons’? Merlin, there are lords and kings less educated than you. You’re an idiot, but you’re not stupid.”

They stared at each other for a while, and Merlin seemed to be trying to make himself smaller. He’d lost the usual inch of height that he had on Arthur. “It’s like you said – I never had tutors. We didn’t…have books. I just…”

Arthur gave him a dubious look. “’Picked it up’?” he scoffed. Then he turned pensive. “Are you a noble?”

Merlin started, and squeaked, “What?”

“Well, it would explain some things,” Arthur mused. He studied Merlin’s face carefully, and then examined the rest of his closed-off body language. “I’m not…unaware of what my father did during the purge, you know. Entire noble houses ceased to exist because their bloodlines carried magic. Or not. Some of them just weren’t eager enough to eliminate magic, I suppose. Or spoke out openly. Some did escape. My father used to speak of how he made raids all the way into Cenred’s kingdom to chase them down, and Ealdor is just barely over the border. He would have been there at least once. You never speak of your father, and…well. I can only imagine he’s dead.”

Merlin winced.

Careful to remain neutral, Arthur nodded in acknowledgement, but he knew the likely conclusion of that thought – that Merlin’s father was dead because of Arthur’s, directly or not. “Your mother appealed to Camelot for aid. I know what reasons she gave, and I’ll allow that it made some sense, but there’s the awkward fact that my father wasn’t surprised by it, even though it was entirely inappropriate to ask a king not-your-own for military aid, and she was familiar with the habits of our court. She’s Gaius’s relation, and she’s not native to Ealdor, is she? She’s surprisingly well spoken for a peasant, and she stood tall before a king – it was respectful and proper, but it wasn’t the way peasants scrape. She knew her manners better. And when we stayed in her house, she didn’t defer to me the way servants or peasants do – she deferred to me the way a noblewoman would to a prince. She had no shame for her poverty, made no effort to apologize for it or make up for it – she was proud. And then there’s her accent…it’s not of Essetir. Yours is, but you were raised there, so that makes sense. But Hunith…she came from Camelot. Didn’t she?”

Merlin cut his gaze sharply to the door, but Arthur still had hold of him by the strap of a rerebrace. His nostrils flared and he shot a wild-eyed look at Arthur’s face before twitching his head in the opposite direction.

Evidence seemed to bring itself into formation like a well drilled battalion. “You’re a rubbish servant.” Normally, that would earn him a squawk of indignation, but Merlin merely folded his shoulders a bit smaller. “Like you never learned your place. Because why would you, if you’re not really a peasant?” He shook his head as yet more of Merlin’s oddities slotted into place in this new tapestry. “You understand nobility. You have the sense of honor that a knight would have – responsibility for your actions, for the actions and wellbeing of those beneath you, a sense of the greater good. You counsel me on that daily, it seems.” Arthur tried to catch Merlin’s gaze, but Merlin was biting his lip and staring with wide, panicked eyes at some spot of nothing in the middle of the armory. “You’re impertinent…for a servant. It wouldn’t be so for a noble. You demand. You act entitled, even if it’s polite when you do it. You speak your mind like you never learned not to. You speak to your betters like equals. You always look shocked when someone reminds you that you’re not their equal. That you’re just a servant.” Very softly, lest he spook Merlin like a horse, Arthur added, “You have magic. Not just tricks and incants like sorcery. You have the kind a child is born with. The kind my father would have…would have drowned you for, in the purge. Had he found you. It’s in your blood.”

“Stop.” It was only a shiver of a word, but it was enough. Merlin seemed unable to control his quickening breaths, or the trembling that ran through his arm where the backs of Arthur’s knuckles rested, caught in the leather strap he’d been trying to undo just a few moments ago.

Arthur swayed a fraction back, concerned by the way Merlin couldn’t seem to still himself, or look at Arthur, or control his breathing. “Merlin, breathe. It’s alright,” he murmured. “I’m not threatening you. It’s not a threat.”

Merlin shook his head in short, sharp jerks that increased in violence until he all but exploded out of Arthur’s grasp. The fear tasted sharp in the air all around them, and Arthur held his hands out, palms facing Merlin. He tried not to be obvious about blocking the path to the door, but Merlin was like prey in that room, and his nostrils flared the moment Arthur shifted. The air turned acrid and for a moment. Arthur felt hairs raise along his arms and the back of his neck, a static tingling of what could only be magic congealing in a small space.

Arthur shook his head and fought his own knee-jerk reaction. He felt frantic at the charge in the air, like lightening struck into puddles and the smell of it like the air might crackle and burn. “Merlin, calm down.” He hazarded a step closer and Merlin tripped back, his mouth grim and pressed into a thin line, but his throat working as if he might either swallow or choke. “Listen to me, Merlin. You need to breathe, and calm down, and listen to me. Just listen. Can you do that?” Arthur had shuffled back far enough that he could bar the door if he wanted to without taking his eyes from Merlin’s shaking form on the other side of the room. He knew, he knew how bad that would look, but worse would be having some other knight or squire or servant walk in when Merlin appeared so close to an outright panic. Arthur felt as if his hair were standing on end. He could only imagine what Merlin might do – unconsciously, accidentally – if someone startled him by walking in. If he felt cornered or exposed.

Slowly, so that Merlin could see every movement clearly, Arthur reached back and to the right, and pulled the bar into place across the door. Arthur braced himself for all manner of reactions – flying swords, a storm, Merlin attacking him with his magic or even with his body, fire or lack of air or darkness or pressure or pain or –

But none of it came. After a tense series of heartbeats and held breath, Arthur felt the tension bleed out of the air, and the unpleasant tang of magic, like metal, faded from his nostrils. Across the room, Merlin stumbled back into a pillar and then folded like a paper doll with a short, sheer inhalation like a distant crack of ice sheets on a frozen lake. Armor and plate clanked and caught, scraping together at the joints as he hunched down into the grasp of his own arms folded around his torso and choked, “Please don’t burn me.”

Arthur blinked, and his stomach felt carved out for one awful, stretched moment. It hadn’t occurred to him, honestly. Yes, he’d thought about that – a small horror in the back of his mind at the thought of Merlin chained in cold iron to a stake in the courtyard and set alight for the crime of being too kind, too noble not to use his magic to save someone, even if it meant his death. But he’d never actually thought that Merlin would fear that. He’d thought…. What had he thought? That Merlin didn’t care? That since he’d come to Camelot, knowing the threat that hung over him like a Damocles sword, that he wasn’t afraid of it? Of course he was afraid, Arthur thought. Only a monster wouldn’t be, and whatever magic he may have done behind Arthur’s back, behind Uther’s – whatever atrocities he may have committed in his fumbling to do what was right – Merlin was not a monster.

Merlin shuddered in on himself, visibly making an effort toward calm where he knelt, a miserable pile of armor and bone. It was grotesque, all of a sudden. Not like gore and horror, but grotesque as in unnatural and twisted and wrong. Merlin looked so wrong over there propped alone against the pillar, small and shaking – wrong to be covered in armor he clearly couldn’t manage and probably, if Arthur were being honest, didn’t even need. Wrong because Arthur was no threat to a warlock – and that was what Merlin had to be. The subtle difference between warlock and sorcerer in Sir Geoffrey’s books had not been lost on Arthur. Merlin was magic by blood, not choice. He didn’t make potions and carve talismans and huddle over cauldrons at the full moon, even though he could. The point was that he didn’t need to; he didn’t need some outside draw on magic to obtain it. As far as Arthur could tell, Merlin didn’t even need to speak his magic. Warlock. And really, what could Arthur possibly do to him unless Merlin let him?

And that was the crux, wasn’t it. Let. Merlin would let him. Merlin would let him do anything. Hit him, hurt him…burn him if he wanted to. Merlin had given Arthur all of himself – he’d stated as much out loud just often enough that it stuck in Arthur’s mind as some curious, awful truth. Everything that Merlin is…is Arthur’s. Merlin’s life whether Arthur wanted it or not. Merlin’s death, if Arthur asked it of him.

Arthur was not necessarily a kind man. He knew that about himself. He had bullied and he had used, he had condemned, and hurled cruelty at those beneath him, and he had killed. He had killed innocents, actively and passively, by his own sword or by simply standing aside for another’s. Arthur did know that, and he knew how it looked. It hadn’t really struck him though, until that moment, that Merlin had watched him do these things. Be that man. Merlin, a warlock, had watched Arthur maim and kill men, women…children…for nothing more than having magic, or not having magic, or being different and standing accused. Merlin had watched their heads fall and their bodies burn for a crime of magic, true or not. Magic like what Merlin had. Arthur had killed people, some of them good people, for healing and growing crops and purifying water, same as for attacking Camelot or using magic to harm. And Merlin had watched him at it. Merlin had even stood at Arthur’s side for some of it. What must that kind of thing take out of a man? Merlin wasn’t evil – he wasn’t duplicitous or cruel, no matter how many lies he used to safeguard his life at Arthur’s hands – he was a good man. He was kind. And he stood beside Arthur, and Arthur was not.

Arthur took care to set his sword aside and remove the bulk of his armor before he approached Merlin, a whisper of chainmail swinging against his legs in the shadowed room. Merlin had found a rhythm to breathe by, finally, his ribcage heaving with it, and he had calmed, but he remained curled down into his own arms on the floor, his head hanging limp on his neck, air rasping still in his throat, and he didn’t look up when Arthur’s boots came to rest beneath his nose. He looked…defeated. He looked small. And it was grotesque.

“No one is going to burn you,” Arthur told him, and his own voice sounded soft and warm, and a bit broken around the edges. “I won’t burn you.” It seemed important to add that qualification, because clearly, Merlin didn’t know that already – that Arthur would never put him in the fire. That if he had to take that offered death from Merlin, he wouldn’t make a torture of it like that.

A thin wisp of air curled out from Merlin’s mouth, and with it a whispered, “You should.”

“You’re an idiot,” Arthur replied, but there was no bite to it. He sank down until he could take hold of the bits of armor still strapped across Merlin’s thin frame. His knees dug into the cold stone near enough to Merlin’s that Arthur could feel the heat from them. “Come on, now. Let’s get you out of this.” He tugged until Merlin loosened his arms enough to allow Arthur to slip off the padded shoulder guards, and then vambraces and wrist guards.

Some gentle prodding had Merlin sitting up, and then the breast plate was off as well, and Merlin had to make the actual effort of refusing to look at Arthur right in front of him. “I didn’t ask for this,” Merlin said, voice small and unsteady. He was just a crumple in front of Arthur, really, like a wadded-up piece of parchment or a discarded, dirty dish rag. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“We never really ask for what we’re given.” Arthur reached for the clasps of the fauld, his arms impersonal where they circled Merlin, for all that the act of it seemed intimate. Merlin sniffed to clear the congestion in his nose and Arthur made quick work of folding his fingers beneath the armor, against the cloth of trousers covering Merlin’s waist, and the sharp jut of a hipbone, before pulling the metal away.

It was a curious thing, divesting someone of the trappings of war. On the surface, such a simple act, but on review, it was a stripping. It seemed intimate and strangely violent, to peel away the protection and confront the soft flesh beneath. Like a violation. One that Merlin allowed him to commit, and afterward, thanked him for.

Briefly, Arthur kept pressing at Merlin’s arms and chest with his hands, as if there were still armor to take off, because in a way, there was; Merlin had gone armored ever since he stepped foot in Camelot. The weight of it had bent him underneath it. Eventually, Arthur’s palm came to rest over the knob at the base of Merlin’s neck, and Arthur kneaded at it where he knew that it must hurt just now, tense and stiff as it was. Merlin shivered, his body a taut bowstring of exhaustion, as if he were cold. It was just shock, Arthur knew – the dull rush of nothing that followed the wake of battle, a sap on even the strongest of men.

The words a mere breath, Merlin told him, “I’m sorry.” And then he repeated it with a hitch and a stronger tremble, and Arthur wondered what on earth Merlin thought he had to be so sorry for. A lie alone couldn’t do this to a man.

“I know,” Arthur told him, just to stop any further litany of it, because Arthur did know that he was sorry, even if he wasn’t sure what for. And then because it really was such a silly thing to have caused all of this, Arthur asked again, “How did you learn to write?”

Merlin twined his fingers together in his lap and seemed not to notice Arthur’s fingers dug into the back of his neck. Maybe it was grounding. “I’m not a noble.”

Debatable, Arthur thought. But he let it go.

“I just…picked it up. I didn’t mean to…I mean, I didn’t notice…the languages were all different.”

Arthur shook his head, because the idea that Merlin would write Arthur’s speeches in a rotating collection of Briton, Latin and who knew what other languages, and not realize it? It was ridiculous. That he’d pick up a book, any book, and not be hampered by the tongue it was written in, and not notice…? “Gaius didn’t ever mention it? His herb catalogues, his potion books… It never struck him as odd that he didn’t need to teach you to read them?”

Merlin shrugged, and his eyelashes fanned out along the rim of his cheek as he blinked, long and sluggish. Maybe he’d told Gaius the same thing, and unlike Arthur, Gaius hadn’t pressed the subject. Maybe it wasn’t as strange a thing as Arthur thought. Maybe it had to do with magic, or maybe Gaius hadn’t understood and thought that Merlin had received tutoring after all. The boy had been sent specifically to be a physician’s apprentice, after all; Gaius may not have realized that Merlin hadn’t prepared for that role – hadn’t studied for it. “Sorry,” Merlin said yet again.

“Stop apologizing.” Arthur shifted his hand to scrub at the sweat damp hair of Merlin’s head and then let him go and leaned back. “We need to talk about this. I need to understand. But not now. I think… I think we’ve both had enough for one day.”

Merlin nodded. He looked done in.

“Take some time to clean yourself up, and then tend me for the evening,” Arthur said. “I need to think for a while.”

Again, Merlin nodded. “You need to figure out what to do with me.”

Arthur cocked his head.

“I won’t run,” Merlin promised softly.

Arthur shook his head. “Of course not. Merlin, I’m not planning to punish you.”

This should not have been such a confusing statement. Merlin blinked stupidly at the stone tiles beneath his knees, fingers fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves like a nervous tick, and twitched his head to one side as if trying to jolt the words about in his ears. Eventually, he weaved his head upright on his neck and gave Arthur a dull look. He looked drunk, or maybe just exhausted.

Either way, he didn’t appear in full possession of his faculties, and that worried Arthur. He felt his brows draw inward of their own accord, and reached out to cup Merlin’s face in one hand. “Merlin? Are you listening to me?”

Merlin’s eyelids seemed to grow heavy, his head tipping against Arthur’s hand as if he couldn’t quite hold it up anymore, and oh – oh, no. Arthur knew what this was – he’d seen it once before. In the mountains, at night, halfway back to Camelot with his queen’s beloved body in a crude stretcher they were pulling behind them, killed by her own mangled heart. Arthur had thought that the magic was responsible – that whatever had been inside of Guinevere, whatever force had refused to loose her – had turned on Merlin. The idiot had tried to stop it ravaging her – he’d called a goddess and then fought the malignancy that Morgana had twined into Gwen’s soul. Arthur had seen it creep like tendrils up the so-called Dolma’s arms before whatever deity summoned on the lake intervened. It hadn’t happened since, the fit. But Arthur remembered it so vividly – the clench of teeth, the rolling white of Merlin’s eyes, the unnatural arch of his neck and spine as he seized, and Arthur, barely functional in his grief, doing all he could just to keep Merlin from hurting himself or smashing his own skull against the rocks yet again. He couldn’t stomach the thought of losing yet another person he cared about.

Arthur grabbed and managed to yank Merlin around and partly down onto his side before the rigidity set in. There was a moment of struggle when Merlin seemed to think that he was being attacked, and then he let out a harsh, strangled grunt as his head arched back to thump against Arthur’s chest. His fingernails dug into Arthur’s forearm, thankfully cushioned by the gambeson that he had yet to take off. “Alright – I’ve got you.” Arthur fought a moment to keep him in place without hurting him. More for himself than Merlin, who likely wouldn’t recall this anymore than he’d recalled the last one, he repeated, “It’s alright,” and loosened his arms only enough that he wouldn’t hinder the convulsions any more than necessary.

Arthur unfocused his eyes and stared forward, unseeing, the only privacy he could really offer right now as the fit shook Merlin’s frame, muscles cording in a palsy under Arthur’s hands like cramps that would not let up. The force of it jolted Arthur as well, but he refused to offer Merlin any more indignity than he was already suffering from it. He tried not to listen either but it was harder to close his ears than his eyes when the man in his arms sounded like he might be choking. He let Merlin’s limbs contract and curl him into a loose comma, and used that tight furl to roll him sideways, letting Merlin’s face tip toward the floor just in case he actually was choking. Arthur could feel a slimy wetness against the back of his hand where Merlin’s cheek pressed along with an occasional scrape of clenched teeth, and sincerely hoped that it was saliva, or even vomit, rather than blood.

It lasted long enough for Leon to start pounding at the armory door, demanding that Arthur reply or they would break it down.  He glanced at the still-trembling form in his arms, gradually going limp as the tremors shook themselves free, unknotting Merlin’s limbs from their rictus. He slumped in Arthur’s grasp, breathing ragged. Arthur lowered him to the stone floor, careful that he would not smother himself, before shouting at Leon to stand down. He had to pry Merlin’s fingers from his gambeson, after which they twitched weakly against the floor where Arthur placed the hand. Though he knew that he needed to deal with Leon before the knight decided that Arthur was in danger after all, he remained bent over his knees for a long moment, calming the race of his own heart. Merlin had gone too still on the floor in front of him, but he could see the stutter of his ribcage as he breathed, and the latent twitching here and there along his frame caused by the protest of abused and overexerted muscles.

“Hold, Leon – I’m coming!” Arthur pressed himself to his feet and crossed the armory to unbolt the door.

Leon startled back at the force with which Arthur flung the door open. “Sire, we thought – “

“Only you,” Arthur interrupted. Several other knights littered the hall behind Leon, and Arthur gestured at them to clear the way. “Everyone else out.”

Leon gave both Arthur and the other knights a wary look, but obediently followed Arthur back through the room, past and around the racks of weapons and armor, silent until they reached the back where both Merlin’s practice armor and Arthur’s lay discarded. “Merlin?” He hurried forward and made a cursory search, likely for wounds. “Should I alert the guard?”

“No. Just help me get him to Gaius.” Arthur shook out an old tatty cape folded on one of the shelves and spread it out behind Merlin.

Without waiting to be told, Leon assisted in rolling Merlin onto the cape, and then folding it to cover him and preserve his dignity. Arthur forced himself not to acknowledge the loss of bodily control that they concealed by it. Leon tore off his glove with his teeth and held the backs of his fingers in front of Merlin’s nose to confirm breathing. “What happened, sire?”

Arthur shook his head, because he didn’t know beyond, “He had some sort of a fit.”

“A fit?” Leon frowned. “Was he injured in practice?”

“No more than usual, and no bumps on the head. It happened once before, though, over a year ago.” Arthur knelt down and maneuvered Merlin up until his could get his arms up under Merlin’s and around his chest. “Get his legs.”

Leon lifted, and together they shuffled through the rows of weaponry, careful not to knock Merlin into anything. Thankfully, Leon asked no further questions as they navigated the corridors to the physician’s quarters, a short trip seeing as they were adjacent to the armory. The chambers were empty when they arrived, though, so Arthur tipped his head toward Gaius’s bed, which was the closest clear surface. Merlin was lean and bony, but he wasn’t light by any means.

They hoisted him over onto the old straw mattress and Arthur gestured Leon back when he started at Merlin’s boots. “I’ve got this. Go find Gaius. He’s usually making rounds in the lower town this time of the morning.”

“Yes, sire.” Leon gave Merlin one last, concerned look, and then hurried out, shutting the door behind him.

The silence was oppressive once Leon had gone, and Arthur wondered when he had gotten so used to Merlin’s noise that he had to fight the urge to fidget without it. “Merlin?” Arthur pursed his lips and looked around as if some treatment might be sitting on one of the tables, conveniently labeled with Merlin’s name. Of course, there was nothing, and it would take some time for Leon to find Gaius and walk him back. He shook his head and shrugged off the useless feeling that tended to settle over his shoulders whenever he sat alone in a room that wasn’t his personal chambers. This was ridiculous.

Arthur pulled Merlin’s boots off and tucked the old cloak closer around him before dragging a stool over and reflecting on the absolute travesty of his kingship. He was worried. More worried than a king should be over a servant. It made him angry, but it also made him feel small, and he had no idea what to do with either of those feelings. He never did.

Movement drew his eyes back to the pallet and Arthur abandoned his introspection at the flash of blue visible behind slit eyelids. “Merlin!” He leaned forward and rested his hand on Merlin’s chest. “Gaius is on his way. Can you speak?” The last time this had happened, Arthur had waited half the night for Merlin’s speech to come back to him. He would never admit how absolutely terrifying it had been to watch his manservant struggle to find words, or to recognize Arthur, or remember where they were, and come up blank. “Merlin – do you know where you are?”

Merlin made some kind of gesture, but its meaning was lost on Arthur. His pupils were the size of pins, though, like two ink splatters on a blue canvas, which couldn’t have been good considering the faded sunlight that provided only weak illumination to the room.

Arthur scrubbed his hands through his hair and shoved himself to his feet. He couldn’t abide the inactivity of just sitting there while Merlin stared vaguely through him. After a moment of indecision, he located an old horn cup tipped over amongst the remains of a partially eaten bowl of porridge. Probably Merlin’s breakfast; he was no better at picking up after himself than he was at picking up after Arthur. Another short hunt turned up clean water on the washstand, and Arthur dunked the cup into the ewer to fill it. Merlin seemed to be watching all of this from the other side of the room, but there wasn’t much comprehension in his face as to what he saw. Arthur wanted to make some crude comment about how he’d always known that Merlin really was a halfwit, but he couldn’t make the words come.

Arthur had convinced Merlin to drink most of the water in the cup by the time Gaius returned, looking harried and leaning rather heavily on Leon. Arthur backed away and let the physician take over, hovering with Leon near the door. It was with some relief that Arthur caught the faint sound of Merlin mumbling out proper answers to Gaius’s questions, voice little more than a crackle of whispers. Do you know where you are? Camelot. And who is standing over there? with a nondescript gesture to Arthur. The King. Arthur. What is the month? …Muin? Leon seemed to unwind some as well, and Arthur nodded at him to go ahead and see to his other duties now that the crisis was past.

Once they were alone, Gaius gestured Arthur to join them. “He’s alright now, sire. Just a bit of lingering disorientation.”

Arthur nodded. “He is to take whatever time he needs to recover.”

“Thank you, sire.” Gaius’s hand remained splayed over Merlin’s chest in much the same place as Arthur’s had rested earlier. “I’ve given him a sleeping draught for now; he needs rest more than anything else.”

“Yes.” Arthur let his eyes wander past Gaius and off into the room. “What caused this? He wasn’t always like this, was he?”

“No, sire.” Gaius stood, clearly restless, and busied his hands rearranging the various herbs and tinctures bottled on his work table. “This is an acquired affliction, I’m afraid.”

Arthur nodded. “Was it his magic?”

Too late, it occurred to Arthur that simply blurting that out with no preamble might have been a mistake. The color drained from Gaius’s face at an alarming rate and Arthur had to catch at his arm to guide him to a stool before he sank to the floor right where he stood.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur offered. “I assumed you knew – “

Gaius waved off the apology. “Merlin has only ever used it for good. He’s protected you – “

“I know,” Arthur soothed.

“He doesn’t deserve execution. I’m begging you – “

Again, Arthur cut him off. “I know, Gaius. I have no intention of executing him. It would be rather the opposite of what I swore anyway. Merlin’s not evil. He’s an idiot much of the time, and I’m sure he’s done questionable things with it, but I cannot believe that he means me or Camelot any harm. He could have destroyed us ten times over by now if he really wanted to.”

Gaius appeared to be catching his breath. “How…” He stopped himself, and though it was clearly not the question he wanted to ask, he amended, “You swore a vow?”

Arthur nodded. “To the disir.”

Gaius shook his head. “You swore never to allow magic back into Camelot. To renounce the old religion. Magic is the old religion. The two cannot be unwound.”

“That’s not what I swore.”

Gaius blinked at him. “But…Merlin said – “

“Merlin was not with me.” Arthur pursed his lips. “I bade him wait outside, the fool. He tried to convince me that there was no place for magic in Camelot. Him – a warlock. I didn’t say anything afterwards to disabuse him of the notion – I didn’t want to say anything until I knew why he’d done it.” Arthur glanced around and located a stool for himself now that he could be assured that Gaius wouldn’t expire of fright right in front of him. With his elbows on his knees, Arthur studied his hands carefully. “I still don’t understand. For a while, I thought that was his aim – to ingratiate himself to me and then use me to bring magic back to the land, and as much as I want to believe that what he said to me was some kind of a ploy, he isn’t actually the best liar, not once you know what to look for.” He glanced up to see that yes, Gaius knew Merlin’s tells as well, and understood what Arthur was saying. “Why would he do that, Gaius? He all but bade me condemn him, and everyone like him.”

Gaius started to speak several times, and then finally frowned, mirroring Arthur’s pose. “I think you misunderstand Merlin’s goals, sire. Whatever the druids or prophecy or fate, or anything else demand of him, his aim was never to restore magic. It never died in the first place – it can’t. Freedom might appeal to him on some level, but in practice, he hasn’t any ambition so simple.”

“Or selfish,” Arthur agreed. He thought of Mordred, dead and gone, and how he had almost gone back on his word at returning to find that the disir had supposedly reneged on their bargain. Arthur had thought that his vow was meant to save Mordred and lift the curse from his wound. But Merlin…he’d seemed relieved by it. It had occurred to Arthur later that night that perhaps Merlin denounced magic in order to achieve Mordred’s death. After all, his and Arthur’s assumptions about which choice would lead to which outcome for Mordred had been the same.

“Yes. He never learned to be selfish.” Gaius’s eyebrows twitched and he glanced over his shoulder to ensure that Merlin remained unconscious. When he turned back, he appeared resigned. “I supported your father initially, you know. The purge did not start as an abomination – it was necessary to excise dark magic from the land. It had taken hold of the priestly orders – the priestesses of Avalon had grown drunk on their power; they cared little for consequences anymore. Their greed was souring all of Albion. Sorcerers were used as weapons of war, often against their will, by any two-bit warlord lucky enough to come by one. The dragons were often treated more as slaves than as kin. It was only later that the fervor took hold, and Uther’s hatred and grief overrode his better sense. There is, regrettably, much darkness in the land, sire. Much of it is due to the misuse of magic. Merlin knows this. Power drives good men, and good women, to evil deeds – to corruption and the sins of avarice. He can see this as well as anyone. Much like you, most of Merlin’s experience of magic is of trying to counter the darkness that sorcerers unleash on this kingdom. I believe that might be why he does nothing to upset the balance that you have struck between justice and the persecution of magic users.”

Arthur flinched at the choice of words, but said nothing.

“His most fervent aim has always been to keep you safe and well, sire. It overrides all other concerns. If he advised you to reject the edict of the disir, then it was because he believed to do otherwise would harm you somehow. And that, Merlin could never allow.”

Arthur scoffed. “How would that keep me safe?” He didn’t give Gaius an opportunity to respond though before saying, “You say the druids make demands of him. What claim do they have on him?”

“It is a prophecy, sire. That he is the one they call Emrys, and that he will stand beside the Once and Future King to usher in a golden age of peace and magic.”

Arthur frowned. “He used to call me that. I thought it was rubbish.”

Gaius offered him a small, sincere smile. “You always did think remarkably little of yourself, sire.”

Arthur glanced up sharply and then made an incredulous sound in the back of his throat. “You believe it. You actually think I’m this king of prophecy and that Merlin is some druid harbringer.”

“I do.” Gaius tipped his head to one side, and then back.

“Oh for gods’ sake. And that nonsense you told him about the sword in the stone – you believe that too?”

“Well, no. That part was rubbish.”

Arthur arched an eyebrow.

“I’m relatively certain Merlin made it up.”

“’Merlin made it up.’ Of course he did. Probably put the damn thing into the stone himself.”

Tellingly, Gaius said nothing.

Arthur sighed in exasperation and smeared a hand over his face. “Right. I shouldn’t be surprised by all of the lies, really. Seems to be the new procedure at court.”

“Merlin had no choice,” Gaius rebuked softly.

“Yes, he did!” Arthur slammed his palm onto the worktop with a crack. A few bottles toppled, and the one that rolled, Gaius caught before it fell from the table’s edge. Arthur ignored it. “He could have told me what he is! I’ve known for years anyway – he could have come clean any time and – “

“He had no reason to believe that!” The volume of Gaius’s voice, breaking thick over Arthur’s brought a tense silence down between them. More quietly now, but no less intense, Gaius snapped, “He believed that you would hate him, at best. At worse, he believed his life at risk. It wasn’t even about him not wanting to die – he was terrified at the thought of leaving you defenseless against magical threats, because like it or not, he is probably the only creature of magic who would bother fighting for you – who would mourn to see you fall. You are not so different from your father, Arthur, and in this one thing at least, you have given no quarter. Merlin had no reason – none at all – to think that he could tell you what he is. He had no reason to doubt that you would put him on a pyre. Innocence has never mattered to you before, and you don’t show favoritism – it would be toxic to your reign to make exceptions to the law for those you favor. Whatever you may think you say in private, as king you make no difference between good and evil in magic, only between sorcerer and not. Whatever secret promise you made to the triple goddess, nothing you have done gives any indication that your stance on magic has changed. It is still outlawed. You still execute those found practicing it, no matter why they practice it. You still denounce it. You still tell Merlin that you denounce it, which now that you confess you’ve known about it this long, is cruel. You tell him to his face that magic is evil, that sorcerers are inherently evil and should be put to death, all while knowing what he is, and knowing that if it were not for him, you would not still be alive to say anything at all!” He paused and seemed to deflate as he subsided, though with difficulty. “Sire.”

Arthur took a moment with his eyes closed to swallow his temper, and then sucked in a calming breath. “In public, I must maintain – “

“You don’t only say these things in public, and he has no inkling that in private, you think any differently.”

“In public,” Arthur bit out, ignoring the interruption. “I must maintain Camelot’s laws and strength in front of her people and our enemies. I must – “

“No.” Gaius snapped, his tone cold. “You are the king. You can say whatever you like, make whatever laws you like, pardon whoever you like. You simply don’t.” He gathered himself with a breath and rose. “Now if you will excuse me, I must tend to my patient. He should not be disturbed with all of this shouting.”

Arthur fumed for a moment at being dismissed in his own castle, but when he rounded on Gaius to say as much, he caught sight of Merlin lying pale and still on Gaius’s bed by the window. The fight leaked from him like water through a sieve. Please don’t burn me. Was it really such a shock that those were the first words from Merlin’s mouth when he realized Arthur knew? Such a simple plea, to say so much.

Without thought, Arthur demanded, “Is that what’s been wrong all of this time?” He couldn’t meet Gaius’s gaze when the physician turned around to regard him again. “Have I been that close to losing him?”

Something in Gaius’s outline softened, though Arthur’s eyes remained fixed on the steady rise and fall of Merlin’s chest. “Merlin is loyal to you,” Gaius assured him, voice firm. “That will never waiver.”

“Why, exactly?” Arthur tore his gaze away and directed it toward the door. “He has no reason to be loyal to me, has he?”

“Arthur, you are a good king. A kind king – “

“Apparently, I’m not.” Arthur glanced back toward Gaius and found his face troubled, though he said nothing more to refute Arthur. And that was telling in and of itself. He gestured to Merlin, half hidden behind the protective stance of Gaius’s body. “Is there a treatment for this? Something that will make it easier to bear, or less frequent?”

Gaius swallowed as if uneasy, or perhaps he was just swallowing more harsh retorts. “I have come into some herbs and compounds from beyond the south seas that may help, but I have yet to test them.”

Arthur nodded and then hazarded to ask, “The fit near the cauldron, and the one today – were those the only ones he’s suffered?”

The lines creased out from around Gaius’s eyes, a lessening of the sternness of his regular countenance, which always seemed vaguely disapproving by default. He wore his physician’s face now, the one that heralded unwelcome news. “No, sire. The one at the cauldron was likely the first, but there have been several over the past year. I had hoped that they would be temporary, and that he would heal, but it appears not. They have yet to fade.”

Arthur nodded to acknowledge that. “I had difficulty rousing him after he slipped off the path.”

“It was likely the final straw,” Gaius agreed. “He has suffered multiple head wounds over the years, and other injuries and poisons besides.”

Arthur took a breath, and carefully failed to look back at Merlin as he made his way to the door. Before slipping out, he ordered, “See that he has whatever he needs.” Not that he thought Gaius would do otherwise, but sometimes, Arthur just needed to hear himself say things.

Through the dwindling crack in the door, he heard Gaius reply, “Of course, sire.” Something about the way he said it sounded disappointed.

* * *

Arthur intended to go straight to his chambers, order a bath, and then try to order his thoughts, but instead, he found himself stood in front of the sealed doors of the queen’s chambers. Guinevere. His hand came to rest against the wood of its own accord, grains and knots worn down by sanding, polish, and the brush of hundreds of hands and thousands of days. Smooth. Aged to a dark, rich mahogany that could have been polished, varnished with a coat of shine, but which was not. Simple wear had made the wood gleam like this.

Guinevere had been gone over a year now. The day of it remained stark in his mind, imbued with preternatural clarity: standing at the water’s edge, begging Guinevere with all of his heart to step into the water; the atmosphere redolent with a sourness unbefitting the memory of a goddess, whatever that was; light that he couldn’t dare bring himself to look at because it served as yet more proof that his father had never stood a chance of vanquishing the old religion, and should probably never have tried.

And Guinevere. His beautiful queen. Arthur knew that Merlin blamed himself for her loss, no matter that the only one truly to blame was Morgana. Arthur could have told him that, but he didn’t know how. If anyone should have noticed that the queen was no longer herself, surely it was her husband? If any other blame waited to be laid, it was his. Arthur still couldn’t understand how he had missed it. His Guinevere was a radiant, kind woman – how could he have failed to see the cunning that slipped in? The contempt? How could he not notice that she was gone, however steady her body stood before him day after day after day – he should have seen the manipulations. There were signs. Tyr Seward was only the first. Gwen was compassionate; she would never have agreed with executing the boy. Arthur should have seen as much. There were plenty of things that Arthur should have found suspicious, but instead chose to ignore. After so many betrayals, so many instances of what it looked like when a loved one lied to him, turned on him, surely he should have seen it in her. Or rather, that it was not her at all.

“You would have noticed,” he told her out loud, voice soft in the perpetual twilight of the corridor. He let his fingers press and skate over the wood of her door as if he could use it to recall the feel of her skin. “If it were me. You could always see so clear.” He thought about the tomb beyond those doors, so much like the one Uther had made of Ygraine. He wondered, briefly, if her things still smelt of her, or if he would find only dust inside.

Footsteps down the corridor broke his reverie and Arthur retreated before his own guards. The thought of a bath no longer appealed; it would just grow cold without Merlin working his literal magic to keep it the perfect temperature.

* * *

 

tbc

Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

 

 

“You have returned.”

“Is your decision made?”

Arthur struggled to swallow, and hoped that the crease of his mouth didn’t betray the faint nausea stirring in his gut at what he was about to do. “It is.” He pressed his mouth flat, teeth clenched, and lowered his eyes briefly, just a flicker as he reset his feet on hard, damp bedrock. This was not a battle; he could not approach it as one. His voice came out gruff when he said, “I cannot do as you ask.”

A moment of stillness, and then a severe voice – the crone? – cautioned, “Consider carefully, Arthur Pendragon. This is your last chance to save all that is dear to you.”

“It will not come again.” The mother, that one. Maybe.

Arthur was glad he had ordered Merlin to stay outside for this. It was not his proudest moment, and in truth, he still didn’t know for certain that he would be able to carry this through. Mordred did not deserve to die for him – for Arthur. What price was some lip service and a loosening of minor magics when compared to a good man’s life – a life that Arthur now bore as debt? He regarded all of them from the corners of his eyes, as if looking straight upon them might sway him one way or another against his will. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, parched. “I’ve seen too much…” He breathed, and realized that his own mannerisms mirrored Merlin’s the night before: the denial of his own words betrayed by the minute shaking of his own head - the forced quality of his voice as though his own throat tried repeatedly to close itself against him. “I’ve seen…the evil that magic can do.”

“Have you not also seen the good?” The maiden, that time.

Arthur nodded, recalling one of a very few times when he had known magic was being performed, and seen goodness in it instead of violence or war or hate. “A blue orb,” he confessed, “leading me to safety.”

“And still,” the crone said, “you would denounce it?”

Arthur shook his head, the motion once again an unwitting betrayal of his own hidden thoughts. But that was only one example in a sea of thousands of misdeeds. He felt as if something were stuck in his throat, too big to swallow and too far down to cough back out. “My manservant is a sorcerer. And even he cautions me against agreeing to your demands.” He looked up, and where before he had seen pretenders to the old religion, his eyes seemed to pick out something else now. “Why would he do that?” he demanded, taking an involuntary step forward. “He could have had freedom, and instead, he tells me that magic has no place in Camelot - that he has no place.”

“Camelot was built of magic,” the mother counseled.

“The stones are imbued with magic.” The crone.

“The ground is saturated with magic.” The maiden.

“Its walls were raised with magic.” The mother again.

Arthur’s gaze darted from one to another of them as they traded off, as if speaking the thoughts of one being from out of three different mouths.

“And yet you would separate it from its foundation?”

“Raze its walls.”

“Paint the flagstones with the blood of your allies.”

"Betrayer."

"You are your father's son."

“No!” Arthur shouted. “I don’t want – ” He looked between them each in turn. “I don’t want a purge. I am not my father – I don’t want that.”

“Then your choice is clear,” the crone told him.

“Is it?” Arthur demanded. “Why, then, is a sorcerer telling me to refuse you? If anyone knows about magic, about its place and value, then it should be him. Shouldn’t it? Why would a sorcerer want me to continue refusing magic unless it should be refused?”

“Emrys has lost his way.”

Arthur’s eyes fell on the crone. “What does that mean?”

It was the mother, however, who stepped forward to answer. And it appeared that she did not do so as the mouthpiece of the goddess. Instead, she pushed the hood from her head, revealing the face of a woman of middle age, lightly lined and kind. “Much was ruined when Uther enacted the purge. Much was changed that should not have been. Many futures which should have been set, were destroyed. You were not meant to learn his ways. You were not meant to have love for him, or to know him as a father. You are poisoned by your love of him, and rent by the knowledge of his cruelty. It cannot be changed.” She shook her head, a sad gesture that spoke of lost things that could never be recovered. “Your servant…he was not meant to bear the burden of your destiny alone. He was not meant to fear or hate his magic, or to fear you. He was not meant to hide his goodness. His path was scattered when Uther sought to purge the lands of his kind. His only chance for survival laid in secrets. And secrets can only fester. There was no one to guide him, Arthur Pendragon. No one to teach him what he is – what he is meant for – that he, and what he is, is good. There were only those who could advise from the place of their own fear and failure, or from their own ambition and greed, or from hate, or from their own want of vengeance. They did not all mean him ill. But they did more damage than they know. Your destinies have diverged, and that should not have been allowed to happen. Secrets and fear…guilt and shame…all of these things have driven a wedge between you. Your futures grow sour. The darkness gathers. He can see it, but he has been given no tools to fight back against it, and it has worn him thin. He is lost, and he is struggling alone, without direction. If destiny is to be restored, then it must be you, Arthur Pendragon, who leads the way forward now. You must open and light the way, else all is lost.” She smiled then, a gentle thing, very much as Arthur imagined a mother should look. “Do not blame him for his failings, Arthur Pendragon. Your servant has suffered much, beneath your notice. He knows no other way.”

Arthur winced, because yes, justly or not, Merlin has too often fallen beneath his notice. “I know what you want me to choose. But I don’t know if I can. I haven’t always listened to Merlin, and I’ve seen what comes of that. He has never – never – led me false. You are asking me to go against the only man whose faith in me has never faltered. I trust him with my life. You, I don’t know at all.”

The mother nodded. “You speak of going against him, and yet to follow his advice is also to go against him. How would you reconcile that, Arthur Pendragon?”

Arthur inhaled, but found that he had no answer to give to that. He allowed the air to escape again, unused.

 “You care for him.”

“Yes.” Arthur didn’t even hesitate. “He’s a good man.”

“You trust him.”

Arthur nodded. “He’s as true to me as any knight.”

“You embrace him.”

Arthur furrowed his brow. “Yes,” he said again, but it was slower this time – more cautious.

“Even though he is magic.”

Arthur blinked. He wasn’t certain as to what gave it away, exactly, but it struck him that the mother had not been speaking to him as a woman after all. Arthur had been speaking to the goddess the whole time. Finally, as though the word were a sigh of air escaping beneath a lessening weight, Arthur replied, “Yes.”

The mother nodded. “Then it seems to me, Arthur Pendragon, that you made this choice long ago. All that remains is for you to speak it.”

They regarded each other for what seemed a moment stopped in time, and indeed, when Arthur glanced to one side, he saw a droplet suspended in the air beneath the tip of a jagged rock from which it had fallen. His breath blew out in the chill air, fogged, and stilled. In his ears, his heart beat a drum call like a long, slow march to war. He looked at the mother, at her kind and simple face, and then at the crone and the maiden where they stood in frozen silence behind her.

The mother’s voice pulled his attention back, and a rush of sound returned with the movement of time. “What is your choice, Arthur Pendragon?”

Arthur straightened where he stood, and drew his breath to respond. It didn’t even occur to him that the choice had ceased to be about Mordred’s life, or even about magic at all.

* * *

“George! Stop.”

The temporary servant paused in rearranging the wardrobe. “Yes, sire?”

Arthur pushed away his picked-over breakfast and stood. “Look, you’re an excellent servant.”

George puffed up. “Sire! Thank you, sire!”

“Right.” Arthur struggled to keep a straight face. “And I understand that there is normally a certain way to…arrange things…a proper way…which Merlin does not follow.”

“Sire, I am certain that your manservant simply needs an example to guide him. A template, if you will. I would be most pleased to offer my assistance – ”

“Be that as it may,” Arthur allowed, choosing his words carefully. “I prefer his arrangements be left as they are.”

George blinked, glanced at the cracked ewer filled with pairs of socks rolled up in balls that he had pulled from the wardrobe, and then blinked at Arthur some more as if he couldn’t comprehend the notion.

Arthur nodded as if he were talking to a simpleton, or a tiny child holding a freshly sharpened sword. “It’s alright, George. Just set it back where you found it and close the door, and then you won’t have to look at it.”

“But sire – ” George frowned at the overflowing ewer with such consternation that it might have held the most terrible truths of the universe.

Arthur bobbed his eyebrows. “Yes, I know. But just the same, put it back. Otherwise, I’ll have to listen to Merlin complaining that he can’t find anything, and then I’ll have no socks at all. Just…put it back.”

George returned the ewer of socks to the wardrobe as if interring bones in an ossuary. He was still frowning at the closed wardrobe later, between scoops of ash as he cleaned out the fireplace, and Arthur left him to it. He wasn’t sure that the ewer would actually survive being left alone with George, royal edict or no. So many harmless accidents could befall an already cracked ewer.

The corridors were still mostly empty this time of morning; Arthur wouldn’t be awake at all yet if he hadn’t been set upon by the most boisterously proper servant in the five kingdoms. It was impossible to sleep through the pleased little noises of candlesticks being polished by a man who loves brass the way normal people love spouses. The carefully folded napkin packed with sausages made a warm bundle in Arthur’s palm as he strode through the halls. George could at least be counted on to bring far too much food to the king’s breakfast table, which meant that there was plenty leftover for Merlin. Contrary to popular belief, it did occur to Arthur that his desire to feed up his manservant was not exactly normal, but he wasn’t about to stop. It was a comfortable habit for him, and he knew that while Merlin would feel obligated to refuse many kinds of gifts that Arthur might try to bestow (the clothing incident stood out in his mind), food would always be welcome.

He still didn’t know what the big deal was about the clothing, though; Merlin had maybe two pairs of trousers and three shirts at any given time, and none of them were in any way suitable for Camelot winters - not even that awful brown coat thing. Arthur understood that he couldn’t afford more because he split most of his wages between Gaius and his mother, so why not let Arthur buy him some new things? It was hardly befitting the manservant of the king to run around looking like a pauper anyway. If anything, giving clothes to Merlin was a gift to Arthur.

He resolved to try that argument, since winter was coming soon, and Merlin still needed more suitable attire for it.

Arthur passed the armory and the doors leading out to the practice field, still barred against the night, then climbed the short flight of stairs to the physician’s quarters, his mind consumed with plots to properly clothe his ridiculous manservant. The earliness of the hour escaped his notice since he wasn’t used to being about before most people woke, and he pushed open the door to Gaius’s chambers without thinking at all that he might be disturbing anyone.

It was the chill that stopped him cold on the threshold. Arthur went still like a hunter in the wood, and took in the sight of a few pitiful embers slowly dying in the fireplace. None of the candles were lit, and there was too little dawn light coming through the windows to illuminate much. Something felt off; he had not simply walked in before the inhabitants woke. Arthur couldn’t have said what was wrong, exactly, but he could feel it in his bones. He dropped his hand from the door latch and stepped cautiously forward, feeling along the floor with his feet, his ears straining to catch any sound that might reveal the situation to him. About halfway through the room, it occurred to him that the quiet was what had struck him so hard in the doorway. Gaius snored, rather horribly. But it was completely silent in the room now.

Arthur peered into the darkness, located a candle, and took it to the dying fire to coax a flame to its wick. The little flare of light was enough for Arthur to see that Gaius’s bed was empty and unslept in. He also saw what looked like a collection of herbs abandoned in the middle of being made into medicines on the work table, an upended bowl of freshly ground powder, and a candlestick knocked on its side, half melted in a pool of its own dried wax. Arthur stepped around the edge of the bench and stopped, forcing his heartbeat to slow and his breathing to remain even. Once collected, he knelt down and pressed his fingers to the cool skin of Gaius’s neck, then held them in front of the old man’s face to feel for absent breath. He sat back on his heels afterwards, just breathing, his blood thumping gently in his ears. It must have been sudden, then. Arthur hoped it had been painless, at least. He looked down at the bundle of sausages still cradled in the crook of his elbow. Of all the things that threatened to break his composure…

Arthur set the candle up on the worktable and the sausages next to it, dashed angry hands across his eyes, and then looked up. He nearly jumped out of his own skin when he picked out another dim shape of a man crouched on the floor several feet away, on the other side of Gaius’s body, staring at him. The flicker of the candle flame highlighted a thin slouched figure leaning against the wall with his knees drawn up far too close to his ears, hands open and lying palms-up on the floor near his hips. “Merlin?” Arthur’s heart stuttered in a rapid staccato that clenched up his chest and threatened to take his breath as the first thought that crossed his mind was that he might be looking at a second body, and this scene not one of natural death at all.

But Merlin stirred, the motion stiff as if he hadn’t moved in hours. His eyes dropped from Arthur back down to Gaius, and Arthur noticed that he was clad only in his sleeping clothes, feet bare, face blank. Surely he hadn’t been there all night, sitting vigil? “His heart stopped,” Merlin told him, the calm chilling. “I couldn’t fix it.”

That emotionless rasp of voice propelled Arthur into a relief of motion. He found a thick quilt on Gaius’s bed and brought it over to wrap around Merlin’s shivering frame. “You’ll catch your death of cold,” he admonished, and then winced. Rather than apologize for the callous wording, he urged Merlin up, pulling him out of the tight, unyielding ball he had made of himself on the floor, and walked him to a chair near the fire where he would no longer be able to see Gaius. After stuffing a few fresh logs onto the fire and making sure that they caught, he crouched with a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, trying and failing to catch his eye. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

At Merlin’s sluggish nod, Arthur squeezed the sharp jut of bone and sinew beneath his hand, and withdrew to locate a servant who could alert the steward.

Once alone in the hall, message sent, Arthur took a brief moment for himself, leant up against the cold stone wall beside the door with his head tipped back to stare at the ceiling. In spite of knowing Gaius all of his life, of trusting his health to the man and accepting his knowledge and advice, Arthur had not been all that close to him. Gaius had been too loyal to Uther, and carried too many of the former king’s secrets whether it were still wise to do so or not. Arthur respected him and kept him as a member of the royal household and of his advisory council, but he didn’t necessarily trust him – not about everything. Gaius had lied about and hidden too much for that; he had committed too many atrocities by Uther's side, against his own conscience probably, and yet the guilt had not destroyed him as it should have done to a better man. He could forgive Gaius, though, for being too foolishly loyal to question his actions. However, Arthur never thought of Gaius as a friend, not even as a role model. Certainly, he could not see the man as much of a father figure, not to Arthur at least. But this morning, walking into that room, reminded him of sitting vigil beside his own father, a hearkening back to the days when loved ones would guard the body from predators through the dark watches of the night. Arthur had not stood that vigil alone, for all that he’d been the only living thing in the room with his father’s body; he hadn’t known that Merlin was sat outside the doors waiting all night too. The fact remained that someone had sat it with him, all the same. It made Arthur's chest hurt to know that Merlin had sat here in the dark for hours, truly alone, watching the still body of the only father figure he’d ever known grow cold. I couldn’t fix it.

Arthur shook his head and took several deep breaths to collect himself, to reestablish his calm and school his demeanor back to something more useful. It wouldn’t help Merlin to dwell on how groggy Arthur noticed him to be when he all but dragged him off the floor and toward the fire. Or on how Gaius must have plied him with another sleeping draught the night before, a strong one to last into the morning like this, to be certain that he got the rest he needed. It certainly wouldn’t help anyone for Arthur to realize that Merlin must have fought to wake up when Gaius fell, limbs heavy and uncoordinated from the potion, desperate to help him. How he had probably fallen down the steps from his little tower room, to judge by the livid bruises that Arthur had seen standing out on Merlin’s collar bone and forearms. The way he likely stumbled and used the shelves to pull himself upright, knocking over the normally neat stacks of books which were now scattered on the floor. How he must have struggled not to let the draught pull him back under, and felt it sucking at his strength, fumbling his fingers on the lids of jars and bottles of lifesaving medicines as Gaius’s life left him. How in the end, that sleeping draught probably did prevent Merlin from saving him, because Arthur knew that Merlin had the training both herbal and magical to do something about a seized heart muscle. And Gaius was still dead.

Footsteps down the corridor put an end to Arthur’s thoughts. He pinched the bridge of his nose, high up where his thumb slipped a bit toward the corner of one eye, and then straightened. There was no time for this; he needed to be the king now. His court physician and one of his oldest advisors was dead. This needed to be dealt with.

Arthur ducked back into the physician’s chambers and waved the steward toward the body before going to stand near Merlin, who hadn’t moved from the chair where Arthur had put him. Leon followed soon after, which Arthur should have anticipated once news reached him of the unexpected death of one of Arthur’s councilors. It did startle him a bit though, which Leon was kind enough not to mention. Because it was expected of him, Arthur told him, “You’ll lead the knights in training this afternoon. I must…handle this.”

“Of course, sire.”

Arthur glanced to where the steward and two women were checking the body. Death and cause had to be confirmed officially, something that Gaius himself normally did. He heard chainmail clink softly behind him, and looked over his shoulder to find Leon knelt in front of Merlin’s bowed head, his expression somber. Before Leon could say anything, Arthur spun and insisted, “That’s not necessary.”

Leon twitched in surprise at Arthur’s sharp tone, but recovered admirably. “Sire, it’s protocol to speak with witnesses to the death. We must confirm the events.” He looked at Merlin in covert apology, though, for the impersonal words.

Merlin interrupted whatever Arthur might have said to try to spare Merlin the need to speak of it. “It’s fine.” His voice was low and rough. “I know you have to ask.”

“Later, then,” Arthur insisted. “Once you’ve recovered.”

“Arthur, I’m fine.” Merlin glanced up at him, and it disturbed Arthur to find reddened but dry eyes, bruised from exhaustion, meeting his own. “You don’t need to protect me.”

Arthur tried to make another denial, but his breath huffed out without words at the look on Merlin’s face. He realized abruptly that he was a terrible friend, if he could be called Merlin’s friend at all, because he couldn’t stand the thought of listening to Merlin recount what had happened last night. It was less that the whole thing was tragic and more that he would have to listen to the story of it coming out in the same flat, dead voice that Merlin had used when Arthur found him on the floor. Merlin was not supposed to sound like that. Not ever. A better man would stay and offer support, even if all the support entailed was a silent presence propped against the wall. Arthur merely nodded, lips pressed together in a sickly line, and turned away. He could feel Merlin’s stare piercing him from behind as he moved out of the room, except that when Arthur glanced back from the threshold, Merlin wasn’t paying him any mind at all. So it was his own guilt, then, stabbing him in the back like that. Somehow, that seemed more fitting.

* * *

The day passed in an absolute blur. Arthur attended council and confirmed the rumors of Gaius’s passing, which led to a long silence and then an unexpectedly vicious discussion of how best to fill the vacancy. Arthur grew tired of listening to them squabble after a while and ordered them to move on to the next topic, amidst their protests. After that, he inspected the grain stores, met with the steward to discuss holiday preparations and staffing, reviewed the state of the royal coffers, and spent far too long grooming his own horse in the rare peace afforded by the royal stables. On any other day, he may have saddled up and dragged Merlin out for a ride, laughing at escaping the royal guard and any number of knights who tried to rush out after them in horror at their king riding about the forest alone with no one to protect him but his bumbling, mouthy servant. The air was perfect for it – sky mostly clear, breeze soft and lazy, sun bestowing a lingering warmth to tease them through trees only half-bare in a blaze of yellow and orange, with leaf litter crunching in drifts underfoot. He could have gone anyway, perhaps taken a crossbow and a few of the more hunt-savvy guardsmen, but he had no desire to ride out with anyone else when any reason he gave for the excursion would only be an excuse to escape the castle walls for a few hours.

Arthur returned to his rooms late and in a bad mood. He didn’t know what to do with other people’s grief, so he elected to let Merlin have his space even though it worried Arthur to think that he might be alone in the physician’s chambers, in a room too empty to feel comfortable anymore. Surely Gwaine would be with him, though. Someone. Merlin had friends, even if he never chose to lean on any of them. That was his own fault though, wasn’t it? Arthur couldn’t be held responsible for Merlin never letting anyone close enough to offer comfort when he was hurting. It wasn’t like magic drove a wedge between him and the rest of the world, and magic – the laws on it – were the only thing that Arthur had done to hamper him being entirely open like anyone else. Surely the rest of it was Merlin’s own fault.

The door slammed in Arthur’s wake and he threw his gloves vaguely at a table against the wall. There was a cold supper sitting on his table, neatly laid out, and for a moment, Arthur directed his gratitude at George. The meal was reasonably sized, though – nothing excessive. Merlin-sized. Arthur paused beside his chair and looked at the food for a moment. Eventually his eyes focused past the plate, and he realized that Merlin hadn’t dropped off the meal and left; he was sitting on the floor in front of the cold fireplace, his back to Arthur, legs crossed on the bearskin fur rug that laid near the hearth.

“What are you doing?” Arthur demanded.

Merlin jerked, and seemed to realize that he was supposed to be lighting the fire. He moved his hand toward the wood, then caught himself and reached for the flint instead.

Arthur strode up behind him and snatched the flint from his hand. “You shouldn’t be here. Don’t you have…arrangements or something? George can handle this. Just…take some time off.”

“I’d rather not.” Merlin unfolded himself from the floor and turned, gaze averted, to gently extract the flint from Arthur’s fingers. “There isn’t anywhere else to prepare him.”

“Prep – oh.” Arthur stepped back and let Merlin kneel again to strike at the flint. He had noticed several of the women who perform death rites walking across the courtyard when he escaped to the stables. Even though the old religion was technically outlawed, even Uther had not brought himself to interfere with them. Perhaps he had let them be because every appearance they made signaled another death of the old ways, as if each passing further cemented his hold and power over a new, featureless, magicless land.

It was more likely, after all that Arthur had learned over the past year from studying the records that Geoffrey had squirreled away since the purge, that Uther simply feared to cross them. As much as he stood in opposition to magic and claimed to reject the superstition of it, to have no fear of it, Uther had seen magic and the old religion. He knew its power. He had conceived a son by it, and killed a wife in the process. If anyone knew better than to challenge a death that comes from the old ways, it was Uther. He wondered briefly if the purge were really more of a petty vengeance than any serious attempt at eradication, vindictive or not. He wondered if Uther blamed himself so fiercely that he had to enact the purge to externalize it, to keep from tearing himself apart with it, or if he truly didn’t think that it was his fault at all that his wife died, not even a little, for dabbling in magic in the first place.

Merlin had finished with the fire and was working at the laces of Arthur’s tunic by the time he wrenched himself from his thoughts. Up close, he could see the strain of the day in Merlin’s features. Without any idea of his own intent, he reached up and closed his fingers over Merlin’s where they fought with the knotted ties, stilling them. “You don’t have to work just to stay here for a while. I’m not entirely heartless, you know.”

After a tense moment wherein Arthur thought that Merlin might simply shake him off and go back to picking at the laces, Merlin nodded and slipped his fingers out from beneath Arthur’s. “I know.” He glanced up, one side of his mouth curling in a sad attempt at cheer. “You brought me sausages.” The curl faded and flattened back out, drawing Merlin’s gaze back down as well. “Thank you.”

It was so sincere, so weighted – too much so for a soggy napkin wrapped around a handful of sausage links gone cold with congealed grease. Arthur inhaled and let it out harshly, a sigh gone wrong. “We need to talk.”

“I know.” Merlin smoothed the wrinkles from the material at Arthur’s shoulders and stepped back, angling himself toward the door in a way that made Arthur think he didn’t realize he was doing it. “Gaius said something last night… I wasn’t awake all of the way. He said he’d explain in the morning, but…” He jerked his head to one side, a shrug without moving his shoulders. “Well.” Merlin moved backwards again; it was just a half-step, but it could have been the length of the kingdom for the distance that it put between them. His chest expanded, fell, and expanded again, a deliberate bid to work himself into saying whatever was on his mind. Finally, he swallowed, fingers twitching at his side, and said, “You know, don’t you.”

Arthur wanted to close the space between them, though not to touch, nor for anything else so banal. It was simply the kind of conversation that screamed of intimacy. It should be private. It should be close. And there Merlin was, four feet and the whole of the earth away from him. “Yes,” he replied, forcing himself to stillness. “I know about your magic.” It was some cruel fate that made them live this moment over again. “You don’t remember?”

Merlin shook his head, blinking rapidly as if he’d got a bit of dust in his eyes. “I remember being chivvied around the practice yard like a straw dummy.” There was bit of a laugh in there, at least. “And the armory; you couldn’t get the straps undone.” He tapped his fingers to his arm where the leather had dug up under it. “But there’s nothing after that.” He started nodding to himself, and Arthur itched to block him somehow from taking any more of the tiny, shuffling steps backwards that he’d been sneaking into the pauses in the conversation. “What…” It was just an exhalation, clearly ill timed to fall right at the end of his air, and he sucked in a fresh breath to ask again, more clearly, “What are you going to do with me?”

Arthur wished that Merlin would look at him, or at anything in the room with them other than the door that he seemed to be keeping in his periphery. He needed to diffuse this – jolt Merlin from his prey mindset. They would get nowhere if all Merlin could focus on was escape routes. “Feed you dinner, for starters.” He watched Merlin freeze, twitch, and then stutter his gaze up to Arthur, incredulous. Finally. “You didn’t bring nearly enough, though. I’ll have to ring George to bring us a proper meal, which means he’s going to try rearranging my socks again. And I’m not dealing with him this time – you can defend your own ewer.”

The snort that Merlin let out at that sounded pitifully wet, and seemed to surprise Merlin as much as it did Arthur. He was making faces that implied he wanted to smile but couldn’t be sure that he should, or that it was appropriate, or that Arthur was serious. “I have magic, and you’re worried about socks?”

Arthur shrugged. “The socks seem more of an immediate danger.” He grinned briefly, heartened to see Merlin unconsciously mirror the expression, and then sobered. “I owe you an apology. I should have told you before now that I knew.”

The mirth melted away from Merlin’s face like wax turning liquid and smooth beneath the flame of a candle. “Why didn’t you?”

“I suppose…I was angry.” Arthur hazarded a step forward, gratified when Merlin merely let him approach. “I didn’t know how to trust you anymore, at first – your motives. And I felt a bit of a fool, honestly. There was a sorcerer living right there under my nose, in my own household, and I didn’t know?”

“You thought I was manipulating you?”

“No,” Arthur replied, startled to hear the conviction in his own voice. “I knew you weren’t undermining me, or trying to harm any of us. You didn’t have any sort of agenda that I could see, other than the obvious." Saving us. "But you're an idiot, so...”

“I was lying to you.”

Arthur nodded. “Yes, you were. And I know why. I know…if I hadn’t figured it out on my own, the way I did, and you had ever told me…” He felt sick at the thought of baring this truth, but Merlin deserved it. And so did Arthur himself, for that matter. It needed to be said. “I would have reacted badly.” He smeared his tongue against the inside of his lips as if he could taste the admission sitting foul in his mouth, and recalled that long ago lunge with a sword across his father's freshly dead body. “I might have done something rash. Something I couldn’t take back afterwards.”

Merlin nodded, bottom lip caught in his teeth, and exhaled as if shedding a weight that no one had known he was carrying. His eyes shone but didn’t spill, nostrils flared, and after a bare moment too long meeting Arthur’s gaze, he let his eyes fall, lashes lowered to brush the skin above his cheekbones. He seemed to weigh the risk of saying something more, but the silence won out, and he dipped his head in a short kind of bow before making his way to the door.

“Merlin.”

For a moment, Arthur didn’t think he’d stop, but his body slowed, molasses dripping down a sloped surface, until he washed up against the door with the pads of three fingers resting on the wood near the latch. Slowly, his head followed the same line and he pressed his forehead into the plank above them. After that, he didn’t seem to have any momentum left, and just stayed there with his eyes fallen loosely shut.

Arthur crossed the room softly and pulled at him for a moment, but if anything Merlin pushed himself harder into the door. “Come on. I’m the king; I can’t be bothered with worrying about you all night, so you’re just going to have to stay here.” He hooked a bicep and pried him away at an angle. “For once, just do what you’re told, and come sit at the table, all right?”

But Merlin shook his head rather more violently than the situation called for. “I have to make deliveries in the morning, and I haven’t mixed all of the medicines for it yet.”

Arthur started to tell him that one more day wouldn’t matter, but a somewhat upsetting suspicion stopped him. “Did you spend all day making Gaius’s rounds?”

Merlin swayed and bumped his shoulder into the door again in an effort to simply leave the conversation. “I had to; there’s no one else.” He sounded beyond exhausted in that moment. “Most of them can’t afford food, let alone medicine. He’s all they have.” He paused, and then corrected lowly, “Had.”

When Merlin thumped his hand at the door yet again, fumbling for the latch, Arthur forcibly hauled him back and steered him toward the bed.

Merlin went mostly without protest, though he seemed a bit confused at his own passivity. “What are you doing?”

“Is there a list of patients that Gaius sees every day?”

“I left it on the worktop. Arthur, what – ”

They ran into the bed and Arthur all but toppled him into it. “Good. I’ll get the physician from the lower town to cover that for a few days. Rupert, Herbert, whatever his name is. With the nose mole.”

Merlin flailed and tried to push himself back to his feet. “They can’t afford – ”

“They won’t have to,” Arthur soothed, shoving him back down with little difficulty. “I’ll cover his expenses from the royal coffers. It’s only temporary, until we work out what to do in the long term. I can’t have you running yourself any more stupid than you already are.”

Merlin flopped back against a pillow and panted in exhaustion, unresisting in spite of himself as Arthur tugged his boots off. It was no wonder he could barely keep his eyes open now that he’d gone down. He’d barely slept the night before, and was likely still recovering from what happened in the armory. Then he’d gone and spent the day covering for Gaius, and if Arthur knew him at all, he’d also seen to a good number of the chores that Arthur normally set him, including mucking out the stables. He hadn’t thought about it, but he knew that the stable boys only mucked the stalls every other day, and today marked the third day in a row that he’d gone down to find everything clean and the hay fresh. As he considered that, Arthur pulled at Merlin’s neckerchief, braced for the sight of the bruises that he had left, unforgivingly, in his drunkenness. What he did not expect were the series of reddened scratch marks where Merlin had apparently been itching at himself harder than was healthy. Arthur turned the scrap of cloth over in his hand and picked out a bit of straw trapped in the folds with a sigh. “You’re an idiot, Merlin.”

Without opening his eyes, Merlin mumbled, “I’ll do better, promise.”

“You’ve done enough already. Rest now.” Arthur folded the neckerchief and set it on the nightstand with a frown.

Meanwhile, Merlin sank into the mattress, limbs tossed wherever Arthur had left them, his chest settling into a more even cadence of breathing. Without really thinking about it, Arthur perched on the bed near his thigh, jostling him a bit, and took in the worn-out sight of him. Arthur was starting to think that maybe he didn’t really know Merlin at all, in spite of how similar they were. The thought disturbed him far less than he expected.

Careful not to wake him, Arthur tugged at the knot of Merlin’s shabby old belt, and slid it out from under him. That, too, went on the nightstand, coiled like a thin garden snake. Arthur reached over him and pulled the other half of the thick coverlet across the bed to enfold him like a camp roll, patting it down to be certain that none of the chill of the room would find its way in. He probably could have led a parade past the bed at that point; Merlin’s eyes were already moving beneath their lids.

Into the quiet, amidst the soft hush of breath and the crackle of wood burning in the hearth, Arthur whispered, “I still can’t quite fathom you out.” He smoothed the rich downy fabric over Merlin’s chest. “You deserve a better king than me, I think. A better man.” Before he could second guess the impulse, Arthur stood, but he leaned back over immediately and pressed his lips to Merlin’s forehead, just for a moment. He withdrew then, but only a hair’s breadth so that he could speak. “I want to be the king you think I am. But I’m not as strong as you, Merlin. I’m not good like that.” He touched his forehead to Merlin’s long enough to close his eyes and admit, “I hope you never figure that out.” Then he straightened, tugged his shirt back into place, and went to eat his cold supper.

* * *

“I know you will make me proud, as you always have.”

Arthur pawed at the blood spreading across his father’s nightshirt. When he looked away toward the body of the assassin, it was not a circus knife thrower that he saw on the ground. It was Merlin, his eyes clouded and unseeing.

“You will be a great king.”

“No!” Arthur tore his eyes from the sight and fixed them back onto his father. “I’m not ready.”

“You – you have been ready for some time, Arthur.”

“No, I need you.” Arthur looked up again, across the room, at the betrayal that he kept close to his own breast. But it was the old man now, Dragoon, with his long beard spilling white over the floor, ends stained rust where they met the blood spilled from the chest of Arthur’s father. Shaking, incensed, Arthur screamed, “Stop wearing his face!” The force of his words wracked both his own body and his father’s.

The assassin smiled back, grin set in the right features this time. Merlin blinked. “You cannot be a great king and make him proud at the same time.”

* * *

Arthur jolted awake, the smell of his father’s blood filling his nostrils, and clawed his way to sitting up, chest heaving in the dark. It couldn’t have been more than an hour or two since he laid down; no lights shone outside his window this late. Listening carefully, however, he could pick out the sound of a march of feet somewhere nearby, close on the battlements that encircled the castle. It soothed him after a moment. He looked down beside him at Merlin snuffling gently about, squirming to recover the warmth lost from Arthur upsetting all of their blankets.

A tattered collection of deep breaths brought Arthur’s heartbeat back to a manageable level, and he laced his fingers together over the back of his neck, holding himself in place, grounding himself the way he often did unthinking to Merlin, as if scruffing him like an unruly puppy. Arthur hummed to himself, eyes shut against the images from his dream, because he knew – he knew, he knew, he knew – that Dragoon was just a face that Merlin wore sometimes to hide behind. He also knew that Merlin couldn’t have meant it – to kill the king, Arthur’s father. He’d been so earnest in the charcoal hut, telling Arthur that all he wanted was to be permitted to live his life in the same peace that everyone else enjoyed. It didn’t make sense for him to deliberately sabotage himself by sending Uther to his grave, especially not when the king was already dying. Something went wrong. Arthur remembered grinning across his father’s renewed body to find his expression mirrored on the idiot old man. There had been no guile there; he was certain of it. Whatever age skin Merlin wore, he still couldn’t really lie to save his life. But all it took was a moment for Arthur to forget that and try to run him through. He was so glad, afterwards, that Merlin hadn’t let him.

Gods, this wasn’t even a new nightmare; Arthur had been having it for years now. He was thankful that it had ended this time before he took up his sword and used the pommel to beat the hideous grin from the wrinkled face, mangling the body sprawled in a pile on top of his father’s so that by the end, he had no idea which of them he was actually trying harder to destroy.

Arthur shook himself and made a point of tucking the blankets back around Merlin so that he settled again, then carefully slipped out of bed. He wouldn’t sleep any more tonight, not after that, but he couldn’t make too much of a racket without disturbing Merlin. Of course, he was the damn king, and it shouldn’t have mattered what Merlin wanted or needed. Arthur still crept across the room, unwilling to make too much noise. He managed to get himself dressed again, somewhat, and a small smile escaped him when he opened the wardrobe to find the sock ewer missing. A basket sat in its place, his socks unrolled from their balls and…ironed, apparently. Arthur picked at one, brows climbing his forehead at the perfectly straight creases aligned just along the seam. It was kind of impressive, actually. He grinned, chose a thicker pair, and shut the door. Merlin was going to have kittens when he saw it.

It was full night outside when Arthur stepped from the main doors of the great hall. The courtyard was dark, the watch fires doing little to illuminate the space. Several guards perked up at his appearance, some quietly alarmed, though whether it was because the king might disapprove of their performance or because they were worried that something was wrong, he couldn’t tell. Arthur gestured them back to their posts and descended the stairs halfway, choosing a stair at random to fold himself down on. The guards still seemed uneasy at his presence, but he ignored them. After all, he supposed that having the king appear in the middle of the night, half dressed in his stocking feet to sit on the steps in the chill of autumn, was a little bit alarming.

Leon showed up just as quickly as Arthur expected he would. Other than donning boots and a cloak, he was dressed similarly to Arthur in clothes that weren’t good for much more than sleeping. Arthur regarded him sidelong as he settled in next to Arthur like mates sharing a log at a campfire. “Which one of them went crying mummy?”

“Baldo,” Leon replied. “He followed you down from the balcony,” he added, referring to the open colonnade overlooking the main entrance to the royal household. “May I be plain, sire?”

“I should hope so, by now.”

Leon acknowledged that with a nod. “Hubert has been familiarized with Gaius’s patient list and medications, as you asked.”

Arthur nodded. “Good.”

“There is a…general dissatisfaction about his appointment.”

“It’s only temporary,” Arthur said. “Is he disliked or something? Incompetent?”

“Not exactly.” Leon reset his feet so that he could clasp his hands between his knees. “It is only that they – that is, we – are concerned that you will deny Merlin the right to take over as court physician. Most of us…prefer him. And he deserves it.”

“Yes, he does.”

“I also believe that we would all benefit from him taking Gaius’s place on the council.”

Arthur glanced sideways and gave a light snort. “Is there anything else that you think your king should be doing?”

Leon looked at him sharply to gauge whether or not he had overstepped, and then offered a sheepish smile. “No, sire. That covers it for now.”

Arthur huffed out a laugh. “Not that I disagree, but it isn’t as easy as all that.”

It seemed for a moment that Leon would let the conversation die while they both gazed into the darkness beyond the steps. “Forgive me, sire, but…you do realize he’s a nobleman’s son. It would be entirely appropriate to appoint him your advisor, even with as young as he is.”

Arthur blinked, then turned on the step to face Leon’s profile. “Did he tell you that?” he demanded.

“Not in so many words,” Leon admitted. “It’s just…well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s too well bred for a peasant.”

“I certainly thought so,” Arthur allowed. “Eventually. But he says he’s not.”

“Can you blame him?” Leon deferred to his clasped hands, still presenting Arthur only with the side of his face to talk to. “Sire…Arthur. You know that I would never seek to malign your father. Uther was a good king, if harsh, but he presided over a terrible time in Camelot’s history. He was…given little choice in the matter.”

Debatable, all of it, but Arthur appreciated Leon’s tact if nothing else. “Say what you mean, Leon.”

Leon nodded, folding his lips in so that his mustache seemed to blend into the beard below. “Merlin would have to hide his parentage if his father were someone Uther killed.”

 Arthur frowned. “I know we’re not suggesting that Merlin’s out for revenge against my father.”

“No – no – of course not!” Leon shifted on the step, uneasy. “Sire – I fear that I may say something I’ve no right to divulge.”

It hit him suddenly, what Leon was getting at. “His magic. You know about his magic.”

Leon went unnaturally still; he might not have even breathed for a time. Finally, reluctantly, he met Arthur’s gaze. “Yes.”

They stared at each other, each sizing the other up. Arthur wondered if Leon would actually challenge him, were Arthur to condemn Merlin as a sorcerer. “How?” Arthur demanded.

“Initially? The dragon.”

Arthur squinted at him, remembering the twisted little white creature chirping on the shore in the cauldron of Arianrhod. He hadn’t told anyone about that. “Go on.”

“I was not entirely unconscious when it scattered us in the field.”

It took a moment for Arthur to realize that Leon referred to the Great Dragon, and not the crippled pale thing that had consumed his sister. With a long breath, he stated, “It’s not dead, is it.”

“I saw Merlin order it away – threaten it if it ever harmed Camelot again. He’s a dragonlord, Arthur. He’s of noble blood.”

Arthur nodded, thoughtful. “Yes, I know.” He looked away then, aware that Leon continued to stare at his ear. “God, it must have been Balinor.” He dropped his face into one hand, remembering the ferocity of Merlin’s reaction in the forest as he curled over the dead man’s body. “He would have stopped the dragon sooner if he could have. It was Balinor.” Arthur had berated him for it, for crying over a stranger. His own father. “I am such an idiot.”

Into the quiet, with Arthur still hiding his face, Leon said, “I was saved by magic, when the druids healed me with the cup of life. I felt it, Arthur. Magic is not evil; men are evil, and not all men. Just some.” A rustle of cloth betrayed his restlessness – how the conversation left him discomfited. “Perhaps it is time for a change.”

Arthur closed his eyes and scrubbed his hand through his hair before coming to rest like that, with his head bowed. You cannot be a great king and make him proud at the same time. He imagined for a moment that he could smell the damp and mildew of a dank old cave where a goddess laid in wait, relegated to the dark. What is your choice, Arthur Pendragon?

Arthur took one last moment to squeeze his eyes shut against the weight of what he felt he must do. Something was dying here on this step, and he wasn’t sure if he could survive its loss intact. But enough; he was the king. He did not have the luxury of weakness. Ironically, he thought that he was glad his father had taught him that. “Yes,” he replied, pushing himself up with his hands on his knees. He looked down at Leon, gratified that at least he looked as shocked as Arthur felt. “Yes, it is.”

* * *

TBC

Notes:

I am sooooo sorry, I keep killing people I actually really like. I blame the weather.

Chapter 3

Notes:

I am so sorry this took so long. This chapter would NOT come easy. I kept fighting to make it do what I wanted while letting the story do what it wanted, and we just sort of knocked heads for a while. So, here is the next chapter. Happy December to all of you!

Chapter warnings at the end, but they are spoilery.

Chapter 3: The Death Song of Uther Pendragon

 

Uther’s head tilted and moved like a snake as he sat forward on his throne, eyes fixed uncomfortably intent upon Arthur. His words, when they came, were parodies of ones he had spoken in life; they chilled Arthur more now, to hear them coming from his ghost. “Your whole life, I tried to prepare you for the day you would become king.”

Arthur bit his lip and fought not to hurl back the sorts of words he might regret. He looked at this caricature of his father, and knew that it was not the man who had sat in that chair alive. It was a shade, and perhaps a truer reflection of what Uther had been, at his core. But Arthur still loved him. It was still his father. And his words, his disappointment and disgust…they stung.

“Did you learn nothing?”

Arthur swallowed. “I watched you rule,” he replied. “I learned that if you trust no one, you’ll always live in fear.” His voice gained strength, because he knew the truth of what he said from the sneer that fought to hide within the line of Uther’s mouth. “Your hatred came from fear, not strength.”

Uther rose from the chair, a looming presence that should not have dwelt in that room anymore. “How dare you,” he hissed.

“I loved and respected you,” Arthur went on, willing his father to hear him, to see what Arthur had known for years now, and to accept it, for the sake of his own peace if nothing else. “But I have to rule the kingdom in my own way. I have to do what I believe to be right.”

* * *

Arthur made several stops throughout the castle just as the sun was rising, Leon close behind him. No one mentioned his socked feet, of course, because he was the king, and he was allowed to be odd. They noticed, though. Pretty much everyone glanced down as he approached, as was proper, and then they blinked or hurried to look away, trying to be deferential without actually staring at Arthur’s feet, and pointedly not reacting to the fact that their king was wandering around the castle in the near-dark wearing his bedclothes and no shoes. Leon thought it the most amusing thing he’d witnessed all month; his poorly choked guffaws were not helping anything.

His chambers were empty when Arthur finally returned to them, the sun new and yellow-bright, low in the autumn sky where it shone through the stained glass of his windows. He paused for a moment to look out across the courtyard, eyes falling automatically to the platform that ever stood ready in the square. There was no wood piled around it now. His father had kept a dozen cords stacked neatly in a small chamber below the main stairs, dry hardwood soaked and cured in lamp oil that would light and flame at the slightest spark. It had remained there ever since his death, untouched. Leon stood below, directing a small hoard of servants in bringing it all out. The dew had yet to dry on the outside of the window glass, and every now and then, someone would pass at just the right point that the sparkle in a few drops would blot out the man’s face and replace it with a white flare like stars.

Arthur watched until the wood had all been piled about the base of the pyre, and he bore witness to a nervous crowd gathered at the far side of the courtyard, knit close together and hanging onto each other. He made himself look at the fear on their faces, at the way they each looked to their neighbor as if wondering: is it him? Does she have magic? Will I be next, for standing too close, for appearing to know them, for being appalled at the pyre where someone might see my face? This was what the laws against magic had wrought, and Arthur forced himself to see it – townsperson against townsperson, the fear, the thought that whoever makes the accusation first might be spared themselves. This was the price of Uther’s grief: A kingdom divided. This was why Camelot, however mighty, was still not strong. Arthur waited for people to begin hurrying about, no doubt spreading rumors and fear throughout the lower town. It made him feel sick. Only when he saw Merlin step hesitantly into the sunshine with a basket of medicines, freeze, and then stumble hastily back inside, did Arthur finally turn away. He had hoped for better from his closest subject, especially after the previous night, though Arthur’s disappointment wasn’t Merlin’s fault. The fact that even he looked at that pyre and thought that Arthur meant to burn someone on it… It hurt to think how little his word actually counted to the one person Arthur trusted above all else, but more, it confirmed his suspicion that in this, at least, he had failed as king.

The halls bustled with activity as Arthur made his way down to the physician’s chamber. He heard raised voices as he approached and slowed, just in case he would need to intervene in something untoward. As he drew near the partially open door, however, he recognized Gwaine’s tone as the one he used to sooth horses and skittish barmaids. Arthur uncoiled and let the tension drop from his sword arm as he reached the door.

Merlin shouted, “Stop that!” followed by a clatter, and the hard shuffling of feet in a hurry. “Look, I know you don’t understand, I’m not asking you to, just – let go!”

Arthur shoved into the room and hesitated at the sight of Gwaine physically restraining Merlin from stuffing things into a travel pack. They both froze, and Merlin paled considerably before he thrashed anew and dislodged Gwaine’s hold. Arthur backed into the door to close it, and stayed where he was as Merlin scrambled across the room, spun around a few times as if searching for another way out, and then flailed into the corner.

“Princess – ”

Arthur held up a hand to stop Gwaine from saying anything more, his eyes on the rapid flutter of Merlin’s chest, heaving like a bird that stunned itself flying into a window. “Merlin, no one is being burned.”

Something ugly flit across Merlin’s expression like an accusation. He remained silent. Years ago, when Arthur had realized what Merlin was, he’d wondered what might happen, were Uther to ever find out. He had thought that Merlin might attack in defense of himself, beg for his life, curse Camelot and all within it and swear his revenge, or any other number of things that sorcerers typically did when caught. This silence, heavy with judgement and betrayal, was worse than the scenarios that Arthur imagined. There was no stubborn dignity or bravado in it; it was simply a truth. In so many ways, Merlin was still just a boy, stung by the repeated blows of reality as everyone around him continued to fall short of the goodness and decency he thought he was meant to expect from them. And they were such easy ideals to live up to, upon reflection: be a good person; be a just person; act accordingly. Simple things like that shouldn’t be so difficult. Arthur wondered if it was the same for everyone else who failed at it, that they simply managed to get in their own ways and trip over nothing.

“No one is being burned,” Arthur repeated, forceful. “Not you, and not anyone else.”

Merlin shook his head, and kept shaking it, a solid and disbelieving denial. When he spoke, his voice was thick with mucous and unshed tears, his lip curled as if in self-disgust. “I don’t believe you. I saw what they’re doing.”

“Merlin – ”

“I saw it! They’re making a pyre, Arthur!” He spit his king’s name like a curse.

Arthur breathed through the burn in his chest. He had expected this when he’d seen Merlin from the high window, but he had not expected the pain of it. “Merlin, I swear on Guinevere’s memory, no one is being burned on that pyre ever again.” He stepped forward and made a gesture toward the window. “Look, Merlin. Look at it.”

Merlin blinked a few times and then glanced at the window, shoulders hunched as he pressed back against the wall. The column of smoke from the burning wood rose high, black and thick in the air outside.

Arthur forgot all about Gwaine until he moved toward the window himself, glancing at both Arthur and Merlin as if they were two armies poised to clash right where he was walking. He climbed up onto the ledge to get a view out the window, and spent a moment merely standing there. “Merls, he’s telling the truth.” Gwaine leaned back and stepped down. “There’s nobody on it. He’s just burning the old wood.” Gwaine propped himself against the ledge and regarded Merlin with the kind of care and caution of which no one normally thought Gwaine capable. After a moment, he twisted his head to peer sideways at Arthur too. “Somebody wanna fill me in?”

It may have been Gwaine’s reserve that betrayed him – that he asked what Arthur was doing rather than why Merlin would be so upset at a pyre. Arthur pressed his lips together and sighed. “Does everyone know? Honestly, Merlin – how are you still alive?”

Merlin had straightened and let his face go blank, staring at Arthur as if warring with himself over whether or not to regard this as a trick. He ticked and looked at the window briefly, then Gwaine. The way he held himself, the cant of his body, spoke of wariness, as if Merlin hadn’t known that Gwaine knew, and wasn’t sure of his reaction.

“Magic,” Gwaine said, pointing at Merlin. Then he jabbed his finger against his own chest with a tiny flare of pride that he couldn’t quite conceal. “Strength.” He rotated his hand and wiggled the finger at Arthur. “Courage.”

It took Arthur a moment to remember the funny little man at the bridge crossing to the Perilous Lands, and then he nearly rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. That man had all but told Arthur that one of them was magic, and one look at Gwaine would disabuse anyone of the notion that it might be him. He had no restraint whatsoever; he’d never be able to just not use it in front of anyone. But if he were getting onto the subject of obvious moments he should have realized what Merlin was, he would have to count Merlin confessing to the entire court, and Uther, that he was a sorcerer. Of course he’d done it to save Guinevere’s life, but even at the time, Arthur remembered being surprised that Merlin could actually lie like that. Only later did he realize that Merlin hadn’t appeared to be lying that day because what he’d said was the truth. Idiot. Though which of them was the worse one in that instance could be debated.

Gwaine straightened and sidestepped until he stood pointedly between Merlin and Arthur. “You had better mean what you say, princess. Because I’ll let you in on a little secret. I didn’t come to Camelot for you.” He cocked his head and his eyes drifted in such a way as to make it clear who he was here for. “Making me choose won’t end well for that crown of yours.”

Arthur nodded. “Just this once, I won’t consider that treason.”

Gwaine bent his head in acknowledgement, chin cocked to one side, but he didn’t take his eyes off of Arthur, and he didn’t retreat.

Unnoticed, Merlin had peeled himself from his corner and now appeared over Gwaine’s shoulder, cautious. A gust of wind blew a billow of heat and ash in through the window to swirl in the sunlight like a fine mist. It cast the room into hazy undertones, like an old memory. Arthur stared at him, at the careful consideration of his gaze. He wanted to crack a joke to break the tension, but this was not the time for it. However loyal Merlin was, and however much Gaius, at least, believed that it would override all else, Arthur could not take the chance that Merlin might bolt. Never turn on him, perhaps, but leave him all the same. One blow too many.

Arthur sniffed and drew himself up. “Gwaine, would you leave us? I wish to speak with Merlin in private.”

Gwaine sized him up for a moment, his assessment less than flattering to judge by the way he continued to eyeball Arthur even as he turned his head for Merlin’s permission. Merlin nodded. He didn’t even hesitate, truth be told, and Arthur almost wanted to yell at him for lacking any sense of self preservation. It took him a few heartbeats to absorb his own self-assessment: Arthur was not entirely to be trusted. His word was not that good anymore.

As if he could read Arthur’s thoughts on his face – and maybe he could – Merlin nodded. “It’s alright, Gwaine. I trust him.”

Arthur sucked in a careful breath and bit the inside of his lip, his eyes falling shut for a moment. He heard Gwaine moving slowly out from between them, and then to the door. “I’ll be just here,” Gwaine announced, presumably pointing to the corridor. “If you need me.”

Merlin replied, “I won’t.”

Eventually, the door bumped shut, and Arthur lifted his head from where he had tucked his chin near to his chest. He regarded Merlin from across half of the room. By way of apology, he said, “I guess I had to find out eventually.”

Merlin squinted. “Find out what?”

“What you really thought of me,” Arthur told him. He lifted a hand around in general. “Regarding magic.”

Merlin moved his head back on his neck like a recoiling bird. “Why would you do that?”

The ash continued to swirl in gentle eddies throughout the room, settling in a fine layer like dust here and there. Arthur wondered if this happened with every pyre lit down below. “Because you…you’re…” He struggled for the right word, but couldn’t quite find it. Finally, he settled on, “Forgiving. Of me. You defend me when you shouldn’t. I needed to know how…how bad things are. How hard I’ll need to work to convince others that I’m not my father.”

Merlin didn’t quite glare, but it was a near thing. “You’re an arse.”

“In my defense, I didn’t think you’d try to flee.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes, somehow conveying suspicious incredulity. “What did you think I’d do?”

“Yell at me,” Arthur admitted. “Maybe throw something.”

“I don’t throw things at you,” Merlin argued, missing the point. “You’re the one who throws things. Quite a lot, actually. I have bruises.” He paused, then shook his head. “What do I think of you, then? What did this prove?”

“That you don’t trust me.”

Merlin blinked. “Of course I trust you. Why wouldn’t I trust you?”

Arthur started to retort, but his mouth closed of his own accord. He felt his posture sag a bit. “You don’t,” he countered softly. “And I can think of a dozen proofs without even trying. Merlin, this isn’t a condemnation. I know you’re loyal – you’re stupidly loyal – but you don’t trust me. Apparently, you trust me even less than I thought. And that’s alright,” he insisted even as Merlin shook his head and tried to argue against what he was saying. “I need to earn that. I understand.”

Merlin obviously disagreed, but rather than keep denying Arthur’s assertions, he came back with a simple, “No. You don’t understand.”

That gave Arthur pause. Before he could find a way to ask what that meant without sounding either meek or confrontational, neither of which would come off as regal, Merlin swung away to paw at the medicine kit he’d been carrying when Arthur spotted him in the courtyard. “What are you doing? Egbert’s covering that.”

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing!” The outburst seemed to startle Merlin as much as it did Arthur. Merlin pushed at the lid even though it was already secure. Without looking away from his hands, Merlin said, “I can’t be in here.” His voice was small in a way that set Arthur’s teeth on edge, because it wasn’t right for Merlin to sound like that. “He’s just – ” Merlin gestured at the door to his tower room, and then snatched his own hand back as if to negate it. “ – there,” Merlin finished. “They have him wrapped, and they won’t come back until sunset to take him to the forest, and I can’t – ” He started to bow over the medicine kit, then caught himself and pushed upright again. “Arthur, I can’t. I can’t be here.”

Arthur stepped forward until he faced Merlin’s shoulder blade, sharp like a knife in his face. He stared at the knob of Merlin’s spine instead and tried to think of a way to tell him that Gaius’s death wasn’t his fault without sounding trite. He opened his mouth a few times only to close it again, and finally just said, “Come with me to council, then.”

Merlin rocked forward a bit and rounded his shoulders as he craned his neck back to look at Arthur. The hope that tried to light his face was pitiful in how earnest it was.

“And I’m sorry,” Arthur added, though even he realized that it came off as too flippant. Ungracious. He tried to inject sincerity into his manner as he clarified, “For the bonfire. We can’t burn that wood in hearths – it’s too combustible, and too volatile to store anywhere else. I wanted to be rid of it, and the scaffold too. It’s all burning.” He swallowed and let his eyes fix blankly on the window where smoke continued to rise into the sky. “It wasn’t my intention to scare you like that. I don’t want – ” He paused and corrected himself. “It was wrong to test you, however unintentionally. You didn’t deserve it.”

In Arthur’s periphery, Merlin twisted to face forward again and hung his head for a moment. “Council started already. You’re late.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed. “I’m fully well aware of that fact, Merlin.”

“No, you’re not. You forgot again.” Merlin finally pushed away from the table and faced Arthur, his mouth creased in a smile that didn’t reach beyond his lips.

“Well, I’m the king,” Arthur replied. He tried not to react to the look on Merlin’s face, to the sickly edge of it. “It’s not like they can do much without me.”

Merlin nodded and looked down, his mouth falling into a wavering line where Arthur could barely see it – not exactly the response that he had been hoping for. “Of course, sire.”

“Well. Come on then.” Neither of them moved for a moment, until Arthur remembered that he was supposed to be leading the way. Instead, he hooked Merlin around the neck and dragged him around toward the door, and then gentled his arm so that it hung down Merlin’s shoulder and over his chest. Merlin stumbled at first, but recovered enough to give Arthur the side eye. Arthur merely thumped him on the chest and kept going, forcing Merlin to keep pace with him.

* * *

It was dusk before Arthur had any time to himself. The court paid its respects to Gaius just before sunset, as his body was carried out, wrapped in plain white linen and borne up on the shoulders of a half dozen men Arthur had never seen before. It could have been anyone. Arthur stayed back out of respect; he could hardly miss the wary looks tossed his way by the many mourners following the procession out into the forest and the cold rain. The manner of preparing the body was of the old religion, and though Gaius had served Uther for most of his adult life, there were many who remembered that he had himself been a sorcerer. Renouncing magic couldn’t undo that, and the king’s decree still stood unchanged that no sorcerer is to receive a burial. Technically, their participations and mourning broke the law. Arthur watched the trail of people from his chamber window as it wound down the street of the lower town and out of sight. Gaius garnered a respectable funeral train, but there were not so many people that any one should be obscured. Arthur wondered if Merlin were already outside the citadel, waiting at the grave site, since Arthur didn’t see him in the procession.

He waited well into the night for Merlin to come back, irrationally hoping that he could make Merlin stay again – sleep where Arthur might keep an eye on him – but he never showed. Eventually, Arthur fell into a restless doze in his chair near the inadequate fire, wondering what was happening in the forest, if all of the people that he had seen following Gaius’s funeral train were sympathetic toward magic. Did they condemn him for betraying other sorcerers? Were they going out there to hurl vitriol and blame at his grave? Or did they cry and see their own plights and internal conflicts in him, lying dead in his wrappings like a message?

Some time late in the third watch, Arthur startled awake and nearly kicked Merlin in the face where he had knelt to gently remove Arthur’s boots. “What are you doing?”

Merlin looked at him. “They need drying.” As if Arthur were the simple one.

Arthur shook his head to try to dislodge the sleep clinging at his mind. He reached out without thinking and found himself being hauled up with Merlin’s shoulders propped under his arm. “No, I mean – this. Why are you doing this?”

Merlin merely shook his head and helped Arthur stumble across the room to his bed, drunk with sleep and exhaustion. Arthur wondered how Merlin wasn’t just as knackered; he’d rested even less than Arthur lately. Always, actually. He rose before Arthur every day, late to breakfast or not, and retired after him. How was he not dead on his feet as a matter of course? “You can’t sleep in your chair,” Merlin said. “You’ll hurt your back.”

“Stop being – ow!”

“See?” Merlin deposited him on his bed, which had been turned down and packed with warming stones at some point before he woke. The fire had also been stoked and fed, and now crackled far more merrily with a blaze of heat from where Arthur had previously been sleeping.

Arthur slumped and eventually spilled back onto his sheets while Merlin huffed and seemed to be trying to figure out how to remove Arthur’s trousers without it turning into some kind of thing. “I should be troubled,” Arthur slurred, his eyes lidded, “at how often you put me to bed like an infant.”

“You act like an infant,” Merlin muttered. “Off with this. I’m not fumbling around with your trousers.” He tipped his head at Arthur’s bottom half and gave him a pointed look.

Arthur craned his head to look where Merlin pointed as if he needed the reminder of what trousers were, or where his were located. Then he rolled his eyes and obediently tugged at the laces. “You wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do with my trousers.”

“Of course not.” Merlin was rustling around somewhere outside of Arthur’s line of sight. He reappeared in time enough to tug Arthur’s loosened trousers off of his legs and then get a soft pair of warm, wooly sleep leggings tugged up to Arthur’s knees. “Right. One more stand-up. Come on.” He hauled at Arthur’s arms and Arthur allowed himself to be pulled back to his feet. He made the mistake of looking down where Merlin knelt in front of him, breath hot on Arthur’s thighs as he slid the fabric of the leggings up the rest of the way. More breath puffed against Arthur’s navel while Merlin tied the drawstring. On his way to standing, Merlin skimmed Arthur’s tunic off of him too, and then he held up a baggy tunic for Arthur’s inspection. “Yes or no?”

Arthur didn’t look at the tunic; he peered at Merlin instead. The careful, disinterested smile that Merlin typically wore while completing chores wavered. Arthur shifted as he took in the sight of the same clothes that Merlin had worn to council that morning, rumpled but dry, and his usual worn leather boots, free of mud in spite of the rain that had been pouring down since midday. Of course, Merlin was a sorcerer and could have magicked himself clean and dry, but he never had before. “You didn’t go to the funeral.”

There was something brittle in the way Merlin rocked backwards and jutted his chin in the other direction, refusing to engage with Arthur, his lip a thin curl of…disgust?...beneath his nostrils.

Arthur shoved away from the bedpost. “Merlin, where have you been all night?”

Merlin gave half a head shake and swallowed, except it looked more like someone fighting not to choke. Rather than make any response, he lifted the tunic, clearly meaning to put it on Arthur whether he wanted it or not.

“Stop.” Arthur jerked to one side to evade the tunic and then grabbed it and pressed it down to hang between them. “What happened? Was there an injury or something that required your presence?”

“Nothing happened,” Merlin told him, pulling the tunic away from him and trying again to slip it over Arthur’s head. His tone implied that the subject was not up for conversation.

Irritated now, Arthur smacked at the tunic and Merlin’s hands with it. “Stop it. Merlin, he was practically your father.”

“I know.” Merlin stepped back and looked at the tunic. He seemed to waver for a moment before deciding to put the tunic away again.

“Were you ill again?” Arthur asked. He followed after Merlin simply to force him to look at Arthur. When it appeared that Merlin would refuse to acknowledge him, Arthur snagged him by an elbow and pulled him back around. “You can’t walk away when I’m speaking to you. I’m the king.”

Merlin’s voice went rough with what sounded like fatigue. “Yes, sire. And no, I wasn’t ill again, sire.”

Arthur sighed through his nose. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I really hate it when you do that.” He held his arms out. “Shirt.”

Merlin frowned at him, but at his chest rather than meeting his gaze. “What, dress you?” He fumbled for a moment and then slid the tunic over Arthur’s arms one sleeve at a time.

“No, of course not. I mean all of the ‘yes, sire. No, sire. Will there be anything else, sire?’” Arthur mocked. He ducked his head when Merlin lifted the tunic and waited until his head crested the hem of the neckline. “You’re the only friend I have, you know. I can’t stand it when you go all…” He flapped a hand around and finished, “All George.”

“You’re a king,” Merlin said by way of explanation.

“Yes, I had noticed,” Arthur muttered.

“So we can’t be friends.”

It only took a moment for Arthur to recognize the rephrasing of his own words, so many years ago. All right. I know I’m a prince, so we can’t be friends. He rolled his eyes, but more at himself and his own arrogance, or perhaps it was at Merlin for being so bloody dense sometimes. “Well, maybe not in public, but I’d like to think that here, at least – ”

“That’s not how friendship works,” Merlin interrupted. Arthur went still while Merlin tugged at the collar of the tunic. Finally, he gave the tunic a humorless smile and stepped back. “Will there be anything else, sire?” There wasn’t even any mockery to it, and there should have been – it sometimes seemed that Merlin mocked him without end.

Arthur stepped forward to conserve the distance between them. “Why didn’t you go to the forest tonight?”

Dishearteningly, Merlin stepped back. “Why does it matter?”

“Are you still weakened from the fit? Is that it?”

“No – ”

“Then what, Merlin? He was your father in all but blood.”

“I know.” Merlin backed away again, but this time, Arthur reached out and cupped his hands around Merlin’s neck, the line of his jaw, thumbs scratching across a dusting of stubble. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Merlin unshaven before; he hadn’t even noticed that Merlin was capable of growing a beard at all. Merlin flinched, his head tilting in Arthur’s grasp. “What are doing?” he demanded, suspicious. “What – ”

“This isn’t like you.” Arthur tightened his fingers enough to make Merlin try to wrench back again. “You’re not usually so…heartless.”

Merlin’s face rumpled and he tried to pull Arthur’s hands off. “Let me go.”

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “Something’s wrong with you. Have you been enchanted?”

Merlin’s nostrils flared as he sneered, “Oh, that’s very Uther of you. Something unusual is going on so it must be sorcery.”

It was an ugly thing to say, and possibly treasonous, but Arthur persisted. “I have lost too many people to a sorcery I didn’t recognize at the time. I didn’t even see it in my own bed.” He thought a silent apology to Guinevere.

Merlin’s features went tight and wrinkled, and he fought a little harder to remove Arthur’s hands. “Let me go.” If Arthur didn’t know him, the tone of his voice may have raised hair on his arms.

“You will explain yourself to me,” Arthur told him, dead calm by force of will alone. He hoped that the jump of his pulse could not be seen in his neck, though. “What happened tonight? Why didn’t you go to Gaius’s funeral?” He paused to squint a little closer, looking for something wrong in Merlin’s eyes. “You don’t seem enchanted. Shouldn’t it be obvious?”

“You’ve never noticed before.”

That was a low blow and Arthur caught himself in the midst of opening his mouth to gape. How could he… “You – ”

“I can make you let go,” Merlin said, a clear threat, but his eyes locked on Arthur and gave him away.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Arthur countered, growing angry himself. “You would never risk hurting me.”

Merlin gave a soft grunt of exertion as he twisted in Arthur’s grasp, but the struggle felt disingenuous. He wasn’t necessarily trying to get away, though Arthur suspected that he may not have realized that himself.

“Why didn’t you go to the woods?”

“Get off of me!”

Arthur pulled him back in by one tensed and corded forearm when Merlin dropped his weight and wrenched himself back. “Stop struggling and tell me.” He marveled at the calm of his own voice in the face of Merlin spitting some amorphous kind of rage. It seemed so out of proportion to the conversation thus far.

Without warning, Merlin gurgled out something high pitched and flung himself back, but he only succeeded in being jerked around by the arm that Arthur still refused to release, shoulder slamming into Arthur’s sternum. “You don’t get to know everything just because you’re the bloody king!”

“Merlin – ” Worried now, Arthur tried to swipe at the wet smearing across Merlin’s cheeks.

Merlin twisted his head to the side, incensed perhaps at his own show of weakness. “Go on, tell me how I’m a stupid girl’s petticoat!”

“No.” Arthur hauled him closer since he already Merlin’s left side jammed up hard and sharp against his breastbone. “I was wrong; some men are worth your tears.”

“My tears are worth exactly nothing!” Merlin twisted and wrenched himself away but Arthur wouldn’t release him. They overbalanced instead and Merlin’s foot caught on a table leg, dragging them both to their knees. “It won’t bring any of them back, or make anyone feel better! They’re dead! What good would it even do?”

This wasn't just about Gaius, Arthur realized. He grunted and heaved Merlin back across the floor, his arms locked in solid bands as if wrestling a wild boar. “Talk to me. Tell me what this is.”

Merlin growled, but it was gurgled and sheer. He made one last desperate bid to break Arthur’s hold, then slumped against Arthur in a miserable line of…of shoulder blades like hat racks, and antlers for limbs. “It’s alright, my boy.” Merlin hiccupped. “I couldn’t get to him, he saw me, and he was gasping but he said it’s alright, my boy and he was looking at me, and I couldn’t – ”

“You couldn’t save him,” Arthur finished.

“He went grey all over.” A raw, ugly sound heaved its way out of Merlin’s chest and he looked like he might gag on it as he folded over Arthur’s arm braced up against his diaphragm. Merlin’s fingers found the edge of Arthur’s trouser leg and clawed in at it as if he just needed something to ground himself by. “He was looking at me and smiling and his chest spasmed, I saw it stop moving, he just died like that and I couldn’t move, it was all numb – ”

A soft whoosh drew Arthur’s eyes across the room to the fireplace, where the flames started to rise and lick dangerously high. In his arms, Merlin gave a dull, rough howl, more vibration than sound, and twisted again to free himself. The fire echoed it in a roar that spilled out from the hearth. Somewhere near the bed, something shattered, and Arthur glanced over his shoulder at the scattered shards of a pot that had once held an arnica salve, a fine mist dispersing above it from the force of the explosion. He faced forward again, breathing hard. “Merlin.” He dragged the struggling body closer again. “Merlin! You have to calm down.” The air crackled like static, as when Arthur and Morgana used to rub their socked feet across his father’s woolen hearth rug to make their hair levitate. Arthur could feel the goosepimples rising on his arms.

Merlin tore himself mostly out of Arthur’s grasp, only to find himself in a headlock. Arthur was actually surprised at the force of the punch that Merlin landed low against his ribs, though it didn’t seem a purposeful hit. Arthur merely shifted his hold and then winced when Merlin kicked out and cracked his foot against the wall. The violence was startling; he’d never known Merlin to lose control, to be savage like this, ever, not even in his own defense. But if this was what happened when he gave in – the bench at the table cracked like a falling oak tree and splintered as it fell over – then it was no wonder that Merlin contained himself so well.

“Let me go!”

Every candle in the room flared with a bright column of flame that licked all the way up to the ceiling beams. Arthur understood this kind of fury – helplessness, nowhere to direct his rage but back onto himself, needing some kind of outlet to take the edge off so that it didn’t consume alive from the inside…. He couldn’t let Merlin go, release him out into the castle like this. He was too dangerous until he’d calmed down. He needed an outlet, any outlet, something just to take the edge off, break him out of this and calm him down.

Arthur propelled them both back across the floor and rolled to trap Merlin against the flagstones before he hurt himself, never mind the thought that he might set the whole room on fire. “You have to calm down. Merlin, listen to me. You have to stop.”

There was an edge of panic mixed in with the fury now, and Merlin seemed to realize what he was doing as he stared up with wide eyes at Arthur. “Get off of me – get off – GET OFF – ”

Arthur often forgot that Merlin was no longer the boy fumbling a mace in the marketplace; he had grown, and while not as strong as Arthur, his arms were corded with the ropy kind of muscle that gangly boys often acquired as they aged, hard and sharp like marble. Merlin thrashed under Arthur’s weight, careless of where he landed his fists, and it hurt. He expected the sting of magic next, braced himself for it, but it never came.

He didn’t know exactly when everything shifted. All he knew for certain was that right then, in that moment, the most urgent need was getting Merlin to calm down and reign in his magic. Arthur had to do something to snap him out of it, distract him, break his concentration, or rather the concentration of his panic and whatever other emotional break had fueled this. He couldn’t hit Merlin – he didn’t want to, and even if he did, he couldn’t risk another head injury. It was also possible that if Arthur attacked him properly, the volatile swirl of Merlin’s magic would turn on him in self-defense whether Merlin wanted it to or not. His magic wasn’t spells; it was elemental, and as such, it could act without Merlin’s conscious intent. Arthur thanked the gods for his research over the past few months for teaching him that critical difference. In any case, he needed something else now, something that would serve the same purpose to jar him from his current focus, but that would not seem like an assault to trigger everything funneling down to focus on Arthur.

The water pitcher on the table startled Arthur from his frantic thoughts as it burst and sent steaming water showering over the table. Beneath him, Merlin was trying to suffocate himself with his own arms, eyes clenched shut tightly enough to leak stress tears, gulping in breaths that tried desperately and failed to be centering or calming. He continued to alternate that with pushing to get Arthur off of him, and flinching at each shatter or crack or rush of flame. “Stop, stop, stop, stop…”

None of this was working, and Arthur looked up at the brilliance of the candlelight guttering unnaturally high around them. He would have expected a wave of sound and chaos like battle, but other than the sound of fire like tattered ship sales in the wind, and the occasional item breaking, it was silent enough in the room that the only deafening part of the whole thing was Merlin’s terrified, fractured chanting. Arthur felt as if he were seeing the room, hearing it, from underwater, everything ticking slow and languorous like time stopped in a cave. Arthur stopped thinking and moved on instinct, since that was his strength in a crisis anyway. One moment, he was throwing his full weight onto Merlin’s chest and trying to get his knees placed to stop all of the flailing, and the next, he’d seized a handful of Merlin’s hair hard enough to make him yelp. Arthur’s mouth intercepted the sound.

There were too many teeth between them, and Arthur almost pulled away, convinced that he’d done something monumentally stupid. Merlin’s fingernails dug into the back of his neck at that moment, however – eight of them in double crescent rows all but gouged into Arthur’s skin. He bit at Merlin’s lips instead, shifting his weight without thought to grab at other parts of him – pectoral, neck, a hip. His skin tasted of salt – sweat and tears – and the inside of his mouth was hot and thick with mucous and the sourness of a long day without much food, lips chapped and damp, but plush from being bitten and flushed with blood. Arthur pressed and shoved his tongue in, hand now brushing the scratch of hair on Merlin’s cheek, puffed out and round with air and Arthur’s tongue. The room began to hum and Arthur felt it crackle as his hair stood on end, like static coursing through him from a lightening strike too close. He didn’t give Merlin a chance to think, only react – mouth moving and pressing, stealing his air, shoving and penetrating down until their teeth clacked and Merlin’s chest heaved for breath in tiny grunts that Arthur felt against his tongue and the fingers that caressed the jut of his neck. All around them, candles guttered and went dark, and a rain of fine particulate suspended in the air fell like a rain of debris and dust and ash all around them.

Merlin jerked his head back and Arthur let his mouth go in favor of sucking brutally at the hard part beneath his ear. He felt more than saw Merlin’s lips part, but he definitely heard the shock of the groan that Merlin cut short and choked on. Arthur bared his teeth against Merlin’s skin and reached farther down to grab and squeeze the inside of Merlin’s thigh, high enough that he could feel the fabric of Merlin’s trousers pulling against turgid flesh where his thumb pressed hard into the tendon there. Merlin gasped and his stomach went concave, eyes flying open in shock. They burned gold.

Merlin jerked against him, shoulders curling up off of the floor, and Arthur bore him back down. He wasn’t gentle about groping around between Merlin’s legs, but neither of them were delicate, and Merlin merely grunted a bit before sinking his teeth into Arthur’s bicep, his hips jogging up against Arthur’s hand. Arthur felt a knee jab against his waist and spared a moment to position Merlin’s leg higher, until it wrapped over his back and clamped down there. They grappled for leverage and then Arthur hunched forward and thrust. A strangled sound punched its way from Merlin’s throat, and Arthur lunged for his mouth, determined to have that raw bit of noise for himself. He claimed Merlin’s mouth like a battlefield, tongue drilling down and in until anything Merlin breathed would have to come from Arthur’s lungs.

The chill of the stone floor bit into Arthur’s hand where he had braced it near Merlin’s head and he dropped to his elbow, freeing up his fingers to yank at Merlin’s hair and hold his head where he wanted it. Merlin was letting out tiny grunts of effort as he squirmed underneath Arthur’s weight, searching for friction in all the right places. Arthur shoved his knee higher toward Merlin’s hip and ground down against the hard, humid place between them, cloth scratching against their skin like abrasions, a dry burn that skirted the edge of pain. He was shoving Merlin by fractions closer to the wall, and it must have hurt, but neither of them were complaining exactly. All around them small objects dropped from shelves or out of the air, and the hearth fire contracted so suddenly that it nearly went out, all of the air sucked from around it and into a lingering swirl that settled and dispersed near the table. Arthur mouthed roughly across Merlin’s jaw, stubble scraping his lips, and bit at the hinge near his ear before skimming his hand firmly up over the rough fabric of Merlin’s shirt to pinch at a nipple.

Merlin’s back bowed to press his chest into Arthur’s hand and then he shook and grabbed at the crease where Arthur’s arse met his leg with a sharp huff of breath, artless in the way his muscles contracted like the swell of a wave pushing Arthur up to ride the bow of his body. Merlin pulled at Arthur with both hands and the leg wrapped over his back, his teeth clenched over something strangling that fought to emerge from his throat. It took Arthur a moment to realize what that meant, and he shoved into the wavering curl of Merlin’s body, a solid mass of pressure and resistance at the cresting. Merlin’s head fell back, neck arched and the jut of his throat on display. His eyes were open, bright blue now and unseeing, lips trembling. The sound that he made should have hurt his throat, tight and grating. It looked like pain, the strain of it in the twist of his body as the paralysis broke and Merlin thrashed his head to the side, body jolting and contracting in lingering spasms against Arthur’s. Merlin’s other foot skid across the floor and drew in against Arthur’s calf, trembling. His fingernails dug like talons into Arthur’s shirt, yanking it out of shape. Arthur grasped him by the waist with one hand and cushioned the back of his skull with the other, watching the breaths puff and stutter from Merlin’s lips.

Finally, Merlin’s breaths subsided into the heavy gasps of an overworked horse, and his body unwound by degrees, unevenly, and not all in the right places. Arthur had gone still without thinking, as if he knew that he needed to hold something together with all of his might until the end. A gentle quivering took hold of the body beneath him, Merlin’s teeth actually chattering for a brief moment as he sucked in a hasty breath, and then Merlin blinked several times, rapid flutters to regain his bearings. He appeared shocked by the whole thing, eyes leaking from the release and the aftermath, and the jarring crash after the fight.

Arthur brushed his thumb over Merlin’s cheekbone, his own body gone strangely quiet. “It’s alright.” Why he said it, he wasn’t certain, but he had the strangest feeling that Merlin was panicking, somewhere softly down where Arthur couldn’t see it. “You’re alright.”

Merlin still hadn’t actually looked at him, and it was worrisome. His leg had slipped from Arthur’s back already, but his hands continued to clamp and release, clamp and release with each slowing breath that he took, eyes fixed unseeing on the empty space above their heads. The odd vibration of the air, the weight of it, had passed, the magic finally dormant again. Arthur took it as a good sign and let himself relax in increments, shifting back to take his weight off of Merlin’s stomach.

A small hiccup startled its way from Merlin’s throat, and that was all the warning he gave before he thrashed all of his limbs out and once and toppled Arthur off of him. The tail end of a kick landed Merlin’s heel almost close enough to Arthur’s groin to do him lasting damage. As it was, he deflected it just enough that it landed against the join of Arthur’s hip and thigh instead, but it still hurt, and it still sent him crashing back to the ground. He couldn’t recover in time to stop Merlin wrenching the door open and dashing away down the dark corridor.

By the time Arthur finished cursing and hobbled to the door, guards were jogging in his direction, alarmed by the ruckus in the royal hallway, and Merlin was gone.

* * *

Arthur didn’t move when Merlin came into the room. He was waiting for the lies, or the false succor, or even the confession.

“I am so sorry.” Merlin slanted his eyes away and moved sideways into the room, hesitant. “I sh – ” He seemed to try to shake off his loss of words. “I sh-sh-sh – ”

You should not have killed the king, Arthur thought. But he didn’t bother saying it. The awful truth of it was that he couldn’t make himself face it again. He couldn’t pick up his sword and swing it at Merlin again, not even for this. What kind of a son did that make him?

Merlin looked at the ceiling, resigned and unhappy, and abandoned whatever he actually meant to say. He drew himself up and finally looked at Arthur. “I wish that there was something I could have done.”

Arthur thought he’d done more than enough already, but when he looked at Merlin, he didn’t see lies. He saw the omissions, of course, but he’d been seeing those for a while now. Without lifting his head off the back of his chair, Arthur swallowed, fingers twitching where he left his hands hanging limp from the armrests. God, he still couldn’t see evil in the ridiculous boy, could he? Not even now. Merlin looked devastated, as if he’d sat somewhere and cried every one of the tears that Arthur wouldn’t allow himself to shed. Were they tears for the dead king, he wondered? Or for the loss of Arthur’s promise to change the laws on magic? He would have preferred tears of regret for breaking Arthur’s trust, but as he watched Merlin stand there, unable to keep entirely still, he realized that those were likely already there.

Damn him. Arthur wanted so badly to hate him. “Merlin, no one but me is to blame for this.”

“You are not to blame,” Merlin refuted. He was more forceful than he should have been, but the words were broken, so maybe he had to snap them just to get them out. “This isn’t your fault.”

Arthur stared at him, refusing to look away or give himself an out for this. “I’m entirely to blame.” For trusting you. For asking you. Maybe for using you. His eyes slid out of focus, but he let them. It would be so easy to blame Merlin, and only Merlin, but how could he? Merlin had saved his life more than once. He’d saved Uther’s, before. That this time, it didn’t work? Magic was treacherous; he knew that already. This… It just proved that again, didn’t it? “My father spent twenty years fighting magic. To think I knew better… I was so arrogant.”

Merlin didn’t say anything, but his face spoke volumes.

“That arrogance cost my father his life.” Arthur knew that his father may have died anyway, but the actual death blow came from him, at his command. From the hand of his…manservant. Sorcerer. The viper that he held close to his breast. And why? Because he thought his father a grief-maddened old fool for his unforgiving eradication of an entire people. Because Arthur had looked at Merlin and seen just a boy trying to do good, to make his way in the world – a boy who happened to have magic. And Arthur didn’t want to destroy that, because he thought it offered hope for a different way. But he didn’t know – he hadn’t lived what Uther lived, and he hadn’t listened to the counsel of his betters. He was an arrogant fool.

“You were only doing what you thought was right,” Merlin insisted. “I’m sure that old sorcerer meant no harm. Perhaps the spell went wrong.”

Arthur broke eye contact; he couldn’t watch this. He needed his guilt, but he needed Merlin’s too. He couldn’t afford forgiveness or excuses for either of them, and he didn’t want to grant them even if he could. He needed Merlin to suffer for this. It wasn’t a charitable thought, but it was true. He wanted Merlin to hurt for it all the more because it would be beneath Arthur to strike an actual blow himself.

“Uther was dying. Maybe nothing could have saved him.”

Arthur swallowed an urge to choke on something cruel, and said instead, “We’ll never know. All I know for sure is that I’ve lost both my parents to magic.”

Merlin’s eyes widened by a fraction, but he said nothing.

“It is pure evil.”

Merlin’s throat worked in silence, tendons straining for a moment over an inability to swallow.

Arthur forced himself not to feel bad for what he’d said. It wasn’t cruel, it was just the truth, however vicious the flare of satisfaction felt as he watched Merlin react. They both needed to hear it, but Merlin especially. He needed to learn. Deliberately, Arthur met his gaze, direct, and willed Merlin to understand what Arthur was saying – that it was directed straight at Merlin – that it was just for him. A warning. A promise. “I’ll never lose sight of that again.” A threat.

Some kind of comprehension passed there, because consciously or not, Merlin nodded. A knock at the door interrupted whatever else they may have said, and the moment broke. Arthur ignored how Merlin’s throat seemed unwilling to work, and the way his breaths had gone shallow with some internal struggle that Arthur could only guess at, and didn’t want to even if he could. Arthur looked away at the door, down, and then stood, refusing to look at Merlin again. He was letting his father’s killer live. He was letting the man who killed the king remain his most intimate acquaintance. Which one of them were guilty of the greater sin here?

Merlin watched him walk around the table, toward the door, passing close enough that Merlin angled himself defensively and leaned away. Arthur ignored him and walked out. There wasn’t much else he could do to punish Merlin for his crimes, other than to make him suffer like this. They’d both be exposed otherwise – Arthur for soliciting the use of magic, and Merlin for performing it, and the both of them for murdering the king. Only Agravaine knew what Arthur had done, and he would remain silent if only because Arthur well knew that he had hated Uther, and blamed him for Ygraine’s death. He would shed no tear for his brother in law. As for the sorcerer, Arthur would never tell anyone that Merlin could put on the face of a doddering old man. He had been an idiot in the tunnels, the old man clutching at his shoulders, and dangling right there – Merlin’s boots, kicking out from where Arthur had hooked him under his knees to carry him. God, he’d been so relieved when he realized who he was carrying on his back because Merlin would never betray him.

In the corridor, Gaius waited with two guards to lead Arthur to his father’s body. He took a moment to breathe and collect himself, preternaturally aware of Merlin doing the same behind him. When they started off down the hall, he almost didn’t think that Merlin would follow. Arthur wasn’t sure if he felt relief or not at the rapid stutter of footsteps hurrying to catch up a moment later. It would be easier if Merlin just left. As it was, Arthur considered sending him away once this was all over. He didn’t need the temptation again of a sorcerer standing beside him, willing.

The door of the viewing chamber clicked shut behind him with a finality that drove a spike into his stomach. Arthur’s feet slowed of their own accord until he found himself adrift on the floor several feet away from the plinth, his father’s body a dim blur in repose before him, covered in rich cloth. Arthur had done this. In defiance of the hard-won lessons of his father, Arthur had solicited magic, and killed him. Confronted now with the body of evidence, Arthur couldn’t imagine how he would ever be able to look Merlin in the eye again – a constant reminder of his arrogance, and the price of magic. But Arthur was the one who had actually used it. Merlin had acted on Arthur’s command, out of Arthur’s desperation. Not his own. Arthur had wielded his manservant like a tool to do his bidding, against the learned advice of all others. He had never been so disgusted with himself.

* * *

The sunlight blinded him, luminescent shafts that pierced the room. Arthur lifted his head eventually and regarded the sparkling glass of the windows before turning to see how it struck his father’s countenance. It was only after he looked that he realized he had expected the light to lend an illusion of fullness and life to his still features. Instead, it highlighted the sunken cheeks and the obvious pallor of death that the night had at least obscured.

Arthur turned his face away and stood. He knew now what he must do; the dark watches had clarified it for him. He could not begin his reign on the unavenged body of his murdered king. Magic had killed him – magic that Arthur commissioned, but that Merlin actually cast. He could not allow himself to be drawn in any longer. Merlin wore the face of a boy, but he was not an innocent; he was a sorcerer. And sorcerers were evil. Arthur could not allow himself to remain under this enchantment any longer – he must refuse to be seduced by it again. Merlin wasn’t necessarily evil, but he was already corrupted, and his father had taught him that such a perversion could not be excised once it had taken hold. It was unfortunate that Merlin had allowed himself to be sucked in by the allure of magic, but if Arthur felt sympathy for the boy now, it would only allow the perversion to grow until Merlin disappeared within it. Merlin had magic. And magic must be destroyed, for the good of all. After all, however kind and good a man Merlin was, he had already seduced a prince to use magic, and caused the death of a king. It would be a mercy, surely, to let him die now, still in possession of his faculties – still, in the largest part, the kind and innocent boy who had challenged a prince to be a better man. For Merlin, then, he must do the hard thing. The right thing. He must be a good man, even if it destroyed the last part of his soul that knew how to hope. He could not allow Merlin to be destroyed by the evil that he had allowed to find safe harbor inside of himself. It was just like putting down a sick dog, to spare them the pain and suffering of wasting away. It was just mercy. And putting off the inevitable would be cruel to both of them.

Arthur strode to the doors, resolute, and pulled them open to spill light into the hall. He had every intention of calling for guards, of sending them after the boy, of refusing to relent or allow his heart to steer him wrong yet again. Merlin was a killer – he was a sorcerer – he was irredeemable.

He was sat in a heap on the floor, face turned toward the wall, still not-quite crying. Arthur paused, watching the sunlight wash over his manservant. His hand slid from the handle of the door. Something horrible took up residence in Arthur’s chest, but he pushed it back. It was just easier this way; there wouldn’t have to be a manhunt. “Merlin.”

Merlin seemed to stir himself from a great distance, and rolled his head along the stone balustrade to face Arthur. He didn’t move any other part of himself, just his head, as if he hadn’t energy or care left for anything else.

The odd notion struck Arthur that Merlin’s presence was a self-imposed atonement of some kind. It also occurred to him that Merlin half expected Arthur to come out and condemn him for his crime after all. Or worse, that he wanted Arthur to condemn him, because he couldn’t sufficiently condemn himself. Arthur felt the hard edges retreating from his expression. He was looking at a man – just a man – eyes empty and tired, wracked by the same guilt that Arthur had struggled with himself over the body of his father. There was hopelessness there. Sadness. But there was also a frightening resignation. Maybe he expected Arthur to finish what he had started in Uther’s chamber, by his deathbed. Arthur remembered the denial and panic on Dragoon’s face, his scrabbling to do something, anything – the horror as Uther gasped and finally exhaled his last. And the despair that followed. The stark denial. Something more than just a king had died in that room. How had Arthur not noticed it before?

Arthur looked at him, at the nothing in Merlin’s face, and couldn’t hold onto his resolve. Merlin had made the same mistake as Arthur, in the end. He couldn’t condemn his servant without also condemning himself; that was something that Uther had never learned.

Something roiling within Arthur settled, and he softened his features. “It’s a new day.”

Merlin’s eyes flickered past Arthur and into the sunlight as if he hadn’t realized that yet – as if the glow had been beyond his notice until Arthur mentioned it, or as if he’d somehow assumed that it came from Arthur, rather than from the sun. The eastern warmth highlighted the redness of Merlin’s eyes, the bruising of exhaustion beneath them, and the stark, awful lack of affect in his expression. Abruptly, Merlin’s pupils focused, and he pushed himself to his feet.

“Have you been here all night?”

Merlin seemed to skip a beat at that, as if he’d expected something entirely different, and had stood only so that he could say he’d met it on his feet. “I didn’t want you to feel that you were alone.”

Arthur lifted his chin, a prickling in his own eyes threatening whatever lingering anger he may have had left. He nodded, just a bob of his head, barely there. “You are a loyal friend, Merlin.”

Merlin inhaled, a soft and fast thing, and swayed back from him, his gaze falling. Something in his face told Arthur that he disagreed.

Arthur looked down too, and took a few hesitant steps forward. He was doing the right thing, now. He had to believe that. Looking at Merlin, at the same bare guilt that Arthur couldn’t show himself, he knew that he was doing the right thing. He turned away and looked back at the body of his father limned in light on its stone bed. Uther made his own son out of magic, and when he didn’t like the price, he exacted a terrible retribution. Whatever the official story, Arthur could see how he tore his own kingdom in two in the process. It was fitting, perhaps, that in the end, magic claimed him too. Arthur would not repeat his mistakes. He reached out to either side as if embracing the light, and grasped the edges of both doors to pull them shut, cutting off the luminescence. What was done could not be undone. They would leave it where it lay.

Arthur sucked in a deep breath through his nose as he turned and regarded Merlin, still standing wary and uncertain behind him. “You must be hungry.”

It was only a tiny thing, the softening of Merlin’s features. But it was there. His voice wavered and cracked from disuse and gratitude both when he replied, “Starving.”

Arthur let his mouth gentle, almost a smile. “Me too.” He swallowed, and burst into motion. “Come on. You can make us some breakfast.”

Merlin rotated on his feet as if helpless to resist being drawn to follow Arthur. Maybe Arthur wasn’t the enchanted one between them. Maybe it was Merlin, hopelessly tied to Arthur, who couldn’t help himself. They climbed the steps in a comfortable silence, and Arthur made a vow to himself then. He would not abuse Merlin’s loyalty – his magic. Ever. He would have to protect both of them from the temptation of it, because if anything like this ever happened again, it was Merlin who would suffer for it, not Arthur. He could never allow himself to forget that.

* * *

Arthur waited for the dull throbbing near his groin to fade, a bruise already blossoming in the shape of the heel of Merlin’s boot, before calling for George to clean up the mess of his chambers. Under other circumstances, the look on George’s face and the abrupt fading of his ever-so-proper greeting would have been comical. As it was, Arthur merely creased his lips with a faint sick feeling and ordered the man to say nothing to anyone about any of it. Then left the man staring with wide eyes up to the black smoke rings on the ceiling.

The practice field was dark when Arthur stepped out onto it, practice dummies lined up in a neat row as if waiting to be beaten into a pile of straw and splinters, just for Arthur. He already had a staff in his hand when the notion struck him that this was exactly what Merlin could never do. He could never let off steam, never find himself a safe outlet, never purge all of the awful things in his head by unleashing his anger onto an inanimate object. Arthur paused and stared at the blank, featureless head of a straw man. If Merlin ever unleashed his temper, he wouldn’t just incinerate one practice dummy. He’d raze half the countryside. This luxury, this…release. It would never, ever be an option for Merlin. He could never lose his cool, never find solace in blind exertion, never release the violent tension. To Arthur’s knowledge, he had never tried, and he honestly wondered what that kind of constant restraint could do to a man who felt the way that Merlin did. Passionately. With all his heart.

Arthur stepped back, the staff sliding across his palm to roll off his fingertips.

It wasn’t all that difficult to find Merlin; several of the guards had taken note of him flying through the corridors as if being chased, but they were used to that. Merlin was constantly late for everything, and careened about the halls at all hours as a matter of course. He’d managed to get rather far, though, so Arthur had plenty of time to replay what had happened in his chambers, and he didn’t like the conclusions he’d come to. He had assumed at the time that the outburst stemmed from some combination of anger and loss – from Merlin losing his temper. But Merlin never lost his temper; Arthur wasn’t sure he even had one, and with good reason. He would be more than deadly if he had. No, that wasn’t anger in Arthur’s chambers. It was nothing so simple.

The western wall was only lightly garrisoned, being the tallest and facing no roads. Arthur nodded to the sentry he passed and stepped out onto the battlements. A soft wind whipped his hair to flop from one side of his skull to the other, and he paused to consider what he was doing. What he had already done. This could end, now. Arthur could turn around, go back to his chambers, and never speak of this night again. Merlin would appear in the morning, or not, and they would go on exactly as they always had: king and servant. Proper and separate, divided by station.

Alone.

Arthur had wanted so badly to figure Merlin out, to know him, to share burdens with someone who understood the loneliness. But if he did this – if he kept walking forward out into the night atop the wall – it would change…everything. Arthur had become proficient at being lonely, and he knew that he stood in great risk of following his father’s path, but it was familiar. He knew how to be this – he had been raised and trained from birth to be a king, aloof and stood shining atop the whole kingdom. But no one had taught him to be just a man. Of the only people who had ever come close to trying, one was dead and buried beneath a hilltop of flowers, and the other was up here, in front of him. A siege perilous. And Arthur was not adequate to it.

The wind gusted gently and carried the scent of the watch fires to his nostrils, dry wood smoke like war camps at night. Arthur looked down from the wall, to the roof of the garrison barracks. He had never been a friend to Merlin. He had never accepted the responsibility that came with friendship. He had been a prince and a king, and he had risked his life for that of his subject. He had sparred with Merlin, teased him, engaged in horseplay. He had cared, but he had not risked caring too much. It would pain him if Merlin were ever gone, but it would not devastate him. Or at least, not any worse than had his sister’s betrayal, or his father’s murder, or his wife’s corruption.

Something inside of him whispered liar. He had thought Merlin gone once, collarbone smashed in with a mace, and a fall of rock between them. And when his patrols had not found him, had reported him taken and likely dead, Arthur had ridden out himself in defiance of the thought. He’d have gone alone if he had to. The king, in quest after a servant he refused to let lie. A servant he refused to casually acknowledge as anything more than staff, but for whom he had risked his life and crown to keep. His actions always had betrayed him, hadn’t they? But only as selfishness. He had let Merlin bear the burden of whatever existed between them, and had strung him along with the odd comment or acknowledgement. But Arthur had never assumed responsibility for Merlin, for his personal wellbeing, as a friend should have done in return. That’s not how friendship works. Clothes and heroic lifesaving, and the dubious privilege of being allowed to steal Arthur’s leftovers from dinner were not enough. Even the royal dogs received that level of regard from Arthur. It did not equal a friendship. And worst of all, Merlin apparently knew that.

Why, then, did he let Arthur get away with it? He hadn’t always; Arthur remembered being challenged over it plenty of times. But he’d only been a prince then. Was it just because of his rank? Or was the little that Arthur gave somehow all that Merlin thought he should have?

Arthur stepped across the stones, down toward the walkway, and out onto the battlements. When he reached Merlin where he sat huddled with his back pressed to the stone wall, Arthur paused. Merlin had his arms crossed over drawn-up knees, face dropped down into the crooks of his elbows. He may have been asleep for all that he didn’t stir at Arthur’s approach. “Merlin.”

Merlin startled badly and nearly fell off of his own bottom. He blinked around and then shook his head at Arthur’s knees before looking up, face still muzzy with interrupted sleep coupled with a deeper exhaustion, even as he paled. “Sire.”

“You shouldn’t let people sneak up on you like that.” Arthur shook out his cloak and draped it over Merlin’s shoulders before stepping over him to get a better view of the moon over the forest. “If I’d been a bandit, you’d be dead.” He glanced down to find Merlin fiddling with the hem of the cloak as if he weren’t entirely certain that he should be wearing it and not mending it, or putting it back on Arthur. “At least the rain’s stopped.”

Merlin blinked at him and gave an aborted head shake, as if in silent demand to know what he was going on about now.

“You know, I’ve been thinking.” Arthur waited a moment for sass that didn’t come, and then said, “Yes, I was careful not to hurt myself, thank you Merlin. As I was saying, I’ve been thinking.” He shuffled at the stone beneath his feet and then lowered himself down to mirror Merlin’s pose with a soft groan of relief at taking the strain from his lower back. He really shouldn’t fall asleep in his chair anymore. “And I have a question for you.”

There was no response, and Arthur looked to his left just to be certain that he still had Merlin’s attention. A pair of frightened, wide eyes gazed back. It took Merlin two tries to force out a word from what sounded like a cottoned mouth. “What?”

“What on earth could make a man loath himself as much as you seem to do?”

Merlin just stared at him.

Arthur nodded and looked away; he’d suspected that neither of them could answer that, so there wasn’t any point in pursuing it. “That wasn’t normal, what happened in my chambers. If it were, you’d have been caught by now.” He rested his head back against the parapet and rolled his neck until he could see Merlin from the corner of his eye.

Merlin was picking at loose threads along the hem of the cloak now, gently unraveling them. His voice dry and barely audible, he replied, “Sorry.”

“I’m not asking for an apology.” Arthur took a moment to absorb the thickened northwoods peasant’s accent slurring the few words that Merlin had said, as if Merlin were drunk, or had forgotten himself. He looked down and worried at his own fingertips. “Merlin, look. What happened upstairs, what I did…”

“It’s fine.” Merlin hunched in on himself and scrubbed his hands across his knees. “I know it didn’t mean anything.”

Arthur watched him for a moment. “I had to calm you down. Break whatever was going on there before you hurt yourself or set the castle on fire. It was either…that…what I did, or a good knock upside the head, and I think you’ve had enough of the latter.”

Merlin nodded, his chest spasming with some kind of hiccup. “Yeah.”

This wasn’t going exactly how Arthur had expected. “Are you alright? I didn’t hurt you?”

“No, it’s fine,” Merlin told him, voice a bit vacant. Faint.

“Is it?” Arthur frowned and peered more closely at him, trying and failing to catch his eye. “I committed a trespass that in other circumstances might have been unforgiveable.”

Merlin started to say something that twisted his features briefly in some kind of disgust, but it was fleeting, and he merely shook his head.

That brief glimpse of revulsion disturbed Arthur more than he cared to admit. “I don’t want this to come between us.”

“You don’t have to keep going on about it.” Merlin shifted and tried to be unobtrusive about adjusting his trousers, or more likely the stickiness. He was still wearing the same thing he’d left in, after all. “I already know your opinion on it. It’s not like I’m going to forget just because…” He flapped a hand, too large and full of fingers longer and thinner than most. “…that happened.”

“You should change before that dries,” Arthur told him. “It will be uncomfortable if you wait too long.”

“Too late for that,” Merlin muttered. He squirmed a bit. Any man of a certain age knew that dance; his indiscretions had gone tacky already.

Arthur chuckled a bit. “Yeah.” He gazed up at the sky and the curls of smoke reaching in lazy columns toward the stars. “What do you mean, my opinion?” He frowned. “I’ve not given you one, have I?”

“Why are you even here?” Merlin demanded abruptly, rather than answer. “Shouldn’t you be calling guards or something? Arresting me?”

Arthur let out a burst of laughter. “For what?”

“For what?” Merlin huffed at him. “I could have killed you.”

“But you didn’t,” Arthur replied reasonably.

“It was magic.”

“Yes,” Arthur drawled. “I had noticed.” He smiled and quirked an eyebrow, but Merlin was looking down again, face pinched. Arthur sighed. “Why didn’t you go to his burial?”

Merlin resumed picking at the hem of the cloak, fingernails plucking at threads like the beaks of birds. “Gaius’s family is from Gaul, across the sea. Roman or something. He wanted his death rights to be like theirs, his…clan or tribe, I don’t know what they’re called.”

Arthur nodded his encouragement. “Surely you were permitted to attend.”

Merlin’s lip curled, more a sickly expression than one of aversion. “He was to be burned.” Merlin swallowed thickly, lips pursed to hold in whatever additional reaction he didn’t want Arthur to see, and focused with an unnatural fervor on the distraction of the cloak threads.

Arthur quickly looked away and breathed a moment, because even though Merlin wouldn’t come out directly and say it, he hadn’t gone because he couldn’t watch a sorcerer burn, not even a dead one, and certainly not one he’d loved. That was Arthur’s fault. Uther’s originally, perhaps, but it was Arthur’s Camelot now. So it was down to him to own its sins. He saw Merlin swallowing repeatedly in his periphery, head bowed a little lower now, mouth open to breath through the congestion of his grief. Arthur gave an aborted shake of his head, his own eyes burning, but he had no right. No right at all. Instead, he reached out and hooked Merlin by the neck.

Merlin went willingly this time, no resistance, all but falling against Arthur with his forehead landing in a thump against Arthur’s drawn up knees. His back heaved under Arthur’s hand. “I’m so tired.” The words cracked and he huddled against Arthur without touching him back, arms wrapped over his own stomach as if to hold his insides where they belonged.

Arthur nodded and ducked his own head, chin resting at the crown of Merlin’s head. His hair smelt of woodsmoke and lightning. It smelled nothing like his sweet Guinevere, and yet it reminded him of her just the same. Perhaps it was just the warmth of another body against his, or his lips resting against someone’s hair. “I know.” He let his voice waver because it was only fair. In an echo of the words that Merlin had once said to him, Arthur breathed, “I don’t want you to feel that you’re alone.”

And finally, something in Merlin seemed to break, or perhaps simply let go. He went pliant against Arthur, his breaths ragged, body trembling only enough to feel like shivering in the chill night air. Grief was a quiet thing, Arthur realized. It didn’t rage or destroy. It wasn’t the terrible force of a purge. It was just this, acceptance and loss, and taking comfort in the ones who were still there.

Eventually, Merlin stilled, but he didn’t move away. He just breathed the fabric of Arthur’s clothes, motionless except for the expansion and contraction of his ribcage, bones like sticks in a row down his back. Whatever tears still fell, they were just an afterthought, leftovers draining out into the hush before the dawn. Arthur let the damp seep into the fabric of his trousers, and thanked the tact of the patrols that avoided that wall while they sat there, a king and a peasant devoid of class or rank, waiting for the new day.

* * *

TBC

Notes:

Non-graphic sexual content, maybe dub-con depending on how you look at that kind of thing.

Chapter 4

Arthur stared into the campfire, numb. They had smuggled his wife out of the castle on a cart, covered in linens like a plague body. Now she lay off to one side of the campfire, wrapped in the same linens, face covered, limbs folded close and tied with cords. He couldn’t help thinking that somehow, the cart and the linens were a harbinger, and that he, Arthur, had brought this upon her himself, by using the belladonna, by simulating a death that proved too tempting to the fates not to accept. A stupid notion, as it was Morgana who had brought this down on them. And yet he kept thinking it.

The water of the cauldron glowed faintly even without a moon to light it, far down below the rim of the caldera where Arthur had managed to carry Merlin before risking a return trip for Guinevere’s body. He should have left her – it was too dangerous to go back alone with a dragon feasting and flapping about, and leaving Merlin unconscious on the open path was just stupid – but he couldn’t leave her there. He couldn’t. It was everything he would have lambasted one of his knights for doing, but Arthur did it anyway.

Beyond the curve of the shoreline, safely removed from their camp with the whole of the lake between them, the white scales of the little crippled dragon caught and winked at the light as it…ate. As it ate by the light of an absent goddess. Merlin had assured Arthur that it would not come near them again, claiming the knowledge of some little-known passage in an obscure book about dragons not attacking on a full stomach, but Arthur didn’t trust it. He remained awake, facing it, his sword laid out beside him within easy reach. He flinched at each crunch of bone echoing across the cauldron, and the morbid part of him wondered: is that a femur? Is that her skull? Would he even recognize the remains as his sister, afterwards, at all?

Merlin stirred in his arms, wrenching Arthur from his absorbed distraction. Oddly, Arthur found himself wishing for Mordred’s calm company – the odd healing touch that Mordred called a Druid’s simple skill, and that Arthur pointedly did not call magic. They could have used it now. Arthur’s wrist and forearm throbbed in time with his pulse, and Merlin –

Arthur shifted and tried to settle Merlin more comfortably. Mordred was dead, and by Arthur’s word no less, witting or not. There was no help anymore that he could give either of them. To wish otherwise… That was just foolish.

He rearranged them both on the ground, trying simultaneously to keep Merlin propped up so that there was minimal pressure on the wound just above and behind his left ear, and to be free enough to roll him off and grab his sword quickly in case the dragon – or anything else, for that matter – attacked. He should have known it was bad by how long it took Arthur to rouse him after he slipped off the side of the path, but they were in a hurry, and Gwen was starting to fight her way out of sedation above them, and Arthur wasn’t thinking straight. Besides, once he’d managed to kick at Merlin hard enough to bring him around, he’d seemed fine other than the blood and a headache. It occurred to Arthur, though, that Merlin didn’t allow himself to sleep that night, and that for the next day’s journey, he’d been silent and more mindful of his footing than caution alone could excuse. That was the way of head wounds, sometimes, though. It could take a day or two to show its true severity.

The dragon screeched, a shrill, sharp echo ricocheting off the face of the rocks like a banshee’s cry, and Arthur jumped, clutching Merlin and his sword both a little too tightly until he confirmed that it wasn’t coming toward them. He let go of the sword and strained to reach the firewood piled to one side. It was stupid, how he couldn’t make himself put Merlin aside even long enough to feed the fire – weak, his father would say – but Merlin was the only thing left to him in this gods-forsaken place that he might still be able to save. He allowed his gaze to flicker out onto the still water where the depths pulsed with a faint, eerie white light. He wasn’t sure which was worse: that Guinevere had never even touched the water, or that Merlin had finally – finally – revealed himself a sorcerer when he cast a shield to ward off the dragon’s fire.

Merlin twitched again, and this time, when Arthur looked down, he found slits of pale iris peering back. The relief was a sharp pain in Arthur’s chest. “Merlin!” He angled Merlin upright, one hand on his chest to steady him, and scooted around so that they faced each other. “Here. Drink this.” Arthur pressed a water skin into Merlin’s hands and then lifted his hands by the wrists to reinforce the command.

Merlin seemed confused, his eyes darting around the darkness as he drank, silent and obedient, at Arthur’s behest.

Once the skin was empty, Arthur pried it from Merlin’s somewhat fumbling fingers and set it aside. “How are you feeling?” He paused, waiting, but when Merlin merely blinked at something near Arthur’s right ear, he added, “You passed out. Do you remember? The – the light was there, but I didn’t know how to ask it for more help.” Arthur swiped lightly at Merlin’s nostril, where thick black fluid had seeped out in a gloppy string as the light from the lake touched him. When Merlin merely wrinkled his nose, and then his whole cheek before swiping at the air as if shooing a gnat, Arthur grasped him by a shoulder and gave him a light shake. “Merlin! Come on, you never stop talking.”

Merlin opened his mouth, faltered, and took several deep breaths before inscribing something nonsensical in the air between them. He shook his head, looked past Arthur again as if he couldn’t focus on him, and finally said, “Arthur.”

“Yes.” Arthur nodded, and realized with a pang that he couldn’t recall being this terrified in a long time. He breathed carefully through the clench of his chest and leaned to try and catch Merlin’s gaze. “That’s right. Do you remember what happened? The magic – do you remember it touching you?” Black and hideous from out of Guinevere’s body, creeping like thready vines up Merlin’s fingers and smelling of sulfur and tar. “You said something about mandrake. Is it gone now?”

Far away along the shoreline, the crippled little white dragon had apparently finished its feast and was now scratching about in the dirt the way a lizard might to make a warm bowl nest to sleep in. Merlin’s eyes remained riveted on it, wide but unfocused. He weaved enough where he sat that Arthur reached out to steady him as he slurred, “Aithusa.”

Arthur shook his head and fought to modulate his voice. “Dragon,” he corrected. He had no idea what Merlin had meant to say, but the last thing either of them needed right then was a panic.

Merlin’s eyes tracked unseeing across the barren, dark landscape of the cauldron, and finally came to rest on Arthur, voice insistent as he repeated, “Aithusa.”

“Alright,” Arthur said, nodding in a manner sure to betray just how much this affected him. “That’s fine. Do you know where we are?”

Merlin took a breath as if to respond, and then blinked it back without making a sound, as if the words had been right there and then vanished.

Arthur forced himself to stay calm. “Do you remember why we left the castle?”

“Gwen?” Merlin looked around again, but he seemed to have trouble keeping his head up. His chin kept bobbing down to glance off of his chest.

Arthur couldn’t do this. Not this, with his wife lying dead just a few feet away, less than a day gone. “Merlin?” He directed Merlin’s gaze back to his own with his fingers not quite touching Merlin’s cheek. But once he had Merlin’s attention, wavering as it was, he couldn’t think of what else to say.

“Something’s wrong.”

Arthur snorted, wet and completely obvious that he wasn’t holding himself together at all. He let out a short, hysterical laugh. Rather than enumerate all of the things that supported that statement, Arthur said, “You fell off the path, do you remember? We were coming to the – “

“ – mountains.” Merlin nodded.

But Arthur shook his head. “No, the – the cauldron, Merlin. Do you remember?”

The little dragon squealed again, and Arthur startled badly enough that it knocked him off the balls of his feet. He landed on his arse, fingers already clamped around the grip of his sword, and then surged to his feet. The dragon still wasn’t paying them any mind; it had curled into its dirt bowl and was chirping up at the sky. Or maybe it was just talking to itself; it was hard to tell. At least it continued to pay them no mind as it cleaned its face and claws like a cat, though it didn’t get all of the pink off.

When Arthur looked back, Merlin’s eyes were huge and fixed on the dragon. It confused Arthur at first because clearly, Merlin had the ability to make it stay back. But then he looked at Arthur, and it struck him; Merlin was afraid of Arthur. As far as Merlin knew, Arthur had only just discovered that Merlin was a sorcerer. Here, today. “It’s alright.”

Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. “Morgana.” Merlin started to get up, but his legs wouldn’t hold him and he was barely steady enough to even sit up. “Arthur – ”

“Easy, Merlin.” That surprised him a bit; he had expected something about the magic, an apology maybe – not Morgana. “It’s alright.”

“No! Aithusa.” Merlin fumbled up to his knees and then Arthur had to catch at him before he toppled sideways into the fire. “Followed, she followed us – ”

“Not anymore,” Arthur insisted. “Look, will you just stop? You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“She can’t hurt you – you have to get Gwen – !”

“Merlin!” Arthur struggled to keep him from scrambling off, not that he would get far in his present condition. He was clumsy like a newborn colt on a good day, and this was pointedly not a good day. “Calm down! No one is going to hurt me.” He hooked Merlin’s arm from behind and yanked him back down, trying desperately to be gentle lest he aggravate an already serious head injury. “Stop – stop, stop!” He didn’t know exactly when the quality of the struggling changed, but it hit him abruptly, like a mace to the chest, that Merlin wasn’t fighting him anymore; he was seizing.

Oh gods, oh gods…. Arthur didn’t know what to do.

Eventually, he worked one of his gloves between Merlin’s teeth like a horse bridle bit, and then just tried to contain the convulsions, which was an exercise in futility. He didn’t pray, even though he thought he was supposed to, but he had no idea what to ask for, or who to ask it of anymore.

When it finally ended, Arthur thought for a moment that Merlin’s unnatural stillness signaled death, and he recalled panicking – truly panicking and throwing around the few belongings he had bothered to salvage from the ridiculous pile of bags he had forced Merlin to carry up here, scrambling fruitlessly through everything within reach, including rocks and dirt, as if something there could miraculously be used to raise the dead. At some point, he ended up huddled against Guinevere’s body with Merlin clutched like a doll to his chest, his fingers shaking with palsy where he held his vambrace up against Merlin’s mouth, counting the fogs of his breath on the metal until dawn.

Merlin woke with the sun, groggy and disoriented, but lucid. He could answer questions again, and he met Arthur’s gaze, but he didn’t remember arriving at the cauldron, or anything from the previous day. Even the journey out from Camelot, while he knew the reason for the quest and details of their route, seemed hazy. Merlin knew that he’d fallen but he seemed to jumble the memory up with something else involving Mordred – he insisted that Mordred had followed them with a coil of rope, and helped them climb back to the path. When Merlin finally noticed the wrapped body behind them, it took everything that Arthur had not to break down as he watched the realization wash over Merlin’s face that they had failed. At least one of them was spared the vivid recollection. But maybe that was worse, in a way. He had never heard Merlin howl before. It was... He wished he could unhear it.

In the end, Arthur told him as little as possible of what had transpired in the cauldron. Most of it, Arthur couldn’t quite force from his lips anyway. As a result, he also said nothing of the Dolma’s failed disguise, or of Merlin revealing himself as both a sorcerer and a dragonlord. Arthur tried to tell himself that it was kindness, or that it would give Merlin a chance to reveal his magic on his own terms – a right that he had surely earned by now – but Arthur already knew by then that Merlin would never tell him of his own accord. It was cowardice that stayed Arthur’s tongue, and nothing more.

For once, Arthur let himself be a coward. It was easier to just let it lie, and really – who was it going to hurt?

* * *

Arthur blinked himself awake sometime around early evening, which was already shamefully lazy of him, but he couldn’t possibly have functioned two nights in a row with no rest. He spent a moment taking stock of himself, mildly surprised at how sore he was in places from grappling with Merlin, of all people, the night prior. There was probably some liniment oil in one of his cupboards, or an arnica paste somewhere.

The second thing he noticed probably should have come first, and perhaps should have startled or upset him more than it did. He had managed to coax Merlin to clean himself up, and then poured him into the royal bed once again after they stumbled in from the battlements, and while Arthur hadn’t quite intended this, he had climbed right in after him, too exhausted to bother worrying about it any further than who got which pillows. The blankets were thick and warm around them, and at some point, Arthur had migrated toward the heavy heat next to him. He didn’t move now other than to shift an arm out from where he’d crooked it under his head, and calmly regarded the crown of dark hair less than two inches from his nose.

Merlin was facing away, rolled half onto his back with his shoulder pressed into Arthur’s chest and his knees drawn up a bit. His face angled sharply away, though, and mostly into the pillow with his chin biting into his shoulder. Both of his hands extended in front of his face, forearms together, elbows crooked, and he snuffled into the cradle of his fingers against the pillow the way a child might. Arthur wasn’t embracing him or anything so simple as that, but he had draped one arm over Merlin’s ribcage, and each time Merlin inhaled, his expanding stomach brushed the pads of Arthur’s fingers.

Arthur watched his muscles tick like the flank of an overworked horse, restless with short bursts of tension and release. That must have been what woke him. Arthur waffled over the whole situation for a moment. Propriety dictated that he remove himself from Merlin’s person, but some other, less defined part of him coaxed him to stay where he was, a loose comma protecting Merlin’s back with Arthur’s wrist and Merlin’s shoulder being the only points of proper contact between them.

It had been so long since Arthur felt warm like this – since he could say that he was not alone in an intimate space. He wanted to feel guilt at relishing the body of another curled into Guinevere’s place, or disgust at himself for the direction his thoughts bent – not because Merlin was a servant, or even a man, but because he was simply not the wife that Arthur had once professed to love more than his own kingdom. It was only an ache, however, that greeted him when he considered the body before him – a chaste longing for a trusted and known companion – someone he had chosen as kin– in a place that had sat cold and empty for far too long.

Arthur was leaning forward before he thought about doing it, or the ramifications that might come from such an act after what had happened the night before, but he couldn’t help himself. His hand curled in the manner of a corpse after death, muscles contracting into rigor until his palm laid flat and firm in the soft hollow near Merlin’s diaphragm, fingerpads bent inward against the warm cotton tunic. Arthur bowed his head as well until his brow touched the soft hair at Merlin’s crown, and he could smell hair and herbs and sweat, and something sour like despair. He closed his eyes when he realized that last was less a scent and more a feeling welling up in himself than emanating from Merlin’s skin. He couldn’t have this. Arthur forced himself to remember that. He wasn’t allowed to have this, like this – not with Merlin.

Merlin seemed not to notice the movement at his back, still fidgeting through whatever dream had caught him, and Arthur risked inhaling, deep and slow, at the nape of Merlin’s neck. He ran his hand higher, up the centerline of Merlin’s chest, until he could feel the heart beating against his palm, a thick rhythm like a drumbeat in molasses to count the passage of time, and the loss of innocence that comes with age. Arthur was not innocent; he had not been so for a very long time. Merlin, however, possessed that kind of mien that seemed to retain some shadow of purity, like a wraith trapped within the flesh. Battered, maybe. Precarious. But there, still, in the sadness that had crept in, and the shine that had faded from his eyes.

If Arthur were a poet or a spiritual man, he might wax on about the withering of the boy within the man, or the necessary, dark choices of life that extinguish the wonder of the world.  But he wasn’t a poet, and he’d seen enough of the divine to see past the enchantment of it. Merlin was no more innocent still than Arthur; he simply possessed a young enough face to mimic it, and a kind enough soul to suffer the loss of it for the rest of his life in a manner that men like Arthur were spared.

Arthur rubbed his nose into warm skin and held himself as still as he could, a weight sunk into the mattress, oddly devoid of tension. Merlin quieted a bit and Arthur felt him sigh in his sleep, pulling Arthur with him when he furled himself into a tighter ball against the chill, drafty air. Arthur ebbed and flowed against his back with each breath they took out of synch with each other. He felt adrift, and wondered if this were peace – if this was what death would feel like. It was horribly morbid, to equate this comfort with fatality, but he wanted to think that this might be what Guinevere felt – this warmth, and this presence – this feeling that maybe men were not doomed to loneliness at the last. She had died…unkindly. Arthur didn’t want that to follow her to wherever she had gone. He didn’t want her to be alone, where she was.

He thought briefly of his father, and the Stones of Nemeton, and how death had stripped him down to his bare disappointment. His malice. His madness, until even his own son wasn’t safe from his wrath. Would Guinevere, divested of all artifice, be gentle and kind again? Or would she be sadness and disillusionment and…and grey the way that Arthur feared he himself might become?

Arthur shook his head because he couldn’t dwell on this – he couldn’t keep living in this place where he fought his despair like a serpent in every moment of quiet. And neither could Merlin. There was a broken harmony to their suffering – a dissonant, keening chord. It occurred to Arthur that they were both isolated, somehow – Merlin in his fear and his façade, a frantic unchanging effort to never be seen, never be known, and Arthur in the mantle of king. It was, on balance, much the same thing.

Merlin twitched again and his breath hitched before he began to absently scratch and brush his hands together, fumbling and limp with the broken paralysis of sleep, the movements understated but clear – he was trying to brush something off, claw it off, push it away back down his arms and off the ends of his fingers. Arthur only recognized it because it had often invaded his own sleep in the days immediately following Guinevere’s death – Merlin trying to lift Guinevere’s enchantment by force, desperate, with Morgana’s still-twitching, gasping body a blur in Arthur’s periphery, the whisper of aftermath spun in a rise of fetid encants in the air, and Morgana choking-laughing on her last breaths, Emrys, as if amused by some irony. And the oily black of the magic crawling up Merlin’s arms like vines or tiny snakes, shiny like tar with a screech like a banshee that jarred Arthur so badly that he had forgotten Guinevere, and his sister, and all common sense in favor of dragging Merlin away from his wife’s writhing body because he could see with terrible clarity that Merlin intended to pull it all into himself to spare her, if that were the only way, and Arthur couldn’t – he couldn’t. It wasn’t even a choice, but if it had been, he knew he would do it again because it might have freed Guinevere, but it would not have saved her, and even Arthur could see that much at the last. She would not want Merlin to die with her, not just for that. It was the last gift Arthur could give her, to not send her friend pointlessly into the abyss after her to feed her guilt beyond the veil at being unable to stop herself destroying him too.

Arthur shook off the memory and the sting in his eyes both, and tightened the arm that he had slung around Merlin’s torso. “Merlin, wake up.” His mind flashed back to a frantic scramble down a cliffside, rocks dislodged, his wrist throbbing and swollen as he clawed at the straps of packs and bags slung all around Merlin’s limp body, blood flowing sluggish from his hairline, shiny and damp stains wetting dark hair, Wake up wake up wake up – “Merlin.” Arthur wrapped his hand over Merlin’s wrists – boney angles and thin skin – and stopped him struggling against something that was no longer there. “Wake up, now. Merlin.”

Merlin coiled in around himself under the blankets, twisting his face into the pillow, as if protecting his soft underbelly from a wild boar. Arthur grabbed him by the shoulder and when Merlin made an odd noise and flailed at him, Arthur caught one of the rogue hands. Abruptly, everything went still, Merlin’s body tense and stiffly held in place, and Arthur peered down into wild eyes set in a slack, blank face. “Arthur.”

It didn’t sound like a question, but Merlin’s face said it might be that, so he nodded. “Yeah. You alright?”

Merlin nodded far too quickly to be convincing, and removed his hand from Arthur’s grip with a haste that betrayed his lingering discomfort, or maybe fear. The rush, certainly, had not subsided yet – pounding heart, cold sweat, uneven and forced breathing…

“Must have been some dream,” Arthur offered.

“Must have been, yeah.” Merlin angled himself away and managed to disentangle himself from the twist of sheets wrung around his legs like wet laundry, though he visibly shook when he did.

“Do you remember it?” He mostly only asked because he knew that Merlin recalled very little of what happened at the Cauldron of Arianrhod, and if this were a new memory, he had to wonder what else might have come back to him over the past year.

Merlin hesitated, seeming to curl a bit where he lay on his back; Arthur felt Merlin’s stomach muscles grow taut with tension where his hand rested, unobtrusive. Arthur thought about withdrawing, but he didn’t feel as if the proximity were unwelcome. Eventually, Merlin admitted, “There were black things crawling up my arms.” He brushed at the backs of his hands again in a movement that seemed reflexive. “Trying to get inside.”

Arthur swallowed, because he had wondered what those things might have done, had the goddess on the lake not intervened. “Inside where?”

But Merlin shook his head against the pillow, hair catching friction to rise like a halo behind his head. His voice just a whisper, he replied, “I don’t know.” Then he shrugged, a forced and abbreviated jerk of his shoulders, wholly unconvincing. “It was just a dream.”

Arthur maybe should have told him that it wasn’t just a dream, but something stayed his tongue. He hadn’t told Merlin the worst details of that day – the dragon belching out a scorching line of fire along the rocks, Morgana appearing over the ridgeline, Guinevere… She had been so close to stepping into the water. So, so close to still being with them.

At first, Arthur couldn’t tell him about it – the Dolma’s glamour sloughing away as Merlin roared at the dragon in a language that sounded like it grated out from a grind of rocks in Merlin’s throat, or Guinevere falling in a rough tumble back onto the bank, yanked away from salvation by Morgana’s perverted magic. He couldn’t force the words past his tongue, as if it were swollen and burnt by that day. Later, Arthur didn’t tell him because he didn’t want to – because the thought of that day hurt, and he didn’t see why they should both suffer the memory of it if one could be spared. Arthur still had nightmares – vivid, visceral things heavy with the metallic scents of blood and magic and death, and Morgana whispering, Emrys…Emrys…over and over like something broken and stuck, her voice a series of soft gasps of laughter as she died, her madness the only the part of her that remained to the last breath.

Arthur shuddered and reached down to bring the coverlet back up to keep out the chill. It had more to do with the things behind his eyes than with the cool air in the room. The memories tended to creep up on him when he wasn’t paying attention. Merlin clawing the black bind of Morgana’s magic from Guinevere’s convulsing body…Merlin killing Morgana, finally killing her in a spitting rage the likes of which Arthur had never seen in him before, and then sobbing hysterical over her corpse after it was all over, after Arthur dragged him back from the piercing light on the shoreline and collapsed, unable to look at any of them as the horror sank in. The magnitude of it. There had been red wheels raised in welts on Merlin’s skin like ropes up his fingers and the backs of his hands, curling and reaching up his forearms where the black oily things had latched onto him for purchase as Merlin dragged them out of Guinevere, savage and desperate. Powerful.

Arthur had not forgotten what he saw that day – how he saw it – because it painted such a stark picture of the Merlin that Arthur did not know. The one he wanted to know. The Merlin that terrified him to his core for the incomprehensibility of the power he must be capable of wielding, held dormant in a fumbling, meek servant’s frame. How did he even fit into his own skin?

The soft calling of his name broke Arthur from the thoughts that threatened to consume him, and he looked down to where he had bunched his hands up into fists in Merlin’s tunic to drag him closer – to keep anything from snatching him away. Merlin had threaded his fingers into the cracks between Arthur’s as if to sooth him, blunt nails answering Arthur’s need to dig in and hang on. It took several deep, measured breaths to bleed the excess tension from Arthur’s frame and he loosened his grip enough that Merlin could properly cover the backs of Arthur’s hands with his own and squeeze.

Arthur ducked his head and swallowed, but he couldn’t seem to manage the apology that he suspected he owed for getting lost just then. He tensed and twitched his hands back, but not far enough to dislodge Merlin’s hold. He should apologize, he thought – apologize and withdraw. Maintain his distance. He felt the long fingers – softer than a servant’s should be, mostly bone and knuckle – loosen and slide away a bit, giving Arthur an out. Waiting, Arthur thought, for the inevitable rejection, because this… This was not what Merlin was for. This was not…

Without thinking about it, Arthur let his fists slacken and his hands fall apart to rest open on Merlin’s chest. He was looking down at the jut of tendons on the backs of his own hands, calloused palms rough on the soft white linen of the tunic that Arthur had all but bullied Merlin into just a few short hours ago with the sun new in the sky, a spear of light through the curtains. Arthur scrunched the fabric between thumbs and forefingers, aware of Merlin breathing steady before him, chest a gentle susurration against his hands. Too steady. He wondered what he might see if he looked up, but he was too afraid that the look on Merlin’s face would edge too close to that mask of the dutiful servant that he had taken to wearing so often since…

…since.

Sleepy Merlin smelled gentler, somehow, than daytime Merlin. Like a warm puppy curled on a hearth rug. Arthur could smell it now, the remnants of rest, but beneath that, his nose also picked out sour nightmares and fear and abrupt waking. He flattened his palms over pectorals – lungs and sweet breathing, life. He was taking liberties and he knew it, Merlin’s hands still resting light over Arthur’s like permission. Acceptance? Friendship? Or duty to his king? Arthur didn’t know anymore. He let his hands smooth the linen over collarbones and up shoulders, Merlin’s hands falling to Arthur’s wrists, and then his forearms. Arthur’s eyes followed the path of his hands up, carotid and jugular and tendons, thumbs tracing firm along stubble-rough jawbones, finger pads curling to press on either side of the vulnerable places along the back of the neck, juts of cervical vertebrae, base of skull, his hands a cradle for vulnerable bone.

Arthur stilled, his gaze stuck at the hollow of Merlin’s throat. He watched it ripple as Merlin swallowed. Nerves? Or maybe it was fear. Merlin hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t even moved. It wasn’t natural. Discoloration marred the pale line of his neck and some metallic fear invaded Arthur’s mouth with his saliva, like bile. “Merlin?”

Finally, Merlin moved, his torso curving up to meet Arthur’s elbows, fingers squeezing Arthur’s forearms. His voice hurt Arthur’s ears when it came, it was so gentle. “It’s alright, Arthur. I don’t mind.”

What didn’t he mind? Arthur sucked a sharp breath in through his nose, fingers spasming tighter where they gripped Merlin’s skull, thumbs digging brief and quick into the hard hinge of Merlin’s jaw, inadvertently tilting his chin up. The defenseless stretch of Merlin’s throat glared back at him, yellowed here and there, branded with Arthur’s fingerprints. Arthur thought he might be shaking, but he couldn’t tell, and he couldn’t lift his gaze from that vulnerable hollow along the exposed column of Merlin’s trachea to see if Merlin’s face reflected what Arthur was doing or feeling – to see if he could figure himself out from studying his own expression by the reflection it made in Merlin’s.

Merlin gripped at Arthur’s arm with more purpose and Arthur allowed him to loosen the harsh grip of fingers on one hand, soothe the ache of his knuckles until the stiffness bled out of them. Arthur shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t, but Merlin was so warm. Like spring sun – the way Guinevere had been warm – familiar like muscle aches, and Arthur, he was so, so cold anymore. He let his fingertips scrape light as feathers over the stubble spanned rough over one cheek and only realized that he’d finally moved his eyes when he noticed Merlin’s lips part, chapped and sticking together at the corners –

Arthur fumbled his hands away and flung himself around, away from Merlin, until he’d managed to gain the edge of the mattress and hang his legs over the side. He rocked forward with the last of his momentum and hung there on the edge of the bed, hands dug twisting into the coverlet to anchor himself away. He couldn’t do that to Merlin. It wasn’t fair – it wasn’t right – using him like some kind of stand-in for Guinevere. It was selfish to expect that, to even ask.

Neither of them moved for a long stretch of moments, and then the bed jostled and Arthur felt a hand spreading over his back, spanning low between his shoulder blades. He jerked himself out from under Merlin’s touch and let his feet pace him away from the bed until he could lean over the fireplace with his elbows on the mantle and his knuckles pressed hard against his scalp. He could practically hear Merlin’s confused hurt at the rejection, for all that Arthur refused to turn around and face it.

After what felt like an eternity of silence stretched awkward and thin to breaking between them, Merlin rustled around in the bedding. His feet slapped down on stone a moment later, hard enough to hurt, surely, and angry. Arthur chanced a glance over his shoulder to where Merlin was gathering his soiled clothes from the night before, and then fumbling to get his boots on. The soft cream linen of Arthur’s favorite nightshirt hung in unflattering billows from Merlin’s thin frame, and Arthur found himself stuck on his memory of that morning, stumbling in from the cold dawn to find his outer chambers still in shambles. Of fumbling Merlin out of his clothes amidst half-hearted protests and then maneuvering him into Arthur’s like a battle drill.

Merlin finally gave up on his boots and just stood there, hunched shoulders sharp and unhappy, blades of bone pointing toward Arthur like accusations. He took a breath as if to steady himself and Arthur watched him lift a hand to press his thumb into the corner of one eye. He looked defeated.

Arthur looked away again, down between his arms to his socked feet shuffling through wood shavings and a drift of ash from the hearth.

Merlin’s voice sounded across the room like reeds, thin and bent in the wind. “I’m not the one who keeps dragging me into your bed.”

Arthur swallowed, because yes that was all him, and no, he hadn’t bothered asking first. “It won’t happen again,” he promised.

Merlin gave an aborted shake of his head, still hunched with one boot hanging limp from his hand. “That’s not what I meant.” The why are you doing this? remained unspoken, but he may as well have shouted it for how loudly Arthur heard it. “What do you want?”

Guinevere. He wanted Guinevere. But he couldn’t say it without being unnecessarily cruel, and it wasn’t Merlin’s fault that he wasn’t her. That Arthur chose to save him, and not her at the cauldron, no matter how he still believed that trying to save her instead would have meant that both of them died, and Arthur could have only carried one of their bodies back for a proper burial. And it would have been Guinevere’s. What he actually said was, “I don’t want you alone up there.” His mind threw up a vision of Merlin’s body mouldering in the sun alongside Morgana’s, little more than carcasses for a hungry, crippled beast of a dragon, with a scrap of red fabric twisted up in whatever bits of meat might remain. He couldn’t quite banish the image once it found purchase in his thoughts.

Merlin tilted his head like a hunting dog catching a rustle of sound.

“Gaius isn’t there anymore. If something happened…” Arthur looked at the way Merlin’s features crumpled into a sympathetic series of lines – at his stupid face and his stupid ears, and that stupid stretch of hairline that Arthur had seen once too often shining with a slow seep of blood.

Merlin bit his lip and looked down, eyes glistening for a moment before he swallowed it all back again, the loss. “I’ll be fine,” Merlin told him, all earnest eyes and just…something Arthur had never been sure of. Faith? “It’s not your fault, you know. Me being sick.”

Wasn’t it? Arthur didn’t have to make him carry every pack off of the horses – they hadn’t needed every supply, every bag for the three-day hike into the cauldron and back. He’d been petty, and Merlin had only just recovered from being poisoned and thrown into a gully to die like so much refuse. Arthur liked irritating Merlin, teasing him, knocking him around a bit, seeing how far he could push him, but there was a line between horseplay and abuse of power that Arthur still couldn’t quite manage to locate. Empathy wasn’t considered a kingly virtue, and Arthur had never really learned it right. But at least he knew it. Now. All he said though was, “I want you close, where I can keep an eye on you.”

Merlin considered him carefully for a moment, and Arthur wondered how he had ever really mistaken Merlin for a fool. Young once, perhaps. Naïve and inexperienced, yes. But a fool? At Merlin’s frankly dubious look, Arthur rocked on his feet and looked away, eyes sliding closed. From somewhere in front of him, he heard Merlin concede, “I’ll prepare the servant’s chamber, then.”

That wasn’t what Arthur wanted, but he couldn’t say that. It would be mortifying, and the whole notion of it was anathema to being king. It was weak and it was possibly a betrayal of his wife, but she was gone, and Merlin still breathed, and Arthur felt sometimes like he was losing himself to grief and the ghost of his father when no one else was there. “There’s no hearth in there; you’ll freeze.”

Merlin frowned, his eyes flickering past Arthur to the disturbed royal bedding, and then back. “There’s no hearth in my old room either,” he pointed out. “If you’ve been cold, I can make sure the room is kept warmer. It’s just, you hate the warming stones, and last time I put a coal pan at the foot, you forgot it was there and burned yourself.”

Arthur’s lip curled, though whether it was at the reminder of his own clumsiness, or at Merlin’s reluctance to share his bed any longer – well deserved, really – even Arthur didn’t know. “Honestly, Merlin. For once, can you just do what I ask?” He hoped it didn’t sound as much a plea as he felt it was.

Merlin glanced again at the bed, and Arthur watched him suck his lips in between his teeth. Then he mumbled something that sounded like, “I don’t belong there,” and bent down to work at his boots again.

“What was that? You can’t deny your king.” Arthur knew that he was being obnoxious, but it was out before he even registered the words. “You should be grateful, you know. It’s not every servant who gets to sleep in the royal bed.”

Abruptly, Merlin dropped the boot and the foot he’d been trying to cram into it, and straightened again. Then he very deliberately told Arthur, “I am not Guinevere. I cannot take her place. I don’t want to.” His hand went to his throat, and he seemed to miss a beat when his fingers didn’t find his usual neckerchief there to adjust. He diverted and scrubbed at his hair instead, gave up on the boots, and merely tucked them under his arm along with his clothes.

“I never said you should!” The anger came swift, but it felt like an echo, and Arthur could hear himself saying the same thing in the back of his mind – Merlin was not Guinevere, Merlin could never take her place, and how dare he imply that he could ever equal her, as if he thought that now she was gone, it was his duty to be the king’s whore so that Arthur didn’t have to lose face and buy one.

Which was when it came to him, bright like a flash of sound – his hands twisted up in Merlin’s neckerchief, shoving him too hard against the stone wall and shaking, spitting in his face – That’s not your place! It’s never your place! Merlin trying to pry Arthur’s fingers from his throat. Scrabbling away and yelling at Arthur, throwing clothes at him and walking out before Arthur could apologize or even sort out his own drunken, shameful thoughts.

Merlin was looking at him, frozen with his eyes comically wide, when Arthur finally stopped staring past him and focused back on his face. “There’s something behind me, isn’t there.”

Arthur squinted at him.

“How bad is it?” Merlin asked. “No, wait. I don’t want to know. Will it eat me if I move?”

Arthur felt his face creasing into slightly queasy lines, but it was fondness that shaped it. Misplaced, possibly inappropriate affection, given what had occurred over the past night and day, but fondness just the same. Because it was familiar. It was just so…Merlin of him that Arthur couldn’t help a rush of warmth and a sense of blessed, sorely needed, ridiculous familiarity. “There’s nothing behind you, Merlin.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes and tried to look over his shoulder without moving more than necessary.

By the time Merlin started poking at the thick woven wall tapestry with a boot, Arthur couldn’t keep it in anymore. “How far would you have let me go?”

Merlin’s face did something complicated, and he blinked past Arthur as if trying not to look at the bed they’d both vacated.

The reticence made Arthur’s stomach go hollow. He watched Merlin’s shoulders fold in, defensive. “Would you have stopped me?”

It reminded Arthur of sitting around a campfire outside a cave, watching Merlin try to say one thing while his body betrayed his denial. There were times Arthur thought they’d never really left that campfire – that maybe he still sat accused, waiting for a goddess’s condemnation of his lacking character while Merlin lied to his face and looked like he hated himself for it.

Gentle only because he couldn’t manage confident just then, Arthur chided, “Merlin. Would you have stopped me?”

Finally, Merlin screwed his face up, but only at the edges where he must have thought it wouldn’t show. “No,” he croaked, and immediately turned away.

Arthur followed him across the room and jumped himself when his attempt to touch Merlin’s shoulder, to turn him around, startled him further away. “Merlin, stop.”

“I shouldn’t have let you.” Merlin backed off again, skirting around bits of mess from the night before that had escaped Arthur’s admittedly half-arsed effort to tidy up, or at least hide the evidence before going to sleep. Of course, the stench of burning ceiling timbers lingered along with the acrid taste of old magic in the air, and the charred marks on the ceilings did nothing to project an air of normalcy.

But that was not relevant at the moment – Arthur would have someone in to clear it all up later. “I hardly think that’s on you,” Arthur told him, confused. “Merlin, stop.” He reached out again, and though Merlin evaded his hand again, he did stop, chin raised, defiant as he stared at Arthur with eyes gone unexpectedly hard. Arthur stepped back, uneasy at the chill there. “You don’t have to…do that kind of thing,” he hazarded. “I mean, I know last night was…” He tried to sum up the absolute cock-up of the night before with a sweep of his hand. “But you don’t have to – with me – just because I’m the king. You know that?”

Merlin almost sneered, but something else got in the way of it and pulled his face into a more ambiguous line. “I don’t care that you’re the bloody king.” He said it as if he would be the one lowering himself, and not the other way around. But maybe he was, Arthur thought; maybe that was exactly how these things worked. “I’m sorry, alright? I know you don’t want that from me. I just – ”

Arthur cocked his head as Merlin cut himself off, vicious in how he clenched his jaw to stop himself saying anything that might reveal too much. Leaving aside that Arthur had no idea how Merlin got the idea that he might be unwelcome in the bed that Arthur kept dragging him into, he asked, “You just what?”

Oddly fascinated, Arthur watched Merlin’s knuckles go white from the force of the grip he kept on his boot. “What do you think?” he demanded, as if Arthur should know – as if he were transparent, which was a crock – Arthur had never been able to see far beyond Merlin is lying or Merlin is not happy or Merlin is fine now or Merlin believes in me. He could see everything that Merlin kept on the surface, but that was barely anything at all.

It’s alright, Arthur. I don’t mind. I wouldn’t mind… The further memory didn’t come quickly or like a hammer; it trickled in like backfill in a trench as Arthur watched Merlin hold back offering anything – anything at all – that might leave him open, or make Arthur react badly. Or at all. Again. He could feel the drunken weakness in his hands as he’d sat and let Merlin dress him, the way the room wobbled more than he thought it should for just a few goblets of mulled wine, the dull rush of not-anger, maybe-disgust, but with himself for being so, so tempted. I would, though…If you wanted. I wouldn’t mind. Imagining Guinevere, the way she looked and smelled and smiled and would never begrudge him comfort in her absence, as Merlin offered…as he offered that. And then hurtling himself forward and grabbing to stop the words, yelling, and Merlin holding his palm up and out in that familiar gesture to ward off an attacker with magic. To protect himself from Arthur. You are never to imply that you can take Guinevere’s place!

“Why are you here?”

“Because you wouldn’t let me go back to my own room.”

Arthur turned away to scowl at the burning logs. You are not the only one who misses her. “You’re not actually that dense.” When Merlin merely stood there, apparently not even moving, Arthur snapped, “You’re a sorcerer.”

Dry as sand, Merlin shot back, “Well spotted.” I’m not good enough to be a whore, much less your servant.

Arthur knuckled the furrow between his eyebrows as if he could grind out the fresh recollection of that drunken night. “In Camelot!” He hissed. The remains of the fire smoldered and spit back, and he wondered at his own penchant for tearing apart the things he valued most. “Why did you come here? Why stay? It was stupid, even for you. So why? Why serve me, of all people?” When Merlin drew an audible breath behind him, Arthur snapped, “So help me god, if you start spouting off about destiny again, I will throw you out of the city myself.” He wouldn’t, of course. It would kill him to be rid of Merlin too.

Eventually, Merlin seemed to realize that Arthur wasn’t going to say anything until he received an answer. As if unsure of his own motives, Merlin offered, “You’re a good man.”

Arthur snorted, an entirely humorless sound. “I am Uther Pendragon’s son.”

There was a bit of scratching from Merlin’s direction, and then the plop of a boot hitting the floor. “You are not like your father. You’re a great king, Arthur.” He said it with such conviction that Arthur’s stomach actually burned from the burst of shame like an ulcer.

Arthur’s eyes slid shut of their own volition, and he shook his head. “When are you going to see me for what I am? I’m not your Once and Future King, Merlin.”

“You’re a good man,” Merlin insisted. “I know it.”

“Stop pretending.” It was barely a whisper, but it rang clear and unmistakable in the room. “You know better. You know me.” He sighed as if shrugging off a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying. “You have got to stop turning a blind eye to every unforgivable thing that I do.”

“I’m not turning a blind eye to anything,” Merlin choked. Arthur wondered what his face looked like – if it was sorrow, or disillusionment, or just outrage at anyone disparaging his king, even Arthur himself. That northern peasant’s accent came out thick as treacle in a way that Arthur had thought faded years ago.

“How are you not?!” Arthur rounded on him, and felt a sick kind of satisfaction at the way Merlin backed up a step, angling himself as if to shield the vulnerable underbelly from a predator. He wasn’t entirely witless, then. “You let me ridicule you, insult you, debase you – ”

“I wouldn’t call it debasing – ”

“Shut up, Merlin. Look at me!”

Merlin’s gaze flickered back to Arthur immediately, and it was even more irritating that he simply obeyed.

“You let me hit you, throw things at you…” Arthur could see himself flinging a goblet or a pitcher, or something else hard and heavy, aiming for the head and not always missing. And Merlin just standing there, maybe ducking but often caught off guard, making some smartass comment as if it were fun. And Arthur laughing it all off and calling it horseplay.

“You don’t throw things nearly so often anymore.”

Arthur ticked and stared at him, incredulous. That was his justification? “Are you mental?”

And Merlin grinned – he grinned, all cheek and nervous hints of laughter in his voice. “Probably.”

“It’s not funny!” Arthur didn’t realize he’d crossed the room until Merlin reared back with his arm raised to shield his face, startled by Arthur’s fury. “And what about his then?” Arthur jabbed trembling fingers at his own neck, watching Merlin mirror the motion, albeit more gently and with a look of confusion. “Are you going to excuse this too?”

Merlin blinked and mumbled a few non-syllables before replying, “You were drunk.”

Arthur just looked at him, because he couldn’t understand this. Merlin wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t without pride. But looking at him now, listening to it, Arthur wouldn’t have been able to tell. “How far would you have let me go?”

Merlin shook his head. “Arthur, what – ”

All but in Merlin’s face now, Arthur demanded, “Just now – what would you have let me do?” He waved a hand at the bed, unable to name what he’d done on there because he didn’t know what it was, really.

Merlin’s face pulled down at the edges, as if he couldn’t comprehend the question or why Arthur needed to ask it. “Whatever you wanted.” As if that were obvious. As if it were a foregone conclusion – gods, he didn’t even stop to think about it before he answered.

Arthur couldn’t fathom it – how Merlin could simply stand there and say that, and mean it so completely. It was awful, the raw faith that he had in Arthur – it was the most true thing that Arthur had ever seen. Honest and open and fragile like a moth, and Arthur could crush it if he wanted to. Merlin would let him. Why would anyone give Arthur that kind of power? I don’t want you whoring yourself out. Not even to the king. But isn’t that essentially exactly what he did, every day, just serving Arthur?

Merlin shook his head and Arthur saw a mirror there of his own confusion over the other’s words. But Merlin seemed to see something in Arthur’s behavior that made sense because the tight consternation smoothed into a sympathetic haze. “Why have I been sleeping in your bed?”

“Because…” Arthur struggled for words that he would be able to say, but came up empty. He raised his hand and traced Merlin’s hairline, disturbed by the stillness on Merlin’s face – the placidity of his posture where he stood, as if Arthur weren’t acting like a lunatic. As if he already knew what they were both going on about. Arthur’s fingertips probed at the thin line of scar tissue running down from brow to temple and Merlin’s breath puffed soft against Arthur’s wrist – evidence of life. He thought about sitting huddled against the dark, listening for the screech and swoop of dragon wings and watching Merlin’s breath, barely there, clouding the metal of a vambrace over and over and over…

The pounding startled them both apart. Arthur flung an irritated glance at the door and then took a deep and calming breath in an effort to look as if he weren't hiding anything. When he looked up, Merlin wore an expression that marked him guilty as hell. It took a moment for Arthur to comprehend why, and then he recalled the state of his chambers. It still smelled like charred wood and smoke, and magic, and while the dust, shards and crumbled mess of things scattered on the floor could have been explained away easily enough, the small tree growing out of where the fruit bowl used to sit on his dining table could not. He blinked at it a few times for good measure because honestly… How had he missed that?

“We need to do something about the tree.”

Arthur cocked his head and moved only as much as he had to in order to peer sidelong at Merlin. “There are only like half a dozen apples on it.”

Merlin’s eyes flickered around and then landed, narrowed, on Arthur’s shoulder. Or somewhere near it. “What difference does that make? It’s still a tree growing in your table.”

“There were only a half dozen in the fruit bowl,” Arthur explained. Though he probably could have done a better job of making his point, if Merlin’s wide eyes and half-twisted mouth were any indication of how stupid he sounded. He huffed at Merlin. “You grew me an entire tree just to hang the same number of apples off of it that I had before.”

Merlin started to shake his head, probably in disbelief, and then merely blinked at him. Also in disbelief. Probably. “Do you want me to grow you more apples?”

“Yes! You grew a bloody tree for nothing! I have the exact same number of apples, but now there’s a tree in my table – where am I supposed to eat them? At least make the tree worth something!”

Merlin flubbed something that didn’t quite resolve into words, and then he stared at the tree again in disbelief. One of the leaves twisted a bit in a draft that blew from the corners of the room and fell off. They both looked at it, and then Merlin burst out with, “I made you a bloody tree!”

Arthur scoffed, but he could feel the goofy lines coming out in his face, totally inappropriate to the situation. “A shoddy tree,” he allowed, fighting to keep a straight face.

Merlin’s eyes waxed wider, and then he reconsidered the tree, glared at Arthur, and raised a palm to face it. “I’ll give you a shoddy tree.”

“Don’t – ” Arthur grabbed his arm, alarmed. “ – make it better. It’ll just be harder to explain.”

A mutinous gleam – somewhat amber in color – came into Merlin’s eyes and another dozen apples budded, swelled, and fell in a rush of thunks from the branches.

“Merlin!”

Several apples rolled innocently off of the table and Merlin smiled at Arthur. “I strive to give my king everything he desires.”

Arthur opened his mouth to retort, but he only managed to click something in the back of his throat before the knocking came again, harder this time and accompanied by a muffled, Sire? Arthur swore, tore at the bedding twisted in a wreck all over the bed, and threw a sheet over the tree.

“Oh, that’s much better.”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“Now it just looks like a tree with a sheet over it. How ever will they figure it out?”

“Shut up. You’re a damn menace.” Arthur fiddled with the sheet, threw up his hands, and then looked at Merlin. “Well?” He threw his hands about, and when all Merlin did was shrug, clueless, Arthur hissed, “Answer the bloody door!”

“Oh!” Merlin looked at the door, the tree again, and Arthur once more for good measure, then shook his head on his way to the door as if to wonder how this became his life. Arthur followed him for no good reason and tried to block the view into the room without being obvious or suspicious about it, while Merlin looked a mixture of smug and irritated.

Another flurry of knocks sounded out as Merlin lifted the latch and opened the door just far enough to see who was there. A chambermaid’s face appeared at the jamb, her features edging on a panic, and she let out a huge breath of relief upon seeing them. “Sire! I’m so sorry. It’s just, no one has collected any meals for you today, and when no one answered – ”

“It’s quite all right,” Arthur told her. “And we’re fine. I mean, I’m fine. Merlin is just…also fine.” He heard another thump of an apple falling and leaned his elbow up on the edge of door with a nonchalant smile. Merlin raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you fine?”

The maid stuttered and took a step back. “Um. Yes, sire. Thank you, sire. Shall I have someone bring up your dinner?” She eyed first his state of near undress, and then Merlin’s.

Oh, that was going to start rumors. Arthur widened his smile, and the girl quailed a bit. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

The girl nodded, and in Arthur’s periphery, Merlin rolled his eyes. “Also,” the girl stammered, “the physician is looking for Merlin. There’s a, um…there was an incident.”

Arthur straightened abruptly. “What happened.”

“Oh, nothing! That is, it was only one person. She, um…forgive me, sire. She’ll see only Merlin. Sire.”

Arthur balked, but before he could made some crass remark or insult Merlin’s prowess with women and then tease him about it, Merlin said, “Is it Elise again?”

The maid bit her lip and nodded. “I’m sorry, it’s just she won’t let the other physician treat her, and her mum is with her saying the same thing.”

“Who’s Elise?”

Merlin barely glanced at Arthur as he hurried to retrieve his boots and clothes. “The miller’s daughter, sire. It’s a delicate matter.”

“What would you know about women’s delicate matters?” And then Arthur cleared his throat and stepped back from the door as he was treated to two rather frosty glares. “Right, well. You’d better get on then.”

It seemed that Merlin only just refrained from calling him an arse as he sniffed and left the room. The maid curtsied stiffly and mumbled something about sending George up with a tray, and then also left without waiting to be dismissed. Arthur pursed his lips and screwed his mouth up to one side as he closed the door. Another apple clunked to the tabletop and rolled away, and Arthur sighed at the ceiling because really. There was a tree growing out of his table, his room smelled like a smokehouse, and somehow, he was the one feeling chagrined. It was probably justified.

* * *

“I still can’t believe how lucky I was.”

Arthur contemplated Guinevere at the other end of the table. He could understand that she might be upset over the attempted assassination, and the subsequent quick and bloody routing when the Sarum’s men tried to avenge their fallen leader, but she wasn’t acting the way Arthur expected. She was quiet, contemplative in a way that was almost sullen, and she hadn’t gone to even see the wounded, much less help tend to them the way she normally would. Even now when he spoke, she looked away, and it wasn’t a lingering fear at what could have happened that day which marred her features. No, it echoed the expression she’d worn at the round table when Arthur looked up from the bolt in the Sarum’s back: impatience or frustration, maybe. There wasn’t any concern for Arthur’s safety, or anyone else’s. She simply looked as if something carefully planned had gone wrong, which of course it had, but Arthur wasn’t sure anymore that they were both lamenting the disruption of the same something. And it confused him, and that made him short.

“I owe that boy my life, and I don’t know who he was, or where he’s from.” Guinevere watched him attentively as he spoke but Arthur wasn’t sure that he felt comfortable with the manner in which she did it. He glanced past his shoulder instead, to where Merlin seemed to be taking an awfully long time to prepare their dinner plates. “We need to make sure we give him a decent burial.”

Merlin’s head came up from the food tray and he half turned toward Arthur. His voice sounded stuffy when he replied, “I’ll do that.”

It was not at all like Merlin; there was a cold, pinched formality to it that Arthur was not accustomed to. That, and there had been an unusual number of my lord’s and sire’s peppered into pretty much everything that Merlin had said for weeks now. As a rule, he wasn’t deferential to Arthur, and the Good Servant act grated. Merlin hadn’t even smiled in ages, and his face was starting to resemble the backend of a cat. Arthur resolved to tell him that if he didn’t snap out of this soon.

Merlin turned with plates in his hands. “If you’ll allow me the time?” The look he gave Arthur at that was brief, but rife with all kinds of things that normal servants were, and Merlin was not. It was distant, as if Arthur were just the king. As if they were strangers.

This was really starting to get on Arthur’s nerves. He hadn’t done anything allegedly prattish that he was aware of, so why was Merlin acting like this? Offended or something, or just…not Merlin. Arthur should be getting cheek right now about how Merlin leaves him for two days, and already someone tries to kill him. And the whole girl thing just made no sense, really. Since when did Merlin have any interest whatsoever in girls? And normal men got happy and stupid with a new girl in their lives; Merlin should be acting even more of an idiot and grinning like a gormless moron, not…whatever the hell this was. He wasn’t even a little bit relaxed. And where did the boy come from, if Merlin spent two days with a girl? Or was it not actually a girl he’d gone to visit? That thought was…interesting. And odd. Just…Arthur didn’t like the idea one bit.

Arthur stared blandly at the sleeve of Merlin’s jacket as a plate clattered onto the table before him. Mostly just to get a rise out of him, Arthur quipped, “Oh. So…you can go and visit that girl again.” He didn’t quite look at Merlin when he said it, but he didn’t have to. What he did see, too clearly, was Guinevere raise her eyes, falsely demure where she sat brooding. It was the look of someone about to be caught out, and that was just… Were the two of them conspiring over this supposed love affair?

Well, yes – because Guinevere had kept it a secret from even Arthur, but really. Arthur was starting to wonder if there was any girl at all, from the way the two of the were shooting each other calculating glances whenever the other wasn’t looking. It was disconcerting.

Merlin staggered a bit on his way down the length of the table to place Guinevere’s plate. “What?”

“Girl,” Arthur drawled, and smirked a bit to try to convey to both of them that he didn’t appreciate the subterfuge.

Merlin scoffed, as if this were the one thing that took the cake, as it were, on an already shitty day. “Don’t have one.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, but kept them on his plate, because he could tell when Merlin was lying, and while there was concealment in there somewhere, it wasn’t a lie. Oh, gods, what if that boy really was the ‘girl’ he’d gone to see. “That’s not what Guinevere tells me.”

When Arthur looked up, Guinevere was giving him that wide eyed warning look that meant he should shut up before he ruined some bit of delicate diplomacy, but behind him, he could veritably hear Merlin go still. There was no guilt in the line of his back though when Arthur veered his head in that direction to peer over his shoulder again. He’d straightened, and seemed to be in the middle of realizing something. The look to which he treated Guinevere when he turned around, water pitcher at the ready…Arthur had seen that expression on other men’s faces when forced to maintain a civil front – a façade of fake congeniality broken by sidelong, narrow-eyed glances because for whatever reason – propriety or politics or subterfuge – they couldn’t say what they really meant. People didn’t regard their friends, or their monarchs, like that.

Guinevere twisted her head in an attempt to appear coy, maybe, and Merlin just looked at her as if to tell her that he knew exactly what she was on about. There may have been a vague sort of threat there, or just impotent dislike. Arthur thought – no, he knew – that the two of them were friends. Weren’t they? Merlin loved Guinevere, sort of. In the way of siblings, certainly. He had been the only one standing up for her when Arthur banished her – the only one trying to talk Arthur around, and he’d always seemed so enamored of the idea of Arthur’s true love for a serving girl, so what on earth –

“So,” Arthur butted in. “Why don’t you tell us all about her?” He tapped his goblet to regain Merlin’s attention, and also to break the staring contest going on between the room’s other inhabitants before one of them did or said something unwise.

Arthur could detect something ominous in the way Merlin slid his eyes and posture both away from Guinevere and down toward the pitcher as he poured out Arthur’s water. But he kept his body angled toward Guinevere, as if not to show her his back. Arthur stared at the side of his head for a moment, irrationally irritated when it seemed Merlin might not look back at him, but then his eyes did strafe Arthur on their way back down the table toward Guinevere. There was a frightening clarity there, and Arthur wished he knew what it meant.

Merlin strode alongside the table to pour Guinevere’s water next. It was a languid thing, the way he moved when he watched her, but in the manner that snakes were languid while coiled waiting in the grass. It was cocky, which Arthur had never seen in Merlin before. Merlin knew something and he wanted Guinevere to see that, and Arthur would bet his crown that this – whatever this was – had nothing to do with any girl. The look on his face… Arthur knew that Merlin was no longer a gangly country boy. He wasn’t a child or an idiot, but this? That was the look knights wore picking up a thrown gauntlet, droll as if saying, All right, you want to do this? We’ll do this then.

Merlin replied, “Right,” to Arthur, but everything behind it was meant for Guinevere. Contempt. I see you. That was the sorcerer, Arthur realized, watching Merlin smirk at Guinevere. It wasn’t kind – it wasn’t even any kind of challenge, it was just there, a naked fact: she only still lived right now by his mercy. That was the man who kept killing the bad people Arthur couldn’t, and damn the consequences – the man who stood behind Arthur wearing a mask of his own skin, lending lie to the idea that Merlin – goofy, bumbling, faithful country boy Merlin with the ridiculous ears and a grin that lit up rooms with his cheek – had any more innocence left in him than Arthur did. That was the Merlin he didn’t really know.

Guinevere bobbed her eyebrows at Merlin as if she couldn’t see the way he all but stalked her where she sat. She was playful, as if this were just another day and she had no idea what the issue was – that she…that she had lied. To the king. To Gaius. Why – why would she do that? And Merlin just poured and smiled in a way that jarred Arthur for its lack of teeth and open malice, because that was what Merlin’s expression all but screamed, and how could Guinevere not see it?

Arthur blinked, suspicious and on guard now, his limbs looser for it. He raised his goblet, but before he sipped, he added, “And why you’re walking with a limp.” And it only then occurred to him to truly wonder at the logistics of two days of absence followed by a sudden appearance with a strange boy in tow to stop Arthur’s assassination literally at the last possible moment. What on earth had Merlin been doing? Because he must have known – he showed back up to the citadel injured, harried, leaning on a stick for gods’ sake, as if he couldn’t spare time for anything else, and what – ran straight up to the balcony where a sharp shooter just happened to be waiting with a loaded crossbow?

Guinevere swallowed and peered up at Merlin from under lowered lashes, and Merlin… He didn’t smile, exactly, but there was definitely a dark sort of humor to his expression. Arthur wanted to defend his wife. He did, but something about all of this – it gave him pause. It occurred to him that he must have known something himself – he must have sensed the wrongness before now – because throughout this entire exchange, he made no move to censor Merlin for his behavior. For the threat and insolence in his posture – no. It didn’t offend Arthur’s sensibility to see his manservant treating the queen in such a manner. Rather, it vindicated something in him – in Arthur.

Arthur looked back to his wife. He looked to his wife, while she regarded Merlin. And when she turned back to Arthur, he finally noticed that Guinevere didn’t seem to be the only thing looking back. There was something dead in there, something hollow. And then she smiled at him, sweet.

* * *

Arthur paced the halls of his castle quietly. He wasn’t sneaking around, per se, but he also didn’t need anyone noticing him; it might get back to Guinevere at some point. The thought felt traitorous, but Arthur couldn’t stop his thoughts whirring ever since the strained and awkward dinner. Merlin had not explained himself, or his limp, though Arthur had at least noticed that his leg was bandaged and that some spots of dark rust had seeped through the white linen. He hadn’t come back from clearing the plates either, and Arthur wanted to know why as much as he wanted to simply blind himself and forget the terrible notions creeping through his mind.

It was Tyr Seward, of all the things, that came to Arthur first. Tyr was loyal and innocent, possessed of the kind of simple-mindedness that Merlin only faked well. He was utterly devoted to his mother and proud of his work for Arthur. He was…refreshing. And Guinevere had advocated his execution on the basis of a dearth of real evidence that even Uther might have paused at. That was not Guinevere. It may have been the advice of any other queen, but Arthur had not married any other queen, and Guinevere was kind. He had been surprised to hear her push for the boy’s death, but he had shrugged it off at the time. Rationalized it. Arthur’s life was in danger, Arthur was the king, so the danger must be removed. He had grown up with judgements like that coming from the mouth of his father. It had been odd, but familiar enough to overlook.

What was not familiar, and what he should not have brushed off, was learning that the first (and only) person to accuse Merlin of poisoning Arthur those many weeks ago was Guinevere. Of course, Merlin was a sorcerer and an accomplished liar (apparently), and a dozen other things that might have made him suspect…to any other person. But Guinevere knew Merlin – loved and trusted him, and looked on him fondly like a little brother, younger as he was. She well knew the ferocity of Merlin’s loyalty – she had said as much, that it wasn’t normal and that Arthur needed to take heed of it before Merlin got himself killed protecting one of them, because Merlin would never say no to Arthur when it mattered, and he would never save his own life if even the slightest bit of Arthur’s were at risk. And yet she accused him? Why?

Or was it exactly because Merlin would give his own life to save Arthur – kill whoever he needed to, incur Arthur’s wrath or his hatred, stand up to anyone in any way he could, noble or not – queen or not – if it meant he could save Arthur?

It was a simple equation, really – Arthur should have worked it through long before now. Only two people could have accessed Arthur’s food between the taste testing and Arthur consuming it: Merlin, who still, despite Arthur’s railing, insisted on doing the tasting himself; and Guinevere, who ate the meal with him and was not, herself, exposed to the poison. Merlin served them both from the same platter. If there were poison in it then, they should have both consumed it. That meant that the poison was administered after Merlin served it, and Guinevere was the only one there to do it.

Of course, Merlin could have put something on Arthur’s food after plating it, while his back was turned and his body blocked Arthur’s line of sight, but Arthur couldn’t imagine that. What did it say about Arthur that he held his servant’s fealty above that of his own beloved wife? And yet he did; he held Merlin’s loyalty up like a beacon with the same fervor he saw in Merlin’s face when he called Arthur prat and clotpole and the Once and Future King. It was sacrosanct.

Arthur rounded the corner into the hall leading to the physician’s quarters, the torches here spaced farther apart and burning more smoke than flame. He took care not to trip and then slowed as he approached the infirmary, because he could hear soft voices, and following fast on that, the unmistakable sound of someone retching. It would be just his luck if Gaius had a patient in there – some late-night drunken lord or knight emptying himself of enough mead to poison an ox. Gwaine, maybe.

Arthur snorted at the absurdity of that; Gwaine would have outdrank the ox, and he’d never waste ale by letting his body expel it.

As he drew up to the door, Arthur heard Gaius shuffling around, and then, “Here, drink this.”

“I can’t.”

Arthur went still, because that was Merlin’s voice, tight with discomfort, and he sounded miserable.

“It’s just ground ginger in water. It’ll settle your stomach.”

Arthur heard Merlin gasp hard and then whimper before another round of retching echoed out harsh in the darkness of the corridor. It sounded dry and painful.

“It won’t stay down,” Merlin croaked. Gaius must have tried pushing the ginger on him again.

“Just sip it,” Gaius insisted. “Wet your throat with it, nothing more.”

Arthur listened to Merlin heave a few rapid, deep breaths, and then he let out a pitiful groan. “I have to tend Arthur for the night.”

“You shouldn’t be working at all,” Gaius insisted. “You can barely stand. And I need to look at that wound.”

“I’m fine.”

Arthur wanted to be angry. He wanted to storm in and demand that Merlin explain himself, and get treatment, and confess to…something. Render the world whole again and deliver his wife, and Arthur’s trust in her, back to him. And he was angry, but it didn’t have a focus; it just roiled inside of him, impotent and resilient like plague, and more than anything else in that moment, he wanted Merlin not to be ill or hurt so that he could direct that anger at Merlin and not feel like an absolute cad for doing it.

Gaius sighed and murmured, “Merlin…” as if he knew better than to argue.

“What would I tell Arthur?” Merlin demanded, his voice thread and raw from throwing up. “He’ll notice I’m not there. I’m surprised he isn’t down here already yelling and throwing things at my head.” It was bitter, that, and Arthur wondered when dealing with him had become such a chore. He had thought that Merlin enjoyed it, complaints and sass aside. Why else would he have stayed so long? They had a fractious friendship, granted, but there was something real in there too.

After a hesitation, Gaius ventured, “The truth?”

Arthur knocked quickly, because he wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear Merlin’s answer. Yes, here are all the things he kept hidden, which Arthur could have previously only guessed at best – layers upon layers like deposits of sediment in a lake bed – or no…because the only man who had never harbored ambition or ulterior motives toward Arthur didn’t trust him at all.

The infirmary grew quiet like a forest when a wolf prowled past, and then Gaius rustled around to answer the door. He looked surprised first, and then wary before his eyes went hard as ice chips. “Sire? Merlin is not well. I can send someone else to tend you this evening.”

Arthur nodded but pushed the door open, and Gaius aside with it. “Leave us. I need to speak to Merlin alone.” He had no doubt that Gaius knew everything that Merlin did about what was going on here, but he didn’t trust Gaius to tell him the entire truth, or to let Merlin tell him, either willingly or through the betrayal of his own face. “Now, please.”

Gaius made an admirable attempt not to look like he was glaring at Arthur, but he did. Then he glanced back at Merlin, who had pulled himself onto a stool at the tiny dining table in a farce of normalcy. Nothing could quite cover the stench of fresh vomit, though.

Arthur sucked in a slow breath and shut his eyes briefly before saying, “I can tend myself for the night, but I need to speak with him.”

Gaius’s face offered a few nonspecific twitches, failed to resolve into any expression at all, and then he bowed. The stiffness of it had little to do with age. “Please do not take long, sire; he needs to rest.”

Arthur nodded, eyeing Merlin where he sat unsteady, propped against the table in front of him. No one said anything else until Gaius fetched a long cloak and shuffled out, closing the door behind him.

“Turning an old man out of his own home in the middle of the night,” Merlin mused. “Very kingly of you.”

Arthur faced him across the length of half the room. The words were all correct – classic Merlin insolence whenever Arthur did something that normal people found inconsiderate. Even the tone was right, but Merlin’s face didn’t match, and it set Arthur’s teeth on edge. “What happened to you?”

Merlin’s mouth creased, and when the smile failed to reach past his cheekbones, Arthur realized how unkind the look was. “With a girl. Like the queen said.”

The queen, not Gwen. Proper address, of course – Merlin’s rank didn’t allow him to call Guinevere by name. Or Arthur. Not that it ever discouraged him.

“We both know that’s a load of rubbish.”

“Right,” Merlin scoffed, but it was a harsh, mocking thing. “What girl would have me?”

“That’s not even the point.” But yes, Arthur had thought that too in a few unkind moments because Merlin would be a terrible husband. Or at least he would be as long as Arthur lived and needed him. Arthur grimaced and paced up to the table, brushed aside a half-eaten plate of what evidently passed for food here, and sat down opposite him. Merlin looked sweaty and off color like pond scum, his neckerchief clenched in one hand and the laces on his tunic open far enough that Arthur could just glimpse the edges of the odd burn scar that marred his chest – the one Merlin hadn’t had when he first entered Arthur’s service. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Merlin pressed his lips together until the inside of his mouth caught on a canine. “I don’t tell you a lot of things, sire. You usually tell me to shut up, anyway.”

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself not to react with the anger that comment engendered, true or not. “Did Guinevere do this to you?”

It was subtle, but it was there – the flinch. “No, my lord.” And that was only a half truth.

Or perhaps it was just nausea, because Merlin swallowed hard and pressed his neckerchief to his mouth for a moment as if holding something down.

Arthur nodded at the bucket that one of them had draped with a cloth, as if that would hide the smell. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Merlin cleared his throat and shifted, but remained where he was. When he lowered the neckerchief though, there was a sticky black stain on it, and Merlin scrubbed for a moment at his lips to remove whatever else was there.

Arthur furrowed his brow. “That’s not blood,” he said before he thought about it. It wasn’t any sort of bile he’d ever seen either, and it carried an oily sheen. He looked up, because it occurred to him that what he was seeing resembled the symptoms of poisoning.

Merlin folded the neckerchief to hide the evidence and said nothing.

“You’ve never held back with me before.” Arthur leaned his head to the side to try to catch Merlin’s reluctant gaze, and then he changed tacks at the mulish look on his servant’s face. “You were poisoned, weren’t you. And attacked? The wound on your leg – how did you get it?”

“I’m clumsy,” Merlin muttered.

“Really?” Arthur didn’t doubt that, except that Merlin could be remarkably stealthy when he really tried, and he wasn’t prone to random injuries, for all that a lot of things seemed to break in his care. “Tell me the truth.”

“That is the truth,” Merlin snapped. “I fell into a ravine. You know how I am.”

“Yes, I do,” Arthur murmured. “Did the ravine poison you too?”

“Maybe I ate some bad eggs.”

“You can’t afford eggs,” he scoffed. “Unless they were mine, and you stole them off of my plate, in which case I’d have noticed. Merlin, you can tell me.”

That seemed the wrong thing to say; Merlin’s face twisted up in muted fury. “Really? I can tell you. Like I could tell you about Agravaine? That didn’t go so well for me.”

Arthur started to shake his head.

“You threatened to exile me if I said anything against him! When have you ever listened to anything I have to say?”

“I listen to you all the time.” Arthur shook his head in disbelief, though more at himself for the need to defend his character against the aspersions cast by a servant, than at the words themselves. Merlin was giving things away though, whether he wanted to or not. Of all the examples he could have chosen for times when Arthur didn’t listen to him about someone’s motives, he chose Agravaine. A person Arthur loved. Had loved.

“No,” Merlin shook his head and his expression turned inward in self-deprecation. “I am the last person you listen to because I’m just a servant, and a stupid one at that.”

Arthur shook his head and frowned into his hands clasped before him on the table. “Being a servant never stopped you speaking your mind.”

“Last time I told you there was a traitor in your court, you accused Gaius instead, and he nearly got killed. You left him to that because it was easier to stomach. Gaius was your father’s man, and a sorcerer once. It’s just good riddance. I may be slow, but I do learn.”

It took a moment for Arthur to blink through a haze of anger, and then of something that burned acidic and unpleasant in his gut. “I’ve learned too,” he offered.

Merlin sucked in a breath and looked away as it blew back out.

“You killed him,” Arthur said. “Didn’t you? My uncle? He followed us into the caves, you went back, and no one ever saw him again.”

Merlin inhaled again, his eyes sliding shut, but he gave away nothing more.

“How many people have you killed for me?” Perverse question, that. But he had suspicions, and the one that niggled hardest at the back of his mind was that if Guinevere were a threat, Merlin would remain true to form and kill her. For Arthur. And hate himself after.

“I’ve lost count,” Merlin sneered. He rubbed his neckerchief at his nose and looked away, breathing harder than he should for even a heated conversation. It was honestly the closest Arthur thought he’d ever been to hearing something straight from Merlin the sorcerer. There was no brag there, however – no aggrandizement. It was a response born of weariness and regret. Arthur wondered if the latter were simply because he’d killed, or because he’d done it for Arthur.

Arthur wobbled where he sat and glanced around the room as if his thoughts might be floating there in disarray for him grab. “Did you know about Morgana too?”

Merlin blinked up at him, his eyes empty and his face mostly blank. His eyes gave him away, though; they always did. Too clear. Too blue. Shiny. It was answer enough. Arthur remembered walking into the throne room after defeating Cenred’s forces and the undead army. I need to tell you something about Morgana. And then Uther had announced her the hero of the day, and Merlin hadn’t even tried to talk to him about her again. Arthur was at least self-aware enough to know that if Merlin had tried, Arthur would have done worse than just not listen. But it begged the question: in the months between then, and her public betrayal, what had she done, or tried to do, to Merlin? Because there was no way she didn’t see him down in the crypts too, and he was pants at subterfuge. Morgana would have known him for a threat, magic or not.

“My wife,” Arthur continued, and had to stop for the lump that threatened to steal his speech. “Guinevere,” he whispered. “Do you know something about her too?”

Merlin hitched a breath and dropped his gaze in a vain attempt to hide the moisture welling up along the lower rim of his eyelid. “Gaius shouldn’t be out this late. His joints bother him.”

“Then give me a straight answer, and he can come back.” Arthur tried to wait him out with silence, but Merlin’s face remained stubbornly set in a poorly constructed mask of ignorance. Finally, Arthur tried, “I know that I have reacted poorly in the past when you warned me of a danger I didn’t want to see, but I need to know. Tell me what really happened.”

A tense silence bled out between them, Merlin’s face half hidden in the shadows where he kept his head bowed over hands that restlessly worried at the scrap of neckerchief stained with not-blood. Finally, Merlin’s voice sounded out dull from near his hands, “I fell into a ravine.”

Arthur stared at him. “And this alleged girl you say you don’t have? Tell me about her.”

There was no way for Merlin to answer that without calling the queen a liar, because Arthur knew him. He knew that Merlin didn’t have a girl. And while he might believe that Merlin would disappear for a couple of days without telling Arthur (because he’d done it before), he did not, for a single moment, believe that Merlin would fail to tell Gaius. And Gaius had wanted a search party sent out. There was no girl.

Arthur leaned closer over the table, but Merlin kept his eyes on his hands and his mouth shut. “You have a way of knowing things. Your…funny feelings. If you don’t want to tell me what happened, then tell me about one of those instead.”

Merlin lifted his head, but only enough to stare past Arthur rather than down. “Guinevere loves you. She would never betray you.”

“Well, it’s got to be one of you,” Arthur snapped. He could feel his temper rising up from beneath the surface, and he hated it, but he didn’t know what else to say. “Do you want to confess, then? Is that it? Tell me how it really was you who poisoned me, and you who conspired to assassinate me today? Convenient, how you were up there with the shooter, and the only other witness dead at your feet. Tell me that the reason you and Guinevere act like strangers all of a sudden is because she was right about you but doesn’t know how to convince me. Tell me, Merlin. You’ve been walking around here like a ghost for weeks – you don’t even complain anymore. That’s suspicious, don’t you think? Maybe you’re the one leaking secrets to our enemies. Maybe that’s where you’ve been for two bloody days.”

Merlin barely reacted, and perhaps that should have clued Arthur into the fact that Merlin expected so little of Arthur in regards to himself that he wasn’t even surprised to be accused in turn. To be the messenger Arthur shot. Merlin’s response came out dull and devoid of any actual agreement. “If you say so, my lord.”

“Dammit, Merlin!” Arthur slammed a fist against the table, and felt a sick gratification at how Merlin flinched because at least that was honest. He let out a weary breath and tried to remember the hollow feeling that Guinevere had left him with – words read from scripts of how Guinevere should have been. “Is she threatening you?” But that wouldn’t stop Merlin – he had very few weak points, actually, and himself was not one of them. “Is she threatening Gaius?”

“No, my lord.”

Arthur was on his feet before he thought about it, and Merlin scrambled to rise as well just a beat too late. He was hot to the touch, disturbingly so, with clammy skin and an unhealthy fever sheen, but Arthur didn’t take heed of that. “I am your king! It is treason to lie to me!”

Merlin gasped a bit and Arthur found himself holding up more weight than he expected when Merlin sagged and then tried to angle away from him. At the last moment, Arthur rotated him and let him flop toward the floor, where he made a visible effort to keep from passing out and failed. Arthur rocked back, shocked and dissatisfied to find himself holding the limp body of his servant, but it allowed him a moment to truly take stock of him too. Merlin was thinner than he should have been – again – and through the open collar of his shirt, Arthur could see other bruises and marks. He considered for a moment that what he wanted to do might be some kind of violation, but Merlin belonged to him, and he had a right to see how others had mistreated him.

When Arthur shifted Merlin and lifted his tunic, he saw an awful array of fresh marks, deep purple and mottled all along one side of Merlin’s body. There were a few cuts too, but only superficial. A brief search turned up the thin line of a scab hidden along Merlin’s hairline, surrounded by a lighter bruise that spread into his scalp. He may have actually fallen into a ravine, but to judge by the coloration of the bruises, it would have to have been a far fall. Arthur breathed through whatever softer, amorphous anger was now crowding out his earlier fury and worked Merlin’s hand open to extract the crumpled neckerchief. The substance that Merlin had been coughing up appeared black with an oily sheen in the low candlelight, as he’d thought, and like no bodily fluid or bile he’d ever seen. He twisted to set the cloth on the table behind him, and then contemplated the slackened lines of the face of the liar he trusted with his life. Merlin had every reason to betray him, and never had. How was that the reason Arthur couldn’t seem to doubt him now? How was that the thing that made him trust Merlin over even his own wife?

Arthur huffed to himself. He had no answers, no clarity, nothing except the certainty that Merlin knew something, and appeared to have almost died because of it. Another boy had died. And Guinevere was lying to cover Merlin’s absence. Guinevere…his beloved queen…seemed to want Merlin dead. If this was her, and Arthur thought it was, at least in part, then she had tried twice now to get rid of both him and Merlin. In passing, it was interesting how she apparently needed to get Merlin out of the way in order to make a credible attempt on Arthur.

A log popped behind him in the fireplace and Arthur swiveled to check that nothing had rolled out. It looked fine, if not very bright, so he looked at the door and raised his voice to call Gaius in the hopes that he was simply lurking out there, waiting. “We need help in here!”

It took a moment, but indeed, Gaius opened the door, and then he drew a sharp breath at the scene inside. “What happened?” He hurried over as much as he could and his joints creaked as he knelt. “Merlin?” He left Merlin where he was, flopped limp over Arthur’s lap with his head lolling back in the crook of Arthur’s elbow. After feeling for breath and pulse, the rest of his apprentice registered, and Gaius touched at the bruising still exposed along the entirety of one side of Merlin’s body. “Oh.”

Arthur glanced up from the contrast of Gaius’s pale, red-knuckled fingers against mottled purple. “You didn’t know?”

Gaius shook his head without thinking. “I wasn’t aware of the extent…” He palpated along Merlin’s ribs, and then back to press over his kidney. “This is not minor,” he breathed. “He wouldn’t let me look at it, with everyone else needing attention after the assassination attempt. I haven’t even tended his leg yet.”

“He said that he fell into a ravine.”

Again, Gaius shook his head, lips pursed. “If he slipped, there would be scrapes – marks on his hands and fingers, his arms – and the bruising would spread more evenly over his torso from rolling down the side and catching himself up at the bottom. This was just a straight fall and a hard landing. I doubt he was even conscious for it.” Gaius continued feeling around Merlin’s ribcage and the knobs of his spine, oblivious, apparently, to the implications of what he’d said. “I need him on the cot, sire. If you would be so kind?”

Arthur jolted himself from his thoughts and blinked to regain his bearings in the room. “Of course.” He resituated Merlin’s upper body and then lifted, taking the majority of the weight while Gaius picked up his feet. They settled him on his side on Gaius’s cot, facing away, and Gaius moved into the work area to start gathering things for a treatment. Arthur remained where he was, bent over Merlin’s body and staring at the blemished skin beside where his hand rested in the divot of Merlin’s waist. There was a mark there he had not seen before – a puckered mark like a star. It was old by several years at least, but he still recognized it from seeing it fresh on dead bodies. “This is a serket sting.”

Gaius paused in mixing something into a thick pace. He relaxed when he saw what Arthur was looking at. “It’s old, but yes.”

“I thought that their sting was fatal.” Arthur ran his thumb over the mark to better map its contours and commit its placement to memory, low and off-center near the coccyx. It just missed the spine.

Merlin’s skin tightened as if plucked like a string under the scrape of Arthur’s fingernail, and he grunted as he shifted away. Arthur sucked in an abrupt breath and lifted his hand before Merlin could wake.

“Generally, yes,” Gaius agreed, and it took a moment for Arthur to remember what he had asked. “He was very lucky to survive. I imagine the serket had recently stung something else just before him, and that its venom was therefor less potent.”

Arthur glanced aside without moving his head. Gaius was watching him carefully between adding things to his bowl and grinding it all together. It wasn’t clear whether or not that response were a deflection, but the sting was certainly a subject off limits, to judge by the closed quality of Gaius’s face. Voice droll by design, Arthur replied, “How fortunate.”

“Indeed, sire.” Gaius continued to eye him though. Well. At least they understood each other, then. “You should go to your rest.”

“Rest?” Arthur snorted and then sobered quickly. “With a viper in my bed,” he muttered.

“Sire?”

Arthur looked up to find Gaius regarding him with concern. “Nothing.” He waved it off. “I’m just disturbed, still, by the events of today.” He could ask Guinevere to sleep in the queen’s chambers, which she did often enough anyway. Plead a late-evening meeting, or paperwork to divert suspicion. Arthur looked down again as Gaius began spreading a thick, pungent salve across the curve of Merlin’s ribcage, just where the bone curled around his flank. Merlin breathed erratically at the touch, and Arthur stepped back to avoid seeing too much of it. Guinevere even now waited for Arthur in their bed – the shell of a doll with the inside scooped out, formed into the shape of his wife and filled up with lies and malice, laughing at the gullible, smitten king. All he wanted was to not leave this room, even if the only Merlin here were the one who seemed harder than he should and saddened by his own disillusionment. “You’ll take care of him?”

Gaius raised his head, his features soft the way they used to be when Arthur was young. “For as long as I am able. Goodnight, sire.”

Arthur nodded and slipped past him. He had almost reached the door when he heard Gaius say, “He would die for you.”

It was quiet, as if they were not a half dozen yards away from each other speaking through the expanse of a handful of candles in a drafty tower. A throwaway comment that he might not have heard at all. Arthur twisted his torso and looked back at the stoop of an old man hiding his face in the shadows. He wondered when Gaius had grown so old – when the years had bent his back and compressed him into this weary figure. They stared at each other and Arthur saw fear, and sadness, as if Gaius had already mourned the loss of a boy he loved to soften the blow when he inevitably had to endure his death.

“Yes,” Arthur replied, his tone the same. Neither of them needed to say anything more.

* * *

Arthur sighed and stretched to relieve the kink in his back. He heard and felt a few crackles between his shoulder blades and swallowed a groan of relief, holding his arms up and rolling his shoulders back to bask in the sweet strain and ache of overtired bones and muscles. He could feel his age creeping up on him but it felt comfortable, like an acknowledgement that he’d gotten this far. Above him, the ceiling beams bore marks from the flames of the candles blazing like torches the night before, but George had scrubbed the scorches from the stone at least. One could hardly tell that a fire had broken out just a few hours ago.

George was still in Arthur’s chambers, sweeping out corners of the room and flattening himself to get under various pieces of furniture. His dedication to cleanliness was disturbing. When he appeared earlier with the supper that the maid had promised, he hardly reacted to the mess. Or to the tree draped entirely obviously in a sheet on his table. Arthur took his meal on his desk, allowed George to assist him with washing and dressing, and then just watched the man flutter about, picking things up.

“May I get you anything else, sire?”

Arthur blinked and shifted his eyes from the untouched tree to George. “No. You may go.”

George inclined his head, and then hesitated, which was out of character for him, considering he’d been dismissed. “I apologize for the smell of the room, sire. I have aired everything and changed the linens, but the scent of magic has not yet dissipated.”

Arthur tried not to let the panic seep into his features, king or no. He could feel his cheeks go chill, though, and figured he had probably paled in spite of himself. “You will say a word of this to no one. Do I make myself clear?”

George merely nodded and said, “Of course not, sire.” As if in a realm where magic was a capital offense, it still never crossed his mind to speak of this. Even Arthur being king did not excuse that. Did it? “I shall come back to tend the fire shortly and collect the plates, and I have a solution which may assist in concealing the charred marks in the ceiling beams.” He bowed, perfectly proper and unaffected, and then just…left. He walked right past a tree growing out of a table, roots poking out from beneath the sheet to curl around the edges of the wood, and left.

Arthur shook his head in disbelief, and then it occurred to him to wonder how a servant, ostensibly sheltered from most of what happened outside the small space of the royal household, came to recognize the specific scent of magic so well that when he encountered and spoke of it, it was with easy familiarity. It had taken years for Arthur to figure out what that scent was, however often he had been around it courtesy of Merlin having no self-preservation skills whatsoever. How did George just know what it was without blinking?

After finishing his food, Arthur belted on his sword and shrugged into his long sleeveless riding coat for warmth, the leather supple from use and the oils Merlin periodically used to clean it. Arthur fingered the edge near his collar and pictured Merlin bent close to the seam, the coat spread out flat over the table as he rubbed the oil in with a cloth, so completely focused on the task that the rest of the world may not even exist. The whole room smelled of cedar whenever he did that, and Merlin always seemed calm afterwards, as if the act were some kind of meditation for him.

Arthur found Sir Geoffrey scribbling away in the library, no matter the late hour. As usual, Geoffrey held a hand up to silence his visitor until after he had finished whatever he was writing, and Arthur smiled because some things never did change. He waited patiently until Geoffrey looked up and said, “Oh! Sire, my apologies.”

“No harm,” Arthur told him. “Shouldn’t you be at dinner or abed by now?”

Geoffrey glanced up at the darkened windows far away at the end of a row of bookshelves. “Ah. Yes, I imagine I should.”

Arthur snuffed at that, amused. “Actually, I’m glad I found you still here. I meant to speak with you earlier. You and Gaius were close. I imagine his passing has been hard on you.”

“Hm.” Geoffrey smile a bit vacantly, his eyes focused on something not in the room with them. “We were neither of us young men anymore.” The expression faded and he looked down. “I wonder if Alice knows.”

Arthur raised a brow but remained silent on that, even though he suspected that Geoffrey referred to the sorceress who had tried to kill Uther. Perhaps whatever creature she had raved about had set her free. Or perhaps that was Gaius; he had clearly loved her. And Merlin’s accusation against her had been reluctant enough that he hadn’t even returned to his room that night; Arthur had heard him rustling about in the servant’s chamber well past the last bell.

Geoffrey hummed to himself again and then looked at Arthur, inclining his head in respect as he did. “I will miss him,” he admitted.

“Of course. If you need anything…” Arthur held a hand out, palm up. “You have only to ask.”

“That is very kind of you, sire, but I shall be fine.” Geoffrey neatened a few stray pieces of parchment and then said, “As grateful as I am for your concern, I am certain that it is not the only reason you came down here.”

Arthur gave him a sheepish smile and pulled a chair over to sit. “You didn’t have much to say at the last council.”

They both knew that Arthur referred to the discussion of Gaius’s replacement, but Geoffrey did not oblige him by taking the expected conversation. “I find that I often have little to say at council.”

Very well, then; they were going to have this conversation. It was likely long overdue by now, given Arthur’s reading proclivities of late. “That hardly seems credible. You are, after all, a very learned man. And yet, you keep your own thoughts so well that no one even thinks to consult you anymore. Some even insist you’ve gone soft in the head, but I imagine they’re simply seeing what you want them to.”

“Allow me to rephrase then, sire.” Either Geoffrey or the chair creaked a bit as he shifted to alleviate strain on weary joints. “I find that I often have little to say that would be welcome at council.”

Arthur nodded. “I can understand that. And I must thank you for indulging my research proclivities these past months.”

“I hope that your highness has found it illuminating.”

“I have.” Arthur nipped at his bottom lip and gave up on trying to look as if he were not paying his whole attention to the conversation at hand. Geoffrey’s daft-old-man persona had certainly dropped well away. Arthur remembered this man from his youth, chasing him out of the library with a stick when he knocked a shelf askew, and no matter who was the prince. Arthur folded his hands on the desktop and regarded them with a frown. “You are now likely one of the last still living who recalls a time when magic was not simply tolerated, but welcome.” He glanced at the candles fluttering weakly on the table beside them, and found himself thinking of Merlin, of the vulnerability in the curl of his spine facing Arthur while he slept. “Why did you support the purge?”

Geoffrey took a deep breath. There was a lifetime contained within it. “I have very little still to lose in life,” he said, voice firm, and yet there was a softness there, an ache. “That includes my life.”

Arthur looked up, his brow drawing in at the center. “I’m not asking for your life. I only want the truth, Sir Geoffrey.”

“Not so long past, those two things were one and the same.” Several heartbeats passed while Geoffrey scrutinized his king, his gaze weighted. He took a deep breath, a preparation for battle from atop the rubble of a collapsed battlement wall. “I did not support the purge, sire.”

“But you supported my father through it.”

“I supported Camelot,” Geoffrey corrected. “My oath upon receiving my knighthood was not to obey or indulge Uther Pendragon. It was to protect and defend Camelot. I was already past my prime as a knight when the madness started. I could not fight. So I did what I was able.”

Arthur followed the direction of Geoffrey’s gaze out into the stacks of books and shelves bent under the weight of parchment. “You saved the writings,” Arthur realized. “Magical texts. The material you’ve been bringing me – is that where it came from?”

“Some of them,” Geoffrey confirmed. “Others were not deemed illicit, but their access was heavily restricted.”

Arthur shook his head. “Why risk your life for the sake of books?”

“Because certain knowledge, once lost, can never be regained.” Geoffrey shifted again where he sat. Arthur may have mistaken it for nerves if not for the soft hiss of discomfort that Geoffrey could not quite hide. He was, after all, quite getting on in years. “I could not leave Camelot defenseless against magic, sire; I took an oath, and fear of the king could not justify breaking it. The writings had to be saved, lest we lose the knowledge and ability to defend ourselves from attack by magic. We allowed the destruction of those magical texts which held no redeeming value – instruction on necromancy and dark deeds, blood magic and the like. Even those, I regret the loss of, because we may no longer have the knowledge to counter such things if we do not know the mechanism of it. They were sacrificed, however, to avoid suspicion that too few were burned. It was sick magic, in any case. I can only pray that it stays forgotten.”

Arthur nodded. “We?”

Geoffrey hesitated, but then replied, “Gaius and I collaborated to save what we could – what we must to ensure our survival.”

Of course, Arthur knew that Gaius had been somewhat shifty at times, but perhaps there was good cause he had yet to become aware of. If he had defied Uther to save critical texts, what else had he used his position and favor with the crown to do? “But what good is this knowledge if there are no sorcerers left to use it?”

“Someone has been using it.”

“Oh?” Arthur was seriously going to have to talk to Merlin about self-preservation if it turned out that even Geoffrey knew what he was. “And who might that be?”

“I am afraid I could not say, sire.”

“Is that right.” Arthur directed a flat stare at him.

Geoffrey looked down for a moment, and then met Arthur’s gaze again. “I have tried to discover who it might be. He or she would have to be very powerful, and while I am certain that there is more small magic hiding all around us than you would like, I have not seen anything that resembles the power necessary for what I am convinced has been happening in Camelot.”

This seemed like the truth, so Arthur relaxed. “I see. If you have found no one, then what makes you so certain that there is anyone to find at all?”

“We are still alive.” Geoffrey offered nothing more, not right away. He must have thought it was obvious, what he meant, until he caught Arthur’s renewed frown. “Too many threats have assailed us that could only be defeated by magic, sire. And yet, they were defeated. Magical beasts impervious to mortal blades, poisons with no known cure save magic, and your sister’s attacks, of course.”

“Of course.” Arthur wasn’t sure on all of those, but he could grant Geoffrey’s belief that only magic could counter magic. “And yet, you have said nothing of this, either to my father or to me. If what you say is true, then there has been a sorcerer practicing in the very heart of Camelot. Failure to report that is treason.”

“Forgive me, sire. But your father did know.”

Arthur felt something in chest skip and sink. Whether it were fear or something else, he couldn’t tell. “That cannot be.”

Hesitant, Geoffrey offered, “Perhaps I am mistaken, sire. I am an old man – ”

“You’re hardly in your dodderage, Sir Geoffrey.” Arthur again shuffled at the papers in front of him and then abandoned the distraction. He sank back, legs falling loose along the floor, and rested an elbow on the arm of his chair. He tapped his lips a few times, and then sat straight again. “You are calling my father a hypocrite. You are saying that he flaunted his own laws and allowed safe harbor to a sorcerer.”

“Had your father any inkling of the sorcerer’s identity, he would have executed him.” Geoffrey shifted on his chair to better prop up his bent frame. “You are alive due to magic’s intervention, and he knew it. Even he was saved by it at least once that he knew of, within your lifetime. You are correct that I imply that your father was a hypocrite, but with respect, sire, you did not have to live the life he did, or face those particular threats. The worst of the evil was already gone by the time you were old enough to know what magic was. You did not see the darkness that corrupted it at the end. But you also never had a chance to behold the beauty of it. The promise. Your father did. Whatever else he thought of it, I do still believe that he had hope, somewhere inside of him, that magic could be used for good. But he, too, was damaged, in his own way. And he could not break free from it, or from the knowledge and the horror of what he had done both with magic and against it. There is no simple explanation for anything that your father did, for good or for ill.” Geoffrey shook his head in silent apology. “Uther did not harbor the sorcerer in our midst. He simply did nothing.”

Much as Arthur had, up until now. He could hardly place blame on his father for doing nearly the same thing that Arthur had done with Merlin, though in thinking as much, Arthur effectively highlighted his own hypocrisy too. “I see.” Arthur shook his head and looked down. So he was perhaps no better than his father, allowing magic to serve his own ends, but resolved to discard it as soon as it became…inconvenient. “I suppose I should not be surprised.”

“I am sorry, sire.”

“No need.” Arthur pushed himself straight in the chair. “Tell me. What do you think of the vacant position of Court Physician?”

Geoffrey dithered for a moment, eyed his texts, and then faced Arthur. “Hubert is a good choice, sire. He is a competent physician.”

Arthur gave an exaggerated nod. “But?”

“But I fear that it would be far less profitable for him to take the position at court. His business in the lower town, and amongst the traders, is quite lucrative. He may be resistant to an appointment.”

“I see.” Arthur licked his lips.

“What of Merlin, your highness?”

“What of Merlin?”

Again, Geoffrey vacillated for a moment, as if arranging his thoughts in a manner crafted to be most pleasing to the ear of a monarch. “He is suited to the position as well. He was Gaius’s apprentice for eleven years, and he too is accomplished at the craft.”

“Is he?” Not that Arthur necessarily doubted, but he himself had seen little of Merlin’s skills in practice, other than treatment of battlefield wounds.

“I realize that your highness has not had the benefit of knowing Merlin’s work,” Geoffrey said, “as he tends to limit his practice to his free time. However, many speak well of his talents. I myself have found uncommon relief in his treatments, and I am told that amongst certain of the less fortunate, he is preferred even to Gaius.”

Sometimes, Arthur wondered just how much he missed, being king. “What do you mean?”

“Well.” Geoffrey shifted, uncomfortable. “Certainly your highness is aware that certain…ladies’ complaints can be…delicate matters to handle.”

Arthur tried not to let his eyebrows climb into his hairline, but he failed.

“He is said to have a professional and compassionate manner when needs exceed the skills of the midwives, and that he remains above judgement of the ladies for the manner in which they come by their troubles. Apparently, he also has a…shall I say…delicate touch? Which is often…much appreciated…in certain, erm…delicate matters?”

Arthur blinked. “Right. I think you’ve explained well enough.” He thought, rather ridiculously and shamefully red-faced, of the woman Elise who apparently refused to be handled by anyone but Merlin.

Geoffrey sighed in relief. “Thank you, sire.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Um.”

“He is also quite generous of his time in the lower town.”

“Yes, so I’ve noticed.” Arthur shook his head to dispel the lingering image of Merlin doing physician-ly things with various doe-eyed women. “He serves the poor as Gaius did.”

“Yes, sire. He has a reputation for his effectiveness, and also for his good deeds. He is known to provide food and coin to those of his patients whose sickness is from lack of nourishment.” Geoffrey paused. “And he juggles for the children.”

Arthur shook his head and let out a huff of laughter. “Of course he does.” Then he frowned. “How much of his wages does he give away like this?”

At the sharpness in Arthur’s tone, Geoffrey frowned and tried to play it off as insignificant. “I am sure it is not so much, sire. As I understand, much of it is winnings at gambling dice against the knights.”

A significant amount, then. Arthur thought again of the delicate curl of Merlin’s hands on the pillow in front of his face, and gave an exasperated sigh at the thought of all of the coin he had lost to him over the dice table in the past year. It was probably the same as the juggling – magical cheat. Arthur wanted to be angry, or at least indignant, but it wouldn’t come. “Sometimes, Sir Geoffrey, it occurs to me that my manservant puts me to some shame.”

“Perhaps, he does that to many of us,” Geoffrey offered. “He is a generous lad.”

“Yes,” Arthur muttered, his fingers picking at his lip. “He is.” Arthur took a breath and sat up, dismissing that for later contemplation. At least now he better understood why Merlin wouldn’t invest in much of anything for himself, including proper attire for winter. “The, um….further research that I requested of you. Were you able to find what I asked for?”

Geoffrey glanced down briefly. “I regret, sire, that the records likely did not survive. I am unable to locate any secondary sources either, though I have not yet given up.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Why would genealogical records have been purged?”

Geoffrey started to answer, then shook his head and let the breath go again before saying, “Some, I was ordered to destroy. Your father wished certain things to be forgotten. Others, however… I admit that I am responsible for their loss.”

“How?” Arthur demanded. “Was there a fire, water damage…?”

“No, sire.” Geoffrey cleared his throat and looked at the many tomes covering Arthur’s desk. “A certain quantity of books and scrolls were deemed illicit, having to do with magic. In order to save those, I needed to turn over an equal quantity of other, less valuable material.”

Arthur blinked and tilted his head first at Geoffrey, then at the various records he had been struggling through of late. After a moment, he nodded. “The genealogies and family histories of extinct noble houses would not be missed.”

“I am sorry,” Geoffrey breathed, and he seemed sincere in a way that he rarely was. Arthur had always found him cold and detached for the most part, on account of a nonexistent daft streak, apparently. “There was little time to find a way – ”

Arthur held up his hand and shook his head. “No, you did the right thing. The magical texts were more important to Camelot’s safety than lists of my father’s dead.” It was irreplaceable knowledge, though, just the same.

“If I may, sire, there is one thing that may shed some light,” Geoffrey offered. “It is something Gaius said to me, not two moons past. It jogged a memory that my lord may find of interest.”

Arthur motioned for him to go on, ignoring the covert glances that Geoffrey kept stealing at his parchments.

Geoffrey bowed his head again and shifted some more, the scrape of worn old bones on a hard chair. “Has my lord ever heard the name Myrddin Wyllt?”

Arthur shook his head over a familiar niggling in the back of his mind. “I don’t think so.”

“Mmm. There are, indeed, few now who know of him. But I thought I would ask.”

Arthur made an impatient gesture.

“Yes,” Geoffrey agreed, and a shadow of the vague old man reappeared for a moment. “He was a sorcerer and a seer. And rumored to be the bastard son of Uther’s brother, Aurelius.”

Arthur blinked. “What?”

Geoffrey pressed his lips together and looked down. “The child had no legitimate claim to the throne, if that is your concern.”

“No, it’s…” Arthur shook his head, and forced himself to keep his eyes open. Sorcerer, he had said. “Was he executed?”

“Yes, sire.” Geoffrey’s voice came sure but soft, as if to quiet the blow. “You were young, barely out of toddler’s clothes. I doubt you would recall.”

Arthur blinked several times, his lungs threatening to throw his respiration out of rhythm. “I was present,” he guessed.

“You were a child,” Geoffrey replied, but it was a confirmation just the same. “Myrddin was known for his madness. It is said that the seeing stones stole his wits, or that visions of a terrible future drove him from them.”

There was a burning, nauseous feeling churning in Arthur’s gut. He shook his head and curled his hands into fists. “What has any of this to do with Merlin?”

“Their names, sire.” Geoffrey sounded apologetic for all that he had just put at Arthur’s feet, but his voice remained steady and calm, as if unburdening himself of this tale had finally put something to rest for him as well. “Myrddin in the Cornish tongue is Merlin in ours.”

Arthur breathed deep and looked up.

“Myrddin had a sister. I do not recall her name, but he called to her at his execution, between his ravings at your father. He apologized to her, for the life she would never have. He then claimed that Uther would destroy the balance of the world, and laid your mother’s death at his feet for taking that which was not his to have.”

“What do you mean – what did he take?”

Geoffrey grimaced. “You, sire. He insisted that you were Uther’s to sire, but not to raise – that he would poison you and bring Camelot to ruin by it. He said that you were payment owed to magic. To the old religion.”

Arthur tipped his head up sharply, remembering odd words spoken to him by an old mother in a cave, so many months and a year ago. Much was changed that should not have been. Many futures which should have been set, were destroyed. You were not meant to learn his ways. You were not meant to have love for him, or to know him as a father. You are poisoned by your love of him…

“It was nonsense. Again, sire, Myrddin was known for bouts of madness ever since the Battle of Armterid, many years prior to Uther’s ascension.”

“Geoffrey…” Arthur shifted and clasped his hands together. “I must ask. My birth… Was it magic that begot me?”

“I truly do not know,” Geoffrey told him kindly. “There were rumors, of course. But I was not part of your father’s inner circle, so I cannot confirm that. If it is true that you were conceived with the assistance of magic, then some things that happened in those times would make more sense. Your father’s rage at Ygraine’s death, certainly. The inability of healers to stop her bleeding and save her. Uther’s turning on magic and the old religion.”

“The purge?”

Geoffrey bowed his head. “The purge,” he agreed.

Arthur sighed long and deep, resigned to likely never knowing now for certain. “Go on, Geoffrey. Tell me the rest.”

“Of course, sire. Myrddin, eh…”

“He raved against my father,” Arthur reminded him.

“Ah, yes. He claimed that the crystals in his cave showed him what he must do – that you must not be raised in Camelot, or to be a king. He called you by prophetic names – Once and Future, or something like that.”

Arthur gave a start, and made haste to cover his discomfiture under the guise of rearranging his longcoat. Once and Future King. He had heard that several times now.

“He claimed that your destiny was tied to him, and that you must be given over to be raised by others who would not corrupt you, and to be completely unknown to your own father, that if you should pass in the street, he should not recognize you,” Geoffrey continued, oblivious. “His obsession with you was…disturbing. And magic of the sort that he possessed, wielded by a madman, is something that even I shudder to contemplate. I regret to say that his death was likely a mercy, in the end, to all of us. Especially to him. That was no way for a man to live.”

Arthur ruminated on the creases of his knuckles. “You don’t speak as if you’re repeating tales, Sir Geoffrey. You knew Myrddin.”

“I would not say that,” Geoffrey denied. “Not exactly. I met him once, here in Camelot, and I heard him around the lower town quite often. Gaius knew him far better, but they were not close either – Myrddin was too erratic. A wild man of the wood.”

“And solely on the basis of a similar name, you assume that this Myrddin Wyllt is somehow connected to Merlin? That’s thin, Sir Geoffrey.”

“Perhaps,” Geoffrey allowed. “But the name is not a common one, and those of the region who would know it would never name a child for the mad prophet of Caermarthon.” He used the common name of the place that time, as if it were a familiar epithet. “It would be considered bad luck, sire.”

Arthur shook his head and leaned back in his chair to pick at his lip, elbow resting loose on the chair arm. “Is there anything definitive linking this man to any of us?”

“Not directly,” Geoffrey admitted. “There is no real proof but the names and coincidence. However, the conversation that I had with Gaius did draw some parallels. That is why I bring it up.”

Arthur gestured him on, though it seemed that perhaps Geoffrey was approaching his dodderage after all.

“I believe it was at the feast of…hmmm… Mabon, possibly.” At Arthur’s impatient look, he waved his hands as if to dispel the fog of his words from the air. “In any case, Gaius mentioned his brother Bleise, who was killed in the last battles that drove Vortigern’s sons and their armies from our lands. We were both somewhat in our cups, so I admit that my memory is rather fuzzy. He spoke at one point of his brother’s wife as the sister of a mad sorcerer, and said that he was glad to have sent their daughter away – his niece – to spare her the sight of all that followed in the purge. Away to Essetir, where she might be safe.”

“Hunith.” Arthur barely even breathed the name.

“There is no way to be certain, sire; Gaius did not name her to me.”

“There is, though. Merlin said once that Gaius was kin. He assumed Gaius was Hunith’s uncle.”

“Such familiarities do not require blood ties,” Geoffrey pointed out. “Uncle could just as easily be a title of respect for a close friend of the family.”

“Perhaps,” Arthur allowed, but it felt true. “What else is known of him? Wyllt?”

Geoffrey moved his shoulders in something like a shrug. “Very little. He may be the same man referred to by old King Vortigern as Merlinus Ambrosius, who commanded the red and white dragons to fight in the cavern beneath his unfinished keep, and then brought its half-built walls down one final time to bury them. But I could not say for sure.”

Dragonlord, Arthur thought. On both sides, apparently. Though it would not have been his mother’s blood that passed it to Merlin. “Ambrosius,” he mused.

“Yes. Perhaps in reference to Aurelius. Your uncle was much older than your father, of Vortigern’s generation. Myrddin would not have been much younger than Uther himself, you see. And most men involved in those times and events are long since turned to dust.”

Arthur shook his head. “My father had his own nephew burned at the stake.”

Geoffrey licked his lips. “You must understand, sire. There was still fear at that time of usurpation, and the peace was strained. To have Aurelius’s son, acknowledged or not, challenging the new king’s conduct was far more than simple treason.” He seemed uncomfortable with this conversation, and Arthur could well understand why. In point of fact, any son of Aurelius, bastard or not, even begotten on a commoner, may have had a stronger claim to the throne than Uther. Than Arthur.

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, frowning at the backs of his hands where he set them on the desk. “And if this is true, if Myrddin is who you say, then my father was Merlin’s great-great uncle. Dear gods.” Arthur pressed his thumb and forefinger hard alongside the bridge of his nose.

“Possibly. That assumes that Myrddin’s sister was a full-blooded sister, and not half, as I believe is far more likely. I don’t believe that she was Aurelius’ daughter – Gaius would have left some indication if that were true, as it would have meant an alternate bloodline existed with claims to the crown. Given your status as sole and only heir, and the inherent danger of your position as both prince and knight, it would have mattered that other heirs of Uther’s father’s bloodline existed, should you be killed at some point. It is far more likely that they shared a mother, and no more.”

“Myrddin himself fathered no children?” Arthur asked.

“Certainly not, sire. He was a hermit and followed the old religion’s ways concerning the gift of prophecy. He would have taken no woman, wife or otherwise.”

“A small mercy, that.” There was nothing to be done anymore about knowledge that had been lost, and Arthur regretfully dismissed it with a deep exhalation. He had long since resigned himself to the dichotomy of his father – the man Arthur loved, still, even after all he had learned, and the man who killed children in cold blood simply for being born with a skill he didn’t like. To learn that his madness extended to his own family was far less a shock than it should have been. “Balinor, then. What can you tell me of him?”

“He was well respected, in his time,” Geoffrey replied. “And he was one of the few able to command the Great Dragon. His lands laid northwest of here, in the mountains, and was once home to many dragons, and to many clutches of eggs which may still be hidden there in the caverns and vales. He was an ally to your father and Camelot for many years during the struggle against Vortigern and the early waves of Saxons. That, of course, soured with the purge, and the eradication of the dragons. Your majesty already knows, of course, of the imprisonment of the Great Dragon, and Balinor’s flight from these lands. I am afraid that of his life and deeds, there is little left in the records of that either. He was a skilled fighter, and if not for his unique status, may have qualified to be a knight. He was not known to have married or fathered children, but of course, we do know of his son now.”

Arthur bit his lip. “You can show me on a map which lands he once held?”

“Of course. It is here.” Geoffrey reached for one of the documents folded and sealed with wax and a crest that Arthur did not recognize. “The lands were awarded him by King Budick of Cornwall, and your father allowed the claim to remain when he won the crown.”

Arthur took a breath and nodded. “I would like this formalized for court as soon as possible. How long would that take?”

For a moment, Geoffrey appeared puzzled. “The land claim, sire?”

“The title documents, yes. When can it be finished?”

Geoffrey didn’t answer right away, but instead peered carefully at Arthur for a longer time than was proper for a subject to examine his monarch. “Sire…with respect. Surely you understand the breadth of what this will mean, should you announce it at court.”

“I understand fully, Sir Geoffrey.” Arthur blinked back at him, nonplussed. “Do you wish to argue against it?”

“No,” Geoffrey breathed. “It will take several days, however. I must confirm that the claim is not taken or broken apart, and I do have some records still to check that may yield further information.” He appeared paler than he had a moment ago, and though he had gone still in his chair, something about him seemed more animated – something, perhaps, in the outline of his body set against the rest of the room, or in the silhouette of his features shadowed by the firelight at his back. “You will face opposition, restoring a dragonlord’s son to the noble class.”

“That is not all that I am doing. Merlin is, himself, a dragonlord.”

Geoffrey stared at him for a long moment, and then cast a harried look at the door separating them from the rest of the castle. “The sorcerer,” he breathed in realization. He focused sharply back on Arthur, the mask of the old man gone. “You are going to lift the ban on magic, and restore a sorcerer to the noble class – to the court and council of Camelot.”

“Surely, you had an inkling?” Arthur prodded. “After all of these strange reading requests?”

“Yes, but I never thought… It was an abstract, sire. I assumed that you would allow for some necessary defensive magic, perhaps. Or that you wished to better understand your sister, or extend a peace offering to the Druids. But you do not propose to simply make use of some small magic. You propose to undo your father’s laws completely.”

“Do you think Merlin undeserving of that?”

This snapped Geoffrey out of his dazed disbelief. “With respect, sire, you cannot contemplate enacting something of this magnitude for the sake of one man, no matter what he has done for Camelot.”

Arthur gave him a sour look. “That actually sounds like something Merlin might say.”

“Then he is not as daft as he pretends,” Geoffrey replied. “The boy has lived under direct threat of these laws for over a decade, and never once, to my knowledge, advocated their undoing.”

“He’s done the opposite, actually,” Arthur confirmed, his mind turning to Mordred and the disir. There can be no place for magic in Camelot, said the sorcerer sat at the right hand of the king. “Though I still have no idea why.”

“Don’t you, sire?” Geoffrey studied him carefully. “He is your servant, and his loyalty to you is, quite frankly, uncommon. He would never advocate something so dangerous.”

“Then you do oppose what I am considering.”

Geoffrey thought about that for a moment, and then to Arthur’s surprise, shook his head. “No. But it has been…a long time. Many of your people, nobles and commoners alike, have never known the world you propose to foist on them. It will cause unrest. It may even threaten your hold on the crown if anyone perceives this as coerced in any way, as by an enchantment or even just affection for one you favor.”

“I don’t expect it to be easy for them to accept,” Arthur acknowledged. But Merlin deserved to be recognized for all that he had done for Camelot, and Arthur could not do that without also recognizing what he was. Of course, it helped that everyone seemed to like Merlin; Arthur could think of no better face to put forward to show the goodness of magic. “But I believe that it is the right path.”

Geoffrey’s face softened. “I beg you to consider the ramifications in finer detail. You propose to reveal your servant as a sorcerer. Any anger or distrust of your decision will fall on him. You may very well place his life in considerable danger, no matter your good intentions.”

A flash of anger mobilized Arthur to sit forward, but he refrained from striking the desktop as he wanted to do. “My kingdom is already in a state of unrest – my father saw to that. There is fear on every face when I so much as glance at the scaffold. The accusation of sorcery is used for petty revenge or to put brutal ends to neighbors’ disputes. And that is to say nothing of the fact that we make enemies of peoples of magic simply by existing – of people who don’t have to be our enemies! What else would you have me do? This cannot continue – it will tear Camelot apart, as my sister nearly did. And for what? To protect a persecution that is in direct opposition to the oath I swore when you placed the crown on my head?”

“I am not disagreeing with you,” Geoffrey placated. “I am only advising caution.” He tipped his head away toward the closed door beyond which the rest of the castle was bedding down to sleep. “You care for him, sire. It is obvious to anyone with eyes to look. For his sake, you must be practical. You are not the one who will bear the brunt of the consequences if events go ill. And if he is indeed the sorcerer to whom we owe our many reprieves, ruining his anonymity and safety would be a poor repayment for his services.”

The calm delivery doused Arthur’s anger, and he subsided back into his chair, his spine curving into an unkingly slouch. “I do know that, Sir Geoffrey.”

“Then I only ask that you exercise care and patience. And regardless of my hesitance, be assured that you have my full support.” He gestured at his rather portly and arthritic figure, his expression wry. “Such as it is.”

Arthur chuckled softly, but his words were sincere and his mind troubled when he said, “Thank you, Sir Geoffrey. I will think on what you have said.”

* * *

It was rather late by the time Arthur finished touring the castle, checking in with the knights on duty and making a surprise inspection of the garrisons on the south wall. Not that they really needed it, any of them; security was much better under Arthur’s reign than his father’s and he hadn’t had cause for concern in…well, about a year, actually. He had tightened things up quite a bit after Guinevere’s death, too little too late. He just couldn’t sleep after spending the entire day in bed, and yet he didn’t have a mind for reading reports either. His thoughts remained slightly scattered after speaking with Geoffrey, and he found himself trying desperately to remember attending the execution of his cousin at his father’s hand. It was not pleasant, this effort. He needed a distraction – hard to come by in a sleeping citadel.

Arthur’s let his feet lead him where they would, and unsurprisingly, he found himself contemplating the door of the infirmary well into the third watch. The torches guttered in the breeze blowing in from the practice fields even though the doors remained closed and barred at this hour. He imagined he could hear Gaius, commenting offhand to Arthur’s back that Merlin might die for him some day. It seemed ironic that of all the people who Gaius might choose to haunt, he didn’t choose his all-but-son.

With nowhere else to go this late, and nothing better to do, Arthur knocked and cracked open the door to see if Merlin were still awake. The light inside burned low, but he could still make out the line of Merlin’s back where he sat beside the sick cot. He looked up at the creak of the door and then murmured something to the woman sat on the other side of the cot. Arthur watched him run a comforting hand over the woman’s shoulder as she nodded, and then Merlin extricated himself from the scene to see what Arthur needed. It was only as he moved away that Arthur saw the figure on the cot, covered in blankets, still except for a subtle undulation of the chest as she breathed.

“Sire?” Merlin blocked most of the room with his body, his voice low in deference to his patient.

Arthur nodded past Merlin’s shoulder. “Is that Elise?”

Merlin glanced back too, briefly, and then faced Arthur again with his head down. “And her mother.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

Merlin looked up, past Arthur’s ear, his bottom lip caught for a moment in his teeth. His tongue flickered out to sooth and wet the place he’d bitten, and then he shook his head and tried to motion Arthur out into the hall.

Arthur slipped inside instead, forcing Merlin back a step, and leaned against the door to close it. He watched the woman sat beside the cot start to rise, her face pale and splotchy, and motioned her to remain seated. She ducked her head as she sank back and focused on the woman in the cot instead, face averted to offer a veneer of privacy to the king.

“Arthur – “

“What’s wrong with her?” Arthur repeated, ignoring the subtle rebuke in Merlin’s tone.

Merlin made a frustrated noise and glanced back again. Then he crowded in closer to Arthur and said, “She got with child and tried to expel it herself, with some herb mixture she bought in the street. And now she’s hemorrhaged and – ” He twitched his shoulders, as Arthur should know the rest.

Arthur shook his head. “And?” he demanded obnoxiously.

Merlin blinked and puffed out a scornful breath. “And she’s dying,” he hissed. He immediately looked over his shoulder, his posture screaming of guilt for saying it like that in front of the mother. When he turned back to Arthur, he was irritated and more upset than before. “Look, this is likely the last night she will ever spend with her daughter. Can you just be a decent human being for once and leave?”

Arthur choked down his first reaction, which was to cuff Merlin upside the head and dress him down for his insolence. Because he was right – having the king barge in and demand to be let into a woman’s private affairs while her daughter died between them was somewhat inconsiderate. “Can’t you do something for her?”

“No,” Merlin moaned quietly, as if willing Arthur to feel some kind of empathy he wasn’t capable of. “If she’d taken to bed when the bleeding started, maybe, but she didn’t want anyone to know, and she kept working until – ” He waggled a hand to indicate the scene behind him.

Arthur shook his head. “But there must be something.”

“There’s nothing, sire. She’s dying. I can’t stop the bleeding; it’s too heavy, and too deep inside.”

“No.” Arthur didn’t even know this girl, but he couldn’t accept that she would die for something so – so inconsequential. Or, however inconsequential ending the quickening of the womb could be, he didn’t know. “There must be something you can do, Merlin.”

Merlin bared his teeth, preparatory no doubt to telling Arthur off, and then the breath he’d worked up huffed out through his teeth as it occurred to him what Arthur was asking. He straightened, his face going slack, and blinked at Arthur with wide eyes as he breathed, “I can’t.”

“Surely there’s something you can try,” Arthur insisted. He spoke over the way Merlin had started shaking his head with increasing vehemence. “Anything.”

“I can’t do that. Arthur, no.” His voice had grown thick with an emotion that Arthur didn’t understand. “Too many things could go wrong, I might just make it worse – ”

“How much worse could it get,” Arthur demanded. “She’s dying. There’s nothing more to lose, and if there’s even a chance – ”

“Please.”

Arthur broke off and looked up, startled to find Elise’s mother standing close behind Merlin.

“Please,” she said again, trembling and desperate. “If there’s something you can do…”

Merlin just kept shaking his head, and now he raised his hands between himself and Arthur as if to keep him back. “No. That’s not an option.”

Arthur stepped forward when he stepped back. “It is an option. Merlin, I’ve seen what you can do.”

“It won’t work!” Merlin snapped.

“Like it didn’t work on my father?”

Merlin may have stopped breathing, he went so still so suddenly.

It was the mother who spoke first into the silence, strong with a mother’s ferocity in her grief. “I will do anything,” she vowed, looking back and forth between them. “Anything, I am begging you. If there is even the slightest chance of it helping, please. Please. She’s all I have.”

Merlin’s eyes were like saucers in his head, and Arthur forced himself to hold that gaze and stay calm for it. Finally, Merlin breathed, “It’s not permitted.”

“I am permitting it,” Arthur replied, steady.

Merlin started to say something, stopped, and tried desperately to maintain his composure even as his erratic breathing betrayed him. “I don’t have any skill in that. I could kill her.”

Arthur nodded, his sinuses going tight and stuffy because he knew Merlin was a sorcerer, but Merlin didn’t know that Arthur was aware of which one. “She’s already dying, Dragoon.” He watched Merlin’s chest stutter as he stepped back, catching his bottom lip hard in his teeth as his face went crumply with denial. “There isn’t any more harm you could do.”

“You – ” Merlin’s mouth worked over nothing but fitful breaths and his own disbelief, or whatever else it was that made his eyes go glassy and his hands shake. “You…no.”

Arthur advanced on him quickly, before he could back any further away, and grabbed at his biceps to hold him still. Merlin put up his arms too late to block, his fingers dangling useless between their bodies, curled like the legs of dead insects “You have the knowledge, and she is dying. You have to try. I am telling you – your king is telling you – to try. Isn’t this what magic is for? Hm? If not this, then what?”

Beside them, Elise’s mother was doing an admirable job of keeping her peace, but her expression and the thin line of her mouth spoke volumes. Arthur nodded to her, and she pressed a handkerchief hard into her mouth to stifle herself, as if hope were the most painful thing she could have been given. And maybe it was. Hope was treacherous, after all. As she stepped back, Arthur looked again to Merlin, only to find him having a small panic in Arthur’s face. “Merlin?”

Merlin breathed on him, too fast and hard, air sour from too many hours of stress, and nodded. It looked more like he was flapping his head, really, but good enough. Arthur let him go and moved away to give him space to collect himself. Merlin just stood there for a beat too long, like a deer caught in the woods waiting for the bolt to hit before it ran. Then he swiveled one way, stopped himself, and spun away in the other direction to paw through the shelves of herbs and remedies. Arthur left him to it.

Arthur moved over to the cot and lowered himself to the stool that Merlin had vacated. The girl, Elise…she was so young. Too young, surely, to be got with child. “How did this happen…” He gave the mother an expectant look.

“Letha, sire.”

Arthur smiled, small and reassuring, at Elise’s mother. “How did this happen, Letha?”

“We were short of coin,” she admitted. “I didn’t know she was doing it. She told me she was selling trinkets she made from scraps and bits of stone she found on the river, but she – ” Letha broke off as if she were physically incapable of saying what her daughter had actually been doing. “We didn’t need the coin that bad. She should never – If it came to that, it should have been me, not her.” She shook her head, her composure dissolving into tears and a single, sharp hiccup like bile. “Never her,” she whispered. Spindly fingers reached out and smoothed Elise’s hair back, the loving touch of a mother tucking stray hairs away from the face of her beautiful child.

Arthur blinked. He had no words, only the image of this…child…pale and unmoving on the cot before him, translucent like a corpse even while the breath still moved in her. How did this happen? How could this happen in his city? “This is not right,” he grated.

Letha glanced up, her expression nearly as dead as her daughter. “No,” she agreed. “And yet it happens every day.”

“Alright,” Merlin broke in, startling them both with his anxious jittering as he appeared at the head of the cot. He had a small sheaf of evergreen herbs and sage in one hand, and he looked about ready to vomit. I hope, Dragoon had told him, stood over the dying body of Arthur’s father, one day you will see me in a different light. Arthur couldn’t see the slightest bit of that crazy old man in Merlin now, but years had passed since then, and even Arthur could see the erosion of the confidence that Merlin had once worn with his youth. He gave Arthur a wobbly smile full of teeth and terror.

Arthur stood, but instead of moving away, he came up close and framed Merlin’s face in his hands. Merlin went still, shocked into immobility, and his wild eyes focused with startling precision on Arthur’s face. “This girl is not my father. What happened that day has no bearing on this. You can save her. I want to see you save her.”

Merlin’s eyes turned glassy but he nodded and took a fortifying breath before Arthur let him go. Still, he warned, “It might not work,” and looked up at Letha. “I might…”

Letha nodded to spare him the need to say it. “I know the risks.” She glanced sidelong at Arthur as well, and then back to her daughter. “But I will pay any price for the chance of her life.” Her eyes found Arthur’s again. “I will burn for it if I must.”

“No one will be burnt for this,” Arthur promised. “Those days are over. I made a promise.” He shifted his gaze to Merlin, who avoided it.

Merlin stood still at the head of the cot for several moments, apparently to gather his courage. He wasn’t playing Dragoon, after all. He was just Merlin, deliberately doing magic in front of the king he still didn’t entirely trust not to hurt him for it. Arthur considered how decades of living in fear could warp someone so much that promises and honor meant nothing when faced with the secret he guarded literally with his life. Merlin was so trusting, Arthur thought. He truly was. About everything but this. Magic.

The candles guttered in a draft and Merlin reset his feet, still breathing like he might be strangled in a moment. Finally, he moved around to the side of the cot and knelt down with the bundle of evergreen and sage held out over Elise’s stomach with both hands. He licked his lips and exhaled harsh through his nose as the herbs began smoking. There was a terrible moment, as the scent wafted to Arthur’s nostrils where he stood back from the cot, where his eyes swam and the royal chambers seemed to shimmer before him. His father in bed, ashen already and covered in the scent of a slow death. And Dragoon looking at him with such sadness and regret, all but begging Arthur to see the goodness that magic could be before he cast his spell and killed the king.

Arthur shook himself free of the vision and the false picture it gave of the sorcerer in front of him. Merlin still looked terrified, but he was also determined, waving his smoking branch over the girl and concentrating on her while Letha backed away as if she had only just realized what would happen. Or perhaps seeing it was something entirely separate from its contemplation beforehand. Arthur had not been prepared for the immediacy of the magic he had seen performed on his father, he knew that. He had never in his life been more afraid of what he had sought out and allowed to happen. The sensation of it was like knives to the stomach, piercing and jarring, wrenching his view of the world just a few inches to one side at the realization of it. Like falling from the ramparts and knowing the ground would come soon.

“Efencume ætgædre.”

Arthur’s breath caught briefly in his lungs at the incantation, and he forced his hands to unclench again at his sides.

“Eala gastas cræftige: gestricie pis lic forod.” Merlin’s eyes flared gold for a moment, and then he gasped and dropped the herbs as they disintegrated into a sudden fall of ash over Elise’s abdomen.

No one moved at first, and then Merlin leaned forward to check for a heartbeat. He blinked a few times, rapid and anxious, then put his hands over her abdomen and repeated, “Efencume ætgædre, eala gastas cræftige: gestricie pis lic forod.”

Arthur stepped forward, his stomach in his boots.

“Efencume ætgædre, eala gastas cræftige: gestricie pis lic forod!” Merlin’s eyes glowed again, a flash of amber unearthly in the dim candlelight, and nothing happened.

Oh gods. Arthur had known that it might not work, that it might be a repeat of his father’s demise, but it had never occurred to him that nothing might happen. And that was worse, like Guinevere all over again – he knew the look on Merlin’s face, sick with desperation.

“Þurhhæle dolgbenn.” The set of Merlin’s mouth turned stubborn, a thing born of waning hope and sorrow. “Licsar ge staðol nu! Come on.”

Arthur looked to Letha, who had her eyes closed and her mouth hidden in a scrap of cloth. Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes but she made no move to speak.

Merlin scrambled closer on his knees and felt along Elise’s stomach, then a bit lower, where the womb sits. He mumbled something more with a flutter of gold in his eyes and seemed to be looking through her skin. “Ichthe thor heale, thænu licsar.”

He should never have pushed Merlin into this. “Merlin.”

“Þurhhæle licsar min!” Merlin shouted it that time, and Arthur jumped at the sensation more than the sight of it, like the sound of seared meat. Merlin hissed and snatched his hands back as if burnt, and Elise… Oh. Elise arched up and gasped, her eyes flying open in shock.

“Lisey?” Letha scrambled forward and over her daughter’s body.

Elise sat up, her chest heaving, and looked at Merlin in confusion before noticing her mother. “Mumma.”

The obvious place to look was at Letha grasping onto her daughter fierce as if to protect her from harm through sheer force of her embrace, but Arthur was looking at Merlin where he had flung himself back, small against the wall and covering his mouth to hold in whatever reaction threatened to come out.

“Don’t you ever do that again!” Letha was crying. “Do you hear me, child? The coin is not worth your life – I’d eat sawdust before I’d sell you for bread. You’re precious!”

Arthur knelt down in the space between the cot and the wall to pry Merlin’s hand from his face. It went stiffly and Merlin made a guttural noise deep in his chest as Arthur pulled at him. As if it hurt to save a life. As if it were tearing him apart to see what he’d done. “It’s alright. You did good.”

“Oh, gods.” Merlin slid across the stone floor in a heap as Arthur pulled, shaking, his breath like tattered flags of war shredded in a brutal wind. “Oh gods. Oh gods.”

Arthur managed to pull him far enough out that he could get one hand on the back of Merlin’s neck and push it down before he hyperventilated and passed out. “Breathe, Merlin. It’s over now.”

Merlin twisted briefly in protest and then let himself be repositioned to sag against Arthur’s chest, his every exhalation tinged with the slightest bit of sound like a distant hum. His fingers came up to dig into Arthur’s arm, nails like the prongs of an anchor gouged into the seabed. “I did it.” Merlin laughed suddenly, his ribcage a stuttering in hysterical spasms under Arthur’s hand.

In spite of himself, Arthur laughed too, only then realizing that his cheeks were wet and his nose stuffed, and he was crying like a bloody girl. “You did it,” he agreed, his voice pitched higher than usual, like a giggle.

The tense lines of Merlin’s limbs uncoiled as he laughed, breathless and stupid, and Arthur couldn’t help how infectious it was; he found himself gripping onto Merlin like a boy giggling at children’s play, just…happy. There was a weight gone from his shoulders that he hadn’t even realized he carried, as if he needed to see this – needed to know that his belief in the possible good uses of magic were not a delusion. And maybe Merlin had needed to see that too, really. Arthur suspected that most of the magic he had done in his life consisted of violence and killing, albeit in Arthur’s name or defense. That kind of thing could exact a terrible toll from a man, to never see the good in his own works.

Arthur looked up from the mop of Merlin’s hair and the sloppy mess of giggling sorcerer in his arms to find Letha smiling at them, her face warm and genuine in her gratitude. “Thank you, my king.”

It shouldn’t have made his throat burn to be called that, rather than just sire, but the conviction of it could have wounded him. He nodded, unable to say anything that wouldn’t come out as gibberish. He patted Merlin upside the head though to make it clear who she should be thanking, and then he grinned when Merlin took a swat at him for it. Because Merlin had that look on his face again that Arthur hadn’t seen in ages – the one with the smile that reached his eyes.

***

TBC

Notes:

Apologies for the long wait! It was a longer couple of chapters, and I had to redo them like seven times... Picky writer is picky, lol.

Chapter 5

“Have you always slept on the floor?” Arthur stared at the thatched ceiling of the little hut in Ealdor, aware of the dirt beneath his back, cold and lumpy, and damp even through the cushioning of cloak and bedroll. This place could barely be classified as a house; it was more akin to the stables in Camelot, fit for horses and pigs, maybe dogs. But not people. Even the poor in Camelot lived in better places than this.

“Yeah. The bed I’ve got in Camelot’s a luxury by comparison.”

Perhaps he needed to keep Merlin’s origins in mind more often. If this was where he’d been raised, then his complete lack of manners or social skills made much more sense. It was a miracle he was functional at court at all, really. But it did beg the question: where on earth had he gained an education, growing up here? He was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid; Gaius wouldn’t keep a useless apprentice, family or no. “It must have been hard.”

“Mm. It’s like rock.”

Oh, for god’s sake. “I didn’t mean the ground,” Arthur bit out. Seriously, the boy must suffer some mental affliction. Poverty alone could not account for the depth of his obliviousness. “I meant, for you – it must’ve been difficult.”

“Mm, not really. I didn’t know any different.”

Or perhaps it wasn’t obliviousness? Maybe Merlin’s reply, that yes the ground was hard, was the normal one for a peasant to make? After all, as he said, he’d known no differently. If it was just how he lived, how he’d always lived, why would he consider it difficult? It was only Arthur who wasn’t accustomed to this kind of place.

“Life’s simple out here,” Merlin continued. Arthur could detect something wistful in his voice, but it wasn’t the longing that other men held for their homes or homelands, or their lost youth. It was yearning for something he’d never had, which made no sense, seeing as Merlin did have that, and could have kept it if he’d wanted to. “You eat what you grow and everyone pitches in together. As long as you’ve got food on the table and a roof over your head, you’re happy.”

The whole idea of that – that this life, calling a livestock hut your home and being happy about it – Arthur couldn’t comprehend not wanting something better. Clean floors, at least. A mattress. Meat for breakfast. A few dogs barked outside in the darkness and Arthur tried not to let his disgust come out in his voice. “Sounds…” He thought about it for a moment, how to finish that. Boring, awful, cold, dirty…hard… “…nice.”

“You’d hate it.” There was a wry sort of mirth in Merlin’s voice.

“No doubt,” Arthur agreed, because yes, he would. But perhaps it wasn’t the accommodations that mattered. Sometimes, he longed for simplicity, to be free of the city and the crown in a way that hunting trips alone could not accomplish. There was, he admitted silently, a certain allure to living in peace like this where the only care was to tend your fields and shore up your home for the winter, defend your harvest and perhaps share your hearth with someone special. No wars, no politics, no fevered crusades against people who didn’t seem evil. No father to fail to please at every turn. Perhaps this kind of life wasn’t all that difficult at all. “Why’d you leave?”

A weariness invaded the small space where they two of them lay toe to head. “Things just…changed.”

“How?” It surprised him to realize that he actually wanted to know. Merlin didn’t reply, though, and it seemed he didn’t intend to, so Arthur jabbed his toes in the general direction of Merlin’s nostrils. “Come on, stop pretending to be interesting.” Merlin cringed away and shoved at his foot. Arthur obliged and retreated back to his side of the unspoken line between them in the cramped space. “Tell me.”

Merlin snorted with soft laughter and Arthur wondered, not for the first time, if this were one of those things that others referred to as the ridiculous antics of young boys. Because he wasn’t sure; he’d never really played like this, or teased. He didn’t have a…a William when he was growing up, the way Merlin apparently had.

But when Merlin replied, there was something in his tone that sounded sad, and maybe a little hurt. “I just didn’t fit in anymore. I wanted to find somewhere that I did.”

It sounded like the truth, but Arthur also knew that coming to Camelot had been Merlin’s mother’s doing. She had sent him. Arthur wondered if Merlin would have left Ealdor of his own volition, had she not done so, and if he had, would it still have been Camelot he came to? Arthur wasn’t quite naïve or arrogant enough to deny that if Merlin had not come when he did, Arthur would have died by now, either by daggers or by poison. So it mattered, why he came. Why he left. Why he stayed, even. Arthur let himself start to smile, because that last one, he thought he might be able to guess at. “Had any luck?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

It was said with such finality – the edges of the words sharp and brittle – that Arthur had to squash the urge to demand what that meant, or worse, reassure him that he did fit in, at Camelot, with Arthur. He definitely couldn’t admit that Merlin’s response made his stomach burn hollow for a moment with let-down. Because that would be stupid, and Arthur was a prince. Who was Merlin, anyway? Arthur shifted, uncomfortable, and refused to identify any of what he felt as insult or hurt. He didn’t care if Merlin was happy in Camelot. Why would he? “We’ll start training the men tomorrow.” He squirmed his way over onto his side, facing away from Merlin’s stupid feet and the dirt discoloring his toes. “It’s gonna be a long day,” he groaned. “Get the candle.”

Merlin shuffled around after a moment’s hesitation and the room went dark. The signature scent of charred wick and cooling tallow smoked into the small space. It bothered Arthur that he still wanted to say something more – something kind, or something angry, he didn’t know which. It shouldn’t matter. Merlin shouldn’t matter.

Arthur at least possessed enough self-awareness to realize that if that were true, though, he wouldn’t be here. However much the injustice of Ealdor’s plight offended him as a knight, he wouldn’t have come if it weren’t for Merlin setting off first like some incompetent errant in shining rags. He’d have been killed, and Arthur didn’t know how a peasant could face what even knights quailed at – insurmountable odds and certain death for a principle, and nothing more. Arthur had no idea what to do with that realization, because even he could tell that this was barely a home to his servant – that wasn’t what Merlin had come here to defend. None of the villagers, aside from that William boy, so much as gave him the time of day. Some even glared at him, sneered, or sketched superstitious gestures at him as if he were some kind of fae child. Obviously, he didn’t fit here. It was ungracious of Arthur to be glad about that, since it meant that Merlin wouldn’t likely stay past the current crisis. Was it selfish of Arthur to hope that Merlin remained unwelcome here, so that he would have no choice but to return to Camelot? To stay with Arthur? After all, it wasn’t like Merlin really had anywhere else to go.

* * *

Arthur pulled the door shut behind him as he exited the physician’s quarters, leaving Elise and her mother to sleep on the cot they had both curled up on. Merlin was still puttering around in there, moving things aimlessly and straightening with a nervous sort of energy. When Arthur tried to stop him, he mumbled something about how Gaius would be appalled at the disarray. As far as Arthur knew, though, the place had always been cluttered, but perhaps there was an order to it that he hadn’t noticed. In any case, Merlin was faffing about, alternately smiling and wringing his hands, and shooting Arthur worried looks, which was driving Arthur round the bend. If he didn’t know what Camelot was like – what he himself had been like since Merlin met him – he might have been insulted at how Merlin still seemed uncertain that he wouldn’t be arrested for the magic he had done on the girl. As if the tree in Arthur’s chambers weren’t itself a hanging offense, technically. As if Arthur hadn’t been crying like a maiden aunt right alongside him just a few short hours ago, ecstatic at what he’d witnessed.

Exhaustion was creeping up on Arthur now that most of the night was gone. Sometimes, he really did wish that he could be anyone but the king. He wanted a single day to feel normal again, except he had no idea anymore what normal even entailed. Was that a hunting trip without a gaggle of royal guards trailing him? A lie in? A boring day at council? Maybe none of his days had ever been normal, and he would never know what it meant to have one that was. He wondered what normal was like in Ealdor, with Merlin young and smiling, still unscathed by the horrors of the world, and Arthur barely any better, not yet quite a man. Arthur had led his first raid at fourteen though. To be as young as Merlin had been when they met, a carefree boy on the cusp of adulthood, Arthur would have to have been…what, ten? Had he been that young even then, toddling along in his father’s shadow, under the pall of the fallout from his birth? Maybe someone who had seen so many executions from the time he could walk that they blurred unrecognizably together could never be normal. Maybe the memory of riding high on his smiling father’s shoulders, crunching apple slices and watching the flames burn down before bedtime could never be undone.

With a grim shake of his head, Arthur made his way up to the royal apartments. Arthur wondered when, exactly, their lives had started to unravel, because that was what it felt like. Everything was wrong, and neither of them could keep going at this rate. He needed a holiday soon. For now, he felt functional if tired, but if these late nights and early starts continued much longer, it would start to show. And he felt certain that Merlin was even worse off at the moment, especially considering his infirmity. They would have to account for that at some point; this lack of rest and regular meals would only make Merlin more susceptible to fits. And he needed to mourn. Even Arthur knew that, but Merlin didn’t seem willing yet. Arthur knew what that felt like. He had blamed himself for the magic that finally claimed Uther for a long time after, no matter that it came at Merlin’s hand. The echo of that ache still remained - the idea that because of his guilt, his complicity, he had no right to mourn – to miss his father. He didn’t want Merlin feeling that way too just because he wasn’t able to help in time.

Arthur pushed into his private chambers and took a deep breath of being alone. He hated the isolation of who he was, and yet sometimes, he couldn’t stand the feeling of being surrounded all of the time. There was a comfort and presence to his chambers that he hadn’t noticed until it was George, not Merlin, doing most of the cleaning up. Right now, the place was too sterile, everything placed too perfectly and put away, the bed too crisp with its fresh linens. But the ridiculous tree was where Arthur had left it, at least, and there were three new fruit bowls spaced evenly around it, full of apples. It was the most ludicrous thing, and he smiled at it all because it did feel of Merlin, awkward and gangly and concealed beneath a thin, plain draping, planted somewhere it shouldn’t thrive.

Beyond the windowpanes, the sky glowed in anticipation of sunrise, but the air retained the chill of the evening, and Arthur rubbed his hands over his biceps as he shuffled across the room. He stepped into the quiet of the back corridor, where only the royal occupants, his personal guard, and a few favored servants could go. He glanced around for signs of life, but it seemed that no one was about yet. Relieved and embarrassed at his furtive tendencies, he walked slowly down to Guinevere’s door and waited long enough in front of it to be certain that no one would approach. It was rare to find this corridor deserted, no matter its privacy. Once assured that he was entirely alone, Arthur grasped the keys at his hip and looked at the little keyhole before him as if it were an insurmountable quest, or an enchanted cave where he might be forced to confront the shade of his true self. Arthur breathed in the congested manner of a chest cold, swaying lightly on his feet until his body tilted far enough to bring his forehead into contact with the wood.

A dull thunk sounded out softly in the silence and Arthur took a deep, almost desperate breath, his lungs burning as he dropped the keys to hang again from his belt and pressed both of his palms to the smooth grain. “Good morning, Guinevere.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but his exhalation carried the words of their own accord. “I’m going to do something today. You would be happy, I think. You always liked Merlin.”

He shook his head, eyes shut tight in shame as he recalled Guinevere’s sudden chill toward Merlin, and the way that it must have hurt and confused him at first. It was yet another warning sign that he failed to heed. She would never have suspected Merlin of trying to poison anyone, least of all Arthur. He wondered what it said about himself that he only learned of his wife’s actions because he evidently trusted his servant more – noticed Merlin’s odd behavior and discontent before seeing the chill in the eyes of his queen. He still didn’t know where Merlin had actually been for two days, or how he somehow fell hard enough to leave the bruising Arthur had seen, or how he came to be poisoned in an obvious attempt to keep him out of the way of the assassination attempt. He must have tried to act against Morgana or break the curse on Guinevere himself, alone, rather than asking Arthur for help. No, Arthur had to spy on and follow his own wife, with Merlin scrambling after him, attempting to stop him, before any of that truth had come out. It shamed Arthur to realize that he had behaved so appallingly in the past when warned of treachery in his household that Merlin couldn't come to him with that. 

"I miss you.” The words didn’t carry far enough to echo, but Arthur felt exposed just the same, as if he were on trial before the whole of his kingdom. He struggled to force it back down, the guilt, before it choked him, because it wasn’t healthy, this repetition of a pointless penance. Once calm again, Arthur rubbed his brow against the warming spot of wood where he leaned against the door.  The grain, soft whorls of worn chestnut, pulled gently across his skin like fingers trying in vain to soothe him. “I saw magic today. It was…miraculous. I wish you could have seen it too.” He smoothed his brow back and forth, back and forth on the wood grain and wondered if ten years now, he will have worn a depression into it like a worry stone. “Merlin is still afraid of me – of what I might do to him for the magic. I don’t know what to do to stop it. You could have explained it. I know he’s hurt, and it’s my fault for the things he’s seen me do, but I don’t understand how to fix it. I made a vow never to light another pyre. It’s not enough.” He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying in vain to catch her scent, or the soft sound of a swish of her dress beyond the wood. “The girl he saved… How many others have I condemned to die by vilifying magic? How many deaths does Merlin carry on his conscience for doing nothing because of my laws?” He shook his head; it was on him, ultimately, and no one else. “I’m going to make things right,” he told her, voice stronger now. “The things I still can, at least. Because I can’t do this anymore, Guinevere. You told me, so many times, and I didn’t want to listen. I can’t be my father. I can’t make him proud of my rule. It will kill me to try.” He swallowed, forcing the lump in his throat back down with his sorrow and whatever else swam up behind his tongue that he couldn’t bring himself to consider yet. “My kingdom is divided. I’m…divided. And we can’t live like this any longer. There has to be an end.” He pressed his face harder to the door as if he could force the tears that threatened out of himself and into the wood where no one but Guinevere would see. “I miss you so much. So does Merlin. I wish you could have seen him today. I’m going to make him Court Physician. He’s earned it, hasn’t he? You would be proud of him.”

Arthur closed his eyes again and imagined her smile, gentle and wreathed in a glow whether she wore jewels or just flowers in her hair, or nothing at all. He imagined her trying to contain her joy at seeing Merlin elevated to a position that fit his character, that he deserved – at witnessing him recognized for the good and kind man, the selfless man, that he was. Finally. They would have all dined together later this day, he thought – all three of them in a line at the royal table, celebrating, and none of them serving the others or standing apart anymore. She would have been so happy, dimples everywhere, teasing Merlin for his blushes and for fumbling the formal dining utensils. And she would have looked at him, Arthur, with forgiveness. With pride.

“I’ll tell him,” Arthur choked. “I’ll tell him how proud you are. He’ll…” His voice failed him for a moment, and he struggled past the rasp and the clogged airway. “He’ll like that.” Arthur nodded and few times while he regained his composure, lips pressed tightly together to hold back any sound that might try to escape him. When he could draw a deep breath without it catching or going fluttery at the end, Arthur pushed himself away from the door and fixed his eyes on the small slip of light shining weakly along the floor, where the sun had crept through the windows of Guinevere’s chamber to greet him, too thin though for him to reach – to touch his feet where he stood before the barred entry. “Have a pleasant morning, Guinevere.” Then he nodded a few more times, more to reassure himself that he was fine and able to walk away, before he did just that. He didn’t look back; all that remained behind him was a sliver of light shining out from under the door of a tomb, a siren’s call to a life he could no longer live. He could not allow himself to wallow in that – to be tempted into looking ever back at all of the mistakes he could not set right, and the things he couldn’t change.

His next stop was the Steward’s office to update the ledgers accordingly, and then George found him in the corridor near the kitchens, where Arthur had somehow managed to get himself turned around in a dead end hallway offering nothing but an empty closet and a ladder down into a cold storage room. Arthur accepted a plate from him, and directions, and then sat on one of the benches rimming the training grounds to eat in the weak autumn sun. First, though, he gained George’s promise that food would be delivered to Merlin too. He would have liked to let the man rest, or clean if he preferred, because he certainly needed a break, but the council’s last session before Samhain was today. They needed to conclude outstanding business, and Arthur would need Merlin present to do that.

The sun sketched out a feeble light amongst the clouds, the crisp of autumn slow to give way to the new morning, dew frozen into a light frost on the grass, like the creep of condensed moisture spread like crystal in patterns over a window pane. Arthur watched a few lone birds peck at the ground where horses and knights’ boots had stirred it up into pocks and furrows. It was still in a way that only chill mornings could be, as if the world had stopped for a moment.

Arthur listened to the soft pat-pat of footsteps crunching across the grass toward him and smiled because the light trip and stumble could only belong to one person. He waited until Merlin came abreast of him and scooted to one side to make room on the bench. “Merlin.”

“Is there a reason George brought me breakfast and then made disapproving faces at me until I’d eaten more than I normally do in a day?” Merlin studied the open space on the bench and then carefully sat at an unreasonable distance.

“I’m trying to fatten you up,” Arthur replied. He offered Merlin the picked over remains from his own plate and then then grinned out one side of his mouth when Merlin merely narrowed his eyes at Arthur in suspicion. “Alright, fine. I was worried about you,” Arthur admitted. “You’re going to collapse eventually.”

Merlin blinked his gaze down and then away, clearly embarrassed. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Arthur asked, and for once, he could hear in his own voice that it wasn’t a provocative question; he just wanted to know.

“Yeah.” Merlin’s face smiled wider, but his eyes dimmed a bit. “She’ll never bear another child,” he commented offhand, turning his head to peer quietly into the dawn. “I think that’s why the gentler spells didn’t work. The ability to quicken the womb is a kind of life magic. That death must have been the price for her life.”

“What do you mean? What did the spell do?”

“It was a crude one,” Merlin admitted. “Basically, it cauterized the wound like a firebrand. It would have left scarring, too much for a child to grow there again.”

Arthur hummed and thought of the girl as he’d last seen her, sleeping in her mother’s arms. “At least she’s alive.”

Merlin peered sidelong at Arthur, his mouth curling in a tiny kind of smirk, the way it used to, years ago when he was still just a boy, playful and irreverent. Still young. “Yeah.”

It struck Arthur suddenly that Merlin wasn’t young anymore. Neither of them were, of course, but somehow, Arthur hadn’t expected age to show on Merlin the way it showed on other people. It did, though – perhaps more in the contrast of that glimpse of old youth, than in the lines that had crept into his face. Arthur felt his features soften, and saw it mirrored in puzzlement on Merlin’s. “I didn’t even know you could grow facial hair,” Arthur remarked, just to break the odd weight of the moment as it approached something that Arthur didn’t think he could confront just yet. “You should keep it – looks good on you.”

Merlin tilted his head, still watching Arthur’s face as if to parse out all of the things he wasn’t saying. “It itches.”

“I imagine that will pass in a few days.” Not that he would know; he had tried to grow a beard once, but it looked like mange, much to Merlin’s glee. He hadn’t attempted it again. “Anyway, might do you good to look like a grown man. People can’t take a spotty boy seriously.”

Merlin rolled his eyes and relaxed back onto the bench. A tension bled out of the air between them that Arthur only noticed after it had gone. “Prat. I was never spotty.”

Arthur hummed noncommittally, and when Merlin looked at him with a covert grin and narrowed eyes, Arthur bumped their shoulders together. “Promise me something, Merlin.”

“What, that I won’t forget your armor on the field or leave ash in your fireplace?”

“That you won’t lie to me anymore.”

The mirth building on Merlin’s face dissipated, sinking into his skin like a shipwreck.

“I mean it,” Arthur pressed, but he kept his posture open and non-accusing. “It’s important that I be able to trust you – that others know that I can trust you. Especially about the magic. Do you understand?”

Merlin tried to look away a few times, but his gaze seemed drawn to Arthur’s, and he couldn’t break away. “I don’t – ”

“I’m not judging you for hiding it.” Arthur twisted on the bench to face Merlin, and remained steady when it caused Merlin to lean away and draw back the hand he’d been resting between them. “But it has to stop now. Promise me, Merlin – from now on, only the truth, no matter how you think I’ll react, or if you think you’re protecting me. It has to stop.”

It took a while for Merlin to work himself up to an answer, and Arthur wondered what was going on behind the wide blue expanse of his eyes. He seemed to be struggling, and Arthur could at least appreciate that Merlin didn’t make the promise carelessly – that he treated Arthur’s demand with the gravity it deserved. Finally, he said, “I want to promise you that. I do, I swear.”

Arthur nodded, forcing back the indignation and suspicion that years of his father’s mad crusade had pounded into him. “What’s stopping you?”

“I don’t – Arthur, I’m…” Merlin clenched his hands together in his lap and took a few rapid breaths, as if each one were preparatory to a shout that never came. “I want to.”

Arthur watched him squirm and fight with himself, eyes darting over the field and back to his hands, or Arthur’s boots, repeatedly. “Have you ever?” he asked. “Been completely honest about yourself? Your magic?”

Merlin shook his head without even thinking about it.

“Not even to your mother?”

“I didn’t want to frighten her,” Merlin whispered. “More than I already did. I don’t know if I can, Arthur. I don’t even think about it anymore.”

It put Arthur at ease somehow, to hear Merlin say that. “Then I’ll remind you. You will do your best never to lie or keep things from me again, and I will remind you when you need it.”

Merlin nodded, licked his lips, and then looked up at Arthur with shame and gratitude both. “I can promise that.”

“Good. Then it’s a deal.” Arthur relaxed back again and peered out across the field. “George is getting you a more suitable wardrobe, by the way.”

“What? Why?” Merlin squawked. “I have clothes – there’s nothing wrong with my clothes. You can’t just – ”

Arthur quirked an eyebrow at him. “I won’t have you traipsing about in rags any longer, Merlin. It makes me look bad.”

“How does what I’m wearing make you look bad? You’re not wearing it.” Merlin huffed at him and flapped a hand around. “We’ve discussed this. I’ve had these for years – they’re fine.”

“Silk is fine. Those are just…” Arthur made a face and settled on, “…sad. And I can’t have my court physician looking like a pauper.”

“I do not look like – ”

Arthur actually had to look at Merlin to be sure he hadn’t vanished in a magical puff of smoke, he went so suddenly dead quiet. “Yes, you do. It’s embarrassing. To me.”

Merlin made fish-mouth faces at him for a moment, and then sputtered, “You’re making me court physician?”

Arthur started to smile.

“Why would you do that?”

The smile withered. “Because you deserve it?” As if it weren’t obvious?

“I’m not ready for that. I don’t know half the things that Gaius did – ”

“Merlin, I’m pretty sure that the only person who thinks you’re not ready for this is you.”

“There are plenty of people who still think I’m an idiot.”

Arthur shrugged. “Well, you are that. But you’re also a physician in your own right, and I’ve seen what you can do. I wouldn’t trust my health to anyone else.”

“But who will mend your armor and clean your socks, draw your bath, test your food – ”

“I told you to stop testing my food! It could be poisoned, Merlin!”

Merlin blinked and then scoffed at him. “You are unbelievable. Do you really expect me to make some ten year old child eat food that might be poisoned, just so that I don’t have to?”

Arthur started to yell at him that yes, that was the job of food testers, but when he put it that way, it would make Arthur sound like a complete arse to say yes. So he merely punched Merlin in the shoulder instead and took a moment to sulk.

“Ow,” Merlin told him, dry as the desert in the Perilous Lands. He also pointedly did not rub at the offended appendage.

“Shut up, Merlin.”

They sat in ambiguous silence for a while, and Arthur listened to the birdsong fade behind the noise of the citadel coming awake. “You’ll make a fine court physician. And you have magic, Merlin. Imagine what you could do with it.”

Merlin grimaced down at his lap where his hands worried at the ends of his knotted belt. “I don’t think raining fire is any good against sweating sickness.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean, then?” Merlin demanded. “I’m not a healer; today wasn’t how it usually goes. Every wound you received – I couldn’t do anything about them.”

“Maybe it was a fluke,” Arthur allowed. “Or perhaps you just need practice.”

“Practice,” Merlin scoffed. The bitterness fell in a surprising little heap between them, drawing Arthur’s startled gaze. “I can’t practice magic, Arthur. In case it slipped your notice, the king forbids it.”

Arthur grimaced and searched the low ceiling of cloud cover for something to say that wouldn’t be trite or simply nonsensical. “Maybe that should change.” When Merlin didn’t reply right away, Arthur looked over to find him avoiding the sight of Arthur’s profile beside him. “You don’t agree?”

Merlin started to say something a few times, but it didn’t come as easily as he apparently meant. Finally, he let out a breath, and the words tumbled out on the tail end of it, faint and ill-formed. “I want that more than anything.”

Arthur studied the silhouette of him backlit by the dawn, a thin and wavering line of a man bent by the light around him. He thought back to the old coot in the charcoal hut, and wondered if perhaps Dragoon were more the real Merlin after all than this uncertain and weary figure before him. All I have ever wanted is that people like me can live in peace. That those who practice magic are accepted, rather than hunted. That is all I ask. But also, You are asking me to save the life of a man that would have me executed. Didn’t that apply, back then at least, to Arthur just as much as Uther? There can be no place for magic in Camelot. Was that truly an endorsement of the laws, of the ban, as Arthur had originally thought? Or was it actually just an observation? “Why are you here, Merlin? Why Camelot?”

Merlin shook his head slowly, tongue wetting his lips as he lifted his head to regard the cold autumn light. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“That’s not true. You could have gone anywhere, someplace magic isn’t outlawed. You could have stayed in your own kingdom.”

“Do you know what happens to sorcerers in kingdoms where magic isn’t outlawed?” Merlin swiveled his head only to peer at him from hooded eyes. “We’re not people there either; we’re weapons that Camelot has no defense for. I’d have been made a slave for Cenred’s wars if anyone ever found out. Execution is a mercy compared to that.”

Arthur shook his head and diverted his gaze, because no. He hadn’t known that. He hadn’t considered it at all.

“And at least here, I know that if I am forced to use my magic, it’s for the benefit of a good king.”

Arthur scoffed. “Even my father?”

Merlin dropped his gaze and bit his lip for a moment. “Better than Cenred. Your father may not have cared for the wellbeing of people with magic, but at least he cared for the rest.”

Arthur blinked a few times and then turned away, because the logic of that alone was a tragedy. He didn’t think that in Merlin’s shoes, he’d have been so forgiving, but he hadn’t grown up in deprivation. He’d never even seen that until Merlin took him to Ealdor and showed him the way most people lived. “You know, even before I knew what you were, I could tell that someone was using magic to protect us. There’s only so many monsters I can kill while unconscious before it starts looking suspicious.”

Merlin blinked a few times and his gaze flickered around into the middle distance as if the answer might be there. Then he tried to grin and make light of it. “Not so sure of your prowess after all?”

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and wondered what Merlin saw when he looked off into the faraway like that. “I figured saying something would only send my father on a witch hunt.” Though Uther conducted one anyway, quite literally.

Before Arthur could say anything more, Merlin voiced that exact thought. “He did that anyway.”

Arthur blinked a few times, and noticed that Merlin had brought a basket along with him only because he was now lifting out one of Arthur’s thick winter tunics. “I thought I told you to get rid of that; it’s got a hole the size of my arm from Percival and his damn singlestick.”

“Waste not, want not,” Merlin quipped. “You can still wear it under your armor; nobody will see the stitching.” He proceeded to grin, too many teeth in too pale a face, and fished out a bone needle and thread from the detritus at the bottom of the basket as well.

Arthur frowned at Merlin struggling to thread the needle with his too-long, fumbly fingers, like he had too many knuckles or something. “Could you use magic to do that?”

To Merlin’s credit, Arthur was likely the only one would have noticed the way he stiffened and missed a beat in his threading. “Nah. Stitching comes out sloppy.”

“Your stitching comes out sloppy anyway.”

Merlin spared him a nasty look and then returned to his needle fumbling with a level of concentration that would have been comical from anyone else. “I’m not a seamstress,” he pointed out, and then flinched.

They were both thinking of Guinevere, Arthur thought with a pang. He pushed it aside; today should be about the living. “Sometimes, I wish you’d told me about the magic. I wonder how many things might have turned out differently.”

As if it meant nothing to him, Merlin smiled gently to himself and said, “You’d have chopped my head off, for one.” He finally got the thread through the eye and began fiddling with the tunic.

“I don’t know what I’d have done,” Arthur replied, but they both knew it was something of a lie. Running him through would have been more likely, though. And he would have regretted it.

Merlin shrugged, reaching through sleeves to turn the garment inside out and expose the inner seams. “You have enough to worry about without me complicating things. Besides.” He tugged the tunic into a smooth line and set a stitch to hold things where he wanted them. “You obviously didn’t want to hear it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Merlin chuffed, but it wasn’t a merry sound. “That you have known for…a while, apparently, and you haven’t done anything.” He faced the tunic as he spoke, poking the needle with what seemed to Arthur to be unnecessary drama. “You didn’t arrest me, or pardon me, or even question me. You just ignored it entirely. You didn’t want to deal with it.”

“That’s hindsight.” Arthur stood and paced around the bench, agitated.

“Still valid.”

Arthur scowled at the dew encrusted field. “Surely you thought about it.”

“You never would have chosen me over your father, and you would have hated yourself for it. I didn’t want to put you in that position.”

Arthur shook his head, tried to think of some way to continue this conversation logically, and then merely glared at Merlin. “No. You came here, to Camelot – the last place your kind is wanted. Where you are hunted. And you stayed. That wasn’t for me. Living the way you have, like half of a man, that isn’t something you do for someone else’s sake.” He turned away.

Merlin’s frown was deafening where it roared at Arthur’s back. “Why not?”

“Because no one is that good!” He spun around to find Merlin blinking at him, needle buried into the woolen tunic and mostly forgotten. “Not even you.”

He expected to receive back as much anger as he hurled forth. It should have been anger that lit Merlin’s face in response. Or maybe defensiveness, and a litany of excuses or justifications. Instead, Merlin’s nostrils flared and he clenched his jaw in something less identifiable. “No. No, you don’t get to demand – ”

“I’m the bloody king, Merlin. I can demand whatever – ”

“I had no choice! What else am I supposed to do, Arthur – what else am I even good for?! Do you think I wanted this? I have no life outside of you. How is that for my benefit? I get nothing from this!”

“I didn’t ask that of you.”

“How did you not?” Merlin twitched his face away and then down to worry at the frayed threads of Arthur’s ripped tunic. “It’s been years, hasn’t it? Since you found out? You know what I’ve been doing, you turned a blind eye so that I could keep doing it. I’m a rubbish servant and you know it. The only thing I’m good for that George isn’t is magic, and Camelot has no other weapon against that.”

Arthur twitched because he hadn’t thought that at all. And he certainly didn’t consider Merlin to be a weapon…did he? It occurred to Arthur that they were having two entirely different arguments here, and he had no idea what Merlin’s was about. “You never had to defend us – no one was forcing you.”

“Do you really think I could have done nothing and lived with myself? I couldn’t even bear to let Tom die, and he was only one person. There are thousands here now. And hundreds more in the countryside – there’s no way not to hear it when they’re all screaming.”

“I know,” Arthur snapped, because he did know. “But you didn’t have to come here in the first place. You didn’t have to be my servant, my protector! You risked death every day just for existing, and you didn’t have to!”

“I had nowhere else to go,” Merlin said, and finally, there was rage, but it wasn’t at Arthur, and it wasn't loud. It was quiet, and it cut. “I had no skills, no prospects, there wasn’t a village in fifty miles would have taken me in, I was useless. I had to come here – I couldn’t stay in Ealdor, they were starting to notice, and what Gaius needed help with, at least that much I knew how to do.”

“But surely,” Arthur pressed, like a dog at a foxhole, “surely this isn’t the life you wanted.”

“The life I wanted?” Merlin’s breath kicked up as if he were running, or perhaps getting ready to throw a punch. “No one ever asked me what I wanted. It was all just go here Merlin, and do this Merlin – ” He flung his hands out as he said this, as if to bare his breast to a sword. “Kill this person, and let that one die, and it doesn’t matter who’s innocent or not, or who you betray, or what you think, or if it rips your heart out, because doing the right thing could have unintended consequences and you’ll just screw up the whole bloody world if you don’t shut up and do as you’re told!”

Arthur shook his head and took a step back, uncomfortably aware of the feeling that the air was vibrating. All Arthur could do was repeat, “I didn’t ask that of you.”

Merlin shuddered to stillness and stared at him as if Arthur had said something horrible to him. “Everything I am is for you. Everything I have done has been for you. You keep demanding some other explanation, when there isn’t one. I haven’t had a chance to make another reason, to want something else – I have nothing but you.”

Arthur had no idea what that meant – he didn’t have a frame of reference for such a thing. He thought about what Gaius had told him about prophecy and demands. He wanted to say something to differentiate himself from druids and goddesses and dragons, but he wasn’t sure that he could, not honestly. “What do you expect me to say? Thank you?” It came out more confrontational than he intended.

Thankfully, Merlin didn’t quite rise to the bait. He did sort of waver though, his frame bending oddly as if he meant to slide sideways and disappear into the boundary wall. “Never that,” he breathed.

Arthur hazarded a few steps forward, and Merlin simply watched him come. “I know you’ve saved my life before, more times than I know. I haven’t exactly been grateful, I’ll admit.”

Merlin shook his head and turned his face away, as if Arthur had missed the whole point.

“What do you want?” Arthur finally asked. “As your life. What do you want from it?”

Merlin opened his mouth to reply, but only a scoff came out, disbelieving and tragic. “How should I know? I can’t have something else.”

“Why? Is it all of this – this destiny nonsense? What does any of it matter?”

Merlin shook his head a few more times and looked off to the side of the field, eyes unfocused. “I should leave you to your practice, sire.” He straightened and made to gather up the now mangled sewing.

Arthur grabbed him by the upper arm and forced him back. It took more strength than he had expected; Merlin resisted the attempt to make him stay in the conversation. “No. You’re not leaving until this is done.”

Merlin shoved at Arthur’s chest, but Arthur wouldn’t budge. “This is done,” he said lowly. Had he been anyone else, the look on his face might have raised the hairs on Arthur’s neck. As it was, he felt something ethereal in the still morning shatter, and realized that it was the threat of magic rising out of the spaces between the air itself.

“No.” Arthur probably should have been more afraid than he actually was. Merlin was… He was powerful. And not entirely in control lately, but Arthur trusted him not to hurt him. He had to trust that much. “Explain it to me, Merlin. I want to understand.”

“No, you don’t,” Merlin scoffed.

“Yes,” Arthur countered, leaning over him where he still sat. “I do.” He could smell mildew and the chill wet of a cavern. “Do you think you’re alone in this, in what you’ve been doing?” Arthur could tell from the way Merlin tried to avert his gaze that yes, he did. “Merlin this is not your burden – it never was, and you never should have had to bear it. The responsibility for the good of this kingdom is mine,” Arthur continued. “Listen to me.” He shook Merlin hard enough to clack his teeth together and make him grunt in protest. “It’s on me. Do you understand? I’m the king. I alone am responsible. You will not pay the price for my ignorance any longer.”

It was ugly, the look on Merlin’s face. Arthur had no idea what he was fighting, exactly, only that it wasn’t necessarily Arthur himself. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew.”

“Yes, I would.” Arthur had managed to shove Merlin back into the bench, and he crouched between Merlin’s knees now, forcing him to shrink back to maintain propriety, because he knew that it would keep Merlin in place far more effectively than force. “We have all done awful things in defense of this kingdom, things we maybe shouldn’t have. Things that were wrong. We have all betrayed someone. And we all have to live with that.”

Merlin went alarmingly rigid and pale like fresh linen; his eyes appeared wide in spite of the whites not showing. It was the shadow of that boy, fifteen summers fresh, who walked into a shining, towered city to start his new life and witnessed an execution instead. The previously still morning stirred into a firm breeze and Arthur watched Merlin’s fingers clamp down hard on the edge of the bench he was sat upon, as if to keep himself in check. A few stray autumn leaves fluttered past and then tumbled to a standstill as the acrid static faded again. “I don’t want to kill people. But I have to. To protect you. It’s what I’m for.”

Arthur wondered, with a sudden and terrible clarity, if that was why Hunith sent him here in the first place – not to try and give him a better prospect in life, but because she was afraid that he was dangerous. And he was dangerous. From what little Arthur had seen of Merlin’s magic, it was elemental and strong – even volatile at times. And Merlin had hinted that staying in Ealdor would have gone badly for him. Arthur had never fully understood why – not in depth. It was a horrible thought, because no one could doubt Hunith’s love for her son, but why send him to the one place where sorcerers were summarily executed, if not to ensure that should he turn out to be unsafe – incapable of controlling his magic, unable to learn restraint – that he would be surrounded by people who would stop him? Gaius hadn’t dealt with magic in decades; he could have offered little in the way of training. But he was a loyal subject of Uther, and a man who had betrayed countless others of magic. Gaius had come to love Merlin like a son, but that had grown with time. In the beginning, Arthur did not think that Gaius would have hesitated to turn him in, had he been a threat to anyone.

He couldn’t think of that now; it was immaterial, and Gaius was dead. They would never know for certain now. Arthur’s hand wandered from Merlin’s bicep to the back of his neck, squeezing and shaking to make him pay attention. “I have allowed you to suffer for my sake. I will admit that,” Arthur told him, more winded than the simple struggle accounted for. The picture in his mind would not leave him, of Merlin being put down like a rabid dog for something he couldn’t control. He kept his voice even in spite of it. Calm. “I have turned a blind eye and let you do all of the things I couldn’t, or wouldn’t do. Agravaine. Morg…” Arthur’s voice caught on a thickness in his throat; he swallowed and forced himself to say instead, “My sister. I refused to see what was in front of me – I failed to adequately protect my kingdom from them. I was weak, and I couldn’t face the thought of another betrayal, or of killing someone I had once loved, so you did it for me, and I let you. I know, Merlin. Maybe not everything, but enough, and for long enough. I let you be the monster, and I refused to admit that I did it so that if I ever had to blame someone for it, I could blame you. It was cowardly, Merlin.” His voice shook with the admission, but he owed Merlin that much. “I’m a coward. And I’m sorry.”

Merlin bit his lip and breathed wetly through his nose for a moment, staring at Arthur as if he couldn’t comprehend what he’d said. “But I have magic. You hate magic.”

Arthur swallowed, because yes, he did, and however beautiful it had been to see life unfurl again in Elise’s dying body, one miracle couldn’t change that. His experience, more than his father’s ravings, had taught him that magic was dangerous. That it hurt and used and killed. But experience was showing him the other side of magic too; he was looking at it. It was terrifying and blindly loyal, and Arthur knew that no one should have ever entrusted it to him because he had misused it. He had wielded Merlin like a weapon, and neither of them had even noticed. “I can no longer afford that luxury.”

His voice thick with all of things he appeared to be choking back, Merlin said, “I killed your father.”

Arthur shook his head, not quite a negation – it was too subtle a motion for that. “No, you didn’t. I will never believe that. Odin killed my father. Not you. That assassin was meant for me, for a wrong that I did to him. If anyone is to blame for my father’s murder, then it is me. Not you.”

Merlin mumbled the word no to himself a few times, and then shook his head violently. “But it was my magic that killed him. I struck the death blow.”

“Stop it.” Arthur breathed harsh through his nose for a moment and eyed Merlin with what he suspected came unfortunately close to disgust. “I’ll hear no more of this.”

Merlin’s voice stopped him as he started to rise and move away to give him space. “You said you wanted to know. I’m telling you – ”

“That’s not what you’re doing!” Arthur spun back, but kept his shoulder pointed at Merlin in a defensive stance, his hands spread open at his sides. “What have you done that you think is so awful?”

“I saved her.” Merlin made a visible effort to collect his wits and calm his breathing, remaining sprawled in false languor on the bench as if to make a meek target of himself on purpose. It was terrifying to watch, this chilly calm. However visibly his emotions roiled, they remained trapped beneath the surface, behind the mask of the idiot that he wore every day. “I made her fall down the stairs, but then I couldn’t… I knew what she’d do. I saw it in the crystal, and everyone told me to let her die, but I couldn’t do it.”

Arthur shook his head, at a loss and frustrated because of it. “What are you talking about?”

“Morgana.” Merlin forced himself to swallow, though it appeared that something tried to come back up. “I could have stopped her.”

This wasn’t the least bit constructive anymore, and Arthur fought to maintain his own composure. “Enough of this. I won’t listen to this.”

“I healed her,” Merlin persisted. Faint though it was, his voice was neither hesitant nor weak. Merlin rotated a shoulder and added, “With magic,” as if it even needed to be said.

“Stop being stupid. Do you seriously expect me to hate you because you’re not a murderer?”

“How many people are dead now because of what I did?” Merlin shouted. “Lancelot, your father…? How many do you think the dorocha killed, how many knights died defending Camelot from her attacks? How many druids did Morgana torture? Kill? Coerce? How many villagers died by her army, how many ancient orders did she wipe out for refusing to side with her?” He choked himself silent for a moment. “Gwen.”

Arthur went numb for a heartbeat; he could feel it like sick heat as it billowed through his body. “I told you, you are not responsible for what happened to Guinevere.”

Merlin shook his head. “You’re wrong.” The words sounded as if he’d torn them from his own throat. “I knew what Morgana was, and I still saved her. Everything she did after that was my fault. I let her live. And I had so many chances to fix that, Arthur. So many, but I didn’t – I didn’t want to have to kill her.”

“Stop!” Arthur lunged into his space and felt a sick triumph at the way Merlin scrambled back against the bench. “You didn’t force Morgana to do anything – she chose her path herself.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“How what works?” Arthur demanded. He was breathing heavily, his heart racing too fast. He may have also been shouting. “I swear to god, Merlin, if this is another of your idiotic destiny things, I will – ” Of course, he wouldn’t do much of anything, and he certainly wouldn’t hit him. “Enough! You are never to bring this up again, do you understand me?” He shook Merlin for emphasis, only then realizing that he’d grabbed him by the shoulders and was holding him pinned to the bench like a moth.

Merlin looked like he wanted to argue, but he swallowed it back and dropped his gaze, his mouth screwed up as if his tongue tasted unpleasant. “Yes, sire.”

Arthur shoved him pointlessly harder into the bench and then flung himself in the opposite direction to pace an angry circle around it. He came to rest with one hand gripping the bench back, staring unseeing at the field as his heart finally slowed its rhythm. His knuckles pressed into the knob of Merlin’s shoulder and in his periphery, he could see the angry cant of Merlin’s body, still huddled where Arthur had put him. Merlin’s fury had always been a silent thing. Most of Merlin, for that matter – the true part, the uncensored part – was made up of silent things.

Arthur looked down and swallowed. “When I first realized what you were, I almost killed you. I walked away from my vigil over my father’s body intending to call the guard to arrest you for regicide. But you weren’t running – you weren’t even going about your own business. You were just sitting there, waiting for me.” He could feel Merlin twitch against the back of his fingers and twist to look up at him, but Arthur kept his eyes down where his boots met the gravel. “Then I thought about keeping you close to see what you’d do. To use it to our advantage. Except, there wasn’t anything. You just kept washing my socks and trying to die for me.” He looked down at Merlin, at the crown of his head, and the faint shine of a scar at his hairline, trying desperately to make him understand that such waste would not be tolerated anymore.

Merlin sucked on his lips and looked away to avoid the need to respond to any of that.

“Is that when you found out?”

“You never change your boots, Dragoon,” Arthur replied gently. He took a breath of the sort one took before diving into a lake, and strolled back around the bench. “They were dangling right there in my hands when you kicked me like a plow horse.”

Merlin appeared disgusted with himself for a moment.

Arthur sank back down to sit beside Merlin just a little too close. “Do you remember when Morgana was crowned queen?”

Merlin looked up, his eyes wide and liquid. “Of course I do.”

“You didn’t side with her. You didn’t spy for her, or give me up to her. You wouldn’t even let me make a fool of myself and be captured all on my own. And when you had the chance, you attacked her. I know it was you, Merlin. I don’t know how, but you stopped her army. And it wasn’t her first army, was it?”

Merlin choked over an aborted swallow and averted his face.

“The Knights of Medhir – that was you. You stopped them too.”

Thick with something unnamed, Merlin protested, “Arthur – ”

“And the undead army that Cenred and Morgause rose from within our own walls.” Arthur spoke right over him. “You almost told me then, didn’t you. In the throne room, just before my father announced Morgana as the day’s savior. That was your work she took credit for.”

Merlin rocked a bit and then stopped himself shaking his head in the negative because he had just made Arthur a promise. Arthur appreciated the effort it must have taken to nod instead, and confirm that yes, he was the unsung hero that day. It worried Arthur, though, how Merlin shook for the briefest moment afterwards. What was it like, he wondered, to hold your secrets so close, bury them so deep, that accepting credit for your good deeds could instill such terror? Like being flayed to remove the false skin of your body, only to find the insides laid bare after all? Arthur wondered how much of Merlin might be left once he stripped away the artifice and the mask, and all of the lies within which he had sequestered himself just to stay alive.

“When I realized that she was working against us, it was clear that someone else had to be working against her. She didn’t destroy her own army, and the only other person in the catacombs with her on that day was you. I didn’t exactly connect it to magic at the time, but I knew then that you were more than you let on.” Arthur made an apologetic sound. “That you had secrets.”

Merlin’s lungs seized and he had to visibly force himself to breathe again.

“You aren’t a fighter, Merlin – you can barely hold a sword without stabbing yourself. It wasn’t blade that brought them to heal; it was a more powerful magic than theirs. It took me an embarrassingly long time to put all of it together.”

“It was mostly just dumb luck,” Merlin countered, but his voice juddered and rocked like a fishing boat riding a storm at sea.

Arthur grinned, baring his teeth just a bit because he could actually picture that – Merlin fumbling his way into defeating two powerful sorceresses and then tripping over the rubble on his way out. “And Sigan? No one ever asked how his life force left Cedric and ended up back in the crystal – the crystal that you were holding when it was over. It would have taken magic. You fought the most powerful sorcerer Camelot has ever known, and you won. Tell me, Merlin. Is that how it went?”

Merlin clutched at himself, arms wrapped tight over his soft underbelly, and nodded. “I had help,” he admitted. “I didn’t know the spell on my own; it’s lost magic.” He couldn’t look at Arthur, though, while he spoke.

“It was still you that cast it.” That was probably enough, for now. Arthur didn’t want to be cruel, and it seemed cruel just then to force Merlin to acknowledge his own deeds. Merlin could have been a knight, to judge by his deeds alone. For a moment, Arthur fancied that he saw a bit of Lancelot in Merlin, but after a moment’s thought, he decided that it was probably rather the opposite. Lancelot had been good and noble – ridiculously so – but until the crisis of the torn veil, he had not made the calculated, knowing decision to give himself up for the good of others, not the way that Merlin had repeatedly. Merlin’s nobility wasn’t for anything. It wasn’t to prove himself, or to win accolades, or to obtain a title or make up for things lost, or even to be thanked at all. It just was. Selfless without recognition or reward – a faceless knight errant, content with obscurity. Which begged Arthur to ask one last question, because he had to know. “The questing beast.”

Merlin stilled himself and took several deep breaths, humming with each exhale the way a child might sooth itself in the dark.

“What did you do? No one would speak of it to me after I recovered, but I know I was dying. What did you do?”

“I – ” Merlin gathered himself again, and again started, “I – ” The force of cutting off his own words looked for a moment like the heave before some men vomited from nerves before a battle.

Arthur swallowed and glanced out at the deceptive peace of the field – at the squires far away down the pitch, setting up targets and dragging out racks of practice weapons and gear. Then he twisted on the bench and faced Merlin straight on. “I have read that the bite of the questing beast requires magic to heal – life magic. My father insisted otherwise at the time, but the fact of it is that someone had to trade their life for mine. I know you went to the isle, more than once, and I believe that you meant to do it – give your life in trade for mine. Which I don’t approve of, by the way, but we can deal with your apparent death wish later. Something happened – something went wrong and that sorceress never bothered us again.”

“Nimueh.” Merlin nodded a few times in confirmation. “She’s dead.”

Arthur peered at him without giving away his own thoughts. “You have a habit of killing high priestesses of the old religion.”

Merlin retorted, “They have a habit of trying to kill you. And it paid the debt – her debt. She sent the questing beast in the first place – it’s her fault there was any life debt at all.”

“Fair enough.” Arthur tilted his head. “Life magic is supposed to be hard to control. The books I’ve read say that only the most powerful sorcerers can wield it – that it takes time and skill to learn, and that most still fail. But you don’t seem practiced – none of your magic does. It’s a bit…” Arthur rolled his hand in the air is if to gather the right word back to himself. “…untempered." A dull, misshapen sword. It doesn’t cut clean, but it still hacks its way through.

“Elemental,” Merlin replied, an echo of Arthur’s own earlier assumptions. “It’s earth magic; I don’t know what else to call it. I never really studied – there wasn’t anything to study. I have a basic spell book that Gaius gave me, but I haven’t used much of it. Some of it, I can’t, and some of it…” He made a nonspecific gesture. “Some of it, I probably shouldn’t.”

Arthur nodded and maintained his bland exterior. “How powerful are you, then? If you can control the balance of life and death without knowing how you do it – if you can cast without words the way I think I’ve seen – what else can you do?”

Merlin shook his head, seemingly as disturbed on the outside by the question as Arthur was on the inside, asking it. “I don’t know,” he breathed. “I never tried to find out.”

“I see.” He didn’t, though. After a moment’s thought, Arthur reached over to hook a finger in Merlin’s shirt collar. He ignored the violent flinch and the even more violent immobility that stole over Merlin at the motion. Arthur peeled the tunic to one side and then tugged it down to reveal the starburst scar of burnt skin where it spread puckered and old just below Merlin’s heart. He traced a single finger over the ridge lines at the edge. “You are good for more than just killing. If you’ve never had an opportunity to see that before, then that’s on me for never giving you the chance.”

Merlin opened his mouth and then just sort of closed it again like a fish gulping air. The dark bristles of hair and beard on his face, across his upper lip, made the gesture softer somehow, and set his skin paler. He raised his eyes toward the open field, but they weren’t focused anything. Arthur took note of how they swam with sunlight over the blue iris.

“There’s also a scar on your back from a serkhet sting, which should have killed you. And another on the back of your neck that looks like someone cut into it more than once.”

Merlin swallowed again and nodded, his fingers clenching over his sides as he continued to hug himself into stillness.

Arthur let go of his tunic and reached back to tug the fabric back down over knobby spine and up over the stark cups of collar bones, covering the old marks along with the faded yellow bruising from Arthur’s fingers, and the darker, fresher injuries from the night Gaius died. “I want you tell me how you got all of them. Not now, but someday.” He tried not to sound disappointed, but he was, and he didn’t think he managed to conceal it very well. The long wait to start a conversation about these things was as much his own fault as Merlin’s, and as for Merlin’s anxiety about putting any of it into words, Arthur wasn’t sure who to blame for that. He wondered if Merlin had been like this with Gaius too, or if it were something about Arthur himself that made it so difficult.

Merlin’s hand crept up to crimp the tunic closed over his throat, protecting himself from Arthur’s scrutiny. His voice scratchy and hoarse, he replied, “Yes, sire.”

It was not in any way the response that Arthur had been hoping for, but it would have to be enough. He scooted back to the other end of the bench in the hopes that Merlin might unclench if given some space.

Out of nowhere, Merlin offered, “I’ve done things I’m not proud of. A lot of things, actually.”

Arthur glanced sidelong at him and then away again when Merlin continued staring straight ahead from beneath the hair that had grown too long and fallen over his brow, eyes shadowed. “So have I. We all have regrets, Merlin.”

Merlin shook his head. “It’s more than that.”

For a long while, Arthur didn’t say anything. A few knights arrived on the field and began warming up, running through solo formations with their swords. Arthur eyed their footwork mostly out of habit. “Do you ever feel like…everything went wrong somewhere?”

Merlin blinked himself from his thoughts and turned to look at Arthur. He remained curled around himself like a living cloak, a vertical fold of arms up around his own body, holding it closed. His fingers worried at the collar of his tunic where Arthur had bared him a moment ago.

“As if we’re living the wrong lives, or living this one…” Arthur groped for the right word, his fingers actually grappling with the air. “…wrong. Like we’re not the right people, exactly.”

A few birds scattered in a chirping flurry past their bench, and Merlin frowned hard at him. “Are you alright?”

Arthur gave an exasperated sigh and shook his head at his own feet. “Never mind.”

“No, it’s just – ” Merlin cut himself off, but his face brightened with interest. “You don’t usually hold court with destiny.”

“No,” Arthur agreed sourly. “But I get this feeling sometimes like this isn’t how things were supposed to be.” He peered at Merlin again. “Didn’t you say once that my reign is supposed to be a golden age?”

Merin smirked a bit. “No, I said that you were destined to be Albion’s greatest king.”

“I’m not Albion’s king at all,” Arthur pointed out. He watched the playfulness fade from Merlin’s face. “And I’m certainly not a great king of Camelot.”

Merlin tipped his head and regarded Arthur sideways. “Are you fishing for compliments, or am I actually supposed to answer that?”

“Are you actually going to sit there, a sorcerer, and try to convince me that I’m any better than my father?”

Tellingly, Merlin looked away to hide his expression.

“The Once and Future King,” Arthur mused out loud, aware of Merlin’s wince. “Do you know, when I was a boy, I tried to convince my father that I was supposed to be living with Sir Ector.”

Merlin’s face twitched back in his direction, and he seemed to be trying to figure out if that were a joke or not.

Arthur grinned, however forced, to let him know it was alright to laugh. “I insisted that I should be mucking Ector’s stables and fetching lances for Sir Kay.”

After a moment’s thought, perhaps to picture that, Merlin laughed. It peeled out bright and unexpected, and Arthur couldn’t help his answering chuckle when Merlin seemed startled at his own happiness. “You? A stable boy?”

“I even followed him back to his lands once. Father sent two dozen knights out after me, convinced I’d been kidnapped by sorcerers or handed off to the Druids – he was livid when they found me covered in manure and sleeping in a hay loft in Ector’s stable. No one even recognized me, and Sir Kay swore up and down that he thought I’d been there since I could toddle.”

Merlin’s face split with his laughter, his teeth shining for a moment before he bit down on his lip, still smiling. “I told my mum once that I was supposed to be a hermit in a cave with lots of fog. She had to send half the town after me once; they thought I’d been attacked by wild animals or something.”

Arthur scoffed. “You wouldn’t last a day as a hermit, no one’s ear to talk off. You can’t even catch your own food without getting all weepy.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk, mister can’t sleep without his extra fluffy bedroll.”

“I’m the king; I shouldn’t have to sleep rough.”

“Prat.”

“Clotpole.”

"Still my word." Merlin made a happy little sound as he contemplated this new information. “You know how I told you I had a vague memory of my father?”

Arthur’s face softened. “Yeah, I remember.”

“In my mind, growing up, he was a Roman. Or he dressed like one, anyway. Some war leader or something. Tall. I know it wasn’t real – my father left before my mum even knew she was pregnant. I couldn’t have seen him before, and I know better now, of course. He wasn’t a Roman, or anything like that. But it’s still there, you know? I can picture him and everything, covered in light. I wanted to be like him. When I met my real father…” The smile faded and a sort of melancholy took its place. “I was disappointed. It felt like I’d been cheated.” He pursed his lips and picked as his fingernails. “It passed, of course. He was…noble. In a way. I think.” He shrugged and raised his face toward the lowly rising sun. “I didn’t get a chance to find out for sure.”

Arthur stared unseeing at the ground and rubbed his thumb into his opposite palm. “My father’s brother was a Roman soldier, more or less.”

“I didn’t know he had any siblings.”

“They grew up in Brittany with the legions there, after Vortigern betrayed their father and usurped him.” Arthur raised his eyes to the field where runners were setting up archery targets, his face brooding. “They didn't get on very well. He was killed - my uncle. Poisoned by a man posing as a physician in his war camp.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin offered, though it was clear he wasn’t sure why the sympathy was warranted, if Arthur never knew him. “Does that mean you have cousins in Brittany or something?”

“I might,” Arthur replied. He looked down and let out a long breath. “I had one here, once. Nobody talked about him. The staff were forbidden from mentioning certain things to me, and he was apparently one of them.”

Merlin snorted. “Why? What did he do?”

“As far as I can tell, his only crime was being my uncle's bastard son, and a sorcerer.”

Merlin was silent beside him for a long time, and then he took care when he asked, “What happened to him?”

“What do you think happened? My father had him burned at the stake,” Arthur said.

“He was Uther’s nephew,” Merlin said in disbelief.

Arthur nodded. “But he was a sorcerer too. And in point of fact, his claim to the throne may have superseded my father’s, whatever anyone else thinks.”

“He challenged Uther’s claim?”

Arthur laughed, a mean little sound. “No, actually. As far as I’ve been told, he wanted nothing to do with it. Geoffrey said he called me the Once and Future King too. He wanted me to inherit, he just didn’t think much of my father.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, digesting this new information where it fell between them, and then Merlin said, “Mum named me for her mum’s half-brother.”

Arthur didn’t look at him, but he felt his blood run cold in his veins, because it abruptly occurred to him that he should have known - should have figured this out before now. All this time, he had been trying desperately to parse out Merlin’s birthright, and here Arthur was, bellowing out the answer practically every time he hollered for his manservant, ignorant. There’s something about you, Merlin.

“Said he was special, like me, but she also said he wasn’t quite right in the head once. I’m pretty sure he died in the purge, but mum doesn’t talk about him. She doesn’t like thinking about her family, I think. Or what happened to them. I don’t even know her parents’ names. Don’t think either of them had magic, though. And mum definitely doesn’t.”

Arthur felt unmoored, as if the earth were dropping out from underneath him. Surely, it could not be this easy. Or this…this terrible? “Maybe she was trying to protect you.” Merlin came from Essetir; whatever Geoffrey said, his name could be a common one in those lands. And many families were complicated.

Merlin shrugged. “From what? I knew I was magic, and what happens to people like me if we’re caught. It wasn’t like she could protect me from that.”

Arthur swallowed to dislodge a blockage in his throat, and fiddled with his fingernails. He could not make this assumption. Not without proof, certainly not without something other than these coincidences and a similarity of names. But he believed it. It felt like the truth. “I think my father ruined something. And that’s why all of this – ” He flapped his hand about in disgust as if to encompass the whole of the world, or maybe just their world. “ – is…is like it is now.” Like looking at his life solely via its reflection in the shining curve of a well-polished plackart – distorted and tunneled. “Because this is certainly not a golden age, and I’m pretty sure there’s nothing I can do now to make it one. Too many – too much – has died already. There is no Albion left to unite.”

“I don’t believe that’s true.”

In spite of himself, Arthur smiled, a sad little thing creeping in unwanted from the edges of his mouth. Merlin’s belief in him never wavered. Usually, it terrified Arthur, it was such a blind thing, but just then, he thought that maybe he needed the reassurance. “Don’t ever change, Merlin.” He looked over, aware that he probably looked at Merlin with far too much fondness to be easily dismissed, but for once, he didn’t care. Merlin tilted his head at him, his face shifting between exasperated affection and concern for Arthur’s mood. It was so normal of him that Arthur let his mouth crease and turn up farther. “I want you to always be you. We need that, I think.”

Merlin gave a hesitant grin, uncertain how to take him at the moment. “What, completely unwarranted optimism?”

“Faith,” Arthur corrected. Though in the past, he had likely valued Merlin’s less than he should have. He recalled ridiculing it more than once, actually. And yet the same sentiments from Guinevere’s lips had been welcome – why should the two be so different?

Merlin’s expression turned complicated, but his eyes went soft. “Always.”

* * *

Arthur left the villagers of Ealdor milling about in the common area, cleaning up the mess and scatter of belongings, farm implements, food and tools that Kanen’s men had left behind. He had noted Merlin’s general direction when he ran after that pessimistic young man, William, but it took him a few moments to pick out the sounds of an argument and trace it to a small hut on the edge of the village, if it could truly be called that with so few buildings standing so close together and mixed in with the animal enclosures. It had been Arthur’s original intent to have it out with the obnoxious young man, but the argument he overheard gave him pause, and he hovered outside a window, uncertain.

“ – thought he was pompous and arrogant.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and listened to a lot of clunking around – furniture being righted and belongings set back where they belonged.

“Well, nothing’s changed there then.”

“BUT…in time I came to respect him for what he stands for, what he does.”

Arthur felt the edge of his mouth curl and immediately checked himself. It didn’t matter if Merlin respected him. Or rather, it mattered, but he was the prince – Merlin was supposed to respect him. It shouldn’t make Arthur happy to think he’d earned the good opinion of a peasant; he didn’t have to earn that. His rank afforded it to him by right.

“Yeah, I know what he stands for.”

Arthur crept to the window and eased over until he could see that pompous toad William straightening a…was that a chainmail shirt? Yes. Arthur straightened and felt the majority of his anger slough away like a bird molting its old ragged feathers. Armor and a tunic bearing Cenred’s crest were hung up on a wooden cross like an empty scarecrow. He could see the tearing where the deathblow pierced through, the fabric still edged in old, dark dried blood. It was set up like a shrine, facing the room, in a place of honor, stark testimony to the empty place in that home – a loss etched too deep to fade with time.

William kept speaking, and Arthur could hear, now, the veneer of arrogance overlaying some festering hurt like a wound that seeped beneath bandages wrapped too tightly over broken ribs for the breath to come easy. “Princes, kings, all men like him.”

From out of sight behind the curtain that divided the hut into rooms, Arthur heard Merlin say, “Will, don’t bring what happened to your father into this.” He sounded both as if he took care to say the words with just the right amount of sympathy, and also as if he’d said something like it before and had it go poorly.

“I’m not,” William snapped, his voice sharp like broken glass. He went on the offensive then, as boys do when they’re hurt and need to lash out just to dam the tears they didn’t want to shed. “Why are you defending him so much? You’re just his servant.”

“He’s also my friend.”

“Friends don’t lord it over one another.”

“He isn’t like that.”

“Really?” Skeptical, and mean spirited, but perhaps that last could be forgiven. “Well, let’s wait until the fighting begins and see who he sends in to die first. I guarantee you, it won’t be him.”

“I trust Arthur with my life.”

Arthur smiled in spite of himself, because no matter his rank, he did value Merlin’s trust. Of course, Merlin was kind of an idiot, and he wasn’t exactly discriminating, so perhaps it was less of compliment and more a testament to Merlin’s clear mental affliction.

But then William countered, “Is that so? So he knows your secret, then?”

Arthur took care to breath quietly, waiting for an assurance that never came. It only occurred to him in that telling silence that he couldn’t imagine what kind of secret Merlin, of all people, might have. He was…he was Merlin. He didn’t have secrets; he could never keep one, for starters. He was just a boy who couldn’t manage to pour wine without making a mess of himself and half the table. Wasn’t he?

He had also saved Arthur’s life twice. Clumsy could only forgive so much.

“Face it, Merlin. You’re living a lie, just like you were here.” To William’s credit, he did sound as if he regretted saying that. “You’re Arthur’s servant, nothing more. Otherwise, you’d tell him the truth.”

Arthur strained to hear Merlin’s reply, but the only sounds after that were of picking things up and then sweeping. He turned and leaned against the outside of the hut, sinking down to crouch on the balls of his feet. It shouldn’t matter if Merlin had secrets; all men had secrets. It also shouldn’t matter that maybe not every part of Merlin’s life revolved around Arthur; he was a servant, a freeman, not a slave. He wasn’t indentured to Arthur, no matter that Uther had “gifted” Merlin to him. A freeman was entitled to keep his own counsel. Arthur had no business feeling betrayed by it. He also wouldn’t mistake Merlin again, though. He couldn’t afford to lose sight of the truth, or of the imperfection of men.

Arthur wiped his hands on his trouser legs and stood. It was stupid anyway, caring at all. He wasn’t here for Merlin; he was here to right a wrong at the failure of a neighboring king. That was the job and duty of a knight, and that was all he was doing here. Arthur nodded to himself and took a deep breath to rid himself of whatever melancholy he’d fallen prey to. There was work to be done now.

* * *

“Hurry up, Merlin!”

“Coming!” He nearly ran into Arthur on the stairs because he was messing with the laces on his new tunic. Not that he knew it was his – technically, it was Arthur’s, but it was too tight around his stomach and he couldn’t wear it. Not that he was admitting that to Merlin. As far as Merlin was concerned, Arthur needed him to attend council to be put forth as the new court physician, Merlin had been wearing the same clothes for more than a day, including napping in them, and there was no time for him to go back to his room to wash and change. So he washed in Arthur’s basin, and was borrowing some of Arthur’s less-worn clothes. Arthur would just refuse to take them back later.

Arthur leaned back to avoid them both going arse over teakettle down the stairs, and smacked his hands away. “If you didn’t dress me every day, I’d think you were incapable of handling clothing at all. Just hold still.” He slapped at Merlin’s errant hand again and then kept a purposefully straight face when Merlin glared at him. How he managed to completely mangle the laces in less than a candlemark, Arthur would never know, but there it was. He tugged and fiddled for a moment, aware of Merlin going preternaturally still on the stair above him, and then paused to see why. “Ah. Lord Aymer. Anything I can do for you?”

Merlin was barely breathing now, and his eyes, slightly too wide, were fixed on a point above Arthur’s head.

“I – sire, my apologies.” Lord Aymer dithered for a moment, which gave Arthur time to finish untangling Merlin’s tunic laces. “I’ll just…”

“Of course,” Arthur chirped. He really shouldn’t be getting such a perverse amount of pleasure from Aymer’s discomfiture. Or from Merlin’s for that matter. “I shall see you at council shortly, Lord Aymer.”

Aymer nodded, angling away but stealing sidelong glances at the spectacle of the king stood a step below his manservant, and apparently assisting said manservant with getting his clothing in order. “Sire.” He wandered away after another confused glance.

Merlin’s muscles uncoiled. “Do you have any idea what kind of gossip this is going to start?”

“Shut up, Merlin.” He did know, actually. It was sure to entertain him for months. “There.” He patted the freshly tied laces and fluffed Merlin’s neckerchief back into place. It looked incongruous against the nicer fabric of the new tunic, but neither one of them wanted to show off the bruises that Arthur had left, and it wasn’t as if Arthur owned anything so banal as a neckerchief to give him along with the rest of the outfit.

Merlin’s cheek twitched in such a manner that he must have clenched his jaw.

“Relax, Merlin.” Arthur turned and continued on his way.

Eventually, Merlin followed, his footsteps more hesitant. “Are you sure about this?”

“Of course I am.” He took a moment to examine Merlin’s body language more carefully. “But I won’t force you to take it. I hope you will, because your reasons for hesitating are dumb, but if you really don’t want to be the court physician, then…I’ll understand.” He paused. “I mean, your reasons will still be dumb, but I’ll understand that.”

“You’ll understand that my reasons are dumb?”

“See? Now you’re catching on.”

“Arthur.” Merlin plucked just hard enough at Arthur’s sleeve that he stopped to engage. “I like being just your servant.”

“It’s beneath you,” Arthur told him sharply, but then he had to back pedal because Merlin didn’t know what Arthur now suspected about his bloodline. “Look. Anyone can be my servant. It takes training and skill to be a physician, and that’s how you can best serve me right now.”

Merlin seemed like he wanted to protest that, but he nodded instead and peered up at Arthur. “Alright. I understand.”

Arthur gave him a hard look. What did he think he understood? Arthur’s reasons were exactly as stated; they certainly didn’t warrant that much gravitas. “Good.” He paused though before facing the stairs again. “I’ll still expect you to attend me daily, just not by feeding or dressing me.”

“You can’t let someone else serve your meals. I have to make sure – ”

Arthur just continued speaking right over him, and clattered down the rest of the stairs as if his momentum might put an end to this wearisome subject. “And we’ll get you a few page boys to run errands and do menial chores.”

“Arthur, your food. People still try to poison you. You can’t expect the kitchen boys to – ”

“I don’t want you spending all of your time grinding things and sweeping. You’ll have advisory duties, and I’ll need you to attend every council from now on.”

“They’re children!” Merlin snapped, hurrying to keep up.

Oh for gods’ sakes. He wasn’t going to let it go, was he. “We should dine together too, to go over royal business. It will save time. There are aspects to the position that Gaius’s age excused him from, but I’ll expect more from you.”

That seemed to make Merlin happier and the smile he offered that time was more genuine. Probably because he was conspiring to get to Arthur’s food before Arthur and make sure it was safe. It wasn’t exactly true, everything Arthur listed as Merlin’s new official duties, as the court physician was only a nominally advisory role, but he was used to talking at Merlin and using him as a personal secretary as well as manservant. Arthur wasn’t willing to give all of that up yet, which may have been unfair to Merlin, but since he didn’t seem to mind, Arthur resolved not to be bothered by it either. He would, however, be having a word with the head cook about the tasting of his food, because he wasn’t about to let Merlin keep doing it, and Merlin wasn’t about to let the kitchen boys do it. Arthur wondered how many other kings had to make such allowances for absurdly devoted servants.

“Good, then it’s settled.” Arthur picked up the pace, wondering if it were just his imagination that at least part of Merlin’s reluctance to be the court physician seemed to stem from the idea of seeing less of him daily.

* * *

Arthur knuckled himself in the forehead and glanced past the edge of his chairback to where Merlin stood propped against a pillar with a pitcher cradled against his chest, staring.

Sir Meliot spoke up, evidently trying to be kind, except that as usual, it came out condescending. “Sire, the lad is a simpleton. I’m sure that I speak for everyone when I say – ”

“Speak for yourself,” Gwaine interjected. He projected cheer and ease, but everyone at the table already knew that Gwaine only sounded like that as a prelude to drawing a blade, normally.

“ – eh.” Meliot’s glance flickered around the other men seated at the table, but he must have seen nothing worrisome, because he continued. “Well, that is to say… I’m sure he made a fine assistant to our former court physician, but he could hardly be expected to shoulder such a burden himself. It would be cruel, sire.”

Arthur blinked a few times, slow like a lizard. Still staring at Meliot, Arthur called again, “Merlin. Have a seat.” He spared a glance for Gaius’s now-empty chair further down on the left, near Geoffrey, but Arthur wasn’t blind to the way that Merlin had refused to go near it all through the dregs of usual council business that took up most of the morning.

He looked to the chair directly beside him instead, at his left hand, where no one had sat since Guinevere’s death. She would have approved, he thought. The memory of her smile, slow and sweet like sunlight, flickered through his mind. You will be a great king. There was so much of her in Merlin, or perhaps the reverse. They had both thought better of him than he deserved.

Purposefully, Arthur reached out the hand that had previously been a prop for his chin, and pushed the chair back at an angle so that Merlin could slip through. He dared anyone to challenge him simply by making no reaction whatsoever to the uncertain looks passing between his councilors. Leon, at least, wore a look very similar to Arthur’s, and Gwaine simply glared at the side of Meliot’s head as he very obnoxiously crunched his way through a third apple, probably wishing that he was crunching the cartilage in Meliot’s oversized nose instead.

Lord Howel cleared his throat and then seemed to second guess the wisdom of speaking before he offered, “Sire, we are simply concerned. If the boy is a competent physician, then by all means, he should inherit the position, but the council… Sire, you require wise and learned advice. Not…not the words of a peasant. Sire.”

Arthur swiveled around to get another look at Merlin impersonating a statue. He wasn’t exactly bolstering his own cause. “Merlin. Put that down and sit.”

Merlin startled, looked at his pitcher of wine, and then wandered in a circle in search of a table to set it upon. A few seats down, Leon could be heard snickering a bit, but it wasn’t mean. It also wasn’t helping.

Frustrated now, and on the edge of being embarrassed, Arthur stood up and snapped, “Drop the act. You’re not actually an idiot.” He strode over, grabbed the pitcher from Merlin, and set it on the floor with a pointed thunk. “See?” He held his hands out as if showcasing the feat of placing a pitcher on the floor. “All better. Now come on.” He hooked Merlin by an arm and walked him over to the table. In hindsight, he probably should have made his intentions clear to the council before springing Merlin on them like this. Or them on him, for that matter. Unfortunately, it was only going to get worse before it was over. “My Lords, may I present Merlin, freeman of Essetir and Camelot.” He pressed on Merlin’s shoulder, which wasn’t all that necessary as Merlin dropped like a stone into his seat before Arthur could do much beyond touch him. “I hereby appoint him to the vacant position of court physician, as he completed his apprenticeship to our former court physician over four years ago and is, in his own right, a qualified physician of the highest order. Further – ” And here, he addressed his remarks toward Meliot. “He will be my personal advisor on all matters that I deem appropriate. If that is a problem for anyone, you are invited to leave.”

“Sire, surely you’ve had your fun.”

Arthur leaned his hands on the table and faced Aymer. “What part of this seems like a jest, my Lord Aymer? The council’s concerns have been addressed, have they not? I would also point out that your queen was born a peasant. You could hardly object on the merits of Merlin’s station alone without also insulting her.”

In his periphery, Arthur saw Merlin grip at the edge of the table with both hands and squeeze until his knuckles turned white. “Sire.”

Arthur straightened and dropped his hand to Merlin’s shoulder, except that he flinched and ruined the effect. “I am waiting, Lord Aymer.”

Merlin’s shoulder tensed up into a knot beneath Arthur’s hand.

“Sire.” Aymer bowed his upper body, but it was not a concession. “With respect, our late queen was of uncommon grace. She cannot be compared to your…manservant.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, and only realized that he was clenching his hands when Merlin looked up at him, his shoulder still caught in the vice of Arthur’s now tightening fingers. He forced himself to relax. “He is entirely comparable in that regard.”

It was Meliot who dared respond to that, his distaste a thin veneer overtop courtly manners sharp and proper as knives. “Because he also shares your bed?”

Merlin very deliberately leaned away.

Arthur’s hand followed him, enlivened by the flush of temper he felt heating his face. “I beg your pardon, Sir Meliot.”

“Even the boy knows the impropriety of this,” Meliot pressed, gesturing to where Merlin appeared to be trying to disappear into his seat. “A king cannot reward his every consort with a court position.”

It was the inflection that did it, and Arthur felt his muscles easing as if in readiness for a sword battle. “Are you calling my late wife a whore?”

Sir Meliot blinked once and regrouped. “Of course not, sire. Your love for each other was obvious, and she was well suited to be your wife.”

“Ah.” He gave the man a predatory blink. “Then it is only Merlin you’re calling a whore.”

Merlin stirred unexpectedly at that. “Sire, please. It’s not worth it. I know my place.”

Arthur ignored him with a firm tap to the shoulder and moved away from his chair, to better stare down Sir Meliot. “Not that it is any of your concern who shares my bed or why, but rest assured, sir, that my court physician conducts himself with more propriety than you do, apparently. Or do you simply believe me the kind of king who would take advantage of a servant for his own personal pleasure?”

Meliot’s gaze darted back and forth between Arthur and various other members of the council. “Of course not, sire. I would never believe you to be dishonorable like that.”

“Oh, like that.” Arthur grinned and sauntered further around the table. “So there are other ways in which I am dishonorable, just not that one.”

“Sire – ”

“You forget yourself, Sir Meliot.”

“Excuse me, my lords.”

Arthur looked up at Merlin, surprised to see him standing, though he kept his eyes respectfully on the floor. Or perhaps it was just anger, or mortification. “Merlin, I will handle this.”

“By throwing down a gauntlet?” Merlin demanded. “I am not your maiden to defend, sire. With all due respect, I hardly need be present while you all argue about my honor, or lack thereof, without bothering to address me at all. My time would be better spent assisting the interim physician with his duties. If it pleases the council.” Without waiting for leave, Merlin bowed stiffly, spun around the chair Arthur had put him in, and stalked toward the servant’s entrance. Before he made it, though, he backstepped and turned toward them again, but as before, he kept his eyes down. “And in case anyone wondered, I am not the king’s new bedwarmer, and I do not whore myself out for anything, least of all a bloody royal appointment that I never asked for.” And then he was gone, and the heavy oak side door banged hard shut behind him.

Arthur blinked, and then Aymer remarked, “How dare he disrespect his king in such a manner?”

“I am not the one he disrespected, Lord Aymer.” Arthur backed down from Meliot with a frosty glare and ambled back to his chair. He caught a whiff of something like lightning in the air and realized why Merlin had kept his eyes so carefully downcast. “And I would caution you, before you decide to issue some sort of challenge against your supposedly stained honor, that Merlin answers to me. And only to me.”

Lord Howell cleared his throat. “Sire, if I may. We all know that the boy holds a place of honor for his service to you. Some of us were present when he pulled you out of the way of the Collin witch’s dagger, and was awarded the position as your manservant. He is, of course, completely devoted to your majesty and would follow you into any danger you faced. But we cannot conflate this with a suitability to judge matters of court. He is a simple lad, sire. It is commendable that he has learned the physician’s trade, but he is not fit for more. To expect him to take the place of a royal advisor is unfair to him. He will only be shamed when he fails.”

“You have such a low opinion of the man to whom I owe my life?”

“No, of course not.” Lord Howell shifted and glanced around in an effort to find support. A few people looked back, but there was no outpouring of camaraderie for him. “His actions were, of course, laudible. But it should not be mistaken for competence.”

Gwaine finally stirred at that. “Neither should nobility.” He continued to absently pick his teeth with a splintered bit of wood, which better not have come from the underside of the table. He was like a damn toddler.

Arthur flared his nostrils but sat in an effort to diffuse the situation, though it wasn’t what he wanted to do. It was simply the stronger diplomatic position to take just then. “This is not up for debate, gentlemen. It is already decided, and you will abide by it.” Arthur caught Sir Geoffrey’s eye, who appeared uncomfortable at the conversation raging around him. “Sir Geoffrey, you have drawn up the necessary papers?”

“Yes, sire.” Geoffrey leaned back to pass a scroll to a lad standing behind him. “The appointment and compensation is laid out in detail.”

The boy held out the scroll timidly and Arthur smiled at him, little thing that he was. “If there is nothing else, gentlemen?” Arthur rose without waiting for anyone to bring up a new subject, or to rehash the old one, and the counsel rose as well in his wake with a chorus of scraping chairs, creaking limbs and visible ire. Leon followed him silently to the servant’s door, and after a moment spent staring Lords Aymer and Howell, and Sir Meliot out of the room for posterity, so did Gwaine.

Once out in the back corridor, Arthur flung his gauntlet at a wall and then kicked it for good measure. It went skittering off down the corridor and bumped into a cabinet before stopping.

And of course, Leon just had to point out, “Merlin’s going to have to fix that.”

Arthur paused and curled his fingers into his palms, the fine leather of his gloves creaking at the strain. With a great deal of false cheer, Arthur remarked, “I hate them. The whole fat lot of them. They’re utterly useless.”

Gwaine wandered over, thumbs hooked in his sword belt, eyes unfocused and meandering somewhere down toward the far end of the corridor. “You lack confidence, and they know it.”

Arthur and Leon both blinked over at him, startled.

Still musing at a point in the distance, Gwaine explained, “You’re not the king when you’re in there. You aren’t ruling. You’re asking them to agree with you, and they never will.”

A year ago, Gwaine’s words would have roused Arthur to a fine temper, but now, he merely considered this habitual drunken flirt that most took for a handsome fool who happened to be good at swordplay. “What do you mean? I am the king.”

“But you don’t act like it.” Gwaine swayed himself back from wherever he’d gone and gave both of them an unconvincing grin. How had Arthur never seen the melancholy in it before? “A king is a leader. He asks for advice from his counselors, not complicity or compromise. He doesn’t rule with them; he rules them. If you acted like this on the battlefield, no one would follow you. It’s the same in there – it’s just another battlefield, with less blood and better clothes.”

Arthur rotated to face him properly. “I’m listening.”

Gwaine blinked, perhaps surprised by that, and then schooled himself again. “When we face an army, you ask for reports. You ask for intelligence. You ask about past battles with similar features. You hear what everyone has to say, and then you decide for yourself what we’re doing. You don’t ask us to accept the plan, you tell us what we’re doing, and the only part that we have to decide for ourselves is how to execute our part of it. What you’re doing in there is a negotiation, no matter how you phrase things. And the only place for that is after the battle is won.”

Leon stared at Gwaine as if he’d never seen him before, much the same as Arthur suspected he was doing. Then Leon guffawed and smacked him on the shoulder. “It’s almost like you know what you’re talking about.”

Gwaine shared in the ribbing with a grin and flipped his hair out of his eyes. “Being Lot’s son is good for something.” He looked down and ignored Leon’s attempt not to suddenly drop his jaw at that revelation. He sketched a mockery of a courtly bow, but there wasn’t much actual mockery in it. “You aren’t weak, princess. Stop acting like it.”

There wasn’t much that Arthur could think to say to that, so he merely nodded, and watched Gwaine shamble off out of sight with his half-eaten apple and his wood splinter.

* * *

~TBC~

Chapter 6

Arthur took a sudden, disbelieving breath as the piercing, formless light resolved around the shape of a man. “Father.”

“Arthur.” Uther’s face appeared pale, backlit like a shadow, and soft. There was kindness there in the lines around his mouth, and the smoothness of his eyes, which Arthur could only remember as creases of concern or worse while he’d lived.

It was relief that made Arthur’s breath come faster, shaking his head as he confessed, “I thought I’d never see you again.” He watched a smile hint its way into the line of Uther’s mouth. “There isn’t a day that passes when I don’t think of you.”

“And I you.”

It felt overwhelming. Arthur could barely breathe through the emotion clogging his chest, the memory of holding his father close with blood on his hands, trying desperately to think through the haze of alcohol and some heavier drug, how to get help, how to stop this, make it a nightmare and nothing more. The horrible empty feeling of sitting beside a corpse and knowing that he put it there not because he failed or because his ambitions got the better of him, but because he had loved and made the wrong choice. “There are times when I feel so alone, I wish more than anything that you were by my side.”

“If I were at your side, I fear you would not like all that I have to say.” It was an apology and a kindness, but a harsh one.

It hurt. All Arthur wanted was his father’s pride – his approval. To know that he was doing a good job. Arthur furrowed his brow, and that old familiar shame invaded his chest – the feeling that he was a disappointment, and not worth the sacrifice of life that made his birth possible. But he wanted to be worth the loss that bore him. He wanted to make his father proud – make him shed the regret he must have carried for wanting Arthur at all. And he needed guidance, because he didn’t think he was doing well as king. He wasn’t thriving, and he feared that his kingdom wouldn’t either. “What do you mean?”

“Many of the decisions you’ve made since you’ve become king go against all that I taught you.”

Arthur looked down. It would have been easier to bear if it had been said in anger or disappointment. But Uther’s voice, his face, displayed only love and understanding. “I have done what I believe to be right.”

“You have ignored our tradition,” Uther replied, and as he came closer, some of the familiar hardness crossed his countenance. “Our ancient lores. You have allowed common men to become knights.”

This was an old disagreement, and something that Arthur at least knew how to argue about with his father. And defending his men was easy; it hardly needed thought to tell the truth of that. “And they are some of the finest knights that Camelot’s ever known.”

Uther’s face darkened into something more like himself when living.

“Arthur injected more surety into his voice when he insisted, "They would gladly give their lives for the kingdom.”

“They question your decisions. They make you look weak.”

Arthur turned as his father stepped around behind him, feeling a bit as if he were being outflanked on a field of battle. “Listening to others is a sign of strength, not…weakness.” Wasn’t it? Hadn’t Uther taught him to listen to the council of his betters?

The sneer that Arthur remembered so well materialized on Uther’s face like a murk of mud and silt surfacing in a billow in shallow water, stirred by careless footsteps. “How do you expect anyone to fear a king who does not know his own mind?”

Arthur swallowed because that hit too close to home. He doubted himself, and he knew it, and he had no idea what he wanted beyond each individual moment – what he wanted from his life or for his own legacy, or if he had any wants or goals at all. He stumbled over his words when he replied, “I don’t want my people to respect me because they fear me.”

“Then they will not respect you at all.”

* * *

Arthur left Leon at the armory and continued on toward the physician’s chambers. He wanted to make sure that Merlin understood that no consensus of the court was needed, and that he was now the Court Physician. More though, Arthur needed to apologize because none of that had gone well, and he should have had better control of both his counselors and his temper. He resisted the impulse to squeeze the scroll in his hand detailing the appointment, and glanced down at his royal seal inscribed in an uneven circle of red wax. The council would never have disrespected his father like that. But they had feared his father. Arthur didn’t think himself capable of ruling that way. He didn’t like being thought a tyrant. And Merlin wouldn’t ever smile at him again if he were. But Gwaine was right; Arthur’s authority with the counsel was lacking, king or no, and that had to change.

Arthur shook himself and paused in the corridor to watch the door at the end. He could recall seeing it open all of the time, welcoming visitors, when he had been a small child, before Morgana came to live with them. His nurses could never keep reliable track of him back then, and he seemed to end up here more often than not, the path a well-tread memory in his mind. Usually, the sun would be shining though the high narrow windows of the staircase, spilling out through the open infirmary door like a beacon. Gaius had been young then, his hair darker, like autumn leaves, and his face smooth. Uther would be in there too as often as not. Arthur wondered how such a friendship had grown, if Uther’s close kindness to his personal physician formed in direct proportion to the fear of someone assassinating him in the same manner as his brother Aurelius, through poison in a medicine bottle. Or if once, they had been alike, and perhaps Uther had been as Arthur was: partly blind to rank when considering the merits of a good man. That door had been closed more than open now for decades. Gaius’s comfort with his position at court must have waned. He had spent the best part of his adult life alone in there, hiding. Perhaps it was he who passed the inclination to Merlin. Or perhaps it was Arthur’s conduct that had caused that.

Merlin might not even be in there. Arthur assumed, of course, but Merlin had been hard to pin down lately, never lurking exactly where Arthur expected. A gentle clatter rang forth, however, so he took a deep breath and readied himself for an apology and a bit of a humbling. He had done his servant a disservice by allowing doubt to be cast on his honor and his competence, and for focusing on his own indignation rather than on putting those doubts to rest. They had more to talk about besides, because Arthur still had every intention of giving Merlin back the noble status that had been stripped from Balinor, but he saw now why Geoffrey had been so adamant in advising caution. The court was not stable, and that was Arthur’s fault. He needed to be a better leader if he wanted to fix it, but he would need help for that.

The door pushed open easily with a creak of wooden hinges, and Arthur squinted at the bright light pouring through the windows to the left. His entrance stirred a sharp draft and in the swirl of dust kicked up off of the floor, for just a moment, Arthur saw Guinevere standing in the light, in her yellow maid’s dress. She had a hand raised as if reaching to grasp Merlin’s shoulder in gentle concern, like the friend she had once been. Arthur tripped on the threshold and by the time he caught himself, she was gone, the vision little more than a remnant of seeing her here years ago, cast into the settling dust like a knife to his chest. He breathed heavily for a moment, his heart racing, fingers white where they gripped the doorjamb. Merlin seemed oblivious to Arthur even being there. He stood facing the shelves of dried herbs, chin tipped up with the fingers of one hand absently tapping at his chest.

Arthur stood upright on wobbly legs and forced himself to find some measure of composure again. “Merlin?” He nearly cringed at how thready and pitched it came out.

Merlin swayed as he came back to himself and tipped his head around to look at Arthur, his eyes like mirrored seas reflecting the shine of an overcast sky, unnatural.

Quickly but carefully, Arthur set the sealed scroll onto a worktop and crossed the room to get a better look at him. Merlin turned vaguely to face him and smiled softly at Arthur’s chest. Spidery fingers reached out to tap at Arthur’s tunic laces and the royal pendant before Merlin hummed a bit and flickered his unfocused gaze back to where the bottles of powdered herbs twinkled in the sunlight, watery blue irises drowning his pupils. His fingers hooked into Arthur’s collar and hung there.

“Come sit down,” Arthur told him, pulling at his arm. He remained calm through some supernatural aegis because in his mind and the sink of his stomach, he was terrified to see this again. “Come on.” He plucked Merlin’s hand off and drew him toward the worktable by it. Merlin went without protest, loose as if he’d been at the ale, a large fluttery moth on a string. “Sit,” Arthur encouraged, his own voice hoarse and gentle. He pushed several bowls and supplies away from the edge of the table – out of Merlin’s reach – and then straddled the bench behind him. “Sit there. Just relax. Everything will be fine.”

Merlin’s head weaved as he looked up at some point of nothing near the ceiling, gentle like waves made by the wind across the top of a wheat field. Arthur tugged him back into his body, one arm tucked up under Merlin’s with a few fingers still caught in his grasp. Some hint of awareness must have remained for a moment because Merlin frowned and wobbled his gaze down to where his fingers were tangled up with Arthur's, but then he took a sudden, deep breath that expanded his torso. His free hand dropped to Arthur’s leg, tucked tight against his hip, and he tensed up with several sharp gulps of air as if he were hyperventilating, or about to be sick. Arthur moved with him briefly and then grimaced as Merlin’s muscles contracted and pulled in, fingers gouging hard into the meaty part of Arthur’s palm where their hands rested over Merlin’s chest, his other hand twisting and pulling at Arthur’s trouser leg, breath going choppy like freezing to death in the snow.

“It’s alright.” Arthur wasn’t sure who he said it for more, since he didn’t think Merlin was exactly aware right now. The back of Merlin’s head dug into Arthur’s shoulder even as the rest of his upper body curled forward over their joined hands and juddered like the moment after hypothermia breaks, and Arthur fought the urge to restrict his movements and cause more harm by it. “Alright. I’ve got you. It’s alright.” Arthur kept his eyes unfocused and fixed forward, stoic and resolute that he shouldn’t look if he didn’t have to. He was aware of the painfully hard clench of Merlin’s jaw where the line of it pressed against Arthur’s cheek, and of the uneven shaking of limbs like a severe palsy as Merlin’s body curled into itself in some places and flexed away in others. The blood rushing though Arthur’s head throbbed like being underwater – like the fight or flight impulse of facing a coming battle, surreal, as if he were standing two steps to one side of himself, marooned on the wrong side of his own skin. He could smell something unnatural in the air, dragons and water and dusty sunshine that hurt his eyes, and the flowers tucked into his wife’s hair, and blood running across rocks where his sister lay dead. It reeked like screaming and desperation, and tasted like fear as he clutched and dragged back the only thing still living in that place with him. Merlin twisted up to one side, curled into Arthur’s chest, his legs drawing up against the bench legs where one foot began to tap out uneven staccatos against the wood. An elongated grunt sheered from Merlin’s throat like a rockfall, or a dragon’s cry, or just simple agony held at bay.

The moment shattered and dragged Arthur back to the present in a rush of sound as the door swung inward at the other end of the room. Arthur found himself blinking hard as Gwaine’s still form swam into view, frozen momentarily on the threshold in shock tinged with rust and fury. When Gwaine started to lunge forward, Leon appeared to grab him and haul him back. Arthur breathed too fast, disoriented and unable to understand the words behind the harsh arguing that ensued. He held Merlin’s painfully convulsing form, a thick curl of pointed limbs and stacked ribs held tight to itself in Arthur’s arms, the cord of tendon in his neck set out in sharp relief too close to Arthur’s face for him to pretend he didn’t see. The only clear sound in the room was that of the broken bursts of air forcing its way through Merlin’s flared nostrils, the insistent broken tap-tap-tap of one foot, and the click of choked-off noises caught fast in Merlin’s throat. 

Arthur looked up at a swirl of movement in his periphery to find Gwaine standing next to them, calm now, his face pained. He started to reach out and then all but flung himself away, his back to Arthur and his discarded hand clenched at his side. “It’s alright,” Arthur told him. His own voice sounded stupid in his ears. “It will pass in a moment.”

Gwaine glanced over his shoulder, incredulous, eyes skimming over Merlin and Arthur both as if he didn't want to look, but couldn't help the morbid urge to glance. Then he shook his head and moved farther away. Arthur knew how he felt; he didn’t know how he was handling it either. Merlin seemed to be breathing more easily now at least, if still heavy in hard flaps like a thick woven standard whipped about by wind gusts on the battlement. A rapid heartbeat hammered against the side of his hand, still pressed to Merlin’s chest, and Arthur's body relaxed in increments, timed to the slow stilling and unfurling of Merlin’s until they were breathing in synch, and Merlin seemed to be doing little more than twitching now and then. Arthur listened to something that sounded like hiccups – sharp pips of sound tagged at the end of each inhale as Merlin’s limbs gave tiny leftover jerks against Arthur’s, and then Merlin shuddered once more and slumped in his arms, panting as if he’d run for miles. His head lolled back on Arthur’s shoulder and his fingers nearly slipped from Arthur’s grasp. His chest kept spasming in widening intervals accompanied by a few latent tics of his head against Arthur’s shoulder, bleeding off the overexertion of muscles not accustomed to working so hard.

Arthur took several breaths to calm himself and soothe the burning in his lungs, then swallowed the last one. It took a moment for him to realize that the seasick feeling came from his own subtle rocking, back and forth, back and forth with Merlin draped limp over his chest and arms. He stopped and tried to get a look at Merlin’s face. Slits of dull blue shone from behind half-lowered lids, uncomfortably reminiscent of the way someone’s face looked freshly dead, slack in that instant when the breath leaves them but the warmth of the skin has not. Arthur forced back the kick in his chest at that thought and made himself notice the whistling of air in Merlin’s throat - the movement of life in his body. He wasn’t unconscious, but he wasn’t truly awake either.

“It never left you, did it.”

Arthur’s breath hitched as he looked up.

“Whatever happened out there.” Gwaine nodded in no particular direction, just out, but there was no mistaking that he meant the day Guinevere died. Arthur had come back different. Everyone had noticed.

“It was bad,” Arthur agreed. His voice didn’t sound like his own.

“Is that where this started?”

“Probably,” Arthur whispered.

Gwaine merely nodded and sighed. “Sorry I shouted.”

Arthur ticked his head in a negative gesture, because he hadn't really noticed.

“It looked like you were hurting him.” Gwaine wandered around past the table and poked at the open food cupboard. “Leon’s gone for help. Not sure I trust the mole man, though.”

“Hubert.” Arthur considered that for a moment. “I think. I can never remember his name.”

Gwaine grunted in agreement and fished out a little pot of dried leaves. He sniffed them, considered, and then took them over to the fire.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Making tea.” Gwaine poked an iron rod at the fire until it flared back up, then swung a kettle over it.

“Tea.” Arthur frowned doubtfully.

“Only useful thing my mother ever taught me. Well.” He grinned. “That and how to cheat your way through life.”

Arthur gave him a stern look, but Merlin stirred before he could retort. “Easy.” He angled both of them forward so that Merlin could sit up a bit and cast a bleary stare at the mess on the worktable. He nearly pitched forward a moment later, so Arthur kept an arm around him and let him brace his hands on Arthur’s knees.

By the time Gwaine stepped into view with a few cups balanced carefully in his hands, Merlin had his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, possibly fighting nausea or a bit of room spinning. His muscles were better than jelly, at least, and Arthur no longer needed to prop him up. He continued to weave a bit where he sat, though, gently listing to the right as if keeping his balance in a fishing boat. “Hey, Merls.” Gwaine nudged him as if afraid he might knock him straight over again. “Drink up. It’s, um…leaf tea.”

Merlin wobbled his head to look at the proffered cup and stared at it until Gwaine pushed it under his nose, at which point something automatic took over. Merlin wrapped his hands around the warmth of it, but he didn’t drink it. His nose nearly touched the rim of the cup as he frowned at it.

Arthur wrinkled his face up when Gwaine went to hand him one too. “Is it safe? You don’t even know what it is.”

“It’s tea,” Gwaine replied as if Arthur were the slow one. “It was in the food cupboard. Why wouldn’t it be safe?”

Arthur could think of a dozen reasons to suspect it, actually, but he accepted the cup anyway and took a sip quickly to make sure it wasn’t going to kill them all. Only after he swallowed did it occur to him what he was doing, and he considered that he should be more charitable in future to Merlin’s insistence on being Arthur’s food tester. From this side of the thing, it made perfect sense to Arthur why Merlin would have no qualms or hesitation about doing it for him. “Chamomile,” Arthur announced, and then scrubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I hate chamomile.”

Gwaine gave him a wide grin. “Good thing I didn’t really make it for you, then.” He poked Merlin’s arm and his smile nearly flickered out when Merlin looked at him with only the slightest sense of recognition. “Drink that,” Gwaine told him, more gentle about it than Arthur had ever heard him.

Merlin finally seemed to realize that he had a drink in his hands and took an uncoordinated sip. It consisted more of him lowering his face to the cup than of lifting the cup to his mouth.

Gwaine snagged an apple from amongst the detritus of the bench and bumped it into the back of Merlin’s hand until Merlin dropped his fingers around it, but he didn’t do anything other than hold it. Gwaine frowned. “How long does this last?”

Arthur shrugged and rubbed his hand vigourously between Merlin’s shoulder blades before shifting to tuck his hair away from his face and then fix his skewed neckerchief. “A candlemark or so.”

Gwaine watched Arthur fuss with the collar of Merlin’s tunic next, and then remarked, apropos of nothing, “Why don’t you just tell him that you love him?”

For a moment, Arthur didn’t move, and then he shoved to his feet without much thought for where he was going. “I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

When Arthur looked back, hands restless on his hips, it was to see Gwaine using his boot knife to cut the apple into slices that he lined up near Merlin’s hand. Arthur had to look away again, his mind swimming. A vision struck him, like a horrible memory, of ash kicking up like fog in the orange light of the setting sun, and apple slices sweet on his tongue. He’d done a bad thing, but his father was smiling and proud and it felt like he loved Arthur, so it must have been good. Eventually, Arthur heard crunching and directed himself to the table again, where Merlin was eating the apple slices carefully, seeming more present as he watched Gwaine clean his knife. “You’re very protective of him.”

Gwaine didn’t bother looking up from what he was doing, but the knife must have been clean by now. “Took you long enough to notice.”

“No, it didn’t.” Arthur wandered closer and Merlin looked up at him, eyes mostly focused. His smile went to Merlin, but the words were for Gwaine. “You’ve always been. Why?”

“I’ve told you before,” Gwaine replied. He acted like it wasn’t important, or that he was only giving the conversation the bare minimum of his attention, but Arthur had seen him fight. He knew the ruse for what it was. “He never expects any praise. He does things just for the good of doing them, as if there isn’t any limit to how much of himself he can give.” He finally gave up on the knife and set it down, watching Merlin watch Arthur without recognition. “There is, though; everyone has limits. Somebody has to look out for his, because he won’t.”

“Yes, but why you?”

“He’s my friend.” Gwaine met Merlin’s gaze when he looked over at the sound of his voice, and he grinned, soft and private. “I don’t have many.”

“Merlin has lots of friends,” Arthur countered, unhappy with the clench of jealousy in his chest as Merlin returned the smile without thought, but too aware of it to give in to the pettiness.

Gwaine shook his head, off-hand like it meant nothing to him that Arthur even existed. “No, he doesn’t. And too many of the ones that were are dead now.”

Arthur took that in for a moment. “Why do you call him a friend?”

At first, it seemed that Gwaine wouldn’t answer, but with Merlin still vague on his surroundings and focused again on tea and apple wedges, he finally said, “Because even when I was just some drunk in a tavern, he looked at me like I mattered.” Gwaine appeared uncomfortable with the conversation, but he wasn’t the sort to back down just because something bothered him. “And that never changed. No matter what he’s found out about me, or what I’ve done, or who I tell him I am, he still looks at me the same.” More to himself, or perhaps to Merlin, Gwaine added, “Like I mean something.”

There was pride in that, and Arthur tried to imagine what would have made a king’s son, even Lot’s, ever believe that he didn’t. Even at Uther’s worst criticisms, Arthur had known his own worth.

“You can’t expect him to keep living like this.”

Arthur only realized he had turned to stare blankly at a window when he had to look back at Gwaine’s words.

“In a kingdom where magic is banned.” Gwaine looked at Arthur, his face stern with disapproval, and maybe with some sympathy for a king who still lived in another’s shadow. “It will kill him, and I don’t mean by your fires.”

Arthur didn’t have a chance to respond to that because Merlin took the opportunity to twist on the bench and grip Gwaine’s shoulder. He made an admonishing noise and Gwaine just shook his head. Merlin looked over at Arthur instead, his eyes bleary, but his face somewhat back to normal, back in the room with them.

Arthur walked back over and dropped onto the bench opposite Merlin at the table. “How are you feeling?”

Merlin looked down for a moment and visibly struggled to find the right word before slurring out, “Sore.”

Arthur nodded. “The physician is coming. I mean, I’m sure you’re fine, but Leon… Never mind.” He waved away everything he was saying because Merlin was looking at him in confusion. “He’ll look you over just to be sure.”

“Gaius?” Merlin brightened and looked behind himself, then down at where Arthur had found the body. “No,” Merlin answered himself.

“No,” Arthur breathed in apology. He watched Merlin scrub at his chest and then the tabletop for a moment, obviously trying to orient himself better. “We were at council this morning,” Arthur offered.

Merlin nodded, then looked down at himself. “Not my clothes?”

“No. I mean yes, they are now. But…no.” Arthur was pretty sure he wasn’t helping anything. “Who is that?” he asked, pointing at Gwaine.

Merlin glared at him for a bleary heartbeat, looked at Gwaine, and then stalled on the answer.

Gwaine looked gutted for a bare second, but recovered before Merlin noticed. “It’s fine,” Gwaine chirped. “Look, drink that.” He mussed up Merlin’s hair to make him huff and smile like a five year old, and then shot Arthur a frightened look.

Arthur shook his head to dismiss the concern. “Merlin, what kingdom are we in?”

“Albion.”

“Yes, but which part?”

Merlin frowned, then finally said, “Your part. That’s Gwaine.” He hooked his thumb at said knight and then grunted in protest when he found himself accosted with some kind squeezy bear hug. “Stop, m’fine.” He smacked Gwaine away and then gripped the table’s edge to keep his balance where he sat.

Arthur laughed at the indignant way that Gwaine straightened himself back out, like a great big agitated bird, then addressed Merlin again. “Do you remember what happened this morning?”

“Elise.” Merlin turned the cup of half-drunk tea in a circle. “Sewing.” He blinked several times in rapid succession and stared off into nothing for a moment. “Gwaine ate apples at council.” Merlin’s gaze returned to Arthur. “Did you challenge someone?” Then something else occurred to him and he paled. “Did I yell at the council?”

Gwaine snorted. “Nothing they didn’t deserve.”

“Oh my god.” Merlin buried his face against the table. “I’m for the stocks, aren’t I.”

Arthur waved that off. “Since I put you on the council, you can address it whenever you like.”

Merlin rolled his forehead against the table and then snapped his head up. “You what?”

“Put you on the council,” Arthur repeated slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. He regretted that immediately, because it was too close just now, but he was used to addressing Merlin like that whenever he needed to repeat something.

A measure of syrupy slur came out in Merlin’s words, in spite of the deliberate way he pronounced them, when he asked, “Why did you do that?” He sounded genuinely curious, at least, rather than indignant about it the way he had been that morning when Arthur told him of his new appointment.

Arthur swallowed. “I named you Court Physician. We talked about it this morning?”

Merlin tilted his head and then shook it like a sailor draining water from his ear. Then he looked at the diminished pile of apple slices in front of him, and the barely-touched tea. With evident care not to knock anything over, he pulled his hands back and let them drop into his lap, his eyes fixed on the table’s edge. “I can’t.”

“Merlin – ”

“Look at me,” Merlin exhorted, but there was shame in the curve of his neck and the way he hid his face. “I couldn’t even remember his name a moment ago.” He flapped some fingers against Gwaine’s arm as if he’d misjudged the distance between them. “And you’re going to trust me with patients?”

“It’ll pass,” Arthur argued. He let out a huff and tried to laugh Merlin’s concern off as nerves. “You lived like this a year with no one the wiser. It doesn’t stop you doing your chores, or writing my speeches – ”

“Because I can stop when I have to. And if I mess up or get confused, no one is going to die because I washed laundry in the wrong bucket, or left it in a corner somewhere and forgot. And you expect me to be late everywhere, or to disappear for a day, and it doesn’t matter. What if there’s an emergency? Or I accidentally mix a potion wrong?” Merlin interrupted. “Or give you the wrong bottle? What if I poison you because I can’t – ” He visibly searched for a word that would adequately describe what happens when a fit is coming on, or after. He gave up quickly though, perhaps because he didn’t want to name it. “Arthur, it’s not safe for me to do this.”

Arthur refused that outright, head shaking to negate it out of hand. “There have got to be treatments for this. Something to make them stop, or come less. Gaius said he had herbs.”

“I don’t know what they are, or how to prepare them – Gaius didn’t get a chance to tell me. I don’t even know where he put them. And that's just more proof - if I were really ready to be the Court Physician, I'd already know how to treat this.”

“Gaius consulted his books all of the time - he didn't just store everything in his head. And after a lifetime of studying medicine, even he couldn't make you better on a whim.” Arthur pushed away from the table again and paced to the ledge below the window that overlooked the courtyard. He couldn’t see anything on the ground from where he stood, but he could see up to where a few lone puffy clouds floated in a bright sky. "We'll figure it out."

“I don’t know when they’re coming,” Merlin pressed. “What if someone is bleeding out and I just…”

Arthur listened to him trail off and pictured the gesture he would have made, like a toppling motion, or like presenting a gloriously dead body on the table before him. He didn’t respond, but he did wonder why he was so adamant about this, that Merlin should be the Court Physician – that he should have this title. It felt as if he, Arthur, were the one being cheated. He didn’t like the feeling that it was selfish of him to want this when Merlin kept indicating that maybe he didn’t, or shouldn’t. And his points were valid, and that just…rankled.

Thankfully, Leon appeared again with a soft knock on the door, and Arthur only had to say, “We’ll discuss this later,” before retreating with Gwaine to stand near the door where Leon hovered.

Uninvited, Gwaine murmured, “He may be right.”

Arthur merely treated him to baleful look and Gwaine took the hint to back off. He spied the sealed royal appointment sitting innocuously on the little table near Merlin’s elbow, unopened and unnoticed. It made him angry only because he felt helpless over it. He faced Leon instead. “Where’s the physician?”

“Overseeing a birth,” Leon replied. “I told him we knew how to manage it, but he’ll come if you order it. I told him it wasn’t necessary to leave the woman but that you’ll want him later, when he’s free.”

It wasn’t ideal, but Arthur could hardly insist on the man’s presence when Merlin seemed to be coming out of it alright, and some poor woman travailing was far more important. “Alright.”

“He gave me instructions on a sleeping draught, if we need to keep him calm.” Leon pulled out a folded piece of parchment from his sleeve, under the wrist guard. “Said it’s already prepared, he saw it on the shelves this morning.” Leon frowned down at the parchment as if he couldn’t read the writing. “Purple liquid, labeled with a….this thing.” He pointed at some kind of runic scribble.

Arthur squinted in an effort to also make it out; it looked familiar. He’d seen it often enough in Morgana’s chambers. Arthur looked back past his shoulder to find Merlin fingering the edges of the wax seal on the royal appointment. He seemed…wistful. He looked like he wanted it, but knew he couldn’t take it – as if it wasn’t his. The sun winked in through the window, a rolling susurration of light intermittently hidden by clouds, and Arthur watched the shine paint a haze in the dust of the room, and around the puffs of disordered hair on Merlin’s head, a fuzzy illumination that cast his face into shadow. Eventually, Arthur confessed out loud, “Guinevere was in here.”

Both Leon and Gwaine stopped making silent communications with each other in favor of staring at him.

“I saw her standing in the light.” Arthur felt his face go soft around the edges as he watched Merlin pick at the ribbon on the scroll and then drag the parchment over in front of himself. “She was wearing her yellow dress.”

Leon threw a quick look at Gwaine, and then said, “Sire, are you…”

“I’m not mad,” Arthur murmured. He kept his eyes trained on Merlin breaking the seal quietly and then fingering the parchment as if unsure whether he should open it the rest of the way or not. “I know she wasn’t there. It was a trick of the light.”

Finally, Merlin bit his lip and unrolled a bit of the parchment. His finger traced a few of the letters, but he was shaking his head gently back and forth, and seemed upset by it.

Arthur looked down for a moment, and then addressed Leon again. “Is he right?”

The change in subject threw Leon off for a moment. “Sire?”

“Is this too much to put on him,” Arthur clarified lowly, “in his current condition?”

Leon blinked a few times. “No, sire.” He said it as if he couldn’t even understand why Arthur would ask such a thing. “And…with respect, he has earned the position. You cannot take it away from him now.”

All of them fell silent when Merlin struggled to his feet and retreated across the room, unsteady but determined, leaving the scroll behind on the table. Arthur looked at it, at how Merlin had apparently tried to crumple part of it, and then raised his eyes again in time to catch the thump of the tower room door closing.

Gwaine sighed off to one side. “I think he heard us.”

Arthur shook his head and wandered back over to the table to smooth out the royal appointment. They all went still for a moment at the sound of something breaking in the closed room above them, and then ignored it after the second deliberate crash of glass and clay. Arthur sighed once everything went silent again, started to head across the room, and then stopped, uncertain. People needed space sometimes to work through their anger, but Arthur knew that for himself, he always wanted Merlin near when things bothered him, even when he knew how unbearable he could be to his servant. Arthur didn’t know if he should intrude, if it would be welcome, if Merlin’s anger were similar to Arthur’s or not. Another thump sounded from the tower room, a lonely little thud of frustration. Arthur looked to Gwaine for some sort of cue because as much as he hated to admit it, Gwaine understood Merlin better at times, and this was likely one of them.

Gwaine huffed and gave him a nasty look, then approached the tower room himself. “Merlin!” He knocked on the door and propped a shoulder against the wall of the little alcove. “Are you decent, mate?”

Arthur retrieved the royal appointment, then came up behind Gwaine. Leon followed after a longer moment of reflection. They exchanged a look at the sound of broken glass and other bits being swept into a pile. With a brief reconsideration of the thought that Merlin might be better left alone for now, Arthur tried the door. He was actually surprised when it opened. Through the narrow crack he made, Arthur could see the back of Merlin’s head where he knelt on the other side of the narrow cot, bowed low as his shoulder blades flexed beneath the fine tunic Arthur had given him, moving in time with the sweeping motion of his hands.

Arthur shuffled in and took in the clutter that seemed to be Merlin’s natural state, pushing a blanket and a few books out of the way with his boot. It hadn't taken long for the mess to migrate back across the floor after Gaius had lain here in wait. Merlin sniffed, a delicate sound, and slowed in his sweeping of glass and terra cotta shards. Arthur stepped around the bed, eyes caught on the bare back of Merlin's neck and the overlapping cuts there, old ridges of scar tissue, to find Merlin using his neckerchief to push the shards into a neat pile without cutting himself. He stopped as soon as Arthur’s shadow fell on him, and worried at the cloth in his hands instead. “Did you really see her?”

It wasn’t at all what Arthur expected him to say. “It was just a trick of the light.” Was it cruel to dismiss it when Merlin seemed to think it significant enough to mention? “She wasn’t really there.”

Merlin wagged his head and looked down so that Arthur couldn’t see his face. “I can hear her sometimes.”

“Merlin…” Arthur warned, fighting not to glance behind him where Gwaine and Leon were no doubt trading uneasy looks.

“I know you don’t want to talk about her,” Merlin allowed. And that seemed to be the end of it; whatever was bothering him about that, he wouldn’t share it with Arthur because the only times they brought her up anymore was when they were shouting at each other.

Arthur glanced back to find Leon and Gwaine loitering in a farce of privacy in the doorway, then took a breath and sat on the cot so that his knees threatened to brush up against the side of Merlin’s ribcage. He could see bits of colored glass in the pile of darker bits of thin stone, clay and pewter on the floor near Merlin’s trouser leg. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about her. Or pretend she was never here.”

But Merlin refused to engage in that conversation, and instead bent to start collecting the broken chips of what might have been a bowl into his neckerchief, cupped in the palm of his hand. “I’ll see to your chambers this afternoon, sire. I need to run medicines to the lower town first.”

Arthur blinked at the side of his head a few times. “George can see to my chambers, and Hubert can see to the medicines for another day, at least.”

“I’d rather do it myself.” Merlin folded the neckerchief around the little pile of sharp edges and chips, then clambered stiffly to his feet.

“You should be resting.” Arthur followed suit, fighting not to crush the royal appointment in a fit of frustration with Merlin’s bull-headedness. “And I’ve promoted you, Merlin. You don’t clean my chambers anymore.”

Merlin puttered about near the cupboard with the wrapped shards in one hand, apparently looking for someplace to put them. “And I’m grateful. But I think we both know it won’t work.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Both of them stopped their awkward prevaricating to look at Leon, including Gwaine.

“It’s…emasculating,” Leon went on, cautious and yet strangely determined. “To be sick or injured, and have no control over it. To feel shamed or weak. But it’s only weak if you give into it.”

Merlin sucked in his lower lip and bit down briefly. “I can’t endanger patients. And I don’t mind being a servant. There’s no shame in that.”

“But you’re not a servant,” Leon argued. “You’re a lord. The last dragonlord. It deserves some acknowledgement.”

Merlin’s face creased and wrinkled in a disbelieving sort of laugh. “And you’re going to tell everyone that? Make me a lord on that claim?” The expression on his face, bright with irony and no small amount of bitter humor, made it clear how ludicrous he thought that was. “It’s not even legal for me to be alive here.”

“Arthur will change that,” Leon insisted, looking to said king for support.

But Arthur froze, his mind stuck on his father’s dead face and Guinevere’s dead face, and his sister’s dead face, and countless others dead by magic. He wanted to agree – he did agree, and he’d told Leon as much just a few days ago, but it wouldn’t come. He’d implied it to Merlin too. But just then, faced with it in the light of day in front of his sorcerer and his knights, the words stuck.

Gwaine merely stood there, unusually silent, and appeared to be recategorizing people in his head. So he had known about Merlin’s magic, but none of the rest. He did glance at Arthur, though, and seemed to understand what was going on because he grimaced in some kind of unhappy sympathy.

Arthur’s silence did not seem to surprise Merlin; he merely gave a noncommittal nod and turned away to shuffle things around on a table near the cot to clear a place to set down the bundle of broken pieces. As if he heard the words every time Arthur spoke them, and even believed that Arthur may have meant them, but knew better than to expect anything to come of it. And it hurt, because Arthur understood – he feared the same thing: that when it came down to it, he wouldn’t be able to reverse what his father had done, or overcome the fear and hostility it had bred in his own heart. He’d gone back on that sentiment before, hadn’t he? He’d allowed that he may have been wrong about magic, and then he’d reasserted his father’s claims as if they were his own, repeatedly.

For his part, Leon stared for a moment, visibly made an effort to regroup after that utter failure to reassure, and then breathed out as he turned away with one hand harshly smoothing his beard down into a tuft under his chin. Arthur had never felt the sting of Leon’s disappointment before; it practically smothered him now, frantic like bees under his skin. He looked back to Merlin in time for their eyes to meet, and made an impulse decision. His fingers scrabbled at the chain of the royal pendant around his neck, and then he yanked it off over his head.

Merlin gave him a strange look and backed up a step. “What are you doing?”

Arthur coiled the chain up in his palm and let the pendragon crest hang down over the back of his hand. It was only then that he noticed delicate crescent lines spread in a row across the thicker blade of his palm where Merlin had dug his fingernails in the throes of the fit. They should have stung by now like papercuts, and Arthur frowned when they didn’t. “Do you remember what I told you this morning about my cousin?”

Merlin shook his head, confused, but replied, “Yes.” His forehead rumpled as he looked from Arthur to the pendant and back. “Your father’s nephew.”

“His elder brother’s son,” Arthur confirmed. “The one who should have inherited, whatever anyone else claims. The one my father…” He could remember apple slices enjoyed from atop his father’s shoulders, and the blood red setting sun filtered through clouds of dying smoke and billows of ash kicked up by the evening breeze. But he couldn’t recall what came before – the pyre itself, the crowd, his father’s typical speech. Only a few words stuck, but it was more the tinge of pride to them that stayed through the long years - the thought that whatever he had done, he had made his father proud. Arthur took a shallow breath, the air bottoming out in his throat rather than his lungs, and fluttered his gaze blankly forward. Arthur diverted his eyes to the pendant swinging gently to catch the light showing through cracks in the window shutters, and licked his lips. “Myrddin.”

“What? I’m listening.” Merlin shook his head again, clearly trying to indicate that he didn’t follow what Arthur was getting at.

“No.” Arthur drew the word out like procrastination. He found it interesting that saying the name the Cornish way versus the Breton pronunciation didn’t seem to register with Merlin. “That was his name. My cousin. Myrddin. Or Merlin of Caermarthen, I suppose.” He swallowed and looked up to gauge Merlin’s reaction. “Your great uncle.”

Behind Arthur, either Gwaine or Leon emitted some kind of shocked sputter and then fell silent. In front of him, Merlin blinked, his face blank, and then blinked again. But that was it. Eventually, his head sort of jerked and he looked over Arthur’s shoulder to see what the other men were doing, but it was only a moment before he was staring at Arthur again as if whatever he’d said didn’t make sense.

Arthur waited for some kind of response, but none came, so he prompted, “Merlin?”

Merlin finally shook his head and looked around as if to spot the joke at his expense.

It was Gwaine who finally managed to say something. “You’re heir to the kingdom of Dyfedd.”

Arthur looked back at him. “What?”

“Dyfedd,” Gwaine repeated, and then looked to Leon for support. “It wasn’t a secret. Aurelius had an affair with Adhan, the princess. If he had a bastard, it was hers.”

Leon sort of flopped his head in agreement, obviously a bit stunned. “My father told me of it when I was little. He…said he didn’t want it forgotten.” Leon frowned and shook his head, his eyes falling as he reevaluated the purpose of his father’s words for perhaps the first time.

That seemed to shake Merlin from his stupor. “Dyfedd doesn’t exist anymore.”

Leon cut in to confirm, “Your grandmother would have been the Lady Gwendydd, no?”

Merlin shook his head. “No? I don’t know – my mother didn’t talk about her family. I’m not… I’m not.”

Leon held up a hand as if calming a wild animal. “Did your mother have any siblings by blood? An elder brother, perhaps?”

“No, it was…just her.” Merlin blinked several times and kept looking around as if something sensical might materialize from the air while he looked the other way. “I think. She mentioned her uncles, but not – not siblings.”

Arthur raised a hand to arrest Merlin’s fidgeting away toward the corner and tried to rearrange the order of things in his head, because no, he hadn’t known about the claim to Dyfedd. Arthur hadn’t known that his uncle had a son at all until just the day before; Sir Geofftey must have known this too and neglected to mention it. But why? “You told me that you had a picture of your father in your mind. A man dressed in Roman raiment. It’s what they would have worn – my father and his brother – when they came back across the channel to reclaim the throne from Vortigern.”

With unexpected viciousness, Merlin fixed on Arthur and spat, “That’s not my father! My father was a dragonlord. He never wore that – I never saw him!”

“I know.”

“We’re not blood.”

“No, we’re not.” Arthur shook his head and looked over at the shining cracks between the boards of the shutters. It must have been horribly cold in here in the winter. “Your bloodline is separate from ours. There are just marriage links.” He frowned at his fingers again, at the shine of the pendant chain winking here and there in the light. “Myrddin was a dragonlord too.” In his periphery, Merlin shifted restlessly. “And a seer of some kind. Sir Geoffrey called him the mad prophet of Caermarthen.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Don’t you want to know where your family came from?”

Abruptly, Merlin shouted, “You just told me I have a memory of a father who wasn’t mine!”

“Yes, and an unnaturally intense fear of being burned at the stake.”

“I’m a sorcerer,” Merlin snapped. “I have magic. It’s not an unnatural fear.”

Arthur looked up to find Merlin’s face flushed with something that wasn’t anger, no matter how he sounded. “Perhaps. But you can also read and write in languages that you claim no one ever taught you – languages from across the south sea, from Roman lands. And older languages besides – languages that are dead now, but weren’t then. And you can do complicated magic you haven’t been properly trained to do.” Even he couldn’t quite believe what he was suggesting. “You don’t find that strange?”

Gwaine appeared in Arthur’s periphery. “What exactly are you saying? He’s not your cousin.” He extended a few fingers in Merlin’s direction. “Your cousin is dead.”

“No, I know.” Arthur waved his hand, but he was confusing the whole thing, and since he hadn’t really thought it through yet, it was coming out all wrong.

“You’re saying I’m somebody else,” Merlin bit out. “That I’m not me, or that I’ve got somebody else just swimming around in here with me.” He thumped his chest rather harder than Arthur thought necessary.

“No, I’m saying… I don’t know what I’m saying. But you’re not someone else, Merlin. You’ve always been you.” Arthur watched him fume, impotent with an emotion that still wasn’t anger. “Maybe it’s to do with your magic. Maybe it’s drawing on something, like a reservoir.”

Merlin calmed his breathing into a rhythm that was still too fast with well-deserved agitation. “It was supposed to be him, wasn’t it. Not me. He’s Emrys.”

Emrys has lost his way.

It is a prophecy, sire. That he is the one they call Emrys, and that he will stand beside the Once and Future King to usher in a golden age of peace and magic.

Arthur closed his eyes against the echo of the words of the Mother, and the bit of the last conversation that Arthur had with Gaius.

Much was ruined when Uther enacted the purge. Much was changed that should not have been. Many futures which should have been set, were destroyed.

“It was never me.”

Arthur glanced up, surprised at the streaks crossing his own vision, to find Merlin looking as if he’d been unmade. Arthur reached out on instinct, to do who-knew-what, but Merlin careened off to one side to start flinging things around the room as if he meant to be tidying.

Merlin stopped abruptly and looked at the pair of old trousers in his hands before letting them slide down off his fingers with a soft plop back onto the floor. “Ambrosius.” His gaze turned inward, his face drawing down at the edges.

Arthur nodded, thinking that something must have clicked, maybe some edge of a memory of hearing the name before. “Yes, Aurelius Ambrosius. Or… Aurelianus. It would have been different, depending on the language, I suppose.”

“Emrys,” Merlin replied, but more to himself this time. He half turned toward Arthur, his face troubled. “It’s the same word. They mean the same thing.”

Arthur grabbed him by a sleeve and dragged him back down onto the cot. Surprisingly, Merlin went with little resistance, folding like a puppet with its strings cut. “It doesn’t have to mean anything at all, you know. It’s just fancy.”

Merlin hunched his shoulders and seemed to be counting his breath to slow it. Finally, he nodded.

“Good.” Arthur let him go and sat too with his legs stretched out in front of him to cross at the ankle. “And for what it’s worth, I prefer you to some doddery old man playing mad hermit in the woods.” He pictured Dragoon briefly, with his scraggly-long beard and dirty teeth, and smiled. “Easier to look at, for one.”

As if from miles away, Merlin shook his head. “Is this just a joke to you?”

Arthur sobered. “No. But there’s nothing I can do about any of it, true or not. Is there? I don’t really care what you are, Merlin. I care that you’re here.” He glanced over to find Leon still looking as if he’d been slapped, and Gwaine glaring murder at him. Arthur looked down again and wished that he’d thought to start this in private, because neither of them needed an audience, not even a friendly one, for this. “You’re always here, even when I don’t want you with me because it’s dangerous. Or because I don’t want you to see what I have to do. Does it matter if it’s true? If there’s some part of him in you?”

“I could have never come here,” Merlin said, his voice brittle. “I could have been somebody else – myself – had my own life.” He paused and added, almost too soft to hear, “I could have never met you.”

Arthur winced and grimaced down at the pendant again, at the way the clench of his fingers had pressed divots into the pad of his hand alongside Merlin’s own fingernail marks there. “Is that what you want? To be…not this? Be somebody else?” He would allow it if Merlin asked for it. He’d see to it like payment of the debt that it was for the blood his father spilled – for ruining the Myrddin who was maybe, just maybe, supposed to be here, and foisting that burden on the boy Merlin instead. And it would kill the last better part of Arthur, but he’d do it. He’d send Merlin away to have whatever life he wanted.

“Shouldn’t I?” Merlin asked. And it sounded as if he truly didn’t know.

“No,” Gwaine stepped in. “No. This is who you are. You’re our friend, and you’re the king’s servant, and now you’re Court Physician, and you belong here.” He jabbed a finger toward the ground beneath them. “In Camelot. This is where you should be. None of that other shit matters. None of it.”

Leon stepped around, his face stained with the residue of shock, but clear when he said, “And it wouldn’t change your bloodline. You’d still be Dyfedd’s heir, even if you weren’t…supposed to be here like this.”

Again, Merlin seemed compelled to remind them, “Dyfedd doesn’t exist anymore.” He didn’t protest the possible lineage this time though, which meant that maybe some part of him felt its truth too.

“You’re still of noble blood,” Leon replied. “My grandfather’s kingdom is part of Camelot now. We’re not royal anymore, but I’m still a lord.”

“She would have told me,” Merlin insisted, but even Arthur could tell that he was grasping at straws because his face said he didn’t quite believe that his mother would have told him something like this.

“How could she?” Leon asked, sparing Arthur once again. “Uther executed her uncle – a man of his own family. Your bloodline carries magic, and a challenge to the succession besides.”

“Then why did she send me here?” Merlin demanded, finally looking up at them, engaged and unhappy. His eyelids had bruised red, cheeks flushed from whatever this was doing to him, inside, but at least his eyes were still dry. “If it was so dangerous,” he mocked. “Why here? She had to know someone might find out.” He paused and chuffed out a breath clogged with disdain. “Gaius must have realized. He kept trying to get me to tell him who trained me, and I kept saying no one until he just suddenly stopped. He knew.” He shook his head and chuckled meanly at his lap. “He talked to the dragon too.” A frown pulled down at his face, roughening up the line of his jaw as the muscles moved beneath the shadow of stubble there. “Mum named me after him, like she suspected. They were all lying to me, weren’t they? Everyone I love, they all lied.”

Arthur felt a flash of anger and hurt at that, because he’d said much the same thing once to Merlin. Is everyone I love lying to me? “Well, now you know how I feel.” And then he winced because it was entirely the wrong response, and yet he meant it. Merlin fell still beside him now, and Arthur regretted saying it, but he also wouldn’t take it back if given the chance.

“I had a right to know.” Merlin sucked in a breath and turned his head to look at Arthur as if seeing him too clearly, too close.

Arthur nodded, a small thing, aware of both Gwaine and Leon shifting uneasily in the room with them, claustrophobic with the heaviness of whatever Merlin’s stare carried.

Merlin sniffed to clear the congestion in his nose. “They used me.” His voice came thick with hurt and a north country accent that a decade in Camelot had nearly purged from him.

“Perhaps,” Arthur allowed. “But I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“How is it not?” Merlin demanded, too calm now. Too quiet for it to be real. “Their prophet died, so they made a new one.”

“I can’t believe that,” Arthur insisted. “Your father fell in love with your mother. You came from that, not some conspiracy.”

“You don’t know that,” Merlin pointed out. “I only knew him for a few days, and mum still never talks about him. And Gaius sent him to her.”

“He didn’t even know he had a son.” Arthur shifted, trying to make himself look supportive, or at least more certain. “He couldn’t have been a part of it. Whatever he shared with your mother, that was real.”

That seemed to shut Merlin up, finally, but only for a moment. “You made me promise never to lie to you again.” He stopped fingering the soft fabric of the trousers Arthur had given him, and looked up. The nothing on his face was frightening, but in a remote way. Like it might not have actually been the expression on his face, except that his skin was shaped into that. “Swear it back. Promise me. You owe me that much.”

The request demanded the same gravitas with which Merlin had regarded Arthur’s just that morning, and yet Arthur didn’t give that to it. “I promise,” he said, not even thinking to hesitate.

Merlin lowered his gaze and faced his lap again, smoothing his hands down his thighs to his knees and then back up halfway, pulling at the fabric of the trousers Arthur had gifted to him without telling him. Little more than a whisper, Merlin replied, “Alright.” It wasn’t alright, though.

Arthur shook his head and looked down as well, unable to keep staring at the bow of Merlin’s neck and the old hashed scars visible there. He fingered the royal crest, a dragon raised in gold relief, and wondered for a moment at his father’s hypocrisy, taking a dragon as his symbol and then eradicating them all. From the corner of his eye, he watched Merlin squirm as if trying to figure out what he should be doing now with all of them standing around like salt pillars in his room. Arthur swallowed and unwrapped the pendant chain from around his hand, letting it swing down to smooth out the chinks and bends before he reached to drape it over Merlin’s head.

Merlin flinched, but it seemed more at Arthur’s hands appearing in front of his face without warning, than at being touched or having the pendant chain dropped into place over the back of his neck. He stared down for far too long at the royal crest swinging gently over his knees in Arthur’s wake, and then grasped it to still it before giving Arthur a questioning look.

“You’re family,” Arthur explained.

“You can’t just say that.” Merlin went to remove the pendant. “They’ll never accept it. I’m your servant.”

Arthur pushed his hands back down to prevent him removing the crest. “It doesn’t matter if it’s just because my cousin and your grandmother were half-siblings. It’s still a family link.”

“You can’t tell them that,” Merlin persisted. “You tell them I’m related to – to a sorcerer who challenged your father’s right to rule, and – and you think that’s a good idea? Half of them already hate me, or think I’m slow, or that I have too much influence over you. How long would it take them to cry magic or claim I’ve enchanted you, or that I’m only here to ingratiate myself to you to avenge my family? They’ll kill me no matter what you say just to prove their loyalty, and afterward claim they saved you.”

Arthur shook his head, because no one hated Merlin, surely. How could they? “We can verify your lineage, and I can restore your status. It will be official.”

“I’m still magic! Arthur, you can’t.”

It was Leon who broke them apart from struggling over the pendant, which Arthur hadn’t even realized was growing embarrassing. Arthur brushed them both off and flung himself to his feet, but the only pacing his could do was in a circle that took him past Gwaine, who remained oddly silent, and right back up to Merlin’s side. “I can take whoever I like as blood – it’s my right as king.”

“Even if you don’t explain about my mother’s family, wearing this will just make it look like you’re claiming me as a consort.”

Arthur flared his nostrils and glared at him. “You think it’s that cheap?”

“No,” Merlin breathed, the tilt of his head conciliatory. His fingers tightened over the crest as if he didn’t want to let it go. “But they will.” He ducked his head long enough to slip the chain off and then he held it out to Arthur, his hand shaking just enough to notice and make the chain swing where it dangled like loops of lace between his fingers, or a fall of water uncontainable, slipping free. “I won’t do that to you. I won’t give them a weakness to come after you with. I won’t let them think you’re that kind of a king. Not even – ” He broke off and Arthur finally realized how badly his offer had broken Merlin’s composure - what it had meant to him for Arthur to claim him like family, however impossible, whatever his motives for doing so. Merlin swallowed hard and cleared his throat enough to force out, “Not even if it means I never stop being just your servant. You’re the king, Arthur. The Once and Future King.” He licked his lips, head shaking in denial as if it were beyond his volition. Innate. “That’s more important than anything. You are more important.”

You are more important than me. Arthur swallowed because he didn’t need Merlin to say those last two words in order to make it clear what he meant. He blinked back his initial reaction to that, then dropped his eyes to Merlin’s hand hovering, wavering palm up near Arthur’s heart, offering back the regard of a king to safeguard the image of kingship. To diminish himself for Arthur’s sake.

“Take it back,” Merlin told him, gentle like a plea to save a life.

“No.” Arthur looked up and forced himself to meet Merlin’s beseeching gaze. “Keep it hidden it under your clothes if you must, but I’m not taking it back.” He gave Merlin and the pendant both a look of disgust and turned away to fish the royal appointment out from beneath the disordered bedding. “And take this too.” He turned back in time to catch Merlin clutching the pendant to his chest as if the gesture had effectively been a punch to the gut. “You already admitted you want it, and I announced it at council.” He shoved the scroll up into Merlin’s hands, forcing him to both step back at the force of it, and take the scroll. “I won’t have you embarrass me by declining now. We can make allowances for your – ” Arthur rolled his hand in a more violent gesture than was called for, and mentally tossed away any number of words for the fits just to avoid saying them aloud. “ – your condition. You’ll have an apprentice, page boys to run your errands, and a manservant of your own.”

Merlin finally recovered his wits enough to splutter, “You can’t just give me a manservant. I’m not – ”

“You are of noble birth.” Arthur punctuated each word with a stab of his finger at the ground, fuming too much to look at him as he spoke. His vision had gone strange anyway, tunneled, which he didn’t need Merlin to notice. He kept his eyes trained on the corner of the room instead. “You are heir to a kingdom, and you are my family. I will give you anything I like to make your station clear.”

“Dyfedd doesn’t – ”

“I am not talking about bloody Dyfedd!”

Arthur was hyperaware of the volume of his own breathing in the otherwise silent room, like a crash of waves overwhelming the scream of a person drowning. He turned around, cognizant of Merlin gaping like a frozen fish, and Leon and Gwaine both trading wary looks, but it was George who actually caught his attention. The servant’s eyes were blown wide, a far cry from the distant professional that Arthur disliked and mocked for being fanatically stuffy, however unfair it was of him.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, frustrated breath. “George. What is it?”

“I – my lords, I thought… The council meeting ran long, and you haven’t eaten. I took the liberty of…bringing a tray.” He glanced over his shoulder, out into the main physician’s quarters, and then looked back, clearly at a loss.

“I see.” Arthur scratched at his scalp, at the perpetually itchy line where the crown often rested. “Whatever you heard, you will repeat it to no one.”

George all but vibrated with fervence. “Of course not, sire.”

Though it was likely unnecessary, Arthur clarified, “On pain of arrest for treason.”

“Yes, sire. I understand, sire. I’ll tell no one.”

Arthur nodded, studying this obsessively obeisant man with more suspicion than he probably deserved. George was as much a fixture in Camelot’s royal household as Merlin, and yet he was always, always, overlooked and mocked for his dedication to what most others (or perhaps only Merlin) considered a thankless role. “Wait in the corridor. I’ll speak with you further once we’re finished here.”

George practically tripped over himself to bow and then retreated in more of a scramble than his usual silent competence.

Leon met Arthur’s gaze once the outer door clunked shut and they seemed to share an understanding. Leon knocked his shoulder into Gwaine to get his attention, and then both of them left, though Gwaine seemed like he had no idea what was going on anymore. Leon would fill him in, and probably downplay the fact that their king had clearly lost whatever marbles he had left after Guinevere’s death.

When Arthur turned back to Merlin, it was to find himself faced with the side of Merlin’s head. The rays of sunlight shining through the cracks in the barred casement set him in relief against the glow, a precarious comma of a man with his head lowered toward his cupped hands, limned in a soft sunny glow, unfocused and contracted around blurred edges. Arthur swallowed and went to him, faintly sick in his stomach at how much a shadow Merlin looked in the light. “This wasn’t how I wanted to have this conversation. I should have waited.”

“No,” Merlin breathed, his head still lowered toward the Pendragon pendant in his hand. “It would have been worse.” He would know, of course. He’d been hiding a secret himself; it must have festered in him like poison the whole time he kept it – the whole time he thought Arthur didn’t know. If anyone could speak to timing of a revelation of such gravity, it was him. “I’m just… I need a moment.”

Arthur could see something else in Merlin’s palm beside the royal crest, now that he was beside Merlin; it took him a moment to recognize his mother’s sigil, and recall the long-ago night he’d given it to Merlin. They’d spoken of dying, and regret. That’s what you have to remember, Merlin had said from the other side of the campfire. Things never turn out how you expect. And they hadn’t – not that quest, nor many others.

Arthur steadied himself with a quiet breath, his vision glassy across the room, and risked clasping his hand over the narrow tip of Merlin’s shoulder, a knob hard as rocks and brittle bone beneath his palm. Merlin swayed a bit at the change in pressure, but he didn’t pull away, so Arthur offered, “I know it is no recompense. It’s not meant to be.”

Merlin nodded, but his face was crumpling at the edges, the only parts Arthur could really make out in the shade from the light and the rough stubble blurring Merlin’s jaw. “Arthur, I can’t.”

It was the same thing he’d said before, sitting around a campfire that probably served a poor defense against the dorocha wailing their pain and vengeance and loss through the night. Arthur wondered if Merlin had understood the meaning behind such a gesture even then, when Arthur had made him take his mother’s mark and keep it. In Arthur’s mind, he saw a boy with funny ears and gangly limbs accustomed to laying to sleep on a dirt floor in a house no better than a livestock hut, his only privacy a tattered curtain separating him from his mum. And he tried to remember that however well Merlin got on in Camelot – however well he’d taken to being Arthur’s servant and Gaius’s apprentice – however necessary a fixture Arthur considered him to be, however right it was to look to one side and see him there at the right hand of the king – however powerful his magic made him – Merlin was still a peasant boy from a town of perhaps thirty men and women, in a land where most children did not survive the winters. He was noble. He would have been noble no matter his blood. But he wasn’t raised to be a noble. He was raised to hide.

“Look.” Arthur glanced at the side of Merlin’s face, at the twitch at the hinge of his jaw that betrayed the turmoil he was holding back, and then looked away again, eyes blankly searching the featureless wall before him as if it might lay out a map to help him navigate the mess his impulsivity had made of this whole issue. “I think we both know you'd make a terrible king. This isn't a sentimental decision."

Merlin let out a wet snort and Arthur saw him raise his head in his periphery to look at Arthur, finally. "So this is what you consider practical?"

“I’m not asking you to rule.” Arthur tried to stop his fingers squeezing the knob of the shoulder still clutched in his fingers, but his thumb moved in a slow half circle anyway, like soothing a dog after he already had it by the scruff. “I’m not even asking that it be official, or that it be acknowledged.” Yet. Maybe. “But it’s a fact that I am the king, and as much as I am surrounded by loyal knights…and warlocks…” His fingers clenched and released on Merlin’s shoulders, a sharper gesture than he intended, to go by Merlin’s wince. “As much as I am protected, it is a fact that most kings do not die old in their beds. You are the only family I have left, by blood or by marriage.” Arthur paused and let his lip wrinkle a bit. “Other than Agravaine’s progeny, that is. And even if they’re not as degenerate as their father, I would never willingly entrust the kingdom to them.”

Merlin swallowed and looked back down at the two tokens resting innocuous and small in his hands. “I don’t want your kingdom.”

Arthur nodded. “I know. And that’s exactly why I trust you with it. I know that you would do anything necessary to keep it in my hands, however much that thought troubles me more.”

Merlin’s outline wavered in the shaft of light through the casement, and then swam back into focus. He still held his hands hovering out before himself, but lower now, nearer his navel as if sinking beneath an imagined horizon. His elbows folded closer to his ribcage as Arthur watched, his stance the polar opposite of Arthur’s open one. Opposites, they were. When Arthur felt lost or uncertain, he flung himself wide and apart like water dashed onto a flat rock. But when Merlin felt the same, he drew in to protect himself, all his pieces held close where no one else could touch them. Arthur watched Merlin closing in on himself like a leaf curling in the heat, turning small and narrow as it browned, and it was a little bit horrible because Arthur knew what he looked like with his eyes burnt gold and his desperation thick at his fingertips.

“Things will be different,” Arthur vowed, low and intense.

After a few moments of Arthur weaving to catch his eye, Merlin finally noticed and looked up, the movement of his head halting, like a man made of sticks and string.

“I swear it, Merlin.” Arthur shook his head and spread his hands out at his sides, helpless, his mouth a rictus of a smile in earnest. “I swear.”

Merlin’s face collapsed around the edges and he swung his head away again to hide whatever else it threatened to do. “I stopped hoping for that.”

Arthur swallowed and tried not to react to the knowledge that rather than being a symbol of hope, he had apparently become a beacon for the loss of it. Eventually, he nodded, because even he understood that words were cheap in the face of years of contradictory actions. Nothing he said could mean as much as that anymore. “I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon on a hunt for the Samhain feast. We’ll be gone overnight, at least. I’d like you to come, if you’re able. But not if it will endanger your health so soon after the…that.” He jerked his chin at the door to indicate the fit he had walked in on earlier.

“Whatever you need,” Merlin replied immediately. He looked up, face more normal, and seemed relieved to be leaving the more awkward conversation behind.

“Not as a beater or a servant,” Arthur clarified, more forceful than he probably needed to be, but he could tell from Merlin’s face that’s what he expected to do on a hunt. “You’d come as the physician, and part of the hunting party. George and some others will do the serving; it will be a larger party than usual since we’ll be after big game.”

Merlin blinked and tipped his head, but nodded a moment later.

“Only if you’re well enough,” Arthur pressed.

“I’m fine.” Merlin cleared his throat afterwards though. “I’ll be fine for a hunt,” he specified, which was likely as close as he’d come to admitting more weakness than he already had. “Besides,” he smiled, small but sly. “Someone’s got to look after your royal backside. Can’t have you running off into the woods with nothing but knights to protect you.”

Arthur smiled too, aware of the nervous tick of Merlin’s limbs and the way he angled away, self-protective at the open acknowledgement of the magic he used in Arthur’s service. Arthur wondered how long it would take for them to speak of it openly, in jest or otherwise, and regard it as just some casual thing between them. He found that he liked that thought; it felt like shared secrets, or perhaps no secrets at all – something close and comfortable and warm. He’d felt that once with Guinevere, and he missed it, though he hadn’t known that until he felt it again here, now, with Merlin’s face creasing into easy, private crinkles around his eyes.

“Exactly,” Arthur murmured. He felt his own expression go soft and blur at the edges, staring at that tiny spark of happiness in Merlin’s eyes. Such a simple thing, he thought, to please another like that, with so little effort. It felt like something huge and inflated in Arthur’s chest, and it was hard to breathe around it for a moment. It was only after Merlin’s face contracted with confusion that Arthur realized he had reached out to touch it where it originated on Merlin’s face, Arthur’s fingers stretched over a chasm between them to brush against the soft skin of a cheek swelling pale above a fledgling growth of beard. He felt briefly as if he should apologize, but he didn’t know what for. Touching at all, maybe? “I missed that,” he confessed suddenly. “The way you look at me. You haven’t, in a while.”

Merlin’s brow wrinkled, but the skin around his eyes went slack. “I always look at you.”

He didn’t, but Arthur couldn’t figure out how to articulate it without sounding like an insecure idiot – how it increasingly seemed like when Merlin looked at Arthur, he saw some overlay of Uther instead. How Arthur feared he saw it too, when he looked at himself in the glass. His fingers continued to play over Merlin’s cheek and the side of his nose before he realized what he was doing and shook himself free. Arthur retreated and looked around as if he hadn’t just been caressing his servant’s face like a lover’s and cleared his throat. “I have some business to attend to before supper. George will see to the usual arrangements for the trip; I’ll leave the medicine to you. Be ready in the courtyard by the fourth bell tomorrow.”

“Of course, sire.” Merlin’s voice came out hesitant.

“Good.” Arthur couldn’t manage to look at him, more afraid that he would see some kind of acceptance on Merlin’s features, rather than censure. “Well.” He flapped his hands out near his sides, flickered his eyes unseeing past Merlin’s thin form, and then awkwardly walked out with no further explanation. Arthur shook his head at his own ineptitude as he motioned at George to follow him down the corridor, because really, he may as well have run away from Merlin screaming just then. They emerged out into the sunlight at the edge of the practice field and Arthur paused to watch a few of the lesser knights drill each other around a small space at the far corner while a few maids and retired soldiers watched on.  

George stopped at a respectful distance behind Arthur and markedly did not fidget. “I’ve already prepared most of your things for the hunt, sire.”

Arthur couldn’t stop himself noting that Merlin would have never bothered telling him such a thing; it was entirely unnecessary, and he really didn’t care. He just wanted it done, and to not think about it since that wasn’t his job. “How much did you hear?”

Behind him, George cleared his throat. “Sire, I swear. I will say nothing.”

“I know.” Arthur turned and scanned the immediate surroundings for anyone close enough to overhear their conversation. “But that’s not what I asked you. I need to know what else I need to explain.” He flicked his gaze past the low path wall and hedge, the armory doors, and finally back to George. “I’m sure that you appreciate the delicacy of the matter. You saw me name him my heir, at the very least. Did you hear why?”

George glanced around as well, and then dropped his eyes to Arthur’s chest. “I am aware of my lord Merlin’s noble blood, sire. As no one has acknowledged it publicly, I assume that there is good cause for it to remain secret. It is not my place to question you, sire.”

“And while I appreciate that,” Arthur told him, teeth gritted at the non-answer and irritating subservience, “I didn’t ask for blind assurances of obedience.” Merlin would never have given him that kind of thing, for one. Arthur really needed to stop comparing all others to his former manservant, and finding them lacking for the simple fact that they behaved the way they were supposed to, as if that were a fault. “I asked you how much you already know of this.”

George cast a furtive glance at Arthur’s face and then blinked back toward his chest where Arthur’s royal crest was pointedly not present anymore. “That is all I know, sire.”

Arthur stared hard at his averted face. “You know what magic smells like.”

George swallowed, but maintained his dignity and his frankly alarmingly straight posture. “Yes, sire.”

“Do you know of Merlin’s condition?”

“Yes, sire.”

Arthur flared his nostrils and wondered if pulling teeth weren’t more productive, in general. “Tell me.”

Again, George swallowed, but the veneer seemed ready to crack. “He has…magic. Sire.”

Apparently, George had realized that, but not the condition to which Arthur actually referred. It was just as well – Arthur needed to know about this part too. “Yes, he has. Does that bother you?”

George shifted straighter, if anything, but his shoulders were more tense than usual – raised a bit in defense. He kept his gaze focused past Arthur’s arm, resolute in the correctness of his stance. It made Arthur relax quite a lot when George’s reply came just the slightest bit shaky. “No, sire.”

Arthur nodded, but demanded, “In spite of my laws?” Partly to see if he would offer some defense against his admitted treason for hiding the identity of a sorcerer, but more because he just wanted to know. George was not the sort of fellow Arthur would have equated with subterfuge. He was too stuffy for that.

“My lord Merlin is not a threat, sire. He is loyal to Camelot.”

Arthur tipped his head to one side at the brittle vehemence of that response. “Yes. And yet he breaks the highest law of this land every day, just being here.”

“If you hold a bird down in a bucket of water, it cannot become a fish simply because it does not wish to drown, sire.”

Arthur didn’t move at first, uncertain how to interpret such a brutally poetic notion. Eventually, he gave a halting nod and turned away. “Walk with me.”

“Yes, sire.”

Arthur set an ambling pace down the gravel path that ringed the practice field, George one step behind him. “You have the unfortunate distinction of now being privy to these goings on,” Arthur remarked, voice pitched low to maintain the privacy of their conversation. “It means that I will require more of you as manservant than I otherwise might.”

“I am happy to serve however my lord requires,” George assured him breathlessly.

“Don’t be so eager,” Arthur admonished, put off once again by the fervor of a man like George, excited over the thought of being overworked, like a damn hunting puppy. “I am giving you a choice. Merlin may not understand the concept – he thinks his only purpose in life is to serve my every whim, even to his own detriment – but Merlin’s an idiot sometimes. You should consider more carefully.”

George sucked in a sudden breath, but the immediate agreement that Arthur expected seemed to disperse as George digested what Arthur said.

Thank god; Arthur couldn’t take much more mindless obsequiousness right now. “Merlin’s magic is not what I meant when I referred to his condition. Due to repeated injury in my service, he now suffers periodic convulsive fits. They cause him some distress, and he is concerned that his ability to serve as court physician is diminished because of them. I won’t have that.”

A few beats passed while George turned that over in his head, gravel crunching underfoot in a dissonant rhythm of two mistimed sets of feet. “I am happy to assist as I may, sire.” It was a more measured response this time – less ill-thought obedience.

“Good.” Arthur spared a moment to mentally criticize the way one of his knights held his sword arm as they passed the mock fight nearby. “I realize that you two are not exactly friends.”

George looked down as if that were his own personal failing, his shoulders going tense with his hands clasped properly behind his back. “Merlin is above my station, sire.”

“Merlin would disagree.” Arthur sighed and let the breeze shuffle his hair back from his face. “Obviously, I cannot appoint you to his service. It wouldn’t be proper, as his rank is not known here. I also hesitate to hurt his pride any further than I already have. But he needs someone to consider his care. What I ask will not be simple for you. On the record, you will be my manservant, but between us, I expect that your loyalty would be first to him, not to me. Any duty you perform for me would be secondary, and would only be to maintain appearances that you are my manservant. Merlin will be your primary responsibility.”

It took a moment for George to fully absorb that, and then he asked, “But then who will tend to you, sire?”

“Merlin is reluctant to part with certain of his duties,” Arthur replied sourly, though inwardly relieved that he wouldn’t have to suffer some stranger’s imposition on his person. He had grown woefully accustomed to Merlin’s care, however clumsy or lacking in the usual decorum. Or perhaps because of it. “For now, I am content to indulge him. Your duties with regards to me should be light – clean up my chambers, tend the hearth fire, do the washing, that sort of thing. Tending to Merlin will be a more delicate thing, I warn you. He’ll resist you every step, and he’s given to guarding his privacy for obvious reasons.”

“Of course, sire.” George nodded sagely, as if this whole business were not the slightest bit out of the ordinary. “It is perfectly understandable.”

Arthur nodded, stopped, and rounded back around in a tight enough turn that George had to rear back a step to avoid running into him. “I want to be completely clear on this. When I say that your loyalty is first to him, I mean first even before me. If forced to choose, you will choose him. You will defend him, even against me. For all intents and purposes, you will consider your fealty sworn to Dyfedd, not to Camelot, and to him as heir to both. Do you understand?”

George stared at him like a stunned goat, and then swallowed hard before nodding. “I understand, sire.”

“And are you still so eager to accept this task, knowing that?”

“If that is truly your wish, then yes, sire. I would be honored.”

Arthur examined his face in an unkind way, hard with mistrust and terrified that his judgement of character was just as unreliable now as it had proven to be so many times in the past. “I will kill you if you bring harm to him.”

The bob of George’s throat gave the only indication of his unease. “I would expect no less, sire.”

Arthur drew a deep breath to calm himself, and found that he felt a measure of relief in it. He backed off and watched George’s shoulders loosen as well. “Good. You should speak with the interim physician and educate yourself as to Merlin’s care. He’ll also need assistants and runners – I trust that you can identify suitable candidates for him to consider. Some of the more knowledgeable midwives, for example.”

“I will see to it immediately, sire.”

“Good.” Arthur turned again to scowl at the shoddy footwork of the showoff-knights dancing around at the other end of the green. “Go on, then. You have a lot to do today.” He waved George off, half aware of the man hurrying back into the castle, and then made a face as he grabbed a quarter-stave and headed toward his idiot knights. “Sir Bleoberis! A handmaid could get a killing blow in under your guard. For the last time, drop your bloody elbow!”

* * *

 

TBC

Chapter 7

The Changeling

 

“I brought you your ceremonial sword.”

Without looking behind himself at Merlin, Arthur asked, “Is that for me to fall on?” He might have been joking, even.

“Hopefully not.” There was some kind of mirth in Merlin’s voice, as if the whole situation amused him on some level.

Arthur merely stood there and breathed, trying not to fall over or – or run away from Camelot entirely. Merlin would come with him if he did, though, so there was that to look forward to. At least he hadn’t eaten much for breakfast, since it was likely to come back up if he had to wait there, thinking about what he was about to do for much longer.

Merlin took a soft breath behind him and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“You wouldn't understand, Merlin. You have no idea what it's like to have a destiny.” Arthur blinked a few times in total disbelief of the fact that this was his life, even though he’d always known, always. He took a breath in the hopes of feeling less lightheaded and added, “You can't escape.” He said it like he had only just realized that, or it had only now been driven home. How embarrassing would it be if he passed out before the doors opened?

“Destinies…” Merlin sounded amused again, the idiot. Cheeky, but also maybe apologetic, as if he bloody well knew something that Arthur didn’t. “They are troublesome things.”

Arthur shook his head, irritated and sick of being made to look and feel a fool, tr apped in his own life, powerless… Merlin was standing there with that irritating not-quite-smile of his, as if Arthur were being quaint again, or showing his noble naivety or something. Arthur took the sword from his hands and flicked his cloak out of the way so that he could sheath it. God, his hands were shaking.

“You feel trapped.” Merlin had his head down, but not like a servant’s bow. It looked more like shared secrets. Like something personal. But Merlin couldn’t know; he was nobody. So it couldn’t be personal. He sounded like he knew, though. He sounded just as frustrated as Arthur. Just as reluctantly resigned. “Like your whole life has been planned out for you, and you’ve got no control over – “ He cocked his head in a pointed nod to the way that just rankled like nothing else, and huffed, “ – anything.” The word came out bitten, like irony. “And sometimes,” he continued, his eyes fixed on something in the middle distance, something only he could see. “…you don’t even know if a destiny decided is – “ He blew out a wistful little breath, as if getting this out, getting it off of his chest, were both a relief and an added frustration. “ – really the best thing at all.”

Arthur focused on his sword hilt again. He wasn’t looking directly at Merlin, but he could see, in his periphery, Merlin pursing his lips and shaking his head after all of that. Arthur stopped fiddling with his sword, his head coming up in a jerky arc to stare. That was…too close. It was far too close for a servant. For a – a peasant. Because it was right there on Merlin’s face: knowledge. Arthur could swear that Merlin knew – that he knew what this felt like. Himself. Personally. Arthur let his brow wrinkle, ashamed at feeling so desperate, all of a sudden, for confirmation that he wasn’t alone – that Merlin really did know. That he shared this…terrible feeling of being trapped inside a gilded cage, a slave to a crown he never asked for, doomed to never be free to pursue his own happiness. Shackled the way commoners never were. He flicked his eyes down Merlin’s deceptively bland exterior and then reset his feet to demand, “How come you’re so knowledgeable?”

“Hmm?” Merlin still wore that look, like he knew something Arthur didn’t. Like what he had just said was truer than it could have possibly been. Secrets never told. Some Merlin hidden beneath his clumsy, annoying manservant. “Oh, I read a book.”

Arthur scoffed, his lip curling as he balked, because no. That wasn’t something one reads in a book, and Merlin had that look on like what he’d said was some kind of inside joke that he expected to watch glide right over Arthur’s head. Arthur slid his eyes, and then his face away, head cocked in contemplation because Merlin was making shifty eyes over that tiny smirk of his. Still amused. Still finding something about this mess funny. “What would this book tell you? Should I marry her?” He looked back up to see what Merlin’s face was doing now, unwilling to give him any sort of privacy to hide this unlikely kinship.

Merlin straightened a bit and let his eyes unfocus off to one side. He seemed to think about it, to have some kind of sagely answer to give, but then he said, “It’s not really my place to say, si –”

“I’m asking you,” Arthur interrupted, forcing his temper down, his impatience… Forcing his voice to be soft and steady because he didn’t think that he could afford to scare Merlin off of this, or annoy him until he clammed up. “It’s your job to answer.”

Merlin peered up at Arthur from a slightly downturned face, his voice rapid when he replied, “If you really want to know what I think?” Truly curious, that.

Arthur bobbed his head in affirmation.

Rather than reply right away, Merlin remained still for another heartbeat, his mouth slightly open as if ready o drop words all over the floor – as if he could barely restrain himself, but the look in his eye, peering askance at Arthur, spoke of something else. Not quite cunning, not quite coy. He was measuring something about Arthur before he decided whether or not to speak. Arthur tried to keep his face open and encouraging, because he wanted to know how Merlin would answer – how this Merlin, the strangely prescient one, would advise him.

Finally, Merlin ticked his head to the other side and quirked an eyebrow as if he were going all in on a gamble and couldn’t entirely believe he was about to do so. “I think you’re mad.” He said it with conviction, swiveling to more fully face Arthur, and that familiar insolence invaded both his voice and his posture, though it sounded clipped at the edges, and his tone wasn’t entirely controlled as he spoke. It wavered as if he wanted to shout, but couldn’t. “I think you’re all mad. People should marry for love.” All of that sass and attitude that Arthur both loved and hated rushed to the forefront. It had the unlikely effect of cementing Arthur’s attention though, because Merlin was insolent as a rule, not…this. Angry and borderline disrespectful, as if he were delivering a lecture to a child. As if he were disappointed that he had to say it at all. “Not convenience. And if Uther thinks an unhappy king makes for a stronger kingdom, then he’s wrong, because you may be destined to rule Camelot, but you have a choice.” He bobbed his eyebrows at Arthur as if to demand how Arthur could not know this. Something in Arthur’s face must have met with his approval, because he nodded, just a tiny thing, and finished, “As to how you do it.”

* * *

Arthur swung his already cracked quarter stave at a lone straw man propped up haphazardly in front of the armory door, and reveled in the swift snap of wood. Half of the staff spun through the air over his head to scatter the gaggle of squires collected like geese by the weapons racks as a plume of straw and stuffing exploded in his own face. It was ridiculously, highly satisfying. And he hated how the violence of it soothed him. Before he could give himself a chance to indulge again, Arthur dropped the now useless stick left to him and fought to breathe through his temper as he stalked past the armory and into the castle. How did they expect to survive, fighting like amateur bandits – the arrogance! And to imply that Arthur was the one with the problem – that he needed to unwind and get laid? What did that have to do with sword stance? Bleoberis was a damn toad; Arthur would pair him with Percival from now on in training. Let him get his backside handed to him by a common tradesman, and then see how much getting laid mattered in a battle situation.

Of course, it didn’t help that the whole conversation had started with Bleoberis implying that his sister would be a perfect match for Arthur. Never mind that she was a second daughter from a second-rate bit of land with no prospects or wealth of her own, no lands, nothing to tempt a king –

Arthur stopped cold in the corridor and shut his eyes, his fists clenching hard enough to make his knuckles ache. It wasn’t the girl’s fault that she had no riches to bring to a marriage. It was also Uther’s voice screaming through Arthur’s head in that moment that a king must make an advantageous marriage, and that wasn’t the girl’s fault either. Arthur sucked in a snarling sort of deep breath and blew it too hard out through his teeth. Guinevere had brought nothing but her good nature to their marriage, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way. It wasn’t station that bothered him now, but the comment from one of the ladies observing them that Arthur had surely mourned long enough now to avoid any offense to his dead queen.

“You’re allowed to be happy.”

Arthur dropped the hand he had raised to dig at his brow and looked up. “How dare you – ” Then he blinked, turned around, and found an empty corridor behind him too. Arthur quelled the feinting hollow in his chest and forced himself not to hold his breath as he turned in a full circle to confirm that no one else was there. For another dozen heartbeats, he held himself perfectly still as if he were hunting (without Merlin along to crash around scaring everything off for a mile). No footsteps, no breathing, no swish of a dress or pat-pat of bare feet made its way to his ears in the silence. Nothing. But he would swear that what he heard was a woman’s voice, soft and aching. Barely there.

It was mad. Utterly beyond the pale, but Arthur felt a soft shiver pass over the surface of his skin, down one arm to drip off of his fingers, and then nothing. Just a draft, and a lone voice carried by chance through stone and distance. He realized with a start that he had stopped breathing, and gasped as his vision blurred from the lack of air. Knowing how pitiful he was for even considering it, Arthur bit his lip and then whispered, “Guinevere?”

A burst of laughter made Arthur jump, and then he cursed his own stupid heart. The laundry room was down at the other end of the corridor, and if he’d heard anything, it was just one of the washing maids’ voices carrying clear through the stillness. Arthur sighed and let his eyes slip briefly shut before turning to find his way back to the main part of the castle, his temper gone like a whiff of flowers on the wind. He didn’t have time for fancy any more than he did for anger. There were too many tasks to complete before the feast tonight honoring Merlin’s appointment as Court Physician.

Arthur found Leon in the privy council chamber, tallying grain reports. There were times Arthur thanked god for Leon’s ridiculous attention to mundane details, because whenever Arthur tried to do that, he came up with three different sets of numbers and a splitting headache. Leon, on the other hand, wore a satisfied smile and seemed to regard arithmetic as some kind of cathartic pastime, like a nice hot bath that never grew cold. A lot like the baths Merlin drew for him, actually. Because he really did have no sense of self preservation, the idiot. Ever-hot baths weren’t even the most obvious of his tells.

Leon glanced up and his happy little smile grew to show teeth. “Sire! You seem calmer.”

“Bleoberis is terrible with a sword. He’s going to get himself killed – a bandit could take him out in two strokes.”

Leon chuckled and offered a nod in response. “Shall I go over the grain reports with you?”

Arthur perched himself on the edge of the table and crossed his arms, absently peering about the rest of the mostly empty room. He chose to ignore the grain reports entirely and merely said, “So we’re just not going to talk about it, then?”

Leon skipped a beat, and then straightened from his bend over the report-littered table. “Was there something you wished to clarify?”

“No,” Arthur shook his head, brows raised in a kind of uncertainty. “I just…expected more opposition on the matter. I mean, I named him heir to the throne in front of two knights and a servant. It’s kind of official now.”

“Yes…?” Leon drew the single syllable out to a point just shy of disrespectful. “He is next in line to the throne, unless you reverse your disinheritance of Agravaine’s sons.”

Arthur replied with an absent nod and frowned down past his own arms crossed over his chest like a breastplate. “He’s right, though. They’ll never accept it,” he said, meaning the council in particular, but also the noble classes in general. “Naming commoners to the knighthood is one thing. Elevating a blacksmith’s daughter to the queenship, fine. But naming my manservant heir to the throne?”

“He’s not just your manservant, though,” Leon pointed out reasonably. “He is heir. He’s a member of the royal family through the marriage alliances of his mother’s family, and through Aurelius’ indiscretions with a princess of the royal house of Dyfedd. There is precedence and legal justification to naming him heir.”

“Yes,” Arthur allowed, but it tasted sour in his mouth.

Leon hesitated, then offered, “Would you feel better if I disagreed with you?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at Leon and let his nostrils flair. “It annoys me sometimes that you can be so eminently reasonable.”

Leon evidently took that as a compliment because his eyes crinkled and his facial hair moved around to obscure the upturn of his mouth. He sobered quickly, though. “It will cause unrest when it gets out.” When, not if. “Myrddin isn’t forgotten in Camelot. He’s not spoken of, but he’s not been erased either. Everyone will know he was magic, and that he was executed for it. They’ll know that his claim to the throne could have challenged Uther’s. That could work both for and against you, really; those sympathetic to magic will see Merlin as some kind of a savior – the vindication of his murdered great uncle, and a chance for a Camelot that they believe should have come to pass. Those who aren’t sympathetic, who agreed with your father, will see him as a threat to Camelot, and to you.”

That was at least more honest than Leon’s typical supportive optimism. Arthur sighed. “I’ve put him in an untenable position, haven’t I.”

Leon’s brows bobbed up once, but that was all he would grant. “Would you rather continue denying him his heritage altogether?”

“I’d rather see him happy with his life,” Arthur said without thinking. “And he’s not, right now.”

Leon blinked and leaned back for a moment, straightening and turning away from his pile of dull reports. “Not everyone needs prestige for that.”

Arthur glanced at him, long enough to see the confusion in his stance, and then pushed himself off of the table to pace slowly toward the other end of the room. “It’s not material yet, anyway. Merlin can’t confirm it; his mother never told him the names of his forebears. He doesn’t know for certain that his lineage is what we think it is.”

“Then we shall have to make certain.” Leon approached him but stayed at a respectable distance from his king. “If you tell me where to find the Lady Hunith, I will go and escort her back to Camelot. Then we can have the truth from the source.”

Arthur stared morosely at a wall tapestry – dragons wheeling in the sky above the highest turrets of Camelot. “She may have had good sense in leaving all of this behind,” Arthur pointed out. “In raising Merlin to be his own free man.”

“But she hasn’t,” Leon countered gently. “She’s lied to him, hidden his roots from him, and then she sent him here, where he could have been killed.”

“I cannot believe it to be malicious,” Arthur replied, shaking his head. “She loves her son – I’ve seen them together.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Leon said. “But the fact remains: she sent him to Camelot, knowing the danger. We have to ask why a mother would do that to her magical child.”

Arthur’s eyes roved unseeing over the tapestry until it caught on the figure of a man with his hands held up toward the dragon. He hadn’t thought too deeply about the manner in which his father had betrayed Merlin’s – of the cruelty inherent in it. To extend the hand of peace to a man so good, so guileless that he believed it and accepted. And then to use that man – force him to unwittingly betray his own kin – and afterwards, pursue him through enemy kingdoms like a madman, drive him from those he loved, deny him his son, and leave him to rot alone in a dank, musty cave at the edge of the wilds. And for what? “Because Camelot is ruthless,” Arthur replied, calm and empty at the thought. “Because my father would have killed him, if need be. And Merlin’s power frightened her.” Arthur skewed his gaze over to Leon. “The way it frightens Merlin himself.”

Leon studied Arthur for a moment too long, impolite simply in its duration, and then asked, “And does it frighten you, sire?”

Arthur swallowed, the bob of his throat a hard click against his trachea, and whispered, “Yes. His power frightens me. But I’m not afraid of him.”

“And that,” Leon acknowledged, so like the teacher of battle drills he had once been for a much younger, unformed Arthur, “is an important distinction, sire.”

Arthur looked back for a moment, and then pressed his lips into a dissatisfied line. “If you leave at first light and ride steady, you can reach Ealdor by nightfall tomorrow. It’s just beyond the ridge of Essetir, in the vale on the other side of the river. You can see it clearly from our own borders.”

Leon smiled as if Arthur had passed some sort of test of character. “Then I shall ride at first light, sire.”

As Leon started to turn away, Arthur snapped out a hand to grasp him by the bicep. “I won’t have her forced to come here.”

Leon turned back, attentive. “Of course not, sire. She is, after all, a queen.”

Suspected, Arthur thought. But all he said was, “Yes, assuming that her mother no longer lives, which is likely. But she gave that up, and has dwelt in poverty for most of her life. I have to respect that she may have good reasons for that. She may even be happy as she is. You will tell her beforehand what we want her for, and give her the option to refuse.”

Leon gave a small bow in concession. “I will not interfere with the queen’s will.”

Arthur released him and stepped back. “I hardly need stress the confidential nature of this errand.”

“I understand what is at stake, sire.”

“Good.” Arthur glanced away, and then said, “I plan to have a small dinner in the dining hall tonight, in honor of Merlin’s appointment. He would be glad to see you there.”

At this, Leon finally grinned. “I wouldn’t miss it.” Then he bowed, gathered his records, and left with no further delay to prepare for his upcoming journey.

* * *

“Mordred saved my life,” Arthur pointed out. “What greater debt could there be?” He descended into a gully and stepped over several branches.

“The debt to your people,” Merlin replied, walking too close behind him. “To your destiny.”

“You almost sound as if you care.” Arthur peered around on instinct, looking for threats or anything out of place. Merlin’s attitude about all of this troubled him; it wasn’t like his servant to be so bitter. So cold. Just getting him to agree to this excursion back out to the cave of the Disir had been a challenge in patience.

“I do care.”

Could have fooled him. In truth, Arthur was under no illusion that he could force anything from Merlin. And it made him wonder why on earth Merlin had come at all when he seemed so against it.

Merlin dogged his footsteps, just a hair away from treading on Arthur’s ankles. “About who you are, Arthur.” He sounded winded from their hike through rough forest. Or maybe it was something less benign. “Who you are destined to become.”

“If it's fated, it doesn’t matter what I do, does it?” Arthur snapped, annoyed now. He was tired of hearing this time and again – this destiny rubbish from his idiot secret sorcerer. “It'll still happen.”

“There is a difference between fate and destiny.”

Rounding on Merlin, he managed to speak over the tail end of Merlin’s assertion. “You think too much, Merlin.” He watched the insubordinance rise to twitch in Merlin’s face like a shadow of contempt, and then fade again. When had he grown so bitter? He used to speak of Arthur and destiny as if it were glowing right in front of him. His faith used to be more than just…habit. Like a tired old chore. As if his belief in Arthur were a necessary inconvenience. As if he had no choice but to have faith in his king, and resented that fact more often than not.

* * *

It was probably entirely unnecessary for Arthur to seek out Sir Geoffrey as soon as he parted from Leon, but it ate at him, and while he relished the thought of Geoffrey finding out that Arthur knew in some other more shocking manner – maybe an announcement at court, or just some vague, offhand comment and a pointedly dark look over a state dinner – Arthur was tired of the subterfuge and intrigue of court. It was exhaustion that drove him to just get this over with now, and let them both know where they stood with the other. Geoffrey was the official court historian and records keeper; Arthur needed them aligned, and he needed the secrecy of his father’s reign to end once and for all.

Sir Geoffrey was not in his library as usual. Arthur eventually found him in the vaults taking inventory of those objects and treasures which remained locked away for various reasons, either for their value, their significance to the crown, or their magical properties. Of course, this was also within the purview of Geoffrey’s role, so it was not unusual for him to verify the contents at regular intervals. Arthur watched him counting things for a while, ticking off various items here and there in a ledger, oblivious to the intent gaze of his king behind him. Eventually, Arthur grew bored with this and pulled the vault door closed to allow them privacy for the conversation that Arthur needed to have.

Sir Geoffrey jumped at the soft boom of the large wooden door as it thumped and echoed shut. “Sire!”

Arthur nodded and ambled forward, loose as if he were baiting an opponent on the field. He kept his gaze directed to the left, at the various glittery objects kept behind bars down here like prisoners of a mad king’s greed. “I heard an interesting bit of information today.”

Geoffrey went still, and Arthur could see clearly for once that he used to be a knight. “Is it something I can assist you with, sire?”

“I assume that you are familiar with the old court at Dyfedd.”

It was subtle, but there: the hesitation. “Yes, sire. As I’m sure your highness is aware, the last king of Dyfedd was defeated by your father in the battles waged by the sons and clansmen of Hengist the Saxon. He did not survive, but many of the royal court were given clemency to live out their lives in the court of Camelot.”

Arthur nodded. “Is that, then, how my cousin, the so-called mad prophet, came to be here at the start of my father’s reign? With his mother the princess Adhan, and the rest of his family?”

Geoffrey glanced around and took a step back until he could lean for support against an old cedar chest. “Adhan was queen by then. She was permitted to retain her rank, though her lands and rule passed to Camelot.”

“I see that it is not ignorance which kept this information from me.” Arthur clenched his hands and fought to remain calm. “Perhaps then, Sir Geoffrey, you would like to explain why I had to learn from two of my knights like some sordid tavern rumor that I have kept as my manservant, for over ten years – “ Arthur bit his tongue and lowered his voice again; he didn’t want to attract the attention of any guards to eavesdrop on this conversation. More modulated, Arthur continued, “ – for ten years, a boy who is not only of noble blood, but royal?”

“Your father would have killed him.”

Arthur paused a moment, and then had to ask, “And am I so like him that you would think the same of me?”

Geoffrey seemed bent in that moment, and older than his years alone might indicate. “Forgive me, sire. But your change of heart has been quite recent. You have killed many who may not have deserved it.”

Arthur let his head slide to one side, and his gaze hovered somewhere low toward the floor. Finally, he simply said, “Yes.”

“The boy deserved a chance at a normal life. To see him killed for nothing more than paranoia over the magic that flowed in that family…if he had none of it himself, as I had always thought…it would have been unjust.”

“Then it’s true. His heritage.” Arthur shook his head, but not to negate any words spoken here. “You know this for a fact? You would swear to it?”

Geoffrey took a breath long enough to expand his ribcage, but for all of the air he took in, it still sounded shallow in his body. “The Lady Gwendydd is his grandmother. I knew her quite well, and Bleise was a brother in arms, for all that he was not a knight. I will admit, I pretended ignorance to protect their grandchild. He knew nothing of where he came from, and it seemed little harm to allow him his life. But yes; the boy…” He shook his head then and corrected, “Not a boy anymore. Merlin. He is directly descended of Dyfedd, and the last born of its blood. He is its heir.”

The air seemed stale and close, unmoving through the corridors amongst the detritus of years of war spoils in the vaults. Arthur felt lighter for a moment – vindicated, though it seemed a terrible secret on its surface. “You have lied to me,” he felt compelled to point out. “To my face, directly and with intent to deceive.”

To his credit, Geoffrey made no effort to lessen the offense with excuses. “Yes, sire. I have.”

Arthur merely nodded. He could make an issue of it, and as king he probably should, but the prospect alone exhausted him. He had grown sadly accustomed to being lied to; what was once more in the grand scheme of things? And he agreed on one point at least; Merlin did deserve a chance to live his life. His birth, his blood, was no fault of his. And Arthur himself would have been a poorer man without the challenge that Merlin laid at his feet every day to be better. To be that shining king of a golden age that he used to talk about.

Finally, Arthur turned back to regard Geoffrey’s bowed back, and the top of his lowered head. “Thank you, Sir Geoffrey. For both the lies and the truth.”

Sir Geoffrey looked up at that, his face oddly devoid of expression.

“I’ll leave you to carry on with your work.” Arthur took a breath and turned away, but not quickly enough to miss the surprise and relief on Geoffrey’s face, or the way it seemed to break whatever thin veneer of composure he had managed to affect. When Arthur reached the door, he glanced back simply as a side effect of turning to slip through the heavy door. Geoffrey had sagged awkwardly on the cedar chest, his face in one hand, shoulders heaving in silence as he breathed. There was no need for Arthur to threaten him, should he ever lie or mislead again.

* * *

Arthur cast a frantic look around the ring of knights, of common people – everyone – materializing from the trees around the sword in the stone, then whirled on Merlin. He tried for incensed but what came out in his voice unfortunately tended more toward panic. “What the hell are you playing at?”

“I’m proving that you’re their leader and their king.”

He wanted so badly to just smack that smug look right off of Merlin’s face, the bloody sorcerer. “That sword is stuck fast in solid stone.” Did Merlin take him for a fool? Was this a trick? Really? After all of this time, he was going to betray Arthur now? Wasn’t he already all but ruined?

Merlin just looked at him, his expression full of…full of faith and love for his king. Surety. “And you're going to pull it out.”

“Merlin, it's impossible.” This had to be a trick. What better way to humiliate him? Arthur had just lamented the night before how he misjudged everyone, how he all but allowed them all to deceive him, and here was a sorcerer, a liar of a man Arthur thought was on his side, against all odds, setting him up for failure.

“Arthur, you're the true king of Camelot.”

Oh god, he wasn’t kidding. Merlin was…serious. This was genuine – he actually expected Arthur to do it, and succeed. It was terrifying, the complete lack of doubt on his face. Arthur glanced back at the stone, then past it to the crowd of people arrayed in sections of concentric rings all around them. He rounded on Merlin again because that was easier than looking at a hundred people all wearing the same kind of faith that Merlin had for him. “Do you want me to look like a fool?”

“No, I'm going to make you see that Tristan's wrong; you aren't just anyone. You are special. You and you alone can draw out that sword.”

He meant that. Every word. Merlin was a shit liar; Arthur knew when he was doing it. And right now, he wasn’t. He was being weird and intense and just…spouting off rubbish like any sorcerer Arthur had ever met, but he was so earnest about it. Arthur looked at the sword stuck into the stone. It was a beautiful sword. It was. But seriously, how could Merlin’s ridiculous “legend” be true? Arthur would have heard of it. Or his father would have found and destroyed the thing, magical as it was. He shouldn’t do this. Magic…he saw what it did to Morgana. How it warped and ruined her. But Merlin was magic too, and Merlin… Arthur had misjudged so much in his life, but Merlin never wavered. He never changed, he never…corrupted. Magic was dangerous. It had to be. But Merlin was not. Were there other magics out there like him? Benign ones? Something…pure in the midst of all of the rot?

Arthur glanced around at the trees, aware that he was looking for an excuse now not to do it – not to touch the magic sword. His father would be appalled. Arthur himself couldn’t believe that he was going to do this. But Merlin had a way about him. He wasn’t like other magic. Arthur wished he knew why a sorcerer would ever stand beside him. He wished he could accuse Merlin of spying for Morgana, of manipulating and betraying him. But he couldn’t. Nothing Merlin did spoke of subterfuge. He was just loyal. Stupid-loyal, the way he had always been.

The old worn sword hilt caught for a moment in Arthur’s belt as he drew it out and awkwardly thrust it into the ground near Merlin’s feet. He looked at Merlin, and he wanted to say something about the secret between them, about the magic. But it wasn’t the time. “You better be right about this.”

Merlin merely looked pleased, his mouth curving in a wry, knowing line. Arthur put his back to his utterly mad sorcerer and approached the stone on hesitant feet. It felt like watching magic at his father’s deathbed, too close. Too immediate. Too easy to touch. He contemplated whether this temptation were part of the corruption of magic, or part of the wonder. It seemed innocent enough, that sword. Rich and shining, gilt with runes and gold braid. Arthur pursed his lips and flickered his gaze over the still crowd, waiting as if holding their breath. It made him uncomfortable, how no one else seemed to see the peril of what was in front of him.

Arthur licked his lips and swung both hands to the hilt, the leather of his gloves creaking as he adjusted his grip and set his feet, still not sure that he should be doing this – touching it, a magical relic. It didn’t feel magical, though. It felt like any other sword, hilt cool from the earlier morning dew. And it only shone in the sunlight. He clenched his jaw with a deep breath and pulled, but the sword merely shook from the strain of Arthur’s muscles. It wouldn’t budge.

“You have to believe, Arthur.”

* * *

Arthur started at the creak of his chamber door hinges and accidentally dislodged George’s fingers from plucking at his stubborn jacket buttons. “Merlin. I should make some comment about knocking, but it gets tired after ten years.”

Merlin tipped his chin and gave Arthur a look from the corner of his eyes as if to say that he should know better by now. “Why? Are you doing things in here that you shouldn’t?”

Against his will, Arthur barked out a laugh. “Shut up, Merlin. George, go on about your business. Merlin can help me with the rest of this.”

George bowed and gathered up a bundle of bedding before also bowing to Merlin and making a silent exit. Merlin paused halfway across the room as soon as George bent in the middle at him. Once the door closed over the other servant, he tilted his head and then swiveled to peer suspiciously at Arthur. “What did you do?”

Arthur made his eyes wider, like an innocent puppy, he hoped. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Help me off with this.” He gave his collar a pointed tug. “It’s too tight.”

“Yes, well if you would – ”

“If you value your continued existence, you will think very carefully about what you say next.”

Merlin merely smirked at the buttons as he undid them. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of mentioning your circumference again, sire.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed of their own accord, but since the damn fabric finally parted ways with his neck, he let it go. “You know, it just occurred to me. All these years I’ve been harping on you about proper address and titles, and as it turns out, you’ve been completely within your rights to call me by name this whole time.”

Merlin’s hands slowed as he drew the jacket from Arthur’s arms, but he recovered a moment later, fingers picking imaginary lint from the sleeves as he turned to put it back in the wardrobe. He made some kind of sound that Arthur assumed was supposed to be a laugh, but it sounded strained. “I thought you didn’t like this jacket.”

“I don’t,” Arthur confirmed, frowning at Merlin’s back and the way it moved under his clothes as he arranged the offensive garment back onto a hanger. “George hasn’t learned my preferences yet.”

“Ah.” Merlin paused to regard the jacket, bit the inside of his cheek, and then slotted it into place on the rod with the rest of Arthur’s formal jackets. “I’ll, um. Fill him in, then.” When he came back, he was holding a fresh tunic rather than a properly fitted jacket. “Take that one off, then.”

“This one’s already clean,” Arthur told him.

“Yeah, but it’s the itchy one. Come on.” Merlin gestured at him with the new tunic. “Off.”

Arthur blinked down at himself before he went ahead and tugged the laces loose so that he could slip it off over his head. “Right.” He handed it over, and probably studied Merlin a bit too intently as he tossed it aside and held the new tunic up for Arthur to slip his arms through. After Arthur ducked his head through the collar, he stopped Merlin from doing up the laces and instead, pressed his open palm to Merlin’s chest, over his sternum. Merlin stilled like the aftermath of a knee jerk reflex and seemed to breathe deliberately while Arthur felt around the edges of the royal crest concealed underneath the thick brocade of his robe. He gave Merlin an apologetic smile after and shifted his focus. “This was Gaius’s robe, wasn’t it?”

Merlin cleared his throat and stepped back to compulsively smooth the brushed olive-hued wool down his ribcage. “George took a few of his council robes to alter so they fit me. The nicer ones, anyway. He didn’t wear this one much.” His fingers gentled and traced some of the jacquard patterned stitching along the centerline of his chest.

“Looks good on you. Better than your drab brown leather jacket thing.” Arthur stepped around him and tugged at the looser fabric near Merlin’s hips to reveal the long cuts splitting the skirt of the surcoat into four cardinal sections. “Ah, and you can ride in it. That’s good.” He realized what he was doing only because Merlin stopped breathing entirely that time and twisted his head to look past his shoulder at Arthur. “Um.” Arthur removed his hand and blinked awkwardly down at his own fingers while he collected himself. “Sorry.”

Merlin swallowed and also faced away for a moment before turning to do up Arthur’s tunic laces. It seemed like he wanted to suck at his lower lip or bite the inside of it, but didn’t want to give himself away by doing it.

Just to try and dispel the sudden tension bleeding out between them like a severed artery, Arthur remarked, “George really is frightfully efficient.”

Merlin started to say something but it fizzled out in his throat somewhere. He rubbed at his nose with the almost-too-long cuff of his sleeve, and then spun away to find a suitable jacket, his eyes lowered where Arthur couldn’t see to read the expression in them.

Arthur sucked a breath deep into his chest, puffed out his cheeks, and then sighed. “Look, I know that this isn’t exactly a festive occasion. You wouldn’t be court physician if Gaius weren’t…” He stopped himself defining that because he really didn’t know if it would be insensitive or not.

“Dead?” Merlin approached him with a more well-worn jacket, wearing a false veneer of nonchalance. “Here.” He held the jacket up and open for Arthur.

 Arthur studied the garment for longer than it deserved, and then reached up to cover Merlin’s fingers on the jacket’s empty shoulders. He pushed them toward the floor so that he could see the shadows in Merlin’s downturned face. “He would be proud of you.”

Merlin’s jaw went hard for a moment, and then he nodded, but he didn’t look up. “I know.”

“And, um.” Arthur prevaricated, breathing harder than the situation justified. “Guinevere too. She would have….” Arthur squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to force back the upwell that threatened to stop him finishing. After swallowing something that felt like wads of carded wool in his throat, and then clearing it, Arthur continued, “She would have been happy for you. Sad as well, about Gaius, but she always wanted…good things…for you. She would have been pr – ”

“Don’t.”

“ – oud of you.” Arthur ticked, confused. “Don’t?” He dropped his gaze to his now empty hands, fingers curling where Merlin had wrenched his own back out of Arthur’s grasp. The jacket appeared in front of his face again, held open, and Arthur wondered if it were possible for someone to hold a jacket aggressively. Rather than risk forcing a confrontation, Arthur elected to speak to the jacket instead of to Merlin directly. “Look, I know I’ve been…angry, lately. When anyone mentions her.”

“Please don’t.” Merlin all but shoved the jacket at Arthur’s chest, and then tried to get behind him as if he could just slip it onto Arthur without him realizing.

Arthur allowed it and shrugged until the jacket sat comfortably across his shoulders. Merlin came around front of him again, and as he plucked the fiddly buttons through their proper holes, Arthur murmured, “Thanks.”

“Oh,” Merlin drawled, the levity thin and forced. “You’re taking this alleged nobility thing seriously if you’re thanking me now.”

As he turned away, Arthur scoffed under his breath. “It’s not only that. I should have been saying it before now.”

“Manners were never your strong point.” Merlin rummaged about the shelf in the wardrobe and pulled down a long surcoat-like vest. It was one of Arthur’s older coats – one that his father had given him – supple dark brown leather that reached from shoulders to ankles. Merlin turned around, still inspecting the vest for damage, and said, “So I’m sure you’ll understand if I find it a bit disingenuous.” He slowed his steps and then leaned onto his back foot with a long breath. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t – ”

Arthur came forward to meet him, and shook his head when Merlin tried to hold out the vest. When Merlin didn’t make any attempt to finish his broken sentence, Arthur inhaled carefully. “I haven’t been a very good friend. To you.”

Merlin bit his lip and swallowed at the leather bundled in his hands. “We’ll be late to the dining hall.” He shook out the vest and held it open for Arthur. “Sire?”

Arthur stepped closer and ignored the vest, causing Merlin to fold his arms in to hold the vest to his torso. “Guinevere used to lecture me for being insensitive.” He let the smile surface for a moment, a memory painted in sepia tones in his mind of a small cottage and a warm fire, and the heat of Guinevere’s frustration with him as she yelled at him for taking her bed without even thinking of her circumstances. When he blinked away the feeling of her, Arthur caught Merlin forcing the lines of his own face smooth again, but not from a happy memory. He looked pained at the mention of her name again. “You said that you hear her voice,” Arthur ventured, and Merlin flinched back again. “What does she say?”

“It’s not important.” Merlin flapped the leather vest to hang smooth again and shoved it at Arthur as if he could press it through his skin and onto him that way. “Come on – we’ll be late.”

“We’ve plenty of time,” Arthur countered, his brows drawing into a furrow. It occurred to him that however much he himself prickled and shouted at the mention of his deceased wife’s name, Merlin hardly mentioned her either. “Why can’t you talk about her?”

“I’ve tried – you don’t want to hear it. Put your arms up.” He tried to angle around behind Arthur again.

“No, you haven’t.” Arthur rotated to keep them facing each other, even if Merlin wouldn’t exactly look at the man right in front of him. “You cut it off too, every time someone does more than just mention her in passing.” They danced around in a circle for a moment before Merlin gave up and scrubbed his sleeve across his forehead, the vest still dangling from his fists. Arthur shook his head, worried and confused. “What does she say to you?”

Merlin barred his teeth from under the forearm blocking his face, then sniffed in a huge breath as if to fortify himself. He held the vest up again, face forcibly blank. “Nothing. Here – hold out your arms.”

“She doesn’t…” Arthur felt his lip curl up at the very notion, but said it anyway. “She doesn’t blame you, does she?” Not that he believed Guinevere would wander around the castle as a shade talking to people, whispering poison at them, but grief could do funny things to people. “Because she wouldn’t,” Arthur told him more forcefully, aware like a trickle of spring water from a rockface that he was thinking of the other Myrddin in that moment – the one who everyone seemed to know for his madness. “She would never blame you for what happened.” For visions that may or may not have been true.

“Would you please just stop and put this on.” Merlin shoved at his shoulder in an effort to turn him around.

Aghast, Arthur demanded, “Is that what you hear her say?”

“No, just… We have to go to dinner.” Merlin wasn’t breathing exactly right, but any number of emotions could have caused that, and his face wasn’t doing anything especially telling. His hands were trembling, though. Not much – not enough to be alarming – but enough to notice. Kind of like muscle fatigue, fine and shivery.

“No? Then what?” Arthur pushed his hands aside again, the vest dragging on the floor for a moment as a result.

“Stop.” Merlin wrenched himself out of Arthur’s grasp and went to force the vest up one of Arthur’s arms. “It’s not important. Just put this on so we can go.”

“It is important.” Arthur extracted himself calmly and left Merlin with the vest again. He could tell that the calm, the steadiness was fracturing, and it may have been cruel of him, but he wanted to break it to see what lay beneath. Merlin twisted around to go at Arthur with the vest again, and as absurd as it was, Arthur danced back as if he were on a battlefield parrying blows from a leather garment. He tried not to let his concern or his puzzlement show, but he wasn’t sure it worked, and when their gazes finally strafed each other, there was something wild in Merlin’s. Without thinking, Arthur reached a hand out to touch it, it looked so foreign there. “Merlin – “

“Don’t – “ Merlin flinched back to avoid Arthur touching his face.

“Just stop,” Arthur whispered, pleading. He feathered his hands at Merlin’s collarbones instead, and then firmed them up to hold him still. “Stop.”

It was a relief when Merlin actually did stop, subsiding between Arthur’s hands with the vest clenched to his diaphragm, the bottom a pool of leather covering his feet like a blanket. Merlin swallowed and looked down at it, eyes gliding shut while Arthur held him by the shoulders as if holding him down to the ground so that he didn’t float away.

There was something captivating about another man’s pain – how it twisted his insides and wrung him silent and limp like a wet bath sheet. As soon as Merlin seemed calm again, Arthur let him go and stepped back, hands held out and open in a gesture of surrender. It occurred to him, as Merlin pulled at the leather vest’s seams as a focus to stay where Arthur put him, that maybe Merlin carried more guilt than anyone realized. He had no one to absolve him, after all; how could he when nearly everything of consequence that he did had to remain secret? The only perspective he had on any of his actions was his own, and Merlin wasn’t the kind of man who forgave himself easily. Arthur knew that – he had seen enough of it to know that this responsibility, this guilt, defined a large part of who Merlin was, just as it defined Arthur as king. Merlin didn’t let it go, though. Maybe he didn’t know how, but one thing Arthur could say for certain was that if he didn’t, it would eat him alive one day.

“She wouldn’t blame you for her death.” Arthur backed up another step because he wasn’t sure that Merlin could understand or accept that, and Arthur had seen enough of his temper breaking lately that he thought it prudent to offer space for it this time. “You did everything you could to save her.”

Merlin twitched his head to one side and Arthur watched the leather crease in his fists. “If that were true, she would be here.” He seemed to be trying to swallow again and failing, like bile that wouldn’t go back down. He held up the vest one more time, a puppet dangling in a box repeating the same trick again and again and again with painted-on eyes that never actually focused on the things they faced. “If you’ll just put this on, sire?”

Arthur shook his head in disbelief and finally just allowed Merlin to put it onto him, since he seemed so fixated on the act. Once they were facing each other again, Arthur stared at the furrowed eyebrows in front of him while Merlin laced up the front of the vest. “You really believe that – you have that much ego?”

“It’s not ego.” Merlin yanked too hard at the laces, and Arthur concealed the wince via manly tongue biting. “I’m the most powerful sorcerer to walk this land.”

Arthur scoffed. “And that’s not ego? I’m not sure I’m the prat here anymore.”

Merlin squinted and blinked, his fingers pausing on a tangle of leather laces, but he shook his head a moment later as if Arthur were the one being stupid. “I can control the balance of life and death. If I had wanted Gwen alive, then she would be.” He fiddled the laces back into order and tightened everything in a line down the center of Arthur’s chest, from the notch of his throat to that delicate space between belly button and groin.

“Merlin, that’s…” Arthur shook his head, aware that he was baring his front teeth under a wrinkled lip in that manner that made him look like a simpleton, and yet not really caring for once. He couldn’t find a word suitably strong enough to convey how utterly wrong the whole notion was. “Do you even remember what happened there?”

Merlin tied off the laces and flared his nostrils as he headed away toward Arthur’s desk to retrieve the crown. He ducked his head a bit and scrubbed his face into the crook of his arm, an uneasy and self-conscious motion. “No. It doesn’t matter.”

Arthur let his eyes go wide and his face slack. “Doesn’t matter? You’re judging conduct you don’t even remember.”

Merlin made a show of concentrating on the crown, as if their conversation weren’t worth his full attention. As if it didn’t mean anything to him, which was a huge tell as far as Arthur was concerned. Merlin cared about everyone and everything. “It’s obvious. I don’t need the memory of it to know what happened.” Merlin frowned and sniffed at the crown, then picked up a cloth to buff at bits of filigree before bringing it over to Arthur.

Arthur waited for the weight of the crown to fall over his brow, then immediately removed it and tossed it behind him onto his bed. Merlin blankly watched it bounce across the mattress and tip over against a pillow, nodded, and then just wandered away to sink down on the bench at the tree table. Arthur remained where he was for a moment, just watching the sag of Merlin’s shoulders and the way he drew his elbows in as if to protect his own ribcage, one hand picking in compulsive bursts at his forehead and hairline, his head hanging lower than the nobs of his upper spine where it merged to form his neck. Eventually, Arthur sighed and glanced back at the discarded crown before going over to perch next to Merlin on the bench. He rested his forearms on his knees and clasped his hands between them, then turned his head to look at Merlin, at the curve of an ear peaking out from beneath dark hair. At the arc of a tree branch covered in a corner of bedsheet stretched hanging over his head like a ghost. Arthur waited for Merlin to say something first even though he knew that wouldn’t happen, and then he sighed. “You did everything you could to save her. I saw it, Merlin.”

“Then why isn’t she here?” Just a breath, that. Merlin may not even have said it, except that the syllables lingered between them.

Arthur shook his head and sucked his lips in against his teeth. “You didn’t see her body after.” He had thought he could spare Merlin from the memory of that day, but keeping his peace made it worse. Secrets festered, after all. Hadn’t Arthur learned that time and again? Silence was a disease, not a mercy. “It wasn’t just the enchantment. When Morgana threw her away from the water, it…broke her. She hit the ground hard, and it…she just…” He tried to bring words to it, to the unnatural protrusion of vertebrae when he went to move her cooling body. To the…the bend of her. “And it was killing you. You were pulling it out of her, and… You remember the welts.” He reached out on reflex to trace the back of Merlin’s hand where a ropey red wheal had wrapped over the skin for a month afterwards, but Merlin shrank from him, so he let it be. “The black things. You remember what you said? They were trying to get inside.”

“That was a dream,” Merlin croaked. He traced the phantom line of the same welt Arthur had been reaching to touch.

“It was a memory,” Arthur corrected. “You were pulling them out and they screamed like banshees.”

“Mandrake.” Merlin turned puffy, pale eyes onto Arthur’s face. “You heard them?”

Arthur nodded.

“Only magic folk are supposed to be able to hear them.”

Arthur shrugged. “There was magic everywhere that day. Maybe that was enough.” He looked away again when Merlin did. “I had to make a choice, Merlin. She was dying, and you were… You wouldn’t stop. So I pulled you away.” Arthur rocked in place and shook his head, swallowing and breathing to force back the smell and the sound, and the sight of it. Merlin fought him on it, of course. All the way into the water, he screamed at Arthur to let him go, to let him finish, and Arthur wouldn’t. And behind them on the rocks, when he looked, Guinevere was crying, and smiling in what looked like gratitude, and coughing out blood and black sludge, and Arthur turned his back on her so that he didn’t lose his hold on Merlin as he fought Arthur like a spitting angry cat to get loose. “If either of us bears any of the blame for her death at the end, then it’s me. I made the choice.”

Merlin shook his head, hair ruffling down to obscure his features as he ducked his face into his arm, away from Arthur. “I could’ve saved her.”

“God help me, Merlin. I adored Guinevere. I loved her with all my heart, but she didn’t want you to die for her. I know that. And there was no guarantee. You might have ripped the enchantment out, you might have healed whatever Morgana did to her soul, but her body was broken, and even you’ve said you’re rubbish at healing magic. She was going to die either way. It would have been a waste for you to follow her just for that.”

“I can command life and death; it just needs to stay in balance.”

Arthur felt his eyes grow hot and sucked moisture into his mouth to dispel the cotton there. “I’ll say it again, Merlin: however willing you are, she would not have wanted you to die for her.”

“I didn’t have to!” Merlin shot up off of the bench and stalked in a tight circle as if looking for something to hit. “Morgana did this – she should have put it right!”

Morgana. Arthur’s next breath came shallow and quick despite his best efforts to regulate it. Morgana, laughing. Morgana bleeding out and chanting, like a joke, Emrys…Emrys…Emrys…fingering the tip of the sword protruding from between two ribs, the sword that Merlin had just put there. “Like the questing beast,” Arthur realized. The sorceress paying for the life she tried, unnaturally, to take.

Merlin washed up against the bare middle of the room and wobbled there. “Like the questing beast,” he agreed. His legs bent a bit before he steadied himself and put his back to Arthur, lost in the stone corner he faced.

Arthur let the sick heat spill over his cheeks and then immediately scrubbed at the slick wetness there, angry and betrayed and… It was his own fault, wasn’t it? He remembered coming back out of the water, Merlin splashing and frantic in front of him as he gained the shore first and rushed immediately to Morgana’s body, still and lifeless now with Arthur’s sword still in her. Water streaming from his clothes, his hair as he screamed at Morgana’s face and then broke down into horrible, wrenching sobs while Arthur just stood there, numb. Merlin wailing over Morgana’s dead body not because he had to kill her, not because he regretted it the way Arthur had thought at the time, but because his chance to save Guinevere died with Morgana. Arthur should have been terrified and repulsed by the cold calculation of such a thing, playing lives like cards, but looking at Merlin waver on the other side of the room – remembering the sound of him howling at Guinevere’s wrapped body the next morning as he realized for a second time that he failed… It wasn’t a cold thing that drove Merlin. It may have been a cold thing to do, but the motive for it was not so simple. Fairness…a balance…giving back what you take and paying for your trespasses… It was the oldest justice there was. Like the old religion, it was brutal sometimes, but it wasn’t necessarily undeserved. It wasn’t unfair.

“I stole the Horn of Cathbhadh.”

Arthur looked up, his breathing unsteady, and made a confused sound.

“After we got back, after…”

And then Arthur realized what he was getting at. “After the burial. When we fought, and you disappeared for three days.”

Merlin nodded, but all Arthur could see of him was the line of his back in Gaius’s warm, re-stitched and altered robes, with a fluff of dark hair in the dim light of the room. “I went to Nemeton. I wanted…” His voice guttered out like a candle in a sudden draft. “I needed to apologize. For letting her die. She deserved to know.”

Arthur shook his head and tried to will Merlin to turn around, because the way he was talking implied it went poorly, and Arthur couldn’t imagine – he couldn’t fathom that Guinevere was the one to put all of this self-loathing into Merlin’s head. The Guinevere he knew would have forgiven Merlin before he even managed to get his mouth open. And he was jealous, too, that Merlin had a chance to make amends whereas Arthur didn’t think he could have faced her himself, so soon after. “What did she say?”

Merlin’s ribcage expanded and Arthur watched him refuse to look back, away from the stones in front of him. “She didn’t.” He tipped his head up to gaze at the ceiling, and a bit of wan light from the window caught and reflected the sheen on one cheek like frost. “She wasn’t there.”

Arthur blinked. “Then… Where is she?”

“The Teine Diaga is dark magic,” Merlin replied tonelessly. “It consumes the soul to make room for the will of another.”

“Merlin, where is she?”

“Nowhere.” Merlin swayed and let the momentum carry him over to the bed, where he picked up Arthur’s crown and absently smoothed away imagined smudges. “The abyss.” He paced slowly back to where Arthur now stood, unaware of having moved until he found himself at eye level with Merlin. “It’s what the Dochraid said would happen if we failed.” He met Arthur’s gaze now, unflinching and flat. It was artificial. Merlin raised the crown and placed it back on Arthur’s head, shifting it until it sat straight and centered. He then proceeded to tug Arthur’s clothes back into place, minor adjustments here and there until he presumable looked regal enough.

Arthur could feel the shock running cold in his veins. He stood perfectly still while Merlin fussed, unable to fully appreciate the irony or the horror of the situation. Merlin moved around him, draping an intricate chain set with the Pendragon colors around his neck to hang in glittering red and gold across his chest, heavy and suffocating. He had never realized their weight before.

“She forgives me.”

Arthur blinked away the threat of a wet spill he refused to acknowledge and looked at Merlin in confusion. “What?”

“When I hear her voice,” Merlin clarified, his face complicated and pinched. “That’s what she says. That she forgives me.”

Arthur let his gaze drop to where Merlin’s hands shook in a fine, delicate shiver against the gold and jewels draped over Arthur’s breast. It was ironic, wasn’t it? Merlin’s own mind was doing that, tormenting him with her voice, and the most damaging thing it could contrive to give him was forgiveness. Mercy...absolution... They were sharper weapons than anyone gave them credit for. 

 

* * *

“We’ll find a way to bring her back, Arthur. I promise.”

 

 

~TBC~

Notes:

Just a short few scenes this time, to set up for the next one. It will be a long one, so I apologize for the delay between.

Chapter 8

Summary:

Whoops...found this in my drafts. I swear I thought I posted it like a month ago! Daft author is daft. :(

No warnings given - caveat lector.

The  Sins of the Father  

 

"I know what you did to my mother."

* * *

Arthur fumed, words bitten out past his poorly contained anger and disgust, his breathing heavy and his heart a fleeing rabbit in his chest as he put voice to the realization that had been swirling through his head the whole ride back. “This is what fuels your hatred for those who practice magic. Rather than blame yourself for what you did, you blame them.”  

"You would believe a sorcerer's lies,” Uther refuted, walking toward him with his chin up, arrogant, exactly as Arthur had accused. “Over the word of your own father?” He barely even raised his voice. That bluff, the calculated nonchalance – Arthur knew what that looked like on his father – knew the tell for what it was. “I can only think that Morgause has enchanted you." 

Of course, he would go there - his easy way out, his tired old mode of silencing dissent. Enchantment. Sorcery. Anyone who disagreed with him, sorcery. Anyone who challenged him, sorcery. Insist too much, and the pyre waited. Arthur barely allowed him time to finish, pressing ahead with what he had to say because he knew, and this time he was right – he could see it in his father’s studied indifference, like a playact. “You hunted her kind like animals! How many hundreds have you condemned to death to ease your guilt?”  

Uther raised his hand to gesture pointedly at the air, as if trying to get a simple fact through the mind of a simpleton. “Those who practice magic will stop at nothing to destroy us!”   

The same refrain, the same tone, the same fervor he’d shown on that idea since Arthur was old enough to understand the words, and yet they looked like a patina over the truth when Uther spoke them now - a lie repeated so often that it  carried  a false shine to reflect in . Arthur gave an incredulous shake of his head, his lips curled up in a terrible kind of humor.   

“I have only done what is necessary to protect this kingdom!”  

“You speak of honour,” Arthur sneered, “and nobility.” His voice rose with his temper, disgusted at the lie, at the transparency of it, at his own father trying to sell him a slaughter as if it were just, at himself for falling prey to it so easily. And for what? The hope of earning the sin of his father's pride? “You're nothing but a hypocrite and a liar!”  

Finally, Uther’s cool snapped. “I am your king, and your father.” He took a breath full of grit teeth and a flash of temper that spoke more of fear than anger, now that Arthur thought to look. “You will show me some respect!”  

Arthur nodded once, a faint movement, his mouth shut tight as he looked at his father and reviewed a lifetime of looking up to a man who would murder the innocent to burn off his own shame. He felt his sinuses heat and fill, but he couldn’t allow himself the weakness. After all, his father had taught him that well - never be weak. Never falter in your convictions. Never give clemency, lest everyone take you for a fool. All of his muscles shivering and taught, Arthur swallowed and stepped forward, forcing his mouth into a hard line even as he knew that his eyes would betray his hurt. He clenched his jaw and wrenched off his gauntlet as the expression on his father’s face went from brewing storm to disbelief. As if, for just a moment, he didn’t recognize his own son coming forward. The gauntlet slid slightly on the flagstones as Arthur tossed it between them the same way he might toss away something foul that he’d scraped off of his armor.   

Uther demanded softly, “Have you lost your mind?”  

“Pick it up.”  

“Arthur, I implore you, think about what you're doing.” He sounded like a statesman again, putting on his council airs and the voice he used from his throne, and it was inappropriate here – a transparent attempt to regain control. To save face. A challenge or a bluff, or both.  He wasn't regal here. 

“Pick,” Arthur snarled, his voice fighting to lose its quiet, level edge, “it up."  

Uther looked perfectly reasonable, perfectly sane as he replied, “I will not fight you.” But he swallowed and blinked and drew his head back at the wrong time, so he was more shaken than he wanted Arthur to know.   

Arthur  grimaced and drew his sword, the squeal of metal overloud in the conspicuous silence of the room. Arthur paced forward as he spoke, voice low and rough like a mill wheel. “If you choose not to defend yourself, I will strike you down where you stand.”  

“You are my son. You will not strike an unarmed man.” But Uther looked at him with uncertainty hiding poorly in the stillness of his face, his breath faint as he watched his son’s regard sour right in front of him.  

Arthur didn’t have to respond as he did, but he wanted to. There was a point to make, and oh...he wanted to hurt this man for  daring  to be his father – for posing as an honorable man. For making Arthur think that he was a good king, that he was wise, that he was an example to model himself after. For being...a  disappointment. “I  no longer think of myself as your son.”  

Uther merely looked at him and raised his chin as if it meant nothing to him to be disavowed. “Then strike me down.”  

* * * 

Dinner was a small disaster, to say the least. 

It seemed disrespectful, somehow, to make merry so soon after his conversation with Merlin in his chambers, and perverse to watch Merlin carry on as if it had never happened. (She forgives me. Like absolution were a curse.) It also overlaid the fact that they were celebrating Gaius’s passing as much as Merlin’s ascension, while some of them secretly pondered and worried about magic and nobility and bloodlines, and Arthur’s furious naming of a servant as heir to the throne, gnawing over all of the complications of it like a dog at a meaty bone, and the threat of it all getting out, and maybe getting drunk and raucous wasn’t the best way to go about this.  

It felt like they all had to be cheerful, though – had to put on court faces and offer the expected spectacle and celebration. But it was still all wrong, to Arthur’s mind, and he felt as if a schism had split him open inside, apart in halves so that he could watch himself play at being the magnanimous king while the more important part of him curled into a ball in a corner and raged even as he wept at the thought that Guinevere wouldn’t ever know peace beyond the veil. There was no Guinevere at all anymore. And Arthur…he hadn’t done that to her, no, but he hadn’t stopped it happening either. He hadn’t protected her. (He hadn’t even known and Merlin took over a year to tell him what it meant that she died like that, there, that she ceased, as if maybe he never intended to tell him at all.) He wondered if Morgana were happy now, to have destroyed just one of them so thoroughly. Did she sit beyond the veil and grieve for the friend she wronged? Or did she get the peace and tranquility that Guinevere could never have? It was a travesty of divine justice either way, Arthur thought bitterly. He should be more surprised to find the old religion so fickle, and yet what else had it ever been for him? Or for Merlin? The old religion took, and took, and took in the name of balance, and yet it never actually felt fair. 

Arthur gave the room a forced grin, his sociability precarious after too much good wine overlaying sharp tension, and watched the spectacle of Merlin trying to teach Gwaine to juggle apples while the rest of the diners roared with laughter. It was a small gathering, only a handful of the knights who liked Merlin best – Gwaine and Percival, of course, Leon and a random half dozen others – plus two of the senior squires, the heads of the midwives order, and the interim physician…dammit…Hubbly? Harbot? Whatever; he kept frowning whenever someone topped off Merlin’s glass. Leon’s somewhat senile father had also popped up, oddly enough, though none of them were sure how he found his way there from Leon’s family quarters all by himself, uninjured and sort of properly dressed. It was all topped off by a smattering of servants who were participating as much as serving the meal, and it appeared that a number of stable boys were milling around too, just for fun. Arthur had no idea where half of the diners had come from; he could swear he’d only talked to maybe four people that afternoon about celebrating their new physician. At least the crowd covered for the awkwardness that Arthur, at least, couldn't shake.  

Arthur tried not to brood too much in the midst of a congratulatory dinner, mostly because Merlin deserved a celebration for his accomplishments, and Arthur had already basically ruined it by forcing an untimely confidence beforehand. Among other things. He watched Merlin duck his head to adjust his grip on a few pears, his expression fading flat in that moment when no one was looking before he spread his mouth wide in a grin that bled sick at the edges. He glanced at Arthur, voices all around them turning to a dull buzz in the background like wasps. Merlin's mask faltered, just for a heartbeat, before he managed to laugh at something a groomsman said and avoid being caught out for the false cheer on his face.  

And Arthur was drunk. Too drunk to be thinking deep thoughts; he’d get himself into all sorts of trouble if he started ruminating now. Instead of pondering the unusual social logistics of the dinner, Arthur let his teeth show and his mouth crease upwards as he called, “Gwaine, he’s cheating!” 

Gwaine fumbled a few apples, lost one under the table, and then scowled at Arthur. “How is he cheating? I’m watching him!” 

“Same as the dice,” Arthur imparted sagely, twiddling his fingers in what he hoped was a passable impression of making secret magics.  

After blinking a few times, Gwaine rounded and lobbed an apple at Merlin’s laughing face. “You giant wanker!” 

Merlin tumbled back into his chair, apple clutched to his stomach, nearly wheezing with genuine mirth this time, his face edged all around in pink from the freely flowing wine. He really was pants at drinking; he’d had what, one cup? One everlasting cup, anyway, that he never managed to finish. Arthur frowned at the collection of ownerless, half-filled wine goblets strewn all over the table, but there was no telling who belonged to which, and how much any of them had actually imbibed. At least Merlin wasn’t moping, or not entirely. Arthur had thought he might, at the beginning of the meal. Everything about the way Merlin avoided looking at Arthur or saying the wrong thing, picking at his food and resisting the attempts of their fellow diners to bring him into some semblance of cheer was awkward at first. Like being there, at the table rather than serving it, was some special kind of torture. Or maybe he just really had no idea as to proper court dining etiquette, and was afraid he'd embarrass either Arthur or himself. 

Gwaine thumped down into his own chair, pointed another pitifully bruised apple at Merlin’s nose, and said, “You owe me a lot of money, my friend.” 

Arthur winced as Gwaine went to cuff Merlin about the head, but managed to refrain from making a scene about it. For his part, Merlin merely knocked his arm aside and shoved him, not that Gwaine budged much. More to distract himself than for any better reason, Arthur grabbed a full goblet, tried to stand, and then sort of lurched to his feet on the second attempt. A half dozen hands were already out, trying to steady him, and he had to let them, because, “I have had a lot of wine.” 

The knights roared with laughter, and Arthur grinned at them, not at all regal about it.  

Gwaine raised his wine too and yelled, “Speech!” 

“Ay, speech!” 

Arthur finally stopped wobbling and huffed, “I’m getting to it! You’re a pack of boors.” 

“Nah,” Leon called. “Bors isn’t here!” 

And of course, Gwaine, added, “Because he’s a bore .” 

“Boor!” 

“Boring Bors!” 

“Oh my god.” Arthur sagged toward the tabletop and then forced himself to stop giggling. “No, speech! I’m giving a speech. Hush!” 

There was a round of very forceful shushing, and Merlin just sat there in the middle of it, his face splotchy pink all over from drinking and finally getting around to laughing. 

Arthur nodded, looked at his wine, blinked around the attentive (blurry) table of guests and servants, and then raised his goblet. “To Merlin!” 

“Merlin!” 

“The worst manservant I’ve ever had!” 

Most of the group started to repeat the cheer, and then petered out halfway through, until Merlin shouted, “And proud of it!” And everyone roared another wordless, drunken cheer to that, sloshing wine around as they did so. 

Arthur shook himself and some of the fuzz in his head receded. He wondered what happened to all of the water. Was no one serving water tonight? Merlin was just looking at him, clearly sopping drunk and propped up against Gwaine sitting next to him. Sobriety fell over Arthur like ice water as he met that open, bleary gaze. More grave than he meant to be, Arthur added, “To the most loyal man I’ve ever met.” He staggered because the ground moved under him, but only briefly, and addressed his comments right at Merlin. “You are the only man I know who never seeks recognition for the great deeds he does. It is an incredible virtue. Every knight in this room could take lessons in humility from you.” 

Merlin’s eyes waxed round at that and he straightened abruptly, only saved from overbalancing by George appearing behind him as if he’d been hiding between pockets of air beside the chair, invisible. “Oh, don’t you dare knight me.” 

Just to get a rise, Arthur gave him a conspiring grin. “I’m your king, Merlin. You can’t stop me knighting you.” 

“You’re a clopple,” Merlin countered, and then squinched his face up. “…clopple...  Nevermind – stop giving me titles! I’ve nowhere to put them.” 

Arthur’s chest vibrated until he realized he was giggling silently, and he cleared his throat. “Fine, no more titles. Clotpole.” He hefted his wine up again, which prompted everyone else to do the same, which made a mess due to most of them being way too unsteady for that. Merlin tried to do the same but George stole his wine and shoved a polished horn cup into his hand, and there – that was where the water went! George had it all. No matter; Arthur liked wine too. With a great deal of effort, Arthur gravely raised his goblet and schooled his features into solemnity. His voice hoarse at the effort, he toasted, “And to Gaius, who could not be here to share this happy day.” 

The gathering hushed itself and Merlin dropped his gaze to the table. Arthur watched him swallow down a hiccup that could have been either grief or gorge, or both.  

It was Gwaine who rescued them all from the maudlin moment. “He taught you to make the hangover remedy, right?” 

Merlin blinked and wobbled his head back up to squint at Gwaine. “Not that you’ll be getting any.” 

Gwaine’s teeth flashed and he collared Merlin in the crook of his arm before toasting, “To our new Court Physician!” 

Everybody cheered in a rush of sound and Arthur sank quickly down into his seat because that was about all the standing his legs could take. He drained his cup in almost-unison with everyone else and sagged back against the seat to smile out at the happy people congratulating Merlin. They were just cheering his appointment, but Arthur imagined they were cheering other things too. Defeating powerful sorcerers and dragons, and saving Arthur, and putting swords in stones with made up stories to make sure a king had as much faith in himself as Merlin had in a man who ruled sometimes unjustly from his father’s shadow. The mirth melted from Arthur’s face like wax on a hot metal surface; he could feel it slough off like so much skin from a snake. Arthur leaned forward to rest his chin sloppily on a hand propped beside his plate, pensive, and watched George play musical goblets so that Merlin only managed to get his hands on water now that the toasts were done. Herblebee was helping with that too. Harbley. Huffley. Whatever – town physician man. With the mole Gwaine didn’t trust. Because it was a shifty mole, as moles often were.  

Random servants circled around them in a gradual whirl, removing picked-over dishes and refilling wine, mopping up spills and stealing bites of food here and there. The easy atmosphere eventually soothed Arthur back into a languid mood. Or maybe the wine did that; he really wasn’t sure. But he felt okay at the moment. Warm. It was a good feast, just big enough to be pleasant if he weren’t so pensive. Arthur’s mind sort of smeared along the inside of his skull as he watched everyone. He dropped his cheek into his palm and the room blurred from all of the wine he had sucked down. Fortifying wine. He might need more of that, actually. Arthur blinked at a goblet and fumbled at it before giving up. He might have been fortified enough already.  

A lull broke through the hum of celebration, and Merlin could be heard hiccupping a few times. When Arthur looked over, he met sparkling eyes and a dopey grin. Considering how awkward and pinched Merlin had been at the start of the meal, Arthur was glad to see that. He hadn’t been sure that Merlin would loosen up at all that evening, but there he was, weaving on his chair with a giant smile plastered all over his scruffy face, and that beard fuzz really did look good on him. Arthur succeeding in grasping a goblet and gulped down a sip of warm wine, eyes wandering over the rest of the gathering to where Guinevere had used to stand, next to the pillar and ready with the wine or water jug to refill Morgana’s or Uther’s goblets at their formal suppers. He imagined her smiling over there, dressed in blue this time, her white apron embroidered with flowers in stitching that flowed colorful and easy in vibrant threads across the linen. Arthur felt his face soften, and when one side of her mouth curled up in a covert, shared happiness, Arthur waggled his fingers at her – at the beautiful maid who was not yet his. 

I forgive you.  

Arthur jumped as Merlin knocked his ridiculous knees into the table leg and collapsed on the empty chair beside him. He gathered his wits with a sniff and wobbled upright in time for Merlin to squint at him and demand, “Who are you waving at?” 

The din of merriment crashed back down over his head and Arthur started slightly at the volume of it. “Nobody. Thinking of Guinevere. She used to stand there.” 

Merlin glanced down, but he was still smiling slightly as he pointed out, “She used to stand in lots of places. Should I expect you to start waving at all of them too? I know a nice wash bin she liked. You could tell it…poems.” And then he dissolved into giggles. If his drunkenness weren’t obvious enough from the fact that he had managed to tease Arthur about Guinevere without really noticing the sharp edge of pain to it, then the way he basically poured himself deeper into the chair definitely gave it away.  

Arthur shoved him a bit so that he wouldn’t fall out of said chair, and Merlin ended up with his head down on the table, cushioned on his arms. He snorted every few seconds, still laughing for no good reason even if there was a bit too much wet to it, and Arthur couldn’t help chuckling along with him; it was contagious. A quick survey of the room showed everyone trying to pick themselves up in preparation for leaving, and Arthur waved them away to let them know they didn’t have to wait for him to go first, as protocol would normally demand.  

At some point, Arthur lost the thread of what was going on, and when he looked beside himself again, Merlin was smiling at him all fuzzy-eyed and limpid with the side of his face mooshed into the back of one hand. Arthur tipped his head all the way to the side so that Merlin wasn’t horizontal anymore and said, “She would be proud of you. I have to say it.” 

Merlin merely offered a languid blink and said, “Of you too,” before the smile faded. “I miss her.” He looked sleepy and sad now, eyes heavy as he watched Arthur back. “She’s supposed to be here.” 

Arthur’s face went soft; he could feel it, like cotton wool replacing his skin. “Are you going to pass out drunk?” 

“Mmm.” Merlin hummed for a while longer, tuneless with his eyes closed. “Not sleeping.” 

Arthur reached over and swiped at a little trickling line of water travelling along the crease of Merlin’s nose. Maybe sweat. Probably not though. Arthur murmured, too soft to hear above the din, “S’alright. Not on your head.” 

Various servants appeared as if by magic to start chivvying their masters away, and Arthur watched a woman he had never seen before approach Gwaine. From the look of recognition that lit Gwaine’s face, however, this was a welcome development as he called, “Eira! There’s my lass.” 

It had just occurred to Arthur that Gwaine was sweet on this girl, possibly with long term intentions, if anyone could believe that, when Merlin’s head whipped up, looking as if he’d stepped in a snare. His eyes went hard as he focused on the woman now assisting Gwaine into his cloak, which Gwaine seemed to be playing up since Arthur knew that he was only barely tipsy. Merlin coughed a bit of phlegm out of his throat, and then flared his nostrils. “Traitor.” 

Arthur gawped at the sudden bristling in the man sitting next to him, and then over to Gwaine in time for the knight to snort. He clearly thought that Merlin was teasing him, because he preened and quipped back, “Aww, Merls. If I’d known you were interested – ” 

“She’s a traitor!” Merlin interrupted, pointing a drunken finger unsteadily at Eira’s shocked face. “You – you got him killed!” 

“Um.” Arthur stood up mostly to head off Merlin when he also stood.  

Gwaine seemed taken aback, but he wasn’t given to sudden tempers, and he knew Merlin well enough to assume that what looked like hostility might be something else. “Easy there, Merlin. Eira’s a friend of mine.” 

“No, she’s not.” Merlin tripped over his own feet and Arthur caught his arm when he missed reaching for the table top to stop him from falling all over the floor or smashing his face into the arm of a chair. “She’s working for Morgana – she gave you away. Percival brought your body back, they tortured you to find the army – ” 

“Merlin.” Arthur tried both to be stern, and to downplay whatever was going on to the other knights and servants now arrayed in a frozen tableau about the hall. “Does Gwaine look dead to you?” 

Merlin blinked, started, and then seemed to realize what he was doing. He went mostly still and settled his weight back onto his own unreliable feet. On the other side of the table, Percival eyed the woman Gwaine was now shielding, both of them holding the hilts of their swords with more than casual intent, though no one drew.  

Arthur swallowed down his own drunkenness to push Merlin back a few steps and get in front of him. “Try to make some sense,” he murmured. “Morgana is dead. No one is working for her, and Gwaine was not killed – he’s right there.” 

“But the army…” Merlin’s eyes flickered about unseeing for a moment, as if he were actually looking at an army. “She’ll find…she found you. And she has Saxons, and Mordred – ” 

“Is also dead.” Arthur grasped his forearm and tried to turn him around to where George now stood concerned, though he hid it well. “And the army hasn’t been assembled in over a year.” 

“Mordred killed you.” Merlin allowed himself to be steered away from the table, and Arthur blocked his attempts to look back at a now worried Gwaine. “He stabbed you. It was magic, the blade – Morgana has a dragon. They forged it with the breath and it killed you. And you didn’t have the armor right, he got through the plate. I was late.” 

Arthur pushed him through the servant’s door to stop any more talk of magic and George got hold of him after that, guiding him into the corridor with that subtle force that servants seemed so good at using unobtrusively against their masters. “I’m not dead either, Merlin. Look at me.” He held out his hands for inspection. “Do I look like I’ve been stabbed?” 

Merlin looked as invited, but Arthur could swear that he wasn’t seeing the man in front of him. “You’re in the lake.” 

Arthur swallowed convulsively, his back muscles tightening with a shiver as if someone had walked over his grave. “No,” he breathed, ignoring the hollow lilt to Merlin’s voice. “No, I’m right here. In Camelot.” 

Finally, Merlin ticked, and it seemed like he came back to himself in a cold rush with a sharp inhale. He met Arthur’s eyes, started to say something, and then shook himself. “I don’t…” 

George took the opportunity to step in then. “You have had too much wine, my lord.” At Merlin’s fuzzy look for the title, George amended, “Merlin. Sir. A spot of sleep will help.” 

“Yes.” Merlin’s brows drew down and he glanced around as if only just noticing the corridor.  

When he didn’t seem inclined to move any farther, however, George nudged at him. “This way, sir. The wine was very strong tonight.” 

Arthur watched Merlin stumble in the direction George indicated and let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold. It was true; the wine was strong. Even Arthur could feel that much, and he had been careful…ish. Leave it to Merlin to be a sloppy, embarrassing drunk. Except...well, he wasn’t. Was he? Arthur had never actually seen him this far into his cups before.  

Once the pair disappeared into a stairwell, Arthur closed his eyes momentarily, and then turned back to the king’s dining hall. He found most everyone gone, which was considerate of them, except that Gwaine remained standing behind his vacated chair, which Eira now occupied. She appeared pale, her eyes downcast. Leon also stood nearby, and Leon’s father sat in a chair near a pillar, rocking side-to-side and conversing with himself, an oblivious smile on his face. 

Arthur sighed and made his way over to Gwaine and his lady. “I apologize. Merlin can’t hold his wine at all. I’ll have a word with George about minding him better in future.” 

The girl failed to rise to that, and Arthur glanced uncertainly at the stony set of Gwaine’s face. He appeared to swallow past the first thing that came to mind, and gripped Eira’s shoulder with more force than Arthur thought appropriate for a man courting a young woman. “Tell him what you told me.” 

Arthur frowned at Gwaine, and then looked down at Eira. It hadn’t occurred to Arthur to feel any sort of dread before. Merlin was clearly just very confused for a moment. Wasn’t he? “Go on, then.” 

Eira nodded, wrung her hands, and then girded herself as she met Arthur’s gaze. “He’s not entirely wrong. Master Merlin. I…did. I considered… She approached me, and I agreed to…spy for her.” 

Leon moved closer to Arthur, his stance protective.  

Arthur’s chest grew cold, and he backed up until he could sit in a discarded chair himself. “For Morgana?”  

“Yes, sire.” It was barely a whisper, but clear in spite of that. She wasn’t trying to obscure her answer when she ducked her head; she was only ashamed of it. “I was to gain Sir Gwaine’s attentions, and use him to get information for her about the armies.” 

Gwaine looked away. 

Arthur ground his teeth briefly. “And did you? Send her information?” 

Eira shook her head, quick to deny it. “There wasn’t time, sire. She died before I could contrive to meet him. And I saw…we all saw what she did to the queen. It was…” She sniffed to clear the congestion from her nose and looked up again. “I thought that it was a just fight, for freedom and good magics, and that it excused her cruelty – that she had a right to vengeance. But then I saw you on your return journey with the queen’s body. You passed through our village and I’ve... Forgive me, sire, but I’ve never seen a man so...” She paused and tried to rearrange her skirts because saying it out loud, that the king had been nearly broken in his grief, wasn’t proper. “And I realized that if she would do that to a man she called brother, and to a woman who had been loyal to her – who she still called friend…” Eira ticked her head to one side in an aborted negation of the act she described. “It was perverse. And she was mad. And if that much was wrong, then how much else about her quest was wrong? I did not yet know that Morgana was dead when I decided not to follow her. I expected to be killed for it, but no one ever came for me.” 

“I see.” Arthur glanced up but Gwaine feigned disinterest in the both of them. “And yet, you still seduced Sir Gwaine.” 

“Unintentionally,” Eira admitted. She shook her head and grimaced at her hands again. “I didn’t expect to actually meet him. Or to like him.” She glanced at the hand that Gwaine had clenched on the hilt of his sword, knuckles pale from the force of his grip less than a foot from her face, the only outward sign he gave of how he felt to hear this. 

Unexpectedly, Gwaine said, “He’s a seer. Isn’t he? Like his uncle? That’s how he knew about her.” 

Arthur shook his head, but in truth, he didn’t know. He certainly hadn’t thought so before now. “He’s not been well lately.” 

His voice grinding like an ill-fit wagon wheel, Gwaine pointed out, “He’s not been wrong lately, either.” 

Arthur gave that the bare recognition that it deserved, and then shifted his gaze to Eira. “What about her?” he asked Gwaine. “Do you want to vouch for her?” 

Gwaine looked down, but couldn’t hold the woman’s gaze when she tipped her head up to meet his. “I haven’t decided yet.” 

For her part, Eira said nothing, and seemed resigned to receiving judgement now for crimes she had once meant to carry through. Arthur watched her be still in front of him, and wondered at Merlin trying to manipulate Arthur into a decision that would see the wrath of a goddess come down on a man who had not yet betrayed them. Because he had finally admitted to why he would want Mordred dead, hadn’t he? To stop him killing Arthur someday with a magic blade forged by Morgana’s dragon fire. A vision that had never come to pass; Mordred died a loyal knight at the last. But did the murky potential future really justify his death? Or was letting him go before his turning actually a mercy? Could such a thing be called a gift? To Eira, Arthur said, “Merlin called you a traitor, and you’ve admitted as much yourself. Why should I believe that you wouldn’t do it again, given the chance? Ally with our enemies?” 

“Because Morgana’s war was wrong.” Eira twisted her fingers, but it seemed a practiced affectation. Disingenuous, as if she were accustomed to making herself seem meek in order to reach her own ends. But perhaps that was not unusual for some women to posture thus, any more than puffing chests and swaggering about with swords was not unusual for a man to feign virility. 

“And what of the next war?” Arthur demanded. “Will that one also be wrong, if you stand on the other side?” 

Eira replied, “I cannot say what the next war will be.” 

Arthur cocked his head. He didn’t address it further, though; there seemed little point now. “You will remain under guard until further notice. Gwaine may continue to pay you court, as he likes, but you will be confined to… Where do you live, exactly?” 

Gwaine sneered, and then forced his face smooth again. “She lives with me, sire. In my rooms.” Before Arthur could suggest some alternative, Gwaine added, “I won’t force her out. There are plenty of cots in the barracks I can use.” 

Arthur nodded, and didn't bother mentioning the impropriety of those living arrangements, unwed as they both were. It didn't matter, after all; Gwaine had just paid for it. “Very well, then.” He craned his neck around and then had to call for guards since there were none nearby. Before relegating Eira to the armed escort, Arthur told her, “I hope you remember that Sir Gwaine did not have to deal with you so graciously. He could have had you put out of the city altogether, and right now, he is the only reason I am allowing you to remain, pending judgement.” 

“I know, sire. And I am grateful to Gwaine – ” 

“Save it,” Gwaine muttered, stepping away from her at last. He put his back to her as she was led out. An honorable knight, yes, but also a man scorned and made to love on half a lie. After a brief silent exchange with Arthur, Leon followed them. 

They were alone for what felt like a long time amidst the residue of a small, ruined feast with Leon’s mostly senile father harmlessly making pleased noises in the corner. Arthur scrubbed his hands over his face with a heavy sigh and fished a nearly full goblet out from the sea of empty ones. “Here.” He held it out to Gwaine, dangling from between thumb and forefinger.  

Gwaine turned to find the wine right in front of him, his face stone sober and closed. He took it and stared at the liquid inside for a moment. “It’s tempting,” he finally said. “A year ago, I’d have gone to the tavern and just stayed the night there. Found a nice loose barmaid. Or man.” 

Arthur’s brows went up of their own accord. “Are you turning down the king’s own wine?” 

“She doesn’t like me drunk.” Gwaine started to take a sip, stopped himself, and then curled his lip as he set it down with a sharp enough clink to splatter some of the wine over the rim of the goblet. “Fuck.” He glared at his fingers and then shook them before wiping them on his pantleg. “I need to…” He flapped his hand around and then settled on, “…do something.”  

Arthur let him leave without saying anything more, which was just as well since Gwaine merely walked out after that, his hands held up to deflect the servant who nearly ran into him on the way past. Arthur waved the boy on his way when he tried to bow without spilling his armful of linen, and picked up the perfectly good goblet of wine that Gwaine had discarded. As he drained it, he thought of Mordred grinning as they sparred, riding backwards on his horse at the older knights’ pranks, and then stepping in front of a poison spear. He thought of the boy, thin and pale and fae, huddled small and silent in a cell waiting to die for another man’s self-loathing crusade. Then he thought about Merlin repeatedly insisting that Mordred should not be trusted, and finally damning his own kind to make Arthur choose the path that he believed would see Mordred dead. The last thought that came to him though was of standing in a siege tunnel, shaking a locked grate, and drawing his sword as he realized Merlin might not be coming to help them escape. As if he had known, even then, and struggled with the imagined need to let a child die to save them all.  

Some part of Arthur took comfort from knowing that at least then, when they’d all been much younger men, Merlin hadn’t been able to do it. The ruthless part of him had come later, which meant that it was learned, and somewhere buried beneath it was a better man. Not the sorcerer or the attempted liar, but the Merlin that Arthur had always thought he knew. The mouthy young man who needed feeding up, who called Arthur a bully, who challenged him to actually be the prince he claimed to be, and then looked at him like he hung the stars. 

Arthur sighed and set the empty goblet aside, where it wobbled and then tipped over. He felt far too sober for his own good. Leon’s father stood up and Arthur had to do so as well, to keep him from wandering off. Last time someone lost track of him, it took the entire citadel three days to locate him sleeping with a nest of ducks at the mill pond. “My lord Leundugrance,” Arthur called, arresting the man’s shuffling journey to the doors. “Allow me to escort you back to your chambers.” 

* * * 

Arthur struck. The full force of his rage and his disillusionment, his disgust, his...his heartbreak fueled the strength behind his blade but it was a sloppy maneuver because of what drove it, a cloud of fetid emotion, and Uther easily raised a hidden blade to block it. They stared at each other past the cross of metal and Arthur fought the shame at his gullibility and how it made him want to curl into his absent mother’s lap and cry as he never had, and never could.  Because she was dead.

Uther blinked and huffed out a breath, his eyes and his blade both dropping far too soon for a man in combat. He stepped back, facing the shaking point of Arthur’s sword and told Arthur, sad and soft, “I don’t want to fight you.” He kept moving backwards, sword and eyes lowered to show his submission.   

Arthur shifted his grip and swung his sword in an arc to reset his stance. In front of him, his father started and lifted his own blade in aborted defense, wary and visibly trying to reconcile this adversary with the face it wore. Arthur stepped forward, stalking his retreating father down the length of the table, and then swung his sword underhand at Uther’s flank. The ring of impact only lasted a moment, swords arcing and moving to clash again and again and again, and Arthur bared his teeth because damn him – Uther was barely trying. He was blocking Arthur’s blows as if Arthur were a child on the training ground fussing about with a blunt blade. He was humoring a tantrum, he was –   

“Arthur, stop this!” Uther grunted with exertion and seemed to realize that he needed to defend himself properly – this was not in jest. It was not half-hearted.  

Arthur leapt back as Uther’s blade arced for his throat, and he saw the disbelief in his father’s face, the dawn of horror that he had nearly killed his son, and might have to do more than nearly that in the next moments. Arthur leveled his sword up again, a circling stance, and focused. As Uther fluttered his eyelids, perhaps in an effort to banish the sight before him, Arthur rose from his half crouch and advanced. This was an opponent like any other. This was a bad man who threatened the peace of Camelot. This was the man responsible for the murder of Arthur’s mother and a lifetime of lies. A traitor. Just a traitor to put down.  

The clash of metal echoed in the small space, along with Uther’s growls of desperate effort, his teeth grit, determined. Arthur wondered if he weren’t supposed to look mad, because he just looked the way Uther always did when angry or threatened: teeth showing, limbs tense, footwork lacking. Shouldn’t he look like a madman? Desperate like a betrayer caught? Why did he still just look like Arthur’s father?  

* * * 

Arthur stared into what remained of the hearth fire, his chin bent awkwardly to his chest, exhausted enough that he could feel how bruised his eyes were, puffy and dry and no doubt dull as the light that the waning embers cast out into his bedchamber. When had it become so difficult to sleep alone? Arthur took a deep breath and rolled his head to one side where he caught it in his hand, elbow propped on the arm of his chair. After a moment of staring blankly into the shadows near the bed, Arthur shook his head and climbed to his feet, a laborious effort more suited to scaling a steep mountain track. The royal obstacles of his life certainly felt insurmountable at times.  

There was a plate of cheese and fruit sitting on the sideboard, and a little basket of bread covered in a cloth next to that. Perhaps George was finally learning moderation. It was a bit hateful, really. If things were normal – if things were back to being the way they should be – Merlin would have appeared not with food but with an irritated sigh to bully him into his nightclothes. He would scold Arthur for drowsing in the chair like this, as he always did, and Arthur would grouse and grumble his way to sleep, happy and warm inside because someone cared enough to bother. Merlin had barely been able to walk straight when Arthur last saw him, though. He was probably passed out cold in his own chambers, snoring his way to a glorious hangover. It was a wonder that Arthur had ever given credit to Merlin disappearing into the tavern when he went missing, considering how completely incapable he was at holding his wine or ale. 

After pulling himself out of his slept-in clothes and shuffling into simple breeches and a tunic, Arthur pulled a warmer jacket on and filled its pockets with the food to nibble on later. It reminded him of running out of the nursery as a boy, his pockets filled with “supplies” so that he could survive the day running about in the fields with sticks to fight straw bandits. Morgana had come with him sometimes too, taller than him and similarly attired. She hadn’t found Guinevere yet, back then. Just Arthur. And Arthur hadn’t found anyone at all until Leon started training him with a sword, and then Guinevere had followed one day, straight out of Leon’s household, barely a maid herself. Arthur hadn’t even glanced at her, really. Not until Merlin basically turned him upside down and shook him out by the ankles and somehow made him see her, as if he were a magnifying lens to focus Arthur’s sight on all of the tiny hidden things standing right in front of him.

Arthur stumbled out into the courtyard with less kingly grace than he really wanted to admit. There were a few people about, mostly servants relighting the torches and lamps for the night watch.  Evidently, it was earlier than Arthur realized if the third watch was only just starting. He ambled through the courtyard gate and down the cobbled path to the lower town, picking bits of cheese out of his pocket to chew as he walked. It was strange, moving through the city unrecognized for once. There was a time it seemed that Arthur would never be able to escape the confines of his own face, and yet here he was, alone in the street, unmolested and barely able to appreciate the fact. The guards didn’t even stop him, though curfew must be coming up soon.  

It was only after Arthur passed the public well pump that he realized he was unwittingly dogging someone’s footsteps. Some part of him recognized Merlin on sight, clumsy stealth and stumbling stride, tripping over his own feet in the streets. Arthur smiled because it was so normal, so Merlin of him, but a sort of prescience had him holding his tongue. He wanted to see what Merlin was doing. Arthur didn’t suspect him of subversion because Merlin was good to his core, no matter how often Arthur knew he had killed or worse. It was more curiosity, really.  

After a few streets, it became apparent that Merlin was still somewhat drunk, and Arthur almost broke into a jog to go retrieve him. Merlin didn’t seem completely separated from his wits, though. He was coming from the general direction of the Rising Sun, perhaps courtesy of Gwaine dragging him out after the awful end to dinner. Some things never really changed. It wouldn't surprise Arthur to learn that Gwaine succumbed to his own darker impulses after all, drank himself silly, and forgot that he was supposed to also mind his hopelessly inebriated friend. Because Merlin had been pissed when he left the dining hall, and Gwaine really shouldn’t have taken him out for even more drinking. It was irresponsible. But Gwaine had been upset, and Merlin was always a sucker for a friend in need of company or cheering, and considering that he did seem steadier than when he’d left the dinner, maybe he hadn’t partaken of more. Arthur shook his head and picked up the pace. The last thing he wanted was for a tipsy Merlin to wander into a culvert or something equally stupid and break his ankle, or his neck. He would have to warn George to mind him better, because Merlin wandered about after dark quite a lot, and he shouldn’t. 

It became obvious after a bit that Merlin was headed out of the city. He slipped through the main portcullis after making a magical commotion somewhere off to one side, moat water roiling and splashing as if an intruder were making a very poor attempt to cross it. Arthur took advantage of the same distraction, rushed over the bridge and down into the shadow of the battlements. He found himself picking his way along a narrow track in the forest, headed out to a clearing down below the battlement walls and far enough out that the watchmen in the towers wouldn’t even be able to see a dragon tearing about in the moonless night, if it tore quietly enough.  

Eventually, Arthur reached the edge of the clearing, just able to make out the shadow of Merlin’s form in the short grasses where various livestock grazed every day to keep it cleared. He waited for a while, leaning sleepily against a tree while Merlin just stood there. Was it a magic thing, maybe? Arthur didn’t know how the elemental kind worked; maybe this was some kind of meditation or rest? But no. Just as Arthur grew bored at the nothing happening in front of him, Merlin raised his head up and roared in a voice that Arthur had only heard once before, grating and deep like a grind of rocks, to spit guttural foreign syllables at the sky. The forest went silent all around, and Arthur stood there terrified as he realized what Merlin had called up, invisible against the black starry sky other than a rising wind that eventually resolved into the rhythm of leathery wings.  

Arthur ducked as it soared over the treetops and stirred dust, leaves and debris in its wake, praying he wouldn’t sneeze or choke, his arm crossed over his face to keep his airway clear. The dragon arced above them, light and nearly silent on massive wings and perhaps a cushion of magic as it banked and dropped to the ground hard enough that Merlin staggered back a step before righting himself. Arthur didn’t dare move. Dragons, predators that they were, noticed movement before anything else, and Arthur didn’t even crouch to conceal himself, trusting in the trees at his back to shield him from sight in the dark.  

“Young warlock.” 

Arthur started and dropped like a stone behind a copse of bushes. Luckily, the dragon seemed to take no notice of him as it…smiled? Smiled at Merlin, terrifying teeth all in a row like pikes to impale people on. If he didn’t already know that Merlin was a dragonlord, Arthur would be screaming at him to run, the damn idiot. As it was, he stayed still, barely breathing, his eyes wide and an overripe pear squishing juice and mash through the hip pocket of his trousers where he had fallen onto it.  

“I was sorry to hear of your loss.” 

Merlin considered the great scaled beast for just a heartbeat, and then said, “You once called Gaius a traitor.” 

“And that he was,” the dragon agreed, as if they weren’t discussing anything truly painful. “But he was important to you, and you are my kin. I would rather not see you hurt.” 

“Mm.” Merlin looked down at the claws anchored into a furrow of mud near his own boots, and then he met the eye that the dragon lowered to be at a level with him. “You know what I realized today?” He spoke more slowly than normal, careful with his tongue to make the right syllables come out. “No one ever called me Emrys until I met you.” 

The dragon blinked and peeled its lips back down to cover its teeth.  

“Did you make it all up?” 

The dragon’s massive head straightened to look at Merlin head on. “I would never mislead you, young warlock.” 

Merlin scoffed. “Right. You know, I never lied to you. I never kept things from you.” 

“You were not ready to hear some truths.” 

“What truths?!” Merlin shouted. “That I am your replacement Emrys?” 

The dragon fluffed up its scales and shuffled closer on its belly to insist sharply, “You are not a replacement. You are my kin.” It considered a moment, snuffed the air – inhaling a few hapless moths in the process, which the dragon then snorted back out in pieces – and divined, “And you are drunk.”  

Merlin ignored that last and accused, “You have never given me a straight answer about anything.” Arthur wished he could see better, that the dragon’s bulk weren’t obscuring Merlin’s outline so well in the dark. “I trusted you, even when you were being enigmatic, but you weren’t ever trying to help me, were you? You were just grooming me to take his place, for your stupid destiny.” 

The dragon tilted its head and then admitted, “Grooming you, yes. For what you are destined to become. But I did not lie. You are Emrys.” 

“And Myrddin? Uther’s nephew – was he Emrys too?” 

“Evidently not,” the dragon sassed back, his tone irritated and cutting. “Since he is dead.”  

“But you knew who he was – my mother’s uncle.” 

The dragon considered Merlin for a moment, a skinny stick man dwarfed in its shadow, and finally admitted, “Yes.”  

“And you thought it was him, didn’t you?” 

“Many thought that at the time,” the dragon replied, its voice a rumble like a hillside sliding gently south in a rainstorm.  

“And you didn’t think to tell me that?” 

“It would have confused you. You were aimless enough as it was.” 

Merlin stepped out of the dragon’s shadow, his back to Arthur, and shook his head.  

“It was necessary,” the dragon added. To Arthur’s ears, it sounded earnest, perhaps a little desperate to make Merlin believe this. “You and the young Pendragon have a destiny that must be fulfilled.” 

Merlin continued shaking his head though, wandering in a small, uneven circle. “According to who? No one ever spoke to me of this destiny before you. For all I know, you invented it.” 

“I invented nothing,” the dragon insisted. “I saw your future, one of many, and advised you so that it may come to pass, as it must. This is your destiny.” 

“Why? Because it’s the particular future that you want?” 

The dragon lifted its head, perhaps to see Merlin better, or to try to intimidate with his bulk, his huge head hanging over Merlin and pointed down at the top of his head. “It was the best outcome. The young Pendragon will bring about a golden age, Merlin. A time of prosperity and magic where we can all be free. But he can only do this with you at his side. You are two sides of the same – ” 

“I am tired of everyone telling me what I am,” Merlin cut in.  

“This is not only about you,” the dragon snapped. Its breath blew out sharp from its nostrils and whipped Merlin’s hair back from his face. “This is about the good of all, magic and non-magic alike. You must fulfill your destiny. This is your purpose – it is the reason for your existence.” 

"So that's the only thing I'm good for? Your...war?" Merlin stopped and stared back in the direction of the castle, where flickers of torchlight and dark stone walls were the only things visible above the tree line. “I have betrayed people I loved – innocent people – friends – in the name of your destiny because I thought it meant something. I believed in it, on your word alone.” 

“You have done what you must to safeguard your king.” 

“I have brought about the deaths of people who did not need to die, because you said I should.”  

“You have slain your enemies!” the dragon countered. “Which of them would you rather have lived? The druid boy? The witch?” 

“Stop calling her that!” 

“You are being foolish! Both would have seen your king dead. Both would have done the same to you, as would many others. And if you had listened to me in the first place, this all could have been avoided. You let them live to rain chaos.” 

Merlin balked. “I can’t just kill people who haven’t done anything wrong! I am not a murderer.” 

“No, you are a savior.” 

“Then why haven’t I actually saved anyone?!” 

“Because you refuse to do what must be done. You will not make the sacrifices that are necessary because you do not want to. You have yet to learn that the world is bigger than your ego.” 

“Oh,” Merlin replied, arrogant in that way he could be sometimes, like challenging a prince in a marketplace. “And is it bigger than yours?” 

The dragon went still, and Arthur wondered how even a dragonlord could just stand there in a silent showdown with an angry dragon the size of several houses and not flinch. Finally, the dragon went soft, limbs unfurling and sagging with the release of tension. It stepped closer to Merlin and put its head down near to his. “I have made mistakes, young warlock. But I have never sought to cause you pain. You are dragonkind. That is your value to me. You are my kin.” 

“No.” Merlin swallowed visibly and stepped back, a clear rejection, and corrected, “I am your tool.” Then he turned around and commanded, “Stay away from me.” 

Even Arthur could hear the magic in that command, that it was binding somehow on the dragon. Merlin delved back into the forest on a different track than the one he had come in on, and the dragon emitted a low, long keen, a faraway sound howled at the place where Merlin disappeared. “Merlin. Merlin.”  

Arthur stood slowly, stupidly staring at the dragon where it huffed at the edge of some invisible line that Merlin had apparently drawn in the earth. 

“MERLIN.” The dragon puffed its scales out in its distress and ire, and hissed, “You cannot ignore me!” 

Arthur stepped out from behind the bushes that had sheltered him and started backing down the track, but the dragon whipped its head up at the rustling of leaves and sticks, and lumbered in his direction. “Shit.” Arthur scrambled backwards blindly until he fetched up hard against a tree. He groped at his hips for a knife or his sword, but all came up with was soggy smashed pear. 

The dragon looked angry as it slithered up to him, head lowered as if to strike like a lizard. But then it tipped its jaw down, blew out a hot, smoky stream of air, and mournfully asked, “What have you done?” 

Without even thinking, Arthur blurted, “I told him the truth.” 

Teeth appeared in a shiny white row between curled lips as the dragon accused, “You chose to tell him things he did not need to know. The past is dead and erased. That is what Pendragons do.” 

Something in the dragon’s demeanor implied that this was not exactly a threat, the way he had pushed his massive snout into Arthur’s personal space and now commenced to breathe on him like a steam vent. Arthur grasped at the bark of the tree behind him until he could push himself straight. “You think this is my doing? My father never told me anything of this either. I had to hear it like gossip and pry the rest out of my court historian.” 

The dragon’s eyes narrowed to slits and it tilted its head at him. “You expect me to believe that this is not contrived? You murdered Myrddin of Dyfedd yourself. I listened to his screams as he burned.” 

Arthur’s breathing went shallow. “I didn’t know who he was.”  

“An unlikely story.” 

“I was a child! And you have killed too. Hundreds of my people died in your attacks.” 

“And all of my people died in yours!” 

Arthur stared back at the dragon, strangely calm in the face of its attempt at wrath. It was an old, tired beast, though; Arthur could see how it stood with its weight skewed off of one leg, and its left wing cocked out to the side while the other folded close to its flank. “I cannot make up for my father’s wars, nor bring back his dead. And if you truly held a grudge with me for Camelot’s sins, you wouldn’t also call me the Once and Future King. That’s where Merlin got it from, isn’t it? From you?” 

The dragon shut its eyes and pulled back enough that its exhalations were no longer suffocating. “Yes. Because you are that.” Plaintive now, it looked at Arthur and said, “He is my kin.” 

Arthur nodded, but replied, “He is also mine. And he deserves to hear the truth from someone.” 

“And who are you to know what the truth is?” 

Arthur shook his head. “I have no idea anymore. I’ve been lied to as well.” 

The dragon lowered himself toward the ground at that and studied Arthur for a while. Finally, it said, “I cannot protect him if he will not permit me near him.” 

“And I cannot force him to be what you want.”  

“So you will instead force him to be what you want?” 

Arthur blinked several times, rapid, his head jerking to one side. “No.” 

The dragon stepped closer, intent but not quite predatory. “I saw your mark on him. He wears your crest now, but he is not yours. He is not your blood. Merlin is magic. He belongs to the old religion.” 

Heated, Arthur replied, “He belongs to himself!”  

“And yet you claim him as Pendragon.” 

Arthur tried to negate that, but all he did was breathe heavily, his temper fraying even as an amorphous sort of fear bloomed in sick heat in his gut. Finally, hating the weakness he couldn’t keep from his voice, Arthur defended, “I want him to feel that he belongs somewhere.” 

The dragon blinked, and drew back. “He belongs everywhere.” 

Arthur nodded, but said, “And yet, one of the only things I know for sure about him is that he is lonely. He has always been lonely.” 

They stared at one another, calculating and subdued, until the dragon finally admitted, “That is the price of keeping secrets from those who mean the most to you.” 

Arthur sidestepped to give himself a clear path back toward the castle, waiting for the dragon to try to advance on him. It didn’t. “Secrets may have had their place before, in my father’s reign, but he's dead. We cannot go on as we have.” 

The dragon blinked and raised his head to flick his eyes over the trees above Arthur’s head, as if scanning for prey, or for threats. “Do you believe in your destiny, then, young Pendragon?” 

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “I think it’s a lot of fanciful nonsense. But it’s as good a thing as any to strive for, isn’t it?” 

“It is necessary. This land is made from magic; it will perish if you do not achieve your destiny.” 

Arthur frowned. “Do you only speak in riddles?” 

“It is not a riddle. It is the way I speak.” 

Arthur coughed a laugh against his will, and the dragon dropped its gaze back to him. Contrite now that those glowing eyes were back on him, Arthur muttered, “Sorry.”  

“As am I,” the dragon allowed. “For it is almost too late now.” It stepped back and reared its body around without another word, and though it seemed to labor at it, it managed to gain enough air to heave itself from the ground.  

Arthur watched the ungainly bulk of the dragon as it glided and flapped itself up and away from the clearing, headed out toward the mountains before veering north. The only sign of its progress was the dwindling blot of dark against the stars until that too became indistinguishable from the night sky. Arthur waited until the forest noise came back, insects and toads and small creatures moving about their business, then gusted out a sudden breath. He bent over and rested his hands on his knees, the rush of confrontation bleeding out until his limbs turned to a numb jelly. Somehow, he managed to breathe steadily through it and keep his feet. Once he was certain of himself again, Arthur turned to make his slow way along the track back to Camelot before anyone noticed he was gone. 

* * * 

Arthur hacked with more brawn than strategy, perfectly aware that Uther’s age and lack of stamina were his weaknesses. It came as no surprise when Arthur finally landed the blow that wrenched the sword from his father’s hands, and it should feel good, shouldn’t it? It should feel like vindication to kick out and send his father sprawling back in his privy council chair with a sword at his throat. He should feel something better than this at the way Uther still looked at him like he couldn’t understand why his son would do this – as if Arthur would just stop now, point made, and maybe Uther would even beg his forgiveness because there were actually tears threatening in his eyes and it should have felt like an accomplishment to put those there, to ruin his fabricated life.  

“Arthur! Don’t! I know you don’t want to do this!”  

The sword seemed to freeze in his hand, but it wasn’t because of Merlin, or his father, or him, and why couldn’t he just press, just press it in, just - “My mother is dead because of him!”   

Uther’s eyes shone as if it hurt to hear that – the truth. He shouldn’t have buried it then - should have faced it if it hurt so much, not murdered his way across the kingdom, and why did he look like Arthur’s words stung worse than the point of the sword pricking his collarbone?  

“Killing your father won’t bring her back.”  

Arthur’s sword arm shook like he had the palsy and his gloved fingers twisted in spasms in his father’s vest as he held him there against his chair and tried to just...he could do  it, he could deliver  justice. H e could end this, and the lie with it.

“You’ve lost one parent. Do you really want to lose another?”  

Stop, stop talking, damn him, how dare he question –   

“Listen to him, Arthur.” Uther’s voice shook, his breath still catching and weak.  

Arthur sniffed hard and tried to ignore the damp in it, elbow raised to get the sword angled just right for the killing blow. Uther flinched, and this time it looked a bit like resignation.

Merlin continued, “Arthur, please.” Reasonable. Like talking down an hysterical damsel, or a man stood on the edge of a parapet gazing with longing at the ground. “Put the sword down.”   

He must have been running, Arthur thought vaguely, because he sounded out of breath. “You heard what my mother said.” Why didn’t they understand, any of them, why didn’t Merlin understand? He was there! “After everything he has done!” Innocents dead. Allegiances betrayed, people burned alive crying and unable to understand why their crime deserved it - why what they'd done was a crime at all. “Do you believe he deserves to live? He executes those who use magic and yet he has used it himself.”  

In Arthur’s periphery, Merlin swayed at the words that Arthur spat because he was listening well, and he did know what Arthur was saying, and what he was doing, and why, and it was obvious. Merlin’s childhood friend was a sorcerer; he knew the injustice of what Uther had done. He would let Arthur set this right, this one thing, however horrible, because he knew. He knew. 

“You,” Arthur breathed in Uther's face, staggering to maintain the placement of his blade in light of his fury and the shivering of his limbs, his racing heart. “You have caused so much suffering and pain. I will put an end to that.” Yet he still couldn’t force the blade forward, where it belonged, where he wanted it. And his father merely looked at him as if his heart were breaking at his sins come home to roost, given voice not by his coming death, but by the contempt of the son he would never have known, had he been a better man.   

* * * 

Arthur trudged back along the track, stumbling now and then over roots he couldn’t see. He was less careful than when going in, since he didn’t need to keep hidden from Merlin anymore. Except that when he estimated himself about halfway back, he heard a covert rustling followed by a sharp mutter of a word that sounded like lee-oat. Arthur froze and lifted his head. 

A small, pure white light illuminated Merlin’s face to one side of the track, the brightness cupped in the palm of his hand. When Merlin extended the light toward him as if to see him better, Arthur scuttled back on instinct. He wished immediately that he could take that reaction back. The open curiosity flickered and died on Merlin’s face as he contracted in on himself, taking the light with him. Merlin averted his gaze and sighed. “Not so trusting of your sorcerer after all?” 

Arthur shook himself from his paralysis and took a deliberate step forward. “You startled me. Is that…fire?” 

Merlin shook his head and hazarded another glance up at Arthur’s face. Whatever he saw there mollified him a bit; most of the wary, guarded look faded from his eyes. He considered Arthur for a moment and then held his hand out again, palm up to show the light there. It wasn’t in his palm, exactly, but it also didn’t come from anywhere. It had no edges, or boundaries the way the orb had when it led Arthur away from the morteus flowers. It didn’t appear to use fuel of any kind either. It wasn’t floating or – or emanating from anything. It was just there, pure white. When Arthur hovered his hand nearby it didn’t even give off heat. Eventually, Arthur looked past the strange light to Merlin’s face, startled by how it washed out his features and left him appearing pale and fey with eyelids puffy from exhaustion and shadowed underneath. Gaunt, with a week’s beard growth smeared like dirt along his jaw.  

Merlin indicated the light again, and gave what sounded like some sort of peace offering, as if they had been at odds just now. “You can touch it.” 

Arthur swallowed hard and looked down. He wanted to, if only to prove to Merlin that he could, that it didn’t bother him. But it did – it terrified him. And he couldn’t. He shook his head rather than give evidence with his voice, certain that it would shake if he tried.  

Merlin’s hand tipped and wobbled a bit before he drew it back and shook the light out, just as one might shake water from their fingers after a wash. The illuminated glare remained behind as an imprint smeared across Arthur’s sight, his night vision ruined. He blinked at the blotch of Merlin’s outline until it resolved roughly into the shape of his servant’s face, and then let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.  

As if he wanted to be sympathetic, Merlin offered, “It can be overwhelming. Magic.”  

Arthur swallowed and tried to focus better on Merlin’s face, to see if that really were disappointment coloring his voice. “I wasn’t expecting it.” 

Merlin moved, a disorienting sway of darkness in the shadowed forest, and Arthur followed him back onto the track. After rustling their way through a thick spot of brush, Merlin sighed and asked, “Did you hear the whole conversation?” 

It crossed Arthur’s mind to lie, but why? “Yes. How did you know I was here?” 

“I could hear Kilgharrah talking still, but not to me.” 

“Ah.” Arthur followed the sound of Merlin’s movements more than the sight of him, and wondered if all dragons had names, or only Merlin’s. And then he slowed, because he remembered Merlin using some strange word at Morgana’s dragon before succumbing to that first fit. It hadn’t occurred to Arthur that what Merlin had said was a name – the crippled little white dragon’s name. He had thought that Merlin was confused and just misspeaking at the time. “Do dragonlords just know what they’re called, then? Their names? Or do you make up names for them?” 

Merlin’s outline sidled over a fraction and Arthur could tell that he received a disbelieving glare just by the charge in the air. “I don’t make up dragon names. Kilgharrah never told me his; I found out his name from my father.” Merlin stumbled a bit and then picked up the pace in the dark. “But a dragonlord had to name him when he was hatched – it’s what calls them out of the egg.” 

Arthur emerged out into the road suddenly, unaware how far they’d travelled, and waited for Merlin to fall in at his side for the walk back, even if there was too much mutually agreed upon distance between them. “So…Morgana’s dragon had a name, then? Did she name it? Athelsa? Ethsa?” He couldn’t recall the word, exactly. 

For a while, Merlin didn’t say anything. Then he corrected, “Aithusa. But she didn't name her; Morgana wasn’t a dragonlord. Women can’t be, I think.” 

“But she commanded it,” Arthur pointed out. “Was it because of her magic?” 

“She didn’t command her,” Merlin snapped. “She asked her. Aithusa chose to obey.” 

Arthur grimaced, recalling perversely how it sounded when a dragon crunched its teeth through human bone. “You say that like it betrayed you personally.” When Merlin’s silence turned oppressive, Arthur snapped his head up to look at him. “It wasn’t yours, surely.” But Merlin didn’t deny it. Incredulous, Arthur started to demand to know where Merlin had gotten his hands on a baby dragon, and then he groaned. “That idiot man, Borden. You thief. Was there a dragon egg in your bag the whole way back to Camelot?”  

Merlin shrugged, and then his teeth gleamed in the starlight as he grinned. Cheeky, bashful lot of trouble of a man. “Yeah, sort of.” 

Arthur snorted and reached out to give Merlin a playful shove. Then he sobered. “So it was your dragon all along?” He tried not to sound accusing; he truly did. But it was suspicious, and Arthur hated that he couldn’t simply dismiss the niggling in the back of his mind that Merlin might show his true colors. As if Arthur didn’t already know how unshakable his loyalty was. 

Merlin slowed beside him until Arthur was forced to stop and turn around. “I didn’t know Morgana found her until it was too late. She can’t even speak. Kilgharrah says he can’t get near her either; she’s feral. I know Morgana wasn’t nice at the end, but I don't understand how she could hurt a baby dragon like that. Cripple it and make it cruel. Aithusa was sweet - she really was.” 

Arthur watched him for a moment and then asked, “No one told you? About the Sarrum?” 

Merlin’s brow wrinkled and he shook his head.  

With a sigh, Arthur explained, “The Sarrum captured Morgana at some point after we retook Camelot the last time. He said that she had a dragon with her, and it wouldn’t leave her, so he imprisoned it with her. It grew too big for the space they were in; its limbs had nowhere to go.” 

“Morgana didn’t hurt her then?” Merlin shifted his shoulders in confusion and then demanded, “But then why would she just...kill like that, for Morgana, if it wasn’t – ” 

“Coercion?” Arthur finished, but only because Merlin didn’t. “Torture? Maybe Morgana was the only one there,” Arthur offered. “Maybe that was enough to make it loyal.” He wondered if that were the grown up, mad sorceress version of the little Morgana who used to hide kittens from Uther in her cupboards. “How should I know?” Arthur kicked a stick out of his way and stalked up the road as far as it took to realize that Merlin wasn’t following him. “Are you coming, or growing roots?” 

Merlin resolved again out of the darkness, his boots crunching lightly along the road after a few more heartbeats of hesitation. “I didn’t think dragons needed mothers.” 

“Mommy Merlin,” Arthur mumbled without thinking. And then the absurdity of it wrung a snort of laughter from his chest. “Do dragons nurse?” 

Merlin punched him on the arm and Arthur happily collared him in the crook of his elbow, shaking him for a moment before releasing him and shoving him back onto his own feet. They ambled along for a while in comfortable silence after that, and then Merlin said, “I’m glad she found Morgana.” 

It was a curious thing to say, and Arthur gave Merlin a funny look.  

“So that she wasn’t alone.” 

Arthur grimaced and faced forward again. “I’m pretty sure your dragon was better off alone, honestly.” 

“I wasn’t talking about Aithusa.” 

Neither of them said anything for long enough that they could have let the conversation die, but Arthur eventually had to say, “I’m glad Morgana had a friend too.” Then he looked down and chewed the inside of his cheek before asking, “Was she there, in Nemeton?” 

Surprisingly, Merlin didn’t hesitate to nod. “She’s the one who met me.” 

“Was she…” Arthur grappled for the right words to describe his sister-turned-enemy.  

Merlin saved him the need to find the end to that sentence. “She was herself again.” 

“Good,” Arthur breathed, conflicted as to how he should feel about that, knowing the horror of what she did to all of them, and what it meant for all of the years both before her betrayal and after, that the mad, vengeful woman who died impaled on a sword, laughing, wasn't really Morgana at her core. Could she have been saved, then? Even at the last, was there a chance that Arthur missed to turn her away from that path? “I never wanted her to suffer.” 

“She knows that.” Merlin veered closer and bumped their shoulders together. “She’s sorry, Arthur. She wishes she could do it over again, and tell you the truth from the beginning.” 

Arthur glanced at him, wondering if that were a double insinuation – if it were a safe way for Merlin to express the same wish. Rather than say anything, Arthur let him have his obscurity on the subject and simply bumped shoulders back.  

“Why were you following me, anyway?” 

They emerged from out of the tree line and Arthur clucked, motioning him to follow toward the drawbridge. “I was out walking and saw you. Thought Gwaine might have gotten you to drink yourself senseless, and I don’t need you falling off a cobblestone and breaking your neck, or impaling yourself on a toothpick.” 

“A toothpick,” Merlin echoed, tone flat. “I’m not that drunk.” He promptly stumbled after saying that though, as if to purposefully bely that. 

Arthur grabbed the back of Merlin’s jacket to right him again, and then raised a pointed eyebrow. “Oh, yes. You’re the picture of sobriety. Then again, you’re normally so clumsy that I couldn’t tell the difference for sure. Better safe, no?” 

Merlin blinked, huffed, and then visibly refrained from making some smartass comeback in the presence of the guards now surging down the road to meet them. Arthur blew them all off and made his way into the lower town, Merlin in silent tow behind him. They eventually broke free of all but a few overzealous foot soldiers and wandered up the streets in a semblance of privacy. Several townspeople stood in their doorways though, curious about the ruckus, and Arthur nodded to them as they passed, gratified that most of them ducked back inside, presumably to go back to bed where they belonged. Where Arthur belonged, too. He glanced at Merlin shambling along beside him, his slim hands clasped behind his back, eyes lowered in a servant’s habit so unlike him that Arthur looked away. He really did hate it when Merlin acted like that – the way he was supposed to in keeping with his station. The way he had done for the past few miserable years as Arthur’s stresses grew with the burden of kingship, and the gulf widened ever more gaping between them. Arthur hadn’t realized how hard it was to bridge something like that after the fact.  

They both paused at roughly the same time, and Arthur found himself staring blankly at a blacksmith shop he hardly recognized anymore, shuttered and dark and unused since Elyan’s death. Guinevere hadn’t come down here since then either, but then again, she hadn’t been Guinevere anymore, had she? Arthur didn’t even know if anyone had bothered to clean it out. He turned a bit farther until he could see Merlin in his periphery, standing still as a tree in the road. He wasn’t looking at Guinevere’s old home, though; he was watching Arthur back. They exchanged an uneasy glance and then started moving again in unison, away from the ghosts that seemed to haunt them both.  

Arthur frowned at the ground passing beneath his feet and then said, “Eira. Gwaine’s woman.” 

Merlin sighed and wiped a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’ll apologize, to both of them.” 

Arthur cocked his head to ask, “Weren’t you at the Rising Sun with Gwaine earlier?” 

“No.” Merlin’s brow crinkled. “Gwaine’s sleeping it off somewhere, I thought.” 

Arthur looked away, thought about it for a moment, and then told him, “She confessed after you left the hall. Morgana approached her, and she agreed to get in Gwaine’s good graces to glean information on our troops.” 

Merlin didn’t say anything to that but his steps slowed, and Arthur’s altered to match. It wasn’t until they reached the portcullis leading into the courtyard that Merlin offered, “But she hasn’t actually committed a crime, has she?” 

“She consorted with our enemies and planned to follow through.” Arthur pinched his lips together. “But no, not really. She reconsidered, and backed out. And I’m not inclined to punish people for things they merely thought about doing. Actions matter.” 

Just because he always pointed out the things that Arthur would rather not bother with, Merlin said, “It would be a clever way to avoid suspicion, wouldn’t it? Claim a change of heart, play on your better nature? She’s a manipulator, Arthur. She would know the best half-truth to tell.” 

Sourly, Arthur replied, “Yes, I suppose you would recognize like kind.” 

For a moment, Merlin faltered, in both step and speech, but he recovered well enough to snap, “Yes, I imagine I would.” 

Arthur shook his head and looked down again. “Forget I said that. It was unkind; I know you aren’t a betrayer.” 

“Not of you, at least.” 

Arthur felt the truth of that in the chill that stole across his shoulders, but he let it go because he didn’t know how to deal with something like that. “She’s confined for now. Apparently, she’s been living with Gwaine, and Gwaine won’t put her out. I don’t know where he went for the night; maybe the barracks.” 

“Maybe,” Merlin replied, noncommittal. He seemed troubled about the whole matter, but so was Arthur; it didn’t need further remark right now. Once they reached the courtyard, Arthur ground to a stop and turned to face Merlin, who was already turning away with a shallow bow. “Goodnight, Arthur.” 

Arthur stood there like an idiot until Merlin reached the little door tucked away at the end of the courtyard. “Wait!” He hurried across the cobbled stone, but in a dignified manner, striding as if he were in the middle of very important business. Which he was. Sort of.  

Merlin stood half concealed in the doorway, his face expectant as if waiting for Arthur to remind him of some chore, or give him a list of things for the next day. Arthur just drifted to a stop in front of him, though, unable to figure out how to say what he wanted without sounding weak. It seemed like Merlin had an idea of what was going on, though, because he let his mouth shape itself into an apologetic smile. “I have to make an early start tomorrow.” He started to move away again. 

Arthur’s hand moved of its own accord to snag Merlin’s bicep, and he held on more forcibly than he probably should have. “You could stay upstairs. With me. Again. It’s warmer, and George won’t have to run across the whole castle to bring us both breakfast.” 

Merlin seemed to contract, his edges drawing close in some ineffable way that had nothing to do with the dimensions or cant of his body. He covered Arthur’s fingers briefly where they dug into his arm, soothing, and then he removed Arthur’s hand. “It’s not a good idea. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Arthur wasn’t thinking when he shot a hand out to snag at Merlin again, but as soon as Merlin jerked back at the manhandling, his face alarmed and his body tensed as if to flee, Arthur unhanded him, holding his hands up and away in a gesture of passivity. He couldn’t quite look at Merlin as he did it, embarrassed both at their reactions and at the way he could feel his ears turning red. Uncertain as to whether or not he really wanted to hear the answer, Arthur asked, “Was it just duty? Or...convenience?” 

Merlin shook his head somewhere in Arthur’s periphery. “What...?” 

“When you offered. That. And when I asked how far you would have let me go – what you would have let me do.” It was mortifying, but Arthur knew he had to ferret out where he stood with Merlin, exactly. Using a toss-away moment when they were both drunk enough to laugh it off in the morning seemed reasonable, until he actually started talking. “You said whatever I wanted. You said it should be obvious. Was it just because I’m the king? Did you feel obligated after sleeping in my bed?” 

Arthur’s hope for a swift denial shattered as Merlin just looked at him, his lips parted as if about to speak, and then uncertain how to say it. Finally, he replied, “It’s not that simple.” 

“What is it, then?” He chanced a glance up and found Merlin looking both pained and at a loss. “If you’re worried that I was only thinking of...of using you...? It’s not that.” 

“Of course not. You’re a prat, but you’re not a cad.” 

“Then was it guilt?” 

Merlin narrowed his eyes and balked. “Guilt? For what?” 

“Breaking your promise? Depriving me of my...Guinevere?” 

“No!” Merlin’s licked his lips, gaze dropping to wander along the floor and toward the stair just behind him. “No, I didn’t think that. I told you, I have no interest in replacing her. I can’t. And it wasn’t because I’m your servant. I mean, some servants do that. A lot of them. Sometimes, because they have to, but I know you aren’t like that, and I wouldn’t anyway, like that, for you, but you’re better than that anyway, and I just... I don’t… I mean it’s not like I ever thought about that like – like that.  I don’t have…lust for you or anything. You’re just…familiar. And it was nice, when I woke up. And I want…sometimes…” He trailed off finally, having backed further away as if to distance himself from all of the babbling that he just wanted someone sometimes, the same way Arthur did. A familiar body as comfort. Except that Arthur was starting to wonder if that were all Merlin felt. Familiarity wasn’t what kept him in Camelot, after all. It wasn’t why Merlin seemed so devoted to him, in defiance of his own best interests. Familiarity and “nice” didn’t make men willing to die for each other when they didn’t have to – when they weren’t sworn to it, outside the heat of the moment. And that probably applied as much to Arthur as it did to Merlin, which was a somewhat terrifying thought since they’d both been doing it – almost dying for each other – since nearly the beginning.  

And nice didn’t make Merlin willing to do monstrous things, just for Arthur’s sake. It wasn’t what made him hate himself for carrying out something that wasn’t actually his duty, dragons and crazy prophets aside. That commitment had to come from something stronger, and less tangible.  

Arthur felt something warm bloom in his gut and stepped forward, ignoring the wary cant of Merlin’s body as he watched Arthur approach again. “Right, then; I can understand that. So just…come upstairs. We’ll just sleep, like the last times.” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say that he didn’t really fancy being alone either, but the words stuck and he let them die back there in his chest. “If you want to.” 

“I don’t know what I want.” Merlin retreated again, and even though it pained him, Arthur let him have that distance. “I just don’t want to feel like this anymore.” Whatever this was. 

Arthur nodded because that was raw honesty, and Merlin didn’t normally give him that without also being strange and abrupt and misleading about it, or cracking a joke, or running off with an armful of laundry to avoid Arthur’s nearly inevitable teasing. “Then come upstairs.” He moved forward again and snagged at Merlin’s shirt, stumbling him forward with a light tug. “So I know where you are.”  

Merlin seemed surprised by his own compliance and stiffened again, head shaking more vehemently now. “Arthur, I can’t. That’s…I have a bed.” He let Arthur reel him in though, and shuffled toward the door back out to the courtyard, so that they could reenter through the royal house. “And I have to be up early, and you hate getting up early.” 

“That’s fine. Come on.” Arthur ignored the protests and kept exerting a gentle enough pressure that he didn’t feel as if he were forcing Merlin to go with him. Just…insistently guiding him to where Arthur wanted him.  

Merlin let himself get as far as the doorway, Arthur already through it, before he planted his feet. “No. I can’t. It’s Gwen’s bed, with you. I shouldn’t have been in it; it’s wrong. I’m sorry, I didn’t... I should have refused.” 

“I told you, just sleeping.”  

Merlin replied in a whisper, “It’s not just anything for me.” 

After a moment spent considering Merlin’s downcast eyes in silence – his clear reluctance – Arthur let him go. Thankfully, though, Merlin stayed where Arthur left him instead of scuttling away or replacing the space between them. “If you don’t want to sleep with me, if it’s that uncomfortable, then just say so, Merlin. Have the decency to turn me down like a man.” 

"If I don't - ?" Merlin blinked a few times, glanced up, and then his eyes slid past Arthur and out into the cobbled darkness of the courtyard. “I offered. More than once, and I'm an idiot for it. You're the one who didn't want it."

Arthur swallowed and took a sharp breath to retort, but it died quickly. He sighed. "I know. I know. I'm not...comfortable...entirely...with the idea of it."

"Do you feel guilty? Is that it?"

Arthur almost demanded to know what on earth he should feel guilty for – he was the king, after all; he could do as he wished – but it seemed like one of those things that would have made Guinevere frown at him for being dense. For acting entitled, or…or cold. Cautious now, Arthur said, “If you’re asking if I feel guilt for wanting someone near? Someone I know and trust with my life? For feeling something other than grief or – or horror at knowing she’s not where she should be? Then…no, Merlin. I’m not betraying anyone. I feel guilt for her death – for not noticing sooner, and for not saving her – ” 

“Because of me,” Merlin broke in. “You didn’t save her because you chose me. And if you choose me for that too, even just for a service, it's worse.”  

Brutal, that. Arthur swallowed over something threatening sick, but he nodded, because it was true in a way whether or not Merlin understood Arthur’s motivations for it then, or his ability to let it go now. “Yes, I chose you. It had nothing to do with - with whatever this is - " He gestured vaguely between them - "but yes. And I would do it again.” Arthur watched Merlin misconstrue that as expected, then seized at him when he tried to leave the conversation. He weathered Merlin’s brief struggle to free himself before hissing, “Listen to me –  listen!”  He gentled his voice back down by force, though it strained a bit in the back of his throat, scraping his vocal chords hoarse. “I stand by what I did, Merlin. Maybe it would have worked – maybe you could have healed her body with Morgana’s life, and maybe you could have freed her from the enchantment or we could have convinced her again to step into the water, but it was killing you.” 

Merlin bared his teeth and wrenched himself backwards, dragging Arthur with him, until he was basically pinned against the wall. “I told you – ” 

Arthur’s calm withered and he snapped, “I don’t give a damn about your stupid life magic! Guinevere may have lived, yes. But I had to beg that goddess light thing to save you.” Pure light, white and shining from nowhere like the strange glow that Merlin could breathe into his palm. Divine light. Something to hold sacred. Something that Merlin could make at will in his hand, and then shake from his fingers as if it were nothing. “Do you think I wanted that? For my best friend to trade his life for my wife? It wasn’t your sacrifice to make, Merlin.” 

“It wasn’t your choice!” Merlin spit back. “I was handling it – she didn’t have to die!” 

“She was already dead! I saw a hollow queen betray our secrets to our enemy, Merlin – I lost my wife before I even knew she was gone.” Arthur huffed out a humid, clogged breath and backtracked to say, “You didn’t have to die either. You can hate me for making that choice, but I will not let you hold the guilt for it. That is mine, and mine alone. And I would do it again. Because there was no guarantee, and whatever else you think, I  saw  what it was doing to you.” Arthur shifted his grip, too tight and bruising on a wrist still too bony, still too thin. He forced Merlin’s arm up between them as Merlin grit his teeth and gave Arthur an absolutely ugly look, then shoved back the sleeve of Merlin’s robe to bare the marks that lingered there still, faint like threads up his forearm. He shook Merlin’s own arm in Merlin’s face to make his point. “You don’t remember what happened – you didn’t see it wrapping around you, crawling inside you until you nearly choked on it! Do you really think, once you got it out of her, that it would have let you save her? You would have died for nothing.” 

“No,” Merlin sneered, and Arthur realized that there were worse recriminations than the ones Merlin might lay at his own feet when he noticed the shine of wet smeared all down Merlin’s cheeks now – angry things, salt and awful thoughts and snot. “You’re not that cold. You loved her – ” 

“Yes!” Arthur shouted at his face, his own composure washed away on a rising tide of everything he hadn’t bothered to feel over the past year for fear that he might drown in it. He let himself revel for just a breath in the satisfaction when Merlin flinched at the gust of the word in his face, but then made himself calm down again before the fight instinct made him do or say something regretful. “Yes,” Arthur repeated at lower volume. “I loved her, Merlin. So much. But I had to choose.” 

“No, you didn’t!” 

Arthur grunted with exertion at forcing Merlin to remain where he was, in this conversation that Arthur really didn’t want to have either. “Her body was dying, and that was the only part of her left anyway. Do you really think she’d have ever forgiven me for letting you kill yourself to preserve her empty shell?” 

Merlin blew out a wet breath of something through the teeth he had clenched over his bottom lip, and then he spat, “You had to save your sorcerer. You let her die because you need magic, more than you need a queen – there are dozens more queens out there, you could have your pick, but I’m the only sorcerer who doesn‘t want you dead, and you need that, you need me – just like your father needed Gaius. A necessary evil for the good of the kingdom – ” 

Arthur wasn’t even thinking when he hauled off and backhanded the words out of Merlin’s mouth to shut him up. They were both breathing heavily, heart rates no doubt dangerously high, but everything finally went still. Abruptly, what he had done sunk in and Arthur unhanded Merlin as if he’d caught fire. He tried in vain to calm the heaving of his chest, but couldn’t quite manage it. “Is that what you think? That I sacrificed my wife for the sake of Camelot’s defenses?” 

Merlin wasn’t audibly crying, but his every inhalation came out a wreck as he pressed the back of one trembling hand to his now split lip. “Why else?” he choked miserably. “You loved her. I'm just a bad servant with magic.” 

Arthur breathed in shallow disbelief for a moment, and then blurted, “What happened to you? How could you think that? Any of it?” He at least possessed enough awareness to realize that what Merlin said actually had nothing to do with Arthur. He wasn’t trying to make out as if Arthur were actually that horrible, to throw away his own wife for the sake of politics or a…a weapon of magic. It said more about Merlin himself than anything else. “You’ve never thought so little of yourself.”  

Merlin inhaled sharply as if he meant to retort, but instead, he sagged back against the wall and turned his hand over to cover his mouth with his palm. “I might be sick,” he confessed. 

“Knew you were still drunk,” Arthur said, but it fell flat rather than teasing. When it seemed that Merlin’s breathing was only getting worse, Arthur shook his head and shouldered into his space until Merlin folded into him and coughed a few awful lungsful of grief into Arthur’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare throw up on me. I like this shirt.” 

Merlin laughed like a startled bird and gripped back, his own grasp weaker than Arthur’s. The words, when they came, were sheer whispers forced through a constricted throat, barely there, like gasps through the veil. “I can’t do anything right. I keep trying and it all comes out shit, and everyone's screaming at me about destiny and golden ages and what I have to do, and how I'm doing it wrong, but what I have to do keeps making people die, and I can’t...I can’t fix any of it, and I'm tired. Arthur, I'm so tired of feeling like I'm failing everyone." 

Arthur’s own lungs deflated and went fallow for a moment. It was a feeling Arthur knew well – the guilt of having someone because of him, and king or not, there was always some part of him that thought he didn’t deserve that sacrifice. That maybe he was a curse, to be ringed by bodies – to leave a trail of the dead behind him his entire life. “That’s not how these things work,” he said. “People die, and it’s not always fair. And if we’re lucky, it hurts like hell afterwards so that we know it meant something – that they meant something. But if we just give up? Let the pain take over and kill us too? Then their life was a waste. We render their sacrifice worthless. And we can’t do that, Merlin. We can’t disrespect them like that.” 

“I know,” Merlin mumbled, but it seemed wrote. “I know, I just want it to stop.” 

Arthur shifted and nodded with his face pressed against Merlin’s hair. “So do I,” he confessed. “But that’s not always in our power, and you have to learn to let this go. Because I can’t lose you too. Alright?” He only realized he was crying as well when he had to bite the words out like pain through his throat. “Don’t do that to me, Merlin. I’ve lost enough already. You can’t go too.” 

Merlin grew heavier against him, but when he spoke, it was a low sound, and hard to hear. “I was supposed to save her. And Gaius and Will…Morgana…my  father…  I could have saved them. I'm supposed to save people.” 

In his heart, Arthur didn’t believe that those deaths could have been averted. He knew that Merlin carried a power that made other magic look cheap, but Arthur felt somewhere deep down that no, he couldn’t have given any of them their lives back. And with Guinevere’s at least, Arthur wasn’t about to apologize for making the choice that he had, even knowing the awful consequence of that. “It’s done with,” he said instead. “And this wouldn’t make any of them happy.” He closed his eyes and pressed his nose to the dark hair near Merlin’s temple, where the scar still sat hidden from the fall he took off the path to the cauldron. “It’s late. Let’s get you to bed before some patrol walks by. Come on.” Merlin tried to wriggle out of Arthur’s hold again, but Arthur merely kept his arm around Merlin’s shoulders and steered him up the stairs. “In your own room,” Arthur promised. “Not mine. Up you get.” 

As they stumbled up into the corridor leading to the physician’s chamber, Arthur glanced down the side passage to his right to find a guard stood at attention, looking uncomfortable. Arthur eyed him suspiciously, but the guard bowed his head, one finger tapping the side of his nose to indicate his silence concerning what he had clearly overheard. It occurred to Arthur to be more suspicious of that, and of the guard’s motives, but he didn’t have it in him just then, and Merlin seemed barely able to keep his feet under him from exhaustion and drink, no matter that he claimed he wasn't impaired. Arthur nodded back to the guard and watched over his shoulder long enough to be sure that the man turned down the stairs and away from them. Then he focused on maneuvering Merlin into the physician’s chambers and over to the big goose down mattress against the wall where Gaius had used to sleep, a luxury given to old bones and long service. 

Merlin’s docile behavior frightened Arthur only because he’d never seen such a thing in Merlin before, save for the moments leading up to a fit. Maybe he had been like this sometimes with Gaius, though: vulnerable. Small. Hurt. Arthur didn’t like that thought, that this Merlin wasn’t an isolated incident – that he could be like this regularly, and only now with Gaius gone did Arthur see it, because there was no one else, and Merlin couldn’t hold the illusion any longer that he was alright all of the time. Merlin allowed Arthur to remove his newly fitted surcoat, and then his tunic until he sat bare chested on the mattress in only his trousers and boots, and Arthur’s crest dangling over his lap. Arthur glanced around for sleepwear but since nothing obvious caught his eye, he dismissed it and instead removed Merlin’s boots while Merlin stared blankly over Arthur’s head.  

After a moment’s thought, and then second thoughts, Arthur turned next to his own attire and removed everything until he, too, stood clad in only his breeches. Then he knelt in front of Merlin, too close to be casual but still far enough that Merlin could push him away if he wanted to. He put his hands on Merlin’s knees and waited until Merlin’s gaze wandered back down to him, haunted and slack in the dim light from the dying hearth fire. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” Arthur started, absently shifting to thumb away a smear of blood from Merlin’s lip where his tooth had cut in, courtesy of Arthur’s own hand. “You’ve been unusually idiotic of late.” It was no kind of apology, but Arthur didn’t know how to apologize when it really mattered, about something like this. He wasn’t even certain that he should. He rested his hand back on Merlin’s knee and squeezed briefly. “I don’t want to leave you alone to sleep like this.” He made it sound like a question, but Merlin just stared back, bleary-eyed and uncomprehending. “You can say no and I'll make up a pallet on the floor,” Arthur added, "though I'd rather not. Just don’t think that I’m doing this callously. All right?” He risked reaching up to feather his fingertips over Merlin’s cheek, crusty now with dried salt and beard scruff. He could hear the sadness, the confusion in his own voice when he admitted, “I don’t know what else to do to make you understand.” Arthur’s hand wandered down and covered the royal crest on its chain where it hung just below Merlin’s heart. 

Merlin gave a slow blink in response, his eyes half closed with something other than sleepiness. “Understand what?” 

Arthur tried to inject some levity into his smile, but he could feel that it came off empty. “You’re not usually this dim.” Then he let the artifice fade. “You are more than some dusty old dragon's prophecy. And you're not a replacement for Guinevere. You occupy an entirely different part of my heart – you’ve always been there. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how you got in there in the first place. But you did, and it's got nothing to do with your birthright or destiny, or any other mad idea people have crammed into your head. I’ve not done right by you, considering everything you’ve done for me and for Camelot. Everything you’ve been willing to sacrifice, even when you thought no one would thank you for it if they ever knew. There were plenty of years when saving my life the way you do would have led me to condemn you.” With magic. For magic.  

“I never asked for your gratitude.” 

Never asked, Arthur thought. But he didn’t say, never wanted. “ No. Just the same, I am grateful. And I don’t think I can afford to look past you anymore.” He shook his head and let his mouth crease into an unhappy line, head tipped just a bit to one side. “And I refuse to watch you fade.” Arthur’s fingers trailed around to cup Merlin’s jaw and when Merlin pressed into it like one of Arthur’s hunting dogs desperate for affection, Arthur didn’t think he realized he was doing it. Again, he warned, “You’re allowed to refuse me.” 

Merlin didn’t say anything though, and his face said nothing either; it didn’t even speak of confusion at Arthur’s odd behavior. So Arthur nodded and leaned in to press his lips to Merlin’s forehead, his other hand coming up to frame Merlin’s face and tip it down so that Arthur could reach. He heard himself saying, days and nights ago to a Merlin passed out cold in Arthur’s bed, like an echo in a well, I want to be the king you think I am. And he did; the gilded vision that Merlin spun of Arthur ruling over a united Albion was…beautiful. But so was the possibility of the man in front of him, and Arthur needed that more than some shining illusion of a world that may never come to pass.  

Without opening his eyes, Arthur rubbed his nose down over Merlin’s rough cheek and then paused, breathing the same air, waiting for Merlin to stiffen or back away or throw Arthur off. He didn’t move though, and his frame didn’t go rigid, so Arthur rested his brow against Merlin’s temple and opened his eyes. “Lie back.” He pushed, hand centered against Merlin’s sternum where he could feel his own royal crest pressed to Merlin’s flesh, sure to leave indents in the hard pectoral muscle in the shape of a dragon, but Merlin didn’t fold back onto the bed. His eyes wandered down to Arthur’s hand splayed against his skin, brow rumpled like old linen, and then he swung his head back up, slowly, as if looking for the explanation for that touch in the space past Arthur's shoulder, his eyes unfocused and canted off to the side. It seemed natural for Arthur to crane his neck up and press his closed lips against Merlin’s slightly parted ones, the way he might kiss a beloved brother in arms, soft and chaste.  

When they parted, Merlin followed for a moment like a flower toward the sun, helpless. It was the same absent motion that Arthur remembered when he closed the doors on his father’s dead body and beckoned Merlin to follow him away. Like a compass swinging back to face north again. In the space of the next breath, Merlin finally seemed to come back from within himself. He blinked at Arthur, but made no other reaction or protest. 

Again, Arthur coaxed, “Just lie back.”  

A shadow passed over Merlin’s face, as if he wanted to question something – Arthur’s motives, maybe, or his sanity. He didn’t voice any of it, though; Merlin gave in when Arthur pushed at his chest again, and rolled back onto the straw mattress without protest. Arthur pat at his thigh until Merlin took the hint to swing his legs up too, and then Arthur fumbled a bit, ignoring the protest of his knees digging against the hard stone floor until he could perch up on the edge of the bed, hip to hip. Arthur wasn’t young anymore, as the lingering ache in his joints showed, but he knew that already; he had used his body hard in his youth – jousts and tournaments, battles, long days on horseback or training in full armor, and a reckless disregard for his heart. 

Arthur rested his hand on Merlin’s stomach, fingers curving at the edges over the dip of a firm waist. He was pale, but Arthur had always thought that Merlin’s skin lacked a flush of healthy color. And there were scars, too – threaded pink lines here and there, a pock low on his abdomen that might have been a bolt wound, and of course the faded burn covering one side of his heart. Arthur took a deep breath and then fought not to let it turn into a sigh at the spread of blemished skin before him. Merlin wasn’t made for this. He shouldn’t have to tear himself apart at the seams to meet the demands of duty against the cry of his conscience. He shouldn’t bear marks the way a knight does, as if it were commonplace. Expected. Nothing special. Merlin should have been protected from this, all of this – Arthur should have known to protect him.  

Gruff with weariness and a miasma of more poorly defined emotions, Arthur murmured, “I’m sorry it took so long for me to see you.” He sniffed, prim even though it was out of place here, now. “You deserved a better friend.” 

Merlin swallowed and curled restless fingers into loose fists near his chest. “You don’t know all the things I’ve done. I’m not a nice person anymore, Arthur. I deserve far worse than to be ignored.” 

Arthur looked up, denial poised on his lips, but Merlin didn’t really seem to be paying attention to him, not entirely. He spoke his words to the ceiling, his eyelids drooping with fatigue and probably lingering drunkenness. Arthur regrouped and teased, “Are you trying to be interesting again?” He shut his eyes briefly though when it sounded more sad than anything else.  

“Don’t,” Merlin snapped softly, his voice thick with mucus. “You told me yesterday to see you for who you really are. Do me the same courtesy, at least.” 

Arthur grimaced. “Not exactly a courtesy, is it?” He looked down at his hand, still splayed over the smooth stretch of Merlin’s stomach where a line of hair trailed down beneath the drawstring of Merlin’s breeches, slung almost obscenely low across his hips. Arthur traced it with a thumb, and Merlin’s jaw clenched. Arthur read anger in the tension that made the tendons stand out along Merlin’s clavicle. Or…no, not anger. Self-disgust. Such a disturbingly familiar thing to see on Merlin’s face of late. Finally, Arthur offered, “I well understand how it feels to carry the weight of a kingdom – to be responsible for its peoples' well-being, and think that maybe you didn’t do enough. That maybe you failed them, or made the wrong decision and harmed them instead.” 

Thankfully, Merlin forbore to reassure him of his gleaming destiny or his intransigent goodness, as he usually did when Arthur disparaged his kingship. What he said instead, though, may have been worse. “You wouldn’t like me anymore if you knew half the things I’ve done to keep you alive.” He raised his arms and pressed shaking hands over his eyes, the meat of his palms digging in under his eyebrows as if he could press the remembered sights back into his skull where they wouldn’t play in front of him anymore. “What I’m responsible for. I didn’t fail them – I led them to slaughter. I knew it was wrong – I could feel it. And I still did it. I had a chance. Arthur, I had a chance to stop all of it.”  

Arthur shook his head because he didn’t want to hear this – Merlin was good. Merlin was like a puppy desperate to please one moment and then playfully nipping at his hand the next to draw innocent blood, not meaning to hurt. Merlin was his friend – maybe his only real one, for all that Arthur was pants as being a friend back to him, all ranks and titles aside. He could have done better, even within the bounds of duty and crown, but he hadn’t tried, not the right way, not the way Guinevere thought he should have. And now Merlin was all he had left that really mattered. “Hindsight,” Arthur croaked. He dropped his gaze to Merlin’s navel, exposed now that Merlin was hiding his face, a single pock in an otherwise smooth and pale stomach, shadowed in the hollow beneath the diaphragm, a patch of skin that remained incongruously unblemished. “It can be cruel,” Arthur told him. “But you didn’t know then what you know now. You made the best decision you could with the knowledge that you had, and you thought you were doing right.” Desperate for the reassurance, and sick at the thought that Merlin might come up with a reasonable explanation for this self-blame, Arthur’s gaze flashed back up to Merlin’s obscured face. He shouldn’t ask. It betrayed both of their trust to ask, but he did it anyway. “Didn’t you?” 

Merlin sucked in a breath that ballooned his slim ribcage and rounded out the concave bit below. Then he let his hands slide from his face to lie open on either side of his head, staring blankly up at the rafters as he exhaled. “I don’t know.” His voice sounded hollow like a dried-out autumn gourd, but not despondent or whingy. It was just an answer, plain and unhesitant. An honest sigh of words. “I don’t know if I ever really had a choice.” 

“We always have a choice,” Arthur countered, but he winced just after he said it because it sounded like recrimination. “We don’t always realize that though. During.” He sighed and twisted a bit to sit properly on the bed with his elbows on his knees, even though it put Merlin mostly behind him on the bed. “Sometimes,” he offered, thinking of the dragon and Merlin’s shouting at it. “Sometimes we take bad counsel from others, not knowing that they have an agenda of their own.” He frowned and studied his own knuckles, so unlike a noble’s, roughened and cracked from sword work. “We let other people’s fear, or their ambition, or their faulty values sway us in a direction we aren’t sure we should go. It doesn’t lessen the guilt we bear, but it explains…a little…why we might do the wrong thing even though we know better. Because we trust them, and doubt our own wisdom, and feel like maybe they really do know better. We mistake authority and experience, or age, for knowledge of what’s right.” He thought briefly of Agravaine convincing him that it only made sense to kill  Carleon, that to do so was a show of strength, but that memory paled beside so many of the things that Arthur’s own father had convinced him to do. “ Or we put our trust in the wrong people. And of course we had a choice, but it didn’t seem so clear at the time that what we were about to do might…” Arthur pursed his lips and thought of sitting at the practice field with Merlin failing at mending Arthur’s torn old tunic, gods, was it just that morning? He echoed their conversation in the frosty dawn. “That it might have unintended consequences."  

Merlin shifted behind him, but he didn’t say anything more.  

When Arthur looked at him over his shoulder, he found a blank caricature of a man watching him back. Eventually, lacking any sort of answer that might put the issue to rest, Arthur twisted on the cot, leaning his hand on Merlin’s opposite side, near his hip, so that Arthur could face him. He didn’t mean to hover or cage Merlin in, but he didn’t think that distance had ever helped either of them, and Arthur was tired anyway. Sometimes it seemed that he denied himself everything he truly wanted, which wasn’t entirely accurate on balance, since he wasn’t exactly deprived of anything either. But he did censor himself and second guess every impulse he had. He held them all up against his crown to judge their suitability, or the way they might reflect on his authority, or the disapproval he might have to weather from his council for wanting the things he wanted in private, just for himself. Arthur looked down again, at his servant. At a man who gave up his own chance at a real life to be at Arthur’s side. The intimacy of their relative positions appealed to Arthur in a way that few things did anymore. It felt like rebellion – against his father, against his crown – like coveting something he shouldn’t have. It felt like he had stolen something and refused to give it back because at heart, he was selfish, maybe. And it wasn’t like Merlin was going to demand that Arthur part with it.  

Merlin blinked but allowed Arthur in his space like this, submissive as he normally, paradoxically was, but this time, free of challenge or attitude. Arthur shook his head, a gesture of confusion more than anything else, because Merlin disobeyed him on a regular basis, sassed him, teased him, ignored their ranks, complained and generally behaved difficultly, disrespectfully for a servant. But he did submit. Always, he submitted to Arthur. His king. He didn’t have to, both as a citizen of Essetir, technically, and as possibly the more physically powerful of the two of them, given his magic. But he did submit, and it gave Arthur pause. Merlin allowed Arthur to rule him for no other reason than that he chose to. It was probably duty that made him do it, at first – to Arthur, to Camelot, to his mother and Gaius, to his stupid destiny. But why still? When he didn’t have to? 

Arthur swallowed. “You said it’s not duty, but it’s not simple.” He could see from the closing of Merlin’s face that he understood where Arthur was going, repeating his words from the stairwell. Arthur didn’t want to ask, but he didn’t want the vague unknown either. He might ruin this, whatever they had, but he couldn’t risk resting on an assumption of things Merlin wouldn’t say. “Do you love me?” 

“Everyone loves you.” It was a flippant answer – the deflection Arthur expected to come first. Merlin was actually frighteningly good at misdirection, and it made this, at least, predictable. 

Arthur nodded and merely repeated, softer this time, “Do you love me, Merlin?” 

Merlin’s throat worked, but his face gave away little else. “Of course I do; you’re my king.” 

It felt shallow, the slow slough of air as Arthur inhaled.  

Merlin’s face shifted into something wary, and before Arthur could ask a third time, he warned, “Don’t, Arthur. Nothing good will come of it.” 

“Then the answer’s no?” Arthur knew it wasn’t, and his tone surely betrayed that.  

“You know it’s not,” Merlin whispered. He cleared his throat and continued, his voice more firm, “But you will have to marry again. The kingdom needs an heir.” 

“You lectured me once on reasons to marry. I seem to recall something about how we’re all mad, using it for politics.” 

“Any dalliance with me will weaken you as king. You know it will. I’m not a woman you can raise above her station and justify at court; I can’t give you an heir. And you heard them in council, Arthur; you show favoritism to a man they think you bed. It’s one thing to have a bit of fun, or to seek relief or a servant’s indulgence to ensure you don’t father a bastard or pollute your bloodlines with your body’s needs. But that’s not what you’re doing now, and I can’t...” Merlin shook his head and fixed his eyes on Arthur’s, clear and doubtless. “I would do anything you asked of me, Arthur, but you can’t love me like that.” 

Arthur blinked, because he had expected that they would dance around it a while longer. Changing tacks, Arthur told him, “I haven’t much choice in the matter.”  

Apparently insistent that Arthur somehow come to his senses, Merlin pointed out, “You don’t even really know me.” 

Arthur nodded and let his nostrils flare. It was true; he didn’t really know Merlin at all, not the way he had once thought. But he’d been thinking about that for years now, ever since he recognized Dragoon’s tattered old boots, and just as he had a dozen times over the intervening years since then, Arthur decided, “I know you well enough.” 

He tasted like salt dried in crusts on a rock, frozen like parched ice at the seaside when Arthur leaned down, unsure of his reception but determined nonetheless because Merlin had said anything. Whatever Arthur asked of him. And it sounded disturbingly close to duty when Arthur played it back in his head, waiting for Merlin to respond, but he’d seen Merlin’s face, seen the lack of guile, and however much a liar Merlin was sometimes, there were plenty of things he never learned to hide well.  

A shocked breath of air whistled between them, and it felt like a windstorm when Merlin finally moved, hands gripping Arthur’s biceps like vices. Arthur swallowed up the dejected sound that came from Merlin’s lips. He allowed the desperate clawing at his back and the way Merlin seemed to want to smother himself against Arthur because he understood that. He knew what that impulse felt like, pale and just short of fury. It was graceless when Arthur bore Merlin back down onto the bed, them clambered up over him. An utter travesty, but Arthur didn’t really care. They were already a complete mess, and Arthur didn’t think it mattered much, being smooth or suave when every sound Merlin made seemed like it hurt. He considered grappling a bit with Merlin’s trouser laces, or perhaps with his own, but it seemed too much trouble in their current states, sloppy and still a little bit drunk, like it would be too easy to make a mistake they couldn't come back from. Instead, Arthur merely tipped a bit to one side and hiked a leg over Merlin’s thigh to give them both something to press against.  

Merlin huffed at the pressure and Arthur slotted their mouths back together, wishing that Merlin’s body weren’t all but screaming of distress and the wrong kind of abandon. Rough stubble upbraided Arthur’s lips and he tried to find something smooth instead to gentle him, but he had no idea how to go about it. He ended up just trying to hold Merlin still with his forearms braced over Merlin’s shoulders to grasp the pillow beneath his head, pinning him like an insect on a study board. He trapped Merlin’s wrists against the pillow too in a tangle of arms, and finally, Arthur could hear how Merlin edged toward hyperventilation, struggling against Arthur’s hold and Arthur’s stillness, if not really against Arthur himself. As if he wanted something violent. Something rough and meaningless – perhaps something that felt like approbation – an act of the body in which he didn’t have to invest too much. Because they shouldn't be doing this at all, but since they were, it needed to mean nothing. A servant letting a king do as he wished and nothing more, just as Merlin offered in the first place, days ago over armor polish and mulled wine and limbs bent like hat racks in front of the fire.

Arthur refused those terms, the chill of a business transaction, and rode out the furious and sudden thrashing that exploded out of Merlin the moment Arthur stopped moving and looked directly at him. He held Merlin down against the mattress until the fight gave way to limp, heaving half-sobs, and then Arthur let go of his wrists in favor of holding his head so that Merlin had to face him.  

“It’s alright,” Arthur murmured. “I’ve got you.”  

Merlin fumbled his hands against Arthur’s chest and shoved, growling wetly in the back of his throat, but there was no heart in it. He squeezed his eyes shut instead, panicked a bit, and then gave in to the press of Arthur’s lips along his chin and jawline, his cheek, and finally back to his mouth. The sound Merlin made against Arthur’s lips was like a wounded dog, and Arthur relinquished the kiss when it became apparent that Merlin was struggling to breathe.  

“Calm,” Arthur soothed, as he might do to a horse kicking up a fit in its stall at the lightning. He pet down Merlin’s throat, watched it jump and click oddly beneath his fingers, and then nodded when Merlin made an effort to breath normally. “It’s alright.” 

“What are you doing?” Merlin demanded, shaky with unnecessary exertion. “Just take what you want!” 

Arthur didn’t answer because he really didn’t know how, or what to call his intentions, or if he should name them at all. Merlin made good points, after all, about the suitability of this kind of interlude when one party was king. Instead, Arthur watched his own hand rub a firm line down over the burn mark on Merlin’s chest, and then cupped the Pendragon crest where it sat askew on one flat, solid pectoral. “Do you want me to stop?” 

The question seemed to confuse Merlin because he shook his head at the ceiling, brow furrowed, and stumbled his tongue over a nothing word. "Do you want to stop?"

Arthur shook his head and told him again, perhaps stupidly, “It’s alright.” 

Merlin gulped in a few breaths, twitching gently with each one, chest juddering beneath Arthur’s hand. Then he asked in a small, unsteady voice, “Arthur?” 

Arthur leaned down and closed his eyes, his forehead dipping to touch the ridges of Merlin’s sternum where Arthur could feel his heartbeat through his skin. 

“What…” Merlin had to breathe again after that single word, and then resumed, “…what is this? Stop being - What are you doing?”  

With his mouth hovering near enough to Merlin’s chest that he could feel the humidity of his skin, Arthur replied, “Isn’t it obvious?” Arthur raised himself up enough to catch a glimpse of Merlin blinking as if trying to resolve what he saw into something that made sense, even though it was the tower ceiling beams he was looking at. “I can stop.” In truth, this was probably a terrible idea anyway, and Arthur knew that. The fact that Merlin had to consider that caused something in Arthur to shrivel. “If I’ve misunderstood… Do you not want this?” 

“I told you before, I don’t mind.” But Merlin didn’t seem to register the same question that Arthur had actually asked, and instead began fumbling toward Arthur’s groin, trying to shrug off Arthur’s hands to reach his goal. It wasn’t necessarily an unusual thing to do when one man lay sprawled on top of another in a state of excitement, but something about the artlessness of it, perhaps, conveyed a disturbing kind of clarity.  

Arthur collected Merlin’s hands by a few stray fingers and moved them up to rest over Merlin’s heart. “The other night, when you tried to burn down the castle… That wasn’t the first time you did that, is it?” 

“Burn down the castle?” 

“No, the other part.” Arthur frowned at the glazed look on Merlin’s face, and it finally struck him just how incapacitated Merlin was just then, whether from the earlier drink or stress or exhaustion, the aftermath of the fit he’d had earlier that same day, or something less tangible. “Okay.” Arthur slid off of him and over onto his side, dangerously near the edge of the mattress but secure enough. When Merlin took the opportunity to reach for his groin again, Arthur trapped his wrists together and pressed them aside. “Let’s just sleep now.” 

Merlin grunted, attempting weakly to break Arthur’s hold, and protested, “I know how to take care of it.” 

Arthur faltered at the way he said that, because it hinted at something that Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted to know.  ...some servants do that. A lot of them. Sometimes, because they have to...  “No.” Arthur tried to be gentle but firm about it. “This was a mistake; I said just sleeping tonight, and I should have honored that.” 

“But you have to – just do it! I said you could.”  

“I don’t want your duty,” Arthur snapped. 

Merlin flopped back and his breath shuddered in soft gasps for a moment while Arthur held his wrists and watched to make sure that this was just a benign disorientation – just drink, probably, and the late hour. However confused Merlin was, he didn’t give any sign of losing his wits or going vacant as he had that afternoon, staring at the medicine shelves.  

Arthur let himself relax. He rolled Merlin forcibly onto his side, facing out into the room, and reached down to drag up the quilt folded over the end of the bed. Then he curled like a spoon against Merlin’s back and admonished, “Go to sleep.” 

Rather rudely, and crass in a way Arthur wasn’t used to hearing from anyone as king, except by accidental eavesdropping in taverns or barracks or war tents, Merlin protested, “You’re still hard – I can feel it. You could fin – ” 

“Merlin, I swear to god, if you offer yourself up again like some onanistic tool, I will hit you. That is not what I want you for.” 

Merlin shrank beneath Arthur’s arm, the tone of his voice an apology when he replied, “You’ll be uncomfortable.” 

“Just go to sleep.” 

Merlin shivered for a good long while after Arthur settled them both in for the night, and after a long and awkward silence, Merlin stirred and spoke mostly into the pillow, words smashed and slurred into goose down. “I shouldn’t’ve offered.” 

Arthur gave an exasperated sigh and tried to mash Merlin to sleep by pushing the side of his face briefly into the pillow. “No, I took advantage. This is on me. You’re not yourself right now. You’re drunk and just...so am I, and I wasn’t thinking, but I should know better. You don’t tell me no when it matters.” 

“Made a mess,” Merlin mumbled back. 

“Yes, well, you wouldn’t be you otherwise.” 

Merlin didn’t chuckle as expected. Instead, he sniffed, “S’true.” 

Oh god. He really was drunk, and now they were at the maudlin part of the evening. “Shut up, Merlin.” 

“Dunno what I’m doing half the time. Gaius’d do eyebrows at me. S’all a cock-up.” 

Arthur thumped his forehead against the pillow, and then repeated it twice more for good measure. 

Merlin shuffled around and then slurred, “What are you doing?” 

Luckily, going silent seemed to make Merlin forget that there was anything going on behind him, and he sagged into the mattress. Arthur fervently hoped that this was a prelude to unconsciousness.  

Just as Arthur felt his limbs go heavy with impending sleep, Merlin sighed, “I don’t know who I am anymore. I thought it was destiny. But it’s not, is it? And I’m just a fool. Or my own great uncle maybe.” 

One of Arthur’s eyes slit open, narrowed and cranky now. “You’re Merlin. Can’t that be enough?” 

“No one else seems to think so.” 

Arthur wondered if there were a list of people somewhere who he could kill to make this all better. Or at least quieter. But Merlin liked people in general; he probably wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. “I think so, and I’m the king, so my word is law.” 

“Your law says I should be dead.” 

Arthur curled a bit, realized he was shielding himself from nothing like an idiot, and then snapped, “Then I have stupid laws. Go to sleep.” 

Merlin eventually drifted into a restless slumber plagued by muttering and odd muscle tics. Arthur tried to quiet his mind, but it wasn’t easy, and every time Merlin moved in his arms he felt an unaccustomed pang of guilt for letting it get this bad. He had known that Merlin wasn’t doing well for over a year now, and he knew that the shaking sickness exacted a price, and he knew how many shocks had been heaped at Merlin’s feet just in the past week. But he hadn’t noticed. Because Merlin was always the one who stood steadfast – the one who spread optimism and who always seemed cheerful about his own misfortunes, ready with a joke or a grin or a smartass comment. Always the strong one Arthur leaned on.  

Arthur traced the chain around Merlin’s neck to where the Pendragon crest laid loose on the pillow near Merlin’s collarbone, thinking of the cryptic words of dragons and strange women in caves, and Guinevere smiling at him in some kind of gratitude as the gasping life left her body and Arthur let his back be the last part she saw of him as he shouted and pled with the light to save his friend until he couldn’t tell anymore where the screaming was coming from – himself, the mandrake things, or Merlin clawing at him to get free.  

Eventually, an unpleasant sleep took him like that, and he dreamed in broken scenes scattered through a murky backdrop of dissatisfaction and shame.

* * * 

"I am indebted to you, Merlin. I had become...confused. It is once again clear to me that those who practice magic are evil and dangerous, and that is thanks to you.” Arthur turned his head enough to be able to see Merlin wavering in the background by the table.   

Merlin’s mouth worked silently as his face split open on a grin that looked wrong. Grotesque. “Glad I could help.”   

Arthur watched Merlin’s eyes lower and unfocus, the smile short-lived and fading into something like shock. Numbness. He didn’t stay long after that, and Arthur couldn’t understand why it upset him so much to have Arthur acknowledge that he’d been right.    

*  * *  

“All I know is that, for your many faults, you are honest and brave and truehearted, and one day you will be the greatest king this land has ever known."

* * * 

"I forgive you. You're allowed to be happy."

 

~TBC~ 

 

Chapter 9

Summary:

Adult content warning, further warning at end notes if you are concerned

The Fires of Idirsholas

 

“Morgana, please, just do as I say.” And then Arthur dismissed her from his mind.

 

Later, he would realize that it was the last thing – the very last thing – that he ever said to her. The real her, for all that her body continued and her voice never faded. The next time he spoke to her, he addressed a mad sham of a woman wearing his sister’s face, though of course it was months still before he knew it. 

 

“I failed, father. I should have protected Morgana.”

“No,” Uther countered. His fingers gripped and worried at the jeweled string wound through his fingers, the only part of Morgana left on the floor in the wake of Morgause’s whirlwind. “That was my duty.” He turned away, still speaking low and to the floor, or maybe to the jewels in his hand. “Her loss will forever be on my conscience. Not yours.” The proclamation fell flat, directed aside and away so that Uther didn’t even have to look at the reflection of Arthur’s face in the mirror when he said it.

It was how Arthur knew that it was a lie, however well meant or sincere it may actually have been. Even Uther knew that his words would never be enough to absolve Arthur of his guilt. Perhaps it was that which kept Arthur from looking too closely at the Morgana that came back to them. Or perhaps he was just a fool.

* * *

Arthur came awake gradually, his head a stuffy mess, to the sound of lowered voices in the room with him. Several of them. His mind blanked at first and he fisted the strange tatty quilt draped over his bare shoulder, taking in the odd quality of light on his eyelids, and the smell like a dried-out garden. And Merlin. His pillow smelled of Merlin. Well, that was all right then. Except that quick on the heels of that, the memory of his behavior the previous night came bubbling to the surface like a hot spring. He wasn’t sure if the flush that bloomed in prickles over his whole body was more shame or simple embarrassment. He had almost, almost, done something irreversible.

Arthur blinked his eyes open to find a privacy screen unfolded across a large of swath of his vision. He had no idea where it came from, since Merlin didn’t have one of those, and then he tried to concentrate his muzzily whirring thoughts on the conversation going on beyond that. He didn’t recognize the deeper voice, a man, but it was using medical words here and there so Arthur assumed this was the daily meeting between Merlin and the interim physician. Hubert. Maybe. Arthur really needed to make a point of memorizing that man’s name at some point. Once Arthur began registering words, though, it became clear that they weren’t talking about patients or rounds. They were talking about Merlin himself.

“I don’t like the frequency of late. They shouldn’t come so close together.”

Arthur started to shift but the mattress ropes creaked softly, so he stopped. He wanted to listen, not end up with a censored summary later.

Merlin replied by changing the subject. “These are the tinctures for Lady Mallory. You can’t give them straight to her, though; she’ll use them too often. You have to give them to her maid, Brinna.”

A long sigh answered that. “You have to deal with this.”

Something clinked sharp against wood, and then Merlin hissed, “I am dealing with it!”

Arthur shifted again and let the quilt slip off his back to puddle behind him.

“You are ignoring my advice, your own mentor’s advice – ”

“I’m not – I’m handling it.”

“Are you? I was at your dinner last night. You were drunk, Merlin. You know you shouldn’t consume ale or mead, or wine – nothing fermented.”

Merlin must have slammed something against the worktop again, and then he replied in an aggrieved tone, “It was one night.”

“One is all it takes.”

George’s voice chimed in at that moment. “I will ensure that my lord Merlin is appropriately hydrated from now on.”

There was another thump, and Merlin growled, “Will you stop managing me?”

It was Hubert who retorted, “If you would bother to manage yourself, you would have some peace from the rest of us.”

Merlin evidently ignored that, or perhaps he made that pinched face he was so good at, like the arse end of a cat. “George, please stop straightening things. In fact, never touch anything in here ever again. Arthur will want his breakfast as soon as he wakes up; he’s unbearable when he has to wait. Can you just… Yes, thank you.” A moment later, Merlin added, “And don’t bring him any pickled eggs; he’ll need another new belt.”

Giant gangly fishwife, Arthur thought. He shimmied over the mattress until he could drop his bare feet silently to the floor, and then he rubbed hard over his face as if to scrub off the vestiges of sleep. The door to the physician’s quarters opened and then closed again, presumably evidence that George was off to the kitchens.

Arthur felt awful and in need of both a mild hangover remedy and more sleep, but weak light already pooled against the window ledges above him, and he knew that he would sleep better in the forest that night; he always did. He could save his fatigue for that, and in the meantime, drag his heavy limbs about for a while longer. Arthur shook his head to clear the sleep induced cobwebs and briefly contemplated just how serious of an apology he owed for his transgression the night before. He’d broken his word, after all. That had not been just sleeping, and he’d nearly taken advantage of an inebriated friend.

After a brief silence, Hubert took up his cause again, but in a purposefully modulated tone of voice. “You are the King’s Physician now. Have you any idea the trust with which you have been gifted?”

Merlin sighed and mumbled snidely, “I am well aware of the honor bestowed upon me.” Except that he said honor like a pejorative.

“Then act like it. You have a duty – a responsibility to the crown. You are effectively the most powerful person in Camelot now, even above the throne. Do you understand that?”

What a curious thing to say. Arthur dropped his hands and squinted at the privacy screen as if he might be able to bore his sight through it.

Hubert continued, apparently over Merlin’s irritated grumbling and potion concocting, because the sounds of that continued. “The trust placed in you is second to no other. You have complete and unfettered access to the king. If you were of a mind, you are the best placed person in the whole of Albion to assassinate him without rousing any suspicion for yourself, and yet he trusts you never to do that.”

Arthur blinked because that was an odd way to bestow a compliment or to motivate someone, and yet in a way, the perspective of it could not have been more direct. He thought briefly of his paternal uncle, a man he had never met, allowing a strange physician access to his tent and dying for it.

Merlin shuffled partly into view, his movements angry as he faffed about with a few bottles and sifted through the detritus on the worktop, his back to Arthur. He struggled for a moment to stuff a cork in one of the bottles, and then pointed out, “I have been in that position already for a decade.”

“Yes, but now it is acknowledged, and everyone knows. You are not just a manservant. You can do more damage now than you ever could before.”

“That’s debatable. Why are we even having this conversation?” Merlin gave up on the bottles and turned to face Hubert, his form a lean profile against the backdrop of the chamber. Arthur thanked the shadows of early dawn for hiding the fact that he was awake. Merlin continued with, “Nothing’s changed. I have the same responsibility I had before.”

“It’s not just his wellbeing and keeping now; it’s his life you safeguard as his personal physician.”

Merlin’s mouth opened, and he scoffed a few times as if he couldn’t figure out how to address this absurdity. It took Arthur a moment to realize that Merlin reacted that way because he had always considered Arthur’s life to be his to safeguard. It really wasn’t new. After shaking his head, still lost for words, Merlin went back to fishing corks off the worktop.

Hubert sighed, and Arthur watched him wander into sight past the edge of the privacy screen, an older, somewhat portly man of salted hair and a frame that still carried well. He poked at the containers on the shelf and selected one before disappearing again into the blocked part of the room. “How can I stress to you the importance of looking after yourself properly? Should I point out that if you don’t, you will leave your king vulnerable to attack?”

Merlin’s bottling motions slowed and he eventually rested the sides of his palms on the worktop, a trio of small vials still clutched in one hand, and leaned on them. His head dropped down below his shoulders and Arthur watched the line of his back curve, hip cocked to shift his weight to one foot. Softly, with blunt edges to his words, Merlin demanded, “You think I don’t know that?”

“And yet you continue to use yourself ill.” Hubert shuffled back into sight, though only halfway, and looked awkward for a bit before sort of patting Merlin’s back. “It is a small thing to ensure that you eat proper meals at proper times, avoid vice, and get enough rest. Good rest.” He was obviously attempting to comfort, but for a physician, he was surprisingly bad at it. Hubert cleared his throat and backed away, out of sight.

Merlin tipped his head to watch him retreat before shaking it and straightening to resume bottling potions.

“There is something else,” Hubert went on, “which we should discuss. I believe that it may be a trigger for these fits, but I am afraid that it’s a delicate subject.”

Merlin glanced up briefly, but Arthur recognized the disinterest of his stance. “Hm?”

“Your…magic?”

Merlin’s movements ground to a halt, and then he fixated on Hubert. It was frightening, almost – the focus of it, the sudden stillness of his body. Predators looked like that before they attacked. Merlin had looked at Guinevere like that toward the end.

With care and obvious unease, Hubert said, “I promise you, I have no interest in exposing your situation. I wouldn’t bring it up at all now if it weren’t important.”

“You’re mistaken,” Merlin told him.

Still out of sight, Hubert replied softly, “We both know I’m not. Did you think that you could cure my gout and not at least leave me with questions?”

Merlin blinked, tossed the rest of the room an obscure look, and then grimaced at the bottles in his hand. “You never had gout.”

“You also have a strange affinity for poultices.”

“There’s a whole shelf of books on how to make those.” He jabbed a finger at said books. “Help yourself.”

“And the ulcers? The bulbs and cankers and bile-filled growths inside your patients’ bodies that miraculously disappear when you treat them?”

“Gaius taught me well.”

“Gaius never had that kind of skill to teach.” Hubert sighed, long and quiet, and then said, “Give me some credit, Merlin; I am an experienced physician. I know gout when I see it. I know an ulcerative growth. I know incurable illness. And I’ve seen you practice your craft. You are very good as a physician, but there are things you successfully treat that give you away. People you shouldn’t cure.”

“I am not a healer.” Merlin stared at him, his face blank in a way that put Arthur in mind of a craggy hillside. Sharp and hard to navigate. Treacherous. Finally, Merlin drew a breath that shifted his entire body and said, “What about my magic?”

Arthur had to blink a few times to recall the original thread of that topic – Hubert’s purpose in bringing it up in the first place.

“Your use of it may be causing problems.”

Arthur took that opportunity to shove to his feet and emerge behind Merlin. “What do you mean?”

Hubert paled as Arthur came into view and then he fumbled for a knife on the worktop before freezing, eyes wide. “Sire. I…” He glanced at Merlin just standing there looking at Arthur, and firmed up his resolve. Arthur watched, fascinated, as Hubert took a few clumsy (terrified) steps forward, gaze fixed on Arthur as if on a bear as he reached to tug Merlin away from him – as if he could avoid Arthur’s notice of it by doing it gradually enough.

Merlin looked down at the hand pulling his sleeve, brow wrinkling as he also noticed the knife in Hubert’s other hand. “No, no.” Merlin extracted his sleeve from Hubert’s grasp and took the knife away as well, smooth and calm as Hubert continued gaping at Arthur. “He knows. It’s alright.” Merlin set the knife aside and glanced at Arthur, his cheeks coloring in embarrassment as he chivied Hubert away from the knife and broke his wide-eyed stare. “The king knows already.”

“He…what?” Hubert sagged a bit on his feet and then straightened up, indignant before giving way to something less defined. “I beg your forgiveness, sire. For the…blade.” He shuffled and clasped his hands over his stomach. “I didn’t know that you were…” He fluttered both hands at the privacy screen, wrung them together, and kept trying to explain. “There. I was simply concerned. For Merlin. Sire.”

In spite of himself, Arthur’s resolve broke, and he laughed. “Merlin, you have an admiration club.”

“What?” Merlin’s earlier embarrassment gave way and he glared at Arthur. “I do not.”

“Do too.” Juvenile, but he didn’t care. “Geoffrey, George, Gwaine, Leon, and now him. The list of people willing to challenge me on your behalf is impressive.” Arthur grinned up one side of his mouth and then looked to Hubert. “No worries; I rather like watching him ruffle up like an offended cat.”

Merlin immediately ruffled up like an offended cat.

“Makes me happy,” Arthur reported, treating Merlin to an indulgent smile.

“Your head’s gone fusty,” Merlin shot back.

Arthur nodded. “Probably. I still keep you around, after all. God knows why; you do nothing but insult me.” Arthur then proceeded to ignore him and addressed Hubert, his mood going grey. “You mentioned Merlin’s magic as a contributing factor to his condition. Do you think it’s like a poison or something?” Arthur rolled his hand through the air, searching for the right words, and finally settled on, “Has it gone bad?”

“Because all magic corrupts eventually?” Merlin curled his lip at that. “That would be the first place you’d go.”

Arthur gave him a sharp look, but only to cover the hurt he wasn’t sure he had any right to feel. “I’m only asking if there’s something about magic that could hurt you to use it in your condition.”

For a moment, Merlin merely stared at him, face closed, and then he dropped his gaze and fidgeted with a few corks left over from bottling, clearly self-conscious about what he’d said. He did take a moment to fish a bottle of murky green-brown glop out from the middle of the workspace, though, and thrust it at Arthur without meeting his eyes. Hangover remedy. Arthur murmured a gruff thanks but didn’t drink it yet.

Hubert saved them both from further awkwardness, but he sounded as if he would rather gather the wounded from an active field of battle than try to diffuse this. “I mean the opposite, actually.” He glanced between Arthur’s open face and Merlin’s closed one before addressing the latter. “You stifle it.”

Merlin merely looked at him, incredulous, scratched at the scruff on his cheek, and went back to trying to fit a cork into one of the tiny bottles clutched in his fist.

Hubert swallowed, flicking a side-eyed glance at the way Merlin didn’t seem interested in either of them anymore. Then he gave Arthur an awkward look as if to make certain he wouldn’t be run through in a moment for sympathizing with a sorcerer before giving in and addressing Merlin plainly. “You don’t use it the way you should. Someone like you, that is to say. Suppressing it the way you do is not natural. It’s not healthy.”

Arthur blinked at Hubert, then at Merlin’s pointedly turned back, his shoulders set in a shifty, uneven line. So that wasn’t news to him. Arthur directed himself to Hubert again. “Not the first one, but the other two fits I’ve witnessed were both like that. There was a smell like lightning. Magic, but nothing came of it.”

Hubert’s frame unwound at that, finally, and he nodded.

Merlin shook his head, though. “I’ve been suppressing my magic all of my life. It’s never been a problem before.”

“No, but your condition is new.” Hubert glanced an apology at Arthur and then told Merlin, “You are not just any sorcerer or warlock. You may not even be human, entirely.”

Merlin muttered under his breath, something like not you too plus some profanity, and stalked over to rifle through various baskets of fresh herbs.

Hubert pressed, “I don’t say that to be cruel. Your magic is the kind druids talk of in tales – it’s fae, Merlin. It’s not something that men have.”

Arthur frowned at the other man. “What do you mean, fae?”

“Innate,” Hubert admitted reluctantly. “Natural, sire. The kind that comes with instinct, the same as flight to a bird. It is not mortal magic – not of man. The old religion was always rife with prophecies that never went anywhere. Fantastic things. But magic is real, and magical creatures do exist. We have all seen them here in Camelot before. So I don’t find it completely beyond the pale that Merlin may be something like that, or somehow carry it in his blood.”

Arthur peered at Merlin to see how he might be taking this notion, but Merlin merely sighed as he came back across the room and perched himself on the edge of the worktop. “None of that matters,” Merlin told them, finally engaged in the discussion. “I can’t just let things out. You have no idea how bad that would be.”

“You are not like other users of magic,” Hubert insisted again. “You don’t call it up – you don’t even speak it all the time. It’s just in you. Always. Like air. If you don’t find a way to release it when it builds, then I fear things will only get worse, like putting a cork in a kettle spout and then hanging it over the fire. You have much more anger now than you used to have, and it sits closer to the surface; Gaius even spoke to me of it once, in concern for your state of mind. Not the magic, he never revealed that. But the temper – you become angry or frustrated more easily, and in a more volatile manner. It affects your control and equilibrium. I imagine that your hold on your magic suffers in tandem. An increased temper is, of course, a normal effect for some to suffer after taking multiple heavy blows to the head, and you are fortunate in that your moments of rage are not indiscriminate or uncontrollable, as those of some men are. You are not irreparably damaged, but you are changed. The way that you reign yourself in is not healthy. It is oppressive.” Hubert cleared his throat, and then shifted his feet, visibly uncomfortable.

Personally, Arthur thought that Merlin’s temper had more to do with recent events than anything organic or injury related, but he held his tongue on that point. Until recently, he had not been paying attention, after all. Gaius had been.

Merlin took a careful breath, and then made a concerted attempt at keeping his tone understated as he informed Hubert, “If I ‘release’ any kind of magical tension when it swells up like that, I could kill someone.” His eyes flickered to Arthur at that, wide and regretful.

Arthur offered him a small, private smile, and then turned back to Hubert. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Arthur - sire - “

“Enough, Merlin. I’m sure we can find something for you to do with it.”

“It’s not finding something innocuous that matters,” Merlin pressed. He pushed away from the worktop and moved closer, as if his proximity could somehow radiate comprehension into Arthur. “It happens when I’m angry, or frustrated, or scared – not when I’m able to just wait for a quiet watch, walk out to the fields conveniently before the sun is up, check around for guards, and make a month’s worth of wheat for you on the sly.”

Hubert started. “You can grow a wheat field before sunrise?”

Arthur grinned over at him, stupid and glowing with misplaced pride, he knew, but he didn’t care. “Merlin can grow whole trees with ripe fruit on them out of a table in the dark.”

Merlin pursed his lips and admonished, “I was also trying to set your bedroom on fire at the time.”

“I know,” Arthur agreed, still cheery. “I was in it.”

Hubert just looked horrified at that. “All the more reason to find a way to siphon your magic somehow.”

Merlin’s body sidled in a wary fashion even though he didn’t move his feet.

Arthur nodded, though he didn’t necessarily want to give the impression that he and Hubert were teaming up against Merlin. “That night that your magic spilled out? You didn’t have a fit.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t mean anything. I’d just had one earlier, hadn’t I?”

“Well…” Arthur frowned. “Yes.” And then all three of them just stared back and forth for a moment.

Breaking the stalemate with a discomfited ahem, Hubert moved over to a bench and rummaged in a canvas bag sitting there. “Until you can make some kind of arrangement, I have something that may help.” He pulled out a small wooden box that clinked, followed by a parchment envelop. “I must caution you not to rely overmuch on this, however; it is a temporary solution at best.” He flipped up the lid and showed them a collection of about a dozen tiny glass vials, each holding maybe a teaspoon of liquid. “Since we haven’t been able to locate the plants that Gaius procured, I used my own stock. I’ve seeds as well, but I cannot lay claim to any sort of green thumb, so they’re of little use to me.” He set a parchment seed packet upright between two bottles on the worktop. “However, it seems I needn’t worry if you’re proficient with earth magic. They need a warm and moist environment, and don’t tolerate deviation well, according to the man I bought them from. All I ask is a supply of the cuttings for my own work. Leaves and buds.” Hubert eyed Merlin speculatively until Merlin nodded, then turned to Arthur. “These should be used sparingly; I’ve no idea if the body builds a tolerance to the oil over time, but I’ve tested it on several street dogs and it seems safe enough. If you’re certain that a fit is coming on, the contents of one vial should be placed under the tongue, not swallowed. If you’re unable to get past grit teeth, then do your best to smear it along the gums.” He demonstrated with a finger in his own mouth, though it was probably unnecessary to clarify that.

Arthur picked up a vial and frowned. “Street dogs? So you don’t know if it’s safe for a man to use?”

Hubert prevaricated for a moment, and then replied, completely in earnest, “I would never suggest that Merlin use it if I thought that it might harm him.” He eyed Arthur and added, wry, “I’m relatively certain I wouldn’t live long enough to regret it if it did.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Arthur eyed him back and smiled like a summer day as Hubert realized how his attempt at levity had failed.

“Arthur!”

Arthur straightened up and shrugged at Merlin. “What? He wouldn’t.”

Merlin widened his eyes as if trying to make Arthur apologize for being congenial.

“He’s obviously a very intelligent man,” Arthur placated, “and I am agreeing with him. That’s all. And if I didn’t get to him fast enough myself, a half dozen angry knights would, so.” He waved his hand to convey the complete destruction of Hubert’s person that would result from that. “You know how they are.”

“Oh, for gods’ sakes.” Merlin threw up his hands and stalked off to finish collecting potions and medicines in his carrying basket.

Arthur grinned when he caught meddling knuckleface from in amidst Merlin’s other vaguely word-like muttering, and then let his expression shift subtly into something like predation as Hubert bowed and hurried out. The man evaporated from Arthur’s notice along with the shadow of him retreating down the corridor, and Arthur took a breath before shutting the door to give them privacy. He rolled his shoulders and leaned back against the door to watch Merlin shuttle bottles around with sharp, pert movements. “I owe you an apology.”

Merlin fumbled into stillness, ticked as he absorbed that, and then set everything down so that he could face Arthur unencumbered. And then he just waited, which was not what Arthur expected him to do. Usually, Merlin gave him some kind of sass or humor off of which Arthur could downplay the humility involved in a scene like this. An insult. Immediate forgiveness. Anything. He looked exhausted, though, and hungover. And something about the pinch around his eyes seemed wrung out.

“Did you sleep well enough?” It wasn’t what Arthur had half-planned to say, but Merlin looked so worn that it came out anyway.

Merlin blinked a few times, sniffed, and then looked away without answering.

“Right.” Arthur pushed off from the door and approached in a meandering pattern through the perpetual mess of the room. “Look, last night – ”

“I have to make rounds,” Merlin interrupted, still facing anything that wasn’t Arthur. “And if we’re going on a hunt, there are some other things I’ll need to prepare for Hubert before we leave.”

Arthur swallowed and thought hard about overriding that or commenting on how it wasn’t proper to interrupt his king when he was trying to apologize, or to imply that Merlin had better things to do with his time than listen to said king at all. Instead, he elected at the last moment to remain silent on all of that. It wasn’t like he’d figured out what to say anyway. “Of course. I don’t want to keep you.”

The discontent must have shown in his voice because Merlin relented and turned around, his medicine case open in his hands. “I appreciate you caring, Arthur. I do. It’s just…a lot. And I don’t want to disappoint you. Or Gaius.” He grimaced after that and set the case down again, but his hands fidgeted at themselves in lieu of something to hold. Then he tapped his chest, and Arthur noticed the shape of the Pendragon crest under his shirt where Merlin smoothed a hand over it.

Arthur watched his hand rub at the hidden crest and offered, “These past few days have been a lot for you. I understand. And I’m probably not making it any easier.”

Merlin sucked his lips between his teeth and then looked up. “I know you’re lonely.”

“Lonely? I’m not lonely, Merlin. I’m the king. I’m – ”

“ – lonely. And making me into some disinherited prince so that you can have an equal peer is not how to fix this.”

Arthur wrinkled his nose, as if he smelled something foul. And he did – all of these herbs and medicines, and the soot of the fire, and blasted Merlin himself, the insulting little snot. “That’s not what it’s about. You are a noble. People should know to treat you as my equal.”

“I’ll never be your equal.”

Arthur inhaled sharply, but Merlin’s eyes, when he met Arthur’s, didn’t show whatever it was that Arthur had meant to refute. They wrinkled at the corners, his whole face uplifted and fond, as if Arthur had made an endearing gaffe, or were teasing him in good fun. Arthur’s indignation fluttered about in his chest cavity and died in a burst of hollow heat somewhere near his diaphragm. It wasn’t a slur against himself, Merlin’s assertion. It was just that old faith – that stupid, blind, utterly terrifying notion that Arthur was someone great. Someone special. Someone better than he actually was. “Merlin…”

“I’ll be your friend no matter what, you know. You don’t have to make me a noble if that’s what you’re after.”

A great gust of air sloughed from Arthur's lungs. “Yes, you’re my friend. God knows, I’ve tried to stop you from being that.”

Merlin chuckled. “I’m more stubborn than you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Arthur said. Then he softened. “But you’re a loyal one.”

Merlin made a hmph sound, smiling, and then glanced down and repeated, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Who said anything about disappointing me?”

“No one, it’s just – ”

Arthur watched him, waiting for the rest of that, but Merlin merely shook his head and appeared to bite his tongue. So Arthur pressed, “Just what?”

As if it exploded out of him, Merlin said, “It’s just that I have! That’s half of what I do, you’ve said so yourself – clumsy and slow, and late to your chambers, and I scare the deer on hunts and don’t know my place – I can’t be everything you want. Court physician and all-powerful sorcerer and body guard and healer and councilman and – and heir to Dyfedd… Arthur…”

Arthur took a calming breath and recalled that bloody dragon the night before, accusing Arthur of trying to remake Merlin in his own image. It rankled, and it burned with a kind of shame he didn’t like feeling, but he understood. He understood so well. How long had Arthur lived under his father’s expectations and unfollowed footsteps? Under someone else’s demands of what kind of man he should be? “I don’t want to disappoint you either.”

Merlin started to cock his head, but only made it partway before he blinked and went still.

“Once and Future King?” Arthur prompted, his mouth a wry gash in his face. “Greatest king Albion has ever known?” He paused, took one step closer, and added, his voice far shakier now, “Good man? Not like my father?”

Merlin drew a startled breath, his face a series of denials, and then he said, “But you are those things. You can be.”

“See?” Arthur raised a hand, hesitated, and then ran his thumb over Merlin’s shirt, where his heart would be, and where Arthur’s crest rested instead, hidden. “How easy it is to disappoint someone who thinks so much of you.”

Merlin swallowed. “You never thought much of me.”

Arthur nodded, but he shut his eyes when he did it because it was true, and he didn’t want to see Merlin’s face when he acknowledged it. “You were beneath my notice, yes.” He raised his head and studied the way Merlin ruthlessly kept his own face blank. “And I’m trying to correct that.”

Merlin snorted a weak attempt at laughter, but the glitter in his eyes was genuine. “Overcompensating much? You could have just sent me a note, you know.”

Arthur huffed at him and dropped his hand. It missed the warmth immediately. “Shut up, Merlin.”

“I mean, normally, kings show gratitude to their servants with days off or coin purses or a horse – ”

“I already gave you a horse.”

“ – but here comes Arthur, the biggest prat who ever lived – ”

“In fact, I gave you two horses.”

“ – chip on his shoulder the size of Glevun – ”

“Hey!”

“ – with a spare kingdom he dug up at the library. Who are you trying to impress, anyway?”

Arthur spluttered, indignant. “Well not you, clearly.”

“Mmm.” Merlin wrinkled his whole face up the way he had used to do when younger, when teasing the prince was something Arthur still couldn’t believe any servant would dare do. “I’m a little impressed by you.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, not really trying to appear threatening.

Of course, Merlin saw right through it and laughed, a bright sound even while something about it seemed reserved, or maybe well faked.

“Don’t you have medicines to deliver or something?”

Merlin just gave him a knowing smirk and turned back to his worktable.

Arthur watched him for a while, and then thumped down on the bench at the small table where two old, worn and simple wooden place settings lay neat and tidy on a bit of cloth. “I meant what I said last night.”

“About what?”

“Don’t play stupid.” Arthur scratched a fingernail over a snag of loose and fraying thread. “Not about this. I know I was drunk, but – ”

“Arthur, no.” Merlin was at the table now, standing rather than sitting. “No. We can pretend it never happened, and you can – ”

“What?” Arthur demanded. “Go on as if I don’t feel – ”

“You don’t feel.” Merlin stabbed his finger down onto the table near Arthur’s elbow. “You don’t. Guinevere – ”

The thump of the door startled them both to a guilty silence, Arthur’s because another moment would have seen him yelling yet again when he really didn’t want the moment to devolve into that, and Merlin’s because…. Well, Arthur couldn’t guess at the source of Merlin’s expression, actually.

George’s feet slowed about ten paces into the room, as if walking upstream in a river, carrying a basket. “My apologies, sire. My lord.” He eyed the both of them, squared off as they were, even though nothing in their postures was particularly provocative. “Shall I wait outside?”

Merlin flared his nostrils, and Arthur shook his head because it was probably better for them both that they stopped this argument now. It would only devolve into shouting otherwise; Arthur could feel it buzzing against his ribcage, the desire to raise his voice until Merlin capitulated, or called him mean names and stormed out. “No, we were just finished.”

Merlin snorted at him, but at George’s admonishing look, he merely went back to packing things into a carryall.

It was extremely satisfying to watch Merlin argue with George a few minutes later about who needed help dressing who. Arthur hurried himself into his own neat pile of clothes left folded pristinely on the breakfast table while they bickered just to enjoy the look on Merlin’s face when he turned around, found Arthur already dressed, and then had no more excuses against submitting to George’s annoyingly chipper assistance. Arthur planned on enjoying immensely the spectacle of Merlin dealing with an obsessive manservant of his own. There was a lot of hand slapping involved. For his own health, Arthur made sure he was only laughing silently, and only when Merlin wasn’t looking.

“I saw that,” Merlin told him as he gave George’s hand one last smack and fixed his own neckerchief.

Arthur retorted, “You’re imagining things.”

“Will there be anything else, my lords?” George produced two neat little sacks out of thin air and added, “I took the liberty of preparing portable breakfast foods, as I know that my lord Merlin is in a hurry to make his deliveries, but if you would prefer, sire, I would be happy to arrange a plate for you to sit and eat at your leisure.”

Merlin snatched one of the sacks and groused, “You brought him the itchy tunic.” Then he started out of the room, paused, mumbled, “Thanks,” and rushed out the door, laden down with medicines.

Arthur stood there like a toadstool for another few heartbeats, shrugged, and accepted his own sack with a tiny incline of his head. “George?”

George frowned and went straight like a poker. “Sire.”

“Merlin managed to wander out in the middle of the night last night, still drunk, when he should have been sleeping it off safe in his bed. Not to mention that he shouldn’t have been drunk in the first place, which would have been nice to know beforehand. Did you consult with Hubert as I requested yesterday? Do you understand the requirements of his condition?”

“Of course, sire.” George frowned. “It is an integral aspect of my new duties; I would not neglect it.”

“And yet he got pissed and escaped you,” Arthur pointed out. “I found him stumbling around the lower town, right before he wandered out into the forest. As much as I despair of Merlin’s complete lack of serving skills, he at least never lost track of me, no matter how carefully I snuck about. You need to know his whereabouts, always. If that means you sleep in the corridor because he thinks he doesn’t need a servant in his quarters with him, then that is what you do.” He didn’t mean to be all that harsh, but George was not a weeping maiden in need of careful treatment. And Arthur remembered Merlin’s words the night before as much as he did the vacant nothing in his eyes toward the end. He didn’t want occasion to have to see that again, not if there were an easy diversion from it. Arthur passed over two of the little medical oil phials with a hard look. “Keep these on your person at all times, and make sure that Hubert instructs you in their use.”

George accepted the medicines, his expression grave. “Yes, sire.”

“I will expect better attention to his health from now on. If he doesn’t eat a meal on time, you will inform me. If he goes to the tavern like an idiot, you will inform me. I appointed you to him specifically because I want him safe and cared for. And he wasn’t last night. Do I make myself clear?”

The expected immediate assurance never came. Instead, George cocked his head and studied Arthur carefully, like a brass candelabra against which he was formulating a polishing plan. “With respect, sire, I will not inform you. My Lord Merlin is my responsibility, and as you ordered, I answer to him. I will of course redouble my efforts with regards to his care, as I admit that I was not prepared for the unique challenge he presents. But I will not inform on his activities to you.”

Arthur merely stared at him for a moment as if struck. Then he backed down the way he would from an equal on the field, physically giving ground out of respect. “I see. Of course, you’re right. My apologies, George.”

George bowed, perfectly proper and precise, and then tucked the phials into a breast pocket. “None are required, sire. I realize how few you trust, and the depth of your care. I will not attempt to reassure you of my integrity, but I do endeavor to earn the position you gave me.”

Arthur nodded. “I will not claim that it pleases me.”

“Of course not, sire. However, I am forced to remind your majesty that this is precisely the arrangement you demanded of me.” George passed him a waterskin from out of nowhere and announced, “A fine lemon tea, chilled with a hint of mint to compliment your meal.”

Arthur curled his mouth to one side, because however proper George was, he had essentially told Arthur to go screw himself, and like it. “Chilled tea? That’s new.”

“Cooled in the river to offer a crisp and refreshing finish for the discerning palette.” George clicked – actually clicked – his heels together. “If that will be all, sire, I will respectfully withdraw to commence my duties for the day.”

Arthur nodded. “I’ll expect you on the hunt this afternoon.”

“Very well, sire. I shall make myself ready as well.”

Arthur watch George bow again and withdraw, and then glanced around the now empty chamber. “Chilled tea? Merlin would never chill tea for me.” Then he snorted, gathered his sack breakfast and his hangover remedy, and left to see Leon off from the stables.

* * *

The Coming of Arthur

 

On the throne room floor, held down to his knees before the dais, Uther snarled and yelled at Morgause’s smug and calm face, “You have no right to the throne!”

And out from the shadows, she came – the caricature. “No, she does not.” Pale as porcelain, lips a blood red stain on her face, and malice that even then echoed the haughtiness of a girl raised to be a princess. “But I do. I am your daughter, after all.”

 

There was a moment, months before while the whole of Camelot slept, enchanted, when Arthur naively told her, “I can always tell when you’re lying.” And she lifted her chin for a moment to his sword as if she thought somehow that it might be meant for her. And even in that instant, she was defiant of it. And then Arthur grinned, and set his sword aside, and said, “Don’t worry.”

He must have suspected. He told himself that it was there all along, and he missed it, but he must have known on some level that she had gone wrong. He saw her chin lift, her eyes shutter, and the silence of her expression screaming in his face, echoing the eerie hush of a whole city.

 

“I am your daughter, after all.”

Arthur felt his chest go tight and hot, and his vision blurred. Beside him, Merlin…well, he didn’t look shocked. The expression on his face when he glanced at Arthur seemed more like sympathy, or perhaps pity. Arthur couldn’t process the disparity just then.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Morgana told Uther. And she sounded breathless. Giddy. Perhaps that was how madness started – as a dark, defiant joy – because the glint in her eye as she lorded her victory over Uther showed little in the way of sanity. “I’ve known for some time.”

Uther broke like a kindling man under her stare as Geoffrey placed the crown on her head, and like an echo, some part of Arthur’s heart broke too.

* * *

Arthur sat in unaccustomed quiet on the steps leading up to the great hall, watching the midday foot traffic through the courtyard as if through a lens. No one bothered him, though he did garner a few curious looks. Various grooms and servants were gathering supplies and horses off to one side in preparation for the hunting party, and Arthur crunched absently at some candied nuts hoarded in the pocket of his surcoat. It was a decidedly unkingly thing to do, and he really didn’t care. He was going on holiday in less than an hour, and while some of the hunting partygoers were less to his liking than others, Arthur intended to leave matters of state in the castle for once and just enjoy himself. He hadn’t been out hunting like this in over a year. He hadn’t even left the castle grounds in all that time since…

…since. The last time he properly rode out, away from the castle, he came back with his wife’s dead body on one horse, and a silent, grey-faced Merlin on the other. Arthur had walked back from the cauldron. Something about that just seemed right at the time.

Arthur screwed his mouth up, lips clamped over his teeth, and tried to banish the unhappy memory. It was past, and unchangeable now, and he couldn’t live in that place where the edge of pain never dulled. Guinevere would want him to get on with it, with being king. With being good at it. There were so many things Arthur wanted to do, so many things he had planned with Guinevere’s help to improve the lot of the common folk: changes in trade routes; loosened restrictions on the transport of goods; a shift in how crops were grown, stored and distributed; waterworks, roadworks, opportunities for skilled laborers and tradesmen… Arthur had done nothing in over a year, and he felt like he could see that failure, that stagnation, on the faces of the common people he encountered every day. They weren’t exactly disappointed in him, he thought, but they weren’t singing his praise either, and it was starting to look just a little too much like pity when they averted their gazes and bowed or curtsied to him as he passed.

It was late enough in the day that Leon must have reached the great river at the halfway point to Essetir’s border by now. Arthur tried to imagine what change the intervening ten years would have wrought on Hunith’s face, since he’d seen her last. He couldn’t quite picture it. Would she be wrinkled now? Grey? Bent or hobbled with joint disease? She would probably still smile the same, he thought. Merlin was lucky to have a mother’s smile in his life, to drink in whenever he needed it. Hopefully, he remembered that through whatever anger he felt at her double life and the secrets she tried to keep.

Arthur shook himself physically, and pushed to his feet to meet the stableboy leading Hengroen across the cobblestones to join the other horses waiting to be burdened with their gear. He noticed George moving various bags and saddle rolls about near the servant’s entrance to the main castle, and also Gwaine with an uncharacteristically dour look on his face as he checked through his things near a bench. No one dared pass too near to him. Another boy was struggling to lift a saddle high enough to slide it onto the back of the sweet old bay horse that Merlin normally rode for simple outings. He had named it something soft and flowery like Astrid or Aster or something. His other horse – and of course, it only just occurred to Arthur how transparent he was, all but giving his manservant not one but two horses to accommodate his differing needs – Merlin’s other horse was a big black Friesian much like Arthur’s own war horse, though with a less bloodthirsty temperament. It was still headstrong, but unsuited to being a proper knight’s mount. And that should have been Merlin’s mount for a hunting sortie; not the docile old bay.

Hengroen snorted and scuffed about at the cobblestones while Arthur checked her tack, and then noticed Llamrei, the proper Friesian horse he’d given Merlin, trotting along behind a groom in a hop step. They appeared to be looping the courtyard and part of the roadways ringing around the inner keep. As she hadn’t been out much for proper work, perhaps she was just too excitable to saddle up yet. Arthur frowned at the flowery old bay horse and wondered if it were for gear or for George to ride. Did George even know how to ride?

Arthur’s sour mood upon thinking of some other servant riding Merlin’s horse quieted at a commotion brewing up near the great hall. When he saw two guardsmen leading a stewing, red-faced Sir Meliot out between them, he had to stifle an inappropriate laugh. He needed Meliot, whether he liked the man or not, and laughing at his embarrassment, in public, would not serve to keep Meliot happily beholden to Camelot. Not that Meliot was happy in general these days, but at least Arthur hadn’t sought to shame him out of spite yet.

“Hold up, there.” Arthur stepped out from behind his horse and held a hand up to stop any further dragging-about of Meliot’s person. “What’s going on here?”

Meliot wrenched his arms in an attempt to get free, but only escaped the grasp of one of the guards. “I will not stand for this humiliation!”

Arthur watched the spectacle for perhaps a heartbeat too long as Meliot’s face turned from red to an alarming shade of puce in his fury, and then motioned at the guards to stop trying to restrain him again. “Korbin.” Arthur addressed the guard he knew, because he was most likely to get an actual response there. “Explain yourselves.”

Korbin twitched back from Meliot’s flailing, made a face at him that Meliot thankfully failed to notice, and then inclined his head to Arthur. “Sire, we found Sir Meliot in the corridors near the vaults, in the restricted areas.”

“I told you,” Meliot spat, “that I saw a trespasser, and neither of you were in sight! You should be disciplined for abandoning your posts, and leaving Camelot vulnerable - ”

“Sir Meliot,” Arthur broke in, voice loud and sharp. “I will address the guards’ behavior myself. Right now, I’d prefer to know about this trespasser, and why you were down there to see him in the first place.”

Meliot ruffled up, indignant. “I will not be questioned like a common thief.”

It was on the tip of Arthur’s tongue to retort that in that case, he would be glad to question him like an uncommon one, but he hardly needed the absolute hissy fit that would follow on that. “The vaults are restricted only to Korbin’s regiment, myself, and the Court Historian. You are aware of this.” Aware of the need to make peace, and quickly, Arthur offered him an out; he was more interested in the trespasser anyway. “Did you follow someone from the open areas? Did you hear something? Can you describe the man to us, or tell us where he went?”

Meliot continued to pull his disheveled clothing back into place, clearly too affronted to reply right away. Finally, he snapped, “It was dark. I didn’t get a clear look, and then these two roughnecks detained me and let him get away!”

Arthur nodded and looked to Korbin. “Did you see anyone?”

Over Meliot’s renewed sputtering, Korbin replied, “I’d swear there was no one else down there, sire. We were making our walking round, and we would have seen someone.”

Meliot glared at the guard and hissed, “Are you calling me a liar, boy?”

It was only funny because Korbin was nearly the same age as Meliot. Arthur hid his smirk in a sudden cough and waved to dismiss the guards. “Sounds like a misunderstanding, Sir Meliot. Perhaps you saw your own shadow distorted by the torchlight.” Much like Merlin did, comically often.

The guards both bowed and moved off, but Meliot sneered after them, then demanded of Arthur, “I want them punished for this humiliation. They had no right to lay hands on my person – I am a Knight.”

“The guards were following my orders, to the letter,” Arthur countered. “If your honor is stained, then your grievance is with me, not them. Do you wish to demand redress of me?”

Of course, it was a bluff, because no one would dare challenge the king over a matter of bodily sovereignty. But for just a moment, Meliot appeared to contemplate it, and that in itself was...interesting. Maybe Meliot’s longstanding influence in Camelot was finally going to his head. “Of course not, sire.” He seemed only barely penitent about it. “Sometimes, my temper gets the best of me.”

Arthur nodded. “Well, no hard feelings then.” He smiled, reached up to clap Meliot on the shoulder, and then let the congeniality fall from his face as he turned away. “Alright, scatter, everyone. Back to your duties.” He shooed away the various knights and guards that had formed a bulwark at his back while his attention was taken with Meliot, and nodded at the various townspeople and servants also watching warily from the sidelines. “We have a hunt to get on with.” He didn’t hear Meliot leave, but a few minutes later, when he bothered to look, the old knight was nowhere in sight. Good.

Preparations moved along quickly after that. Knights and their squires, various guards, hunting dogs with their handlers, beaters, servants, and grooms all assembled on time, gear ready. Arthur scowled around at the distinct lack of Merlin until he saw the man hurrying around the periphery with medical supplies, looking harried and completely unsure of himself, no matter that he’d served as medic for hunting and scouting parties plenty of times before, in addition to manservant, groom and cook. Since he was relatively on time, Arthur let him be to flutter around and get flustered every time George handled something that Merlin was used to doing himself. Arthur focused on his own horse, and felt the tension ease from his shoulders like sap from a tree tap. He needed to find time for simple tasks again, things that made him happy before he was king. Solo hunts weren’t a smart thing anymore, but he could visit the stables more often, tend his own horse, trim some hooves now and then if it meant feeling less out of control and isolated on his throne all of the time.

It was only after the knights and nobles started arriving at the tolling of the fourth bell that Arthur took stock of his surroundings again. He noticed the pack horses lined up in a train off to one side of the courtyard, ready to ride out as soon as the hunting party itself did so. The hunting dogs lazed about in the shade like a collection of limp furs scattered all over the place while their handlers checked food and supplies, and silenced collar bells. It was a bit of perfectly unobtrusive interaction, though, that caught Arthur’s wandering eye. Merlin had his horse’s reigns in his hands, and Llamrei lipped at his hair as he spoke to Gwaine. Or tried to speak, it seemed. Gwaine didn’t appear very receptive to whatever Merlin was saying, and as Merlin grew more...anxious?...about it, Llamrei nipped his hair and shoulders more insistently. Merlin started patting and pushing her nose away from his head. Finally, Gwaine stopped pretending that his saddle bags needed any of his attention, and shot sideways to get into Merlin’s face. Whatever he said made Merlin lean back into Llamrei’s shoulder, but the words were too soft to carry.

Arthur frowned and tugged at Hengroen’s bridle to lead him through the small crowd to where Merlin remained standing as Gwaine and his horse stormed away to join the other knights mounting up near the gate. As Arthur approached, Merlin shook himself like a stunned bird and began going over Llamrei’s gear again. “Almost ready, sire.”

“What was that all about?”

Merlin shook his head, mouth creased in that dismissive manner he tended to try on like ill-fitting clothes when he didn’t want Arthur to look too closely at him. “Nothing.”

“Merlin.”

“It’s fine. Gwaine’s just cranky. Hung over.”

Arthur glanced over at said knight, and found the other nobles giving Gwaine a wide and wary berth. “Is this about Eira?”

Merlin tightened a strap too much and Llamrei turned to bite at him. Just a warning, but it did stop Merlin from adjusting anything else. He sighed, scrubbed at his hair, and admitted, “He thinks I knew all along and kept it from him, but I didn’t. I tried to apologize, and he called me a liar.”

Arthur looked down, then away. “He’ll come around. His pride’s been hurt.”

“I swear I didn’t know,” Merlin insisted, his gaze flitting around before settling on Arthur. “I would have said.”

“He knows that, Merlin. But he thought he loved her.”

“I know.” Merlin attacked a stirrup then, and Llamrei eyed him like she was thinking about taking a chunk out of his arm.

Arthur draped Hengroen’s reigns over the side of a supply cart and then herded Merlin away from his horse before a fight broke out. “Come on.”

Merlin took a few hasty steps back and hissed, “What are you doing? We’re in public!”

“Then move along before you embarrass yourself.” Arthur shuffled him into an empty guard alcove, just barely out of sight of passersby, and then let him be for a moment. “Calm down. You’re spooking the horses.”

Merlin went still, breathed like he sorely wanted to hit something, and then clenched his hands at his sides. A flair of ozone invaded the closed space, burnt wind and storms, and Arthur took a step back. The air seemed to ripple with a stale breeze, and then the smell faded as quickly as it came. Arthur released a low breath and let his posture go loose again.

Finally, voice low, Merlin snapped, “You can’t just do that!”

It took a moment for the indignation to set in, as Arthur was more concerned in that moment with the stifled magic and what effect it might have on Merlin. “I’m sorry, what?” It was obnoxious, and Arthur really did have better manners than that, but Merlin did tend to bring out the petty in him. “Are you telling your king how to behave?”

“Yes! I’m not your – your plaything! You can’t just herd me around like cattle, and shove me into beds, and – ”

Arthur cut him off by the expedient means of putting his hand over Merlin’s mouth. It wasn’t exactly bound to make things better, but Merlin was at least fuming silently now. “If you get on a warhorse in this mood, she will either throw you, or harass the horse in front of her in the line until someone gets kicked.”

Merlin’s nostril’s flared, a hot blast of air against Arthur’s fingers, and then he very deliberately stepped away from Arthur’s hand. “You don’t get to manhandle me and take liberties just because you’re the bloody king.”

“Liberties?” Arthur scoffed. “When have I ever – ”

“When have you not?” Merlin snorted. “That’s practically all you do! Come here, Merlin. Do that, Merlin. Sleep here because I’m a bloody paranoid lunatic – ”

“That’s enough.”

“ – and stay where I put you, and don’t move, and don’t breathe too loudly because I need my beauty sleep - “

“That was one time!”

“ – and no you can’t be left alone because I worry so I’m going to turn your entire life upside down, and make sure you’re suitably grateful for it no matter what you want, and I’ll just mess with your head a little while I’m at it because I’m an entitled prat – ”

“Merlin!”

“ – and I am refusing you!”

Arthur blinked, struck dumb, and was at least gratified to find his shock at the outburst mirrored on Merlin’s face. The quiet spanned the length of far too many galloping heartbeats, and then Merlin ticked, dropping his eyes. He took a step sideways, perhaps to evade a coming blow, or appear smaller from the side. Arthur regarded him warily, and then ventured, “Is this about last night? Or this morning?”

“No.” The response seemed automatic, and Merlin immediately amended it to, “Yes. A little.” Then he paused, and added, “I was kind of drunk,” as if that explained his current behavior. 

Arthur raised his brows. “Are you drunk now?”

“What? No! Just...just....” He flapped his hands around, which illuminated exactly nothing, and then just gusted out a huge breath and slumped against the wall. “It’s too much. There’s too much – ” Merlin cupped his hands in the air around his head and shook them once, visibly frustrated and at a loss as to how to explain it before just blurting out, “ – things!”

Arthur stepped forward and clutched Merlin around the head where his own hands had not touched. Amazingly, Merlin went pliant like that, wobbling between Arthur’s hands, and just looked at Arthur for what felt like a long while.

“Better now?” Arthur asked.

Merlin tried a few times to reply before admitting, “I don’t know what you want me to do anymore. I liked it better when I knew. When I was just a servant. Your servant.”

Arthur couldn’t stop the wry chuckle from slipping out. “You’ve never acted like a servant.”

“There was a line,” Merlin pressed, “that I couldn’t cross. I understood that. And being...being secret. I can do that. I know that. I don’t know this.” He took a huge breath and let it slough back out as if relinquishing a physical weight with that admission. The humid heat of anxious breath washed over Arthur’s face. “I liked it better before,” Merlin admitted. “No one looked at me, and you didn’t know about...things.”

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to keep from frowning, or looking hurt, and tried to joke, “You don’t like being honest with me? No more secrets, no more worry I might find out?”

Merlin shook his head, sandwiched as it was between Arthur’s hands, and whispered, “I thought that it would be a relief. I thought that someday the time would be right, and I’d just know it was, I’d feel it. And it would finally be okay if I’m magic, and I’d stand at your side like the prophecies said. And we’d be equals, and it would be a golden age, and everything…it would all mean something. It would have been for something. But it’s not; it’s all lies.” Merlin met Arthur’s eyes, and it was only when he did that it occurred to Arthur that Merlin had been evading his gaze for a most of that. His eyes were too bright, Arthur realized – on the verge of being wet. “It just feels like the ground is gone. And I’m still terrified you’ll hate me for it, or for the things I did, and the lies, because there are still lies, and I don’t know how to stop.”

Arthur felt the way he had the morning before, realizing that Merlin had never been open with anyone, not completely, not ever. That he didn’t know how. That he was afraid to be – afraid that the people he loved would run from him if they knew what he was, or what he could do. Or that they would send him away, as his mother had. It felt hollow and sad, and there was nothing Arthur could do about the past, to help that Merlin do something other than hide all of the time. He wasn’t sure that would ever go away, the fear of being revealed – of being known just a little too well. Of slipping up. That kind of habit was insidious; it took hold at the roots and poisoned everything above.

Merlin breathed harsh through his nose, not spooked but definitely ready to bolt, whether he wanted to, or realized it himself, or not. It was like Balinor, Arthur thought. That woodsman living in a cave, with manners and reflexes and distrust like an animal – that was Arthur’s warning not to fuck this up. That was the path Merlin had been treading all of his life, in his unknown father’s footsteps, and he would stay on it if Arthur let him. If Arthur made him. And Arthur didn’t want to reduce the man in front of him – however dangerous, however flawed – to a bitter, lonely shell of a man with no care left for the world, and no hope for it either.

“Merlin?”

Merlin hummed back at Arthur in question.

Arthur firmed up his hands, still framing Merlin’s face with the tops of his ridiculous ears stuck up between Arthur’s fingers. But then he didn’t have anything to say. He didn’t even have empty reassurances to give. At the last, all he could really offer was, “Shut up.”

And then Arthur just...kissed him.

It was a stupid thing to do, out there in semi-public while Merlin floundered in his own skin. Possibly dishonorable, since Arthur had been explicitly refused. Merlin didn’t resist though. He never really did, not about the things he should, and that was a problem. Arthur tasted sour tea and leftover morning breath, but Merlin’s breath caught in a tiny hitch as his mouth opened to let Arthur inside, so it didn’t matter. None of the perilousness of this act mattered so long as Arthur had him here, his body soft like surrender pressed between Arthur and the stone wall of the alcove.

Merlin came back to himself as Arthur pressed his knee between Merlin’s thighs to brace against the wall there. He broke the kiss with a harsh breath and turned his face aside, into Arthur’s palm, his ribcage moving fast beneath the other hand that Arthur moved to steady him. Arthur grasped harder at the ridges of bone midway between waist and shoulder, and stayed pressed there against him, aware of the swelling flesh against his leg and the way Merlin remained in place to let him feel it, rather than angling back in shame. Merlin’s arms dangled at his sides, however, fingers loose and limp. 

“Merlin.”

It took a moment, as if Merlin had to wrench himself back from some other faraway place, before he looked back to Arthur, winded more severely than this situation could really account for. “This doesn’t solve anything.”

“It solves the problem of you being strung tighter than a crossbow.” Arthur shifted against him and Merlin made a pained sound, then finally fumbled his hands up to reach for Arthur’s belt. “No,” Arthur admonished, intercepting both hands and shoving them out of the way again, out to Merlin’s sides. “Not that again.”

“What?” Merlin blinked some cognition back onto his face and protested, “But you need - ”

“Want.” Arthur watched Merlin’s jaw work soundlessly as he tried and failed to make sense of that correction. “Not need,” Arthur told him, gentle but insistent. “Want. Whatever I want.”

Confused, as if he thought this were a trap, Merlin nodded and confirmed his own words from days before, hesitant and still breathing too fast. “Whatever you want.”

Arthur nodded. “Right now, I want this.”

“But you have to - ”

“I’m the king,” Arthur reminded him. “I don’t have to anything.” He regrouped though and took some of his weight back. “If you truly want me to stop, I will.”

Merlin started shaking his head, but his words came out a frantic opposite. “You’re not supposed to do that. To me. I’m a servant, I have to – ”

Arthur nodded along in agreement, but muffled the frankly ridiculous class protest with his lips. Merlin grunted into his mouth as Arthur leaned his weight forward again and made certain to keep all of Merlin’s involuntary noises smothered so no one could hear. There were carts rolling past the guard alcove right behind them, and people walking, boots clacking on cobblestone and conversation twittering around right there. It was such a stupid place for this. Arthur knew better. He just really didn’t care right now, with Merlin’s hands creeping up to bunch at the back of Arthur’s mail shirt and twist the metal links low where Arthur’s kidneys sat.

When Arthur shifted his leg to force Merlin’s stance wider, he had to swallow a grunt from Merlin’s lips that sounded like being punched. Their teeth scraped briefly. Arthur reached down between them and tugged Merlin’s tunic up out of his knotted belt, shoving it out of the way and elbowing the surcoat aside. Merlin reacted to the hand worming into his braes by seizing Arthur’s wrist in fingers clenched tight enough to hurt, respirations juddering like he might be shivering with fever. He stopped kissing back, and Arthur just kept his lips there as a warning, or a precaution toward silence. The nails of Merlin’s other hand curled in too sharp against the back of Arthur’s neck where the mail didn’t cover his skin. Merlin let out a strangled groan and curled his body, pelvis toward Arthur’s hand, head back and neck arched to show off tendons and adam’s apple.

Arthur slowed down and twisted his own hip to pin Merlin’s back when he started trying to control the speed of Arthur’s strokes, or break free from them entirely. It made Merlin’s knees buckle and Arthur moved his lips aside so that he could push Merlin’s head down and muffle him in Arthur’s shoulder. He could feel Merlin’s fingernails catching in his chainmail, scraping against metal. Arthur resumed stroking with most of Merlin’s weight propped up and from the sharp, gasping breaths, guessed that this wouldn’t take long. When Merlin’s frame tightened up, Arthur grappled him around to half face the wall, and Merlin curled his head into the crook of his own elbow to keep quiet. He sagged back against Arthur’s chest and Arthur twisted into the corner of the alcove to help support both their weight.

It was over quickly after that. Merlin’s free arm shot out to brace himself against the wall, and Arthur watched his mouth open soundlessly as he inhaled a few times, rapid staccato breaths that didn’t seem to come back out right away. Then he tensed up, rigid for just a moment too long, too like the fits he’d had in Arthur’s arms, and there it was, and the rictus broke. Arthur felt him spasm several times, full body things that seemed to run in a line down his abdomen, held steady in Arthur’s now immobile hands. The jagged way he breathed through it, mouth hanging open like a fish, sounded like a flurry of hiccoughs, or the shocked sound a man makes when he’s shot by a crossbow bolt – throat constricted, more surprise than pain. Arthur waited for the sag of limbs and the long, heaving breaths that signaled the aftermath, and then staggered as Merlin’s knees tried to give out. He was clutching Arthur by the forearms now, where Arthur had crossed them both over Merlin’s chest, and his exhales came tinged with tiny, short, barely audible vowel sounds until he gathered the presence of mind to close his mouth.

Arthur spared a thought for the foot traffic nearly within arm’s reach of the alcove opening, just around a miniscule corner. People continued moving along just as they always did, as if Arthur weren’t supporting a good portion of his new Court Physician’s weight while said man tried to find his wits again. The evidence of what they’d just done dripped in little globules down the wall, largely indistinguishable from the dirt and discoloration already present. Merlin’s breathing calmed quickly, and he seemed to come back to the present with a jolt as the departure bell rang out across the citadel above them.

Merlin struggled to get his feet under him and Arthur let him have the dignity of putting himself back to rights, buttons and ties and belt set in order with shaking hands, as various guards began calling out for the king, and then asking people if they had seen him leave the courtyard. Merlin sorted himself out with alacrity for a man on the far side of an unexpected orgasm. Then he just stood there, one hand braced on the wall, his head bowed low. Arthur could see how his ribcage continued to expand and contract beneath his clothes, but at least now, it was a slower, deeper rhythm. A sheen of sweat glistened at the nape of his long neck.

“Come on.” Arthur stepped forward and coaxed him out of the corner. “They’ll send out a search party if we don’t turn up soon.”

Merlin gave him a glassy look, and then noticed the commotion outside of their shelter as if waking from a deep sleep. This sort of release in the middle of the day could be disorienting, Arthur knew. He wasn’t all that certain that Merlin knew that feeling, though. Odd as it seemed, he wasn’t an innocent in these pleasures – Arthur couldn’t imagine that, at Merlin’s age – but there was also something inexperienced about the way he approached it all. Or maybe just one-sided. Maybe Merlin was used to giving that kind of pleasure without necessarily receiving it back. Or maybe it made him uncomfortable, and Arthur shouldn’t have done it.

Arthur frowned at that thought, then steadied Merlin as they emerged from the alcove. Without being obvious, they slipped around an increasingly concerned eddy of guards and knights to find their horses arranged in line with the others, waiting for them. Merlin wobbled a bit as he tried to untwist a stirrup, and Arthur took the opportunity to say, “Is it quieter, at least?”

Merlin gazed at him with a blank expression.

“In your head.” Arthur made an understated mockery of Merlin’s hand-flapping from earlier. “Fewer things going in circles?”

“Yeah.” Merlin’s voice came out as a hoarse croak, and he cleared his throat sharply. “Yes, I’m...” But he never finished that, forehead furrowing up he turned instead to scramble up into the saddle with even less grace than usual.

Arthur’s faint concern grew, because he didn’t want things ruined between them. And hadn’t they been heading in this direction? Wasn’t this what they’d both been dancing around for days now? Arthur quickly looked away but hearkening back to their aborted conversation that morning, he abruptly insisted, “I do feel. You can ignore it and pretend it’s just another service to your king, but I can’t, and I don’t want to, and you’ve no say in that.” Without giving him a chance to respond, Arthur started walking away and ordered, “Come up to the front of the line, where you usually are.”

After an obvious delay, he could hear Merlin’s horse clop-clopping after him as he made his way to the head of the hunting train. Hengroen tossed his head as Arthur swung up into the saddle, perhaps unsettled by the odd smell that lingered on Arthur’s hands. He sidled a bit before submitting to Arthur’s control, shoving Merlin and his mount to one side as well. Their gazes met for a moment, Merlin’s unreadable, and Arthur looked away before he could give into the urge to try and fathom it.

It was a very awkward, subdued hunting party that rode out of the citadel not long after that.

 

~TBC~

Notes:

Probably best categorized as well-meant dubcon

Chapter 10

The Sword in the Stone

 

Morgana sat draped over the throne, unflinching and so cold as Arthur and his most loyal subjects crashed through the doors that they all careened to a stop in order to stare better.

“Welcome, dear brother. It’s been far too long.”

Arthur let his sword sink to his side and straightened up to face her as equals. She did deserve that much, didn’t she? After everything?

Morgana flowed up onto her feet, but the cant of her body was all wrong. It was a slithering thing, all bent like a snake, crooked and sick. “I apologize if you had a difficult reception.” She paced toward him, her limbs loose and careless like a mathematical equation given form. It was measured. It had purpose. “It’s hard to know who to trust these days.”

Arthur moved forward to meet her, his sword dangling from his open hand in a show of peace.

For a moment, Morgana kept her chin tilted up, throat vulnerable to the blade in his hand. Something on her face changed as she lowered her head and leveled her gaze at him, the demented tilt of her body pulling up straight before him. Her eyes held an odd uncertainty, and for a moment, she was just Morgana again.

Watching the wariness in Morgana’s eyes, and holding it with his own stare, Arthur sheathed his sword. She let him approach to within a foot or so, the proximity reserved at court for one’s family. “What happened to you, Morgana?”

The hardness crumbled, and she was there again for a moment – his childhood playmate, the girl in the emerald dress, scared and lonely, and desperate for affection from a father who denied her compassion – from a king who demanded that his children mold themselves in his own image.

“I thought we were friends.”

Morgana swallowed, and the sorrow on her face must have been genuine, to be so naked there. “As did I.” Then her voice hardened, and the fanatic leaked back in through the cracks in her composure. “But alas, we were both wrong.”

Arthur blinked to contain an unwanted emotion, so similar to the one that had just made Morgana’s familiar green eyes shine. He thought for a moment that his throat wouldn’t let him say anything more, but it passed. His words were soft when they came, because he did understand, at least a little bit, that she only harbored so much hate as a shield to cover the fear. “You can’t blame me for my father’s sins.”

Morgana’s head weaved, and he could see that soft, true bit of her receding again behind the cold, reptilian madness. “It’s a little late for that.” The hurt broke through again, though, perhaps in spite of her desire to appear strong. “You’ve made it perfectly clear how you feel about me and my kind.”

Arthur kept his lips pressed together because he was afraid of what he might say if he tried to refute that. If he tried to refute that. He thought of Merlin, though – the sorcerer at his back. The liar he could trust, as long as he never confronted the truth of him, the way Morgana had forced him to confront the truth of her. Would they be here now, like this, if she had kept her secret buried? Would that have saved her from succumbing to this bitter madness?

Would it have saved him from wondering deep down, despite all evidence to the contrary, if it weren’t just Morgana? If it weren’t just her magic that brought madness? If maybe, one day, he would look at Merlin the same way he now looked at her?

“You’re not as different from Uther as you’d like to think.”

No. No, he really wasn’t. But then again, “Nor are you.”

* * *

Arthur grinned and leaned over in his saddle to thump Sir Caradoc on the back in congratulations. “How many pheasants is that?”

“Four for me, sire.” Caradoc tied the latest pheasant to his saddle and then hoisted himself back onto his horse. “And two hares. We seem to have fortune on our side; we haven’t even made camp yet.”

“Indeed. Maybe we’ll have the same luck with deer in the morning.” Arthur steered his mount forward and around Caradoc, who was busy situating himself and his armor not to dig in anywhere unpleasant. Merlin waited a short distance away, his expression obscure. He’d been that way all afternoon – not his usual chatty, complaining self at all. It was starting to wear on Arthur’s nerves something fierce. This was supposed to be a holiday; they were all supposed to enjoy themselves, unwind, and remember that they were just a bunch of normal men who liked to have a bit of fun.

Unnecessarily, Merlin pointed out, “Days are getting shorter. It’ll be dark soon.”

Arthur nodded because that seemed the easiest way to stop Merlin from going on about it. “We’ll cut through the vale up ahead, be at the cold spring to make camp by sundown.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder as they prodded their horses forward. “George looks rather pained.”

Merlin smirked, which really just went to show that he was far more like Arthur than he would maybe ever admit. “Never ridden a horse before.”

“It shows.” Arthur snuffed to hold in his laugh and stole a glance back at the way poor George was trying to stand in the stirrups to save his tender buttocks. “I hope you brought something for bruises.”

“Oh, of course. I know how you lot are. All your friendly punching and shoving each other into trees. I’d be an idiot not to bring a gallon of bruise paste.”

“You are an idiot. I don’t expect you to understand the camaraderie of knights.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen your camaraderie,” Merlin grumbled. “I can do without it, thank you.”

Arthur grinned out one side of his mouth, and thankfully, Merlin finally offered him a small smile back, secret and close. When Arthur faced forward again, though, his own grin faltered. “Nemeton isn’t far from here, you know. Wouldn’t even add a full hour to our journey.”

Merlin’s head whipped around and he forcibly inserted his horse in front of Arthur’s to stop him for a moment. “You can’t be serious.”

“Not for that,” Arthur soothed. “I just fancy some privacy so we can talk.”

Reluctantly, Merlin guided his horse out of Arthur’s way and reclaimed his regular place near Arthur’s flank – not quite behind him, but close enough. “Talk?”

“You know we need to. Come on; there’s a trail off here. We can take the long way round and meet everyone back at the camp site by suppertime.”

“Or we could just talk around a cookfire like normal people. After we make camp.”

“I think we’d both rather not risk being overheard by gossiping knights. They’re worse than a gaggle of maiden aunts. Come on; trail’s this way.”

Merlin leaned around in his saddle like an idiot trying for a better vantage point. “Where?”

“There.” Arthur pointed down into the vale and off to the right. “See? It’s kind of covered in leaves or something.”

Merlin sat back up straight in his saddle and made a face at Arthur, mouth screwed up on one side as if he were cataloging all of the ways in which Arthur was addled. “That’s a gully. Trails are more, you know, traily.”

Arthur curled his lip up. “What’s your problem? It goes the right direction, it’s dry, and the horses won’t have a problem with it.”

“Are you daft? Weren’t you just warning everyone about watching for bandits and leftover Saxons? The scouts haven’t cleared that route.”

“Stop being such a girl; it’s the king’s forest. Come on.” Arthur reigned his horse to the right, forcing Merlin to also veer off track to avoid getting run into. “Besides, we did have Saxons here last year; there’s every chance that some of them are still living in the deep woods. We should make sure.”

The sound of Merlin’s horse followed Arthur down, along with a lot of squawking. “What?! And what are we supposed to do if they are still there? Wave at them? Offer them dinner?”

“It’s hardly going to be a whole hoard of them. There were a few scattered homesteads, that’s all. Caradoc! Percival!” Arthur craned his neck around, pleased to see said knights immediately peel off from the baggage train. “Come on! We’re scouting for deer track.”

“Two knights?” Merlin huffed an explosive and mirthless chuckle. “Against a hoard of Saxons.”

“Three knights, Merlin. I am actually a knight too, remember?”

Merlin scoffed and muttered, “Three knights. Oh, that’s better.”

“And it’s not a hoard! It probably isn’t anything at all. They know they aren’t welcome in Camelot.”

“Right. Silly me, worrying for nothing.” Louder now, so that he could be sure of Arthur hearing him, Merlin griped, “And you’re not scouting for deer; you’re lying and being an arse.”

“Not being an arse,” Arthur told him cheerfully. “I brought my secret sorcerer with me, didn’t I? I’m sure you could handle a few bandits.”

Merlin hissed and hunched into his shoulders as if to shield himself from revelations and eavesdroppers. “Tell everybody, why don’t you. You realize you can’t stop them executing me, right?”

Arthur sobered, and ignored the urge to feel even slightly ashamed of himself for treating that very real danger as a joke to tease with. “Yes, I know. They’d think they were saving me from your enchantments. I apologize for making light of it.”

“You apologize,” Merlin mocked, aggrieved. He kept grumbling under his breath.

Arthur ignored him and guided his horse down the gully track without further obstacle. “You know, anyone else would be humbled to receive his king’s apology.”

“Maybe if you weren’t being such a dollop head, I would be.”

Arthur laughed under his breath; he missed this. The gentle pestering, poking at Merlin’s soft underbelly and riling him up until he seemingly forgot that Arthur was, indeed, the king. He sobered after a minute, though, because the whole point of breaking off from the others was to gain privacy for a serious conversation that they needed to have sooner rather than later. Behind them, Caradoc and Percival maneuvered down the gully, the former gabbing as if Perceival weren’t terminally quiet most of the time. Arthur made a gesture for them to maintain a discrete distance. Percival nodded, and Caradoc waved as they fell back.

Merlin hadn’t yet stopped mumbling under his breath. Arthur caught bumble-headed prat from amongst the chatter, and decided that enough was probably enough. If Arthur just let him prattle on until he ran out of steam on his own, they’d reach the camp, eat supper, and bed down before he wound down enough for productive discourse. “Merlin.”

“This is a bad idea. A really, very bad idea. Why don’t you ever listen to me? Every time you tell me to quit worrying, we get ambushed by bandits. Do you realize that?”

Arthur frowned back at him and weakly countered, “Not every time, surely.”

“Every. Time,” Merlin bounced back. “And I should know, because I’ve been keeping track.”

“Okay.” Arthur held up a hand in the hopes of placating him, and firmly reminded himself that it had nothing to do with the fact that he couldn’t think of anything to immediately prove Merlin wrong. But that didn’t mean anything; it just meant that Arthur didn’t catalogue Merlin’s unwarranted worry moments the way that Merlin himself apparently did. “Okay, fine, maybe I get impulsive. That’s actually what I want to talk to you about.”

Merlin snapped his mouth shut and treated Arthur to a suspicious look. Despite Merlin being behind him, Arthur knew it was happening because he knew Merlin, and could easily picture his squinty face. “You wanted to talk about bandits?”

“What? No, Merlin! Impulsivity. I do things without thinking them through sometimes; you know this about me. And I want to – For god’s sake, I’m trying to figure out if I need to apologize for this afternoon in the courtyard. You know, the...” Arthur cursed the fact that he could feel his face turning red, and rather than finish that sentence, he made a lewd and demonstrative gesture to refer to what happened in the alcove.

There was no response for a moment, and Arthur twisted to look over his shoulder. He found Merlin’s face shuttered, though something odd lingered about his eyes. “It’s fine. It helped, right? No worries.”

Arthur frowned as his horse jostled him where he sat canted at an awkward angle to maintain eye contact. “You refused me.”

“I could have stopped you.”

To Arthur’s ears, that sounded like more of a threat than it might have been. “Yes,” he agreed, dubious. “Why didn’t you?”

Merlin’s face finally thawed, and he looked away with a shrug before deciding to straighten out the hopeless tangle he’d made of his horse’s reigns. “Wasn’t exactly terrible. Sort of a shock, but better than getting boots thrown at my head.” Then he paused to consider the whole thing, and asked, “Should I apologize too?”

Arthur scoffed. “For what?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never done that before, but you’re the king, and there’s court protocol for bloody everything in Camelot.”

Arthur twisted again to look back, and frowned. “Court protocol? You think there’s court protocol for the king tossing you off in an alcove?”

Merlin made a comical wide-eyed face at him, as if to convey how utterly moronic Arthur was for asking that. “I told you, I don’t know! I don’t do those things.”

With a sharp jerk on the reigns, Arthur halted his horse and swung it around so that he could face Merlin. “That. I need you to explain what you mean when you keep saying that – that you don’t do those things, but that you know how.”

Merlin’s horse stopped to snuffle her fellow, and then tossed her head; Merlin merely sat there and treated Arthur to a bewildered look, only this time, it seemed genuine rather than his usual flavor of mocking. At Arthur’s insistent staring, he hesitantly offered, “I don’t…you know. Do that. With people.”

“With people,” Arthur echoed, briefly perturbed by that specific wording. “You do it with other things?”

Merlin blinked, and then gave him a ferocious scowl. “No! Is this because of the magic? You think I’m running around fucking sprites or trees or goats or something?”

In a valiant effort not to sound defensive, Arthur gave a nervous laugh and snorted, “No, of course not.”

“Liar. You’re making your lying face.”

“I am not!” He totally was, and he knew it. “Shut up. I don’t know how you people work.”

Merlin’s face abruptly wiped itself smooth. “We people aren’t any different from you.”

Arthur took a deep breath and released it at the heavens with a soft growl of frustration. “I know that. You just said it oddly; it implied things.”

Merlin shook his head. “You know, sometimes, there’s no talking to you.” He backed his horse up and then spurred her to go around Arthur.

“Don’t be like that,” Arthur called. He pressed his horse to follow and trotted up beside him again. “Come on; you know you’re a little strange.”

Thankfully, Merlin slowed his horse to amble more comfortably beside Arthur again. It took a long silence, through which Arthur fidgeted impatiently, but Merlin did eventually explain, “I’ve never had a woman. I thought…there was one, once. I thought I might have done, with her, but looking back, all the feelings were wrong.”

“Loved her like a sister?” Arthur suggested. “Not a wife?”

Merlin shook his head. “Not even that, really. I felt pity for her, and responsible for saving her. Failed that. She died.” He took a cleansing breath and then let it out slowly, head raised to gaze unseeing at the trees. “It’s funny. We were about the same age, but I remember thinking how she was just a child, and I had to protect her.”

Arthur furrowed his brow, wondering who this woman was, and when Merlin had known her. He wasn’t sure, though, that he had any right to ask. “You felt paternal toward her?”

“Not exactly. It’s complicated. I kissed her; that definitely wasn’t paternal. I dunno.”

Arthur nodded, though he wasn’t certain that he understood. “And that was it? You never tried it with anyone else?”

Merlin shrugged. “Some of the court folk can get handsy, especially when they’re drunk. I can usually just deliver them back to their own servants, though.”

A prickle took root at the base of Arthur’s spine. “Usually?”

“Yeah.” Merlin looked down at his hands and picked a bit at the lint stuck to his cuffs. “Sometimes, their proclivities aren’t for their wives or husbands.”

Arthur glanced briefly at the man beside him, then away. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Merlin raised his head and fixed his gaze at the side of Arthur’s head. “I’m saying that I may have used magic on some of them to put them to sleep so it wouldn’t go anywhere.”

A gust of air left Arthur’s lungs in a rush. “Ha! Right. Of course.” He paused. “Only some of them?”

“Mm.” Merlin looked away again. “I let it happen a few times, in the beginning. I was…I guess, lonely. A bit. Thought it might be nice, but I’m a servant. So it was always, you know. One-sided.”

Arthur swallowed and bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t bother to voice that Merlin had plainly stated he’d never had a woman, meaning that the times he let it happen were all with men. “Hence, you don’t do those things, but you know how.”

“Yup.” Merlin offered him a spastic grin. “See? Protocol.”

“That’s not the protocol at court. They aren’t actually supposed to do that to servants.”

“I’m not some blushing innocent you need to defend.” Merlin smiled in a more genuine fashion that time. “Boys get curious, don’t they? I knew what I was doing.”

Arthur stole a glance to make sure that Merlin wasn’t just brushing the whole thing off to save face, but he did seem to be telling the truth. There wasn’t any fear or discomfort in the way he returned Arthur’s gaze. Finally, Arthur nodded. “Alright. But just for the sake of argument, you know that you don’t have to accept those kinds of advances, right? Even from me?”

Merlin started to spout off something flippant, to judge by his face, but he seemed to rethink that in light of Arthur’s attempts to be serious about that. Finally, he just settled with, “It’s complicated,” again.

Arthur sighed and faced forward, soothing his horse as he resettled in the saddle. Of course it was complicated; that was the whole reason they needed to talk it out. He could have let the matter drop; they didn’t need to discuss it, at least not right now. Knights fumbled around on campaigns all of the time, and it didn’t mean anything. Men had needs, or just couldn’t bleed off the tension any other way. What happened between them in the alcove that afternoon could just be that. But it would be the coward’s way out, because Arthur knew better. He knew what sat mouldering between them, danced around and skirted but still only partially unsaid. And god help him, Arthur wanted something more than just friendly fumbles – bloody court protocol – and awkward silences after.

He drew breath a few times, ready to just baldly say what he meant – put the notion out there, drag it out of the dark and hold it up for scrutiny. That he didn’t actually want to apologize for putting his hands on Merlin – that he wanted things like hiding in alcoves, and touching, and knowing the way that Merlin gasped and trembled afterwards, and the glassy expression on his face when his mind went quiet. Sleeping curled together, innocent. The smell when he put his nose in Merlin’s hair. The freedom to put his hand on Merlin’s cheek, to touch the dark and wiry beard he was allowing to grow on his face. To press their foreheads together. To be able to say what he wanted to say without Merlin stopping him and hiding his feelings behind Arthur’s own crown.

Behind him again, Merlin hummed at his horse and received a whicker in response. Arthur scanned the path ahead of them, trees thinning marginally as they approached the plain. He sucked in air again, steeling himself this time to just say the words trapped under his tongue. They wouldn’t come. Some little voice buried deep in the unkind part of his heart hissed that maybe he really was only trying to replace Guinevere, and that it wasn’t Merlin he wanted at all. That he was fooling himself, and Merlin probably knew it.

In the distance, the setting sunlight glowed orange from beyond the tree line where the plains of Nemeton lay. The ground sloped gently upward and Arthur guided his horse out of the now shallow gully. Pine needles littered the forest floor in a pungent carpet that softened the footfalls of the horses. Farther behind, Caradoc let out a belly laugh, perhaps at something Percival said, and the echo faded back into silence a moment later. The air smelt of dying leaves and rich earth, a faint chill, and the coming sleep of winter. A hint of smoke wafted along irregular air currents, perhaps from a cottage hidden deep in these woods.

Arthur thought of his father, and the beatific smile that crossed his face when he looked up and saw Arthur, in that split second before he gasped and died – of that helpless joy that overcame him at the sight of his son. Of the way that going to Nemeton had fouled that memory – overlaid it with a patina of criticism and fervent madness that would forever color Arthur’s fondest recollections of his father. He thought of the upcoming feast of Samhain, and of sundered veils releasing the rage of the wrongful dead. And he pictured a young girl gasping breath back into her lungs while Merlin cried joyfully on the floor – a young girl who lived where Arthur’s father had not.

Merlin was cooing at his horse now, a soft and familiar sound that Arthur realized he hadn’t heard in over a year, since the last time they rode out together. “What went wrong?” Arthur asked, idle enough to be ignored but loud enough to carry if Merlin chose to acknowledge the question. “When you tried to heal my father. What went wrong?” He remembered Uther gasping on the ground. It’s my time. Warm blood seeping between Arthur’s fingers, feeling more drunk than he should have for the amount of wine he had. It was the last time he celebrated his birthday. The last time he allowed anyone to acknowledge how his father’s final gift to him had been to take the blade meant for Arthur unto himself. Not for the first time, Arthur wondered if by looking to magic in hope of healing him, he had betrayed that final gift. Would it still have been a betrayal if it had worked? “Was it not enough? Was he too far gone for the spell?”

It was only after several moments of Arthur’s heartbeat rushing through the blood in his own ears that he realized it was too silent. Arthur reigned in his horse and rounded back to find Merlin sitting still atop his unmoving horse several yards back, both of them tense and watching him. They blinked at each other briefly, and then Merlin shook his head, face drawing closed in wary confusion at the sudden subject change. “Gaius didn’t tell you?”

Arthur tipped his head to one side, then shook it. “Tell me what?”

Merlin shifted and his horse side-stepped in annoyance at the fidgeting. “About the necklace. The charm?”

A memory prickled in Arthur’s memory. “My father had an odd necklace on when he died. I didn’t recognize it. I don’t know what happened to it, though. I assume it was removed when they prepared his body to lay in state.”

“Gaius took it.” Merlin started to shake his head, then appeared to try to stop the impulse. The curt motion softened into a bewildered wobble instead. “You’re sure he didn’t mention it to you?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied. He fought to keep his tone open when all he wanted to do was bear down and growl for an immediate explanation. “What does it have to do with my father’s death?”

Merlin blinked at him like an oddly proportioned bird. “It was cursed. It took my healing magic and reversed it. When I cast the spell to heal your father, it only made the wound worse.”

Arthur pressed his tongue into his cheek and leaned his head back to look at the sky. The calm above seemed deceptive. Somewhere close behind them, Caradoc’s voice carried indistinct but jovial through the thickets and rising cricket calls. “Where did it come from? The necklace?”

In his periphery, Merlin shifted to steady himself in the saddle as his horse scuffed a hoof at something in the dirt. “Morgana, most likely. Gaius thinks it was Agravaine who put it on him, though.” Then he cleared his through, and corrected, voice tight, “Thought.”

Arthur nodded, pensive, and looked down at his hands so that he wouldn’t have to see the way Merlin’s face crumpled just a little bit at the edges. He was a fool. He’d told Agravaine that he wanted to use magic to heal his father. Even not knowing of his subterfuge yet, of his alliance with Morgana, Arthur never should have told him, or anyone, that he planned to use magic. Except for Merlin, of course. Because Merlin would die, kill, and worse to remain true to Arthur. And it’s not as if Arthur could have found a healer himself; no one would have trusted him, or cared to help the king who persecuted them. No, only Merlin, the bumbling would-be manservant, would ever consider giving his magic to a Pendragon.

Eventually, all Arthur replied with was, “That makes sense.” He tipped his head back down to the trees and glanced back.

Merlin wavered in his saddle as he fiddled discontentedly with the seams of his new clothing. “I don’t understand why he wouldn’t tell you.” His face reminded Arthur of the night they camped in front of the cave of the Disir, when Arthur tried to coax the truth from him, and Merlin merely denied magic altogether, looking sick about it.

Why, indeed. Arthur sighed and pulled at his gloves to straighten the leather back over his fingers. Then he shook his head, brow pinched between his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me? All this time, Merlin. I thought you’d just messed it up – clumsy like you are with laundry, or forgetting half of my breakfast. For god’s sake – I was furious with you for being as incompetent at magic as you are at everything else.”

It was only when Merlin made a hurt sound that Arthur thought his words too harsh. Uncharitable. Merlin wasn’t useless. He was just…well. Not reliable in some things?

Arthur spurred his horse in a skip step back to Merlin and pulled up beside the other horse so that they could face each other, their mounts poised nose-to-tail in twinned arcs. When he couldn’t silently gain Merlin’s gaze, Arthur gentled his posture and asked again, “Why didn’t you tell me yourself?”

Merlin shook his head, chin tucked down and eyes hidden beneath a fall of messy hair that needed cutting. “Gaius said he handled everything.” Then he raised his head, avoiding Arthur’s gaze again in favor of staring hard at the middle distance. “He wanted me to stay out of it.”

“Stay out of it?” Arthur balked. “You’re my manservant; how can you stay out of anything to do with me?”

“I…” Merlin trailed off, blinking at various points around Arthur’s perimeter. “He didn’t want me to do it at all. Heal your father. He tried to talk me out of it. When it went wrong, he told me to let him handle it. You.”

“Gaius knew that you’re Dragoon.” At Merlin’s faint nod, Arthur asked, “Then why would he let me keep believing that you double crossed me and murdered my father? If I hadn’t recognized your stupid boots, can you imagine what my stance toward magic would be now? After believing that a sorcerer used me to gain access to my father and kill him?” Arthur blew his frustration out with his next exhalation. “You should have told me, Merlin.”

Merlin’s voice came back semi-vacant. “I assumed you knew.”

Incredulous, Arthur demanded, “After what I said to you before the vigil, why would you assume that?”

With a helpless shrug, Merlin admitted, “I thought you just didn’t care.”

Arthur drew a pained breath, but he knew what he was like – the things he had made himself believe first as a prince, and then still for a good while after. It was a valid thought to have, that Arthur didn’t care about the difference between the sorcerer who cursed, and the one who fell prey and did the killing. “Merlin…”

Merlin’s face had gone blank by the time Arthur could look at him again, his eyes unfocused and distant. “I don’t understand why he wouldn’t tell you.”

Arthur prodded his horse sideways until his knee brushed against Merlin’s thigh. “Is this why you keep saying you’re responsible for my father’s death? Because you thought I blamed you?”

Merlin blinked at the darkening woods, and then his eyes wandered a meandering trail down to where their legs touched. “I don’t know.” His head shook back and forth as if he weren’t making a conscious effort at denial – as if his body were doing it for him, independent of his mind. “I don’t know, Arthur. I don’t – ”

“Stop, it’s alright.” Arthur covered Merlin’s hands where they clenched together in white-knuckled fists, tangled up with the reigns wrapped around the front of the saddle. He could feel Merlin shiver against his leg from something other than the rising chill. “It’s alright if you don’t know.” He should have said that he didn’t blame Merlin. He wasn’t certain, though, that it would not be a lie if he did.

Merlin’s voice trembled in spite of the visible effort that he made to keep it steady, his tone edging closer to anger now than whatever he had shaken from a moment before. “I didn’t want him to die, Arthur. You have to believe me. I hate him. I do, I hate him for what he did to people with magic, and the dragons, and Morgana, and you – what he tried to make you into. I hate him, but I didn’t want him to die – I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.” The worst part of it was that Arthur did know. He couldn’t exactly echo all of it – he still had doubts about his father, and of course, other than Merlin’s, he didn’t trust magic. It had caused him and his kingdom too much harm for him to simply discard a lifetime of bad experience. But however easier Merlin’s life may have been without the threat of Uther breathing down his neck every day, Arthur couldn’t imagine Merlin wishing him dead. After all, he had confronted that possibility already and discarded it; Merlin hadn’t yet learned true guile when Uther died. And Merlin probably would have saved the life of a tyrant a dozen times over if it would have spared Arthur pain, no matter the collateral cost. Merlin’s loyalty was distressing like that.

“He was under guard. Almost no one could get in, but I should have felt something was wrong – I could feel it later, when Gaius showed it to me.” It came out sharp and angry, but also something else, something that spoke of his conviction that eventually, Arthur would indeed hate him for his magic.

Hoping to defray the self-castigation in Merlin’s voice, Arthur said, “I understand.”

“Well, I don’t!” Merlin trembled for a moment, his fists going tight beneath Arthur’s hand. “What I did, it made you hate magic even more. It ruined everything! You were going to change things – you promised.”

“That’s not what you did.” Arthur dug his fingernails into the cracks between Merlin’s fingers to loosen the vice grip he had on the edge of the saddle. Idly, he wondered if his father’s death had also spelled Merlin’s loss of hope for a life lived freely, or if that had come later, through no one’s fault but Arthur’s himself. “Maybe Gaius was trying to protect you.”

Merlin’s eyes finally whipped around to fix on Arthur, incredulous. “Protect me? From what?”

“From me.” Arthur dragged one of Merlin’s hands away and began unwinding the reigns from Merlin’s abused fingers.

“You already knew about me,” Merlin countered. “What did it matter?”

“Neither of you knew that,” Arthur tried to reason. “And what if I hadn’t figured it out on my own? What if knowing about that charm led me to you, and I found out like that instead?”

A mean snort tore its way from Merlin’s mouth and he wrenched his hand out of Arthur’s grasp. “Gaius supported the purge, remember. He helped try to eradicate magic.”

Arthur looked up at the side of his face where Merlin’s jaw twitched at the force with which he clenched it. “You’re not seriously suggesting that he kept silent to prevent me from reconsidering my stance on magic.”

“What do I know,” Merlin snapped. He dropped wet eyes to his hands and ran the pads of his fingers over the indentations that the reigns left crisscrossing over the back of his hand. “Kilgharrah never stopped calling him a traitor. And he lied to me, apparently a lot.”

That was true. Gaius did lie, and he did seem to have some kind of agenda on the side, some goal or belief that still wasn’t clear. And his loyalty to Uther seemed an odd but strong thing threaded throughout everything he did. However, he had also obviously loved Merlin like a son – had protected him and kept his secrets for a decade. Eventually, Arthur settled on, “Gaius was a complicated man.” But by not telling Arthur what really happened, he nearly ensured that Arthur would start his reign just as opposed to magic as his father. If Arthur hadn’t recognized Merlin’s boots kicking him like a plough horse… If he had gone on believing that Dragoon was just a crazed, duplicitous old sorcerer and not, just maybe, a friend trying desperately to open the eyes of a prince… What may have come of his kingship to date? What might Arthur have done in vengeance for his father’s death? “All fathers are flawed men, Merlin. We can’t ever really know everything that drives them, or why they would do things that hurt us. All we can be sure of is that they loved us, and at their best, they never intended us harm.”

His voice miserable and small, Merlin replied, “I know Gaius loved me.” He said it as if that only made him feel worse, and it probably did. Tellingly, he did not add that he believed Gaius meant him no harm.

Arthur had years under his belt by now, dealing with the irreconcilable dichotomy of loving the image of a father in spite of the reality of the man. Merlin had only just started down that path to disillusionment. It wasn’t fair to either of them, and perhaps unduly harsh on their respective father figures. A man could only be the product of the times he lived in, after all. No one could really choose what life gave them. And it wasn’t like Arthur or Merlin were any better. They were flawed too. Imperfect, just like the men who molded them.

Arthur pursed his lips to hold in a sigh. “When Gaius realized that I knew about your magic, he nearly passed out from fright and begged me not to execute you. Just…please remember that. Alright? His heart was in the right place when it came to you.”

“Like your father’s was for you?”

Arthur winced. “That’s unfair.”

“Is it? Gaius and your father…” Merlin laughed, and though his face did all of the right things, nothing about that sound matched. “Two peas in a pod, yeah? Uther couldn’t have managed the purge without Gaius. We both know it.”

“Perhaps.” Arthur knew from experience that there wasn’t anything he could say to take away those feelings of betrayal – the knowledge that the man he looked to as a father was not the man he thought he was. Instead of pressing the matter, Arthur softened his tone and said, “Thank you for telling me what really happened.”

Merlin nodded, shook his head, and then swiped hard enough at his damp face that it must have hurt. “I’m sorry. I was so busy trying to convince you that magic is good, I didn’t even think to look for something else.”

“It can be good.” Arthur sighed at the confusion and sad anger on Merlin’s face, but let it be. Merlin needed his grief right now, and even his anger and confusion; Arthur wasn’t quite so oblivious that he didn’t know that. “You’re the one who has tried to show me that.”

“How?” Merlin huffed a harsh laugh, then looked surprised at the sound that came from his own mouth. “How have I shown you anything like that?”

Arthur could have started a list to answer that, but he had the feeling that Merlin already had rebuttals at the ready to refute the actual goodness of any specific act that Arthur might name. Instead, Arthur merely replied, “It’s the only thing you have ever shown me about magic.” Which was true – Merlin made mistakes, a lot of them, but Arthur still had no reason to believe that he worked for anything but the right cause, however flawed or ineffective his approach may sometimes be. “What do you call healing magic, if not good?”

“I saved one girl by ruining her chances for motherhood and a good life.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “I’m sure her mother would disagree, when the other option was no life at all. What are you trying to do, Merlin? Convince me that you’re evil and that I should do something to stop you?”

Finally, Merlin relented and croaked, “No.” But then he followed up with, “Maybe. Gaius always said I needed to be more careful. Think more. Take magic seriously. But I never did. I was reckless with it, and…drunk. On the power. Everyone kept telling me I’m the greatest sorcerer that ever lived – that I’m fated, and I can’t fail. All of these sects, magic users, Druids, the Catha, even Sidhe and the Cailleach, and woods spirits, they just came out of nowhere – I’d never seen anything like them before I came to Camelot – before I met you – and they said these amazing things. Like, we could be free, and we could have peace, and I wouldn’t have to hide anymore. Some of them even swore fealty. To me. Said I’d save them, and I believed them. I believed nothing could stop me. I thought I was invincible, but I’m not. And people died. A lot of people. Most of them didn’t deserve it.”

Arthur took a deep breath and squeezed gently at the muscles of Merlin’s forearm corded tight beneath his hand. What Merlin described was literally Uther’s worst nightmare, magic folk rising up in force to reclaim their place with an unstoppable sorcerer at their head. Once, it had been Arthur’s worst nightmare too. And it had been Morgana’s unhinged aspiration, to be what Merlin might have been for magic folk – the warlord and the savior. She wasn’t it; that power didn’t belong to her. It likely did belong to Merlin, though. And he’d refused it for Arthur.

Rather than address any of that, Arthur merely recalled cautionary words his father had once spoken to him in what seemed, now, to be a fit of irony. “Pride goes before the fall. At least you know that now.”

Merlin looked up and gave him a quizzical look, as if he didn’t recognize the phrase.

“The sin of pride? It’s from the new god’s teachings,” Arthur prompted. “The angels that surrounded him in the heavens fell victim to their own pride and fell to the pits of Hades, stripped of their father’s love and regard. It’s meant to be a warning to man, not to take the same path of pride.” When that elicited no recognition, Arthur squinted at him. “How do you know nothing of the god of Camelot? The chapel at the castle? With the cross? The Christ man?”

Merlin merely stared blankly back. “I didn’t realize that was a god.”

“You…Merlin, seriously?”

Defensive, Merlin insisted, “It’s just empty rooms. Do you have to do a ritual to see him there?”

Arthur experienced a sudden insight, then – something he didn’t think would have occurred to him a year ago. “He’s not a magic god. His followers eschew magic – their god doesn’t come from it, and they abhor it. It’s what drew my father to him. And you – you can’t sense him at all, can you? The Christ man? When you look at the chapel and the artifacts, there’s nothing there.”

Merlin swallowed, a sickly and convulsive gesture, and looked away. “Is that your god too?”

Arthur shook his head, his mouth softening, and felt the lines smoothing away from his brow. “No, Merlin. I never saw anything but empty rooms in there either. Seemed pointless to keep going back.”

Merlin looked up, his face open in a way it rarely was anymore. A tiny hint of a smile graced his lips, but it was a sad thing. “You’re magic,” he said. “Like me.”

It was an odd thing to say, in Arthur’s mind. He was nothing like Merlin – there was no magic in him that he’d ever seen. “Am I?” Then he tried not to frown, because it occurred to him that Merlin may be implying something that Arthur had been trying to parse for years. “I was born of magic. You lied.”

Merlin swallowed again, and his eyes shuttered. Perhaps unconsciously, he leaned away from Arthur too. “You were going to kill your father.”

“Was that really my mother?” Arthur demanded. “In Morgause’s spell?”

“No.” Merlin forced the word out on a gust of unwavering breath. “No, Arthur – what she conjured was an illusion. It wasn’t your mother. She did trick you.”

“But it was true, just the same.” Arthur leaned away too now. “The things she said.”

Merlin watched him the way deer stare at a crossbow from close up. “Yes. It was true.”

This probably should have angered him, but some part of Arthur had known that already – he had seen it in the desperation on his father’s face when he looked up at his son, and found Arthur’s eyes as unyielding as the sword tip angled at his throat. “You’re certain of it?”

Merlin nodded, still wary but less so as he realized that Arthur wasn’t going to react much beyond words.

“Well.” Arthur smoothed a hand down his horse’s neck watched his ears flick in response. “Seems it’s been an afternoon for revelations.”

Merlin merely watched him, apparently waiting for the rage or the excoriations he thought must be coming.

“It’s getting dark. We need to get to camp before they send a search party to look for us.” Arthur turned his horse in a circle and sucked in a breath to call out for his knights, but something stayed his tongue. A shiver prickled over the surface of Arthur’s skin and he went still. Sensing its rider’s sudden tension, his horse did the same. “Where are Percival and Caradoc?”

Merlin’s horse plodded a careful circle around Arthur’s, and Arthur looked over to where Merlin sat in the saddle, his eyes focused unnaturally sharp on the trees around them. He seemed to be looking at something other than the surrounding forest, and for an instant, his irises flashed amber. “You remember how I warned you about bandits?”

Arthur rubbed his tongue against the backs of his teeth. “Are you going to say that you told me so?”

“No,” Merlin replied with forced levity. “Pretty sure it’s Saxons. An actual hoard, too.”

“Basically the same thing then.” Arthur poked his toe into the flank of Merlin’s horse without looking away from the forest. “Come on. We need more men.” He started off toward the plains surrounding Nemeton, expecting Merlin to follow as usual.

Merlin’s voice stopped him. “They’re that way too.” He tipped his head, and his horse sidestepped without warning. Merlin lurched in the saddle and then said something in a strange language to his horse to still her. “Either Caradoc or Percival made it to the others. They’re coming. But we’re pretty much surrounded already.”

“How do you – no, never mind. Not important now.” Arthur spun his horse in a tight circle, preternaturally aware of the forest falling abruptly silent all around them. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the hunting dogs.”

Arthur glanced over at him, eyes wide, and then the silence was broken by the baying of a hound. It was closer to them than Arthur would have guessed. Soon after, a dozen more dogs joined the call, and then a horse whinnied in the woods. Arthur spun to look back the way they had come in time to hear someone give an angry shout, and then an arrow whizzed past his ear. “Merlin, down!”

“They’re everywhere.” He said it far too calmly – unlike Merlin’s normal voice at all.

Without acknowledging that, Arthur rolled out of the saddle and then reached up to pull Merlin off of his horse too. He dropped Merlin in an indignant heap on the ground and then grabbed both horses’ bridles. “Stay between the horses.” The baying in the woods grew louder as the dogs drew near, and Arthur freed his sword. “Merlin! Get up, and stay between the horses!” He wrenched at Merlin’s sleeve and dragged him upright, then pressed him against one of the horses, shielding them both as best he could.

Merlin latched a hand onto Arthur’s leather pauldron as if to anchor them together, but Arthur could tell that Merlin’s actual aim was to bodily protect his back – shield him in the literal sense. There wasn’t time to debate Merlin’s willingness to just die like that, draped over Arthur like a cape, but he seethed anyway. He didn’t like it – he had never liked it. But it warmed some dark part of his heart all the same, to be so loved without thought.

The sound of panicking horses came next, dozens stamping and snorting in the trees as the hounds overran them and burst through to scramble around Arthur and Merlin, snarling and baying in an artificial frenzy. It was unnatural, the way they acted – the ferocity and mindlessness inherent in being controlled this way by magic. Arthur made a point not to look too closely at them, lest the sight disturb him enough to do something to the man covering his back to stop it all. “I don’t suppose you have any convenient rockfalls up your sleeve?”

Merlin’s fingers dug more tightly into his shoulder. “All of the rocks here are in the ground already.”

“Trees? Can you knock over trees? You do that innocent falling branch thing – I’ve seen you.”

“Hold still.”

“I can’t hold still, Merlin, we’re being attacked!” The dogs were now snapping at anything in reach, including their own horses, and the beasts jostled them both, crushed them between for a moment as they tried to rear to get away from the teeth at their ankles. Arthur struggled to hold both sets of reigns and keep them in place. “Merlin, the dogs! Call off the dogs!”

Rather than doing that, Merlin extended his free hand over Arthur’s shoulder, palm down, and hissed, “Bene læg gesweorc!”

Arthur jolted hard at the feeling of those words in his ear and the flare of old lightening that invaded his nostrils, saturating the air around them. His breath caught for a thrilling moment, and then a thick mist began to rise up from the ground. Arthur’s breath exploded from his lungs in an unexpected panic but he forced down his immediate reaction, which sadly was to swing his sword around to cut the threat from off his own back. Merlin gasped once in Arthur’s ear, turned his hand over, and the fog billowed up more quickly, impenetrable. Beyond the edge of the growing cloud, Saxons began pouring out of the trees to race toward them, some on foot and some on horseback. Arthur set his stance and let go of the horses. “They’ve already seen us.”

The dogs scattered both of their horses and then fell to tearing across the ground to snap at the ankles of their attackers. It was an awful sight – savage and sick and mindless – as the dogs threw themselves beneath hooves and kept gnawing at screaming mens’ ankles even after being run through by Saxon swords. The moment the fog finally closed up and around all of them seemed a blessing, as at least Arthur didn’t need to endure the sight of it anymore. He took the opportunity to wrench both of them in a random direction, away from where the Saxons had last seen them standing. Not a moment later, a sword sliced down through the air where Arthur’s head had been, and Merlin stumbled as the tip grazed his leg before Arthur could drag him far enough away.

“Up, Merlin. Up!”

The fog parted on a Saxon, and they both froze, each just as surprised as the other.

“Down, Merlin!” Arthur swung, and though the Saxon snapped out of his shock quickly enough to parry the first blow, he couldn’t evade the second.

At Arthur’s feet, Merlin shouted, “Up, Merlin. Down, Merlin. Which is it?!”

“If you could duck like a normal person, this wouldn’t be an issue!”

“Oh, sod off!” Merlin produced a knife from somewhere and stabbed it into the foot of the next Saxon who found them, allowing Arthur plenty of time to dispatch him.

From off in the woods, a faint cry of To the King! reached Arthur’s ears. Without thought, Arthur shouted back, “Here! To me! To me!”

“What are you doing?!” Merlin grabbed at Arthur’s belt in time to drag him to his knees and avoid a nasty attempt at beheading.

Arthur reversed his sword and jabbed up as the Saxon tripped and fell down, impaling himself. After tipping the dying man over, Arthur yanked his sword out and launched himself forward into the fog.

“Arthur!” Merlin’s fingers couldn’t find purchase and Arthur felt them slide off the smooth, unyielding surface of his leather armor. The sound of Merlin thumping face first into the ground followed, but Arthur knew that he was fine, just overbalanced from grabbing after Arthur.

“Knights of Camelot! To me!” Arthur sliced wildly through the fog with his sword, blindly connecting here and there as he bobbed and weaved in the hope of avoiding Saxon blades that were doing the same thing.

“Protect the King!”

Arthur recognized Lord Howel’s voice from within the chaotic din of a battle fought blind. “Here! On me!” A dark shape began to materialize from the fog in front of him and Arthur swung as hard as he could. He realized his mistake too late as he heard the thunk of sword sinking into wood, jarring his arms painfully at the abrupt impact. Arthur gaped at the tree for a bare moment, and then wrenched at his sword, but it was stuck fast in the trunk. “Dammit!” After another fruitless attempt to free his weapon, Arthur abandoned it and ducked down to crab-walk as fast as he could away from the tree, ears straining for any sound that may betray an attacker bearing down on him. He felt along the ground as he scrambled through the pine needles and leaf litter coating the forest floor, hoping to come up against a weapon he could appropriate.

“Arthur!”

“Merlin, stay where you are!” Not that he expected the idiot to listen; Merlin never did. Arthur kept moving across the ground, and finally, his hands brushed over the dull blade of a sword. He snatched it out of the dirt, spun around, and just as he was about to push back to his feet, a body careened into him.

Arthur shouted at the force of the impact, and then couldn’t inhale again as the Saxon rolled right over him. Arthur slammed into the ground at an angle hard enough to crack his shoulder but thankfully not dislocate it, though it felt as if he jarred his neck pretty badly. His head swam and the sound of the surrounding battle faded out for a long moment, his heartbeat loud in his ears, pulling everything slow like molasses across his vision. He felt someone tug him over onto his back. His vision wouldn’t sharpen, though, and he felt thin and disconnected, like a battle standard torn from its flagpole, born lazily on the wind kicked up in the wake of armies. Arthur’s throat clicked and the fog swam over his sight, forming and dispersing like ghosts, or faces he knew. Pale hues and a blue dress sewn with flowers. Arthur’s lips silently formed Guinevere’s name, and he wondered if he’d been wounded. If this were it. There were so many things he still needed to do. But he couldn’t breathe in. He couldn’t breathe. Guinevere looked like she wanted to cry, her mouth forming words that Arthur couldn’t see on her lips.

Suddenly, the moment broke, and Arthur filled his lungs with a painful gasp, harsh and sheer like cliff faces. Men shouted all around him, Camelot’s knights now in the middle of the fray, fully engaged, and – “Guinevere!”

“Forgive him. Arthur, forgive him. You have to forgive him; he won’t forgive himself.”

Arthur struggled over onto his stomach and pulled himself toward her – toward the pale, shimmering illusion of her – still struggling to catch his breath and clear the fuzz from his head. “Guinevere – ” He tried to keep up with her, but she wasn’t standing still. The fog took her with it as it moved, pulled her away, receded. “Forgive him for what?”

“I love you, Arthur. With all my heart.”

“Guinevere!”

Someone wailed out a terrible sound, and Arthur only realized that it was Merlin when it resolved into a shredded howl of Arthur’s name. And then several things seemed to happen all at once. A gust of wind tore the fog to pieces, but Arthur hardly noticed for the single jolt of the ground beneath him, as if something snapped deep in the bedrock. The air crackled with magic, a burn on the air, and Arthur watched the hair stand up on the back of his hand. His scalp tingled, the hair on his head likely doing the same just before a clap of air concussed its way through all of the men now on display in the absence of the fog. As if a cave entrance had collapsed, a shower of debris blew outwards hard enough to knock a grown man down. It jostled everyone, including Arthur where he lay like a starfish on his belly, and tossed any Saxon still standing to the ground. Most of them lurched right back to their feet, but they didn’t press their attack – indeed, they shoved each other backwards, faces white, while many turned and simply fled.

The compression of air against Arthur’s chest forced a whimper out of him, though it was more fear than hurt; he wasn’t ashamed to admit that. Over his shoulder, perhaps thirty yards away, he could see Merlin crouched on the balls of his feet with one hand fisted into the dirt and the other stretched toward Arthur. But his eyes were fixed over Arthur’s head, which was the exact moment when Arthur realized that there was a Saxon stood over him ready to deal a killing blow.

It never came.

The ground writhed beneath Arthur’s stomach and he shouted, shoving himself back and scrabbling to find something to stand on that wasn’t the actual ground. Tree roots burst from the forest floor, and men began shrieking as they caught at legs, tripped and grasped and twined like the vines that climbed and wrapped so tightly as to strangle entire trees to death. Dozens of men fell, and even as many others ran into the woods, their cries echoed back as they failed to get far enough away to escape. The cracks of broken limbs sounded out like tree branches snapping in storms, bone and wood no different in that moment. Even the screams could have been mistaken for the shrill shriek of a tree splitting in two amidst a crack of thunder.

Arthur’s legs felt like jelly. All he could manage to do was put his back to a boulder and brace himself there on the balls of his feet, shaking in spite of his best efforts as he watched the man who almost killed him hack with his sword at the roots wrapped around his shin. He staggered as his foot disappeared into the forest floor with a sickening crack of snapped bone, and finally lost his balance. As his hands impacted the ground, vines shot up to pin them down, pull and bend fingers the wrong way as it dragged him wrist deep into the earth. He choked and finally screamed as the vines climbed his forearms, cinching into skin and cutting sinew like paper, painting his skin red. Tree roots wound up his legs and over his back. To his credit, he fought not to be bent to the ground, but it wasn’t a fight he could have won. His arms gave out and his elbows bent under the pressure until he was breathing in more dirt than air. He stared at Arthur with bulging eyes as he choked, knowing that he would die like this, buried alive in the mud.

Merlin appeared then in Arthur’s periphery, hands curled into loose cups at his sides. He seemed to be shivering, fine tremors running down his legs to destabilize his gait. Blood soaked his trouser leg where he’d been sliced open, but he didn’t seem to notice the wound. His hands shook, loose as they hung from his arms. Arthur tried to swallow but couldn’t manage to compress his throat past the lump that seemed to have formed there. Merlin’s face wasn’t anything that Arthur recognized at first; he seemed barely human at all. It wasn’t madness like what showed on Morgana’s face toward the end; it was…nothing. It was like the goddess on the lake, a perfect unfeeling light. As if Merlin weren’t even there, peering out of his own amber-stricken eyes. It was the single most terrifying thing that Arthur had ever seen.

The Saxon couldn’t raise his head to look at Merlin; he could only stare at the old, tattered leather boot planted a few feet from his nose. It seemed that the strange growth and movement of the forest stopped for a heartbeat – long enough for Merlin to audibly struggle to catch his breath. His hands clenched and released, and Arthur watched him set his legs to stop his knees from buckling.

The Saxon squirmed and struggled to breathe at his feet, choking on muck and unable to do more than twitch at the agony of strangling tree roots and broken bones. He was gasping something that remained trapped behind the constriction of vines around his throat. Saliva and blood mixed to drool from his mouth, his face gradually darkening in a purplish hue. Even as Arthur watched, his lips bulged and the tiny veins around his nostrils bruised. He was begging, Arthur realized with a jolt. He was begging for his life.

Thick with mucous and something terribly close to unfeeling, Merlin sniffed and then said, voice choppy as it faded and caught on the way out, “You should not have tried to kill my king.” Then he slashed his quaking fingers over the man and watched, stone silent and unmoving, as the relentless tightening of the tree root finally snapped the Saxon’s back and dragged him underground with all of the rest.

The perfect quiet that followed was obscene. Arthur struggled to breathe without passing out, his heart racing out of control in his chest. In front of him, Merlin breathed wet and ragged, the loudest thing in the forest in that moment, as the glow of magic faded from his eyes. No one who remained alive seemed capable of moving yet, their collective fear a palpable thing swimming in the dusky breeze. Insect and bird sounds rose up around them again as if nothing untoward had happened – as if dozens of men had not just been swallowed by the earth, no trace left to even show the disturbance of the dirt beneath their feet. A cool autumnal breeze blew through the aftermath, thick with the scent of fallen leaves and dogs’ blood from the destruction of an entire kennel’s worth of hunting hounds. It rustled the smaller trees, knocking twigs gently together in a clicking canopy as leaves wafted through the air, detached from the limbs above. Merlin sagged on his feet and then sank to his knees where the last Saxon had disappeared.

Arthur gaped like a fish over the air he continued to suck down. He didn’t think that he had ever seen Merlin kill before, not like that. He knew that he’d done it, he’d watched him ram a sword into Morgana’s stomach out of terror and grief, but this was…different. Arthur had always looked at Merlin and seen a clumsy, smiling oaf. A caring friend. An absent-minded and lonely man trying his best and knowing he may have failed. This was not that. Arthur had actually thought that Merlin killed the same way he smiled, soft and sad, and helpless to stop it. With some kind of fated compassion. Not like this.

Dizzy from breathing too hard, Arthur finally tore his eyes away from Merlin to take stock of the forest around him. To see how many men he had lost of the twenty knights who accompanied the hunting party. It took him a moment to understand what he was seeing – that all of the men of Camelot stood before him unharmed, while none of the Saxons remained. Arthur sucked in a breath that threatened to turn into something undignified, let it out, and then drew in another. Motion caught in the corner of his eye and Arthur flinched, but it was only Merlin convulsively scrubbing his palms against his pant legs in a pointless effort to clean the dirt off.  

Because Arthur was staring so intently, he also caught the exact moment when Merlin’s false calm broke. There was a briefly held breath, and Merlin blinked a few times. Then he twitched, and Arthur watched him raise his head to realize that he was surrounded by knights of Camelot. That they had all seen what he did. Merlin’s chest heaved in an attempt at what Arthur assumed was panic, but then he just started shaking his head and let his composure crack. “I’m – I’m s-s-s – I’m – ”

The attempt at words acted as a catalyst. Sir Erec broke first with an enraged shout of, “Sorcerer!” and sprang forward.

“No!” Arthur shoved off from the boulder but he could see that he wouldn’t be fast enough.

A blur shot across the gully from their right, and Gwaine slammed into Sir Erec with enough force to bounce them both off of one tree and roll them into another. Arthur lunged at Merlin and grabbed him by the armpit, fully aware that he was gripping too hard, using too much force, but he couldn’t quite shake what he had just seen enough to be gentle right now. Arthur had no sword, but he dragged Merlin against him anyway, all but dangling him there on his knees, prepared to block anyone who challenged him with nothing more than his bare hands if he had to. Unexpectedly, Merlin gripped him back with both hands, one around Arthur’s forearm and the other around his leg, and something about that desperate grasp helped to dispel the horror and the frantic rush of what he had just witnessed. He looked down to where Merlin had pressed his face into Arthur’s thigh, swallowing repeatedly as if trying not to be ill.

Off to the side, Gwaine swept around and pinned Sir Erec down by the throat, a boot knife sharp in his other hand. “Stay down.” Thankfully, Erec decided not to resist.

A few feet away, Lord Howel started, “Sire – ”

“No one touches Merlin.” Arthur set his feet wider, not sure if he really intended to take on twenty knights, unarmed, or if they would truly try to go through their own king to get at Merlin.

Lord Howel persisted, though. “He’s a sorcerer. We all saw him, sire.”

It was Percival, unexpectedly, who snapped back, “Yes, and he just saved your life.” He bent down to retrieve his sword, and though he looked rather pale, he nodded to Arthur and walked over to yank Excalibur out of the tree it was caught in.

Arthur tensed in spite of himself as Percival drew near, but he relaxed when offered back his sword. “Percival.”

Percival inclined his head back. “Sire.”

As if spite of himself, Caradoc breathed through the uneasy silence, “There were well over fifty men.”

Sir Ronhael, stood at the farther edge of the gathering of Camelot’s knights, stared transfixed over his shoulder at the open plains of Nemeton beyond the tree line. “More. The whole camp. He took out the whole Saxon camp.”

Merlin shivered against Arthur’s leg and detached a hand in favor of curling to cover his mouth with it. His fingers obscured the already near-inaudible wail of words. “I didn’t mean to kill them all.” He squeezed his eyes shut so hard that Arthur could make out the gleam of tears pressed out from the corners.

“Merlin did what he had to,” Arthur asserted, “at great risk to himself.” Shamefully, his voice sounded unconvincing in his own ears. His palms were sweating too, and he had to adjust his grip on his sword to keep it firm “The Saxons outnumbered us. They would have killed us all.”

Howel replied harshly, “Then he should have a charitable death in light of his actions for the crown.”

Arthur bared his teeth. “I said no.”

“He is still a sorcerer,” Howel insisted, his expression cold. “One good deed cannot erase that.”

“One,” Arthur echoed. “One good deed. You have no idea what you owe him, my lord. Exactly how many good deeds does he need to earn your pardon? I’m sure he can accommodate you.”

“Arthur.”

Arthur glanced at Percival, prepared to spout off here too in defense of a man who should die by Arthur’s own laws. There was no castigation there, however; of course there wasn’t. Percival had more sense than that. Arthur shut his eyes briefly and acknowledged the gentle rebuke as it was intended. Then he tipped his head to regard the heap of a man trembling at his feet, as unlike the sorcerer of a moment ago as night was from day. “Get up, Merlin.”

Merlin made no effort to assist Arthur in getting himself upright, but Arthur managed to yank him onto unsteady feet anyway. As soon as he had to support his own weight, though, Merlin’s knees bent and Arthur had to slow his collapse right back down. Exasperation boiled up in Arthur’s gut, along with a simmering rage that a sorcerer – any sorcerer – should embarrass him like this while Arthur was trying to figure out how to salvage this wreck.

Arthur unhanded Merlin entirely at that point, possibly more disgusted at his own anger than at Merlin gulping in air where he lay crumpled on the ground on the verge of vomiting. Of their own volition, words bubbled up in Arthur’s throat, and he found himself suddenly shouting, “Stop being so bloody useless!”

A dozen pairs of eyes fixed on Arthur in varying degrees of surprise and reprimand. Even Howel appeared taken aback, and his stance shifted to something less confrontational even as he glanced at Merlin trying not to heave on the ground.

Arthur flushed and took a step back, breathing hard. Now, when it was all over – when he needed a level head – now his body decided to panic. His voice heavy with apologies, Arthur said, “Merlin…”

Merlin cringed away from him, shook his head, choked in a ragged breath, and then seemed to dissolve right there at everyone’s feet. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

A soft crunch of pine needles foretold Caradoc’s approach, and even though Arthur should have kept everyone back, something told him not to hinder Caradoc. “Ah, lad.” Caradoc let out a heavy sigh and dropped to one knee beside Merlin. “A man’s first kill in battle is always the hardest to accept.”

Merlin let out a wet gasp and just kept shaking his head, as if he could take it all back if he just denied reality hard enough. “It’s not the first,” he whispered, high and tight.

Caradoc licked his lips, opened his mouth to deliver some better platitude, but evidently, he didn’t have one. He let his breath back out unused, and then just looked up at Arthur as if he expected help from that quarter. Arthur didn’t have any platitudes either; he was certain that had he been alone at the end of this, he would be fighting the urge to be sick too.

Up on a small rise, Sir Marwen glanced away from the rest of them, thought hard for a moment, and then pointedly sheathed his sword. “What are we going to do?” He cast an expectant look around the irregular group of knights. “Hm? Look at him.” He pointed at Merlin, who remained oblivious to most of what was going on around him while Caradoc kindly rubbed circles on his back, much like a father might do to his broken son. “That’s a sorcerer. Is that what we’re all so afraid of? Bumbling Merlin? The man who cleans our scrapes and mucks the stables, and lets us tease him even though he could do that to us anytime he wants?” He swept an arm out to encompass the forest, and the plains beyond. “The man who keeps our king safe from things we can’t fight – that’s what we need to destroy? Tch.” Marwen shook his head and stalked around the gathering to where Gwaine still threatened to shove a knife into Erec’s throat. “Let him up, Gwaine. He won’t do anything.”

Gwaine took a long moment to consider the man pinned beneath him, and then relented with a sneer. But he took the time to hiss, “Touch him and I’ll come for you. I promise.”

Erec remained on the ground, carefully still, until Gwaine actually moved away. Then he rolled to his feet and grabbed his sword in a fit of mostly impotent anger. “Sorcery is outlawed. There is a reason they need to be culled – look! Look around – see what he did! You’re right, Sir Marwen. He could do that to any of us whenever he likes.”

“Oh, come off it,” Gwaine snapped.

“What does he want? Power? Influence? He’s been using us! For years! Playing the fool, smiling like an idiot – and all the while, he has intimate access to our king. Do we even know what he does to Arthur when no one is looking?”

Arthur went rigid and pointed his sword in Erec’s direction. “Mind whose honor you’re impugning.”

Undeterred, Erec pressed, “Your father taught you better than this – they killed your mother. How could you be so blind? Would you know it, if he’s planting ideas in your mind? If he’s enchanted you? I bet he wouldn’t even have to use sorcery to do it; you dote on him. That’s probably his plan – ingratiate himself, make you like him, wear down your suspicion, and then all he’d have to do is ask and you’d fold like day-old laundry.”

Arthur grit his teeth. “Mark your words, Sir Erec. I may not let you take them back.”

“We all know he shares your bed,” Erec bit out. “Any whore knows that’s the best time to gain favors from the nobleman she fucks.”

All Arthur saw in that moment was red, but he lunged too late; several hands snared at him and managed to hold him back, but Arthur could still spit, and he did. He missed his mark, but at least it prompted Erec to step back to avoid a better shot.

Erec curled his lip at the spectacle that Arthur was making. “Our mighty king,” he mocked. “See what your pet sorcerer has made of you. And you can’t even see it.”

“I won’t have a knight who insults members of my household!”

“I’ve done no more insulting of your household than you have,” Erec shot back. “What would your Queen think? Do you have him right in the same marriage bed you built for her?”

Finally, Lord Howel appeared to choose a side, and it wasn’t the one Arthur might have expected. He turned to Sir Erec and said softly, “That is uncalled for. Arthur is your king. He has always conducted himself with discretion. You don’t have to agree with every decision he makes, but you do have to respect them, and him.” He glanced uneasily to Arthur, and from there to Merlin before going back to Erec. “Obviously, our king has his reasons for keeping a sorcerer close. What just happened here should be evidence enough of his usefulness.” He sucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as if the words left behind a foul taste. “And I would imagine that as far as which of them has control of the other…it does not appear to be Merlin who commands here.”

Arthur seethed, aware that he continued holding himself with so much tension that Percival, Gwaine, and Caradoc still hadn’t unhanded him. With a deep, shuddering breath, he forced himself to unwind, and then shook off the restraining grips. “Sir Erec, I will give you one chance to apologize for your comments.”

“You can keep your chance.” Erec flared his nostrils. “I’ll not serve a king such as you.” He sneered at Merlin, looked at Arthur with disappointment, and said, “Your father would be ashamed of you.” Then turned his back on them all.

“Treason,” someone murmured. “Erec, that’s treason.”

Caradoc gripped Arthur’s shoulder as much in support as to caution him to keep his temper in check. “Let him go. He’ll soon see there’s no use for a traitor out there.”

Erec paused, hackles raised, but he thought better of turning back and let the insult lie. As he passed through the ranks of knights, however, three others broke off from the group and followed him, though they were more subdued about their desertion. Arthur breathed hard through his mouth as he watched them go, betrayal singing in his veins. He had known, though – he had known that magic wouldn’t be accepted back so easily. It still stung, and his pride felt the blow somewhere fragile where he had no real defense against it. He had thought better of them, and he shouldn’t have.

No one moved until long after the footfalls of their sundered brothers faded into the night. Then Gwaine said, “They might go back to Camelot.”

Arthur’s shoulders sagged as the tension finally bled out. “It will take them at least a day without their horses.” He smeared a hand down his face and took his first good, deep breath in what felt like hours. “If we leave at first light, we’ll be back well before them.”

“I’m willing to go tonight,” Caradoc offered, “with a couple of volunteers. We can reach the gates by dawn and warn the guard. They won’t be allowed through, and we can make sure that no one entertains their stories.”

Percival nodded. “I’ll go with you.”

As much as Arthur thought he could probably trust Caradoc to actually do what he said, Percival’s inclusion set him far more at ease. He knew beyond a doubt that Percival would remain true.

Ronhael put up his hand too. “I can’t stay here overnight; this wood is cursed now. I’ll go too.”

A general grumble worked its way through the remaining knights, and then Arthur held up a hand to call them to attention. “You should know that I understand. This is…” He glanced down at Merlin, who seemed to have gained control of his stomach but not the shaking. He seemed intent on examining the ground between his splayed hands. “…frightening. Sorcery is frightening. I’m…uncertain how to go about this, but… You should know that this is not how I intended anyone find out. I am…ashamed to say that I let my temper get the best of me just now. I could have handled this better. This is…” He tried to come up with the right words, stately words for his men, to galvanize them to his will and instill in them the confidence they may have lost just now. But in the end, all Arthur could do was drop his hands, sigh at the early evening sky, and be honest. “Merlin isn’t a threat to Camelot, and certainly not to me. What happened here was horrific. None of us will forget this. But we must never speak of it to anyone, after this day. I’m – my laws aren’t perfect. My father… There were reasons… I’m not making any sense here.”

It was Lord Howel, again, who said the unexpected. “If anyone learns that Merlin is a sorcerer, he’ll be killed.” He turned slightly so that he could address the gathered knights rather than just Arthur. “And our king doesn’t want that to happen. Are we loyal to our king?”

It was slow to come, but come it did: a chorus of aye’s, no matter how subdued.

“Then we know what we must do,” Howel finished. He looked to Arthur again. “We keep the king’s counsel.”

Arthur gazed back as heads bobbed in agreement, wondering what, exactly, had changed Howel’s mind. He was older and set in his ways, and very much Uther’s man. As Arthur nodded in turn, though, he wondered more if this alliance could really be trusted at all. If it were him, Arthur thought that he might bide his time in just this manner, assuming that Merlin would probably kill anyone who crossed Arthur openly. And he would, Arthur realized, his skin going cold as he finally, after all of these years, absorbed the full implications of what Merlin did in the shadows to keep Arthur safe. He absolutely would find a way to destroy anyone who threatened Arthur.

An uneasy murmur rose up amongst the men, but it didn’t crest in the range of hearing. Arthur waited for them to start milling around retrieving fallen weapons before he allowed himself to relax just a fraction and regard the man bent in half at his feet. “Merlin. Come on, we need to get to camp.”

Merlin jerked, and seemed to come back to himself in a rush. He swallowed hard, looked around a bit, and then allowed Arthur to shove a shoulder up under his arm to help him stand. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Arthur cast him a silent look from the corner of his eye, then elected to just ignore that. “Your leg is bleeding.”

“Oh.” Merlin wobbled on his feet and looked down at his calf where the Saxon blade had sliced clear through to the bone. “That’s why it hurts.”

“Can you fix it?” Arthur gestured at the wound with his free hand.

Merlin nodded. “I have thread and bandages with the luggage cart. George probably unpacked it already.”

Arthur fought the urge to unkindly roll his eyes. “No, can you fix it. Now. It’s a long enough walk to the cold spring without us having to carry you.”

Merlin blinked a few times, glanced at the suddenly unmoving knights as if he weren’t actually looking at them, and then bent down to cover the shredded skin with the hand not draped over Arthur’s shoulders. “Þurhhæle licsar min.”

Most of the knights jumped and cursed at the flare of magic, and Merlin shrank against Arthur’s side. The smell of singed flesh wafted up and then dispersed, and Merlin stamped his foot a few times as if to restore the feeling to the abused limb.

“Good,” Arthur said. He glared around at the nervously circling men, an open challenge to either accept what they’d seen or face Arthur now. A few seemed to force themselves to subside, but the rest merely finished their scouting of the battle site and then made ready to leave.

The walk out of the forest was tense and quiet, to say the least.

* * *

~tbc~

Chapter 11

Notes:

Caveat lector - no warnings, but possibly upsetting subject matter.

Valiant

Arthur seethed at the table in front of him. He felt like an idiot, accusing Valiant of using magic on the word of a servant he didn’t even know. The look on his father’s face, the shame and disappointment, was something he’d grown accustomed to over the years, but that didn’t remove the fresh sting of it. He knew better; a servant’s word was worth nothing, just as Merlin had said the night before. The head of an odd dead snake meant nothing on its own.

Without turning to look at Merlin behind him, he grit his teeth and said, “I believed you. I trusted you, and you made me look a complete fool.”

Merlin made a dismissive sound in the background. “I know it didn’t go exactly to plan.”

Arthur peered over his should in outraged disbelief at the complete lack of comprehension or remorse – this was a serious matter! Didn’t this idiot understand that? Merlin’s jaw moved a bit at the glare, and he seemed to deflate a bit, maybe started to get an inkling of how unacceptable this was.

“Didn’t go to plan?” Arthur started up out of his seat and rounded his chair. “My father, and the entire royal court, think I’m a coward.” He gestured to indicate the now concluded audience, and the stain it would leave on him every time he competed from then on. “You humiliated me!”

Merlin flinched, but like the incompetent, disrespectful peasant he was, he didn’t look away. Any decent servant would have the wherewithal to look down when being reprimanded, but no, not Merlin. He looked straight at Arthur as if he intended to talk back and disavow his responsibility for it. Arthur hoped he would just to have an excuse to hit that stupid mouth and wipe the defiance from his face. Before he went ahead and unleashed that violence, Arthur turned and stalked back to his table.

The moment Arthur faced away, Merlin pursued him from behind and insisted, “We can still expose Valiant.”

Arthur brought himself up short and deliberately lowered his voice. Without looking at him, he told Merlin, “I no longer require your services.”

“You’re sacking me?”

“I need a servant I can trust.”

Merlin sucked in a rapid breath. “You can trust me!”

That wasn’t even the point, the bloody imbecile! “And look where it got me this time. Get out of my sight!”

Maybe Merlin was possessed of an ounce of self-preservation after all, because all he did was huff and storm from the room. It was still impertinent and deserved the stocks, or a flogging, but he left, and that was all Arthur wanted just then.

Alone, finally, Arthur sagged down to sit on the edge of his table, shoulders low and head bowed. A long moment passed in silence. The worst part of this was that he did trust Merlin. And he believed him. Arthur was angry and humiliated, and he wished that he could justifiably pursue Merlin for it, and punish him, but it wouldn’t make any difference. It certainly wouldn’t solve the problem of facing his opponent in the tournament. Only now, he wore a stain of false accusation that he didn’t think was false at all, and no one would know until, perhaps, it was too late. Yes, he trusted Merlin. But he didn’t know if he could afford to, again. He wished that he could appreciate the irony.

* * *

“This is going to be a problem.”

Arthur grunted dismissively in response to Gwaine’s pessimism, even though it carried more weight coming from a man who never took anything seriously. But yes, he could feel that his authority was on shaky ground at the moment, the eyes of his knights shifting purposefully away from the sorcerer at his side. Said sorcerer wasn’t making it any easier, either; Merlin stopped responding verbally to Arthur as soon as he realized that Arthur intended to examine the decimated Saxon camp, and his glances had turned remote with seeming distrust, when he focused on anything at all. It was a cold and soundless man who walked at Arthur’s side now, the perfect embodiment of all of the molds that Uther had shaped and instilled in his men for twenty years as being evidence of the wrongness of sorcerers.

Arthur let his sword hang at his side as they approached the edge of the silent Saxon camp, and kicked aside a fallen jar. “Spread out. Search for survivors.”

A cool wisp of a breeze meandered through the jittery group of knights as they felt their way carefully past the pickets and earthen barricades in the near-dark.

Merlin shuffled at Arthur’s side, his stance closed and unfeeling. The breeze blew his dark hair into his face, occluding most of his expression, if there even was one. “There aren’t any survivors.”

Arthur glanced at him, dismayed at the vertigo he felt at the sight of someone he should have recognized blind. More curt than may have been fair, he replied, “I want to be sure.”

“Because I must be as incompetent at magic as I am at everything else?”

Arthur gave him a warning look, wasted though it was; Merlin wasn’t looking at him. “Don’t throw my words back at me.”

“I didn’t miss anyone.” Merlin toed at something sticking a few inches out of the dirt. “This is a waste of time.”

Angry and disturbed at the calm way he said that, Arthur leaned over and hissed, “You are not helping your case.”

Merlin offered him a cool look in response, which flickered out from Arthur’s face for a moment to trace an unfocused and irregular path around the edge of him. Arthur narrowed his eyes at this odd behavior, but he didn’t have a chance to call him out on it as Merlin just up and walked away after. It wasn’t the only out-of-place tic that Arthur had noticed since they left the scene of the battle in the forest, but he didn’t know what to make of it. He’d seen it before, though, on a scant few occasions, as if Merlin were listening to or seeing something undetectable to normal folk. Waking up in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, for instance, after an arrow in his back suddenly hadn’t actually pierced his skin, to find Merlin’s eyes tracking blindly back and forth over a single unremarkable section of the forest floor. Or on the trail of the Crystal of Neahtid. In fact, he’d seen it just a few hours earlier when Merlin peered with blind focus into the trees to inform Arthur that they were surrounded by Saxons.

Uncomfortable at the thought of what Merlin may have seen hovering around Arthur just now, he glanced down. It took him a moment to recognize what Merlin had been scuffing at in the dirt: the edge of a diminutive hand, and one pale finger sticking curled up like a newly sprouted seed. Arthur swallowed his bile and moved past it. A couple of horses clopped by parallel to him, their nerves showing in the rolling whites of their eyes. Arthur motioned to Percival. “Round up some horses. And see if there are any supplies you can take with you for the ride back to Camelot.”

“Yes, sire.” Percival nudged Sir Ronhael, who looked nearly as spooked as the horses. They tromped off toward where several mounts stomped about in a makeshift paddock, leaving Arthur alone for a moment with his scattered thoughts.

Arthur tried to exhale his nerves along with his breath and turned to gaze up at the outer ring of stones marking the giants’ dance of Nemeton. He could just make out Merlin’s outline on the opposite side, the only movement that of his surcoat flapping against his legs in the breeze. His face appeared as little more than a dark splotch, and Arthur suddenly decided that he hated the beard growing there; it hid too much. He stepped over the lintels on the ground marking the pathway to the king stone in the center, grass and pebbles crunching softly underfoot in the autumn silence, and made his way toward the still figure of a man he wasn’t certain he recognized anymore. He wasn’t even sure of what he intended to do once he got there, but he kept his sword in his hand even now.

When Arthur stepped into the center circle, the chill took him by surprise. He brushed at his arms, convinced that he would see sheets of diaphanous cobwebs clinging to his leathers, but there was nothing there. He shook his head at his own foolishness and continued across, only noticing the other figure in the circle with him when he was nearly upon it. Arthur froze, his grip turning painful on the hilt of his sword, and then backed up a step. “Morgana?”

“Hello, Arthur.”

Something wound tight in his chest snapped loose as he let his sword arm hang limp at his side, metal tip dragging in the dirt. She smiled at him the way she used to, before everything went wrong, before the madness had taken root in the manic glint of her eyes. “How…”

“It’s nearly Samhain, and this is a thin place.” Morgana stepped toward him, but when he went to approach as well, she held her hand out to stop him. “That’s far enough. It’s not safe for you to come too deep without the horn.” She smiled again, eyes bright and clear, and warm like a sister for him, like all of the times he looked at her before she left and knew that however harsh her words, or how annoying, they were family of a sort. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“I missed your voice.” It just came tumbling out of him, but he didn’t bother to try to feign embarrassment.

That familiar smile curved her mouth again, and Morgana tilted her head – just a little bit of imp bound up within the good. Arthur glanced past her to where Merlin stood, still poised on the edge of night just outside the circle of upright stones, facing away from them and out across the plain. Morgana glanced back too, and then faced Arthur again. “He can’t hear us.”

“Morgana.” Arthur started to take a step nearer, but aborted it at the last moment, her warning fresh in his ears. From across the king stone, he swallowed and said, “I am so sorry for what happened between us. I never wanted your death.”

“Oh, Arthur. We’re all products of Uther, aren’t we? Let him bear his own shame for his part in what became of us.”

“You don’t blame me at all?”

“Not for the things you think, and not anymore.” She shrugged. “Seems too late for that, doesn’t it?  Besides, I’ve hurt you back more than enough by now.” She may not have added anything to that out loud, but Arthur still picked up on a filament of, “I loved Guinevere too.”

Over her shoulder, Arthur could see Merlin bend a bit at the shoulders and let out a long, weighted breath. Arthur didn’t respond to Morgana; he didn’t know how.

Morgana followed his gaze. “We were both too afraid to tell you. To go to you for help.”

With lungs that felt empty in a hollowed-out chest, he replied, “I don’t know if I would have. Helped.

“I know you wouldn’t have. The whole point was the asking.” Morgana faced him again and squinched her shoulders in that playful gesture of hers, the one that disappeared months before she herself did.

It hurt to see her looking the way she should again – like being crushed under the weight of a dozen blocks of stone, wishing he’d done even one thing different enough to change the past – that there were a single confession he could offer to make the compression of his lungs stop. “Why aren’t you angry about that? I let you down.”

“Yes.” Morgana swayed a bit, as if to regard him from a different angle would render him more transparent to her. “But it doesn’t do me any good to keep hating you. In truth, I never really did anyway. I was afraid, and I felt betrayed, and I wanted you to feel that too. But it’s partly my own fault, what happened between us. I wasn’t strong enough. I let it get the better of me.”

“No.” Arthur shook his head, imploring. “You were stronger than you know.”

Morgana gave him a pitying look, the way she might have regarded a sweet but stupid pet.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that look, Morgana.”

“What look?” She smirked, but it faded fast. “He thinks he’s a monster.” She flicked her fingers back toward Merlin, who had graduated to staring up at the moonless sky, his face inscrutable.

Arthur hesitated, uncertain as to how that followed on the previous exchange. “How do you know what he thinks?”

“Because it’s what I thought of myself.”

Arthur swallowed and glanced down for a moment. “You weren’t a monster.”

“Yes, I was.” Distressingly, she smiled again, as if she didn’t think that Arthur should be upset to hear her say something like that. It was too bald a statement, and indecent for the starkness of the honesty in it. “I had a choice, Arthur. That’s the one I made.”

“Was it a choice?”

“Of course it was. Didn’t you just tell Merlin that we always have a choice? Even if we don’t know it at the time?” She gave him no opportunity to question how she knew that. “You’re not a complete idiot, after all. Besides, it’s not the fact of the choice that matters, it’s the options you’re left to choose from. They’re limited, and you may not like the ones you have.” Morgana gave him a humorous but weighted look. “He has a choice now too – the same one I did. Unlike me, he doesn’t have to make it alone.”

“You weren’t alone.” Arthur begged her with his eyes to understand that.

“Maybe not,” Morgana replied, a gentle letdown for the truth. “But I thought I was. In the end, that’s the same thing. And that’s not why you’re here, to try to make something up to me. Your chance for that is already gone. I have no use for atonement.”

Arthur looked down and sucked in a breath that he couldn’t hold long. “Why, then? Why am I here?”

Morgana looked again to the man excluded from the circle, contained within his own skin like bones – an emaciated crow painted against the air overlooking a dead place. “His power bleeds through the veils. It’s like pain.”

Arthur stole a glance at Merlin as well, but he couldn’t reconcile that man with his erstwhile servant and friend. He certainly didn’t see anything in his stance that spoke of hurt. “Did you see what he did? This encampment, the Saxons…”

“Yes, we all felt it.” Morgana turned back and studied him briefly. “Magic is terrible. But it can be wonderful too, when wielded by a good man.”

“Is he a good man?”

“Are you?” she countered, as if it were the same question he’d just asked.

Arthur wavered where he stood; he didn’t understand what she was trying to tell him. Instead, he gave voice to a traitorous notion that had been swimming through the undercurrent of his thoughts for years now, brought sharp and clear by what had happened that day. “It didn’t even affect him. When he killed. It was cold and thoughtless. He only reacted today after he realized we saw him.”

“If you truly believe that, Arthur Pendragon, then you aren’t looking.”

“I’m looking at him right now.” Arthur gave action to thought and shifted his gaze to where Merlin still stood unmoving outside the stone dance, his face expressionless, with his hands shoved into his sleeves to combat the cold.

“Why would a man act as if he repents, if he already believes himself irredeemable? What would his guilt achieve, if there were no way past it?”

Arthur furrowed his brow. “What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“Morgana!” Arthur flopped his hands at his sides in supplication. “Please, enough with the cryptic puzzles. Just tell me.”

“Do you know what it looks like when a man stands at the edge of a cliff and considers stepping off?”

Arthur shook his head and gestured at her in exasperation. “You’re still not making sense.”

Morgana’s gaze moved over Arthur as if she could see things beyond his skin that he didn’t know were there. She ignored his interjection altogether, and answered herself. “It looks like that.” She indicated Merlin stood oblivious just feet away from them. “Do any of the people standing behind him think him heartless when they finally notice him there, just because his face is blank at the last?”

Arthur shook his head, but he wasn’t entirely sure what he meant to deny by it. “I just watched a man I thought was good and kind kill dozens of people with barely a thought. He didn’t even blink at a child’s hand sticking up out of the dirt he put it in. It reminded – ” He cut himself off and threw her a guilty look.

Morgana raised an eyebrow. “It reminded you of me?”

Arthur swallowed the urge to reply. “He’s dangerous, Morgana.”

“Yes. But so are you. So are your knights. So is a child jabbing at shadows with a stick. Do you not see that?”

Arthur sucked in a breath to respond, but elected to let it die in his chest. He did see that. But it was different – different from someone with magic just wishing a thing true the way he’d just watched Merlin wish an entire encampment dead in a moment. No spell, no words, no incantation – just a split second of irreversible will. By his own admission, without thought or full intent to commit that scope of destruction. And Arthur had defended him, yes, but it was habit by now to save him from his silly whims and his absent mindedness and himself. At what point did Arthur become complicit in the deaths Merlin wrought – at what point was it murder and not defense? Power corrupted, and magic was the ultimate power. He had encountered Merlin’s ego a dozen times already – this idea that he could trade lives like wares, or decide the outcome of other peoples’ lives, or steer an entire kingdom with his own will…fashion his own king through sheer bloody mindedness, playing the land like a tafl board. Magic controlled the user, not the other way around – wasn’t that what his father had tried to teach him from the time that Arthur was small? How long before it took Merlin over too? It was the same thought that had seized Arthur while sitting alone with Uther’s body all those years ago: Merlin was good. Merlin meant well. For now. But he wouldn’t stay that way – the magic would twist him eventually. The hint of it was there already, in the sudden graves beneath their feet.

Morgana sighed and he had to look at her while he could; it had been so long that he’d started to forget the way she looked when she wasn’t steeped in blood lust and madness. “Don’t, Arthur. Don’t do to him what you did to me – what he did to me.”

“I didn’t – ”

“Give up on me? Abandon me? Yes, you did. And so did he. I made a choice to become what I did, yes, but I didn’t make it in an empty room.” She softened her voice. “I know that look on your face, brother. It’s the same one our father wore every day.”

Arthur took a breath, only intending the one, but another followed before he could ask what he needed to ask. “What if he was right?”

Morgana merely studied him for a long moment, her face smooth where Arthur expected judgement. Finally, she ordered, “Look at him.” She extended her arm straight out to the side, at the thin figure standing like a statue now, silhouetted against the dark plains. “For once in your life, Arthur, recognize that magic is not the problem. Camelot is.” She paused. “You are. He’s lasted longer than I did, but it’s a slow poison. It takes root under your skin. His entire life is composed of the lies that Camelot tells him, that because of what he is, there is nothing good that can come of him. That he has to kill, and lie, and manipulate to survive. That he has to hide and destroy in order to live, and that doing so is the whole point of him. That no number of good deeds can erase the unwitting sin of being born with magic, as nature intended. That he can never afford to trust. Ever. And everyone who comes too close is a threat waiting to put him down like a diseased dog. It’s not the fear that takes us in the end, Arthur; it’s the despair – the knowledge that it will never change, that we will never be free or safe – that we can never be loved by anyone enough that the love would survive knowing what we really are. Can you imagine what that would feel like?”

Arthur swallowed an upwelling of shame that tightened his chest, and dropped his gaze. That was what she had felt; that was what Arthur had left her to feel alone.

“He has no one else left, Arthur. If you turn on him now, what chance does he have? What chance did I have?”

He weaved his head up again, she spoke so gently – no blame at all, where there should have been. “What am I supposed to do? Morgana, he terrifies me.”

“That’s Uther talking. I thought you had more sense than that.”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut in a bid to hide his thoughts from her.

“Do you know why your power hasn’t corrupted you yet? Why you were spared, when people like Morgause and I were not?”

“It’s a different thing, Morgana. I don’t have magic.”

“You don’t need it; you’re the king. You have more than enough power to fall to it. As Uther did. As Merlin still might.”

“Why, then?” Arthur demanded, tossing his arms out in invitation of unpleasant things. “If you’re so bent on making this argument, fine. Why was I spared?”

“You know why.”

Arthur curled his lip up and snapped, “You’re just as infuriating as you ever were.”

Morgana merely watched him back, placid. “He called you a bully, and he pulled you back. He challenged you, and you accepted.”

“What are you saying?”

“He held out his hand, Arthur; that’s all it took.” She shifted and came closer to the king stone, purple dress and sparkling jewels, and nothing like the bloody queen she once tried to make herself. “He expects you to reject him now. In a way, he’s even hoping for it – freedom to stop fighting. It’s exhausting, to care so damn much – letting go of it is a terrible relief.” She watched him, gaze laden with the fact that she spoke from experience.

Arthur thought back to that recent night upon the parapet, Gaius dead and off to be buried somewhere Merlin couldn’t bring himself to go, and Merlin telling him in a small and worn out voice that he was tired. It wasn’t the only time he’d said it, and his inflection was always exactly the same. It never sounded like he just needed a good sleep to cure it.

“Are you really going to help him achieve that?” Morgana asked, peering at him as if she could also recall what he did, as if she’d been there too, hovering about them like the smoke from the watch fires. “To make him the monster he fears he already is?”

Arthur recalled a dozen stolen moments of faith, and Merlin refusing to let Arthur lay down and stop. Mythical swords and stark words delivered in the odd moments out, always just what Arthur needed to hear to rally his confidence to try again. A smile or a bit of mischief, a cutting remark to tease him out. Admonitions to be better. To trust himself. To have faith, even when he thought he didn’t deserve it. And then he pictured Merlin’s face as he stood over a man snapped in pieces halfway into the ground, and coldly watched him die.

“It will happen again,” Arthur insisted, though the hardness in his heart had already given way. “What if the next time, it’s not Saxons? What if it happens in the castle? Or in the lower town? At a joust? How can I justify to my people that I let a sorcerer into their midst knowing he wasn’t safe to be there?”

“This is your fear talking; nothing more.”

He nodded without looking at her because yes, it was. But he thought it justified. Even Merlin feared what he might be capable of; he’d said as much just a handful of mornings ago. “Merlin is exactly the kind of sorcerer my father warned me about. He’s a friend, and he means well, but he does terrible things with magic. He doesn’t always intend to hurt people, but he does, and eventually, I won’t be able to excuse it anymore. Eventually, he’ll do something I can’t forgive.” He paused, and though he didn’t want to, he had to finish that thought so that it didn’t burn its own way out like acid. “Like you did. With Guinevere.”

Morgana merely let her eyes continue to rest on him, gaze unblinking and secret. “Does your grief run so deep that you would punish another for my crimes? The way Uther did? When does it stop, Arthur? When will you have purged enough to sate your loss?”

Arthur sidled away from that thought, but the grey place he stood in kept his body where it was. An image flashed in his mind of the barred door to Guinevere’s chamber, and how he had stood before it every morning for a month after she died, hoping to see a shadow move past to occlude the sunlight shining beneath it. How he still paused to watch it more often than not, as Uther had done with Ygraine in a chamber just down the hall that still, no one ever opened. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Isn’t it? This is the legacy you will carry on from your father if you won’t be honest with yourself.” Morgana sighed, but not unkindly. “One of these days, you are going to have to accept that nothing you do will ever make Uther proud. If you don’t figure out how to live past that, then you will never be anything more than his pale shadow. And that is not the king I’d always hoped you’d be.” She paused, and then added, “That’s not the king Merlin believes in. How much longer can he look at you without seeing Uther there instead?”

“Morgana, don’t.”

“Why does the thought frighten you? You are better than your father. I know that because I can see the shame in you for the way you rule. That’s where you differ from him. You know you’re failing. I have my own scores to settle with Merlin, and my own hurts to take back, but even I don’t see the justice in condemning him for something he can’t help – for something that you are doing to him. You’re the one destroying him; not magic. Magic is the only thing still trying to save you. Let it.”

“It’s not that easy,” Arthur retorted, though it wasn’t anger that spurred him.

“Nobody said it would be.” Morgana straightened and stepped back. “It’s time for you to leave. And don’t look back this time, Arthur. You hardly need anything else haunting you.”

“But – ”

“Go. Now.”

Arthur held his hands up and nodded as he backed away. “I’m going.” He paused though because he needed her to know, “I’m glad you’re at peace now.”

Morgana didn’t bother to acknowledge that, and perhaps that was right; Arthur meant it, but it didn’t bring him any gratification to say it. “Don’t look back,” she reminded him.

“I won’t.” Arthur turned away and walked up to the edge of the stone circle, fighting the urge to pause for one last glance. At the last meter, he did pause, but he kept his gaze resolutely forward. “I am sorry, Morgana. I know I didn’t do everything I could have, and I can’t change that, but I’m sorry we hurt you.”

“I don’t want your apology. It doesn’t mean anything if you just keep doing the same things over again to other people.”

Arthur nodded. There was nothing more to say; Morgana never minced words, and however much closure it brought to see her here, Arthur realized with a pang that he wasn’t pleased, and it didn’t make him feel any better about what lay between them. Finally, he shook himself, and took the last step out into the chill night air.

The lintels over the pathway loomed heavy and dark on either side of him. He looked to his right to find Merlin staring at him with a peculiar expression. Rather than make any mention of his thoughts, though, Merlin merely glanced suspiciously at the stones behind Arthur, and then withdrew from the giants’ dance altogether, silent and cold as the place Arthur had just been.

* * *

The Beginning of the End

Arthur stormed into his private chambers only to be brought up short by Morgana sitting at his table, folded into her robes as if to make herself seem small and convincing. He didn’t need this, not after arguing with his father over the execution of a child. Sarcastically, he invited, “Make yourself at home,” as he shut the doors.

“You can’t let your father execute the boy.”

“You’re lucky he’s not executing you.” Arthur shrugged off his long coat and flung it over the back of a chair. “Are you telling me he really was behind the screen when I came to search your chambers?”

Morgana’s eyes and head lowered as Arthur stalked up to her, though his intimidation effect lost something as he struggled to undo his sword belt. She nodded, and he wished that the vindicated sneer on his face didn’t feel so bitter. He continued clawing at that blasted knot in his belt as Morgana said, “I know you believe your father’s wrong to execute him.”

“What I believe doesn’t matter,” Arthur returned as he finally got the blasted leather loose. He unhitched his belt and sword and gathered them up in one hand to throw aside. “My father’s made up his mind.” The clank of sword and belt hitting his bed wasn’t at all satisfying. He wanted to destroy something, as Morgana seemed bent on destroying everything that Camelot stood for with her…dammit. With her morality. “He won’t be talked out of it.” The fact of killing a child was bad enough, but he would have to endure guilt from Morgana as well as his father’s disappointment and anger for questioning him, and none of that was something he felt like dealing with. He grabbed a half-full goblet of wine from his breakfast table that Merlin, of course, hadn’t tidied away yet. “I tried.”

“Then the time for talking is over!” Morgana shot to her feet as he passed her chair and followed him to the window.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not going to happen.”

He didn’t even get a chance to take a sip of the wine before Morgana went back at it. “We have to get the boy back to his people.”

“No!” Arthur twisted to look at her. “Forget it.”

“I can’t believe you’d let an innocent child die.”

The wine smelled sour, and he dropped the hand holding the goblet again to retort, “It’s too late! He’s been caught.” Arthur wasn’t without sympathy for Morgana’s position, but he couldn’t just go against his father. The king’s word was law. He turned away again so as not to have to look at Morgana’s face. “I have no choice.”

With a seeming profound well of sadness mixed with disappointed contempt, so much worse a combination than Uther’s angry disregard, Morgana asked, “And this is how you will rule when you are king? You’re not like your father.”

Arthur shook his head and gave her an exasperated look over his shoulder. Damn her anyway. She always managed to do this – make him question, set him on the wrong foot. The fact that she may have been right in some fashion didn’t help matters; he was the prince. He didn’t have the luxury of setting his own rule. “I will not betray him.”

“If I know you at all,” Morgana countered, “you won’t stand by and let this happen.”

How little she knew him, then, for at his best and his worst, he typically did just that. This boy wasn’t even the first Druid child he had stood aside for. Arthur flung his gaze away, back to the window, and finally drained the dregs of wine left in the goblet.

“Please. If you won’t do this for the boy, then do it for me.”

Arthur heaved a sigh and grimaced out the window, shaking his head. Infuriating. She always did know just where to twist the knife. Down in the courtyard below, he watched the headsman sharpening his axe while Merlin walked up and stood in front of him with an oddly intense expression on his face. Disgust, maybe. Or disdain?

* * *

Caradoc, Percival and Ronhael rode for Camelot straight out of the Saxon camp. The rest of them made their slow and exhausted way on foot toward the well spring in the dark with a few horses on leads they’d managed to catch, and some provisions and valuables scavenged from the Saxon wreckage. None of them spoke except when necessary, and the strained silence quickly wore Arthur’s nerves to shreds. It was full night by the time they arrived at their intended campsite only to find a half dozen servants with a pack mule and little else.

Gwaine headed off Arthur’s questions by telling him, “Lord Howel sent most of them back when the scouts reported the Saxon encampment. They’re probably halfway home by now.”

Arthur nodded and took a shallow breath. “Right, that’s good.” He nodded to Howel, then rubbed his knuckles over his brow and shut his eyes, exhausted. He wanted to climb into his tent and let his mind go blank, but he doubted that the tents had been left behind. “Merlin.” He looked around to find said man standing right behind him, where he could pretty much always be found. “Put up wards around the camp so that we can all rest easier tonight.”

Merlin started, his eyes widening just a fraction from the dead stare he’d worn since leaving the forest. His gaze flickered briefly over the now bemused servants and carefully frozen knights.

“For pity’s sake, Merlin. I know you do it any time you think you can get away with it. You’re not half as sneaky as you think.” Arthur pressed his fingers between his eyes again in hopes of staving off the headache he could feel forming there from the day’s tensions. “Just do it. Gwaine, go with him.”

“Yes, sire.” Gwaine stepped around him and held his arm out to guide Merlin away too.

From the sound of it, Merlin still hesitated for another few heartbeats before allowing himself to be led off into the trees where a perimeter guard would normally stand watch. Arthur opened his eyes again eventually, and found the remaining members of the hunting party casting wary glances between Arthur and the direction Merlin had gone. Without warning, Arthur snapped, “Yes, he’s doing magic. No one will speak of this to anyone, not even each other. Is that clear?”

Only half of the gathered men replied in the affirmative; the rest just stood there with a complicated mix of expressions and, for some, dawning comprehension or fear.

Arthur sighed heavily in an effort to dispel pretty much every thought clamoring for ascension in his head. He could feel his mood fouling by the second. “Is there food?”

George stepped out from the group with a nod. “Yes, sire. We’ll prepare meals straight away.”

“Thank you.” At least someone could still manage to function without being led about like a dimwitted toddler.

“The bandits, sire.” George pushed one of the other servants off to get to work even as he asked. “Should we expect them back tonight?”

Arthur shook his head. “They were Saxons. And no. We’ve no concern from them anymore.”

“I see.” George bowed crisply, but there was uncertainty in it, and a stiffness that had little to do with proper conduct. “We will attend to supper, then.”

“Just get on with it!”

Sir Marwen tried to approach. “Sire, perhaps you need a moment?”

Arthur bit back his first inclination, which was to start shouting that he didn’t need to be coddled. Because of course, that was Marwen’s point; Arthur did need a moment to calm down. He felt as if he were being dismantled, and he hadn’t even tried yet to think on the vision of his wife in the fog – of his own fanciful, hallucinated notion of kindness or absolution, or something.

“Yes, thank you, Sir Marwen.” But before he could excuse himself to go stick his face into the well pond water and scream obscenities where only the stones would hear him, he noticed an old man shuffling over towards Merlin as he and Gwaine rounded the perimeter back towards Arthur. “What is Leon’s father doing here?” He spun on the nearest servant, who happened to be George again. “He shouldn’t be on this hunt in the first place; why wasn’t he sent back with the others?”

George paused, then went ahead and extended the cup that he was holding. “We believe that he snuck into a feed cart and fell asleep. We didn’t notice him until the rest of the hunting party had left. Wine, sire. With a hint of spice. I can warm it, if you wish.”

“You didn’t notice him,” Arthur replied, voice hard and flat. “A doddering old man.” When George didn’t have an excuse at the ready, Arthur yelled, “He was a king! How do you lose track of a king?”

Frost all but formed literally on George’s face. “With respect, sire. Your anger is better placed at the feet of his own household servants, as they are the ones who keep misplacing him.”

Arthur blinked, the evening’s worth of his suppressed rage threatening for one hazy moment to rise to the surface at this completely unanticipated impertinence. Whatever ill-thought reaction Arthur may have made died out as Leundugrance latched onto Merlin like a barnacle and cried, “Myrddin! Look!” Leundugrance tugged at Merlin’s tunic in what looked like some kind of effort to present him to the knights. “Everyone, it’s Aurelius’s boy! Look!”

Pretty much everyone stopped what they were doing to stare.

“I thought you were gone! But look at you, you were nearly gray when I saw you last. How are you so young now?” Leundugrance shook Merlin by the shirt front and then leaned impolitely close to squint at his eyes. “Ahhh, clever boy.” He leaned back again, face split in a wide and addled smile, and whispered loudly, “You must be aging backwards.”

Merlin hadn’t moved throughout this spectacle, staring at Leundugrance in either pity or disbelief, just like all the rest of them. At that last, though, his face washed clean like a slate, and he raised his arms to tug himself out of Leundugrance’s grasp. The old man hooked his fingers into Merlin’s clothing, though, and it was akin to peeling himself from a glue board.

“My lord!” George set down the drink that Arthur hadn’t yet taken and hurried over to assist in detaching a now-chuckling Leundugrance. “My lord, allow me to make you a nice hot cup of tea.” He carefully turned Leundugrance, plucking his hands out of the air to prevent him snagging Merlin again, and led him toward the well spring.

“I knew he was clever!” Leundugrance laughed. “Takes after his father. Such a good lad.”

“We’ll get a nice fire going for you, my lord. And find you a warm fur – you’ll be very comfortable.”

“Do you know, he had dragons? I saw them at the usurper king’s keep. Such incredible beasts! Nearly brought the walls down on top of us when they fought.”

Merlin had taken several steps back as George freed him from Leundugrance’s grasp, and now he stood with wide eyes focused sharp on the old man’s back. Arthur drew a breath to say something in hopes of dispelling this new tension, but Merlin blurted out, “Apple slices.”

Gwaine exchanged a look with Arthur and then shuffled over toward Merlin. “I’ve got an apple.” He dug said apple out of one of his trouser pockets and held it in Merlin’s direction. “Here. All yours.”

Merlin glanced at the proffered fruit, and then ignored it entirely in favor of shifting sideways, toward Arthur, finger pointing at him without actually turning to face him. “Uther put you on his shoulders, and fed you apple slices.”

Arthur’s lips parted of their own accord, and he went lightheaded so suddenly that he felt as if the air had burned and vaporized in his chest. “What?”

Merlin’s voice came out strange and hoarse, almost like Dragoon, but not quite. “The torch was too heavy for you; he had to help you hold it. Your wet nurse tried to take you back to the castle, but he wouldn’t let her. He wanted you to watch.”

Arthur felt his skin grow cold.

“You put the torch into the oily straw, and then he put you on his shoulders and fed you apple slices. He had to slice them thin enough that you wouldn’t choke.”

“Dear god.” This from Lord Howel, who was old enough to remember that day well.

This drew Merlin’s attention, and he fixed a frighteningly intense gaze on Howel. “I know they weren’t invaders.”

Howel paled and staggered back until his knees struck one of the stone seats. He folded down to sit like a wet piece of parchment.

“You led men of Camelot to ambush Gorlois on Uther’s orders while he snuck into Tintagel. The skirmish with his troops, the betrayal – you and Uther made that up afterwards to cover what you’d done. Gorlois wasn’t a traitor. He didn’t even know his wife was having an affair.”

Gwaine made an aborted move to do who knew what, and then decided to try to herd Merlin away before he could say anything else.

“They named that fog after me,” Merlin persisted as Gwaine attempted to lead him off. “Myrddin’s Fog. That’s mine.”

“Merls, stop.” Gwaine gripped him by the forearm and tried to drag him back, even though the damage was likely already done.

Arthur finally snapped himself from his stupor and hurried to help get Merlin away from the rest of the men. “Enough. Walk away, Merlin.”

“I didn’t raise that fog for you so you could kill him. That was my fog!” Merlin struggled against Arthur’s hold. “Let me go!”

Arthur squeezed Merlin’s forearm too tight for friendliness and hissed, “Stop fighting me and move.”

Merlin tensed up, but he at least allowed Arthur and Gwaine to frog march him a way off into the trees before he lashed out again and twisted from their grasps. Once freed, he staggered a few steps further into the underbrush, paused, and then turned around looking bewildered. “What was that? What – ”

“That was you raving like a lunatic,” Gwaine replied.

Arthur shook his head. “Not a lunatic.”

“No no no no no – ”

Arthur grabbed at Merlin’s hands where he’d clenched them into his hair and stopped him from pulling at it. “Let go.”

Merlin let go, but he seemed to get more frantic as a result of having nothing in his hands.

“Merls.” Gwaine frowned and tried to help Arthur stop him from smacking at his own body.

“Put it out – put it out – put it out!”

“Merlin!” Arthur wrenched at his arms and twisted them up over Merlin’s chest, his own arms wrapped around from behind to trap them in place.

“It hurts! Stop, please, just let me go – let me go! I’ll do whatever you want!”

“You’re not burning!” Arthur snapped, fighting to keep him from hurting himself. The stench of storms crested on the air around them, crisp and sharp. The fear Arthur felt was involuntary this time, and wholly borne of having watched him lash out once already that day. “Merlin, stop.” He tried not to let his rising panic come out in his voice, but it may have been a lost cause. “Nothing’s on fire. It’s not real. You have to stop!”

Merlin thrashed and kicked out, barely missing Gwaine, and Arthur grunted with the effort of hanging onto him when he shoved his weight back into Arthur’s chest. Arthur smacked back against a tree, and Merlin curled in his arms, whimpering at nothing. His weight dragged Arthur down onto his knees with him, which at least allowed him to better restrain Merlin from further struggling. Merlin dissolved quickly into gasping coughs and then unchecked sobbing, still squirming to get away from flames that weren’t there.

Soon enough, whatever fit seized him seemed to fade, and Merlin was left choking on nothing more than his own panic on the ground as he started sucking in deep breaths again. The prickling sensation of lightening faded, but it left an aftertaste in the acidic bubble of dwindling fear caught in Arthur’s throat. He loosened his arms and Merlin sagged over his knees until his forehead pressed at the dirt. Every inhalation came loud and sucking as when a man fallen overboard gets dragged back to land and has just finished coughing the water from his lungs.

Somewhere to Arthur’s right, Gwaine blew out a sharp breath and swore at the end of it. “Is that how it happened? With the apple slices?”

Arthur nodded.

“Someone told him, then.”

“Nobody told him.”

Gwaine breathed heavily beside them. “It was you, personally? You murdered your own cousin?”

Before Arthur could try to put any of that in context, Merlin snapped, still all but gasping to catch his breath, “Let him alone. He’s barely off his nurse’s teat; he doesn’t understand what he’s doing.”

Arthur swallowed hard enough that he nearly gagged on it. Arthur exchanged a worried glance with Gwaine before addressing Merlin. “Didn’t,” he stressed. “That was decades ago, Merlin.”

Merlin shoved up onto his hands and made an attempt at gulping in more leveled breaths. Mostly to himself, he muttered, “It’s fine; he’ll still be king. Uther can’t stop that.” When Gwaine reached out to grasp his shoulder, Merlin swung at him. “Don’t touch me! I don’t know you.”

Gwaine looked like he’d been sucker punched. “Knock it off. That’s not funny.”

“Where are you?” Arthur asked, more curious than disturbed. Or at least, that’s what he told himself so that he didn’t just stare at him, useless. “Right now. Where are you?”

“The courtyard, idiot boy.” Merlin rubbed at his chest just a little too hard, but Arthur didn’t want to try to stop him again, lest it make whatever this was worse. “They sent my niece away this morning, didn’t they? I don’t want Uther coming after her too; she’s innocent. Let her have her peace.”

Gwaine clenched his fists, but it wasn’t rage that caused it. “You don’t have a niece.”

“Course I do, she’s…” Merlin trailed off, and the confusion looked foreign on his face. His eyes tracked blankly across the ground in front of him, and then he mumbled, “No, that’s wrong.” He began tapping at his sternum as he frowned at the middle distance.

Arthur watched him carefully while he felt around his pockets for one of the little vials that Hubert had given him. “Merlin, I need you to answer very carefully. What you said about Gorlois and Howel. How do you know that?”

Merlin opened his mouth, but then snapped it closed a moment later, staring at the fingers of his free hand where they curled into the ground.

“Say it, Merlin. Whatever you just thought, say it.”

Merlin swallowed, dug his fingers harder into the moist earth, and then bit out, “I was there.”

Gwaine scrubbed at his hair and stalked a few feet away. “You weren’t even born.”

“I know that!”

“Gorlois’s wife,” Arthur pressed. “Vivian? Morgana’s mother – is that how she came about?”

“No.” Merlin stretched his back until his shoulder blades showed through the fabric of his surcoat. “He already put her aside. She couldn’t bear him sons. He wants a son.”

Gwaine came stalking back then. “That’s enough. Leave him alone, Arthur.”

Arthur held up a hand to quell him and turned back to Merlin. “Who was his wife, then?”

But Merlin was shaking his head, shoving himself backwards to lean against a tree. “He was just supposed to get a son on her. He wasn’t supposed to have Gorlois killed; that wasn’t what we agreed to.”

“We? Who is ‘we’?”

Merlin’s eyes tracked sightlessly across the space between them, and then he shook his head.

“Alright,” Arthur said, letting that go for now. He asked again, “Who was his wife at Tintagel?”

It appeared that Merlin was losing lucidity where the visions, or memories, or whatever were concerned, because he scrunched his upper lip in frustration. “I don’t know. She… she didn’t know about the…I don’t know.” He kept tapping his chest and trying to focus on things that weren’t there in front of him.

Arthur nodded and scooted closer, holding out the vial. “I want you to put this under your tongue.”

Merlin blinked around and eventually focused on Arthur’s extended hand, his expression edging toward distrust. “Why?”

“You’ve got tells.” Arthur waved the little bit of glass at him. “Pour it under your tongue.”

“What is that?” Gwaine demanded.

“It’s to stop the convulsions.”

Merlin reached out and took the vial, but he just looked at it after that.

Arthur crawled the rest of the way over and plucked it back. “Open up.”

Outright suspicion wafted over Merlin’s face.

“Trust me.” Arthur leveled his gaze with Merlin’s and tried his best not to let any of his thoughts from earlier in the night surface in his countenance. “Come on; under your tongue.”

Merlin seemed a bit hazy, but he perked up at the eye contact and finally let Arthur administer the medicine. With relief, Arthur pocketed the empty vial and scooted back to lean against another tree nearby. He kept a covert eye on Merlin, of course, but he also didn’t want to intrude on his space if he didn’t have to.

After a fair number of avoided glances, Gwaine wandered away a few steps and said, “Ygraine. She was Gorlois’s second wife.”

Merlin made a comical face at the apparently foul taste of the oil, and scrubbed uncoordinated hands over his face as if to brush off cobwebs, or scrub away thoughts that he didn’t want there.

Arthur considered this for a long moment while he eyed Merlin for any worsening signs. “My mother was married to Gorlois?”

Gwaine nodded. “That’s the story we heard up north. Not for long, though – maybe a few months, and then he died of course. You were born early, but fully formed. Lot’s court thought it a grand joke; they assumed you weren’t actually of Uther’s seed, but that he took you anyway out of convenience, along with Ygraine, because he couldn’t sire anything himself.”

“I see,” Arthur replied softly. So apparently, his father had defiled not one, but two wives of his closest friend before having said friend murdered. And it wasn’t a secret from anyone but him. He wasn’t sure what to think of this new information, beyond the obvious. “Is my lineage in doubt?”

“Not really,” Gwaine replied. “You have a fair complexion, but you look like Uther. And everyone knows that none of Gorlois’s children are actually of his blood.”

Arthur hummed noncommittally and shifted his glance as Merlin slumped back against the tree, his eyes unfocused and hovering somewhere off to Arthur’s left. He wanted to be angry again – anger was easier than whatever this feeling was. “You still with us, Merlin?”

Merlin’s eyes lidded into a slow blink, then flickered toward Arthur’s boot. “Mm-hm.” His breathing had gone faint and shallow, but even. And at least it appeared that he wasn’t going to descend into one of the proper fits. His words, though, came sluggish and thick like treacle. “Feel funny. I don’t think I should be here.”

Arthur snorted and peered back toward their sparse camp. There wasn’t much movement through the trees, but a few fires had been lit. Arthur had no illusions, though, that no one had heard most of what just happened; they weren’t that far off. “Where should you be, then?” When no answer seemed forthcoming, he looked back to find Merlin gazing blankly at his palms splayed open on his knees. Sharply to capture his wandering attention, Arthur snapped, “Merlin.”

Merlin ticked in response, but didn’t look up from his hands. His head wobbled a bit, like a drunken man whose friends spun him about a few times for a lark. “I don’t know.” He even sounded drunk, his words a syrupy-slow fumble as if from numb lips. “I think I’m s’posed to be dead?”

Without warning, Gwaine leaned down and punched him in the arm, hard by the looks of it.

Merlin toppled sideways, but caught himself before he fell all of the way over.

Arthur started up from his easy sprawl. “Gwaine!”

“You don’t do that,” Gwaine growled. He stuffed his face right up in Merlin’s and poked him hard in the side of the head three times in rapid enough succession that Merlin swatted at him to stop. “You don’t say that shit. You hear me?”

Merlin blinked at him a few times. Anyone else would have wary of the menace in Gwaine’s stance, but Merlin merely appeared resentful. It wasn’t really all that better than the vacant stare or the coldness of earlier that evening, but at least he’d sharpened back into the present.

“Hey!” Gwaine clapped his hands in Merlin’s face, making him flinch. “Are you listening?”

Arthur stayed where he was, but he warned, “Gwaine…”

Merlin licked his lips. “You shouldn’t do that.”

Arthur sucked in a breath at the voice that didn’t quite sound right again.

It gave Gwaine pause too, but only for a moment. “Do what?” he demanded obnoxiously.

“Threaten me.”

“Why?” Gwaine clapped again, close enough that Merlin twitched back to avoid it. “What will you do, hm?”

Arthur straightened where he sat. “Gwaine.”

Eyes wary and ambiguous, Merlin told him, “You saw what I’ll do.”

“You won’t do a thing to me.”

“Gwaine!” Arthur shoved himself to his feet.

Merlin sniffed, his cheek twitching with some kind of suppressed outburst. “Step back, Sir Gwaine.”

“Sir Gwaine,” Gwaine mocked. “You never call me that.” He shoved at Merlin’s shoulder, forcing him down onto his elbows. “Stop talking with his mouth!”

Merlin clenched his teeth and stared up at the man looming over him.

Arthur plucked at Gwaine’s arm to prevent him striking again. “Stand down.”

The tension snapped and Gwaine stepped over Merlin’s form, stretching his arms out to crack his shoulder blades the way he did after a bout of sword play. Arthur watched him long enough to be certain that he was done with whatever pissing display he’d been putting on, and then bent down to drag Merlin back into a sitting position. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Merlin rubbed his hand too hard over the front of his surcoat, as if he were trying to dig at his heart underneath. “I’m fine.”

The relief that he sounded normal again washed over Arthur like a head rush. He brushed at the crushed flecks of leaves caught in Merlin’s hair and on the sleeves of his tunic, then shifted his focus to Gwaine. “What the hell was that?”

“Exactly.” Gwaine tugged at his cuffs and picked at the forest litter caught in the links of his chainmail, his back to the both of them.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at Gwaine’s back, but he was more concerned with Merlin. “Stop.” He caught at Merlin’s hand and pushed it away from where he was seemingly gouging at himself again. “Are you still seeing things?”

Merlin shook him off, like flicking droplets of water from his fingers. “No. Just a bit fuzzy.”

“At least we know the oil works.” Arthur swiped a hand down his own face and then leaned back. “Try not to slip again. We need to figure out how to handle this. If the magic weren’t bad enough, they’re going to think you actually are my mad cousin Myrddin.” He refused to entertain any notion that they might, by some stretch, be right about that in the literal sense. Merlin was his own man; Arthur still firmly believed that. He just couldn’t explain all of this yet.

Merlin blinked, and though his eyes went a bit wider, he didn’t look up from his lap. “They’ll want me executed.”

“I won’t have it.”

“You can’t stop them, Arthur. They won’t keep quiet.” He considered his trouser legs, and the old blood drying tacky where he’d been sliced open, rendering the fabric stiff. “There’s a reason nobody tried to stop Uther killing me the first time.”

“It wasn’t you,” Gwaine snapped from a safe distance. He didn’t even turn around to face them, as if he knew the precarious state of his temper wouldn’t hold up to that.

Merlin nodded at the correction and rubbed the heel of his palm over his brow. “Right. I know that. Him. Sorry.”

Arthur didn’t address that because it seemed counterproductive at the moment. Instead he suggested, “We can send you somewhere safe.”

“I won’t leave you,” Merlin mumbled into his arm with this palm still massaging his head. He looked pained, and his voice sounded absent, as if that statement were something so true that it had become little more than a throwaway thought needlessly spoken.

“It would only be temporary, until this blows ov – ”

“I won’t leave you!” Under his breath, as if he didn’t mean for Arthur to hear, he added, “Don’t think I could.”

Arthur let out an aggrieved sigh.

Merlin echoed the sound more softly. “Arthur, you should consider that they might be right. That…that your father…that he may have been right.”

Arthur’s spine pulled him straight. That sounded far more wrong coming from Merlin, rather than from Arthur’s own thoughts. Perhaps that was the point Morgana had been trying to make.

“Magic is dangerous,” Merlin told him with an agitated and sick sort of understanding. When Merlin finally met his eyes, pale blue in the starlight, the conviction there was something that Arthur knew from looking at his own face in the mirror. And that frightened him more than the thought of what Merlin might be capable of through magic. “It’s volatile. It doesn’t always like to be controlled; you saw that today.”

Careful to keep his voice even, Arthur replied, “You cannot expect me to censure you for saving us from a hoard of Saxons.” Except that he could, as Arthur had basically been doing just that ever since it happened.

Hoarse with that damnable compassion again, Merlin pointed out, “It wasn’t just a hoard. There were women and children in that encampment. I killed them too.”

“They know they aren’t welcome in these lands,” Arthur countered, even though another part of him quietly argued Merlin’s side too. “If they brought their women and children with them, then it’s on their heads.”

Merlin’s mouth creased in a nauseating smile. “It doesn’t work like that.”

Arthur felt his face pull slack, then glanced up to where Gwaine had paused his angry pacing.

“You keep saying I’m good, but I’m not good. I killed them, Arthur. I didn’t think about it. It didn’t even occur to me to try and contain it. I saw them attacking you, and I stopped them. But I didn’t stop with them.”

Gwaine broke first, stalking over to flop to his knees next to Merlin. “Look at me. How many men have I killed, hm? In battle, you think they don’t all look the same?”

Merlin dropped his gaze back to his hands.

“Am I evil?” Gwaine pressed.

“It’s different.”

Gwaine opened his mouth, found himself with nothing to say, and then huffed in frustration as he twisted around to lean against the tree with him, legs stretched out in front of him.

A sigh gusted from Arthur’s lungs, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Without looking up, he reminded Merlin, “You are not the only one sitting here who has killed children. Or did you forget what I’ve done to the Druids?”

“That was your father.”

“Not all of it. Some of that was me.” Arthur dropped his hand and regarded Merlin with his head tilted pointedly to one side. “I didn’t have to obey him. Standing by and letting it happen is just as bad as the doing itself, and you know that I didn’t always just stand by. Saying that I had no choice – that’s an excuse. It doesn’t absolve me. So if you’re going to sit there and tell me that you’re some kind of monster, then so am I. If you deserve to die for mistakenly killing innocents in the heat of the moment, in defense of Camelot, then so do I.”

Merlin bit his lip and picked at the dirt under his fingernails. “Morgana wasn’t a mistake.”

Arthur scowled. “Morgana wasn’t innocent.”

“She was the first time I tried.”

“Stop it.” Arthur shoved to his feet and stalked away from his frankly infuriating servant. Physician. Arse of a friend – whatever the hell he was now, intentionally provoking Arthur with something he knew damn well would set off the irrational aspect of his temper, and make him behave in a manner that would shame him later.

“Refusing to hear me won’t make it go away.”

“Go fuck yourself, Merlin.”

“Arthur – ”

“If you make me hate you for every questionable thing you’ve done, then I have to hate me too. Is that what you want?”

Merlin balked. “No. But it’s different.”

“How?” Arthur rounded back on him. “I want a real answer, Merlin – how is it different?”

“You were manipulated. Your father, your councilors, Agravaine – ”

“Gaius.”

Merlin blinked. “And Gaius – ”

“No,” Arthur interrupted. “Not me. You. Gaius manipulated you. The dragon manipulated you. Magic folk – all of the things you told me about – Druids and Catha and wood spirits. Your mother. They all manipulated you. They pushed you to do what they wanted, twisted the truth up and kept things from you that might have made you ask questions they didn’t want to answer. They made you think that all you’re meant for is this – that you’re only here as an extension of me, to prop me up for some destiny that they shoved down your throat the moment you stepped foot in Camelot. They needed their caricature – a magical warlord come to save them, and sweep away everything that is left of my father in the name of balance or justice, or just vengeance, and set me in his place as if that would fix anything. They didn’t care what it did to you.” He paused to catch his breath. “They couldn’t afford to let you think about it too hard; they knew that if given the choice, you wouldn’t want to be that man.”

“But I am that man.” Merlin’s face was doing that thing again where it tried to say one thing while Merlin himself insisted on expressing something else. Like it did outside the cave of the Disir, laid bare in the ticks and valleys around Merlin’s eyes, begging Arthur desperately to see it despite the words that actually came from his mouth.

Arthur flared his nostrils as he dropped to his knees next to Merlin again. “You don’t have to be. It’s not too late to choose. The things you’ve done – the killings. You don’t have to let it be all that you are.”

“It’s too late,” Merlin breathed, words thin and calm like a shining thread of spiderweb in the dark. “I chose this already; it won’t let me go. I died once, and I still can’t get away from it.”

Gwaine leaned over and jabbed his finger at Merlin without touching him. “I told you no. So what if you Saw a few things with his eyes? That isn’t you. You never died.”

“I remember burning,” Merlin countered lowly. “I remember the sound of my skin crackling and peeling, and the smell – ”

“Stop it!”

“ – like roasted boar, Gwaine. I remember not being able to scream because the smoke was too thick and burned my throat – ”

Gwaine lunged at him, maybe without thought, or maybe with a thought to manhandle the whole idea out of him. Arthur intercepted him and shoved him back as he pushed up onto his feet. “Gwaine! Enough.” He kept pushing until Gwaine spun out of his grasp and stormed away to gain a safer distance. Arthur shook himself and pulled his leathers back into place, somehow not shaking even though he could feel it shivering fine like a tuning fork under his skin.

“Prophecy drives men mad.”

Arthur twisted to peer over his shoulder at where Merlin still sat several yards behind them. Gwaine took the opportunity to punch a tree, and probably bruise his knuckles something fierce.

Merlin wrung his hands in his lap and kept his eyes trained on them, resolute. “I’ve looked into the crystals before; I know what Seeing feels like. Myrddin went mad from it. In the end, so did Morgana. And so did Nimueh, and Morgause… If that’s what’s happening to me now, then I’m not safe to you.”

“I reject that,” Arthur told him, matter of fact. “Most rubbish thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Emrys,” Merlin said softly.

Arthur turned fully and paced back toward him, slow and indirect.

“Do you know what that is?” Merlin asked. “They called him that, and now they call me that. It’s not a title that passes down; it’s a thing born of magic that can’t die. Maybe I’m not Myrddin of Carmarthen, but he was Emrys. Wasn’t he? And whatever that is, it’s not different from Merlin of Ealdor. It’s fated. It doesn’t matter what I choose; I can’t escape it.”

Arthur sank to a crouch next to him and tried to compel him to look up. When he wouldn’t, Arthur grasped Merlin’s head in both hands, fingertips digging into wiry facial hair and soft cheeks and bone, and dragged his face up to force him to look. It would have been easier if Merlin’s expression were something other than smooth, with eyes dry like autumn wheat set in the shadows of his cheeks. “If fate were a real thing,” Arthur whispered, “then none of us would be sitting here trying to fix what my father broke. Your so-called destiny isn’t real, Merlin.” His voice rose, but not much – it was still sheer and full of too much exhale. “And even if it were, if you’re some fae thing of magic underneath all of this, then do you really think me killing you is going to save any of us?” Arthur swallowed. “I asked you once why you seem to hate yourself so much, but now I think I understand. It’s this, isn’t it. You hate being this.”

All of those fragile things that couldn’t breach the surface that night with the Disir seemed to stir in Merlin’s eyes, but there still wasn’t any moisture there with it. “I can’t be anything else. I tried to go against it so many times, Arthur, and it made things worse. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Arthur nodded, his breathing wet where Merlin’s was not. “Alright. But letting me execute you is not on the table.”

“I am everything your father warned you about.”

“My father was wrong!” It may have been the first time that Arthur said it and actually, truly believed it. He shook Merlin by the head where it remained gripped too hard in Arthur’s hands, and absorbed the distressed squeak that followed. “You have to try, Merlin – you told me you would. And if you can’t do that for your own sake, then do it for mine. Because I can’t pull you back from the cliff if I’m standing at the edge right next to you.”

“I don’t know how!” Merlin’s face struggled to settle on any one expression, cupped there between Arthur’s hands. And finally – finally – something cracked in his composure. Hushed and sharp, Merlin said, “I’m terrified of what I’ll do to you. I can’t always control it.”

Arthur had to bite his lip for moment to maintain his equanimity as he nodded. “I know.”

Merlin made a small sound in the back of his throat. Thick with mucous, voice shaking, but still too damnably calm, Merlin said, “I think about how it might be better if I’d never come to Camelot – if I weren’t here at all. All the people that might still be alive or better off if they’d never met me, if I’d never met them.” He sucked on his lip for a moment. “I’m not who you thought I was.”

Arthur choked through the congestion in his nose. “God, I know you’re not, Merlin, that’s the whole point.”

Merlin nodded, but it was choppy, and seemed a denial of some kind too.

Arthur thought of the vision in the fog as he swiped at rough stubble on his friend’s dry, cool face, and words that didn’t make sense at the time. The ghost of a caring and wise woman who wasn’t there anymore, and never would be again. He met Merlin’s somber gaze, and the almost-empty, red-rimmed eyes. He couldn’t see the glint of hope in there anymore. He couldn’t see much of anything. And it broke his heart. He nodded in acknowledgement. This was what Morgana meant – all of her cryptic words. She was trying to make him understand this. “You don’t have to be the man I thought you were,” he said again. “I’ve watched you for over a decade. I know what you are.”

Merlin swallowed, and though he lowered his gaze, it only dropped so far as Arthur’s chin. “A sorcerer.”

“A man,” Arthur corrected. “My friend, who has made mistakes and keeps terrible secrets, and is still trying to die to save me. As he always has. Because he’s an idiot.”

Merlin coughed out a surprised laugh.

“It’s not funny,” Arthur breathed. “I don’t want you dead.”

Merlin’s face contracted in Arthur’s grip, his eyes closing briefly before alighting back on Arthur’s chin. “I think…” He swallowed, and spindly hands wrapped over Arthur’s forearms – not to pull him off, but to keep him where he was. An anchor, but in calm seas – still so horribly, austerely calm. “I think maybe…maybe I do.”

Arthur’s throat clicked as he forced himself not to react to that the way his first inclination urged – yelling and name-calling, and maybe hitting to beat the awful notion out of him. Instead, Arthur sucked a difficult breath in through his clogged throat. All he could get back out was a disbelieving and pitchy, “Merlin.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispered.

“No.” Arthur choked on his breath and dragged him into his chest as if to hide the fractured pieces there of a man he’d smashed apart himself – shards of a shattered pot swept under a table in a charcoal hut. Merlin let him, but it was a distant thing – an appeasement. He leaned unresisting into Arthur’s embrace, but that was all he seemed to have energy left for.

Ten paces away from them, Gwaine had sunk down into his own arms, leant against a tree with his hand pressed over his mouth hard enough that he must have had trouble breathing. He blinked wetly at Arthur, face crumpled like wadded up parchment. Whatever front Gwaine presented, however older he was than Merlin, it was Gwaine who did the looking up in that relationship. There was something about Merlin that he aspired to emulate or make proud, even if he did feign the elder brother’s role. And to see his friend diminished like this… It had to be devastating. It certainly felt as such to Arthur. Merlin anchored him, kept him true. Didn’t he know that?

Arthur ducked his head against Merlin’s cheek so that he didn’t have to look at Gwaine anymore. “Don’t do this to yourself. I know I’ve no right to ask it, but I will get on my knees and beg if I have to. Don’t let them have what’s left of you.”

It took a while, but eventually, Merlin stirred enough to turn his face away from Arthur’s shoulder so that he could speak. “I can’t fight anymore. I’m tired, Arthur. I just want to stop.”

“Don’t. Just don’t.” Arthur grasped him by the hair at his nape to keep him close. “If you can’t fight anymore, then I’ll fight for you. Gwaine will fight for you.” He glanced up for confirmation and Gwaine dropped his hand to nod. “See? You’re not alone. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Merlin made a weak attempt to extract himself from Arthur’s embrace, but it was a token protest at best. Just a reflex. He subsided quickly, and knocked his forehead into Arthur’s shoulder again. “It doesn’t matter. I’m still magic. I can’t change that.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Arthur growled. “We can manage that. I can – stop shaking your head! I can abolish the ban on magic, we can get you help to learn to control it – I said stop!”

“You can’t lift the ban for one person!” Merlin exerted more force this time and shoved himself to arm’s length. Once there, he let Arthur keep hold of his arms, though he braced his hand against Arthur’s chest to keep him at a distance. “Magic is dangerous. It is.”

“Men are dangerous,” Arthur countered.

“You saw what I did! I can’t let that pass, Arthur. It was Saxons this time – what about the next?”

The irony of having his own arguments used against him didn’t escape his notice. “Merlin – ”

“I heard what you said in the circle. You were right – I’m dangerous.”

Arthur let that sink in for a moment.

“You know what I am. Do you really think I wouldn’t hear you?”

“Morgana said you couldn’t.”

“Morgana doesn’t actually know as much as she thinks she does. Everything you said was right. You think I’m so far gone that I don’t know that?”

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“I’ve told you not to trust magic. It’s not safe. I am not safe, Arthur. I nearly set your rooms on fire, and you weren’t even threatening me.”

“I think I was, actually.”

“Then that just proves it! I will hurt you. I can’t help it.”

Arthur elbowed his hand away and grabbed at his face again. “Look at me.”

Merlin tried to pry him off by the wrists. “You have to listen.”

“Look at me!” Arthur dug too hard and his jaw with his fingers.

Merlin warbled in protest. “I don’t want to hurt you!” He grunted at the effort of fighting Arthur’s grip on him, and still wouldn’t look. “You aren’t being reasonable – what would your father say? He’d tell you to listen to me! You know he would – Ow! Would you stop it!”

“I have lost everyone I love to magic – I am not giving you up too!”

Merlin paused in his struggles, chest heaving.

“There – I said it, didn’t I.” Arthur pressed, agitated and afraid and yet it felt a bit like soaring. “I have no idea if it’s philia or pragma, or eros, but yes, I love you. I’ve said it, and I’m not taking it back.”

Voice low with warning, Merlin replied, “I told you not to.”

With far less ego than he was normally wont to say it with, Arthur reminded him, “I’m the king. You can’t tell me what to do.” He grappled a better hold on Merlin’s face, and endured the way he stiffened to avoid it. “Will you please look at me.”

There was something resentful about it when Merlin finally flicked his gaze up to look, but Arthur could tell now that it had little to do with him. Merlin’s whole aspect seemed to still as he stared back at Arthur. It was at least better than the blank, limpid nothing of just a candlemark ago. But then his eyes shifted to the left. Arthur creased his brow as he glanced that way too. They were not all that far from the cook fires, or the knights arrayed around the spring – far enough for discretion, but not so far that the shouting would have gone unheard. Several pairs of eyes twitched away from Arthur and back to their gear or fire as he watched.

Arthur took a deep breath, and then let it out with a sensation of defeat. He finally let Merlin go and backed away to sit cross-legged on the ground out of reach with his head in his hands.

“Clearly, I’ve enchanted you.”

Wearily, Arthur sighed, “Shut up, Merlin.”

“Why else would you say all of that? Bringing magic back to Camelot?” His voice had taken on that sing song quality of mockery that he usually used against Arthur in jest. There was no mirth now, though; it was only mockery, and cold. “Sir Erec was right. Who knows how far I’ve corrupted you.”

“I said, shut up,” Arthur whispered.

“You know it’s what they’re thinking.”

A dozen flippant, angry, hurtful responses floated to the fore in Arthur’s mind, but he didn’t have the heart for any of them. His temper had finally fizzled and pretty much died. All he had left was the knowledge that Merlin was probably right about one thing. It was over. Too many people knew – loyal knights of Camelot – and Arthur’s judgement could not be relied upon when to all appearances, magic colored his judgement. A betrayal by his closest servant and friend.

Arthur shook his head where it rested in his hands and just begged, “Please stop. Please. Just stop.” He raised his eyes at the sound of footsteps approaching, from behind and in front.

George stopped in front of them, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture stiffly correct. “We’ve prepared a small supper, my lords. And there is also good…well, passing wine in a limited quantity. The knights have requested a formal audience over the meal, sire. By your leave.”

Gwaine drew up close at Arthur’s back. “An audience? Out here?”

“The circumstances seem to call for it, Sir Gwaine. And if I may, I believe that it would be of benefit to all, should my majesty grant it.” In Arthur’s periphery, George canted himself forward, as if somewhere above Arthur’s head, he were attempting to make eye contact. “They seem in earnest, sire.”

Arthur didn’t move for a long enough moment that it could have been remarked upon, were anyone there inclined to do so. But of course they weren’t; the only one who would have was Merlin, and Merlin had closed up on himself again. Arthur drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then made the laborious climb to his feet. He nodded his acceptance to George, and then took the few leaden steps necessary to stand beside Merlin. “Come on, then.” He held his hand down in front of Merlin, and for a moment, he worried that it wouldn’t be accepted. A cool hand slipped into his a heartbeat later, though, and Arthur let his breath out as he pulled Merlin onto unsteady feet. “Alright?” Arthur asked without letting go right away.

Merlin nodded and settled his balance.

“Right,” Arthur muttered, letting go. He stared at Merlin until it became uncomfortable for the both of them, and then turned away. “Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

~TBC~

Chapter 12

Le Morte d’Arthur

Arthur was dreaming. Hot and chilled, and too far asleep to wake up. Muffled. At least his shoulder didn’t hurt anymore; he couldn’t feel anything much at all. But he could hear Guinevere fading in and out somewhere nearby.

“…I know that one day, you will be king. A greater king than your father could ever be. That’s what keeps me going. You are going to live to be the man I’ve seen inside you, Arthur. I can see a Camelot that is fair and just. I can see a king that the people will love and be proud to call their sovereign...”

Her voice faded out after that, or the words did at least. She may have kept speaking because he could hear a soothing hum somewhere above the darkness in which he swam. But more importantly, he could feel her hand on his, a firm and insistent grip wrapped tight over his fingers like a seal to remind him which way to go to reach the light.

* * *

Arthur squared his shoulders as he strode into the gathering of knights. It felt more like a battle than an audience with his own men. “I understand you have something you wish to discuss.”

Several heads bobbed, and a few men appeared thrown off by Arthur’s aggression. Good. Behind him, Merlin stayed close, his posture screaming that he was trying too hard not to look like prey. It was that crimped quality to his stance – the way he appeared folded into little more than a pale part of Arthur’s shadow. He could have been a pencil sketch, for all the animation his face displayed.

Arthur gestured to a log near the fire and herded Merlin in front of him. “Let’s eat first; we’ll all be more reasonable on a full stomach.”

Gwaine followed them, fingering his sword. “There isn't enough food in the world for that. What we need is ale. A lot of it.”

“I am afraid that there is no ale, Sir Gwaine.” George called in apology. He strode over as if the whole gathering weren’t on the edge of imploding from the visible tension all around, and held out a bowl of simple stew for Arthur to take once he sat.

“Thank you, George.” Arthur glanced at Gwaine, and then repeated the action as he registered what he saw. “Put that away.”

Gwaine paused in the middle of lifting his flask to his lips. “I’m thirsty.”

“Yes, and I need you sober.” Arthur snatched it from him, put the cap back on, and set it on the ground between them.

“Here.”

Arthur glanced up to where Merlin stood above him. “What?”

“Give it here,” Merlin insisted.

At first, Arthur thought he was asking for the flask, which Arthur had no intention of giving him, but Merlin dropped his eyes deliberately to the stew before Arthur could say as much. He rolled his eyes and ignored the wagging hand. “You’re not taste-testing it, Merlin. No one here is going to poison me.”

Merlin just stared at him with his hand out, unmoved.

“Oh, for god’s sake.” Arthur huffed and passed it over.

Several of the knights watched with interest, but this was a familiar exchange. Even the servants who had cooked it appeared resigned to the routine, and thankfully, not insulted by the distrust. Merlin could be a politely stubborn twit, after all.

Impatient, Arthur treated Merlin to a sarcastic frown. “Does it meet with your approval?”

Merlin stirred around the bowl with critical focus and then took a small taste at random. He grimaced. “Needs salt.”

“Unfortunately,” George called, “we don’t have any this evening. There is ground thyme, however, and I believe some dill if my lords prefer additional flavor.”

Merlin smeared his tongue around inside his mouth, sniffed with comical focus at the remaining stew, and then handed the bowl back to Arthur.

“You are ridiculous,” Arthur informed Merlin, as if he didn’t already know that. Arthur plopped his spoon around in the stew and eventually shoved a chunk of potato in his mouth. It did need salt.

Merlin ignored him and scuffed around near Arthur’s outstretched legs before deciding on a spot on the ground by his feet, closer than Arthur to the fire. Sometimes, Merlin really was just like a big, clumsy puppy. He even circled a bit before folding down cross-legged.

George approached with another bowl and offered it to Merlin, who shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

“My lord, you must have regular meals,” George insisted.

Several knights mouthed my lord to each other and made inquiring faces.

“Don’t call me that,” Merlin muttered, ducking his head.

“Yes, sir. My apologies.” George tried to stuff the bowl under Merlin’s nose. “I must insist that you consume at least half of this, sir.”

Arthur took the bowl and basically set it in Merlin’s lap where he was forced to either grab it or wear it. “Stop being difficult.”

Merlin fumbled the bowl and then glared at the side of Arthur’s head for a bit. Maybe it was cathartic; Arthur didn’t really care. He grimaced instead at his own unappetizing meal. When they first made it back to camp, he’d been starving, but now there was nothing he wanted less than food. Arthur glanced to Merlin, raised his eyebrows, and pointedly ate a spoonful of camp stew. It wasn’t the most edible thing he’d ever eaten. In fact, he may have preferred Merlin’s boiled rat soup, but he would never admit it.

In response, Merlin peered down into his own bowl, made a face at it, and raised it to slurp from rather than using a spoon. After swallowing, he mumbled, “I think I prefer rat.”

Arthur snorted his next mouthful of stew.

From his place on Arthur’s other side, Gwaine put up a hand. “I’ll have some of that thyme.”

“One pinch or two?” George called.

“Seven.” Gwaine let some of the lumpy concoction dribble off his spoon and back into the bowl. “And some of the dill. And anything else you’ve got. Weeds maybe? Flavorful dirt?”

Merlin gave him a stern look. “Stop harassing them, Gwaine; they’re doing their best.”

“I’ve had pine needles more appetizing.”

Arthur mirrored the expression on Merlin’s face. “Enough, Sir Gwaine. We’ll make do with what we have.”

For a while, the only sounds to break the nighttime silence consisted of reluctant eating noises and clinks of camp cookware from the assembled men. Arthur forced down as much stew as he could manage, and then set the bowl aside. He watched the half dozen servants clearing up the cooking supplies, and once they picked up bowls or cups of their own to eat, Arthur called out to them, “Join us. All of you.”

One of the dog handlers, a man with a name Arthur probably never bothered to learn in the first place, glanced up from his cup. His eyes were red, and his hands sported numerous bite wounds. He must have tried to stop the dogs from running off in a frenzy, and paid for it in blood. Arthur vaguely recalled a much younger version of the man sleeping in the kennel with the welping bitches to make sure they came through it well. “Join you?” this man asked, hesitant. “You want us to eat with you?”

Arthur nodded, and cast a gentle glance to the poorly treated wounds on his hands. “This seems to me a matter that affects us all equally. We can afford to suspend rank for one night.”

The man nodded and pulled his sleeves down to cover the bites. One of the other men prodded him forward, and George herded the stragglers over as well. Interestingly enough, when given the choice, they all – all six of them – elected to congregate around Merlin. Arthur watched them settle close, as if they didn’t care that he was a sorcerer. It was…humbling. Arthur couldn’t say that he’d have done the same, if this were the first night he’d learned of his magical friend. He could not have been so casual or dismissive about it.

Merlin eyed the men as they sat around him, and then focused in on the dog handler. “Have those been seen to?”

“No, sir.” The man sheepishly exposed his hands again for Merlin’s inspection. “I haven’t been thinking of them.”

“Puncture wounds get infected easily.” Merlin set his mostly uneaten meal aside and started to look around, but George was already there with the medical bag. With a grudging exclamation of gratitude and a sidelong look, Merlin took it and turned to the handler. “Here, Bern. We’ll get this sorted.”

“It’s no trouble,” the man – Bern – objected.

“I know.” Merlin opened the case and began poking around the jars he’d packed in there. He selected one and popped the lid to examine the contents. Without looking up from the paste, he murmured, “I’m sorry about your dogs.”

Bern nodded and looked down at his hands. “They saved the king. Didn’t they? That’s where they went?”

Merlin swallowed and glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “Yes, that’s where they went. And they did. They helped save him.”

“Then they were good dogs,” Bern pronounced, though his voice had gone shaky. “Done me proud.”

Arthur shut his eyes and looked away from them both. He felt sick, recalling the mindless savagery of the enchanted pack of dogs that had torn over the edge of the gully. But Bern didn’t need to know that. “They fought ferociously, and held off attack long enough for help to come.” Arthur looked up and met Merlin’s gaze, however brief. “They saved us both.”

Merlin turned back to accept the pot of clean water that George had gone to fetch. He didn’t acknowledge Arthur’s statement, but Bern was smiling over Merlin’s head while Merlin cleaned up his hands. “Thank you, sire,” Bern told him. “That means a lot.”

Arthur nodded, but he couldn’t hold that gaze. He tried to cover the fact by picking his stew back up and gulping a mouthful quickly enough to avoid tasting it. Afterwards, he studied the knights from his periphery. Most of them had seated themselves at what they likely considered a safe distance from the sorcerer. Marwen, however, had taken up a post among the servants, who eyed him with distrust. And strangely, Howel chose to perch himself on a log near the fire, nervous and twitchy, and closer to Merlin than to the other men.

“Was it you, then, sir?” Bern asked.

Arthur looked up to see what the man was talking about.

Merlin raised his head too, then started further back when he realized that Bern was talking to him. “What?”

“Was it you that called them?” Bern asked. “For help?”

With a tick that betrayed his nerves, Merlin cast a few nervous looks around without alighting for long on any one thing, and then bent back to his work on Bern’s hands. “Yes.” He picked at one of the nastier punctures with a tweezer until he’d gotten it clean enough. “I’m putting the paste on now. It will sting, and I can’t wrap them. They need to be allowed to drain. So you’ll need to use your hands as little as possible until they scab over.”

Bern nodded. “I understand, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Merlin nodded, distracted and edgy as he applied the paste, turning Bern’s hands back and forth to catch the light of the fire until he was satisfied with his work. Arthur probably only caught the faint whiff of magic because he was sitting so close. There wasn’t even any mumbling to indicate a spell; just raw magic, and an improbable will. Merlin kept his head down as he examined the hand one last time, eyes hidden to prevent betraying what he was really doing. Once finished, he scooted back and used the remaining water to wash off his hands before packing away his medical supplies.

Bern watched him for a moment, a soft look on his face. The wounds on his hands appeared significantly less serious than before. “I’m not angry about the dogs,” Bern assured him. “They were needed, and they did good.”

Merlin froze briefly, then resumed tidying up his bag with a fastidiousness he’d never applied to Arthur’s chambers in all the years he’d been cleaning them. “I didn’t realize they’d hurt you.”

Bern smiled again, even though Merlin couldn’t see it from where he’d bent over his supplies. “You would’ve stopped them if you had. Like I say: I’m not angry, and they did me proud. So there’s no bad feelings. Yeah?”

Merlin picked uselessly at the catch on his bag, and then nodded as he finally set everything aside. “No bad feelings,” he repeated faintly. “Thank you, Bern.”

That seemed to settle everything as far as Bern was concerned. He leaned back and accepted his cup of stew back from George. Arthur wished that he could view the world with such simplicity – such grace. Bern wasn’t the brightest man by a long shot, and yet in that moment, he seemed somehow wiser than most others present.

George settled in as well, carefully perched on his knees near Merlin’s outstretched legs. He inclined his head to Arthur before tucking into his own mug of stew with the proper utensils, of course. He also sat disturbingly erect, as if he were stood at attention in the throne room. Possibly on account of his saddle-bruised rump, but then again, he probably always sat like that. Arthur rolled his eyes at the precise movement of perfectly heaped spoon to mouth, and then smushed his hand over his face with a long breath. He looked out on his collection of exhausted and perhaps doubting knights, including Leundugrance smiling sleepily at the fire, and held his hands out. “Well? You wanted an audience. Perhaps one of you should start.”

Leundugrance angled his head around, but he didn’t actually look at anyone. “This is a lovely meal. I like potatoes very much.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Arthur replied. He eyed the old and former king to see if he wanted to say anything else, and then raised his eyebrows in invitation of something less banal.

Bleoberis shifted. “Is he actually old man Myrddin?”

“No,” Gwaine snapped. “Don’t be daft.”

“It’s not daft,” someone else muttered; Arthur couldn’t tell who.

“Yes, it is,” Howel interjected. He raised his eyes, but not his head, to look at Merlin, who seemed reluctantly compelled to return his gaze. “Even before the madness set in, Myrddin was a poxy bastard. Insulting. Arrogant. Thought he could make the world bend for a whim. Spouted off every chance he got, and more when Uther tried to reign him in. Can’t blame him much for the attitude; he was a king’s son by half, and royal by his mother too. His rank earned him the right to say what he would. Point is, our Merlin isn’t like that at all.”

Arthur kept his mouth firmly shut, but he couldn’t help disagreeing to a certain extent that Merlin wasn’t anything like that. There was a darker side to him that Arthur saw, albeit rarely, and what Howel said seemed to describe that aspect of him pretty well. It certainly fit Dragoon, if nothing else.

Bleoberis huffed and half-pointed at Merlin. “Right, but he’s got the same name.”

“It’s a family name,” Merlin replied. Several pairs of eyes moved to him, and he grimaced into his unwanted stew. “My mum’s uncle. That’s who she named me for.”

Leundugrance wobbled where he sat. “There’s another one of you? That’s three now. Where do you keep them all?”

Deadpan, Merlin told him, “In my pocket, my lord.”

“Ah.” This seemed to satisfy Leundugrance. “I should keep me in my pocket too. So I don’t get lost.”

Arthur tried hard not to smile, but it wasn’t a battle he could have won.

One of the servants leaned forward to timidly ask Merlin, “Old Myrddin’s your great uncle?”

Merlin shook his head without looking up. “I don’t know. My mum never told me names, even of her parents. Didn’t even tell me who my father was – Gaius did.” Under his breath, he muttered, “When he had to, anyway.” Merlin sucked in a cleansing breath and looked away.

With an apologetic look to Merlin, Arthur said, “It’s not in doubt anymore. Sir Geoffrey has known all along, and kept it secret. I secured his confirmation before your congratulatory dinner.”

“Congratulations!” Leundugrance crowed.

Merlin gave a false start at the outburst, and then cocked his head at Arthur, indignant. “You didn’t think to tell me that?”

“I should have. In all honesty, it slipped my mind.” Arthur shrugged. “There was a lot going on. And besides, much as I trust Sir Geoffrey, I’d much rather wait for a second confirmation before we all go destabilizing the royal order.”

“Or we could just forget all about it,” Merlin suggested with growing irritation. “Which I’d really prefer.”

“Right,” Marwen broke in, brow furrowed as he shifted on the ground to relieve what looked like numb buttocks. “What’s our Merlin’s rank, then, sire?”

Merlin groaned at the sky. “I don’t have one – I don’t want one – why is this even important?”

Marwen blinked. “You don’t think it’s important that you might be related to the king?”

“I’m not! I am a servant!” Merlin snapped. “What is so wrong with that?”

Arthur grasped his shoulder, a hard knob of bone beneath thick fabric, and squeezed a warning to calm down. No one needed to see Merlin lose his temper and worry that the big bad sorcerer might do something to them.

“He never wanted titles,” Leundugrance broke in forcefully. “I told your father that too, young man.” He wagged a finger at Arthur. “You should listen better.”

“Yes, Arthur,” Merlin agreed with cheer so false, it was hostile. “You really should listen better.”

Arthur squinted at him and frowned. While still attempting to glare Merlin into submission, he asked, “George, isn’t there somewhere quiet for my lord Leundugrance to relax?”

“We tried that, sire,” George replied, “and unfortunately nearly lost him again.”

“That’s why I should be kept in pockets!” Leundugrance bellowed. “You don’t lose things in pockets unless somebody steals them!”

“Of course, my lord.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Very wise. Merlin, maybe you have a sedative?”

Merlin dug a few knuckles into that spot above his ear where he still had the scar from falling off the path to the cauldron. “I’m not sedating a seventy year old man. He might never wake up, and then Leon would have to do the honorable thing and challenge me over it, and then you’d get in the way because you think I need defending, and we’d all end up stabbed.”

Arthur growled in frustration. “Right. Fine.”

Merlin grimaced and shoved his fingers into his forehead instead as if trying to alleviate a pressure inside his skull. “How does any of this even matter?” he demanded. He left off massaging his head to jab his hand out in supplication. “Why isn’t anyone having a wobbly that there’s been a sorcerer in the king’s household for over ten years?” Several of the nearest knights jumped when Merlin gestured outward with such force, and Merlin looked up at them afterwards as if confused by why they would do that. When it dawned on him, he shut his eyes with a long, defeated sigh, and tucked himself back to lean against the log that Arthur was sitting on. “For gods’ sakes, it’s not like I’m going to turn you into newts.”

Howel cleared his throat in what sounded like a painful manner, and then gave the knights nearest him a telling look of some kind. Arthur wished he knew what it meant – what they all may have planned and discussed before requesting this audience – but at least they subsided and tried to appear less on guard. In contrast, Gwaine drew his sword out with a cheerful smile and laid it at the ready across his knees. Arthur left his own sheathed, but he adjusted his belt for better access.

Leundugrance spun around on his stump to address a shrub. “I’d rather no one stab anything. It’s ever so messy.”

Arthur ignored the interruption. “Merlin makes a valid point. Isn’t his being here what this audience was for?”

“Oh, no,” Marwen laughed. “We settled that already.”

Arthur’s eyebrows climbed closer to his hairline. “I’m sorry, you settled that?” He looked to Gwaine, who shrugged but appeared suspicious. Arthur scanned through the other faces surrounding them and then demanded, “What does that mean?”

Mostly to himself, Leundugrance began singing, “Settle, nettle, kettle pot. Cut it on the chopping block…”

It was Lord Howel who spoke up, and for once, he looked as old as he was. “It means that you are our king, and we choose to follow you even when we don’t understand.”

Arthur let out a sarcastic laugh. “What, really? You disagree with almost every decision I make. At council, on campaigns, just a few hours ago today...”

“We cannot pick and choose which of your policies or decisions to follow based on our own whims.” Howel huffed a heavy and agitated breath, his eyes still roving over the ground as if scrying after a way to exit the entire situation. “What right have I to question my king? We chose to support you; we pledged as much at your coronation. I gave my unquestioning support to Uther before you, and he…” Howel bit his tongue and shot his hands a hateful glance. “I gave that to him. What right do I have now to question you, when you are not half the – ” Again, he cut himself off and scowled at his clenched fists.

Arthur blinked, curious. “Finish the sentence, my lord.”

“Raisins,” Leundugrance supplied.

Howel itched his nose rather violently, and said, “Not half the monster he was. He coveted what did not belong to him, and maybe it was love, and maybe even true, but it wasn’t his to take. And I helped him take it anyway. I helped an atrocity. I’ve no right to sit here and moralize now, when you make a decision opposite his. I lost that right when I set my own conscience aside for him.”

A few other knights nodded in agreement, though most of them avoided eye contact when they did it. Leundugrance thankfully fell to an abstract humming as he fluttered his fingers at the air in a complicated signal pattern.

Arthur glanced down to where Merlin sat feigning disinterest. He’d graduated to rubbing tiny circles at his temples. It was starting to worry Arthur, but other things took precedence. “Alright. Let’s say I believe that, for the moment. Why the audience, then?”

Sir Brennis, who sat the farthest away from Merlin, took that opportunity to enter the discussion. His reluctance showed clearly in his voice and manner, but he seemed united with the others, regardless. “We had thought, back at the hollow, that this was the first you knew of Merlin having magic. From what we overheard earlier, though, that’s not the case. You’ve known for some time. So, it wasn’t shock or fear of his retaliation that stayed your hand against him. And that got us thinking: why? How long have you known, and kept him?”

Arthur sucked at his teeth and nodded in acknowledgement of that. “Since my father died. Merlin tried to save him.”

A number of the knights scoffed, while the servants glared back at them from their positions like an honor guard around Merlin. Brennis actually laughed, though it was a mean sound. “You believe that a sorcerer wouldn’t be glad to see Uther dead? It’s more likely he ensured his death.”

“I asked him to heal my father,” Arthur snapped. More calmly, he added, “Merlin would do just about anything I asked of him, no matter his own feelings on the matter.”

Howel shook his head and told Arthur, “Yes, but your father still died, and you sound naïve.” Then he addressed Merlin, though he was less arrogant at the shift in focus. Perhaps he believed it to be some sort of tactic at self-preservation. “After everything that Uther has done to your people, why would you ever want to save him?”

Merlin glared back. “They aren’t my people.”

“Sorcerers and magic folk aren’t your people?” Howel snorted. “You’re a bad liar.”

“Am I?” Merlin shot back. There was a hint of vulnerability in the question, though, which made his retort less cold – less of a comeback, and more an honest question. “What have they ever done for me? Do you know what my first encounter with the old religion was? It was Nimueh conspiring to kill me.”

Leundugrance grunted. “Oh, I remember that. She wanted to put you in the cave, but you died first. Hateful witch.”

Merlin blinked at Leundugrance.

“You never saw it,” Leundugrance scolded. “All stars in your eyes whenever you looked at her. I’m surprised she didn’t break you like a horse.”

Gwaine choked on whatever he had in his flask and then tried not to dribble as he laughed. Merlin just looked horrified.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at Merlin. “What do you mean, she tried to kill you? I thought the questing beast was for me.”

Merlin glanced up at Arthur as if he’d forgotten he was there, and then decided to speak at his congealing stew. “Before that. I’d only just arrived in Camelot. I hardly knew what I was doing as a manservant; I certainly wasn’t a threat to her with magic, not right off. And she knew what I was; she even knew who I was. You’d think a priestess of the old religion would want to ally with a powerful sorcerer who’d infiltrated her enemy’s keep, wouldn’t you?”

It was interesting, this new information. Even in the vagueness of it, there seemed an important point, and of course, he already knew that Merlin killed her to balance the life debt she took against Arthur. But had there been a second motivation, or justification, for him to want her dead? “What did she do, exactly?”

“She got him all tingly, is what she did,” Leundugrance muttered. “I never liked her. Smiled with a turtle mouth.”

One of the huntsmen stood up and blurted, “Dice, my lord?”

Leundugrance glowered at him. “You’re not a turtle, are you? I won’t play with turtles.”

“No, my lord. No turtles.” The man hurried over with a series of mumbled apologies to Arthur, and thankfully occluded Leundugrance’s attention.

Arthur fought the urge to put his face in his hand. “Merlin? Answer the question please.”

Merlin shook his head, likely at the absurdity, and then fell to picking at the dirt beneath his fingernails. “Just…for argument’s sake, I have no idea what he’s talking about. There weren’t any caves on the island, and definitely nothing tingly except the lightning. I have standards.”

With a leer, Gwaine prodded, “Not a looker?”

“Only if you like tattered, murderous and insane.” Merlin drew a breath that he seemed to sorely need for his composure. “The cup that Bayard brought to the treaty signing – the morteus flower. She was the maid that went missing. I don’t think that poison was ever meant for you, sire. She orchestrated it so that someone would warn me, because she knew I’d intervene. She probably assumed I’d just be executed for endangering the peace; the fact I was forced to actually drink it myself must have made her day. And even if I hadn’t intercepted it, she wouldn’t have considered your death a great loss.” He frowned and looked down, then up again at Brennis and Howel. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? If Arthur is a fated king according to the old religion, why is every figurehead of it trying to kill him? If he’s destined to help magic folk, why are magic folk determined to paint him with the same brush as Uther?”

Arthur studied him for a moment. “You know I think those prophecies of yours are stupid.”

Merlin nodded without looking at him. “I’m not the one who made them; magic folk and people of the old religion told them to me. The point is that nearly all of those people, or creatures, or whatever that I come across make it clear that I’m their enemy. Magic has no love for me, or for Camelot. So what is it, exactly, that I owe them?”

Arthur watched Merlin watching Howel and Brennis, and then took a thoughtful breath. “That’s why you’ve repeatedly advised me not to accept magic in Camelot?”

Merlin nodded. “I’m supposed to keep you safe. They keep trying to stop me.”

For now, Arthur let the reminders of a wayward and doubtful destiny pass without comment, though the words left a chill in their wake. The way Merlin said them threatened to give pause. They came from Merlin the sorcerer. Merlin the killer in the shadows. Too cool. Too blunt. Besides, Arthur didn’t think that Merlin’s motives for advising against magic were as simple as all that, in the end. There had to be something else to it. “You didn’t always, though. There were times you advocated it.”

“Yes, well, I was gullible and stupid, wasn’t I.” Merlin threw him a dark look and then resorted to rubbing his head again. “I mean, who doesn’t want to be special? They tell a boy fifteen summers old – a fatherless bastard with no future – that he’s got some grand destiny – that he’s important, and no one else can do what he can, and he’ll stand with kings and save other people like him, people who are suffering, and that’s why he was born with magic – it wasn’t a fluke, and he’s not just some mistake, and there’s a reason for him. You think that boy won’t grab onto it with both hands? I could ignore one person, but it was every single bloody creature out there saying it.” He shook his head and let out a soft, distressed breath of sound. “I wanted so badly for it to be true.”

Marwen shook his head in sympathy. “Why can’t it be?”

“Because Camelot won’t change, and I don’t want it to anymore.” Merlin swallowed, his face pinched as he shifted to press a thumb between his eyes. “It’s too dangerous. Magic doesn’t want peace with this kingdom; it wants a war. I won’t give it that.”

“And that’s up to you, is it?” Marwen pressed.

Merlin finally dropped his hand and let it dangle between his knees so that he could look at Marwen. “You saw what I did. It’s not even the half of what I could do. You think I can’t just decide whether or not to let you lot have a war? Or bring in magic I don’t approve of?”

Marwen blinked at him a few times and then let his gaze slide off to the side.

Howel shifted in discomfort, glanced over to Lamorak and Brennis, and then pointedly avoided looking at Merlin too. “Now you sound like Myrddin.”

Merlin shot him a baleful look, but since Howel wasn’t gazing back, it ended up wasted. It was no effort for Arthur to gauge the mood of the men surrounding them; they all looked as if Merlin were an oily rag waiting to set the whole forest on fire around them.

In the hopes of moving away from that part of the conversation, disturbing as it was, Arthur cleared his throat and addressed the knights before him. “You say you’ve settled something, and that is ominous under the circumstances. I have to ask what all of you intend to do. This situation has grown beyond the matter of one incident in the forest.”

Howel drew an uneven breath, his eyes still fixed on the ground as if by design – and perhaps that was the case, exactly; sorcerers could do things with eye contact, couldn’t they? As if feeling his way forward in a corridor filled with snares, Howel directed himself to Arthur. “You said something at the hollow, sire. You offered to count Merlin’s good deeds, that I might find them…sufficient. I think, perhaps, that I would like to accept that offer, if it was genuine.”

Arthur blinked at Howel’s ear, then scanned the others as they nodded and murmured agreement. “I only know parts,” he admitted.

Bleoberis piped up with, “Then let Merlin advocate on his own behalf.”

“This isn’t a trial!” Arthur snapped. Never mind the fact that even if Merlin agreed to do it, then judging by the way this evening had gone so far, he’d probably frame everything to sabotage himself. 

“Isn’t it?” Howel asked, his voice false with innocent inquiry. “You have asked us to keep your counsel on the matter.”

Arthur sneered. “I was under the impression that you already agreed to that in the hollow. Did you lie?”

In at least a somewhat apologetic tone, Marwen replied to that. “We had no assurance he wouldn’t kill us too, unlikely as the possibility seemed.”

“This is not a settled matter at all,” Arthur realized. “You were just afraid to risk a further confrontation. Afraid of him.” Arthur held his hand down to indicate Merlin, and then flipped it to grab Merlin’s shoulder again when he jumped at the appendage that appeared in front of his face.

“As you say,” Howel agreed, his tone excessively sober. “It seemed wise in the hollow to deescalate the situation out of fear of further violence, until things could be properly assessed, and him safely dealt with. I, at least, thought that was what you were doing. Merlin is, after all, a sorcerer; we have every reason to believe that any attempt to harm him would lead only to our own deaths. We would have to take him unaware.”

Merlin sucked in a sharp and angry breath. “When have I ever harmed you? Any of you? You act like I’m a stranger.”

“My understanding,” Arthur cut in, squeezing at the tendons near the base of Merlin’s neck, “Is that Merlin primarily uses his magic for my sake. He may have used it to protect himself before, but I’ve not seen evidence that he kills for anything but my protection.”

Howel shook his head. “We have no way of knowing that. And neither do you, as you just admitted. To say that he might have killed before to protect himself only implies that he might kill any one of us for that same reason.”

“I didn’t say he killed to protect himself; I said that he may have used his magic for his own protection.”

“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?” Howel pressed.

“No,” Leundugrance snarled. He threw the dice at the poor huntsman and tottered up onto his feet. “You don’t get to do that again.”

Startled, Arthur stood as well, though he wasn’t sure what he might need to do. “My lord, can I help you with something?”

Leundugrance stalked past him as if he didn’t exist, and marched up to Howel. Once there, he shoved Howel with more strength than anyone might have expected from a man his age.

Taken off guard, Howel caught himself before he fell off of his log, but only barely. “My lord?”

“He already had a trial!” Leundugrance shouted in his face. “It was a bloody farce, and you all killed him!” He swiped an arm out to encompass the whole gathering, no matter that most of the men present had nothing to do with Myrddin’s death, and some weren’t even alive then. And that Merlin was a completely different man, but it didn’t seem like anyone else cared about that distinction. “You don’t get to do it again. He’s paid enough already for your lies, Howel!”

Merlin shot up to his feet and tried to get between the two men. “My lord, why don’t we go back to your dice game.”

“I don’t want to play dice; he has a turtle mouth. I don’t like turtles!” Leundugrance spun away, angry even if it carried an edge of his usual addled confusion. He spun back, though, as soon as Merlin made to herd him away in the direction he’d just been facing. “Why do you let them talk to you like that? Don’t you have any respect left for yourself?”

“They can talk to me however they like,” Merlin soothed, fluttering his hands nervously near Leundugrance’s arm. “I’m a servant.”

“You are not a servant!” Leundugrance shouted, and then he got up into Merlin’s face to hiss. “I know who you are; not in your pockets now, are you? You can’t fool me with your smooth face and your – your beard, it looks like a mangy beaver’s hide. I see you.” A disturbing stillness came over him and he squinted at Merlin. “Your eyes never change.”

Merlin’s throat moved as he worked to say something, and then he flicked his eyes back over to Arthur. “Handsy?”

It took Arthur a moment to understand what he meant, and then he nodded. “Please do.”

Merlin smiled kindly at Leundugrance, a genuine expression, and then told him, “Swefe nu.”

Leundugrance’s eyes rolled up as he lost consciousness and several of the men jumped to help catch him.

“See?” Merlin said in a curt aside to Howel. “I can protect myself without killing anyone.”

Roland, one of the younger and untried knights, abruptly snapped to attention. “Oh, god, that’s what happened.”

Arthur’s eyes snapped onto him. “What?”

“Not the time,” Merlin muttered. He managed to pass Leundugrance to two of the servants, who gently picked him up and maneuvered him away toward the pallet that George had made for him earlier.

“You put me to sleep,” Roland accused, disbelieving. Then he noticed the dawning comprehension on Arthur’s face and wheeled back. “I was drunk. Very drunk. Quite a feast, I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Merlin gave him a speculative look, and then also noticed Arthur. “I told you, nothing ever happened that I didn’t want.”

Gwaine appeared to be trying very hard to parse that out as he glared at Roland, but before he could, somehow, George was standing in the way. Arthur frowned at the servant’s odd stance, and then jumped as George punched Roland square in the nose.

“George!” Merlin grabbed his fist and gave it a cursory inspection before looking at his face as if he couldn’t comprehend what he’d just done.

“Oh,” Gwaine exclaimed, indecently pleased. “Now we’re getting to the fun part.”

George sniffed, prim and stuffy as he ever was. “I have seen you attempt to lay hands on Master Merlin, as well as many others, more than once. Your conduct is unbecoming, and you deserved that.”

Merlin just gaped at him.

Roland did too, but only long enough to recover his pride. “How dare you strike me!”

As Roland reared back, looking as if he intended to throw his own, much heartier punch, Arthur hurried onto his feet as well. He needn’t have bothered; Merlin inserted himself between the two men and held his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. His voice was anything but, though, when he warned Roland, “Don’t.” He regarded Roland warily from a sideways stance – the same one the knights used in training, protecting the unarmed flank. But it was a reluctant tone he used when he added, “Please, don’t.”

Roland breathed heavily, uncertain and still angry, but he looked Merlin in the eye and then backed down, hands open to surrender the moment. As he retreated, Arthur noticed what all of their bodies had blocked: Merlin’s hand held up between them, palm facing Roland in that odd warding gesture of his – the one that meant he intended to defend against something forcibly, by magic. Merlin stayed like that until Roland turned his back to stomp about the periphery of the gathering and cool his temper, and then Merlin’s whole frame bled tension like a severed artery.

As soon as Merlin dropped his hand, half a dozen knights also slowly lowered their swords. Arthur hadn’t even seen them draw, but it disturbed him, how quick they were to raise blades to a man they knew just because he happened to be a sorcerer. Merlin noticed this a few moments after Arthur, and he made a wounded sound before taking a breath and also physically backing down. Behind Merlin, also unobserved until after the fact, the remaining three servants lowered a gutting knife and two staves, respectfully, but their glares and their open distrust were for the knights who had drawn on Merlin. George himself had grabbed at Merlin’s surcoat at some point during the confrontation, and he smoothed the wrinkles he’d caused before Merlin snapped him a glare for touching him. Interesting, Arthur thought, how the servants seemed to declare in no uncertain terms whose side they were on. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Merlin was technically one of their own.

Arthur took a thoughtful breath to buy time, and glanced again at Merlin breathing hard in a backwash of unactualized antagonism as he returned to stand beside Arthur. Rather than address him right away, Arthur leaned so that he could see George past Merlin’s shoulder. “That’s not very like you.”

George appeared nervous to be spoken to after what he’d done, but he still pointed out, “You stated that this audience should not be concerned with rank. I acted accordingly.”

Merlin countered, “You can’t punch knights.”

“As you may recall from recent memory, I most certainly can.”

Gwaine snorted, and several men glared him into sheepish composure.

Bern shoved George’s arm. “Just tell them.”

“I will not.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Tell us what? Bern? George, you just struck one of my knights, unprovoked. Give me a reason to let it pass.”

George sighed and looked down, all of his stuffy poise trickling away like water. “It is not only Sir Roland. He was merely the one who is here now.”

“They take liberties, sire,” Bern interrupted, impatient. “And Master Merlin puts himself in the way, when he can. Gets them to bed where they won’t bother any of us anymore. They never realized, but we did. Especially those of us with sisters working in the castle. It’s safer for them now.”

Merlin cocked his head at Arthur and admitted, “That was less by design, and more that they annoyed me.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Bleoberis muttered, turning away. “He admits he uses magic on us just because we annoy him. How do we know sleeping spells is all he does?”

Merlin started to retort, but he probably knew as well as anyone that it was a fair question. He subsided with a sigh and turned away to press at his forehead again. “It’s not all I do,” Merlin conceded. “Pranks, sometimes. Untying boot laces, or moving things, or slinging pebbles. I know it’s petty, and it’s been a long time since I just…played with it. I was young when I came here, and magic just sort of spilled everywhere. I wanted to use it – I didn’t see the point of being alive if I couldn’t. It was just childish mischief. But I’m not trying to hurt anyone. Most of the time now, it’s chores or cleaning, or stopping someone tripping down the stairs. Keeping Geoffrey’s inkwells from drying out. Fixing Arthur’s breakfast when someone poisons it. Things no one will notice. I try to help.”

Arthur threw him a sharp look. “How often does that happen? The poison?”

Merlin shrugged. “Few times a year. The cooks handle it when it does; they mark everyone who comes in contact with your food, so they can usually tell who it is.”

“And why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”

Merlin’s shoulders hitched upwards, and then he looked at George. “I thought that was the way it worked.”

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. “Someone had better have a very good explanation for why I am not made aware of poisoners in my castle.”

“We handle it ourselves,” George replied, though he seemed uncertain of the wisdom of that now. “The servants and kitchen staff. We take care of it.”

“By what means?” Arthur demanded. “They could just keep coming back if they’re not properly dealt with. Tossing them out of the castle doesn’t stop anything.”

One of the huntsmen shrugged. “It does when you toss them out from a tower.” He twitched and then clarified, “Not that we do that. Just. None of them are coming back, is all.”

Arthur quirked an eyebrow and wished he could feel less shocked at this.

“I just want to say,” Merlin interjected, “I was not aware they were killing anyone.”

Howel rubbed his hands on his trousers and looked up from where he sat. “Why not involve the guard? There could be plots you aren’t aware of.”

George glanced at him, then to Merlin, and finally to the other servants arrayed protectively around them. “We worried they might reveal things to interrogators that might be better left unsaid.”

Before Arthur could do so, Merlin demanded, “What things?”

“With respect,” the other huntsman piped up, “it’s not a secret who tastes the king’s food. Everyone knows that if they want to get to him, they have to deal with Merlin first.”

Arthur blinked a few times, but a similar thought had crossed his mind before, that in order to make a credible attempt on his life, an assassin would need Merlin out of the picture first. He’d thought it rather strongly, in fact, after the incident with the Sarrum.

“I’m sorry,” Lamorak inserted. “Are you saying you believe that Merlin is the actual target of the poisoning attempts?”

“It crossed our minds,” the huntsman admitted. “He keeps the king safe, doesn’t he? He’s in the way every time someone makes a go at him.”

“I find that reasonable, actually,” Arthur agreed. “I’ve had similar suspicions in the past. The most serious attempts on my life seem to be made when Merlin is indisposed or missing. And I suspect that in at least some of those instances, it’s due to an attempt made first on his life.” He narrowed his eyes at Merlin. “You need a better excuse than fell down a ravine again.”

Merlin’s cheek twitched. “I’ll get right on that.”

Gwaine hummed where he stood behind Arthur. “Why does it matter if it’s Merlin they’re after? The ultimate target is still the king.”

The other two servants wandered back from settling Leundugrance in his slumber, and paused as they took in the current topic. They exchanged looks with George, Bern and the huntsmen before edging up into the group surrounding Merlin. The knights finally appeared to notice this split of loyalties, and they fell back into suspicious stances.

Finally, George swallowed and looked directly at Arthur. “We worried they might know he had magic, and that if interrogated, they would reveal it. We live our lives in corners, sire; we are supposed to be invisible. It is an advantage, of a kind; we see everything that happens on the castle grounds, but most people don’t see us.”

Merlin leaned away from George, an almost liquid curve to his body. “What are you on about?”

“We’ve seen you,” George announced. His bluntness could have carved like a blade. “We know why Camelot always seems to prevail over the darkest magic. It’s rarely to do with swords or knights, however competent and brave they are.”

Merlin absorbed that in silence and then carefully stepped out of the ring of servants. “I don’t know what you think I’ve been doing – ”

“I saw you in the courtyard with Sigan.”

Every pair of eyes focused on the poor man who had spoken, just a general laborer who did the heavy lifting around the stables and such. Arthur nodded and encouraged the laborer, “Go on.”

The man appeared to regret speaking, but he ploughed forward. “Sigan offered him the whole land to rule, and Merlin refused. He said he’d rather be a servant than rule with an evil man. So Sigan tried to possess him like he’d done that Cedric bloke, and Merlin just stood there and let him, and then put him back into the gemstone. Nobody even asked how he did it; they just sealed the thing back up underground. But that’s what I saw. And Merlin laughed after, like it was nothing. So I told my wife, and she talked to some of the maids. I wasn’t the first to notice things like that.”

Curious, Marwen asked, “What else have you noticed?”

“Can we not do this?” Merlin begged.

“My cousin is a washing maid,” the first huntsman offered. “She heard the Lady Morgana threaten him in the corridor. He knew about her before any of us. Nobody would’ve listened, but I bet he was planning anyway. Watching her.”

Merlin made a face at that. “I think you give me too much credit.”

The other huntsman contributed, “I heard he undid the magic that made Cenred’s army invincible.”

“He stopped the Great Dragon,” the last servant, until now silent, admitted. “Told it off. I heard Sir Leon tell the king about it just a few days ago.”

“He killed the traitor Agravaine,” the laborer put in. “That’s what everyone says.”

“And the griffin.”

“That was Lancelot,” Merlin protested.

“That was magic!” the other huntsman argued. “You can’t kill a griffin without magic.”

“Brought my brother’s kid ‘special’ medicine when she was sick. Made her all better in a day, but we swear she was dying.”

“Head cook says her girls never scar from burns since Merlin’s been treating them.”

“He fixed my gran’s garden. It was all in blight and he just smiled and said to check it in the morning.”

“I saw him polishing the king’s armor at night, and he spelled it. Nothing gets through it now.”

“It’s your battle armor,” Merlin hurried to explain. “Not your tournament armor. I wouldn’t help you cheat; you’d hate me.”

Gwaine pouted at him. “How come you never spelled my armor? I thought we were friends.”

Merlin put his face into his hands and growled, “I spelled all the battle armor, alright? Everyone’s. Just…stop, please, all of you?”

A few of the knights fingered certain pieces of their gear and frowned. Gwaine jabbed hard at his wristguard with the hilt of his boot knife, and then crowed when it wouldn’t even scratch the metal, much less dent it.

Arthur felt as if his eyebrows might actually climb clear off of his skull, and asked the servants, “How long have you all been covering for him?”

No one seemed inclined to answer that, so he turned to find Merlin crumpled down on the log that Arthur had previously occupied, twisting his fingers together in his lap. “We really don’t need to do this,” Merlin pled.

Howel countered, “We have a right to know, if you expect us to keep quiet too.”

Arthur’s eyes cut briefly to Howel, but as the knights seemed to be backing down again and resuming their seats, albeit uneasily, he let it go. He was more concerned at the anxious clench of Merlin’s limbs. The last time Arthur tried to address Merlin’s past deeds, the man nearly bolted from the practice field. Secrets were an anxious thing, and Arthur understood. None of the other men present did, though, and even while Arthur rejected the idea that they had a right to ask for these things, he understood why they felt entitled to know. Merlin’s silence would be suspicious – would look like he had things to hide. And he did, obviously – so many things to hide that he was nearly consumed already. But this demand felt like an intrusion, and not against Merlin. Arthur felt as if they intruded on his own privileges as king, and as Merlin’s…something not-quite-only king. These things, these secret deeds, were Arthur’s to covet, weren’t they? Merlin promised them to him. He couldn’t help feeling that no one else had a right to insist that Arthur cede that privilege to them too.

“Secrets,” Gwaine mused softly, “are insidious things.”

Arthur looked over at him as he sat back down, curious at the tone he took. A rustling from his other side betrayed Merlin doing the same.

“They’re a great beast,” Gwaine continued, rolling his uneaten apple around in his hand. “A beast that feeds on silence until it grows so large that a man can’t see past it anymore. And he doesn’t know why, because he can’t see the beast. He can only hear the silence he keeps.”

No one said anything for a few heartbeats, and then one of the junior knights asked, “Gwaine, are you drunk?”

“No,” Gwaine replied. But then he frowned and leaned over to snag his flask back from where Arthur had put it. A quick jiggle confirmed that it was empty. “Eh, not very.”

Arthur’s mouth fell open. “How did you drink that? I was practically sitting on it.”

Howel scoffed. “No one asked for drunken poetry.”

And there went the forced calm; Arthur could practically feel the veneer evaporate from the gathering.

“No one asked for a traitor either,” Gwaine snapped. “Maybe we should hear your secrets, too, so that we can judge your worth. Gorlois might appreciate that.”

Rather than the expected outrage, Howel paled and fell silent.

Gwaine showed his teeth. It was probably a smile. Not a very nice one though. “You’re worse than a secret sorcerer. You betrayed an ally. You’re not in any position to judge.”

“I obeyed my king,” Howel protested, though it came out thin like sewing thread.

“And that helps you sleep at night, does it?”

Howel’s face made a complicated series of movements. “It used to.”

Gwaine let his teeth stay out. Everyone else shifted around a bit, and several of the knights appeared uncomfortable.

Arthur held up a quelling hand before Howel could consider taking proper offense to all of this, unlikely as it seemed. “Look, I know that it took a lot for all of you to open this topic calmly. And Merlin has been more honest than he needed to be in answering your inquiries so far. But this isn’t a trial.” He glanced briefly at Merlin, who was watching him again. “Let him keep his dignity. You already have enough to think about.”

Sir Bleoberis looked around for a moment at the loosely assembled group. “Are we really doing this, then? Are we giving harbor to magic?”

Merlin dropped his gaze and fiddled with his cuffs where they covered his wrists.

Marwen rocked back on his log. “I think we have to. Don’t you? All issues aside, Merlin’s always been our good luck charm, and now we know why. If he’d wanted Camelot destroyed, all he had to do was stand aside and let it happen, no?”

“But we still don’t know all that he’s done,” Brennis reminded them. “Ten years, he’s had at court. And he said himself that he’s used magic on people without them knowing. Do we really believe that pranks and naps are all he did to any of us? We are essentially being asked to accept a sorcerer without knowing his deeds, or his motivations, save one: today. And that one reflects poorly.”

Before Arthur could snap a reply, Lamorak put up his finger for attention. “In fairness, as a servant, while he tends not to know his place very well, Merlin has always been most cognizant of Arthur’s wellbeing. And how much explanation does he really owe a hostile congregation?”

Brennis made a derisive sound. “We are indebted for our lives, and have no other information from which to draw our opinions of that. One good deed is not sufficient, especially if it’s the only one.”

Gwaine stopped picking at his teeth and asked, “Would you rather he took it back? Maybe you can base your opinion on that.”

With a frustrated sigh, Merlin knuckled his forehead and grimaced. “I’m not taking anything back. This discussion is pointless.”

Visibly angry, Bern objected, “We’ve given you a list of deeds, my lord. Are they not good enough either?”

Brennis jabbed his finger at Bern. “And this! Servants conspiring to hide a sorcerer. This doesn’t trouble anyone? How many are part of this insurrection?”

“It is not an insurrection,” George snapped, crisp as snow. “Unless wanting Camelot safe is now treason.”

“Harboring magic is treason,” Bleoberis pointed out.

The first huntsman sneered, “Which treason is worse, then? Harboring magic, or making damn sure Camelot is defenseless against its worst enemies? You can’t have both.”

Lamorak frowned, but manfully interrupted the argument to scold them all. “Squabbling like this won’t solve anything. There are valid points and lapses of judgement on both sides; let us accept that truth and move on.” He dismissed them all by the simple expedient of turning his back on them to address Arthur. “I have questions of my own which I would like put to rest. We overheard much of your exchange earlier – the louder parts, of course. And you were close enough for us to see you still. We should be clear about that.”

“And?” Arthur prompted, fighting the urge to be obnoxious or defensive about it. He didn’t even want to know what most of that looked like to outsiders.

“And,” Lamorak accommodated, “I should like to know if you are controlling him through potions or enchantments.”

Arthur blinked, and in his periphery, Merlin’s head came up quickly. “I’m sorry,” Arthur nearly stuttered. “But, what?”

“I want to know if you have enslaved him somehow,” Lamorak pressed, completely unaffected by his own words. “You forced something on him earlier, some kind of elixir or potion, and he seemed more docile after that – perhaps sedated. I want to know if you have him enchanted or otherwise bound to you by force. It would explain a lot.”

George choked on something unrelated to stew, while Merlin just stared with his eyebrows hiked up a bit and muttered, “Well, that’s new.”

Arthur worked his jaw a few times, aiming for outrage, and then finally just sputtered, “No! What kind of man do you think I am?”

Without even a moment’s hesitation, Lamorak replied, “Uther’s son.”

Merlin shook his head, hand held up against Lamorak as if to bar his words. “That’s not fair.”

“Yes, it is,” Arthur replied, watching Lamorak. “It is fair.”

“Arthur – ”

“Any enchantments Merlin might suffer from are none of my doing,” Arthur told Lamorak, tone measured and cold. “He is not slave to my will through anything but choice, and even then, you know he never really does what he’s told.” Arthur let the corner of his mouth twitch at the old joke, but not enough to detract from the seriousness of the accusation that was just made.

“And the potion,” Lamorak pressed, not really mollified. “You forced it into his mouth – we all saw that he didn’t trust it.”

Arthur pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth and glanced to Merlin for some kind of permission. It wasn’t his secret to tell, after all. He would refuse to answer if that were Merlin’s choice on the matter.

Merlin’s chest expanded with his breath as he looked back at Arthur and then out into the group of semi-hostile, suspicious men. In a small voice, he admitted, “I have fits. The potion is just an oil extracted from a rare plant. It’s supposed to prevent them getting worse.”

Lamorak made a speculative sound and finally dropped his eyes to his hands. “By worse, you mean convulsive fits? The falling sickness?”

“The Romans called it that. Yes,” Merlin replied. Though he sounded meek, he didn’t avoid looking at Lamorak even as Lamorak avoided looking back.

“I see,” Lamorak hummed. “You were born with this affliction? Perhaps it is related to the magic you wield, or the…Seeing?”

“No.” Merlin kept on staring at Lamorak as if this were some kind of challenge that Lamorak refused to meet. “It’s due to injury.”

Arthur felt compelled to clarify, “Multiple injuries, all sustained in defense of Camelot.”

Lamorak nodded at his clasped hands. “In that case, I apologize for forcing your confidence. It wasn’t my business.”

Merlin nodded, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he finally directed his gaze elsewhere. “Why ask in the first place?”

“Concern,” Lamorak replied.

“For what?” Merlin pressed.

“Because some of what we overheard was troubling.” Lamorak finally looked at Merlin, which Merlin apparently hadn’t expected because he startled briefly at the directness. “That you don’t want to do ‘this’ anymore, but cannot stop. That you believe yourself incapable of leaving Arthur’s side, as if you are bound. That you have no choice in what you do. And that leaves aside the absurd claim, from a sorcerer, that Camelot’s stance against magic is correct, and should be enforced against you.” Lamorak let out an unhappy gust of a sigh, and swiveled to face the rest of the men. “I am no longer in doubt. Merlin could very well be the most dangerous sorcerer we’ve ever met, and he is obviously confused as to his own best interests. But I am convinced that he is what he says: loyal to Arthur and to Camelot.”

Brennis scowled. “He could be influencing any one of us to sympathy right now. He’s a sorcerer.”

Merlin grumbled nastily under his breath and picked up his half-eaten stew cup as he stumbled to his feet. He then leaned over to retrieve Arthur’s bowl as well, even as George tried to protest that Merlin shouldn’t be doing servants’ chores anymore. Arthur blamed that distraction for the fact that he didn’t notice Merlin’s other hand reaching for Arthur’s sword belt until it was too late to stop him drawing Excalibur without injuring himself. “Merlin!”

Merlin paced straight to Brennis and held the sword out, hilt first. “It was forged in a dragon’s breath. Not much else could actually kill me, I think. Or at least, not for long.”

Arthur toppled up onto his feet and froze just behind Merlin. “Merlin, give my sword.”

“Go on,” Merlin taunted, ignoring Arthur. “If you’re so certain. I won’t even try to stop you.”

Arthur shifted his focus to Brennis. “Take that sword and I will kill you with my bare hands.”

“I could be making him say that,” Merlin pointed out. “Clever, isn’t it?”

“You’re not that clever,” Arthur snarled back at him.

Brennis’s gaze flickered back and forth between the two of them, searching and abruptly unsettled to be put on the spot like this. Finally, he focused on Merlin. “Not for long?”

“Mm.” Merlin smiled, but it was an oddly void thing cracked across his face like that. “My heart stopped from the morteus poison. Nobody tells that part. Gaius was too late with the antidote, but somehow, I’m still here. The Dorocha touched me, but I didn’t die – really, was no one even a little bit curious about that?” Merlin took a moment to twist his upper body back to look at Arthur and Gwaine, both staring anxiously at him in return. “No? And you call me daft.” He faced forward again and shook the hilt at Brennis, who appeared to be reconsidering his life choices to date. “Stung by a Serkhet – still have the scar from that one. I don’t recommend it. Oh, almost forgot!” Merlin sort of giggled but it wasn’t a nice sound. “Nimueh!” He tapped that place over his chest in a gesture reminiscent of the absent one that indicated an oncoming fit, or something else amiss. It only just occurred to Arthur that it was the location of the old burn scar. “My memory of it’s a bit fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure she killed me the second time she tried too. Wouldn’t have turned her back on me otherwise. Her mistake.” Merlin’s face turned hard and chipped, and his voice bitten. “There might have been other times; I can’t always tell.”

Arthur took a calming breath, which proved a fruitless effort. “Merlin, give me back my sword.”

“It’s not technically your sword,” Merlin informed him. “You’re just borrowing it.”

Apropos of nothing, Arthur realized, “Your hand is shaking.”

“Come on, Sir Brennis.” Merlin tilted his head and smiled, and it looked simultaneously just like, and nothing like Merlin’s regular old self – the one from before Guinevere died. Hell, the one from long before even that, before the bitterness took hold. Or maybe it was like Morgana told him – not bitterness but despair. Either way, all of that seemed lifted now, and it didn’t give Arthur a pleasant feeling to see it in this context.

Brennis awkwardly shoved himself backwards off of the stump and stood up, then shook his head and backed away another step. “Oh,” he said, stupidly.

Merlin blinked at him, sword hilt still extended in offering, and then he frowned. “I’m a sorcerer. You can’t trust me.”

Arthur crept a hand into the crook of Merlin’s elbow and angled him away from Brennis. With his other hand, he plucked Excalibur from Merlin’s fingers. He was surprised, actually, that it wasn’t more of a fight. Merlin blinked at him, languid, and then gathered himself with a huff before pulling his arm from Arthur’s grip and walking away from the group entirely.

As George broke from his own paralysis to follow, Arthur snagged his arm. “Take Gwaine with you. Just in case.”

George nodded, and Gwaine seemed to welcome any activity at all to cover how he appeared to have nearly had a stroke. A few of the knights sagged where they stood or sat in relief. Arthur clenched his sword in a white-knuckled hand but kept his feet. A gentle bit of air wafted past, carrying a hint of magic on it.

Brennis sank back onto his stump breathing hard. “I believe you,” he told Arthur out of nowhere.

Howel frowned. “What are you on about? Did he do something to you?”

Brennis nodded and rubbed his heart as if its speed pained him. “He tried to make me take it. I could feel… He tried to insist. It was… If I really thought he was a danger to Arthur, then… Was that a test?” Brennis looked around at the faces of the other knights. “Was he testing me?”

“I think he was testing himself,” Lamorak said. He plodded slowly past in an arc that didn’t quite reach the threshold of pacing. “Sir Brennis appeared the most hostile. A songbird in a mine.”

Arthur nodded and breathed, open-mouthed and shallow. He tried not to think about the fact that Merlin’s eyes hadn’t shown magic at work. Was he capable of hiding even that tell? Or had he not realized he was doing it?

Lamorak paused beside Arthur. “Why does he seem to think that magic should be shunned? If everything you’re saying is true, and he is on our side, then why does he not advocate its acceptance into Camelot once again?”

In a bid toward calming down, Arthur licked his lips and used the edge of his leather overcoat to wipe off the smudged blade of his sword just to give his hands something to do. “In part, I believe, because his experience of it is limited in much the same way that ours is. He has spent his adult life in Camelot, watching it used mainly to curse or kill, or turn his friends to darkness. He has personally found it to be treacherous or manipulative. And he worries that he cannot control it.”

“And is he so powerful as that?” Lamorak asked. “That he would think it safer for us to save ourselves by his execution now, rather than risk us being unable to stop him later, should he turn?”

Arthur sighed, but the men arrayed around him, expecting an answer, had already seen and heard enough to be wary. “Yes. Even Merlin doesn’t know how far his power extends; he’s never tried to find the limit of it. And he’s stupidly loyal. It wouldn’t be the first concerted effort he’s made to die for me.”

Marwen shook his head and laughed. “How did you find him? The one sorcerer who doesn’t want to raze Camelot to the ground?”

“I don’t actually think he’s the only one,” Arthur objected. “But in any case, I didn’t find him. It’s true that his mother sent him here to be Gaius’s apprentice. And he was that. Everything happened exactly as it seemed. He got into a fight with me in the marketplace because he didn’t like my attitude, spent some time in the stocks – which he seemed to enjoy far too much, actually – defeated the Collins witch to save my life, and then my father gave him to me as a manservant. I’m surprised he stuck with it, to be honest. Back at the beginning, I tried to sack him every other week. He just ignored me after a while, kept coming back the next morning.”

Lamorak grunted in disapproval of the amusement that seemed to have crept into the discussion. “He seems not to care if we harm him. Does he think we can’t? Because that kind of ego is dangerous.”

Arthur slipped his sword back into his belt with a grimace. “He was trying to provoke you. Normally, he’s less…you know. Dark. Not like a proper sorcerer. Backtalking, bumbling Merlin really is closer to who he actually is. It’s been a difficult time, though; he’s not handling Gaius’s death well.” Among other things.

“Ah.” Lamorak nodded and finally unwound, his arms falling to his sides where he hooked his thumbs into his sword belt. “That makes sense; Gaius practically raised the boy to his manhood after he left his mother’s skirts. It strikes a man hard to lose a father figure. I was a mess when mine passed; picked fights with anyone who so much as turned their nose toward me. Still, he seems more angry than I would expect.”

“He blames himself,” Arthur told him softly enough not to carry to wherever Merlin had gone. “His weakness, I imagine. He was laid up after a fit when Gaius’s heart seized. If it weren’t for that debility, he thinks he could have saved him.”

Lamorak made a contemplative sound. “Guilt like that isn’t healthy.”

“No,” Arthur agreed. “But Merlin is like that. He takes things onto his conscience and refuses to let them go.”

Brennis still appeared shaken where he sat. “What was all of that about your sword being the only thing that can kill him?”

Arthur shrugged. “Playacting? As I said, he was trying to provoke all of you.”

“I don’t think so.” Marwen scuffed a fallen log back into one of the fires and then resumed his seat nearby. “It’s more likely to do with the idea of mortal blades. I spent much of my youth in the hill country where the old religion still has some sway. It’s like griffins – a creature of magic cannot be killed by a mortal blade. We already know that Arthur’s sword is imbued with some kind of magic, just from the manner in which he obtained it. It can, therefor, be used to kill magical creatures that would otherwise be impervious even to the sharpest sword. We’ve seen that, actually, from Excalibur.”

With a confused look, Bleoberis asked, “Did he literally mean a dragon forged it?”

Arthur tried to appear nonchalant, but considering he’d met the Great Dragon, that could have been a literal statement. Thankfully, no one seemed to need that answer just then, and treated it as rhetorical.

Speculative, Marwen inquired, “Is it true that a Dorocha touched him, and he lived?”

“Yes.” Arthur didn’t like to think of that. The relief that Merlin hadn’t been killed didn’t erase seeing him nearly frozen and croaking like a dead thing. He’d been saving Arthur that time too, and then after he recovered, he chased after Arthur and tried to step into his place yet again. Arthur hated how grateful he was that Lancelot got there first.

“At the risk of being indelicate,” Marwen continued, “are we sure he’s human? Only, if he were, that would have killed him, magic or no. The Dorocha are said to siphon it when they’re near. That’s why they were so feared in the old days. Magic doesn’t work in their presence, like they brought the void with them from beyond the veil. Like any of the rest of us, other than with a torch, he’d be helpless against them.”

Arthur nodded because of course he had played that memory over a dozen times and wondered if his eyes had merely tricked him – if it hadn’t actually touched Merlin, merely gotten too close. But he knew more now, had seen enough, and he had the words of others to consider too. It wasn’t one of the topics he would entertain here, though; it seemed too personal somehow, and rude to call a man fae behind his back. “It’s quite late, and we need to make an early start. Are we going to be able to settle this?”

Brennis appeared to have to force himself to ask, “What will you do if we can’t?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur admitted. “But I won’t let you kill him. Any of you. You will have to go through me to try, and through Gwaine as well, and probably all of them.” He nodded at the five remaining servants, who appeared nervous at the prospect, but still tipped their heads in agreement.

Bleoberis seemed to consider that before asking, “What are you going to do when we get back to Camelot?”

“Nothing,” Arthur replied. “I want this treated as if it never happened.”

Lamorak raised his head, his face set in disapproval. “Is that fair to Merlin? He did save our lives, and he removed a threat to Camelot besides. Those Saxons were too heavily armed for a mere farming settlement; it was almost certainly an advance party. Anyone else would be publicly praised for that service.”

“How many of you honestly would have killed him in the hollow?” Arthur returned. “Or here, afterwards? In his sleep, over his meal, convinced you were saving me?”

Everyone mumbled general denials, but most of them did eventually raise their hands. The rest looked as if they knew they were lying when they didn’t, including Lamorak.

“And you think I’d be stupid enough to flounce back to Camelot openly with a sorcerer at my side?”

“It seems dishonest not to,” Lamorak protested, but it sounded weak. “Merlin could do so much, given the chance.”

“Merlin would be miserable,” Arthur countered. “I don’t think you understand the toll that hiding this long has taken. I’m not sure any of us really can. He’s made a falsehood of his own life just so that we’ll let him keep breathing. Forcing him into the open would be cruel. You’ve heard everything he said here. He can’t handle that right now.”

Lamorak took a measured breath and glanced around. He nodded to a few men – knights and servants alike – in a manner that suggested they’d discussed this possible resolution before asking for the audience, and wanted to confirm that they were all in agreement now. “Alright,” Lamorak announced. He faced Arthur again. “Then we’re with you on this. It never happened.”

Arthur stared for a moment too long, convinced his ears had misinterpreted that.

“He’s terrifying,” Lamorak allowed, with a shrug as if to acknowledge the obvious. “And some of the things he said here frighten and concern me. But there are worse men, and if you are going to insist on us accepting a sorcerer into our midst, I’m grateful it’s him. I have every confidence that he’d steal your sword and fall on it to prevent bringing harm to you, if not to Camelot in general. And it’s a fair point that if he’s been protecting the kingdom from magic all this time, as they say – ” Lamorak indicated the servants still sheltering together behind Arthur. “ – then it might be down to him that Camelot still stands at all. He couldn’t have been doing that for praise; it would have gotten him killed to be known for it. I have to give credit to the selflessness of that.”

Arthur let out a breath that felt like it had gone stale from languishing so long in his lungs. “Thank you. I want you to know that I understand the difficulty, and that I am very grateful for your forbearance.” Arthur shifted his glance to include everyone. “All of you.”

Bleoberis made a face at the ground and then put his palm out. “Lord Howel, you’ve not agreed.”

Howel hadn’t moved or spoken in some time, actually, and Arthur perked up at the reminder of his presence. “My lord, you have additional concerns?”

“Not as such,” Howel replied. He studied his hands as he spoke, wrinkled and trembling. Howel was a hard man, a former soldier, and still hale. He opposed Arthur at what seemed like every opportunity on the council, unapologetic and borderline treasonous at times. And yet his hands shook as he spoke. “I have made mistakes, sire. What I did…to Gorlois… In the end, it led directly to the purge. And I have told myself for over thirty years now that it wasn’t my fault, that what happened would have happened with or without my action, but that’s a lie. I paved the way for it. I helped Uther murder entire families, noble and peasant alike, and I helped make an enemy for Camelot that until me, didn’t exist.” He raised his eyes under heavy brows and looked at Arthur. “After all of that, a sorcerer still thought my life worth saving. I have had a lot of time tonight to listen, and to ask myself why. And I still can’t answer that.” He shook himself and broke eye contact. “I used to look at you, Arthur, and see a boy pretending to fill the shoes of his father. It infuriated me – an incompetent, soft man assuming the mantle of king, talking about peasant rights and clemency. Shunning alliance with a powerful neighbor and instead wedding the penniless daughter of a disloyal blacksmith. And then today, in the hollow, I looked at you protecting a sorcerer, with no weapon of your own, and it struck me why you never seemed right in your father’s shadow.” He looked at Arthur again, eyes open with sorrow. “You never knew your uncle Aurelius. It’s been a long time since he passed, many years before your birth. He appeared soft and academic too, at first glance. He spoke of clemency and inclusion, and it was only when crossed that a man realized too late: he was not soft at all. He united the armies and kingdoms of this land in a way that your father never could, and that nearly didn’t survive his murder. I realized today, something that’s been niggling beneath my notice for years. How like him, you are, Arthur. Not your father. You are something Uther could never be.”

Arthur swallowed, but he didn’t know how he was supposed to react to that. He knew almost nothing of his uncle, save for the connection to Merlin. And even when delivering profound words, Howel came off as a bit of a dick, so it was hard to have a genuine response when half of Arthur’s initial inclination was to punch him.

When Arthur made no effort to comment, Howel went on. “I know Merlin’s family. I knew his great uncle. You didn’t say it, but Merlin is of the house of Dyfedd – not the bastard side of it, but the official line. He’s royal – those titles were never revoked. That’s why you want a second confirmation – because through marriage and your uncle’s indiscretion, he’d be your next of kin.”

A few of the knights exchanged pointed looks and shifted, but they didn’t interrupt.

Arthur glanced aside as well, and then back to Howel. “Yes. I found that out by chance, by the way. Merlin didn’t angle for anything. He didn’t know.”

Howel nodded. “He is remarkably uninterested in his proper station, now that I think to look. The ambition isn’t there.”

“No, it’s not,” Arthur agreed. “He wants to stay as he is.”

“He has a claim to your throne, should you be killed.”

“And yet he’s determined not to let me die.”

Howel nodded. “To the detriment of us all.” He looked down briefly, and then straightened decisively. “I agree with the rest. Merlin is…complicated. But I don’t see the malice I thought was there. If all that you require is my silence, then I can honestly say that I have long experience giving that.” He squared his shoulders, and like the rest, announced, “This never happened.”

Arthur didn’t know what to say, but something in his chest swelled as he looked around the small gathering and realized that these men – all of these men – were with him. They supported his position, and in full knowledge, they agreed to protect Merlin’s secret too. When freely given the choice, this is the one they made: mercy to a sorcerer; acceptance of magic. Even Howel, who never endorsed any of Arthur’s propositions without weeks of fighting tooth and nail to discredit his wisdom, agreed. He genuinely agreed.

“This is a moment,” Arthur said softly, “that I hope may one day be repeated on a larger scale. Merlin is not the only good sorcerer out there. Camelot could benefit from them.”

“Until that time,” Lamorak replied. “We will stand by you when it comes.”

Marwen also nodded. “May it be within our lives.”

Howel stood up and straightened his spine. “And may we also find mercy from those we wronged, as there are many of them.”

Still visibly shaken, Brennis also pushed himself up onto wobbling legs. “And when our conviction is tested, may we have the wisdom to see and act justly.”

Roland shook his head where he stood leaned against a tree, still separated after his earlier outburst, but he said, “May we be better men in future than we have been.”

Bleoberis swallowed, but stood tall. “And may our fear not lead us down the same path again.”

A few others echoed various of the pledges made, but even those who remained silent somehow made their solidarity clear. Arthur watched them draw close and strong, and reinforce their resolve with the convictions of their brothers in arms, and even as equals with servants. It was a moment that Arthur didn’t think he would ever forget. He had started this evening tense and nearly hopeless. And here were his men, demonstrating something that Arthur didn’t realize he had lost. Or maybe, something he never had in the first place. Something that Merlin had tried to show him, back before the bitterness and the loss. Something that Guinevere shared with him every day of their acquaintance, even though Arthur couldn’t understand it or where it came from.

Hope.

And faith.

* * *

~TBC~

Chapter 13

Notes:

(No flashback this time, and a short chapter, but I think it stands on its own on both counts.)

Arthur ducked under a few low-hanging tree branches and headed in the direction of the horses they still had. The narrow path led down from the main campsite to a stone basin that collected water straight from the well spring. From there, a thin stream poured over the basin’s rim and into the pond, which was itself only ten feet across and hardly deserving of the title. Nothing much lived in it aside from frogs and biting insects. Thankfully, this time of year, both were dormant. Arthur watched his footing as he navigated the rocky trail.

Gwaine’s entire body tightened as Arthur came into view, but he relaxed again once he recognized Arthur winding down toward the space he had claimed in a ringed wall of stones just below the aquifer. “What’s the word, then?” Gwaine asked, just above a whisper. “Me and George, we’re ready to take him and go, whether he wants to or not.”

Arthur kept his steps light, and crouched down beside Gwaine without answering right away. “Is he asleep?”

“Got him to take something for his head.” Gwaine kept his hand covering Merlin’s ear where he was using Gwaine’s thigh as a pillow. “Knocked him out though. Not sure he meant that.”

“Mm.” Arthur grasped Merlin’s shoulder and rubbed his thumb over the muscle hidden beneath the thick fabric of the surcoat. “It’s alright; he needs the rest.”

Gwaine studied Arthur carefully, even with his free hand grasping tightly at the sword at his side. “Then… It’s good news? We don’t have to run?”

Arthur let his lips curve as he watched the steady rise and fall of Merlin’s chest. “They’re with us,” he breathed, still in mild disbelief at the turn this night had taken. “All of them. They’ll keep his secret.”

Gwaine made an odd huff, as if he meant to laugh and didn’t make it that far. “And you believe them?”

“Yes, I think I do.” Arthur took a deep breath, something loosening in his chest as he did so. “You know, I think this is the first time I’ve actually wondered if he may be right? All of his silly prophecies. Unifying the kingdom. Bringing an age of peace. I could never see it before. Maybe this is how it starts.”

With a frankly dubious look, Gwaine asked, “Did you sneak something out of my flask while I wasn’t looking?”

“As if you left any to share.” Arthur shoved back to his feet as George and another of the nameless servants approached. “What are you called, then?” he asked the one he didn’t know.

The servant slowed, suspicious, but still walked all of the way up to him. “Wes, sire.”

“Wes.” He accepted the cup held out to him. “What’s this?”

It was George who answered. “Wine, sire. Not the best variety, but there’s enough for everyone to have a cup.”

“I poured yours myself,” Wes added. “No one else touched it.”

Arthur wondered if his smiling face were so unusual as to be the cause of Wes’s wariness. “Thank you. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Sire.” Wes sketched a bow and then backed away as if he weren’t certain what to make of the politeness either.

“Careful,” Gwaine ribbed him. He took his own cup from George. “They’re going to think Merlin spelled you to be nicer.”

“Oh, shut up.” Arthur swallowed half the little cup in one go and then asked George, “Do we have bedrolls, or are we sleeping rough tonight?”

“We’ve enough blankets for everyone,” George replied. He bent down briefly to check Merlin over – breathing, pulse, and then a brusque straightening of clothes to be certain of comfort. It was a strange thing to Arthur, even though he knew it must happen all the time – a servant’s care. Arthur knew that Merlin did it for him, when he thought Arthur was too far asleep to notice. George satisfied himself and stood up. “Most of the men are bedding down already.”

“Good.” Arthur stretched out the kinks that tension had placed in his back, and a few vertebrae cracked as they realigned and let loose. There was already a hint of dawn glowing low to the east, and Arthur knew he’d just end up worse for it if he bothered to sleep now. “I’ll keep a watch. You lot should get a few hours in while you can.”

George gave him a hesitant nod. “If you’re certain, sire?”

“Yes, just drop off some blankets for us and then get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

A shadow of pride flickered across George’s face. “Thank you, sire. I’ll bring them over right away.”

Gwaine shifted in discomfort as George made his way back to the horses and supplies. “My leg’s asleep. Help a guy out?”

“Mm.” Arthur polished off the last sip of wine and set the cup aside. “Give him here, then.”

Between them, they managed to shift Gwaine out of the way so that Arthur could take his place without waking Merlin, not that he seemed likely to stir. He was practically deadweight. With the blankets that George delivered back to them, it was almost cozy, even if Arthur didn’t intend to sleep.

Once George left again, Gwaine rolled himself up in his cape a few feet away with his sword at hand and the blanket bunched up as a pillow. Then he let loose a great sigh. “I don’t trust them,” he admitted.

“Do you trust anyone?” Arthur wondered.

Cryptically, Gwaine replied, “You know who I trust.” He shifted around and grunted as he tried to find a comfortable spot in the underbrush. “Do you think he meant it? What he said about himself back there?”

The absent smile faded from Arthur’s face, and he looked down at the dark head of hair in his lap. “In a way, yes. Camelot has not been kind to him.”

“No.” Gwaine rolled the other direction, facing out toward where the rest of the knights were still making noise and murmuring amongst themselves. “I don’t like that he might want to be dead. It breaks my heart.”

Arthur sifted his fingers through Merlin’s hair. “I should have listened to you before. You tried to warn me it would kill him. Being here. In my kingdom.”

Gwaine shifted around and finally found a position that pleased him, to judge by the happy grumble that answered that. “You had to see it for yourself. He hides things from you.”

“I know.” Arthur looked up at the trees, and then away toward the nascent dawn. “I wish Guinevere were here. She’d have seen it sooner.” He cursed the unexpected sentiment, and the resultant tears that occluded his view of the forest. He hadn’t meant to say that – hadn’t even realized he was thinking it. Under his breath, he swore, “Dammit.” His chest seized up before he could regain control. “You realize, she probably knew?” He tipped his head up toward the sky and blinked to hold the moisture back. “They were friends. She was a servant. She would have – ” Arthur cut himself off only because he couldn’t finish what he wanted to say, that she probably knew Merlin was a sorcerer, must have seen it and not trusted Arthur with it, but she would have been so happy to see Merlin accepted as he was, even if only by a handful of reluctant knights. Arthur felt the spasm start in his lungs and tried to cover it with his hand.

“Hey.” Gwaine abandoned his bedroll and slung an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “That’s it.” He tugged and Arthur let him, face down to muffle himself in a shoulder that smelt of alcohol and horse. “Let it out. She was a fine woman. She deserves to be mourned.”

Arthur shook his head but the swell of sorrow wouldn’t subside. He coughed into Gwaine’s vest and then took deep breaths to quell the rise of whatever clogged his chest, because it would have been loud and he didn’t want to let it go. “I miss her, Gwaine,” he cried softly, only barely in the range of hearing. He fought to keep his hand still in Merlin’s hair so that he didn’t wake him. “I miss her so much.”

“Of course, you do.” Gwaine didn’t impose anything by his embrace, and he didn’t try to talk him down; he just let Arthur be there for a while. “She was a lucky woman, to be loved so much.”

Loved so much that her own husband didn’t pay attention – couldn’t recognize the shell when she was gone. That wasn’t luck; it was betrayal. Arthur gurgled helplessly for a moment under the weight of that shame, and then sniffled hard to keep from making a mess of Gwaine’s chest.

“It’s alright to miss her,” Gwaine said, voice a low rumble in his throat. “I’d think less of you if you didn’t.”

Arthur sucked a humid breath of air into his congested lungs and let it out on a wash of forced calm. But he stayed where he was for a moment longer, because he didn’t want to see the sympathy on Gwaine’s face. “I wouldn’t let him save her.”

There was no possibility that Gwaine understood what he meant by that, but he didn’t seem to need an explanation. “I’m sure it wasn’t that simple. And she’s beyond blaming you now. Let her be good in your memory. The way she smiled, yeah? The way she looked at you. That’s all that matters.”

Arthur felt wrung out, his lungs like a bellows that someone else pumped. Her smile. She had smiled at the very end, hadn’t she? When she saw him pull Merlin away, making sure he lived. When she saw him make that choice. Did that mean it was the right choice? That she knew? Was she proud that he made it? “She would hate what I’ve done,” he whispered, thick, to himself. “The way I’ve ruled without her.”

“She would forgive you for missing her so much that the grief took a whole year to break.” Gwaine tightened his arms and dug his chin into the crown of Arthur’s head. “All you talk about is Merlin and his guilt and his problems; you never give yourself the same consideration. No one who loves us wants us to suffer for them. And she loved you. Miss her as much as you need, but don’t deny you’re hurt. That’s what ruins men. It’s what ruined your father.”

Arthur shut his eyes, one hand still cupped gently over Merlin’s skull, and the other clenched hard at Gwaine’s forearm. “I know. I know that.” He took several more breaths and then steeled himself to pull away. Gwaine let him go without any resistance, which was probably the kindest thing he’d ever done for Arthur – letting him pull away on his own. “Sorry,” Arthur croaked. He felt as if he’d run a mile into a stone wall, and swiped at his hot face with a shaky hand. “I don’t know where that came from.”

Gwaine leaned back and gave him the privacy of not staring as he collected himself. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been waiting a year for that to happen. Was starting to think it never would.”

A chuff of wet laughter made its way out from Arthur’s chest. “You are much less a fool than people think.”

Gwaine chuckled too. “Yeah. Well. Have to keep them guessing.”

“Hm.” Arthur felt the smile on his own lips only via his fingertips lingering on his cheeks. When he finally managed to catch his breath and look up, it was to the vision of Guinevere shimmering in the dark before him, resplendent in her coronation gown. She blurred in his vision, perhaps a mirage caught in the film of salt water over his eyes. It was alright if she weren’t really there; his eyes let her stand there for him. He watched her for a while, just remembering the way she looked. The way she glowed as he loved her.

Gwaine followed the direction of his gaze into the forest, but he obviously didn’t see anything there besides shadows and trees. “You can see her right now, can’t you.”

Arthur nodded, even though it wasn’t a question.

“Is she smiling?”

Arthur’s cheeks ached as he looked at her, tears and happiness mixed together on his face. “Yes, she’s smiling.”

Gwaine echoed the same expression and squeezed at Arthur’s forearm in companionship. “You know that’s nutter talk.”

Arthur laughed, and Guinevere’s smile widened, her eyes crinkling to see his mirth. Before Gwaine could withdraw again, Arthur shifted to grasp his hand. “Mad King Arthur and his mad sorcerer,” Arthur mused aloud. “Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Gwaine didn’t say anything for a bit, but he squeezed Arthur’s hand. His voice was too serious, though, when he asked, “Are you alright, Arthur?”

Arthur grimaced; there were too many teeth in it to be a smile. He laughed anyway, but he realized what he was doing before he assured Gwaine that he fine. Lying with his words when his body said the opposite, like Merlin outside the cave of the Disir, shaking his head to betray what he really thought. “No,” he finally said, rictus of a grin fading. His vision blurred again, but it was a gentle thing this time. Filmy and bright. “No, I’m not.”

Gwaine’s other hand came up to cover the back of Arthur’s in a show of support and sympathy that most wouldn’t expect of him. The drunk knight. The player. He was just as much an actor as any of them, though, wasn’t he? Rejected lower son of a faraway king trying to outrun his own name, living as an imposter in his own life.

“I hear her voice in the corridors,” Arthur admitted, watching her watch him with her secret, soft fondness. “I see her at dinners, off in the corner, always watching me in her servant’s dress. She's everywhere.” He took a breath and kept his eyes on her, because he didn’t want to blink and lose the mirage. “I feel her touch, on my arm or my hand, just a wisp, like it’s not even there. Because it’s not, I know it’s not. But I keep looking, just in case. I still look for her every morning in the shadows under her chamber door.”

Gwaine turned toward him, but he did him the courtesy of not trying to make eye contact. “You haven’t gone in?”

Arthur shook his head. “No.” He wasn’t aware that he’d tightened his other hand in Merlin’s hair until he felt Gwaine’s fingers leave his knuckles and rest there instead, to sooth him back to gentleness. “I don’t want to find it empty. I mean, I know it’s empty – she’s not there – but I’d have to see it. And I can’t. I can’t give that up yet.”

“Don’t turn into Uther,” Gwaine warned. It was infinite, the kindness in his voice when he said it.

Arthur looked down at his hand and Gwaine’s both resting over dark hair. “I’m trying not to.”

Gwaine nodded. “Try harder. I don’t want to hate you someday.”

Arthur stared at the rough knuckles covering his own and swallowed hard as he realized he’d inadvertently looked away from Guinevere. But she was still there when he raised his head, still watching him with sad sympathy. “What if I’m the one that killed her?” Her face collapsed in sorrow. “What if I wasn’t stopping them both dying, and just chose not to let her live?”

“You can’t think like that,” Gwaine admonished. Over by the trees, in a glimmer of shadow, Guinevere nodded her agreement. When Gwaine noticed him looking again, he asked, “What is she doing?”

Arthur let a small, sad smile creep across his face. “Telling me to listen to you.”

Gwaine chuffed. “See? Even your hallucination knows better.” He picked up the hand he was still holding and clasped it again between both of his own as he leaned back against the arced stone wall. “She’d forgive you, if you had gotten it wrong.”

“I know,” Arthur replied. He smiled at Guinevere as she raised her eyebrows to show that he was right. “I think it’s worse, that she would.” Because Merlin was right about that too: absolution was a weapon, not a mercy. It hurt to receive it.

Gwaine nodded and kept his eyes trained in front of them, perhaps searching for whatever it was that Arthur saw out there. But he kept hold of Arthur’s hand, a silent pillar at his side, and that was enough just then. They stayed like that, brothers keeping company in the dark.

Guinevere faded eventually, a relic melted into the lightening sky, and Arthur felt the breeze shift as the last impression of her gave way to sunlight. It washed over his face, warm in spite of the season. He breathed in the scent of her, flowers and washing water, and coal dust from the forge bellows. He held it long enough to fix it in his mind, and then exhaled it back out again. The trees flared with the orange and yellow of an autumn morn, and Arthur looked down at the man resting in his lap, dark hair and dark circles under his eyes.

Gwaine shifted and snorted awake from where he had drifted off at some point. Arthur let his hand go so that Gwaine could scrub the exhaustion of inadequate sleep from his face. After a few seconds, Gwaine blinked sleepily into the sunlight and grumbled, “Gotta take a piss,” as he dragged heavy limbs into motion. He leaned back down after he’d gained his feet, though, and placed his lips briefly on the top of Arthur’s head. “She’d be proud of you now, princess. It has to be said.” Then he straightened and made his way off into the trees with no further fuss.

Arthur watched him go, surprised and oddly touched by the gesture. Then he took a fortifying breath of the crisp morning air. The scent of leaves and late harvests lay thick over the stillness. He felt lighter than he had any right to be. Under his hand, Merlin groaned and slid his cheek over Arthur’s leg before blinking his eyes open. He took in his position without seeming to comprehend it much, and then reached up to wipe a smear of drool from his cheek. Then he just stared at the shiny trail left behind on one finger.

Since Arthur still had his hand in Merlin’s hair, he scratched a bit at his scalp. “Are you feeling better?”

“Hm?” Merlin wiped his hand on Arthur’s trouser leg, which…gross. But unfairly endearing, sort of.

“Does your head still hurt?” Arthur rubbed circles over Merlin’s temple and watched his eyes go fuzzy as they half-closed again.

Merlin was facing Arthur’s feet, which shaded him a bit from the blaze of the rising sun. “Doesn’t hurt,” he mumbled, not really awake.

“Did you just wipe drool on my leg?”

“Mm-hm.” His eyes slipped all the way closed again like a barn cat curled in warm hay.

Arthur grinned; he couldn’t help it. “That’s disgusting, Merlin.”

“George washes them now. Don’t care.”

Arthur’s short huff of laughter jostled Merlin, who grumbled wordlessly at the disruption. “Come on,” Arthur prompted. “Let’s have you, lazy daisy.”

“Wut?” Merlin smeared his face over Arthur’s leg again as he finally made an effort to sit up, mostly forehead first. He tottered into a sitting position and then swayed a bit as he squinted into the light. Then he swiveled his head around to look at Arthur in much the same way that Arthur regarded grain reports. Incomprehensible. “You waited for morning?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to march us all home in the dark.”

This didn’t appear to make any sense to Merlin, and he looked around at the absence of other awake people.

Arthur stretched lazily and then pushed until he had enough leverage on the low wall behind him to gain his feet. “Up, Merlin.” He held a hand down near Merlin’s nose. “I know you’re tired. You can sleep later.”

Merlin watched Arthur’s hand as he took it and let Arthur do most of the work hauling him up.

“Right; come on. There must be something around here for breakfast.” Arthur started back toward the main camp, listening carefully as Merlin stumbled into motion behind him. They intercepted Gwaine, fresh from his chosen morning tree, and wandered in amongst the grumbling lumps of knights and servants as they registered movement and light.

“I can taste my tongue,” Brennis complained as they passed him.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, but it didn’t warrant comment. He glanced back at Merlin instead. “Get a fire started, will you? Easier for you than for us messing with flints and tinder.”

Merlin slowed behind him and then washed to a stop like shells pushed up on the beach. “You said you wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?” Arthur plucked a clean tin mug from the pile of cookware left to dry overnight, and examined the inside for residue. There wasn’t any, because someone other than Merlin did the washing up.

In a small voice, Merlin replied, “The fire. With fire.”

Arthur stopped what he was doing and turned back as he realized what Merlin was talking about. “No, for breakfast, stupid.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” Merlin told him, his eyes wide. “Just get it over with.”

Several knights popped their sleep-mussed heads up at this exchange.

Arthur stepped forward, dismayed at the way Merlin forced himself not to flinch. “I told you I wouldn't execute you. It’s settled. We’re going to have breakfast, and then we’re going home.”

“Why can’t you just do it here?” Merlin begged. “It doesn’t have to be a spectacle – please.”

Impatient, Arthur replied, “I’m not doing it anywhere."

Merlin glanced past him at the other knights as they crawled out from their blankets and capes.

“No one is doing it!” Arthur snapped. "Stop looking like we're going to ambush you."

Merlin merely looked betrayed at this. “You don’t have to trick me. I won’t run.”

Arthur meant to yell at him for being absurd, but the air sloughed out of him without sound at the memory of the last time Merlin said that, in the armory – something he probably couldn’t remember saying because of the fit.

Lamorak fumbled out of his blanket nest and tried to stand up faster than his legs would allow. He made it on the second try. “Heaven’s sake, boy. We’re not going to kill you.”

Merlin gave him a blank look, and then turned back to Arthur. There it was again, that grotesque thing that Arthur noticed first in the armory. Merlin didn’t move, but he seemed so small all of a sudden with a pointed nothing on his face. Like he couldn’t understand what they were saying, because what they were saying made no sense. And he looked small and resigned and alone like that, and it was grotesque.

“They agreed to keep your secret,” Arthur told him, trying desperately to come across as earnest. “They accept that you’re a sorcerer, and that I want you alive. With us. Alright? They're with us on this.”

Merlin’s head shook once, and then he blinked at Arthur with owlish eyes. “That’s not funny.”

Arthur fought not to let his face crumple. “It’s not a joke. They swore it.”

Sluggish, Merlin swayed back a step. “No.” His eyes darted around at the men as they sat or stood up from their makeshift beds. “No, they wouldn’t.”

Lord Howel approached cautiously, and Merlin treated him to a wide-eyed stare. “We did,” Howel told him. “We agreed to keep this between ourselves. To...well, to protect you. Until it doesn't need to be secret anymore. If that ever happens.”

Merlin went still and shaky. “You…you…no. Stop. Stop trying to trick me. Stop it!”

Arthur watched the knights realize what was going on, and why, and noted the shame that many of them appeared to feel as they watched Merlin completely fail to believe that they might not want him dead.

“Merls?” Gwaine didn’t try to touch him; he just stood there looking unnerved.

“Why are you doing this?” Merlin backed up another step, unsteady on his feet and visibly starting to panic, which made so little sense right then. “I wasn’t cruel to you. I said I wouldn’t hurt you back.”

Arthur drew himself up, annoyed in spite of his better sense. He was almost insulted to be lumped in with the supposed liars, at least about this; he wouldn’t joke about this. Surely, Merlin knew that much. Except that he didn’t, and Arthur wanted to punch him for it. “Stop being an idiot. They know you, Merlin. They needed some time to adjust, and realize that you are the same harmless, bumbling moron you always were, just with magic. Knock it off.”

Merlin cocked his head at Arthur, completely uncomprehending. His mouth worked for a moment, and then he shook his head again.

“It’s true,” Lamorak offered. He seemed concerned, though, and it likely didn’t help that he was trying to keep his sword out of view, even sheathed as it was. “The king spoke well on your behalf. He was very convincing that perhaps some magic is good. We saw his point. And who knows what the future might bring. Maybe, if an opportunity presents itself, it won’t just be us who know.”

Merlin gulped a desperate breath, his eyes like saucers. “What?”

“There must be others like you,” Marwen said. “Good people willing to work towards peace, if it’s offered. If they come, we’d be fools to keep them as enemies.”

Merlin let out some sort of bleat and then couldn’t stop himself hyperventilating. He started to back away and ran into Gwaine, and then Arthur closed the distance as well. They bracketed him on the way down to his knees and Arthur pushed his head down with an admonition to breathe more slowly. Merlin struggled briefly but it was more the sense of suffocation, Arthur thought, from the way he couldn’t seem to make his lungs work properly, than any real effort to escape. When Arthur wouldn’t let go of him, his hands slapped down into the dirt and he braced against the ground as if it might fall away if he let go of the dirt he curled his fists into. A moment later, though, he grabbed at his chest instead, and curled over until his forehead touched the ground, trembling like a leaf.

Arthur grabbed at his shoulder and then hollered, “George? George! We need help!” He tried to get Merlin to sit up, but Merlin wouldn’t budge. “Dammit! Merlin, stop this. Come on. You’re embarrassing me.” The crack in his voice ruined the attempt to scold him into better form.

Without warning, Merlin’s ribs expanded violently beneath Arthur’s hands, and Merlin expelled something that warbled alarmingly on the way out. But he took another healthy breath after that, and then another, and finally let Arthur drag him into a sitting position where he could breathe more easily.

It was only then that George came crashing to his knees beside them with Merlin’s medical bags heaped into his arms. “I don’t know what to do with these.” He let everything spill into a pile on the ground, and then met Merlin’s eyes, which were glazed and unseeing. “What do I do?”

Merlin pushed his hands away and leaned back against Arthur’s chest to gasp, “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“That’s not fine,” Gwaine snapped, sounding terrified. He picked something up out of the pile and exclaimed, “Willow bark! That’s for the heart, right?” He shoved it in Merlin’s direction, against the hand that Merlin had once again fisted into the cloth covering his chest.

Merlin shook his head and waved that off as well, but he didn’t try to speak again right away. His head fell back against Arthur’s shoulder with a wheeze, and he grabbed at the arm that Arthur had slung over his chest to make him loosen it. And then he just sounded like he was drowning in a puddle, which resolved into an odd medley of hysterical laughing and maybe sobbing, and also choking a bit.

Arthur let him get whatever it was out of his system because the alternative was adding his own panic into the mix, and that wouldn’t help anything. Merlin subsided quickly into uneven gasps, and then he pulled away and folded over again into his hands. But he was somewhat calm that time, so Arthur just sat there, unwilling to do anything that might make things worse again. Eventually, Merlin devolved into what sounded suspiciously like weeping, and then he garbled out, “You bastard.”

Arthur glanced up, trying not to let his own concern show too much, but he didn’t think it worked. He probably looked as spooked as he felt. “That’s all you have to say?”

Merlin back went tense and shivery as he curled further into himself to howl, “I gave up on you!”

Arthur could feel that hit him like a blow to the chest, and he unwound backwards to sit on his heels, his mouth open in shock at the horrible feeling that those hoarse words inflicted on him. Helpless to really know how to answer, all he could manage to say was, “But you never betrayed me.”

A ragged denial came from Merlin, and he rocked forward on his knees to make fists against the ground. “Of course, I didn’t betray you,” he moaned. “You absolute cabbage head.” And then tiny and sheer like a white linen curtain fluttering helpless in the wind, he added, “You’re my king.”

Arthur’s breath went hot and useless in his chest, heart stuttering. God, it hurt. It hurt. That kind of loyalty, it was horrible.

“You’re my king,” Merlin said again quietly, as if it were an unspeakable truth he couldn’t hide anymore. He rocked where he knelt coiled up around his vulnerable parts. “You’re my once and future king.”

Arthur’s lungs seized up and then clenched somewhere around his heart. He felt himself shaking as he pushed forward and scrabbled on his knees to grab this awful man and try to make the words stop. Merlin stiffened up and resisted, but Arthur dragged him into himself and held him there hard enough to hurt. “Stop talking.”

Bones dug into Arthur's chest like embracing a hat rack, all elbows and sharp corners, a rigid ball of a man clenched in his arms. “I’m sorry," Merlin whispered. "I gave up, I’m sorry…” He cried it into Arthur’s skin as if he didn’t know he was saying it, a sound like reeds in abandoned places, ragged and alone. His hands hung useless to the side, not grasping back, not even trying. “I gave up, I didn’t believe in you anymore…”

“Don’t,” Arthur breathed. “I know - I understand. I forgive you.”

A frantic and garbled mess burbled up from Merlin's throat, and he tried again to shove away again, or strike at Arthur. When Arthur didn’t let him retreat, Merlin twisted and managed to hit him, a glancing blow off the ribs. “You fucking bastard! No!”

“I forgive you.” Arthur didn’t feel the punches, clumsy and blind. He just held on and weathered it, and kept repeating, “I forgive you,” until the hitting and furious yelling petered out, and Arthur’s voice penetrated whatever armor Merlin wore that Arthur hadn’t managed to tear off of him yet. An exhausted keening made its way out from Merlin’s body and died against Arthur’s breast, and then he sagged, a wiry ball of tension bleeding out into a fragile stillness. Finally, two hands crept up over Arthur’s shoulder blades to grasp him back.

All around them, the air picked up, and the men standing horrified nearby backed away to regard the ground with trepidation as it stirred beneath their feet. Arthur squeezed hard enough that Merlin whined at it, air crackling briefly with the feeling of storms. He wasn't sure what was happening, but he didn't feel the fear this time that he normally did when he felt or smelled magic rising. He shook his head at his knights to stop them doing anything rash, and then as they watched, green things began to emerge from the forest floor. In spite of Arthur's shout to calm, swords rang out, and the knights spun around in wild fear for the threat that must be coming, as it came to the Saxons in the hollow. But it didn’t come. The ground erupted in spring greenery, flowers, new saplings and fresh moss. Colonies of insects sprang out of crevasses in the trunks of trees – moths and dragonflies, fireflies, and orb spiders. The knights stood paralyzed until they noticed the wooden inlays of their sword hilts giving birth to flowering vines in their hands, twining curtains of green draped harmless over their arms to trail on the ground. The wooden buttons on their clothes gave birth to brittle blue aster flowers. The dying trees all around the spring writhed and burst open with spring blossoms and fresh leaves, a shower of petals that would have been impossible even in spring, and the branches of the fruiting trees and bushes bent under the weight of an impossible harvest, fresh and fragrant. As the outburst of magic died down, Arthur became aware of how loudly they all breathed, frenzied and aborted fear held at bay as they all stared in shock at the life buzzing around them.

Brennis stumbled over a tangle of yellow flowers covering his feet, and reached up to pull a pear from a branch hanging low in front of him. Then he looked at the sword in his hand, the hilt covered in ivy that had grown halfway up his arm. He seemed at a loss. Most of the men did - not just the knights. George didn't appear to be breathing, and Bern was just staring up at a flowering canopy above his head, awestruck. Lamorak let out a breath that he must have been holding that whole time, and sank, shivering, to his knees in the fresh moss. His hands pawed out into the greenery around him as if he couldn't believe it was real until he touched it. Only Gwaine appeared in control of his faculties; he immediately laughed and started collecting his own breakfast from the vast offering around him. The sound made most of the others jump, sudden and loud as it was, and then a few of them ventured hesitant smiles of their own as they realized that they weren't in any danger. They didn't jump in as eagerly as Gwaine, but they did relax and try to put their swords away, which the various growths made difficult. Howel remained stuck at the sight of flowers growing from his buttons, and he plucked one off to gape at it.

For his part, Merlin seemed unaware of what he’d done. He'd gone lax in Arthur's arms, gentle and warm with his face happily buried against a welcoming chest. Fabric muffled what only Arthur could still hear as Merlin chanted to himself over and over in what sounded like relief, “…you’re my king…you’re my king…you’re my king…”

And for perhaps the first time, Arthur didn't feel as if what Merlin used to see in him were just wishful thinking. A cruel taunt for a mediocre prince. He finally felt as if he had a chance to be what Merlin - and what Guinevere - thought he was. That better man they'd hoped for. That Once and Future King.

* * *

TBC

Notes:

Apologies for format errors earlier - it is not complete yet, but this story will be part 1 of a series of 3. Sorry guys!!!

Chapter 14

Notes:

Last chapter got too long, so breaking it into two - there will be 15 chapters total in this story, which is part 1 of a series. Apologies for changing it up! Hope you guys enjoy, and happy reading!

**Mature content in this chapter**caveat lector**

“Can you breathe underwater?”

Merlin tipped his head sideways before angling to be able to see Gwaine where he’d pulled his horse up alongside. “What? No. I’m not a fish.”

Roland clopped his own horse close enough to join in. “I bet you could turn into one.”

“Why would I want to turn into a fish?”

“Don’t know. Why not?”

Merlin blinked.

Gwaine smacked Roland’s arm. “That would be awesome. Imagine him as a fish.”

Roland snickered. “Clumsy little blue fish running into all the reeds.” He demonstrated said collisions with his finger and Gwaine started humming what was presumably supposed to be a fishy Merlin song. Even Leundugrance looked at the two knights askance.

“Sire?”

“Yes, Merlin?”

“Remind me. Why can’t I just make them forget the past two days?”

“Because that would be wrong.”

“Can I give them boils?”

“That would also be wrong.”

“Right.” Merlin blinked his eyes wider straight in front of himself, possibly in lieu of rolling them. “Thanks. I keep forgetting that.”

“No problem,” Arthur replied.

“Stop and go,” Gwaine sang.

Roland laughed under his breath and added, “To and fro.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows at Gwaine and Roland, and then just sighed. He supposed that this was better than fear and suspicion, at least. And as long as they were all being ridiculous and annoying Merlin, then Merlin wasn’t fixating on his doubts about the whole situation, or worrying himself into an ulcer. And Merlin being adorably and impotently irritated at the teasing was normal when out riding, and hopefully meant that none of the knights engaged in the pastime were second guessing the amnesty thing. So there was that.

As they rode up onto the main passage into Camelot, Gwaine and Roland graduated to singing some bawdy mad madam drinking song interspersed with magical fish-Merlin escapades. Merlin narrowed his eyes at the increasingly ludicrous song verses but refrained from telling them both to shut up. Again. Arthur eventually had to twist around in his saddle and order them, “Keep your voices down. We’re close enough to the citadel that there might be patrols out looking for us.”

Merlin’s eye twitched as he resolutely stared straight ahead.

Possibly just to distract Merlin, Brennis rode up and held out one of the many fruits they’d collected from Merlin’s magical trees before leaving camp. “What is this, exactly?”

Merlin peered over at the fuzzy pink-orange-skinned fruit that Brennis had taken a huge bite out of. “Not sure. Might be a Persian apple? Persicum.”

“Strangest apple I ever saw.” Brennis retracted his hand so that he could take another messy bite of the juicy flesh. There was more slurping than actual biting, though. Once he’d swallowed, he said, “It’s good.” He tried to wipe all of the juice off of his hand and face, but that just made it worse. “Bit messy. Why don’t we have these at Camelot?”

“They don’t grow here,” Lamorak called out from Arthur’s other side. “We had them sometimes in Brittainy. They brought them over by sea from the port at Ostia, I think. Sold them to Aurelius’s troops.”

Merlin tossed the fruit a troubled glance. “People are going to ask where we got all of this. Maybe we shouldn’t bring any of it into the city.”

“Stop worrying,” Arthur told him. “I’ll say we met a trader on the way back. It will make up for the deer we didn’t get for the Samhain feast.”

“There’s still time enough to hunt this afternoon,” Lamorak assured him. “We’ll just have to do it closer to Camelot. Maybe send out some of the huntsmen to make up the loss from the royal stock.”

Arthur nodded. “I’ve no objection to that. Will you see to it? You can take some boar too – whatever you need to meet the quota for the feast.”

“Of course, sire.”

They rounded a bend in the road, and Arthur caught his first glimpse of the walls of Camelot rising in the distance. It lifted a weight from his chest to see home again even though they’d only been gone for a day. So much had happened, it felt as if they could have lingered a month without his realizing. Luckily, they had run across enough of their missing horses in the first hour after leaving the well spring that they could all ride comfortably back. Otherwise, they would have had to spend a night on the road on account of the slow pace of walking.

“Dammit.” Bleoberis reigned his horse in and turned around to retrieve Leundugrance from the side trail he was trying to disappear onto. “Don’t wait for us. We’ll catch up.”

Arthur waived his men on and waited only long enough to make sure that Bleoberis and one of the servants overtook Leundugrance’s horse before it ambled out of sight. Then he spurred his mount forward to catch back up with Merlin and Gwaine near the front of their motley procession. They all rode quietly after that until Percival met them on the road near the gates.

“Sire.” Percival looped around them and came up alongside Arthur. "We weren't sure you'd make it back today." Then he leaned to see past him. “Hey, Merlin.”

Merlin twitched something approaching a smile at him.

“Any word on Erec and the others?” Arthur asked. “Did you manage to intercept them?”

Percival shook his head. “We didn’t see any of them on the way back. The guard tells us they weren’t with the rest of the hunting party either. Caradoc ordered them stopped and held at the gate if they do show up. What’s the word here? Any...you know...issues?” He tapped the hilt of his sword.

Arthur glanced back at his men, who were easily bought off with out-of-season fruit, apparently. “It’s good,” he replied. “No one will say anything.”

“Good.” Percival nodded and then reached over Arthur to steal a fruit from Merlin’s saddle bag. “Is this a Persian apple?”

“Uh,” Arthur mumbled. “We met a trader.”

Percival acknowledged that around a huge bite of the fruit. “I love these things. What happened to your clothes? Everyone's covered in weeds and flowers. And you have holly berries all over your stirrup.”

Arthur wobbled his head, expecting his mouth to invent some inane explanation on its own, but his mouth betrayed him. After gaping like an idiot for long enough that Percival became concerned, Arthur merely avoided eye contact and said, "Things happened. Nothing to worry about." His voice, and his conviction both trailed off into mumbles at the end, which basically announced to all and sundry that was spouting hogwash, but what could he do. Explain what actually happened with some degree of coherency? 

For his part, Merlin just appeared constipated. He trained his sight on Camelot looming in front of them, their usual lives beckoning them back like a blow. Arthur didn’t like seeing the trepidation occlude Merlin’s face, but it wasn’t a new thing; he’d worn that look for years, and habits of caution and fear were hard to break. Just to be break the slump of his shoulders, Arthur chirped, “Chin up, Merlin.”

Merlin glowered at him. “Why? To make a better target for the headsman?”

Gwaine circled his horse around them and tilted his head at Merlin. “Would your head even fit on the block?”

Arthur snerked, and Merlin bristled with an affronted, "Better than yours would."

From behind them, Bleoberis called up, “What’s wrong there, Merlin? Don’t you trust us?”

“No.” Merlin glanced back and shrank at the surprised looks on many of the other knights’ faces. “No offense.”

Roland scoffed. “Funny way not to give offense.”

“Truth isn't an offense,” Lamorak snapped. “Master Merlin doesn’t owe us what Camelot hasn’t earned. Have some restraint with your tempers.”

“He’s here, isn’t he?” Brennis asked. “That’s borderline treason already.”

"Not when it's king's orders," Marwen countered.

Roland made an affirming noise. “Still, it's against the grain. What else do you want?”

Marwen shoved at Roland and replied, “More of the weird orange apples. Stop hogging them.”

Arthur swiveled in his saddle and barked, “Enough. All of you. We’ve settled this, haven’t we? It’s hardly courtly to pester him now.”

Everyone backed down at that point, but some of them renewed their grumbling about the inconvenient loss of their swords to spontaneous explosive gardening. They’d been on about that nearly the whole day, at intervals. That, and having to pull weeds from their crossbow bolts, buttons, saddles and knife handles, among other things. Bleoberis’s twine bootstrings had to be pulled out and discarded entirely due to an infestation of parsley. And even then, Arthur knew that they were all taking this remarkably well. Other than their usual complaints at a long day on horseback, and the lack of sleep they were all suffering, plain old crankiness was really a very good outcome.

By the time they all rode in through the southern gate, however, everyone had gone quiet and guarded. Arthur tipped his head back to watch as he passed under the portcullis, stone battlement walls rising on either side of him. Even the air within the walls felt different. Weighted and stale. Several of the lower town folk paused to bow or curtsey before going on about their business. There was some chatter as they passed, no doubt wondering why half of the hunting party had returned in the middle of the same night they’d left, now followed by the remaining knights looking a bit worse for wear. Most of the market stalls were closing up already to allow the townsfolk to see to the needs of their regular lives – collecting the evening’s firewood, cooking supper, tending chickens or garden plots, and the like. Samhain was a feast day, so they’d have little to do on the morrow except celebrate, as long as they prepared sufficiently that afternoon.

Arthur reigned in his horse near a series of shuttered market stands and hopped off to walk the rest of the way. Gwaine and Merlin, and half of Merlin’s overprotective collection of servants all did the same, but most of the rest of the group spurred on past them to hurry back to the stables, no doubt dreaming of their comfortable beds and an early night. A few paces ahead, Howel seemed to have second thoughts about continuing on and also dismounted. He appeared ill at ease in a way that Arthur hadn’t seen him before, and his eyes tracked Merlin’s path until he noticed Arthur watching. Arthur nodded at him, but they weren’t friendly outside of necessity, so he didn’t say anything as he ambled past.

Just as they left the market district, a commotion broke out down a side street, and Arthur heard a few shouts. Curious, he led his horse off the main road and down the narrower avenue until they reached a multistoried building. It took him a moment to realize that it was the brothel behind the Rising Sun tavern, which sat one street over. Arthur draped his horse’s reigns over a peg on a post and hurried toward to the crowd gathered around the entrance. He was aware of Merlin trailing in his wake, but Merlin always did that; Arthur expected it, and barely took separate note.

Two guards had an old woman by either arm. As Arthur approached, they tried to lead her away. Several of the girls and what appeared to be the madam were attempting to reason with them, or obstruct them. More guards stood around with their swords drawn, nervously shifting their feet at the manner in which the scene appeared to be spiraling out of control. No clarity came from listening to the angry shouts of pretty much everyone present; their voices all blended and mashed together into a wordless cacophony.

Arthur strode up into the fray and held his hands out for calm. “What’s going on?”

“Sire, please!” The middle-aged woman, obviously the madam after all, went to her knees in the muck and grabbed his trouser legs. “Please, she’s harmless. She wouldn’t hurt anyone, I swear. It wasn’t anything.”

Momentarily taken aback, Arthur reached down and urged her back to her feet. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Someone explain.”

In his periphery, Merlin moved over to glare at the guards restraining the old woman, but of course, they didn’t let her go. The servants who had stayed overnight with them at the spring spread out into the mob, and George hovered at Arthur’s shoulder, visibly nervous. Merlin reached up to dab at a spot of blood on the old woman’s withered lip, then lurched back when she bared her teeth at him as if she might actually bite. With a strange look, he withdrew into a group of working girls, all stood at a safe distance.

One of the peasants pointed and exclaimed, “She’s a witch, sire! I saw her using magic.”

Arthur frowned at the man who had spoken, a neighboring merchant by the look of him. “What did she do, exactly?”

Someone else yelled, “She cursed us! Gave us the evil eye, and then our ale soured and nearly poisoned us!”

The old woman scoffed at him. “I told you the seals were bad. You poisoned yourself.”

The madam hushed her and addressed herself fervently to Arthur. “Please, sire. None of the surrounding folk like us being here, tempting their men. That’s all it is – they’re just trying to harm us. Please. We don’t want any trouble. Wynn’s a hard woman, but she hasn’t hurt anyone.”

Merlin cast Arthur a pointed look, but then caught sight of a few of their knightly travelling companions coming up behind Arthur with their hands on the hilts of their sheathed swords. His face went through a series of changes too rapid to identify, and then his expression shuttered into nothing as he ducked his head away.

“That’s not all she does!” one of the other men yelled. “I’ve seen her out in the gardens at night – she does things to it, sire! No other garden grows as well as hers. It’s magic! I’ve seen her eyes.”

Several of the girls made desperate noises to themselves, and Arthur took a breath before asking the old woman, “Is this true?”

The old woman spat into the mud at their feet. “We have to eat. It’s hard enough for these girls, dealing with pigs all day, rough hands and insults for their service.” Here, she glared around at several men who looked away in either shame or disgust to be called out – possibly both. "Don't you know you're supposed to talk to the crops? Swine."

Arthur ignored the spitting, and demanded, “Then it’s true? You’ve used magic to make the garden grow?”

Off to the side, Merlin rubbed at his chest and tried not to look at either Arthur or the old woman. Normally, he wouldn’t stay out of this kind of thing, but a lot had changed in the past two days. Arthur didn’t like the quality of his silence; it was more judgmental, in its way, than any argument or spoken conviction might have been, for all that he didn't appear to be judging at all.

“You’d let us starve,” the old woman sneered. “I’ve hurt no one but the sprites! Eating our greens in the night. You should thank me.”

The madam wrung her hands from Arthur’s other side. “It’s just plants. It’s just lettuce and carrots. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s old, sire. Her mind isn’t right. Like her mother before her. Please. It's harmless senility.”

Arthur glanced at her, then over to Merlin, who immediately looked away again.

“And what’s this one?” the old woman demanded, sneering at Merlin where he hovered near his horse. “Look at you, little bird. Fretting silent like a maid.” She curled the edge of her lip in disgust. “Suppose some things never change. What a waste, you are.”

Merlin stepped back and allowed one of the brothel women to distract him from his obvious discomfort. “Maybe you could just pop inside for a smidge, Master Merlin? Luce is having a bit of discomfort; I’m sure she’d be glad for one of your pastes.”

“Yes,” the old woman mocked. “Do run along, little bird. Ply your trade in flesh.”

A few of the younger women seemed embarrassed on Merlin’s behalf and herded him over to his horse to get his medicine basket down from behind the saddle. Merlin gave them all uncertain, reluctant smiles and then looked to Arthur for permission.

“Yes, go on.” Arthur motioned him off, since this old woman seemed to have it in for him, and Arthur couldn’t help but wonder how many of these ladies knew, or at least suspected, what Merlin was. They certainly seemed to be trying to shuttle him away from the scene, and no one needed the old woman to say something damning in her senility.

One of the girls patted Merlin on the shoulder and told him, “She’s just got some irritation. Rough handling, you know. Nothing serious.”

Howel was still hanging around, and he scoffed at that. “I’d think whores would be used to rough handling.”

Merlin blinked a few times, fingers slowing on the knots he was trying to undo, and then he turned to look toward Howel, but not directly at him. “Weren’t we just discussing last night how people annoy me sometimes, my lord?”

Arthur managed not to drop his jaw too obviously, but he did sputter when he snapped, “Merlin!”

The madam’s eyes had gone wide in a pale face, and she backed up a step. Howel didn’t seem to know what to do at all, and just stood there stupidly as he likely reconsidered the whole of his existence along with what a sorcerer might be able to do to him without anyone being able to tell.

Of course, Gwaine had to ruin it. He snorted hard and then started laughing at Howel. “Your face!”

Arthur leaned toward him to growl, “You’re not helping.”

Gwaine leaned his hand against a building and ineffectively hid his mirth, which did nothing to restore order or proper conduct; he just kept snickering more quietly and wiping his cheeks.

Howel shifted and delicately cleared his throat. “I, um. I apologize, madam. That was, um…”

“Rude, my lord,” Merlin supplied with a helpful smile. “You were rude.”

“Yes.” Howel eyed both Merlin and the madam. “I apologize for my insensitivity.”

Arthur just covered his face with his hand, because all he needed was this. Merlin being more Merlin-y than usual, and making everyone who vouched for him second guess themselves. After a moment’s consideration, he reached out to smack the back of Merlin’s head – gently out of deference to the fact that he was off in the head, literally. But it was still a good smack.

“Ow!” Merlin covered his head to ward off additional blows, and gave Arthur a scandalized look. “What was that for?”

Arthur widened his eyes and arched his brows. “What do you think it was for?”

Merlin rubbed his head and looked at Arthur, then Howel, and back. “Mouthing off?”

“Yes, Merlin!” Arthur held his hands out as if showing off a fancy exotic pet.

The old woman cackled in delight at the spectacle. "Oh, you're a whipped one!"

"Wynn!" the madam hissed, visibly terrified.

Merlin made a sour face and finished pulling his medicines down off of his horse. “And I suppose you think it was okay, what he said? Is it because of what they sell, that they don’t deserve the respect he’d give a bread maker?”

The fact that Howel was still standing there listening, and being scolded in the third person as if he weren’t present, really wasn’t going to help anything. Arthur rolled his eyes and grabbed Merlin’s arm to drag him aside, down a small alley between the brothel and the next building. Once out of earshot, he shook Merlin by the arm and hissed, “Are you trying to sabotage yourself?”

“Why are you defending him?” Merlin demanded. “He shouldn’t have said that to her.”

Arthur pinched his fingers in front of Merlin’s face. “You are this close to undoing everything we’ve accomplished in the past day. Is that what you want? To make them all think you’re a threat after all? Some of them only agreed to keep your secret because they know you obey me, Merlin. What are they going to think if it looks like I can’t actually control you?”

Merlin worked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and looked down. “Is that why Lamorak wanted to know if you enchanted me? Because I’d be safe enough that way?”

Arthur shut his eyes on a sigh. “No, I think he was genuinely concerned for you. But their agreement hinged on the fact that you are loyal and obedient to me. Not to Camelot – to me. I can’t have you spouting off at them with impunity; it makes me look weak. Like I’d let you get away with anything, either because of my personal feelings, or from fear and inadequacy. And Merlin? I won’t. Do you understand? They need to see that I can reign you in.”

“Do they?” Merlin asked, voice bitten and cocky. “Or do you?”

They stared at each other for longer than was polite, and then Arthur let go of his arm and stepped back. “I don’t know what you’re playing at right now, but it will stop. Is that clear?”

Merlin gave him a cursory once over; it was insulting, the way he did it. “Yes, sire.”

Arthur frowned as Merlin turned without waiting for Arthur’s dismissal to go back to his horse and the gaggle of women waiting nervously beside it. Then Arthur looked down and took a deep breath to calm the race of his heart. It wasn’t the first time that Merlin ever challenged him, no, but it was the first time that it looked like actual insubordination. He didn’t like it – he didn’t appreciate being made to look a fool, but more, he didn’t like not knowing what Merlin’s motivation was - not seeing a friendly smirk or a dare to be better in it – just disappointment and spite. Under his breath, Arthur muttered, “Dammit.” He followed Merlin back out to the street with his hands on his hips.

“Well, well,” the old woman cackled as Merlin stalked back into sight. “Look at that. Shiny backbone in a yellow face.”

Merlin paused as he was walking past her, leaned away without moving his feet, and met her eyes without blinking. Then he curled up his lip the way Arthur had seen him do while wearing Dragoon’s face, and blew a snort through his teeth at her. Oddly enough, the old woman grinned at that, and Merlin just huffed a mild profanity as he rolled his eyes and walked on by. It was so unlike Merlin – so like his elder imposter self – that it gave Arthur pause. He paced slowly back to the uncertain guards restraining the old woman, and the equally nervous girls scattered about the street near Merlin, the brothel doorway, and their madam.

Finally, Arthur shook himself and inadvertently looked the madam up and down, as if sizing up a threat before catching himself at it. He noted Merlin disappearing into the brothel with half of the girls, and then Arthur addressed the old woman. “Lettuce and carrots?”

“And turnips,” some helpful bystander supplied.

Arthur rubbed his hand over his eyes. “And turnips. God forbid.” He considered the crowd that had grown around him, and then sighed.

The old woman had forgone taunts, at least, but the look she now wore on her face was worse for its intensity. “Arthur Pendragon,” she mused aloud. “Is your decision made?”

Arthur went still, and then his body swayed forward as if lured by magnets, scalp prickling with heightened awareness. “What did you say?”

“I asked, what is your choice, Arthur Pendragon?” Everything else around them seemed to fade out for a moment, or go muffled like screams buried in the earth. “Do you condemn me?”

Arthur shook his head as if he had water in his ears, his nostrils full of deep, moist earth and static chill. Strange turns of phrase for a market street.

The moment broke like glass, or time restarting, and Arthur sucked in a sudden breath as the madam anxiously tutted, “Wynn, stop. Just let me handle this.” She turned to Arthur again and seemed to be fighting the urge to genuflect again. “Sire, I swear – ”

“Release her.” Arthur swallowed and stepped back, gesturing to the guards. “Let her go.”

The guards exchanged confused looks, and the patrol leader objected, “She’s admitted it, sire. She’s used magic on the garden. And conjured sprites. There are witnesses.”

“To what? A senile old woman dancing in a lettuce patch at night? I told you to release her.” Arthur glared at the guard, and then looked pointedly at the hands still restraining the old woman until they slowly let her go. With a hard look for the confused people all around him, Arthur raised his voice to be heard. “I will not tolerate accusations of magic used against neighbors for spurious gain. Sorcery is not a spell-word you can throw about to settle petty fights with each other. I expect better from you.”

“We aren’t lying!” someone yelled back.

Another one insisted, “We’ve seen it! She uses magic!”

“I don’t care!” Arthur shouted. The whole crowd went still and silent with shock. “I see nothing here but an old woman being abused for growing food, and a lawful establishment of Camelot, however distasteful, being harassed because you don’t like the service they provide. It will stop. Do you understand?”

From the back of the crowd, someone yelled, “But she’s a sorcerer!”

“I’ll vouch for her.”

Arthur turned to find Howel still standing on the fringe of the group behind him. “My lord?”

“I’ll vouch for her,” Howel repeated. “I don’t believe her to be a threat. If I’m wrong, then let it be on my head.”

Arthur stared at him for a moment as if his hair had turned purple, much as everyone else did. “You know her, then?”

“Not as such.” Lord Howel inclined his head briefly to the old woman and the madam now standing beside her, surrounded by working girls. “But she has lived here for a long time, peacefully, sire. I see no reason why this might have changed overnight.”

Hesitant, Arthur nodded. “Very well, my lord Howel. I accept.” He turned back to the women hovering nervously in front of their building, and then held his hand out toward the crowd. “The matter is settled. Go about your business. I expect to hear no more of this.”

Many of the onlookers grumbled under their breath as they finally dispersed, but there were many others who appeared speculative. Arthur took a deep breath and then turned to the madam. “Lord Howel has put his reputation on the line for you. Don’t make him look a fool.”

The madam hurried to agree and bend her knees to them both. “Thank you, sire. My lord Howel, you have our deepest gratitude. Wynn has been with us for many years. It’s not the life she was supposed to have, but she persevered. She looks after us, and keeps us in coin when needed. We owe her our meager good fortune. It’s not her fault, her age has been unkind to her. A family madness, you understand. It was bound to strike her eventually.”

Howel nodded, looking troubled. “Indeed, madam.” And then, curiously, he let his upper body fold a bit in deference to the old woman. “Be well,” he told her.

The old woman spat at him again in response, and the madam appeared on the verge of apoplectic panic as she attempted to herd the woman away. Howel merely nodded as if perhaps he didn’t fault the woman her animosity, and retreated to collect his horse from closer to the main thoroughfare. Arthur furrowed his brow at Howel’s back. He expected some odd behavior from some of his men on account of what happened at the hollow and the well spring, but this struck him as out of character even considering that.

When Arthur wound forward again, it was to find the old woman staring at him from rheumy eyes, flanked in the brothel doorway by the middle-aged madam and a girl who appeared young enough to still be a maid. They stared at him until Arthur felt the hair rise on his arms, and then one by one, they retreated behind the closing door.

* * *

Arthur rubbed his head and tried to interest himself in the meal set out before him. It was stupid. It really was. But George was the one who brought it up from the kitchens, and Arthur was not so full of himself as to think that George would go to the same lengths for him that Merlin would. He didn’t trust a plate that hadn’t been picked over and stolen from, and this one was pristine. Just like everything else that George produced.

Said servant finished whatever he was doing at the wardrobe – polishing it? Oiling the wood? – and came over to check on Arthur’s progress. “Is the meal not to your liking, sire? I am certain that I can persuade the cook to prepare something else, if you prefer.”

“No,” Arthur replied, sullen. “I mean no, don’t bother the cook. I’d rather not have her on the warpath again.”

George raised his eyebrows in silent agreement. “In that case, I would be happy to prepare something myself. I am not the most accomplished at the culinary arts, but I am certain that I could manage whatever you may require.”

Arthur sighed at his lovely food: juicy sausages spiced and grilled to perfection, a nice thick autumn stew, mulled cider… His mouth was practically watering, but his mind kept telling him about the several-times-per-year poisoning attempts that Merlin thwarted, or may have been the actual target of, and he couldn’t seem to get over that part. Surely, someone else tasted it first though, right? One of the kitchen boys Merlin was always going on about? Nothing on his plate appeared disturbed though; he couldn’t tell.

Thankfully, a knocking at the door saved him from having to tell George that it wasn’t the food at issue here. Arthur watched George leave the room, and then frowned again at his plate. He poked one of the sausages with his knife. It looked fine, didn’t it? No weird colors or films on it. Smelled normal, even.

“It’s Master Merlin, sire.”

“It’s who?” Arthur looked up as George led Merlin into the room, and then perked to attention. “What’s wrong?”

Merlin paused and gave him an odd look. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m still in charge of your evening routine, aren’t I? Or are you sacking me again?”

“Yes, but you knocked. I mean, no, you’re not sacked! You never knock.”

“You’re always on about me knocking.”

“And you never do! Did something happen?”

Merlin blinked his eyes briefly wider and then exchanged some kind of silent speaking look with George.

“Oh, don’t do that secret servant eyes thing.” Arthur groaned into his hand and then made an effort to contemplate his meal again. Before he could stab anything, though, a collection of knobby fingers reached in front of his face and snagged a sausage. “Hey!”

Around a mouthful of sausage, Merlin asked, “What? You weren’t eating it.”

Arthur grabbed the half-eaten sausage back, only to have Merlin steal another one off of his plate. “Merlin!”

Merlin took a deliberate bite while making full eye contact and then held the sausage back out to Arthur. Narrowing his eyes, Arthur took that one back too, and then made faces at the grease all over his hands. This distraction allowed Merlin to stick half his fingers in the autumn stew uncontested, and then he walked away, sucking on them. Arthur glared after him while trying to clean his greasy hands off on the linen that George helpfully supplied on cue, and then he paused to squint at his now disordered and picked-over meal. That sneaky little shit.

“It’s good,” Merlin called from over by the wardrobe. “Nice dash of clove.”

Arthur’s gaze flickered over his plate again, and then he observed that there was less cider than a moment ago. He hadn’t even noticed Merlin having a go at that. Casually, Arthur took a sip of the cider himself, and then tucked into his meal without looking at either of the other men in the room. “I dislike the tag teaming.”

“Then you should learn to eat your food without a fuss.”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“Toddlers can do it.”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin made a sound that betrayed he was smiling into the open wardrobe, where Arthur couldn’t see his mouth. A moment later, though, the quality of the quiet changed, and Merlin asked, “What is this?”

Too late, Arthur remembered the ironed socks, but George was already closing the hall door as he fled, the coward.

“Is this wicker?!”

“Um.” Arthur swallowed his mouthful of stew in time to shove a piece of sausage in after it, so that he could only shrug and chew too much food as Merlin rounded the door frame with the new sock basket.

“Where’s my ewer?”

Around the mouthful of sausage, Arthur replied, “I’m the king; it’s not my job to pay attention to my socks.”

After a heartbeat of silence, Merlin huffed. “I’m going to maim George.”

Arthur nearly choked on the lump of stewy sausage as he forced it down his throat. “Why are you so attached to the stupid ewer? It’s not for socks.”

“It’s cracked; I can’t use it for water.”

Arthur blinked at his unhelpful stew, cocked his head with a sharp breath, and then just had to ask, against his better judgement, “So because it’s no longer good for carrying water, its proper use is to store socks.” He tipped his head to find Merlin trying very hard not to look like he knew how absurd that sounded. “You’re off in the head. You know that?”

Merlin narrowed his eyes. “I use the ewer because it’s charmed to repel curses. It was like that when I found it; seemed a shame to waste it.” He stalked off back to the wardrobe.

“And your first thought after finding this object was for the sanctity of the royal socks.”

Merlin twisted to pop his head back out from behind the wardrobe door. “Do you know how many times people have tried to curse you? Because I’ve lost count. Boots, keys, flowers in a vase, flowers in a pot, flowers in a pile under your bed, a fruit fly, gifts, parchment, your quills, dinner, supper, wine, rings, a muffin, an actual live badger, and yes – yes! – your bloody royal socks.”

After staring at Merlin for a while, Arthur replied, “Hm,” and went back to his meal.

“What, that’s all you’ve got to say? Hm?” Merlin mocked.

“I’m trying to figure out what kind of curse would go well with socks.”

“The dancing kind that never stops.”

Arthur scoffed. “That’s a myth.”

“No, it’s a curse, and the only way to lift it is to cut off the offending appendages.”

Arthur paused mid-chew, rotated his knife in his hand, and then went back to tasting the sausage that was still in his mouth. Probably best that he didn’t have to amputate his feet to stop them dancing him through the halls without his consent. “Alright, fair point.”

“Fair point,” Merlin scoffed, and went back to whatever he was doing with his upper body half in the wardrobe. A moment later, the fireplace flared at the addition of a wicker basket, and Merlin went hunting around the royal chambers, presumably for something else in which to store socks.

“Why didn’t you just ward the basket?”

As if it explained everything, Merlin called back, “Because it’s wicker.”

Arthur let out a long-suffering breath and just let that be. It was easier, probably. Merlin came back into the room as Arthur finished his supper, with sleeping clothes draped over one arm and no socks. Arthur had a sneaking suspicion, based on the wooly scent of the fire in his hearth, that there were now no more socks to be had, but it really wasn’t worth arguing about. “Did you finish my Samhain speech for tomorrow?”

Merlin produced a folded handful of parchment from inside of his sleeve and set it down near Arthur’s hand on his way across the room. “It’s in the common tongue. All of it. I double checked.” He paused and then asked, “Is that why you skip parts sometimes?”

“Occasionally, there’s a bit in a language I can’t read.” Arthur picked up the parchment and smoothed out the creases so that he could skim through the draft.

“I thought you just didn’t like those parts. You could have just said.”

Arthur shrugged. “The translating is good practice. I don’t get many opportunities outside of diplomatic negotiations.” He kept eating his stew blindly with one hand while he read.

Merlin grunted something incomprehensible and went about turning down the bed. “I apologized to Howel.”

Surprised, Arthur lowered the speech and craned his neck to see Merlin over his shoulder. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You were perfectly clear in the marketplace that I did.” Merlin violently fluffed a pillow and Arthur wondered if it had offended his mother at some point to earn that treatment.

Arthur sighed and set down the speech, wiped his mouth and hands with the napkin, then stood up to make his way over to where Merlin was now beating at a bed curtain that didn’t appear to billow properly. He thought about apologizing himself, but he did stand by what he’d said, and he was pleased that Merlin had gone to smooth things over. “How did he take it?”

“Stood as far away as possible and looked ready to pee himself the whole time.” Merlin gave the curtain one last irate swat, and then backed down with a loud exhale. He rubbed at his forehead as he turned to grab Arthur’s bed clothes. “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you, and I know it’s important you show your authority. That woman just gets under my skin. All of her stupid comments, and being a cranky old goat. She never liked me. And what Howel said was rude - those girls are doing their best with what assets they have, and men like him make it worse for them.”

Arthur cocked his head. “Are you apologizing to me too?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, I’m not. It’s just hard to tell.”

Merlin glared at him, but grimaced right after. “I was angry. I’m sorry. Just…seeing her, and the whole sorcery thing, and I clammed up when I should have defended her. Or maybe you’d have been mad at that too, I don’t know. It’s all screwed up now; I don’t know how to act, which is stupid. I just freeze every time I remember that people might know things.” He flapped the sleep clothes far too hard for polite company, and then growled at them when they retained their wrinkles. "Everything  I do or say is suspect now, and it's not like I'm any different than I was two days ago. I may as well be a leper."

Ignoring that for the time being, Arthur propped himself against the bedpost and crossed his arms over his chest. “What was her name – Wynn? Why does she have such a problem with you, anyway? I thought you had a ‘special touch’ with the ladies.”

Merlin paused his fretting with the clothes to glower at him for the sarcasm. “I think she’s convinced I’m competition.”

“Comp – what?” Arthur blew an attempt not to laugh through his teeth, failed, and ended up nearly spitting on himself. “Competition?! Why does she think that?”

Merlin stared straight ahead and put additional wrinkles into the sleep trousers with his restless fingers. “I asked one of her girls to explain certain things to me once, as payment for the medicine I gave her, since she was new and didn’t have any money for it. Wynn assumed she was educating me, and took that to mean I was going to start stealing her clients of a less particular persuasion. Which she then told people because she wanted to make sure that none of her customers explored other options, which is probably how Howard and Meliot got the idea I do that.”

Arthur had to turn away so that he didn’t completely lose his composure, and hiccupped at his magical apple tree. “Oh, god.” He folded a bit and covered his mouth, aware that there was no way to fool Merlin into thinking he was doing anything other than laughing. “Wait…wait. What did you ask her to explain?”

“I’m not participating in my own ridicule anymore.”

“Oh, come on!” Arthur wheedled, turning around. “You have to tell me now!”

Merlin balled up the hopelessly rumpled sleep trousers and dropped them back onto the bed. “It’s not funny!”

Arthur sobered, startled at the vitriol in that.

“I was fifteen summers old when I first came here. You know what boys are like at that age. My mum never had a man in the house after I was born, I didn’t have a father to teach me about things, and I certainly wasn’t going to ask Gaius. What do you think I wanted her to explain?”

Arthur nodded and swallowed as he searched for something else to look at. “I’m sorry. That was – ”

“Don’t you dare! I’m sick of people apologizing to me just because I’m pissed off.”

Arthur shot him an affronted look. “I shouldn’t be surprised by the mouth on you anymore,” he grumbled. “But I am actually still the king, so tone it down.”

Merlin turned away and held a hand out in a gesture of appeasement. “I know. Sorry. I’m in a foul mood. I’ll stop.”

That made Arthur wrinkle his mouth up, but he accepted the statement. “You had friends in Ealdor. That William fellow – he even had magic. Like you.” Arthur narrowed his eyes at Merlin’s tensing back. “Or he didn’t, and you lied.”

“He lied,” Merlin corrected softly. “He didn’t trust you not to kill me if you knew.”

Arthur softened, somehow relieved to know that there had been at least one person in Merlin’s life who had evidently loved him the right way, without expectations in return. “He protected you.”

Merlin nodded, his face downcast and hidden. “He found out when we were small. Had more sense than me, of course.” He made a sound akin to laughing, but it had too much bitterness to it. “Only person who knew, other than my mum. He helped me keep it secret. I slipped up a lot back then.”

“Hm.” Arthur wandered about the room to let Merlin have a moment of privacy, and dropped the subject. “Doesn’t answer my question, though. Don’t peasant boys talk about girls? Rib each other over it, dare each other to flirt with the young village ladies? Fumble around in the hay, compare equipment?”

Merlin shook himself from some reminiscence. “Can you imagine me flirting with girls?”

“Well, no, but reason stands, you might have tried at some point. You do seem to have poor decision-making skills in social situations. Come on, you must have had friends that egged you on. Every village has them. Great big pack of awkward pubescent boys trying to figure out how everything works.”

Merlin appeared unimpressed, and reminded him, “Other than Will, I didn’t have friends. It was too much of a risk when I was a boy. Magic, remember?” He pointed at himself as if Arthur could possibly think he was talking about someone else. “A toddler doesn’t understand that he can’t make his toys play with him when he’s bored, or magic up food when his mum’s garden fails and they're hungry, or fix a stillborn calf after everyone sees that it’s dead. That’s not a boy you send out to play with the other kids his age. And it’s too late after the boy’s old enough to control himself. He’s already a pariah.”

Arthur stared at him, trying to imagine that. “How young were you when you started doing magic?”

Merlin shrugged. “Mum said I was doing it before I could talk. I don't remember a time when I wasn't doing something or other with it. It was natural to me. I didn't think about it.”

And here, some part of Arthur had still assumed that even born with magic, there were inhibitions or choices to be had about it. “I’m sorry. It never occurred to me, what your childhood may have been like. I always assumed it was normal, other than the magic being a secret.”

“You never asked,” Merlin accused, but it lacked any true bite. “I meant it when I said I had to leave. They were suspicious of me in general for the way mum kept me away when I was younger, and when I finally started going about the village, I didn’t have any idea how to act around other people. Most of them thought something must be wrong with me, and they wanted to know what. That grave mental affliction that you and Gaius were always teasing me about – it may as well have been true. The people in Ealdor turned more hostile, the older I got.”

Arthur gave him a sad look. “I did wonder, when we were all there. Barely anyone even looked at you, much less spoke to you.”

Merlin shrugged. “It’s the way they’ve always been. I’m used to people ignoring me, or looking sidelong.” He pushed away from the bed curtains and approached Arthur. “You said I acted all wrong for a servant. Called me an idiot. Bumpkin.” He exaggerated the “p” with a pop of his lips and wrenched at the laces of Arthur’s tunic. A moment later, he forced himself to gentle his movements. “Up until I came here, pretty much the only people I ever spoke to were my mum and Will.”

Arthur grunted in sympathy, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He lifted his arms when prodded to allow his tunic to come off, and then took in the unhappy tilt of Merlin’s mouth as he avoided looking directly at Arthur.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Merlin asked, seemingly out of nowhere. He kept his eyes on the fabric he was running through his fingers, perhaps looking for tears or damage that he’d need to repair. “Not…here, here. I can sleep on the floor, or in the servant’s chamber if George hasn't taken up space there yet. I just don’t think I want to be alone in a tower room. Nobody would hear if they changed their minds.”

“The knights?” Arthur frowned at the thought that they may have been harassing Merlin already.

“They’re afraid of me, even if they hide it well.”

“Howel is only one man,” Arthur pointed out. “And I’m sure you could stop the rest bothering you, if you’re really that worried.”

“Yes, but I’m not sure I would.” Merlin tossed the soiled tunic into a corner with a pile of other laundry that he must have collected since George disappeared. “Not if they thought they were protecting you. That’s not wrong on their part. They’re supposed to do that, and I’m tired of hurting people who don’t deserve it.”

Without thinking, Arthur reached up and cupped the side of Merlin’s downturned face before he could reach for Arthur’s breeches. It wasn’t something that Arthur meant to do, but he didn’t like the reminder of certain things said in the dark of the woods. “You are a wonder.” He’d said that to Merlin once before, but in a mean way. This time, he meant the words exactly as they were. “I don’t expect you to allow abuses for me.”

“But you expect me to commit them?” Merlin sucked on his teeth and looked away briefly. “I’m not trying to start an argument. It’s just…hard…what happened last night. Or this morning. Whatever. I thought I’d be ecstatic, and I was, for a minute. But now I’m just terrified. I might actually crawl out of my own skin, and I’m still sort of convinced I should be planning an escape route, or wearing armor under my clothes for when they stab me in the back after all. They'll do something, eventually. Some of them, at least. Their doubts are still there.”

Arthur nodded and let those sentiments rest, since they were truthful, never mind that he impugned the honor of over a dozen knights by voicing them. Those particular concerns weren’t unique to Merlin. Arthur plucked a stray bit of lint from Merlin’s collar with his free hand. “You can stay here whenever you like. You don’t need a reason.”

Merlin cleared his throat and eventually croaked, “Thanks.” He lifted his eyes to give Arthur a tiny smile, and then focused on the arm in his periphery, connected to the hand that Arthur still rested against his face.

Arthur had taken liberties with Merlin’s person before, and he did know that. The line between well-meant and unwanted was very thin to Arthur. But he didn’t like the way that Merlin’s affect edged toward miserable. Dubious was fine – Arthur was too – but this thing screaming from the stillness of Merlin’s face seemed too close to that hopeless look he’d worn the night before in the woods as he sat waiting to be judged guilty for something inflicted on him at birth, and welcomed the sharp edge of a sword for it.

Merlin took a deep breath and twitched before he paused all over, the way he had in the guard alcove when Arthur framed his head in his hands to make him stop babbling and faffing about. Just as Arthur reconsidered the wisdom of touching him at all, Merlin raised a hand and pressed the pads of two fingers into the centerline of Arthur’s bare chest, not quite where his heart would be - just a sad little tap, unobtrusive enough to hope that he might not be made to give it back after.

Two nights ago, Merlin stopped Arthur asking a question for a third time, as if three were a magic number after which he’d be forced to tell the plain truth, without misdirection. Arthur felt the compulsion to finish that asking now, so that he could hear what Merlin had not wanted to reveal before, through reluctance or fear, even though he must realize that Arthur already knew. Before anything else happened – before either one of them decided how to move next – Arthur needed the answer to be given, not assumed. “Do you love me?” he asked. Again. As if no time at all had passed.

Merlin swallowed as if weighted down, or as if there were hands pressed in warning around his throat. Arthur would let him refuse to answer if he needed that. He didn’t know what all went on in Merlin’s head – that much had gone clear as crystal over the past several days. He wanted to know, of course, but forcing confidence never ended well. Arthur understood how sometimes, a man couldn’t give himself leisure to see what sat in front of him. And that was alright, if Merlin weren’t ready to look yet. Arthur already knew, anyway. It just would have been nice to hear Merlin admit it. To have it out, where one of them might be brave enough to act on it.

Merlin opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Rather than try again, he pressed harder at Arthur’s chest, clicked something harsh in his throat, and finally nodded. 

Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t consciously been holding, and mirrored Merlin’s nod. He let his thumb smear a bit over the rough scratch of beard partially obscuring Merlin’s cheek.

Abruptly, Merlin shook himself and stepped back, out of Arthur’s reach, to retrieve the soft linen trousers that Arthur liked to sleep in. “I, um.” Merlin itched his nose and worked at shaking out the trousers before indicating the breeches that Arthur was still wearing. “Should I…?”

Arthur glanced down as well, and then bit his lip as he considered the colossal error he was likely about to make. “I need to know what constitutes too far.” At Merlin’s blank look, he added, “Boundaries. Because…look. I want to do some things right now that you’ve been ambivalent about.” Guinevere had tried so hard to teach him to look more closely at his own assumptions. But this wasn’t about Guinevere, and he really didn’t want her face in his mind right then; it would be an insult, even if Merlin never knew he was thinking of her. “I’m not actually trying to take advantage, but you know me. You know I can be…you know. A prat. Entitled. I impose myself when I don’t necessarily mean to.”

“Boundaries?” Merlin echoed. He gave the linen trousers in his hand a concerned look. “What exactly are we talking about doing?”

Arthur stopped himself groaning in frustration, but just barely. Instead, he deliberately said, “Anything I want is too broad.” He took a breath to steady his temper, which had no place there but threatened to come out anyway alongside the frustration and worry that he would overstep the bounds of propriety by a huge margin. “You keep running off, or refusing me in one breath and then telling me in the next to just use you like a bloody catamite. You let me touch you, and then you pull away. I want to know what you want. What you’d actually enjoy. With me, if that’s not obvious. And if it’s nothing – if I’m misreading this entirely – then just tell me that, alright? Because if you let me do something you don’t want or like just because I’m your bloody king, I swear to god, Merlin, I will end up hating you for it.”

Merlin blinked at him a few times, and then set the linen trousers aside. Without answering verbally, he gave Arthur a pointed look, and then set about silently unlacing Arthur’s breeches.

“Merlin.” Arthur stilled his hands without removing them from dangerously near his intimate areas. “I need an answer. Please.”

“I have told you,” Merlin bit out, unexpectedly heated, “what I want you to do. And you don’t do it.”

Arthur scoffed and then studied him for a span. The imitation of mirth faded from his face as he looked. “All you’ve told me is to take what I want. Or – or to let you…service me? Merlin, that’s not – ”

“You asked me what I want,” Merlin broke in. He shifted nervously on his feet, back and forth in an agitated sway, eyes once again carefully lowered, but Arthur could perceive the shame in it that time. “I’ve told you.”

Arthur recognized how precarious this moment was, just by Merlin’s skittish body language. The grip that Arthur retained on his wrists may have been the only thing keeping him from walking out. “I’m relatively certain I don’t understand. You can’t seriously want to be treated like a whore.”

“That’s not what it is!” Merlin tugged at his trapped hands, but Arthur refused to release him. “I’m your servant.” He pulled harder and when Arthur just dragged him back, he grimaced and hunched a shoulder as if to protect himself. Defeated, he finally met Arthur’s gaze head on and told him, “I just want to be your servant.”

Arthur regarded him sidelong, convinced that whatever Merlin was saying, it didn’t mean what Arthur heard. “I know I’d have noticed if you got off on chores and me bossing you around.”

This time, Merlin yanked hard enough that Arthur didn’t have time to prevent him pulling free. “Right, laugh all you like. I’ll just tidy up, shall I?”

“I’m not laughing.” Arthur followed him with his eyes as Merlin made his way around the room jamming the candle snuffer down hard enough to break the wicks. “Merlin, I really don’t understand.”

Merlin lobbed the snuffer onto a corner table, whirled around, and threw his arms out. “Take what you want, if you want it! I want you to take whatever the hell it is you want, because I don’t bloody well know what I want! I can’t answer that question – I don’t know!”

Arthur pushed a bed curtain aside just to give himself something to look at for a moment as he paced across the room to where Merlin stood with his chest heaving, angry. “You don’t know what you want, but you like…serving me?” He raised his eyes once he stood in front of Merlin again. He let his brow wrinkle. “Pleasing me?”

A harsh exhale gusted out of Merlin’s lungs, and he nodded, but he didn’t look happy or comfortable or excited, or anything except anxious and upset. And he still had his arms spread as if presenting himself for Arthur’s…use.

“I see.” He didn’t. Arthur pressed his tongue against the backs of his teeth and pivoted a step backwards to look at Merlin fro his periphery for a moment before he turned and shuffled back toward his bed, his thoughts whirling.

Behind him, Merlin threw something and thunked down onto the bench near the hearth. Arthur glanced back to find him pulling his hair with his elbows on his knees, evidently trying to calm himself back down.

Arthur at least admired what it must have taken to work himself up to saying something like that. It must have been mortifying. Arthur straightened in comprehension, and turned back to face him directly. “That must have been mortifying for you to admit.”

“I’m not proud of it,” Merlin mumbled into his arms. “Can you imagine what it looks like? Sycophantic servant, happy to get on his knees and suck the royal cock. It’s pathetic.”

Arthur softened as he let out a breath, though the wording Merlin chose left him fighting a flush. “Is that really something you think about doing?”

Merlin shrank a fraction where he sat, and scrubbed his scalp. “A bit. Maybe.”

The directness of that was unexpected, but not unwelcome. “Well, you’re definitely not a sycophant, so no worries there. And it’s not pathetic. It’s humbling.”

Merlin tugged at a few tufts of hair and then sat up to lean against the edge of the mantle, his gaze tossed aside. “Humbling,” he croaked, and then let out a self-deprecating snort. “Sure. If that’s what you think.”

“It is.” Arthur ambled across the room the same way he would approach a deaf horse, careful not to spook it before it knew he was there. “That you trust me with something like that. Such devotion, Merlin. I don’t deserve it.”

Merlin tilted his head up, overgrown hair just long enough to fall into his eyes, and though his face angled toward the door, his gaze met Arthur’s. “It’s not about what you deserve. It’s just what I want.” His head tipped back as Arthur stepped up to him so that he could keep looking at Arthur’s face. “It doesn’t matter if it’s carnal or not, either. If what you wanted had nothing to do with those things, I’d still want to give it to you. But if you’re specifically asking about those things, then yes, that’s what I’d want from it.” The frantic edge had gone from his expression, and he merely looked alone now. Maybe a little morose, slumped against the stone wall. Waiting for Arthur to make fun of him, or call him a girl, or tell him he was being stupid. Waiting to be denied again, told off and rejected because Arthur didn’t want that from him. Didn’t want what he offered. Was disgusted at the thought of it, of taking that from him. Of using him for that, even with permission.

But it wasn’t use, this thing that Merlin kept holding out to him, was it? Arthur just hadn’t understood that. Maybe Merlin didn’t either, or he might have been able to explain better. Or perhaps he’d never meant to make a clear offer, and had just left room for the possibility that Arthur would be the kind of prat who would take without bothering to understand. And of course, Arthur could be reading too far into things, and Merlin was just bumbling his way into this the same way he clumsied into everything else, and he was an awkward mess about it because that was just Merlin in a nutshell, sometimes. This wasn’t a courtship ritual anyone covered in etiquette lessons, after all.

Arthur dropped his hand down to cup Merlin’s chin, and tilted his head farther back to expose Merlin's throat. In contrast to the defeated, loose posture he displayed, Merlin's whole body buzzed under his skin; Arthur could feel it, all of the tension coiled up and waiting to burst. No wonder Merlin was so on edge - so quick to snap tonight. It had to have been building for a while, not only the past day. Arthur dropped two fingers down to press against Merlin’s trachea just hard enough to imply a threat. “It’s not about humiliation, is it? Because I’d rather not ridicule you for this.”

Merlin shook his head, but his breathing had gone shaky. “No, sire.”

That little shiver down Arthur’s spine wasn’t entirely a welcomed thing. He didn’t want this to be about rank and authority. “Can I say nice things, then? Tell you how pretty you look like this?”

Something about that made Merlin’s nostrils flare and his breath quicken, but it also hooded his gaze, and not in a good way. “I’m not actually a girl.” But he relented just enough to betray himself as he said again, “I know it’s pathetic.”

Arthur dug his fingers into Merlin’s chin firmly enough to make him straighten and go rigid. “It’s not pathetic.” Arthur softened his hand again and felt it under his palm when Merlin swallowed, eyes riveted on him. Always watching him. Always keeping a close eye. Starving, maybe, for a kind word? A compliment? To be told, for once, that he’d done well? If all he’d ever been to others was a strange unwanted child, or a painfully awkward young man, or a failed figure of fate, then it was no wonder he might come to crave little more than a kind word for a banal accomplishment. Any job well done. Arthur had certainly not helped to fill that void in the past, what with the insults and aspersions, and the name calling that hadn't always been in kind fun. “I’m well aware that you could crush me if you wanted to," Arthur told him. "Burn me up like a moth in a candle flame, but you don’t. You submit. Do you know how that makes me feel, knowing what you are, and that you just give that to me? Every day?” Arthur leaned down and almost let their noses touch. “It makes me feel humbled, Merlin. That you think I’m worth that.”

Merlin let out a shaky breath and reached up to hold Arthur’s wrist.

“You are not terrifying because you wield magic,” Arthur murmured, close and quiet enough that even in a room full of people, no one but Merlin could have heard him. “You are terrifying because you take all of that power - power no one man should have - and you lay it at my feet as if I can be trusted with it. With you. That’s why you scare me so badly. You have a faith in me – in my goodness – that I have never had in myself. That I don’t think I deserve. And the fact that you do? Still, after all of these years, and the myriad ways I’ve hurt you? It’s paralyzing, the responsibility of living up to that. It’s humbling, the way you love me.”

Merlin tried to swallow again, but Arthur’s fingers were in the way. His lips had parted just enough to show a hint of the gleam of teeth, and his eyes didn’t stray at all from Arthur’s.

“There was always something about you that I couldn’t fathom. Some hint of you that didn’t fit right, even after the magic.” Arthur looked him over, chin still caught in his grasp, Merlin’s hand gone clammy around that same wrist. “You keep it hidden well, but I think I’m starting to see it. Do you know what it is?”

When Merlin tried to shake his head in spite of Arthur’s grip, Arthur brought up his other hand to squeeze a warning at that juncture where neck met shoulder. Merlin’s spine elongated like a cat in response and he puffed a wordless syllable back at Arthur.

Arthur nodded, and answered himself. “You are exceptional, Merlin. You’re a gift I never asked for.”

A tiny sound snuck from Merlin’s throat and his eyes started to water at the strain with which he held his body stiff and still in Arthur’s grip. It was fascinating. And yes, as he’d said before, humbling. Arthur let his eyes skim down Merlin’s body. He didn’t know what to do with this kind of an offer, but it made his skin feel hot and too tight on his frame. The majority of Arthur’s experience in carnal matters had come via Guinevere’s tutelage. Perhaps that was odd for a boy, or a man, or a prince or king to mainly lay only with the wife he wed, but Arthur’s tastes were specific, and his attractions limited. Yes, he had gone through the usual rights of passage as a young knight – mouths and hands and fumbling with barmaids when the men got rowdy – but this? He’d never been offered anything like this. He didn’t even know that men did this – not the carnal bit, but the power play. Merlin wasn’t weak, no matter his rank or position, servant or not, or his literal inability to bear the weight of donning full armor without falling over. Merlin had all of the real, physical power in that room, and they both knew it. But it didn't hold under close examination because he gave it up, and he handed it over, and that wasn’t something that came from weakness or fragility. It wasn’t even a thing unique to this moment in Arthur’s chamber. It was just a natural extension, wasn’t it? A facet of the same regard that led Merlin to serve him in the first place, and ask no thanks for it. It was odd and it was frightening, and Arthur didn’t know if he welcomed this kind of devotion or not. So much about it walked a fine line between fealty and self-effacement. It might have been unhealthy, what Merlin gave him, and how. But it wasn’t weak.

Arthur shifted closer, one foot sliding between Merlin’s on the floor. He watched Merlin’s torso arc as he straightened against the wall, chest heaving like the tide. “You really would let me, wouldn’t you?” Arthur mused out loud. “I could do anything right now.” His brows drew down into a vee between his eyes, and he looked again at the stretch of Merlin’s body. Part of him wondered if this were another sort of mask that Merlin wore – dog’s body, perhaps more literal. An article of service. Once, Arthur would have convinced himself that the sorcerer was using this as yet another lure to draw him in. Make him want. Make him less attentive or more malleable. But there was something about the way Merlin looked back at him, bare blue eyes in a face that wasn’t trying to obscure or be a particular proper thing… It was more real, this. It seemed the closest Arthur had ever been to seeing the real Merlin – not the glimpses or hints he’d stolen from other moments, and not the sorcerer hidden from view. Not the bitter, jaded man he so often seemed beneath the recent false cheer. This was something more fundamental, unencumbered – a sliver of the man he truly was underneath, beyond the airs and the magic and the fear, and the impersonated aspects of himself that he wore like armor to survive.

Arthur frowned, and loosened his hand from Merlin’s chin to run the pads of his fingers down the long, exposed throat. He paused at the notch of his sternum, fingers hooked into the brocade collar and top button of his surcoat. “Who are you, Merlin? Who are you, really?”

Merlin blinked a few times as if language had escaped him. “Yours?”

“Is that the answer you think I want to hear?” Arthur skimmed his finger underneath his collar to trace the edge of the fading scar on his chest.

“I dunno. What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

Merlin hesitated, but not from uncertainty. “I think that is the truth.”

Arthur creased his mouth into an uneven line. He didn’t want to say that it wasn’t enough, but it wasn’t. It was flat and undimensional, and Merlin wasn’t either of those. He didn’t say it, though, and that seemed a dangerous absence from whatever this was. An unintended vulnerability. 

Merlin swayed after him as Arthur withdrew, and had to catch himself against the edge of the bench. Looking a bit dazed, he eventually focused back on Arthur now standing several feet away, out of reach.

“I don’t want any doubt that I’m not forcing you into something.”

It took Merlin a moment to recover his higher reasoning, and he started to argue, “I already told you – ”

“It’s not about you,” Arthur broke in. He allowed his demeanor to crack just enough to make the right impact. “I need to be sure. For myself. I need to know that I didn’t use my rank against you. Or your regard for me.” Arthur came to rest beside the table where his shrouded tree grew up to the rafters, and contemplated the pointed shapes of the branches underneath. “Merlin, you would do literally anything I ask. You can deny it or condition it all you want, but you would. And I have to be sure that’s not what’s happening here, for my own peace of mind. Will you give me leave to have that doubt?”

“You’re making this more than it has to be. You’re my king. I’m happy to serve in that capacity too, so it doesn’t matter. I have no expectations of you.”

Arthur laughed at that, but it sounded sad when it hit the air. Heavy. “All you have are expectations of me. I’ve been listening to them for years.”

“But that has nothing to do with this.”

“Don’t be naïve. You wouldn’t have looked twice at me in the practice yard if I weren’t a prince.”

With a hint of humor, Merlin replied, “I looked twice because you were a prat, not a prince.”

“I owe one to the other.” Arthur sighed and turned around to find Merlin still sat on the bench, but his posture appeared less giving now. “Nothing has to happen tonight, or ever. If all you really want, right now in this moment, is a safe place to sleep, then just get in bed. Or go to the servant’s chamber and sleep there; it’s your choice.” Arthur looked down, then away, and finally back to Merlin. “But if you want to continue this, and you’re sure it’s not just because you think I want to, then come over and finish undressing me.”

Merlin’s adam’s apple bobbed as Arthur turned away and went to sit on the far side of his bed, facing the window, to give Merlin space to make his decision. It took longer than Arthur anticipated, and he started to get antsy at the thought that he had overstepped and botched this up after all. Finally, though, he heard Merlin stumble to his feet and nearly trip over something on his way to the bed. He paused again just outside of Arthur’s range of vision, and then he came round to stand in front of Arthur with his fingers tangled together. “Can you ever be sure?”

Arthur looked up. “What?”

“That I’m not doing it out of duty. Can you ever trust that?”

Arthur let his gaze wander around the edge of Merlin’s form silhouetted against the window behind him. “Would you be insulted if I said I don’t know?”

“Not insulted. Disappointed, maybe, that I still haven’t earned your trust. Or that I had it once and ruined it.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Arthur objected.

Merlin swayed a bit, just a shadow occluding the weak evening light at the window. “But I did lose it?”

“Loyalty is supposed to be a good thing,” Arthur hummed quietly. “But the more I learn about the extent of yours, the more I worry that my will subsumes you, and you don’t even know it. Or worse, that you do know, and consent. That makes some things hard to trust.”

Merlin sighed and shifted his weight, then turned, vacillated, and sat next to Arthur on the bed. “I reject both your options, then.” He picked at the roughened skin of his knuckles, and then peered at the window opposite them with a long exhale. “I’ve made things weird.” He chuffed as if to soften the words by mocking himself.

Arthur chuckled and gave him a friendly shove before mirroring his posture. “No.” He frowned. “I’m just concerned. I don’t understand why you’d want that. You know, to be – ”

“Don’t say it.” Merlin cast him a cautious frown from the side of his mouth.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” Arthur huffed in an effort to make it humorous. “Look, I know you’re supposed to be some kind of wizard, but even you can’t read minds.”

“You were going to say demeaned,” Merlin replied with just a hint of sass. Something twinkled in the corner of his eye though, as if to make Arthur wonder if maybe he actually could read minds.

Arthur narrowed his eyes without looking at him. “Alright, clever clogs. I’m not saying you’re right, but for the sake of argument…?”

Merlin made a few indeterminate complaints under his breath. “It’s not demeaning to serve someone. I’m proud of that, you know. Serving you. You may as well insult every servant in the castle, if you think that’s demeaning.”

“You’re infuriating.” Arthur leaned back on his hands. “You know I’m not just talking about you being a servant.” Even though he wasn’t technically a servant anymore, and should never have been one, but who was Arthur to stop him doing whatever he wanted, even if that meant service?

Merlin twisted a bit to be able to look at him. “And you’re not that stupid.” His eyes skimmed over Arthur’s bare chest and stretched out form, and then he cocked his head. “Oh. It’s not me at all. Why don’t you trust yourself?”

Arthur scowled at him. “Where on earth did you get that from?”

Merlin leaned closer and gave him a cheeky grin. “I know you. Prat.” He rotated to face Arthur and folded one leg in front of himself. “And you never have; I’m not the only one who notices. You doubt yourself, and you’re never confident you really made the right choice. And sure, you act the part well, but your face gives it away. Like a sad puppy.” He made a ridiculous face, clearly a caricature of Arthur's supposed sad puppy visage. 

A resigned gust of air left Arthur’s lungs as he just stared at Merlin in disapproval. But he wasn’t wrong, except for the puppy thing, which was completely uncalled for. “It’s because I know what I’ve done. A good man can’t do those kinds of things and still live with himself after. How can I trust that man, who does live with himself? You do know me, Merlin. You’re well aware of my blind spots. How can I be sure that I won’t take advantage of the friend who can’t deny me anything?”

“So you don’t trust the fact that I trust you?” Merlin appeared more contemplative than before. After a good long while of just watching Arthur grow more and more fidgety under the scrutiny, he turned away with a sniff and then slipped off of the bed to his knees at Arthur’s feet. “I can deny you.”

“Can you?” Startled, Arthur sat up straighter. “Because it looks like you’re just proving my point.” His fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, though, and carded themselves through Merlin’s hair.

Merlin smiled and grumbled something akin to a purr as he went about removing Arthur’s boots.

Arthur had to admit, as his hand wandered over Merlin’s scalp, that was a kind of relief, just to be allowed to touch. Merlin moved up to the laces at Arthur’s waist, and Arthur slipped his hand to the back of Merlin’s neck, just to rest his weary palm there. “I’ve no idea how I could possibly deserve you.”

Merlin pulled the laces apart and glanced up from under the hair that had fallen into his eyes. “I told you: it’s not about what you deserve.”

“No,” Arthur murmured. He moved his foot to rub against the back of Merlin’s calf where it rested on the floor. “All about you, eh?”

Merlin smirked at him. “You did imply that you despaired of my ego.”

Arthur snorted softly through his nose, an inadvertent smile flashing over his mouth before he turned pensive again, just watching. For his part, Merlin did appear oddly relaxed down there as he rolled Arthur’s breeches over his hips, and then prodded him to lift his pelvis so that Merlin could work them off and down his legs. That fine vibration under Merlin’s skin had faded.

The breeches got tossed onto the pile of laundry and floor sweepings too, and then Merlin lowered his head to look at the hands that he wrapped around Arthur’s ankles. “I’m used to something more rough.”

Arthur swallowed. “Do you want rough?”

Thankfully, Merlin shook his head. “Not for this. It’s just…so you know. This part’s a bit new, is all.”

That made Arthur simultaneously incensed for him, and incredibly sad. That a twenty six year old man should sit at his feet and tell him that the breadth of his experience of intimacy fell just short of violence made him want to find whoever was responsible and relieve them of their testicles. More so because it was Merlin, specifically – a man who once looked at his own persecutor and agreed to try to heal him, just because Arthur asked. That man deserved kindness at the very least.

“I have no expectations of you,” Arthur echoed back, hoping that it didn’t sound shallow or trite.

Merlin peered up briefly from under the flop of hair occluding his brow. The softness on his face made him seem blurred, most of his sharp edges gone for the moment. It may have been the scruff filling out along his jaw, or it may have been the clearness of his eyes that did it, but he appeared peaceful, just for a heartbeat, before he looked down again.

Arthur held his breath as Merlin ducked between his legs and nosed up his inner thigh just because he was afraid to embarrass himself with a gasp or some other delicate, emasculating sound. Merlin left his hands clasped gently and unmoving around Arthur’s ankles, and pressed his face up into the crease of Arthur’s groin. His breath fell in hot, even puffs over Arthur’s sensitive skin, and it was too much. It was… There was nothing else to which Arthur could compare this – nothing like this that he’d ever seen. He splayed his hand over the back of Merlin’s neck, where Merlin seemed to shiver at the touch, and then moved to cup Merlin’s chin to lift him out of there.

It seemed as if Merlin’s head were heavier than it should be when Arthur pried him loose and tipped his face up. Merlin didn’t exactly offer resistance, but there was weight to him that Arthur wasn’t accustomed to. Arthur dropped his hand to the column of Merlin’s throat and ran his thumb up and down along his trachea. Merlin’s eyes fluttered and then fell halfway closed. He swayed into the touch as if to encourage Arthur to grip harder there. Since it seemed to be an invitation, Arthur slid his hand around and under Merlin’s neckerchief so that he could force Merlin’s head back. Make him look as Arthur then plucked apart the buttons that ran down his chest from the notch of his throat to his navel where the surcoat flared out in quarters around his legs on the floor. He had on one of his threadbare old tunics underneath, and Arthur was almost relieved to find something familiar encased within that thick skin of an outer layer.

Arthur shoved the surcoat off of Merlin’s shoulders, but only as far as his elbows, so that it restricted the movement of arms, never mind that he hadn’t moved them and was still holding Arthur by the ankles. Arthur cupped his face again with a spare thought for Merlin’s passivity in this strange hanging moment. Rough beard upbraided the pads of Arthur’s fingers, and he frowned, concerned and puzzled, but excited too at this…this feast placed before him. This unasked-for gift. And maybe it really didn’t have anything to do with devotion to a king after all, because this…this had nothing to do with duty or rank. It couldn’t possibly, or he’d have seen its like before.

It must have been too long that Arthur just sat there staring because Merlin’s mouth arced in a smile as he lowered his eyes and pressed forward again, narrow shoulders bracketed by Arthur’s thighs. He sighed in what sounded like relief as his forehead touched Arthur’s navel, and Arthur felt the tension melt away under his hands, the tight muscles of Merlin’s shoulders and biceps unraveling as a tinge of sound escaped him on the tail end of his exhalation. Let me, he had said before. Arthur tried to keep his breathing steady, but it was a losing battle. The sight before him felt like magic, hair-raising and sharp as an oncoming storm, but it wasn’t anything to do with sorcery. This was a kind of eroticism he hadn’t realized existed – something he didn’t know he could have craved before now. Merlin hummed into the cavern he’d made of their collective skin, and from the way his jaw moved under Arthur’s fingers, he must have licked his lips before pressing his mouth down against the root of Arthur’s cock.

Arthur inhaled sharply and then controlled it better as he let the breath go. Merlin’s lips parted against his skin and dragged down along inflating flesh, a gradual influx of blood and skin gone turgid with the abrupt build of pressure. Hair passed through Arthur’s fingers as he reached out with both hands, not to grab or press, but to hold. To connect there at the apex of himself when Merlin opened his mouth, scratchy and hot and wet, to take him in. It was slow and sweet, and heavy with something like reverence, the way Merlin suckled until the flesh in his mouth grew hard and unyielding enough against his tongue to fall into a steady rhythm.

From out in the distant corridors, Arthur heard the bells that signaled the changing guard, and the watch fires on the ramparts beyond his windows flared bright as the men lit them with fresh tinder for the first night watch. Arthur’s eyes weren’t on Merlin, but on the gathering darkness out there beyond his room. Just the same, he could feel everything Merlin did, from swallowing excess saliva or nearly gagging, to clumsy moments he struggled to coordinate himself, tightening his hands on Arthur’s ankles as if to provide himself an anchor in a gale that hadn’t come yet. He wasn't experienced beyond the basic idea of it, but that didn't matter. Arthur’s chest expanded more than usual with his next breath, and he heard himself groan softly at the friction the next time he let it out. He tipped his head down to find Merlin’s eyes closed, brows knitted in concentration, his knees setting wider on the floor than when he’d started. Arthur ran his hand down the side of Merlin’s face where moisture had gathered in the crease of his nose, and then down farther to feel the working of that long throat beneath his fingers. Merlin shivered in response to the caress, and Arthur repeated it just to better memorize the moment it happened, the exact trigger for it.

It couldn’t last for very long. For Arthur, it had been more than a year since he’d felt the hands or mouth or body of another against his like this. He tightened his hand on Merlin’s shoulder and relocated the other to the edge of the mattress where he could grip without worry of being too forceful, of digging in. “Merlin.”

Merlin finally let go of Arthur’s ankles and reached up to cover both of Arthur’s hands, one clenched in the bedding and the other on his shoulder.

More urgent now, Arthur warned, “Merlin…”

Merlin hummed and just kept going at that maddening pace, sweet and slow like warm honey, and it was too gradual. If he kept going like that, Arthur feared he might come apart entirely at the end. Fast would have been easier – a quick, sharp shove off of a cliff. Merlin tightened his hands, and Arthur shifted so that he could hold onto fingers instead of bedding or clothing, and Merlin cinched his mouth a little more, just enough to make Arthur’s muscles lock. Arthur wrenched his gaze away from the dark head bobbing with single-minded focus between his legs, and gave up trying to breathe evenly. His stomach went taut and he squeezed Merlin’s fingers because it was only polite, to let him know he was almost there. Arthur couldn’t stop himself from closing his legs around Merlin’s shoulders, or from bowing forward as his hips arched, and he puffed out a wordless exclamation of gratitude as the pressure crested and broke, gasping helplessly around the white that occluded his vision as everything snapped loose around them.

When Arthur came back to himself, it was to find Merlin catching his breath with his face turned aside into Arthur’s thigh, their hands still clasped painfully in each other’s grips. Arthur was still bent over his lap, breathing now into Merlin’s hair and trying to blink away the tears that stress and tension had brought forth with the release. He loosened his grip and Merlin let him go entirely. Before he could retreat, though, Arthur shifted to cup Merlin’s head and hold him still where he was. Merlin settled without complaint, and Arthur ran his hands down Merlin’s bent back, a knobby spine like an old tree branch leading to his waist. Arthur pushed under the bunched-up fabric of the surcoat, and then around front to Merlin’s stomach. The muscles there twitched when Arthur worked his fingers under the tunic to find skin, and Merlin grabbed at his hands with a sharp grunt to stop them from going any lower.

As if he were drunk, Merlin slurred, “Not about that.”

Arthur obliged and moved his hands back up to feel Merlin’s heart beat like a rabbit’s through his tunic. “Do you need something else?”

“Just let me have this,” Merlin begged, his voice scratchy and broken from the strain of what he’d just done.

Arthur nodded even though Merlin wasn’t looking, and moved to cup Merlin’s jaw again, thumbs running rough over prickly cheeks and damp lips, and the slippery stick of saliva clinging to the spiky hair around his mouth. It was on the tip of Arthur’s tongue to comment that he disliked the thickening beard because he knew that if he said as much outright, Merlin would shave it all off at the first opportunity, whether he wanted it himself or not. Instead, Arthur took a deep breath, pulled Merlin’s head up, and leaned down to press his lips to Merlin’s forehead. Then he briefly pressed his nose into the dark hair before pulling back. “Get your boots off.”

It took Merlin a moment to rouse himself, and then he fumbled around to kicked off his ratty old boots. He seemed more jelly-limbed than Arthur, and Arthur had to help him shove the surcoat off the rest of the way. Once that was gone, Arthur stripped him of the tunic as well. That stupid neckerchief somehow maintained its place, though. Arthur paused again to merely look, and that turned into nerves far too quickly.

“Arthur?” Merlin reached up to cover the hands that Arthur had spread over Merlin’s chest, one of which covered the faded burn scar.

Arthur blinked up to meet his gaze. He didn’t know what he was thinking, much less could he read Merlin’s expression just then. His hands seemed to have a mind of their own, skimming up Merlin’s chest to frame his shoulders, and then further to cup his skull yet again and scrunch bits of his unruly, overgrown hair in pinched fingers. “Up,” Arthur urged, tugging at the wings of his shoulders.

Obedient, Merlin stood, and Arthur pulled him over onto the bed. He looked a bit puzzled when Arthur pushed him back to lay down in the spot Arthur usually occupied himself, but as long as Arthur insisted, he seemed content to go where instructed. Arthur scooted around to kneel beside him, knees pressing into Merlin’s hip and thigh where he still wore his threadbare old trousers with the stitched-up holes and leather rope knotted for a belt. Arthur spread his hand wide over the concavity beneath Merlin’s ribs, thumb skirting his navel. Arthur felt like a trespasser, and he wasn’t sure why. He still wanted things from Merlin, physical things, but it felt off, all of a sudden. That intensely peaceful thing on Merlin’s face, when he’d been kneeling on the floor, frightened him. And he didn’t know why, he just knew that he couldn’t face it yet. That maybe he’d never be able to.

Arthur dug his fingers into Merlin’s belt and worked the knot apart so that he could slide the bit of leather away as he’d done once before with Merlin collapsed exhausted in his bed. Rather than neatly coiling it on a side table this time, Arthur ran it through his hands and contemplated a pretty picture in his head of Merlin tied by his wrists to the bed post and stretched out for Arthur to look at. It scared him, the allure of that image as well as the fact that Merlin would probably let him do it. He threw the belt aside with more force than it warranted. Merlin merely looked at him, passive, and it struck Arthur in that moment – the true dichotomy of their power over each other. That Merlin would allow abuse if that was what Arthur wanted or even needed. Would lie there and accept it, and perhaps be pleased by it somehow. And Arthur himself helpless but to want that, and to see it play out. It was terrifying to Arthur on a whole new level as he imagined any number of things he might do to the body offered up before him, not all of them nice. He wasn’t prepared for this.

With his eyes shadowed, Arthur reached for his own discarded linen trousers crumpled at the end of the bed, and managed to maneuver himself into them without standing up. Merlin watched him in confusion, then contracted on himself a bit as Arthur snagged the coverlet to cover them both and flopped back onto the pillow on the wrong side of his bed. He stared up at the canopy for a while, glad that Merlin didn’t move or try to leave, or something else asinine or upsetting.

Eventually, Arthur clasped his hands over his stomach and said, “I’m sorry.”

Merlin shifted beside him and seemed to unwind a bit. “I told you, I don’t have any expectations.”

“Cut the crap,” Arthur whispered.

Some time passed while the distant guards shouted out on the battlements to complete their changeover, and then Merlin said, “Something scared you.”

Arthur tipped his chin back, and then rolled his head on the pillow to look at Merlin, who was angled toward Arthur but doing his best to keep his eyes on the blanket covering his chest. Arthur didn’t bother to answer because he was ashamed of the fact it was true, and Merlin had to know that. Instead, he faced the canopy again and asked, “What made you offer the first time? When I was drunk. You never gave any hint before, that I could see, that I’d interest you like that. I mean, you’ve bathed me often enough, dressed me… I would have noticed if it did something for you. So why that night?”

Merlin rustled about, maybe looking at him, but Arthur kept his eyes resolutely on the canopy above. “You made a comment about my hands,” Merlin replied. “Sort of. You were kind of flirty about it, and then you apologized for being inappropriate, so…yeah. Filled in the blanks.” Merlin shifted again, and jostled Arthur a bit. “I’d never actually thought about it before. With you, I mean. But I was happy to offer. I still am.”

Arthur stretched his toes out and tried to shift his shoulders so that they didn’t ache. “So it was just duty.”

“No.” Merlin rolled his head to look cautiously at Arthur. “Look, I know other men have urges I don’t. I’m not averse to it – it’s nice enough on either end, with the right person.”

“What do you mean, you don’t have urges?” Arthur prompted, finally looking back at him. “I already know everything works right on you.”

Merlin let out a frustrated sigh and shifted his gaze upward. “When you see a pretty girl, and she makes eyes at you. Or, if a woman takes her clothes off, it…it stirs, right? Like…” He glanced downward. “Doesn’t it?”

Arthur snorted at the absurdity. “Stop talking about it like it’s a bowl of oatmeal.”

Merlin rolled his eyes and made a complaining sound at the canopy. “My point is, I know that’s how things work for most men. It doesn’t, for me. It all functions right when you touch it, there’s just no instinct like there is for you.” He sniffed and took a moment to wipe the edge of the blanket over his newly sprouting mustache and chin, and then made a face at it before abandoning the effort. “If you just have needs, or an itch to scratch, that’s fine. I’m not going to feel any more used than I do when you get me up in the middle of the night because you suddenly want a hot bath.”

“I haven’t done that in years,” Arthur protested, squirming his back against the bedding.

“You did that two months ago. My point is, you don’t have to invent feelings for it. You don’t even need to reciprocate. I don’t want something you don’t want to give.”

“Merlin…” Arthur rolled over onto his side to face him. “Even if I had invented something, what about you? You said there are things you want, and you admitted you love me.”

Infuriatingly, Merlin just shrugged that off. “That’s not on you. And I have loved you, now, for a long time. It’s not a physical thing.”

“It has been, though. Twice.”

“That wasn’t about love. It was just friction.”

An uncomfortable thought occurred to him. “It wasn’t the violence, was it? When I did it to you?”

“The forcefulness, maybe,” Merlin hummed and looked away again, considering. “I do like the part where you don’t ask, you just…you know. Do it. I dunno why. It’s…it stirs things.” Merlin sucked in a deep and laden breath, and smeared his hands over his cheeks before huffing and letting them drop again into the bedding. “I liked that you just made me feel it. I didn’t have to say anything about it, or try to explain, or overthink it. Gaius is always – was always on me about thinking better. About everything.” He screwed up his face and made an awful, grainy-voiced imitation of Gaius when he said, “Think, Merlin! What goes on in that head of yours? It gets to be a bad habit when you want to do something you’re better off not thinking about.”

Arthur swallowed. He wasn’t sure that he liked the implication of being forced to feel things, even while it stirred something for him too.

Of course, Merlin seemed to read his trepidation in the profile of his face, and snapped, “It’s mutual, you mutton head. And it’s not an imposition. For some stupid reason, I just like giving you things that make you happy. You’re not happy enough anymore.”

Arthur looked at the side of his head, aware that his own face had gone a bit squishy. “This is a bit different from bringing me out-of-season mulled wine.”

“How?” Merlin demanded. “We’re both getting what we want, aren’t we?”

“I’m not sure,” Arthur admitted. “But I’m pretty sure that a hot bath and a nice drink are in a different category from sex.”

“I like the feeling too,” Merlin snapped. “The whole physical thing. It’s not like I’m just – just – polishing a knob with the brass cleaner. I just don’t have the same compulsion you do, when I’m not in the middle of it. Take it or leave it, like dessert. That’s really all it is for me. I like sweet buns, and I probably won’t turn one down if it’s in my hand already, but I don’t go off my feed and get twitchy if I can’t have them.”

Arthur blinked a few times, and then faced upwards again. “I will never be able to look at George’s polishing cloths the same way again.”

Merlin picked at the blanket, and then started snickering. “It’s not dissimilar, you know.”

“Oh, don’t make it worse!” Arthur covered his face with both hands.

“He even makes the right faces for it.” Helpfully, he demonstrated a few round-mouthed, adoring expressions for Arthur’s critique.

Arthur rolled and grabbed at Merlin’s sides through the covers to make him roll up like a pill bug and squawk with laughter. They tussled around a bit, in which Merlin really had no skills at all, and Arthur ended up sitting on him while Merlin caught his breath and kept on hiccupping giggles under his breath from where he remained trapped in the blankets.

“There it is,” Arthur breathed. He traced a fingernail over the laugh lines on Merlin’s cheeks, and met the slightly puzzled look he got in return. “That’s what was missing earlier.”

Merlin kept on smiling, but with an edge of uncertainty. “Wrinkles?”

Arthur snorted. “Wrinkles.” Then he sobered. “You’re not happy enough anymore, either.” He leaned down, and it loosened the trepidation in his chest about all of this when Merlin tilted his head up eagerly to meet him. Arthur just held there for a moment, smooth lips gently pressed against chapped ones edged with rough facial hair.

Merlin withdrew first, only to change the angle and try again. Arthur pressed his tongue against the seam of Merlin’s lips until they parted for him, soft and humid. He tasted of brined skin and Arthur’s private places, and a hint of grease and herbs from the sausages he pilfered from Arthur’s plate, caught in the scrape of hair growing on his upper lip. Arthur hummed thoughtfully and bent down onto his elbows to better lick it off, and then sought after more in the hot flesh inside of Merlin’s mouth where it tasted more like himself than Merlin.

Merlin made an inquisitive sound when Arthur shifted to hold his head still, fingers clenched around the hinge of Merlin’s jaw. When Merlin accommodated him, Arthur slid his lower body to one side and angled up on one knee so that he could use the other to part Merlin’s legs under the blankets and press in there. It sounded like Merlin tried to swallow his tongue at that, and then he squirmed violently to get at least some of the blanket out from between them. Arthur did everything he could to hamper that until Merlin was laughing again, but into his mouth this time, and that tasted entirely different from the kisses that came before.

“Hold still,” Arthur scolded with his lips smeared over Merlin’s.

“Mm, you taste like sausage crusts.”

Arthur snorted in his face and managed to drag the blanket out of the way. “Hush, you.” He palmed the hard chest beneath him and then ducked his head to look at the wiry strength of the man laid out in his bed. It was a bit of a shock to his system, finding hard angles where he’d only ever had softness before. Arthur shifted a bit so that he could skim his hand over the trousers covering Merlin’s legs, and the muscle corded against his palm as Merlin’s body flexed. “You’ve no fat on these bones,” Arthur complained. “No wonder you’re licking after sausages in my mouth.”

“I could make so many bad sausage jokes right now.” Merlin gave him a saucy grin, and then gasped as Arthur hitched his knee higher between Merlin’s legs. His head dropped back against the bedding, and Arthur took the opportunity to grab his wrists and hold them down beside his head. Merlin bit his lip and blinked up at Arthur with wide eyes.

“Is this alright?” Arthur asked.

“Don’t ask,” Merlin grunted, but he nodded anyway.

Arthur dragged his thigh against the crease of Merlin’s groin, and then paused. “Merlin…”

“Ignore that.” Merlin squirmed against him, raised the knee that Arthur wasn't straddlilng to plant his foot on the bed, and tugged at his trapped hands. “Come on.”

“I can’t get anything out of this if you don’t.”

“For gods’ sakes, who says I’m not getting anything from it?” He clenched and opened his hands, then groaned in frustration when Arthur let them go. “No, don’t stop! Please, I want it. I do.”

Arthur hesitated, but replaced his knee and his weight. Merlin made a sound like relief and tried to get Arthur’s hands back on him, so Arthur clamped down on his wrists again. Merlin dug his heel into the bed and arched up, and, oh. That was…lovely. Merlin warbled and bowed his head back, and Arthur couldn’t tell if he were struggling or squirming against him now. Maybe both. Arthur shifted his leg and noticed the favorable response starting down below, even if it seemed an uncertain thing. Slow to respond, maybe? It peaked his curiosity. “You have to tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

Merlin blinked and appeared to force himself to focus on Arthur. “Hum?”

“If you don’t like something I’m doing,” Arthur enunciated more clearly, “then you have to tell me. I want…I want to please you too. In this, at least.”

Merlin looked a bit stupefied by that but he nodded, his interest literally growing as Arthur leaned harder to pin him down. His hips juddered against Arthur’s leg, and he twisted his hands with an ecstatically frustrated sound.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “For god’s sake.” He knelt up over Merlin and let go of one wrist so that he could get Merlin’s trousers out of the way.

In response, Merlin grabbed his hair and dragged his head back down. “Please.”

Arthur claimed his mouth with more force than he might have done a moment ago, and Merlin moaned into it. Once Arthur managed to blindly shove Merlin’s trousers to mid-thigh, he knelt on them, and rested his weight over Merlin’s hips again. Merlin choked into his mouth and dropped his head back, breathing ragged, and seized Arthur’s now free hand. Puzzled, Arthur let him pull it up, assuming that Merlin’s wanted to be pinned again, but instead, he dragged Arthur’s hand to his throat and pressed it there.

Arthur didn’t do anything at first other than watch Merlin’s pupils constrict in the low light from a few nearby candles. He read fear in that face, but it was the anxious kind, as if he weren’t sure that he could ask for this in particular. It might be too inappropriate, or just too much. Arthur flexed his fingers over the neckerchief that Merlin still wore, gathered the loose fabric into his fist, and pulled it tight enough over Merlin’s throat that he would be able to feel the constriction where Arthur’s knuckles dug in under his chin.

Merlin’s fingers raked sharp into Arthur’s forearm, his other hand still trapped against the pillow. He shoved his hips up against Arthur’s as much as he could with his legs bound by his trousers, and then he trembled for a beat before gritting around the obstruction, “Please.”

“Please, what?” Arthur asked. He loosened his fist and smoothed the neckerchief back over Merlin’s throat.

“No!” Merlin stopped him pulling his hand away and put it back on his neck. “That. Please.”

It was clear, what he was asking for, Arthur just worried about the wisdom of it. But he wasn’t going to deny Merlin pretty much the only clear preference he’d shown. Arthur pressed his thumb up under Merlin’s chin, tipping his head back as he whined, and gently squeezed the column of his throat. “Tap my arm if you want me to stop.”

Merlin nodded as best he could, and then his whole body seized up as Arthur briefly cut off his air. There was no doubt that this did something for him; Arthur could feel that clear and hard against his leg. After a slow count of five, Arthur loosened his fingers, and Merlin gasped harshly after a breath to fill his briefly starved lungs. Once he’d calmed a bit, Arthur did it again, and Merlin made a curious sound in response – guttural and fractured, but a good sound. Perhaps the only one he could make with Arthur’s hand squeezing just below his jaw. Merlin shook for a moment, fingers bending into claws on Arthur’s arm, and then Arthur released him again. Merlin’s whole torso heaved as he sucked in that first breath, and a high-pitched complaint left him on the first exhale. Arthur let his thumb rest on Merlin’s lower lip as he panted loudly and seemingly with his whole body, feeling the sharp puffs of hot air and the slight swelling of the skin around his mouth and nose from the way the blood had been trapped there a moment. The space between their hips had grown humid and slick with sweat and possibly other secretions, and Arthur pressed his thigh more firmly into the join of Merlin’s legs when he twitched and squirmed in search of friction.

Arthur waited until the pulse under his fingers stopped tripping, and then flicked Merlin in the cheek. “Can you get yourself off against my leg? I don’t have any more hands.”

“What? Yeah. Yeah, just – ” He swallowed around an obvious lump in his throat and clenched at Arthur’s wrist where it rested against his sternum. “Do that again.”

Arthur unclurled his hand and tapped the pads of his fingers over Merlin’s trachea, watching how violently it made him tremble, and then gave no warning before he clamped down again. Merlin arched under him and gouged at Arthur’s arm with his free hand, his mouth open soundlessly. Arthur let him buck against him for another count of five, and then released his throat again to reach down and rub the flat of his palm over Merlin’s cock, just to help him along. Merlin pushed up against his hand, red-faced and still out of breath, and then his stomach clenched and he tried to curl sideways. It looked involuntary. Arthur dropped his weight forward to keep Merlin in place, and that made Merlin choke on his own saliva. Arthur caught at the hand still scrabbling at him, and slammed it back against the pillow again.

“Yes – there – yes – ”

Arthur obliged and held still, most of his weight crushing Merlin and almost certainly making it hard to breathe again. He remembered the comment earlier about compliments, but he felt so awkward at such a notion with another man that he didn’t think he could pull it off without sounding fake. Instead, he said what he actually thought. “You’re so good, Merlin. So good to me.”

That definitely had a positive effect on him; Merlin’s eyes went round and he inhaled something that sounded profane. Arthur didn’t have to do anything more, just let Merlin jerk a few times against him and wreck himself. His body lifted like an oar boat at sea and contracted under Arthur, and he pressed his face briefly into the junction of Arthur’s shoulder before yelping, almost, just the once. Then he flopped back, hiccupped a few times as his body spasmed and tried to furl up again, and finally groaned thick and long as he went limp.

Neither one of them moved for a bit, Merlin indolent and glazed over, and Arthur… He was troubled even as he admired the boneless spread of Merlin’s gently ticking body. He released Merlin's wrists and slid a hand down to rub at the stickiness on both of their legs, then fingered the length of Merlin’s gently plump cock as it gradually deflated. Merlin flinched with a sharp breath that sounded as if something solid actually struck the back of Merlin’s throat.

“Sorry,” Arthur whispered. He reached up to slip Merlin’s neckerchief over his head, which Merlin complained about, so Arthur deliberately smeared it over his face, hooked it on his nose, and then obnoxiously dragged it through the tangle of Merlin’s hair on its way off.

“Agh!” Merlin flapped his hands in a useless attempt to stop the whole thing. As soon as he noticed what Arthur was doing with his neckerchief, he scowled at him, completely unsurprised, and sputtered, “Arse.”

Arthur replied via the simple medium of finishing the cursory cleanup of both their persons, and then smashing the soiled neckerchief back into Merlin’s face, which made him flail comically again to fling it off as quickly as possible. Arthur burst out laughing at the hassled expression crinkling all of the skin around Merlin’s eyes, and flopped his head into a pillow to muffle himself. He snorted himself into a comfortable languor, and then sighed, loud and contented, as he rolled onto his back and fished for blankets to cover them both. Merlin seemed to be using one of Arthur decorative tasseled pillows to rake his face clean, and then he plopped over to rest against Arthur’s arm with a beleaguered grunt.  

Arthur stretched his neck and shifted around to pull Merlin more firmly against him. He ended up with a scruffy face buried against the side of his neck, and dark hair tickling his nose. Merlin plucked at Arthur’s waist for a moment before inching a hand over Arthur’s stomach and momentarily latching on too hard before smoothing his fingers out and going still.

Eventually, Arthur’s breathing evened out, and he became aware of the way he was dragging his fingers in slow circles on Merlin’s shoulder blade. It was something he’d done to Guinevere too, just gently rubbing rings into her skin as she fell asleep and he stared up at the ceiling, wide awake even though his mind sat blank. It might have disturbed him even a single night earlier, this witless echo of a gone-time perpetrated on the skin of someone else. But now it soothed Arthur instead, the repetition and the familiarity both, and he thought that perhaps it wasn’t an echo of Guinevere at all, but merely a part of himself that could find relief in expression again. It didn’t diminish Guinevere, or his memory of their time together, because it wasn’t about her so much as it was a natural gesture of Arthur’s that he no longer felt the need to bury with her.

They were barely an hour into the first watch of the night, but Arthur knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes open much longer, not after the long night of the failed hunt. He rubbed his cheek against Merlin’s hair where his head rested heavy and already unconscious on the pillow beside him. The fingers slung over his waist twitched and Arthur shifted to grasp them to keep them still. Merlin sighed in his sleep and kept on breathing the deep and even rhythm of the truly exhausted.

“The old order must change,” Arthur murmured up into the canopy. It was something Guinevere had said once in a lost, idle moment just like this, somnolent and without thought just as sleep took her. “Lest one custom corrupt the world.” He’d thought it fanciful at the time, and kindly laughed at it, but it seemed apt now. Perhaps she had said it then, too early, in that precarious grey place between sleep and awake because some part of her knew that she wouldn’t be able to say it again later, when it mattered.

In his arms, Merlin mumbled wordlessly back as if they were conversing over the start of the day – Arthur caught crumbs and something about mending chainmail. Arthur shushed him and pressed his lips to the crown of the precious head he cradled against his own. His heavy lids closed of their own accord before he withdrew, and like that, Arthur drifted off to sleep.

* * *

~TBC~

Notes:

Arthur’s parting words paraphrased from Idylls of the King: The Passing of Arthur (1856–1885) by Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

 

"Persian apples" are the literal translation of the roman words, of that approximate era, for peaches. They were under the mistaken impression that they originated in Persia/ancient Iran, and not the China area/far east. In their defense, by then, Persia was a huge cultivator of the fruit, so they didn't know any better. And back in the old days, pretty much any round tree fruit had a good chance of being referred to as some kind of apple. It was more a generic term.

Chapter 15

Summary:

“This is beyond understanding." said the king. "You are the wisest man alive. You know what is preparing. Why do you not make a plan to save yourself?" And Merlin said quietly, "Because I am wise. In the combat between wisdom and feeling, wisdom never wins.”

(John Steinbeck - The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights)

Notes:

(Some lines of dialogue taken from "The Beginning of the End" S1E8, and "The Sword in the Stone" S4E12-13. There may be others that I forgot I repeated canon lines on purpose.)

* * *

Arthur was dreaming. He tipped his head up to see how high the sheer rockface went, but distance seemed variable in this mindscape. He saw the place where the toothed stone outcrops ended against a storm-tossed sky, grey and churning, but it could have been five feet away or five hundred. The clouds moved past with unnatural speed, bubbling like a steaming cauldron in the sky.

The clicks and clatters of tumbling pebbles drew Arthur’s attention back down, and he stepped in a small circle to get a better look at his surroundings. He stood upon a wide, rocky path with a sheer drop on the other side. At the far edge of the path, Merlin stood facing away from him, the toes of his boots threatening to slip off into the open air. All that Arthur could see of him was his back and the red knot of his neckerchief resting at the base of his skull. It was the only spot of color in a grey landscape.

Arthur walked forward, hand outstretched, but he couldn’t reach him, no matter how far he walked, or how hard he strained his fingers forward. Gusts of wind buffeted them from down the rockface at Arthur’s back, and from the yawning chasm that stretched beyond Merlin’s feet past the edge of the path, but somehow, neither Merlin’s clothes nor his hair moved. The unearthly wind couldn’t touch him.

“Merlin, turn around.” Arthur couldn’t make himself withdraw his hand even though he could only grasp at the space between them. “You’re too close to the edge. Merlin! Step away.” Arthur moved to the right, intending to flank him, or at least get a look at him from the side, but no matter how far Arthur walked, or how like a statue Merlin stood, Arthur could only ever see Merlin’s back. Dust scoured away at the edge of the path, eroding the ground from beneath Merlin’s boots. “Merlin! You’re going to fall!” Arthur whirled and ran the other way, to no avail. Merlin remained within arm’s reach in front of Arthur, completely untouchable, peering out into storm-darkened skies from the edge of a cliff. “I’m your king,” Arthur tried, growing desperate. “You will look at me when I speak to you!”

“They named it for Arianrhod,” Merlin announced to the open air swirling above the sharp, long drop to jagged stones below. He still didn’t turn, and Arthur felt fractured at how he couldn’t glimpse Merlin’s face, no matter how far he tried walking in one direction or the other. “She emasculated her own son in anger at having birthed him. She denied him even the right to his own name.”

Arthur chased his breath and took a moment to examine their surroundings more closely. It was, he recognized with a jolt, the path leading to the lake in the cauldron where Guinevere lost her life. The place where they had slipped and fallen off of the trail. Her sleep-drugged body, in fact, lay just a short distance away where Arthur set her so that he could retrieve Merlin from the rocks below. Arthur shuffled to the left, away from the specter of her, but neither the landscape nor his position changed. “Is Arianrhod the goddess at the lake?”

“The Cauldron was never hers.”

The wind whipped Arthur’s hair atop his head, but Merlin continued to exist in an airless pocket at the edge of the path. Arthur glanced around at this empty place filled with the ghosts of hope and heartbreak. “Please step back. You’re too close to the edge.”

“We can’t go backwards. We can only move forward, or stand still.”

“But it’s a cliff! Why are we even here?”

Finally, Merlin moved, but only to turn his face to one side so that Arthur could just barely see the jut of his nose in profile. “Would you let something terrible happen if it meant you’d stop something even worse happening in the future?”

Arthur swallowed. “What are you on about?”

“For once, you don’t have to worry. I’m going to do nothing.”

The way he said it left a sinking hole in Arthur’s abdomen. It sounded almost as if Merlin weren’t talking to him at all, but rather repeating an echo that had come full circle round a cavern in the earth. He was about to demand that Merlin explain himself when another voice nearby said, “He will die for you.”

Arthur twisted his torso and looked back at Gaius’s stooped figure hiding his expression in the shadows of the rock face. His voice was quiet, as if they were not a half dozen yards away from each other speaking through the expanse of a howling wind on the sheer side of a cliff. A throwaway comment that he might not have heard at all. They stared at each other and Arthur saw fear and sadness on the aged exterior of Gaius’s face, as if he already mourned the loss of a boy he loved in preparation for the blow of his death.

His tone the same, Arthur replied, “Yes.”

“His most fervent aim has always been to keep you safe and well.”

“I know,” Arthur said, aware that he was deviating from the script of the last time they had this conversation – the last conversation Arthur ever had with him, heated with confrontation. But this time, Arthur couldn’t tell for certain what Gaius meant to reference by his words. He must have been talking about Merlin, though. Who else was there?

“You are the king,” Gaius snapped, his tone pleading and urgent. A reminder. “You can say whatever you like, make whatever laws you like, pardon whoever you like.” The configuration of his face implied that he was trying to say something else this time, but could only speak through echoes of things spoken when alive. Gaius offered him a small, sincere smile. “You are a good king. A kind king.”

In a whispered echo of that last conversation, Arthur whispered to himself, “Apparently, I’m not.” But inside, where before he had met this statement with resignation, this time he railed against it. He could still be a good king. It wasn’t too late to choose. Hadn’t he just said as much himself? To Merlin? He could be something more than the sum of his worst acts, if he chose to be. If he tried. And Merlin believed he could try.

“You swore a vow,” Gaius reminded him, his voice a twined echo of words already spoken.

Arthur felt his chest flutter with anxiety. “You’re warning me. What are you warning me about?”

The lines creased out from around Gaius’s eyes, a lessening of the sternness of his regular countenance, which always seemed vaguely disapproving by default. “He is the one they call Emrys, and he will stand beside the Once and Future King to usher in a golden age of peace and magic. It is a prophesy, sire.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Merlin asserted again, calling out into the wind and the void beyond the edge of the path. “I swore I would protect you, or die at your side.”

Arthur studied the cold sliver of Merlin’s face that he could see, and then looked back to Gaius, who told him meaningfully, “If destiny is to be restored, then it must be you who leads the way forward now.” Words he had heard once before, from the mouthpiece of a goddess who spoke in riddles and damp.

Beside him, another voice said, “You don’t have to worry.”

Arthur looked to his left to find Dragoon stood on the edge of the path a dozen paces from Merlin. Except, it wasn’t Dragoon. Not exactly. The eyes were the same, but he wasn’t quite so old or bent. He had more meat on his bones, a solid paunch, and more black in his shorter, neater beard than white. He was, in fact, not much older than Arthur was now. And when Arthur peered closer, he was not like Dragoon at all.

“Your rule has consequences,” Gaius said.

The strange man nodded, but asserted again, “You don’t have to worry.”

“Myrddin,” Arthur realized. “Myrddin Wyllt.”

Myrddin smiled, and something in his face reminded Arthur of his father the way he might have been, once, a long time ago. Untouched by the zeal of his grief and the crutch of his own arrogance. It must have been Aurelius that Myrddin took after, to show such a family resemblance. “You’ll still be the king I saw. Uther can’t stop that now.”

His voice breaking, Gaius cautioned, “You are destined to be Albion’s greatest king. You have to believe, Arthur.”

Merlin repeated, like an ensnared copy of a man, “You don’t have to worry.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Myrddin assured Arthur, his eyes earnest to counter the dead sound of Merlin’s voice. “I knew all along, it couldn’t be me.”

The wind howled and within the sudden shriek of it, as if his voice were part of it, Gaius shouted, “What is your choice, Arthur Pendragon?”

* * *

Arthur sat straight up in bed, wide awake and startled, convinced that someone had to be in the room with him. Just for a moment, the scent of damp and mildew, and the cold deep earth overwhelmed his nostrils, and then it was gone. Disoriented, Arthur patted the lump of warm and happily sleeping Merlin cocooned in most of the bedding beside him. Blanket hog. Well, with so little padding under his skin, it was probably freezing otherwise. Arthur pressed his hand into the middle of the pile at his side, searching for evidence of life. At the steady rise and fall of Merlin’s back, Arthur’s breath exploded back out of him in relief. Thus reassured, he took a moment to look Merlin over, troubled now that the night was fading. Red marks from Arthur’s hands were still visible on Merlin’s neck, overlaying the near-invisible yellow tinge of the bruises he’d left there while drunk. They would fade by morning, and his neckerchief would cover any evidence left behind, but pieces of the memory of last night sat ill with him now that he could look without Merlin looking back. He thought he must have missed something, caught up as he was in the moment, but he didn’t know what.

Arthur tucked the blanket down as he slid off the side of the mattress, careful not to jostle Merlin. Once standing, he stretched until his back cracked like puffing wheat. There was light enough cresting the battlements to betray the early morning come, and since Arthur no longer felt the least bit drowsy, he decided to leave Merlin to his slumber and make an attempt at productivity.

Restless and too alert, Arthur spent the early hours at the desk in his sitting room, reviewing papers and reports on the state of the realm while the remainder of the castle gradually woke around him. The thrice-cursed grain reports mocked his lack of concentration as George came and went with a modest breakfast tray, and Arthur wondered if Leon were on his way back to the citadel yet, and with what news. At least the harvests were good this year. Great, in fact; barring spoilage in storage or dampness to cause mold, they had more than enough food to last the winter, and then some, for the whole city to partake of.

Eventually, Arthur could delay the start of his day no longer, and even making every effort to be quiet about it, Arthur still startled Merlin out of a dead sleep when he returned to his bedchambers in the late morning to dress.

“Arthur!” Merlin shot up straight, eyes wide and hair like a hay stack. “I was just – ” He flailed a bit, caught in a roll in the blankets like a giant, pointy pastry filling, and then kind of just pitched over to one side. “I’m not sleeping.” 

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek. “Right. Checking for woodworms again, are you?”

“Yes! No. What?”

Arthur couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing.

Merlin rolled to his other side and ended up with his face planted in the mattress. With admirable dignity, he spit out a bit of fuzz and told Arthur, “I might be stuck.”

That set off another round of hysterics, and lord, did it feel good to just lose his breath for a moment.

Merlin’s glare made him look like a swaddled, indignant bird. “You could help me, you know.”

“I’m rather enjoying myself right here.” Arthur leaned back against the tree table, close enough that a branch poked him in the shoulder.

“Aren’t knights supposed to be chivalrous?”

“Only to fair maidens in distress.”

“And the weak and poor and unfortunate,” Merlin reminded him, surly.

“Ah,” Arthur said, face solemn, though they both must have known that it was a thinly maintained act. “Which one are you, then?”

Merlin practically vibrated at that. “Stop being a prat and let me out!”

Arthur forced his face into neutrality and crossed the room toward him. “Relax, Merlin. You’ve nowhere else to be today. It’s Samhain.”

“For you, maybe!” Merlin waited until Arthur extracted him from the evidently murderous coverlet before he snapped, “I have to make rounds, and I haven’t prepared anything, and it’s practically midday already. I shouldn’t even be here. Why didn’t you wake me? Or let George wake me?”

“I sent a note to Hubert already; he’s covering things at the moment.”

Merlin sat back, the coverlet folded haphazardly on his knees. He suddenly seemed…hurt? “How am I supposed to prove I can be your Court Physician if you never actually let me do my work?”

Arthur frowned and cocked his head to one side. “No one said you have to prove anything.”

The look Merlin gave him implied that he was surprised at his own surprise at this new depth of Arthur’s thickness.

“Don’t give me that look. I could put you in the stocks for that look alone.”

“I have everything to prove,” Merlin stated flatly. “You went out on a limb for me with the council. You know half of them are just waiting for me to screw this up. If I can’t show that I am the best person for this position, then you’ll look like a fool. Never mind all of the comments that will follow about a king who gives court appointments on the input from his dick.”

“Merlin!”

“Did you forget the things they said?” Merlin demanded. “I remember most of it verbatim, if you need it repeated. There’s actually substance to some of what they said now.”

Arthur raised his hands to fend him off, and dismissed the crass reference to what they’d done the night before. “No, I remember. Look, it’s been barely a week since Gaius passed, a lot has happened – don’t argue with me.”

Merlin shut his mouth and blew out the preparatory breath he’d taken though his flared nostrils.

“You’re stepping into a role that would be difficult for anyone to fill. I know you’ve barely spent time back in your quarters, and they’re a mess. And you’re exhausted. You need to finish laying Gaius’s affairs to rest and clean out, or clean up, his things. There will be plenty of work waiting for you once that’s all settled. You can prove yourself to my overbearing council then.”

Merlin had dropped his gaze to his lap at the mention of cleaning out Gaius’s things, and had graduated to picking at his fingers by the time Arthur stopped speaking. His entire torso was on bare display in the bright morning light shining in the windows, raising a puff of dusty halo around his hair and shoulders. He had some faint bruising on his forearms from where Arthur had leaned too hard to hold him down the night before, but otherwise, he appeared as he always did: like unevenly folded, scraped velum with too many ribs showing. Eventually, Merlin raised his head and nodded. “Tomorrow. I’ll start sorting his things tomorrow.”

Arthur inclined his head once in return, and then knelt down in front of him, so that he could look up to better examine Merlin’s pale skin in the light from the window. “I was afraid you’d bruise again.” He ran the pads of his fingers down the reddened skin just visible beneath the stubble on Merlin’s jaw. “I don’t like leaving marks on you.”

Merlin cocked his head to the side. “Then don’t.”

“I’m not sure I’m completely sanguine about what happened last night.”

Immediately, Merlin’s whole affect shut down, like blowing out a candle.

“Not that we had sex,” Arthur assured him. “Just…how.”

That didn’t change the expression on Merlin’s face.

Arthur waved his hand in recognition of how that didn’t make what he said sound any better. “Not…like that. I’m nervous at the thought… You said you didn’t want rough, but what I did to you, that was. And I’m not saying it was bad. You seemed to like it. I think?”

Merlin dropped his eyes abruptly. “Isn’t that what men do? Horseplay?”

Arthur didn’t move or speak for a moment, and then very carefully, he began, “Merlin – ”

“Can we not do this?” His skin took on a pinker hue. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want it.”

“Alright,” Arthur conceded. He was no more eager to dissect what they had done, or their respective motives for it, than Merlin was. But it pricked again at the uneasy pool of thoughts in the back of Arthur’s mind.

Merlin worried his fingers briefly. “I meant everything I said last night.”

Arthur nodded, and in response to the unfinished tone of Merlin’s voice, prompted, “But?”

“There is no but.” Merlin stilled his hands and met Arthur’s gaze. A shrouded quality clung to him, though, that spoke volumes. “Can you just leave it alone? We don’t have to discuss it. You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

It struck Arthur as odd, and pointed, that Merlin omitted the word too. You enjoyed it too, didn’t you? Which was not what Merlin said, and as subtle and perhaps inconsequential a thing as that was, Arthur was beginning to understand just how much of what Merlin said could be found in omissions, rather than his actual words. He was a terrible liar; Arthur knew that. But truth could be obscured without lies, and Merlin had developed that skill over a lifetime. It was something that Arthur already knew about him – that he misled by selection, and that it might have been involuntary after a point. It was likely the only way he knew how to survive – how not to betray his vulnerabilities.

Against his better inclinations, Arthur nodded, but he did it without breaking eye contact in the hope that Merlin would see that Arthur knew he wasn’t saying what he should, and allowed him the omission. “Alright, Merlin. And yes, for the most part, I did enjoy it. But if we do that again, I don’t need the parts that you didn’t. I’ll trust you to remember that, since you leave me no other choice in the matter.”

Merlin’s nostrils flared as he swallowed. Good. Message received, then. Arthur may not be certain as to which parts of the previous night were suspect, but he would allow Merlin the chance to show him better on his own terms.

Arthur let the topic die a natural death and indicated a bundle on the table. “You need to wash. There’s a bath on the way up, and then you can change.”

Merlin’s poise morphed anew into wariness, which just came off as comical. He shuffled off of the mattress and skirted around Arthur to get at the bundle. After poking the pile of fabric as if it might bite or poke him back, he unnecessarily stated, “These aren’t my clothes.”

“They are now,” Arthur countered. “I had them made for you.”

Merlin scowled at Arthur, then at the clothes. “I don’t need you to buy me clothes.” But he was enviously fingering the thick wool even as he protested, and Arthur knew that Merlin owned nothing as warm as that would be, not even the altered robes that used to belong to Gaius, however much nicer those were than his regular old togs.

“You know, most servants would be grateful that their liege cares so much about their wellbeing.”

“And what do you mean, you ordered me a bath?”

Arthur arched an eyebrow at him. “You are filthy,” he said, voice plain. “I know I do tend to go on about how you’re an unwashed peasant, but I can actually smell you this time. Ordering you a bath is a favor to me.”

Merlin tipped his head and gave Arthur an unflattering look. “What I smell like right now is you, mostly. Maybe you’re the one that needs the bath.” He didn’t argue any further, though, so Arthur decided that he would have to gift more things to Merlin under the guise of it being to Arthur’s benefit. He was right; he should have thought of that ploy sooner. After a few moments spent staring each other down, Merlin broke eye contact and looked again at the fabric as his fingers played over the soft thick leather of the breeches.

Arthur eyed the clothes as well. “Why is it so hard for you to accept a gift from me? I’ve given you entire horses, for heaven’s sake. I know it’s commonplace from nobles to their servants; Morgana used to give Guinevere gifts all the time.”

“Yes, embroidered handkerchiefs and combs.”

“I know you’re a big girl, Merlin, but if I knew you wanted combs – ”

“I don’t want combs, you slop stick. That’s not the point.”

Arthur mouthed slop stick to himself, and then shook it off. “Do you even know what to do with a comb?” He gestured at the bird’s nest on Merlin’s head.

Merlin narrowed his eyes at Arthur. “Do you? You don’t even know where yours is.”

Arthur ignored that, because…true. “Stop being stupid. I’m trying to be nice to you.”

“But you’re not,” Merlin insisted.

“What, not nice to you?”

“No.”

They stared at each other for a bit.

Merlin’s frame skewed in discomfort. “You don’t just give me things without a reason. Your gifts tend to be about you – things you like or things you want people to have, or that make it easier for you. Horses have utility; I need one to keep up with you. Clothes don’t have anything to do with you unless it’s to embarrass me, like that stupid feather hat – Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I have never been made to feel so low in my life.” Arthur turned away and found himself with a face full of magical tree shroud. “Does it really seem that way? That my attempts to be kind are actually selfish?”

The immediate silence answered that rather well, even if Merlin did eventually stutter out, “That’s not exactly how I meant it.”

A small drift of dying leaves had collected around the roots of the cloaked tree that wound fast into the knots of the tabletop. Magic may have sprouted the thing, but it couldn’t live long trapped under a sheet inside of a dark room, no matter how much magic Merlin willed into it.

“Arthur, I didn’t mean it as an insult. I swear.”

Arthur fingered the sheet covering the tree. “I asked you a question. Is that really how I come off?” He crossed his arms over his chest, aware that it was a self-shielding gesture but not really caring. When he didn’t get an answer, Arthur mused, “The first time I really looked at Guinevere, really saw her, was when she lost her temper with me for being entitled. She said that I shouldn’t need someone to tell me to be considerate of others.” He turned back to find Merlin looking as if he wanted to erase the past several minutes. “The thing is, I think I do, though. I don’t realize, Merlin. It’s not a language I think I can learn to speak the way you do.”

Cautiously, Merlin replied, “I don’t believe that. It’s not hard.”

“To you. Look at me now and tell me honestly: if I ordered you to behave towards other people the way that someone like Meliot does, could you do it? Not act the part, but actually feel it, and not think it wrong or suspect? The privilege? Could you make that a part of who you really are, or would it always be just a little bit artificial? Would the real you still slip through too often to pull it off all the time, without thinking about it? Without needing reminders?”

Merlin started to shoot off an immediate retort, but stopped himself. “I think I see your point. But what are you asking me to do?”

“Nothing.” Arthur wandered over to him and grasped the points of his bare shoulders. “Just know that I’m not trying to be selfish or push my will. I knew you’d object, because you have before, but I did think that it would be welcome in the end. I don’t understand why it’s not. I can’t see it the way you do, Merlin. And I need to be told that sometimes.”

Merlin dropped his eyes to Arthur’s chest and nodded. “It’s not unwelcome. The clothes.”

“What is it, then?” Arthur eyed him for a moment, and then guessed, “Controlling?”

“A little bit,” Merlin admitted. “I don’t like being controlled. Or people trying to make me someone I’m not. There’s been a lot of that.”

Arthur made a self-conscious noise in the back of his throat, not quite a cough. He had been shoving Merlin’s family rank and identity at him lately, and he already knew that Merlin had some kind of problem with the thought of his bloodline. Merlin also hated George’s attempts at care, and with a vigor that actually surprised Arthur. Was it really so disconcerting to be looked after? Or was it the simple circumstance of finding out that he was not the person he’d built his life around thinking he was, and then being forced into living that life instead?

It also highlighted, and perhaps clarified, some inconsistencies from the previous evening, because no matter their relative positions, Merlin had controlled most of that encounter. Demanded, even. And maybe that was the piece that Arthur was missing – the thing that left him off kilter about it all. Arthur had worried that he somehow pushed his will onto Merlin, or overshadowed him, or missed a cue somewhere. He probably had, actually, but maybe he couldn’t identify those tells because he was looking for the wrong ones. Because Merlin was pushing what he thought Arthur willed, of his own volition so that he could say he chose it himself and save face.

“They are very nice clothes,” Merlin offered, after Arthur had been quiet for too long. “Warm. And I will use them. Thank you, sire.”

Arthur shook himself from his mental meandering. “There’s no need to call me that.”

“Sometimes, there is,” Merlin countered. “I do tend to forget who you are.” He smiled under the hood of his downcast brow. “You’ve said so often enough. Maybe I need a reminder too.”

Arthur squeezed his shoulders, and twisted his upper body at the sound of footsteps in the next room. “That will be the bath I ordered. You do reek like a flop house, and I have to insist.”

Merlin made a face at him and just walked away to – of all things – tidy up the bed as if that were still his job. It crossed Arthur’s mind to stop him, but really, why? Merlin appeared content to finish making his usual mess, and then to clean that all up once the mess was properly ordered – that was the best Arthur could figure, anyway, after watching this morning ritual for a decade. And anyway…well…Arthur was a man like any other, and Merlin hadn’t put his shirt back on for this, so he was wandering around Arthur’s rooms in nothing but his low-slung, baggy old trousers, and no belt to keep them from slipping tantalizingly low on his hips. There were muscles on the man that Arthur didn’t expect, for all he’d groped at them in the dim candlelight the night before. On full display in the morning sun, it was obvious that though he wasn’t going to win any arm wrestling matches, honed down to the bare essentials as he was, there was a healthy bulk to him. He was whipcord and hard in the arms and chest, but soft in the right places too – soft underbelly, smooth rounded curve of buttocks just barely holding his trousers up… Arthur still wanted to feed him up, but the lean angle of him wasn’t quite as alarming as it seemed from the other side of his overlarge clothing. Something more properly fitted would complement that, actually – make him look less emaciated and more like a sprinter.

With an appreciative quirk of his eyebrow, Arthur sat down with his paperwork again and pretended to review some of it. Which was when George strode into the room, in all of his servant glory, to announce that the bath that Arthur had ordered was all set up. Arthur gestured his acknowledgement, and then frowned when he noticed Merlin trying to pretend that he was part of the bed curtain. “Merlin, what are you doing?”

George popped his head up like a small rodent from his basket of bath oils and spotted Merlin attempting not to be spotted. “Ah. No worries, my lord; you have nothing I’ve not already seen. I stopped in late last night to ensure that all was in order. Please be confident of my complete discretion. Do you have a preference on scent?” He hoisted the basket for Merlin’s inspection.

Merlin blinked at him. As an afterthought, he sniped, “Don’t call me that.”

To George’s credit, he ignored the admonition. He must have finally been getting the hang of handling Merlin. “I recommend the mint, to stimulate and cleanse the pores. And before I forget, your royal seal was tangled up in your tunic – I set it on the night table for safekeeping. I also laundered the pillows and soiled clothing left on the floor before any of the washing women were about in an effort to preserve your confidence with the king.”

Merlin flushed halfway down his chest and gave up on hiding because once a servant has seen your issue mingled with someone else’s on the bedding you slept in, there really was no dignity to recover. “Lovely.”

“You may also want this back,” George added, implacable. He held out Merlin’s washed, dried, and pressed neckerchief. “The stains were quite stubborn.”

With narrowed eyes, Merlin divined, “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Yes, my lord.” George just stood there, not even smug at professionally and respectfully taking the piss out of him. “Shall I put this with your other things?”

Merlin merely glared and gave him a wide berth as he circled the edge of the room to investigate the covered plate that George had also brought up. Unable to stave it off any longer, Arthur snorted into his papers.

“Those are all blank,” Merlin called on his way past.

Arthur glanced down, and then had to repeat the gesture because they weren’t blank a moment ago. “Merlin! Put the ink back on these!”

Merlin did put the ink back on the pages, but only after eating the meal that George had brought for him, listening with a tiny smirk as Arthur growled a resentful apology for laughing, followed by empty threats of the stocks, and then making Arthur say please about a dozen times. While Merlin went off to clean himself up – did the man not know how to linger in a nice warm bath? – and dressed in the new outfit Arthur gave him – a vast improvement, even if it was rather modest in the hopes that Merin would be more apt to accept something similar to his own plain rags – Arthur finished with the last of his reports, and moved on to the speech that Merlin wrote for him.

It was a good speech; they always were. Nonetheless, Arthur found it cold and colorless as he read through it, and he wasn’t sure why it seemed inadequate when it followed the same pattern as every other Merlin-authored speech that Arthur gave. Perhaps it was the single language; Arthur had grown fond of ferreting out words that didn’t fit, and phrases that he couldn’t understand without visiting the library for translations. Or maybe it was just all of the things glaringly left unsaid, as always, in a kingdom where certain concepts or truths couldn’t be spoken of aloud. Merlin always chose every word with care for how it might be received, to conform carefully with Arthur’s expectations and the culture and laws of Camelot.

Dissatisfied, but at a loss as to how to fix the damn thing, Arthur folded the speech away and shoved to his feet. Merlin was over by the mirror trying to button the fiddly little cuff clasps on his new tunic while George twitched in an effort not to just horn in and do it for him. Arthur waved George off and batted Merlin’s hand aside so that he could get at the clasp himself. “You’re hopeless. How have you dressed me for ten years, and you can’t even put on a shirt by yourself?”

“At least I have socks.”

On the other side of the room, George tripped over his own feet, dropped something, and then clattered about to pick it up again. Merlin’s face crinkled with vindictive mirth.

“You,” Arthur murmured sotto voce, “are not nearly as nice as you pretend. Are you planning to terrorize him until he gives back your ewer?”

Merlin tried to look innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. George still has his socks.”

Arthur paused with the clasp all done up properly, and gave Merlin a hard look. “What about my socks?”

With a bloody farce of a sad sigh, Merlin replied, “Nothing left to put them in.” He examined the cuff clasp, pulled his new vest straight, and started to pat Arthur’s shoulder in a condescending way, only to smirk and pull back at the last minute at the look on Arthur’s face.

“Wait.” Arthur spun as Merlin walked away from him. “You’re not seriously punishing me for your bloody ewer. What did I do?”

Merlin shot a fake smile over his shoulder. “Are you coming? You need to inspect the harvest stores, and do the wheat field ceremony before the feast.”

“Merlin! I need socks!”

“What do you expect me to do about it? I’m not technically in charge of your wardrobe anymore.”

George hurried over before Arthur gave into the impulse to lob an ink pot at Merlin’s head. “I have managed to procure you several new pairs of very nice woolen socks, sire. They are of the best quality; easily fit for the royal feet. And there are no seams to irritate delicate toes.”

Arthur gave him a hard look. “My toes are not delicate. I am a knight of Camelot!”

“Yes, sire.” George was obviously humoring him. “If I may?” He held out the socks and indicated Arthur’s bare feet with a polite tip of his head.

Merlin glowered from over by the door. “You didn’t store them in wicker this time, did you?”

Distracted from pondering which part of George’s statements constituted an actual slight, Arthur rolled his eyes. “What is it with you and wicker?”

George cleared his throat and dropped to the floor in order to put Arthur’s socks on him. “I am using a bread loaf pan.”

Braced against a table with one foot in the air to accept the new sock, Arthur blinked into the middle distance and exclaimed, “Oh my god, it’s contagious. Merlin, your weirdness is spreading to George.”

“Tin’s good,” Merlin mused at the ceiling. “Shiny.”

“Indeed,” George agreed as he rolled a sock up over Arthur’s ankle. “It is very reflective.”

“You’ll have to keep it polished at all times. A mirror shine is best.”

Arthur looked on in horror.

George beamed. “I am looking forward to it. There is nothing better than the satisfaction of a well-polished surface. I have just the cloths for such a task, and a very nice new abrasive solution for keeping it bright.”

“I thought you might.” Merlin gave George a vacant smile, which George seemed obliviously happy to receive, and then Merlin shifted his gaze to Arthur. His smile widened with hints of teeth before he turned away to answer the knocking at the door.

Thankfully, Arthur was able to escape with his new socks and send George out when Sir Geoffrey followed Merlin back into the room. Geoffrey bowed as much as his creaky old back would allow, and Arthur gestured him to a chair. “Sir Geoffrey. I don’t normally get visits from you up here.” He glanced across the room to make sure that George closed the door after himself, and then smiled at Geoffrey.

“I do apologize,” Geoffrey offered. He lowered himself stiffly into the chair and set his inventory tome on his lap. He seemed more subdued than even his usual daft persona accounted for. “I thought it best, for the sake of discretion.” He startled when Merlin appeared beside him with a goblet. “Oh. Thank you, young man.”

Merlin smiled a bit at being called that, and crouched to get a look at Geoffrey’s hands. His mouth turned down at the corners as he examined Geoffrey’s swollen fingernail beds. “Have you been feeling well?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with.” Geoffrey removed his hand from Merlin’s grip and patted his arm as if to reassure him. “My heart is old, and my veins failing. It’s the curse of age.”

Undeterred, Merlin insisted, “Have you been taking the draughts that Gaius gave you? Do you need more? I could get you some willow bark, too, if it’s acute or you feel any pain. Or hawthorn – I might even have some snakeroot. I don’t think you’ve tried that before.”

“I’ve overdone it lately,” Geoffrey admitted with a cautious glance to Arthur. “The inventories can be strenuous. Which is actually why I came, sire.” He ended Merlin’s attempts at care by the simple expedient of moving on with his business. “There are some expected corrosions of the more fragile items in the vaults, but I also discovered several artifacts missing. That has not happened in a very long time, and it is troubling.”

Arthur abandoned his curious supervision of Merlin hovering like a mother hen, and slipped into his own chair. “What exactly is missing?”

Merlin wandered away from Geoffrey’s chair and meandered up behind Arthur’s, mumbling to himself about snakeroot and foxglove.

After sparing a glance for Merlin’s absent muttering, Geoffrey reported, “Two small charms which are purported to shield against attacks by magic, a number of shards of a scrying bowl – it was broken long ago, but your father feared that the pieces may still contain a residue of enchantment – and a dagger which the old religion forged to kill beasts of a magical nature.” Geoffrey blinked a few times at the sheet covering the tree rooted in Arthur’s table, then shook himself and opened his inventory to a marked page. “Here, sire.” He turned it awkwardly on his lap to show Arthur the pencil sketches and notes on physical characteristics of the artefacts. “They were all in the same general location, locked in the same vault. Many other items around them were disordered or moved to other shelves. The theft appears to have been targeted; I daresay the culprit knew exactly where to look.”

Merlin intercepted the huge tome when it appeared ready to slide right off of Geoffrey’s lap, and Arthur stood up so that Geoffrey didn’t try to do so himself. He kicked a stool over for the inventory to sit on and then lowered himself to the balls of his feet. “Meliot did claim to see someone down in the tunnels the other day. Maybe he wasn’t imagining things. How long has it been since the last full inventory of that room?”

“Easily over a year, sire.” Geoffrey kept one hand on the tome as if guarding it, or making sure that Arthur didn’t soil it somehow by breathing too close. “I have not been able to make as much time as I used to for laying eyes on everything.”

“Hm.” Arthur skimmed the notes on the properties of each missing object. The dagger, at least, could have fetched a good price, ornate as it was. He offhandedly remarked, “I’ll ask the steward to assign you an assistant. No arguments this time.”

Geoffrey cleared his throat to cover for his near objection.

Merlin loitered above Arthur like a tittering bird to peer over his shoulder. “Actually, I think that’s my fault.” He reached past Arthur’s face to point to another item logged into the same cell of the vault. “I knocked a bunch of stuff over when I put it back, probably missed some things in the dark. I couldn’t reach all the way under the shelves, and the patrol schedule doesn’t leave much time for reorganizing. I sort of just left it all where it was.”

A carefully outlined sketch of the Horn of Cathbhadh stared back from the page, and Arthur took a slow, steadying breath. “Sir Geoffrey, were you able to check for things that may have fallen behind the shelves, or rolled away underneath?”

“I apologize, sire. I was not.”

Arthur nodded. “No apology is needed. Korbin’s guard unit can help you with the heavy lifting after the holiday. If you still can’t find everything, we’ll address it then.” He twisted and glared pointedly up at Merlin. “I’m sure that my new court physician is very contrite over having inconvenienced you.”

“Very!” Merlin bobbled his head. “It, um. Won’t happen again?”

Geoffrey treated him to a penetrating look, and then scolded, “Next time, just ask. I don’t care who you are; I won’t have you making a mess of my vaults the same way you disorder my library.”

“Right,” Merlin chirped. “Sorry.” Just like a reprimanded little boy. Arthur clamped his throat down on the chuckle that threatened; Geoffrey had that effect on people who touched his precious records and artifacts. Before Geoffrey could press his grievance, Merlin shifted the subject and insisted, “I’ll bring you something with snakeroot in it this afternoon. The old medicine isn’t working well enough.”

Geoffrey grumbled in acknowledgement and then refused all attempts to assist him to his feet. “I will take my leave, then. Sire.” He paused before turning away though and looked at Merlin. “Thank you for protecting us all this time. You didn’t have to, and I, for one, am grateful.” He inclined his head, bowed again to Arthur in a manner that appeared painful to his already bending frame, and then shuffled to the door. Merlin beat him there to open it, and then he stared down the hall like a stunned stoat as Geoffrey shuffled off to whatever other duties awaited him that day.

Arthur yanked his boots onto his feet and then thumped Merlin between the shoulders hard enough to propel him forward one stumbling step. “Let’s go. I’d like to enjoy the day, if I can get the official business out of the way.”

Merlin gave him an odd look and followed him out while listing off the tasks that Arthur had to complete before the feast. Halfway down the hall, Arthur slowed, and then washed to a stop in front of the beautifully carved doors of Guinevere’s suite. He fingered the keys at his belt as he always did but simply looked at the wood this time, rather than pressing his hands to it as he normally did. Merlin’s voice droned on in the background, but the words didn’t much penetrate Arthur’s notice.

It took Merlin half the corridor to realize that Arthur wasn’t with him anymore. He stopped babbling about the upcoming grain ceremony, fidgeted a moment, and then came back. “Sire?”

Arthur gave a start, and then detached his keys from his belt. Before he could think better of it, he jammed the right one into the lock, twisted viciously to make the tumbler move after a year and more of neglect, and flung the double doors open.

Bright autumn sunlight reflected off of a swirl of dust disturbed from the floor, and Arthur watched the amorphous, speckled curl disperse into the center of Guinevere’s sitting room. The curtains waved a moment later as the breeze from the hall reached the opposite wall, and Arthur dropped his hands to his sides, frozen on the threshold. She had left a shawl draped over the arm of an ornately cushioned chair. Her silver comb, an object she had received from Morgana before everything fell apart, winked at him in the light that shined onto her dressing table and bounced off of the mirror there. Her bed was turned down, nightclothes laid neatly over a pillow, waiting for her to return from the last meal she shared with Arthur – the one they had laced with sedatives so that they could bear her to her death.

It was the vase of flowers, though, that Arthur fixed upon. They sat on a table near the window, the water long since evaporated, dead sprigs wilted and dried out, folded brittle over the rim of the porcelain and laced with cobwebs. Where everything else in the room had withered to sun-washed reminders of a dead queen, a single shoot of forget-me-not stood bright and strong in the midst of a ruin of disintegrating, dusty old stems. It was probably a bouquet that Merlin collected at Arthur’s behest, so that he could gift them to her himself. He had always thought, before, that as king, he had better things to do than pick flowers as a gift for his own wife. What he would have given for the chance to humble himself at that task now.

Arthur breathed in the dust and stepped back from the shaft of light that touched his boots unobstructed, until his stood in the shadows of the corridor once again. A hand crept over his shoulder and squeezed, and Arthur covered it with his own briefly before removing it. He heard Merlin step back again, and then turned to find several maids standing near the staircase, watching him. One of them ventured forward to offer, “We can freshen the queen’s chamber, sire. If you wish.”

“Yes.” Arthur nodded, but then backtracked. “Don’t – don’t move anything. Don’t clean it out, just – ”

“You don’t have to worry,” the maid promised. “We’ll treat it as if she were out for the day. Nothing more.”

Arthur nodded again, unable to articulate what he was feeling, or if he felt anything at all. At his side, Merlin cocked his head, peering into the unforgotten room. Arthur retreated further without saying anything, and flapped his hand to make Merlin follow.

“Have a good day, Gwen.”

Arthur froze in his tracks and looked back just as Merlin turned away from the royal chamber, a conflicted smile spattered across his face. His expression faltered when he realized that Arthur had heard him speak, but something in Arthur’s stance must have reassured him. The smile came back with a sheepish, more common quality as he paced away from the door to make way for the trio of maids. Arthur felt his throat close momentarily, but it was a good feeling. He collared Merlin like a rowdy knight as he came abreast, and then softened his stance only to squeeze too hard anyway. Merlin flinched at the abrupt grabbing before he hugged back, fierce and just as hard. It was a brief thing, just enough to assure them each of the other’s shared heartache and understanding. Then they released each other with no further fanfare, and made their way out to see to the deeds of the day.

* * *

The Disir

“Then it seems to me, Arthur Pendragon, that you made this choice long ago. All that remains is for you to speak it.”

They regarded each other for what seemed a moment stopped in time, and indeed, when Arthur glanced to one side, he saw a droplet suspended in the air beneath the tip of a jagged rock from which it had fallen. His breath blew out in the chill air, fogged, and stilled. In his ears, his heart beat a drum call like a long, slow march to war. He looked at the mother, at her kind and simple face, and then at the crone and the maiden where they stood in frozen silence behind her.

The mother’s voice pulled his attention back, and a rush of sound returned with the movement of time. “What is your choice, Arthur Pendragon?”

Arthur straightened where he stood, and drew his breath to respond. It didn’t even occur to him that the choice had ceased to be about Mordred’s life, or even about magic at all. “I…” His gaze darted from one to another of the preternaturally still women before him. “I want to,” Arthur finally replied. It felt like helplessness. “I want to unite this kingdom, and free my people – all of them – from persecution.”

The triple goddess’s mouthpieces neither moved nor spoke.

Desperate for them to understand, Arthur blurted, “It has been thirty years since magic found harbor in Camelot. Most of my people only know it as a threat. Accepting magic into a kingdom that fears and reviles it will bring chaos. People will suffer.”

The crone’s head twitched to one side, and though Arthur couldn’t see her eyes within the shadow of her hood, he knew that they had fixed on him like a hawk after prey. “They suffer now.”

“I know,” Arthur admitted. He let the conflict show in his voice. “I know they do. But my father’s purge started a war. What you ask, it could start another. We already fight against a sorceress who would see us all dead. She will never accept a peace between us, no matter what I might do, or who I may pardon. I want to do what is right for my people – I want them to be safe and to flourish. All of them. I cannot make decisions of this magnitude for the sake of just one man.” He wasn’t sure which man he meant, either – Mordred or Merlin. “To ask me to do so is unconscionable. I came here to bargain for one life. And as the price, you demand that I gamble the lives of everyone else. It isn’t a fair trade.”

The shrouded women moved in disconcerting unison to cock their heads in the exact same manner, like crows hearkening the sound of a predator. One of them said, “What you ask is already a gamble on the lives of all.”

Another said, “He does not know that. And he may be right to question.”

“What we demand is for the sake of his people.”

“He cannot know that. He is a man. And magic has betrayed him.”

The third argued, “Emrys has never betrayed him.”

“His counsel is a betrayal.”

“Emrys does not know that! He has only the tools this world gave him, and this world gave him little.”

“Arthur Pendragon must be allowed to see for himself.”

As one, the women faced Arthur directly again. It was terrifying, the way they moved as images in a mirror, or three puppets all dangling from the same set of strings, tangled with themselves as they argued the way a single person might war with himself alone. The crone told him, “We can give you a vision of your future, if it will ease your mind, and set you on the path you must choose.”

Arthur’s first inclination was to deny that any choice of his must be, as if they could compel him. His second was fear at what they offered. Both set his heart racing with the jittering energy of a man about to do battle. “I don’t want to see my future. I fear I might ruin it.”

“As your father did.”

Arthur thought it wise not to comment on that. “Is there no middle ground? I only request mercy for one man – a man who saved my life.”

“Then let him save your life.”

Arthur swallowed and tried to figure out how that made sense. “You put me in an untenable position.”

“You put yourself there,” the crone snapped. “The choice is simple. Do what is right, or don’t.”

That was hardly simple when human lives – his subjects’ – were at stake.

A different voice than before repeated the refrain, “Arthur Pendragon must be allowed to see for himself.”

The other two women looked at her – Arthur thought it might have been the maiden that time. They then traded a look between themselves that excluded her, and finally faced Arthur again. The crone nodded, but not to Arthur, even though she seemed to be looking right at him. “His cooperation cannot be coerced.”

The mother added, “He must choose his path himself, or it means nothing.”

“Coercion proves his father right about magic,” the crone agreed.

And the maiden added, with a note of caution that no voice had yet shown, “Coercion proves Emrys right.”

Again, the other two women looked at her, silent for a long moment, before addressing Arthur again. “The truth,” the crone cautioned, “is not easy.” Her eyes bore into Arthur’s. “It will hurt, to see true. You will bear the cost of it in your soul.”

“It is the only way,” the maiden told her. “He must come to know. He must believe, or his conviction will break. And with it, all of Albion will fall.”

Arthur held himself desperatelystill; he didn’t think he wanted to know what might happen if he drew too much of their attention at once.

“Yes,” the crone said. Strangely, she inclined her head in deference to the younger woman. “He must know for himself that the path he chooses is right. If the choice is only payment, then it will wither. Like his father’s regard before him. He will come to resent.”

“Arthur Pendragon,” the mother intoned. “Are you willing to bear the cost of time and knowing?”

Arthur couldn’t tell if he was actually breathing as he replied, “I am willing to bear any cost for the cause that is just and right.” He felt numb with a quiet terror – the kind that skews the world for a moment without warning or cause. There were things spoken of here that he didn’t think a man was supposed to see or know, and it felt like nausea.

“And are you willing to see that cost born by others?”

Arthur hesitated, and the only sound for a stretch came from droplets of condensation falling from the jagged rocks of the ceiling above him. “I cannot speak for others.”

“But you do.”

“You must.”

“You are the king.”

“You allow the price of your father’s grief to be borne by others.”

“Even now.”

“Still.”

“When he is dead.”

“Why is this different?”

Arthur let out a harried breath and shook his head in the cloud of mist that the cold made of his exhalation. “I will not be a tyrant, to visit my own pains on my people. It is my cost. Please.”

“Your rule has consequences.”

“It is the cost of all.”

“No!” Arthur stiffened to jump forward, his hand automatically feeling at his hip for the sword he had left outside.

The maiden turned her head out of synch with the rest. “You fight, even now.”

Arthur asserted, fraught with the fear of it, “My people don’t deserve to suffer for my mistakes.”

“No,” she agreed. “They do not. And yet they do.”

Arthur snarled, “I made a vow to protect the people of this kingdom.”

“Yes, you did.”

“And have you kept it, Arthur Pendragon?”

Arthur breathed like a man caught running, and tried to answer, but he couldn’t. It occurred to him at the last that he didn’t know for sure.

The crone studied him as he struggled to find an answer within himself that wouldn’t leave him either a liar or shamed. Eventually, the maiden said, “You are not what we thought you would be.”

Arthur shook his head and implored them to understand, “I have never claimed to be your mythical king.”

“No,” the crone agreed, except she didn’t say it as concurrence. “And so, you are exactly what that king is supposed to be. How has this happened?” She turned to her fellow mouthpieces. “The path was corrupted. We saw it twist and break.”

“Did we?” the maiden asked archly.

The crone lowered her head in submission to the maiden. “There were factors we could not see.”

The mother smiled at Arthur and said, “Our judgement is premature. We grant your request.”

Arthur’s throat burned with the impulse to ask what request they thought he had made, other than the one for Mordred’s life. Because this definitely had nothing to do with that.

The maiden angled toward him, and with a vacant kind of sympathy, told him, “Emrys’ council is wise. Though it is harsh and against magic, it comes in its proper time. It has made you doubt.”

The crone nodded. “Doubt is the path to knowledge. You will fulfill the prophecy in the proper time. But you must remember that time comes at a cost. The price of time and knowing is terrible.”

“It will not be easy,” the mother added gently. “It will not be kind. You will be tested.”

“By whom?” Arthur asked. He couldn’t help himself. He almost added that he once again disclaimed their authority to judge him, as he never agreed to submit to their judgement in the first place. He only came back here to beg for Mordred’s life. It rankled to suddenly have his entire worldview dissected in front of him in a way that made him feel like a child trying to understand the conversation of adults.

The women conferred silently with each other, and then looked back to Arthur as the mother replied, “You test yourself, King of Camelot. As you always have.”

The maiden nodded, and then incongruously admonished him, “Be kind in your judgement. As you value the words of your servant so much as to risk all in trust of him, remember to listen well when it matters. He will not lead you astray; he is bound to fate too. But what he says and where he leads may not always align. He has been hunted and denigrated for too long to know how his own fear can ruin him. You must See what he cannot. You must listen to what he does not say, and in compassion, when it is time, follow the path that is right. Do you swear this, Arthur Pendragon?”

Arthur swallowed. He had no idea what they were talking about anymore, and the hair prickled on the back of his neck like a portend. “If I swear to this, what then?”

“You will do as you were meant to do,” the mother assured him. “In the proper time.”

Even though he doubted the wisdom of pushing anything right now, when he could feel a magic on the air so strong that he tasted metal on his tongue, Arthur still demanded, “And what of Sir Mordred? Will he live?”

“We will grant him mercy.”

Arthur hesitated. He didn’t think it wise to question further, but he had to. “What does that mean?”

“He will remain a man of honor,” the maiden told him, voice odd and dead like the wind.

It sounded like the right thing, if the right thing were only spoken in riddles. Arthur nodded. “Then I swear.” Even though he still wasn’t entirely sure what he was agreeing to, it seemed a better deal than the original ultimatum.

“So be it,” the mother replied.

Arthur stood stock still as the women turned their backs to him, and then one by one, they withdrew into the dark.

* * *

Arthur leaned down and scooped up the small boy poking him with his sword stick. “Ha! Caught you! What are you now?” He dangled the merrily squealing boy upside down and contorted himself to peer at the rough sack cloth covering the boy’s face. “Are you a sprite?”

The boy’s laughter peeled out sudden and fierce, echoing off the buildings that made up the main street of the lower town. A small cadre of children danced around Arthur in similar attire, covered in painted cloths and braids of barley like a pint-sized army of scarecrows.

A little girl ran up to join them, her dress covered in grape leaves with a pruning knife at her hip and a crown of papery chrysanthemum. “Tricks! We caught you! Now you have to give us something to let you go!”

Arthur laughed and turned the boy in his clutches upright. “How about I give you this one?” He lifted the boy over his head and grinned and the delighted shrieking of the children.

“Not him!” another little boy yelled. “You have to give us sweet meats!”

“Hm.” Arthur set the squirming boy back on his feet and feigned distress. “But I don’t have any sweets.” He pulled out a handful of coins and gave them all a sad frown. “All I have are these.”

The children swarmed him and plucked the coins from his hand before running off screaming like banshees to accost the next unsuspecting nobleman wandering around the street for Samhain.

“You indulge them,” Merlin admonished, except the huge smile on his face ruined it.

“And you don’t?” Arthur made a point of stuffing his hand into Merlin’s bag to steal a honey cake. “Fraud.” He didn’t eat it quickly enough, though; a straggling child darted past them and snatched the cake from his hand before running off after the rest of the little ones. “Hey!”

Merlin snorted his laughter into his sleeve. “Ten years and I still can’t believe that Camelot celebrates Samhain like this.”

“How else would we celebrate it?”

Merlin gave him a considering look. “You realize this is a holiday for the old religion? Children running around dressed as spirits and wraiths, demanding tokens and offerings in exchange for not doing you any mischief?”

Arthur slowed a bit as he ambled down the street. “No, actually. I thought this was for the harvest, and remembering the dead.”

“Yes,” Merlin agreed, except it was only in part. “Sewing the veil for the end of summer? Leaving the western-facing doors open all night? Putting food in doorways to appease the restless dead? Setting places at the table for family members and friends that have passed? It really never occurred to you? Samhain is a time of magic.”

Arthur pondered that for a moment, and stole another sweet bread without Merlin noticing this time. “No,” he admitted. “But I suppose it makes more sense than some saints’ day for the new god.” He stuffed the treat into his mouth and sighed heavily so that he didn’t moan. It was practically dripping honey.

Merlin shrugged in concurrence, noticed Arthur chewing his pilfered bread, and narrowed his eyes without commenting on it. Instead, Merlin said, “I’m still not sure what a saint is supposed to be. Aren’t they just dead people that don’t decay?”

“Don’t be vulgar.” Arthur didn’t really mean the reproach, though; he was too busy sucking honey from his fingers to care much.

“Sounds like magic to me,” Merlin mused.

Arthur shoved him. “If I didn’t know what you are, I’d think you were more paranoid than my father.”

Merlin started to retort, and then caught himself with an awkward cough. Rightly so; Arthur didn’t know if he was comfortable with the thought of mocking his father, no matter the man’s faults and Arthur’s own issues with him. Uther was the former king, after all. Some measures of respect were ingrained, deserved or not. Plus, openly poking fun at magic was not something that one did in Camelot.

The renewed squealing of children sounded out shrill from a few streets over, and Arthur glanced toward the noise. The people of the lower town milled around them in their harvest clothes, many wearing braided bits of wheat and barley straw, or carrying their scythes and hayforks through the street with decorations hanging from the tines. Little grass dolls swung from the lintels above most of the doors, and Arthur noticed how the sickle knives of the midwives often hung beside them, a symbol of cutting the tethers that stretched between birth and life, and life and death. Most of the window sills displayed baskets of late autumn fruits and vegetables, loaves of rye bread, and collections of nuts and leaves. He knew that those displays remained out all night, but he only just realized why, now that Merlin had pointed it out. Figures of straw were also placed here and there around the doorways of a few houses, some dressed up as kings with crowns of hawthorn and hard winter berries, and others cloaked in black like old crones. The air hung heavy with burning herbs and spices.

The flow of people thickened as Arthur made his way out by the town gate and into the fields with Merlin close behind. Arthur’s guards were at least attempting to stay out of the way, but they stuck out like sore thumbs in their red raiment beside all of the earthy browns and yellows worn by the townspeople. Already, a small crowd had gathered in the nearest field around the last patch of uncut wheat. Arthur tipped his face up toward the overcast sky and tried to estimate the time left until midday. The clouds presented a perfect cover of shades of slate, though, and he wasn’t certain where the sun actually was behind them.

“Soon,” Merlin answered the question that Arthur hadn’t needed to ask. He pointed to a lighter patch of clouds overhead. “It’s around there.”

“Is that scholarly knowledge,” Arthur wondered quietly, “or something else?”

Merlin didn’t answer right away. He studied the people flocking around them, the guards arrayed nearby, and the pack of children rolling about in the cut straw farther away from the ceremony site. The wind picked up a clump of his hair and batted it over to the other side of his head. Finally, without looking at Arthur, his eyes squinting against the light he gazed back up to stare at, Merlin admitted, “Something else. I can feel where it is, if I try. Even after it sets.”

Arthur hummed as he thought about that. “What do you think it’s made of?”

“What, the sun?” Merlin asked. “Fire.”

“Yes, but what is it burning?” Arthur looked up again at the sky. “And who’s feeding it so it doesn’t go out?”

Merlin looked at him the way Arthur used to look at Merlin – as if his head weren’t on right.

“I bet it’s magic,” Arthur answered himself. “Some kind of magic we just don’t understand yet.”

“Have you been at the cider?” Merlin demanded. “You’re more…you than normal.”

Arthur made a tsk sound at him, annoyed because yes he had been, but it wasn’t strong enough to affect him. And anyhow, it was a holiday, and he was the king. He was allowed to indulge. “I’m not drunk; I’m relaxed.”

“Is that what this is?” Merlin gave him a skeptical look; it was insulting. “No wonder I didn’t recognize it.”

Arthur started to retort, but something stopped him. He found himself thinking about the whole point of this day, and the absent dead who would have empty seats and overflowing plates at his feast table that night. Guinevere, his parents, Lancelot and Elyan, Morgana, Mordred…even Gaius and that William fellow, and Balinor this year, if only for Merlin’s sake. While it was usually the manner of each of their deaths that absconded with his memories in moments like this, Arthur found himself recalling, instead, Merlin in the background of each – even of Ygraine’s, somehow – and the path that led them here, to this moment. And the way Merlin had changed with each one. “It was sudden,” Arthur announced abruptly.

Merlin blinked a few times as he reeled his attention back to the king at his side. “My lord?”

“Exactly.” Arthur didn’t look at him; he kept his eyes on the clouds constantly reshaping the sky above them. “My lord. You called me that religiously for a period of time, and it was sudden, when it started.” He folded his arms over his chest as if he expected to need to protect his soft underbelly. “What was it, exactly? Something made you bitter and sharp. More than even our lives and losses might account for.”

For a while, Merlin merely looked at him, his gaze a palpable weight against the side of Arthur’s face. Finally, his voice low with the ends of the words chopped off, he said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“It was right around the time Mordred showed up to train as a knight.” Arthur lowered his eyes and missed Merlin’s gaze by a heartbeat as it flickered away. “I can’t help but notice that you never really liked him. And I suspect it started a long time before that, when you almost didn’t show up to help him escape my father.”

“Mordred died protecting you. I liked him just fine.” But Merlin didn’t sound all that convincing, and the pinching around his eyes, the twitch of muscle in his jaw, betrayed him.

Arthur nodded at the ground and looked up again where shades of gray painted the sky in rounded smears. “I will remind you,” he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. “As we agreed. You will try to tell me the truth, and I will remind you when you fall on old habits.”

Merlin swallowed. It was more a change of the air than a sound or something that Arthur saw with his eyes; he knew this man well, after all. “It hardly matters now. He’s dead.”

The chill of that statement threatened to make Arthur shiver, but he quelled it. “I know. Is it because I knew he had magic and didn’t hate him for it? Were you jealous of that?”

“You knew I did too,” Merlin snapped. “Evidently.”

Arthur ignored the bite to his words because it had merit. “Or was it just that you believe he would have killed me, had he lived?”

“I was drunk when I said that.”

“In vino veritas,” Arthur murmured. But he didn’t want the conversation to devolve into that topic; he knew what he needed to know now. “I had a strange dream last night. In it, you asked me if I would let something terrible happen if it stopped something worse happening in future.”

Merlin scoffed at him. “You’re interrogating me over your dream?”

Softly, Arthur warned, “Merlin.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Merlin snapped.

“I want to know what changed,” Arthur bit back, but more quietly. He dropped his gaze from the clouds, but only so far as the trees on the other side of the fields. “Something happened – something made you cold. You fell back on duty better than George ever did. Punctuality and my lord, and never an answer you didn’t filter to fit my royal ears and sensibilities. And I can’t help noticing that whatever it was, it never really went away. Hubert and Gaius blame your temper on head injuries, but I don’t buy it. You stopped trusting me. I know you used to. Even if you still lied about some things, hid some things, you did trust me. But I gave Mordred acceptance and a place in my court, where you had none other than…than lackey, maker of beds. Not because he was good with a sword, either. He was more like you. Not a fighter – not at first. Did you think that I did it in spite of the magic? Or because of it?”

When Arthur made himself look at Merlin again, he caught Merlin looking back this time. “Mordred proved himself to you. He saved your life.”

“So did you, many times more. And I knew it. But I didn’t give you the same consideration for it. I didn’t reward you like I did him.”

“I’m not jealous you made him a knight,” Merlin growled, his face surly as he looked away again. “Why would I want a knighthood?”

“You learned to handle sword around the same time,” Arthur pointed out. “I was surprised; you’d never shown much interest before.”

“I need to be able to protect you,” Merlin countered, still glaring off into the field without focusing or resting his eyes long on any one thing. “I realized I can’t always do that with magic.”

The answer didn’t satisfy him, but Arthur didn’t know how to press it without sounding stupid. And it might even have been true, however incomplete. “Do you think they were right? The Disir?”

Merlin puffed out an incredulous syllable and demanded, visibly irritated, “About what?”

“Their judgement.” Arthur cocked an eyebrow. “That I’ve failed as king. For a while there, I think you really did see my father when you looked at me. Sometimes, I think you still do, no matter how prettily you deny it.”

“This is ridiculous,” Merlin huffed, looking away again.

“It’s not,” Arthur countered calmly. “You are more bitter. Angry. It’s softened since Mordred died, but it’s still there. And I want to know why. What happened, Merlin?”

Merlin snarled quietly to himself and mirrored Arthur’s posture with his arms crossed. “I told you already. I gave up.”

Arthur peered at the side of his head without reacting, then swung his eyes away. “I asked Gaius, just before he died, how close I had come to losing your regard.”

Earnest in that way that he always was when he said it, Merlin affirmed, “I am loyal to you, Arthur. Always.” It didn’t ring hollow; it never had. But Arthur could hear the edge to it now, where he’d likely just glossed it over in his mind before. “I would never betray you.”

“I know,” Arthur replied, because he did know. “But something changed. You stopped smiling long before Guinevere’s death. Before Mordred’s even. And I can’t help thinking that there were moments when maybe you reconsidered what you were doing. Serving me.” Beside him, Merlin snuffed and gave several minute shakes of his head as if he weren’t capable of finding a coherent verbal denial. Arthur pressed, “Was it something I did? Some specific thing that made you distance yourself from me?”

Merlin sighed; it was a dissatisfied sound. “No, my lord. It wasn’t any kind of disaffection. It was quite the opposite, actually. Being your servant…your sorcerer…it was stifling after a while. I’ve never been patient, exactly.” He gave Arthur something that pretended to be a wry smile, but in the end, Merlin merely grimaced. “I always told myself that once you were king, things would get better. Maybe everything wouldn’t be so hard anymore.”

Arthur swallowed and nodded. “But nothing really changed.”

“You…” Merlin looked as if he meant to swallow but couldn’t, and pressed his tongue against his front teeth instead. “You were just…” He shook his head, and Arthur vividly felt the echo of sitting around a campfire speaking of magic while the mouthpieces of a goddess waited nearby in their cave. Finally, his voice hoarse with indecision and reluctance to speak, Merlin admitted, “It was like you were trying to be Uther. And you were miserable, and – I’m not the one who grew cold. You did.” He punctuated his point by jabbing a finger toward the ground. “After the last attack Morgana made on the castle, it was like I barely knew you anymore. And I didn’t like it.” Merlin’s voiced raised, but it went squeaky at the edges and couldn’t carry far like that. “I saved your life. I risked my life to get you that bloody sword, and after the whole thing was done, you just didn’t care that you had a magical relic strapped to your waist every day. One that I put there.” He laughed, but it seemed self-directed. The arrogance tinging the edges of what he’d said bothered Arthur too, but mostly because he knew the sound of that kind of thing; it was the way Arthur himself spoke sometimes about what people owed him, and his rights as king. “You keep saying that my loyalty to you is something awful, and it is. It really is, because it feels awful to be willing to – to murder people to save a king who will never let me be free.”

“It’s not awful,” Arthur argued; he couldn’t think of a response to the other part that wouldn’t sound disingenuous. “I never used that word.”

“You didn’t have to.” Merlin fidgeted and let out a heavy breath. “Were you taking it for granted that your secret sorcerer would help you enact your will?”

Arthur had been allowing his gaze to wander over the bonfire builders and various guild people, but at that, he zeroed back in on Merlin. “What?”

“I dismissed it at the time because I didn’t realize you knew about the magic. And I know you think I’m a simpleton – of course, you wouldn’t think I’m good for anything but servitude.”

“I don’t – ”

Merlin spoke right over him, as if he hadn’t heard him at all. “But I still felt it. You were using me.” Before Arthur could automatically deny that, Merlin snarled with a surprising amount of venom, “I will remind you too, sire. Try to tell the truth.”

Arthur glanced around and physically bit down to stop his initial reaction, which was to put Merlin in his place for daring to mock him with a parody of his own words. With forced calm, and the awareness that this was what Arthur wanted to discuss in the first place, he asked, “Was that it, then? Is that what changed?”

“No!” Merlin hissed, leaning close and sparing a quick look around for eavesdroppers. He seemed more aware of the indiscrete surroundings than Arthur had realized. “And you didn’t answer me.”

Automatically, Arthur snapped back, “I don’t answer to you, Merlin; I’m the king.” He regretted it immediately, of course – old habits. He tried to reverse course right away, and modulated his tone into something that he hoped was conciliatory. “Look, I didn’t mean – ”

But the damage was already done. “No, you’re right, sire.” Merlin’s poise and expression were all frost and court decorum. “You don’t owe me anything. Certainly not answers.”

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek, nostrils flaring as he held his temper in check, but he still warned, “Don’t be a dick.”

“I would never seek to do one up on you, sire.”

Arthur blinked because Merlin was being outright insubordinate now, but Arthur recognized it this time. It was that defiant anger from the alleyway the afternoon before, but he could see now that it had its roots in something deeper. Outrage, maybe. Denial. Disappointment. That recognition quelled Arthur’s own anger at being addressed in such a manner.

Too much of an interval must have passed while Arthur just looked at him, because Merlin backed off a step and shifted his posture out of the confrontational stance he’d adopted. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Arthur had a difference of opinion on that, actually. “No. I’ve been pushing you to speak your mind. And I’ve been shoving rank at you too, lately. Your rank. I can’t keep saying we’re equals and then punishing you for taking me at my word.”

“We’re not – ”

“For gods’ sakes, Merlin; you’re a prince. You can speak to me however you like.”

Merlin mouthed some kind of denial, but dropped his gaze without giving it voice.

“The first thing you did when we met was call me an ass,” Arthur pointed out, holding the words between them like a peace offering. “It’s what drew me to you.”

Something in Merlin’s affect relented enough to ask this time, more calmly, “Were you using me?”

“Not with intent,” Arthur confessed. “But yes, I probably was. I think I take it for granted that you’ll always be there when I need you.”

“I have sworn to be.”

“Not like that.” Arthur cocked his head at the way Merlin kept his whole body cast aside, as if to demonstrate his subordinance.

As if he needed to get it out before he thought better of it, Merlin blurted, “It was your father, wasn’t it. You were angry at me after he died. You insulted me more, snapped at me all the time, nothing I did was good enough anymore… I didn’t understand it then, but if that’s when you found out, and you knew it was me that killed him, then it makes sense. You couldn’t tell me you knew, you couldn’t punish me for it, but you blamed me.”

Arthur swallowed. “I might have been punishing you for it, however unwittingly. But I blamed myself. I’m the one who asked you to use magic on him. It was my fault.”

Merlin’s chest expanded, and for a moment, he looked vindicated, however unhappy a thing it was. “So you were using me for that too. To sate your guilt.”

“I didn’t realize what my behavior was doing to you,” Arthur admitted. But in his mind, he held himself up beside his father and couldn’t miss the parallels. “I wish I had.”

Distantly, Merlin replied, “You had more important things to worry about.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Yes, well, I shouldn’t be surprised. Your family has a long history of using sorcerers as whipping posts to ease your conscience.”

Arthur took in a shallow breath through carefully parted lips, and shut his eyes for a moment. “Yes. We do.”

To his credit, Merlin appeared to regret what he’d said even as he refrained from apologizing this time. Instead, he said, “I don’t want to be at odds with you. It’s in the past, isn’t it? It doesn’t have to matter.”

“It does matter.”

“Why? It’s over. How much of the past are you going to dredge up for us to relive? We can’t go backwards. We can only move forward, or stand still.”

“I’m not dredging up dead matters. Something happened between us, Merlin. And because of the secrets – both of our secrets – it festered, and is still there. I know when it happened, but I don’t know why, and until I do, I can’t fix it.”

“It’s not your job to fix my life!”

Arthur waited a moment for Merlin realize that what he’d said, and how, was telling. Then he told him, “It bothers me that you’re not happy anymore.”

In a rare moment of what looked like honesty, Merlin laughed. It was a hollow thing, though. “Happy? How can I be happy? In this kingdom? I am nothing, Arthur. I never have been, and I never can be. I’m a sorcerer. Remember? I have no protection here, no rights… There is no place for magic here. And now twenty of your knights know what I am. Four of them deserted you over it. Servants know. The miller’s wife and daughter know. And that’s supposed to make me happy? You might accept me – and I am grateful for that, more than you will ever know – but how do you think this ends? This is Camelot, Arthur. And however much you want to ignore it, I am your enemy.”

“You have a strange way of showing it.” Arthur tilted his head and shook it. “What about what happened at the wellspring? My – our destiny? The one you keep saving me for.”

Merlin offered him a sad smile. “It’s a pretty picture, but we’re not in the forest anymore; this is the life we both live in. And I grew up a long time ago – enough to know I can’t keep pretending that some grand destiny is going to intervene to save me, or change you into someone you’re not. You lead a kingdom built on laws and justice.” Merlin tried to smile again, and the softness – the compassion and understanding in his eyes – cut deeper than any harsh word ever could. “And I’m not welcome in it.”

A soft arc of shame worked its way through Arthur’s body, but there was anger in it too. Before he could respond to that, Merlin suddenly scrambled sideways and slammed into Arthur’s shoulder. “Ow!” Arthur caught him and automatically stepped in front of him, only to find Sir Marwen looking startled with his hand out and open. Arthur hadn’t even noticed him approaching; he must have grabbed Merlin’s shoulder or something. Caradoc and Ronhael stood behind him, both of them gripping their swords and tense, but they hadn’t drawn, and they both appeared just as surprised as Marwen. Arthur knocked Merlin’s warding hand aside and shoved it down, out of sight, before anyone could notice him acting more strange than usual. “Gentlemen. Season’s greetings.”

All three of them inclined their heads in respect and echoed the greeting, but Ronhael warily eyed Merlin, and Caradoc appeared concerned.

“Alright there, Merlin?” Marwen asked. “You’ll do your heart no good jumping like a rabbit every time someone comes near.”

Merlin pushed Arthur’s hand off and sidestepped so that he wasn’t effectively using Arthur as a shield anymore. “Right. Yes. Thank you.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, just sideways instead of up, and tried to cover his discomfiture by glaring a bit at Merlin for being worse at acting normal than usual.

“Um,” Merlin shrugged, eyes wide as he shook his head minutely, clearly trying to convey that he needed a hint to interpret Arthur’s intentions. “My lord? Sir.” He looked at Marwen again. “Sir Marwen, I mean.” He nodded gravely at Arthur. “Yes?”

Arthur curled his lip, incredulous. “How are you even more stupid than usual? Have you been at the cider?”

“No!” Merlin replied way too fast. He seemed to realize that and immediately amended it to a lower-toned, “I mean, no.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Of course, I haven’t. Why would you think that?” And then he rubbed at his chest and tried to look as if he’d meant to walk away from them all along.

Unnecessarily, Ronhael remarked, “Pretty sure that means he’s been at the cider.”

Arthur had no idea when that could have happened, since Merlin had been with him nearly all morning, but he had to agree. Thankfully, Merlin was out of earshot by then and distracted by several townswomen who swarmed him as soon as he left Arthur’s royal sphere. Arthur took it as leave to just ignore the whole matter and tried not to fall back into his troubled thoughts. “I wasn’t able to speak with you last night when we got back.” He indicated Caradoc and Ronhael. “I trust you’ve been filled in?”

“Lord Howel gave us an account,” Caradoc confirmed. “Though we were pleased to have Sir Marwen confirm as well.”

Marwen wobbled his head noncommittally. “Lord Howel is uncomfortable with many aspects of this situation. And biased, though I’m not completely certain as to which direction he’s biased in. I think that being called out at the well camp left him more rattled than we realized.”

Caradoc tipped his head in agreement, though he also appeared to stop himself rolling his eyes. “I want to say that he should be ashamed of himself for what he did to old Gorlois, but in reality, I can’t say that any of us would have denied Uther.” He gave Arthur an apologetic look. “Whatever else he was, your father did know how to command loyalty.”

Arthur nodded at their boots and forcibly resisted the urge to bite his lip. What Uther had commanded was not loyalty; it was only a well-cultivated fear. All he said, though, was, “Yes, he did.”

Marwen lowered his voice and asked, “Is everything alright, sire? Only, that seemed like a heated exchange.” He tipped his head toward Merlin, over where he floundered in an effort not to look as overwhelmed at the attentions of insistent ladies as Arthur knew he was.

Arthur faced his knights again and bobbed his head. “Everything’s fine. Minor disagreement.” He caught sight of Ronhael pressing his lips together as he peered in Merlin’s direction, though not directly at him. It was calculated. “Sir Ronhael, you have something to say?”

“I’m concerned by all of this.” It nearly exploded from Ronhael’s mouth as if he’d just been awaiting an opportunity.

Marwen’s glance flickered to Arthur as he thumped Ronhael on the shoulder. “Peace, Ron. We’ve discussed it.”

Ronhael shrugged him off and hissed, “I can’t be as calm about this as you are. Cursed woods and stone dances, and talking dead…sorcerers.”

“You weren’t there,” Marwen snapped.

“And you were!” Ronhael countered. “Magic is insidious. I find it suspicious that all of you agreed to this without any sort of argument. I know most of you. It’s not how I would expect you to act in this situation, not even for – for him.” He jabbed his hand in Merlin’s direction without lifting it above the level of his belt, as if Merlin’s ears might itch to be spoken of.

Arthur shut his eyes and drew a calming breath. “There was plenty of argument, Sir Ronhael, and now the matter is settled. I realize that this may be disconcerting for some of you, but I must insist.”

Ronhael nodded, grimaced, and then sighed loudly enough to draw curious looks from the nearby people. “You don’t have to worry,” he murmured. “I am loyal. And I’d never wish Merlin harm, I just wish it were anyone but him.” Mostly under his breath, he admitted, “I like Merlin. I thought, here’s a man who can barely lift a proper sword, much less use it well, and yet he never runs from danger. A servant with the heart of a knight, even if he is an utter fool for never taking cover with the rest of them. But now I see that’s not it at all. He’s not brave. He’s not admirable for his courage. He was never in danger at all. Hell, he’s not even a servant; Lord Howel says he’s heir of a royal house.”

Arthur scoffed, mostly because Merlin had been in considerable danger all of his life, and he was brave for never letting it corrupt him. But he didn’t think that Ronhael would credit that, so he asked instead, “You feel cheated? Of what?”

“My regard for him was false!” Ronhael hissed. “I knew a long time ago that he figured your sister out before we did, and we all heard of his warnings about your uncle Agravaine before he revealed himself. I thought he was like us. Scrawnier, maybe, and foolhardy, but still like us. Brave. Uncompromising. I thought he was a man who would do anything for his king, even to his own detriment, the same as we would.” He gestured to encompass both knights standing with him.

“He is that,” Caradoc countered. “He could have died for defending his king at the hollow, and probably a dozen other times before that.”

Ronhael groaned and spun a quarter circle away before rounding back. “Yes. I know. I just wish it weren’t built around a lie.”

“I’d be dead myself,” Arthur told him, “if he had built his loyalty on the truth from the start.” It felt like an old line, though, and too oft repeated.

“Yes,” Ronhael agreed, still resentful. “It sucks all around.”

Arthur studied him for a moment, and then ventured, “I was angry at the lies too. But after thought, I was forced to accept that it was the only way for him to be loyal to me. It’s not a pleasant thing to know.”

Perhaps sensing capitulation for what must have been at least the second time, Marwen elbowed Ronhael. “We all like him. He’s ridiculously likeable.”

“Treacherous, like is,” Ronhael grumbled. “And words of treachery always sound sweet to the ear.” Before noticing the frowns that broke out around him, he sighed and said, “I know, in my mind, that sorcerers are men just like us. They cannot all be evil. But my heart constricts to think of one living here, among us where we have no defense from him.”

You lead a kingdom built on laws and justice. And I’m not welcome in it. After too long of a delay, Arthur replied, “Merlin is our defense. Little though we deserve it for how we have treated his kind.”

Ronhael made a manly effort to smile. “Perhaps I will come to see that as you have, sire. Right now, I am only afraid of what it means – of what we will owe him, and what our safety will cost in the end.” Ronhael shuddered. “I can’t get the hollow out of my mind.”

Arthur nodded, but reasoned, “You wouldn’t shun a squire who impales a bandit on a boar spear just because you thought he was gentle, so why shun Merlin? We were more than outnumbered. They would have slaughtered us.”

Ronhael snorted. “We differ there, then. I never thought he was gentle.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I can be prepared for a squire to step up like that. Even Merlin, I could imagine running someone through to save you, sire.”

Arthur shuddered at the unwelcome memory of Merlin doing just that to Morgana.

“It’s different when it’s magic. A spear can be a mercy. What he did was brutal.”

“What we’ve done is also brutal,” Arthur snapped. “Or have you never thought what it’s like on the other side? The only crime Merlin committed was to be born, something outside of his control, and that earned him a death sentence by our laws. I invite you to consider that, and when you’re done, think about the meaning of mercy too. Not mercy that we’ve given him, but mercy that he’s given us. And then ask yourself who the better man is in that equation, because I doubt right now that it’s you.”

Arthur left off suddenly and clacked his teeth together as he shut his mouth, taken aback at the vehemence of his own words, and the purpose of them. They were as much a rebuke against himself as against Ronhael, and from the avoidance of eye contact from all three of his knights, it appeared that they recognized that too.

After a fair bit of rapid introspection, Ronhael lowered his head. “My apologies, sire. I meant no offense.”

“It’s I who should apologize,” Arthur admitted in like manner. “I’ve not been comfortable with my thoughts of late.”

Caradoc hummed in sympathy. “It’s a quandary, sire. One not easily sorted.”

“Merlin asked me how I think this ends,” Arthur disclosed. He followed it up with a hard sigh. “And for the life of me, I don’t know.” He let his eyes carry his thoughts afield with the sundered wheat. “It all seemed so simple at the wellspring. But now?” He shrugged, his mouth smearing in an effort at a helpless smile. “This is Camelot,” he observed unnecessarily.

Caradoc nodded gravely. “Yes, it is, sire. But it doesn’t have to be Uther’s anymore.”

Arthur didn’t look at him right away for saying something that perhaps should not be said to the current king about his father. Or at least, not like that. But Arthur wasn’t feeling anything right then aside from the weight of his crown. “I fear that no matter what I do next, or don’t do, it will be unwise.”

Without inflection, Caradoc reminded him, “We agreed to stand with you, sire. And we will, no matter your decision.”

Arthur felt his anger flare up again, but he tempered it this time. “See, that’s the problem. No matter my decision? That’s how my father was allowed to purge an entire people – that’s what brought us here. How can we call ourselves just or merciful if all we do is hide behind fealty to excuse our misdeeds?”

Caradoc worked his jaw for a moment, and then looked at his fellows, unable to respond.

Arthur nodded. “It’s alright,” he conceded. “I don’t expect an answer.” Arthur looked around in a bid to just end this conversation, and waved his hand. “Merlin! Come back here.”

Merlin glanced up, took in the now discomfited knights collected around Arthur, and then peeled himself away from the young women surrounding him.

As soon as Merlin rejoined them, and somewhat desperate to distract from what had just been said, Arthur jibed, “You realize they’re flirting with you, right?”

Merlin paused in the middle of his last step, blinked at Arthur, and then planted himself in his usual spot just past Arthur’s shoulder. He cast the knights a narrow-eyed look as they avoided his gaze and shifted about. Without turning away from them and their odd discomfort, Merlin quipped back, “I think I’d notice if they were flirting.”

Seeming eager to seize on the diversion, Marwen told him, “No, the king’s right. They were flirting.”

Merlin expelled an uncomfortable laugh. “No, they weren’t.” He twisted his torso around to look back and immediately, half of the girls he’d just been talking to waved at him. Merlin smiled and waved back, only to turn to Arthur again and get a face full of incredulity. “What? They’re being nice. Congratulating me on the court appointment. It’s a big step up from where I was.”

Arthur nodded. “One that you’ve earned. Clearly they agree.” He twitched his shoulder in the direction of the aforementioned girls.

His attention now successfully sidetracked, Merlin scowled. “They’re not flirting! Why would they? Even you laugh at the thought of me having a girl.”

Arthur twisted his mouth up to one side, knowing what he did now thanks to the previous evening. And it was a ludicrous thought, just for different reasons now. For his part, Marwen disguised his mirth by rubbing his nose too hard for polite company, while Caradoc merely coughed a few times. Ronhael, however, still wore a thoughtful expression.

“They’re not!” Merlin insisted. He shifted back and forth on his feet in agitation. “You’re all being ridiculous.” When Merlin glanced back at the ladies again, half of them twittered and started whispering with each other.

Arthur patted him on the shoulder, and Merlin squinted at him. “It’s alright, Merlin. I’m sure we’re all just mistaken.”

Merlin’s face turned droll. “You’re humoring me, aren’t you.”

“Of course, I’m humoring you,” Arthur replied. “You’re being an idiot.”

With a scornful sound, Merlin tried to peer at the women without looking directly at them, which made him look like he was pants at being shifty. Which he was. The ladies immediately intensified their whispering and twittering. In response, Merlin fluffed at his hair, kind of – it looked more like his fingers spasmed over his scalp for a moment. The women nudged each other, Merlin nervously rubbed at his bristly chin and smiled at one, and Arthur could actually hear the collective sigh of infatuated ladies. Merlin spun back toward Arthur, eyes panicked. “Oh my gods, I think you’re right.”

Ronhael lost the battle over his seriousness and finally cracked a smile. “That’s our Merlin.”

Merlin graduated to wringing his hands, completely oblivious to the men talking around him as he stared like a cornered chicken at the ladies watching him. “What do I do?”

“Well,” Caradoc offered, “you’re the royal physician. Offer them an examination?”

“I already do that,” Merlin lamented, the clueless sot.

Arthur despaired of him, as usual. “It’s a euphemism.”

Merlin looked at him, glanced at the other three knights, and then pressed his mouth into a flat line. His eyes unfocused as he muttered, “Right. I think they’re ready for you to cut the last wheat, sire.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but yes, the various guildsmen and women were watching them all expectantly from the middle of the reaped field, so Arthur just shook his head and walked away. He glanced back as Marwen clapped Merlin between the shoulder blades way too hard for such a skinny man to take, and shook his head as Merlin flinched again with a nervous glance at Marwen’s empty sword hand.

Arthur managed to wield a scythe convincingly enough to hack off the last handful of wheat on the second try, which a boy clad in scarecrow cloth then held up for the crowd amidst cheers. A stoic man wearing one of the funny church hats of the new god swung incense and burning herbs in a small turibulum around Arthur and the boy. After that, a group of women from the death guild blessed the field and the harvest in similar fashion with various cut herbs tied with string to close the season, and then it was over.

Arthur stepped out of the reaping field and into a rare moment set apart on a sea of cut wheat. The dry brown and yellow ends crunched under foot as he took the time to simply watch the activity around him. It didn’t register before, but there was magic on the air, faint but sharp. He couldn’t tell where it came from. It certainly could have been the season, or Arthur’s heightened awareness of late, but he thought he would have noticed before now if the harvest time air always tasted this thick with it, whether he’d known it as magic or not.

Someone nearby said Arthur’s name – not calling to him, but just mentioning it. Arthur turned toward the sound and noticed Meliot standing apart from several other nobles, all of them of the more hostile variety from the council. While the men around him appeared little other than irritated at mingling with the common folk, Meliot seemed either alert or in readiness. After a few minutes, Meliot murmured something to the man next to him and started off toward something to Arthur’s right. He stopped after a few steps, though, because a number of townspeople gathered in his way to form a line to start passing wood from a horsecart to where the dual bonfires would burn in the evening’s celebrations. Arthur watched Meliot straighten his sword belt and tuck in his pockets from where he must have turned them inside out earlier. Then Meliot scowled, spun on his heel, and stalked back toward the castle. He nearly collided with a number of townsfolk, their arms laden with kindling and heads adorned with antlers and sprigs of holly. Arthur furrowed his brow as Meliot cast a last disgusted glance in Merlin’s direction before he hurried from sight. That seemed out of proportion even as aftermath to the debacle at council. It wasn’t as if Meliot had a vested interest in the appointment of Court Physician.

From over near a haycart where a new group of ladies seemed to be closing in, Merlin caught Arthur’s eye and hurried away from the threat of anyone else trying to waylay him. “You still have to inspect the granaries,” Merlin called without preamble. “Best get it over with; you know grain reports give you headaches.”

“What’s the matter, Merlin?” He let Merlin hustle him off toward the citadel, but couldn’t resist pestering him. “Can’t handle a few girls?”

“They’re very tactile,” Merlin complained. “And they’re only doing it because I’m Court Physician now. It’s insulting. Mira, for instance – I know for a fact, she hates me.”

“I thought the servants liked you,” Arthur countered. He firmly removed Merlin’s hand from his arm and glared him into his own personal space as they walked. “You don’t need to drag me.”

Merlin offered him a sheepish apology for the manhandling, an expression that had nothing to do with words and everything to do with the wry tilt of his mouth. “They’re not castle servants. They’re ladies’ maids to some of your nobles’ wives.”

“Ah. Vultures.” Arthur shuddered. “Looking to marry status, are they? Must be like all the noble women my father used to parade around me like a meat market. Not sure which of us was the meat, either – me or the ladies.”

“Definitely you,” Merlin teased. “Aggrieved little royal mouse. I don’t think you could have taken any of them in a fight.”

Arthur swung at him slowly enough that he knew Merlin would evade him in good fun, and then chased him up the road until they reached the drawbridge and the amused gazes of various of the guards there.

* * *

The Death Song of Uther Pendragon

“You have failed.”

Arthur faltered as he faced the shade of his father and tried to speak past the pain of hearing harsh words spoken so gently from the one person whose opinion mattered most to him. He licked his lips and had to try twice to get his words out. “I’ve always strived to make you proud.”

“How can I be proud of a son who ignores everything that I taught him? Who is destroying my legacy?”

Arthur started to shake his head, but he didn’t want to take his eyes from his father, and he didn’t know if he should deny that. This was the truth from his own father’s mouth. Wasn’t it? However much it hurt, this was what he came here for. In an effort to justify himself, Arthur reasoned, “I’ve brought peace to the kingdom.”

“At what price?”

Again, Arthur stopped himself from denying his father’s words.

“The peace cannot last. If you are not strong, the kingdom will fall.”

* * *

Arthur managed to snag a moment to himself after inspecting the grain stores when Merlin got called away to treat injuries in the kitchens. His feet carried him along the corridors with a mind of their own, until he stood beneath the archway leading to his father’s tomb. He certainly hadn’t meant to come here, and wondered if there were credence to Merlin’s sock paranoia after all. The staff and guards always kept the candelabras lit in here, as per Arthur’s orders on the day the slab was sealed atop Uther’s sarcophagus. He hadn’t wanted darkness to ever fall on the tomb out of some superstitious fear that to do so would also bring darkness to the kingdom that Uther left behind. It felt stupid now, that notion.

Arthur nodded a greeting to the guards on duty. “Give us a moment.”

If they thought it odd that their king spoke of a dead man as if they had private business to discuss, they didn’t show it. Arthur watched them march out of the chamber, and then approached the stone effigy of a man whose pall continued to shroud Arthur’s life.

“Father.” Arthur rested his fingers on the cold stone of a chiseled hand shaped nothing like the living hand of his father. “You threatened me once that one day, I would learn what it takes to be king.”

A draft stirred the candle flames, but not enough to gutter them.

“I fear that day has finally come.” Arthur tried to find some likeness of the face he remembered in the cold stone before him. He couldn’t. His breathing turned shaky as he said, “All I ever wanted to do was make you proud. I idolized you. My father.” In a whisper, he added, “My king.” Arthur sniffed and looked down at his own hands covering grey stone fingers that would never be a passing substitute for the real thing. “I wish I could ask for your advice, but I know what you’d say. And I know I would reject it.” Arthur exhaled and stepped back, sliding his fingers from the effigy as he went. “You taught me everything I know about ruling a kingdom. But I wonder if you realize the lessons I learned from watching you. I wonder if you know what it actually is that you taught me so well.” Arthur took another step back. “Perhaps you can still be proud of me one day for seeing the lessons you didn’t mean to teach, instead of the ones you spoke aloud. I will have to hope for that, and let it be enough.” He took a deep breath, and let it back out before saying, “Goodbye, father.”

With a shivering breath to maintain his composure, Arthur turned away and regarded the candles flickering in a ring about the tomb. One by one, he snuffed them all out.

* * *

The Death Song of Uther Pendragon

“When I became king, more than anything, I wanted to make him proud.”

Merlin ducked around an arch, his mouth pressed tight in a somewhat mean-spirited grimace. He threw Arthur the barest of disbelieving glances and then shook his head.

Arthur noticed, but he only half paid attention as he asked, “What is it?”

“You’ve always done what you believed to be right, even if you knew your father would disapprove of it.” Merlin looked at him long enough that their gazes locked for a heartbeat. It was as much the words themselves that drew Arthur’s attention, as the derisive manner in which Merlin delivered them. Merlin shifted his gaze away and began inching down the corridor again, even as Arthur only watched him now. “Do you not see how different you are to him?”

Arthur’s brows drew down into a sharp dip.

“Camelot’s a better place since you became king.”

As Merlin moved on ahead of him, Arthur made a face at the back of his head and tried to pay attention to what they were supposed to be doing out here. He would have to reflect on Merlin’s odd and curt hostility, mild as it was, later. With a wry tint to his voice, Arthur quipped, “Father clearly doesn’t think so.”

The low grit of Merlin’s voice came out long-suffering as he retorted, “The people believe in you, Arthur. That counts for nothing if you don’t believe in yourself.”

That was the first moment when Arthur realized that Merlin was disappointed in him. As much as he wasn’t sure why it should matter what a servant – a bloody sorcerer – thought of him, the sensation of it wasn’t welcome. It was much the same way that Uther had made him feel. Unworthy.

* * *

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Arthur demanded.

Merlin hitched his shoulder again and grimaced. “My back itches. I think it’s the shirt you gave me.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Figures you’d be allergic to anything of quality. Do you really prefer your grain sack cloth things?”

“No,” Merlin snarked back. “It’s just this one spot.” He twisted his arm up behind his back to try and scratch at his right shoulder blade, then sighed and attempted to contort his other arm over that shoulder to get at it.

Arthur watched him flap around and embarrass himself in the middle of the crowded courtyard until the whole thing edged into pathetic. “Here,” Arthur groaned, slapping Merlin’s hands down and roughly turning him to face away. He poked at Merlin’s shoulder blade. “Here?”

“Lower.” Merlin glanced over his shoulder and added, “sire. Just up under the wing.”

“Here, then.” Arthur dug his nails into the soft spot at the bottom edge of the shoulder blade, and Merlin arched with a satisfied hum. “You are the strangest man I’ve ever met,” Arthur complained, even as he dutifully scratched and watched Merlin curl and wriggle his shoulder to get the most out of Arthur’s fingers. Idly, he noted that the itchy spot would be the perfect place to shove in a short blade to pierce a lung from behind. Even in armor, there would be a space there to get through the plate. If Arthur were a more superstitious sort, he might mistake this mysterious itch for a portend. Before anyone could really notice the spectacle of the king scratching his servant’s back, Arthur playfully shoved at Merlin’s head and laughed as he squawked about it. “Better?”

Merlin hiked his shoulders up and rolled one like an irate bird fluffing its ruffled feathers. “Yeah, but it kind of hurts now.”

“I barely scratched you!” Arthur objected. “You really are a delicate lady’s petticoat, Merlin.”

Merlin flattened his eyebrows at him, but that was it. He pressed his hand against his chest, though, and stretched his neck as if to breathe better.

Arthur watched him with softening eyes. “Are you alright?”

Startled, Merlin dropped his hand. “Of course. You don’t have to worry. Everything’s fine, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Arthur drawled, brows tightening. He felt as if he should recognize an echo somewhere, which was an odd sensation to say the least. “Come on; I want to check on the setup for my speech, and the feast tables.”

“You just want to pilfer more honey cakes,” Merlin countered, but he happily bounced along in Arthur’s wake nonetheless.

Arthur glared over his shoulder. “I swear, Merlin. If you make a single belt joke…”

Merlin’s face projected his complete innocence, the duplicitous git.

“I know that face,” Arthur grumbled, feigning irritation. “You wear it whenever you have to tell me that I miraculously slayed a monster while I was unconscious.”

“Yes, you do tend to do that,” Merlin chirped while refusing to make eye contact. “Very laudable, and all.”

Arthur veered to one side, picked up a handful of hay, and threw it at Merlin’s face. After laughing at Merlin flapping about sneezing for a bit, they made their way past the various tables that the kitchen and steward’s staffs were setting up to hold an abundance of food. Arthur liked the idea of a feast out of doors where rank wouldn’t matter as much, and everyone could graze at their leisure. Other than Merlin grumbling about how to ensure that Arthur only ate food deemed safe, it seemed to be going well so far. There were dozens of covered cold plates laid out already, and a few of the stronger lads were setting up wine and mead barrels along the outer perimeter, under the colonnade. They even ran across Leundugrance sipping a pint of honey mead and humming absent songs to himself while the various members of the castle staff kept an eye on him.

Arthur turned to Merlin as they meandered in the general direction of the dais. “You have my speech?”

“Yes, sire.” Merlin reached into his jacket sleeve, paused, then patted around the rest of his clothes before pulling the neatened roll of parchment from his trouser pocket. Before he handed it over, he cautioned, “I added a bit. At the beginning. From… You should read it first, in case you’d rather skip it.”

Intrigued, Arthur unrolled the first bit and skimmed down the extra page tucked in with the rest of the scroll where Merlin had written optional in the margin. As he read the added words, a slow drift of a smile flickered in fits onto his face. “Guinevere,” Arthur said. “You added Guinevere.”

“I thought maybe it was time?” Merlin ventured, clearly uncertain about the whole thing, and Arthur’s gradual, banal reaction. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“You didn’t,” Arthur told him. His eyes lost focus a few times as he reread the words that Merlin had added as a sort of eulogy and new beginning. “It’s perfect, Merlin.”

Merlin took in a heavy breath and let it out with obvious relief. “Right. Well. Good.” He rubbed at his chest for a moment and then threw his fingers a troubled glance, as if unsure of how they got there.

“You keep doing that.” Arthur treated him to a concerted frown. “Rubbing your chest. You’ve been doing it off and on for a few days now.”

Merlin shrugged. “Just feels funny. Might be a bit of congestion. Dunno.”

“Have you spoken to Hubert about it?”

At this, Merlin’s easy manner collapsed into annoyance. “I am actually a physician, you know. Even Gaius says so.” His face blanked a moment later though, probably at forgetting to use the past tense, and then he grimaced down at his knuckles. “Look, you don’t have to worry. It’s nothing.”

Arthur shivered at the unexpectedly chill autumn breeze that crept through their little pocket of the courtyard. “It’s not that I doubt you,” Arthur offered quietly.

“I know.” Merlin nodded and looked up at him. “But it’s fine, really. Sometimes the fresh cut hay makes me stuffy, you know?” He grinned. “And you just mashed a bunch of it in my face, so.”

For once, Arthur didn’t take the bait. “This isn’t your hay snuffles. I know what those look like.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Because you know all about my hay snuffles – and that’s a stupid thing to call them, by the way.”

Arthur wasn’t sure why this bothered him so much, but Merlin did seem fine, so he forced a smirk. “I do know all about them. You spend a month every autumn snorting and dripping all over my chambers; it’s a matter of self-preservation to be able to recognize them.” Arthur glanced toward the open part of the courtyard and then checked the progress of the sun on its downward path from noon. “Come on. It’s almost time for my speech, and then we can eat.” He glanced back, twitched when he didn’t see Merlin standing where he had just seen him, and then whirled around to nearly end up with a nose full of honey cake.

With a tiny grin, Merlin held the cake out to him. “I sort of stole it off a passing tray.” He nodded at one of the kitchen girls trying to navigate her way to a table without losing any more cakes to the grabby fingers of various servants and children swarming around her skirts. “They just brought it fresh from the kitchens.” Merlin waggled it in Arthur’s face. “Fortification for your speech?”

Helpless to stop it, Arthur’s face brightened. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.” He accepted the little cake, and then broke it in half. “Here.”

“I thought you hated me testing your food.” Merlin clasped his hands together.

Arthur made a face at him. “Idiot. I’m sharing. I’m told even children know how to do that.”

Merlin looked as if he wanted to make some smartass comment about Arthur’s maturity level, but he also glanced around first. Apparently deciding that he couldn’t get away with the impertinence just then, he merely accepted the half a honey cake. “Thank you, sire.”

“Oh, don’t start.” Arthur stuffed his own bit of cake into his mouth and stalked away toward the dais raised near the foot of the castle steps.

It took longer for the nobility to assemble on the dais than Arthur normally had patience for, so he wandered around the base of it for a bit, greeting the commoners who managed to arrive early enough to take up places in the courtyard to hear Arthur’s speech directly. Beyond that space, the criers would relay his words second hand. He exchanged a few words with a farmer before calculating his chances of stealing another honey cake unnoticed, which was how he ended up near enough the colonnade to overhear Meliot say, “You don’t have to worry. I will handle it.”

Arthur turned to find Meliot in conversation with one of the guards, and asked, “Handle what? Is something the matter?”

Both men turned, startled. The guard started to stutter out some kind of response, but Meliot beat him to speaking. “No, sire. It’s, um…” He trailed off, glanced at the guard, and then faced Arthur again with a forced joviality. “Personal matters. You know how messy  those can be.”

Knowing Meliot, the thought of him having friendly personal problems with a common guard seemed unlikely. “Indeed,” Arthur agreed, though it sounded more like a question as the word left him. He eyed the guard for a moment, who had paled like the flesh of a cooked fish. His face felt familiar to Arthur, but he couldn’t quite place it. At some point, he really needed to learn the names and business of his castle guards, for security’s sake if nothing else. “I won’t keep you, then.”

The guard opened his mouth as if to counter something, closed it again, blinked nervously at Meliot, and then shook himself back to composure. “Sire.” He bowed his head, murmured a quiet my lord to Meliot, and then hurried away only to collide a few yards off with George. The tray of tankards George had been carrying bounced and spilled all over the flagstones, and after everyone in the vicinity finished cringing at the clangs and banging, a few people laughed and applauded the mess in good fun.

Arthur hiked an eyebrow. “I am starting to think it’s something about me that makes my personal servants prone to clumsiness.” He looked to Meliot. “You’re certain there’s nothing I should know?”

“It’s a delicate matter, sire,” Meliot rushed to assure him, his face plastered over with a congeniality that looked positively foreign on his normally scowling face. “These things are best handled in private. No use rousing the whole court with gossip.”

“Of course.” Arthur frowned at him. “Everyone is gathering for the start of the feast, if you would? I want to get my speech out of the way so that we don’t delay the start of the festivities. The people have earned a celebration this year.”

“Yes, sire.” Meliot’s face smoothed into a courtly smile. That is to say, it was false and obviously put on for the sake of keeping up appearances. It faded a moment later. “Are you well, sire?”

“Me?” Arthur scoffed out a laugh. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Meliot wagged his head for a moment, presumably in an effort to brush off any concern that might linger in Arthur’s mind.

Arthur nodded at this new agreeableness from one of his most unpleasant nobles. Halfway down the colonnade, George was saying something to the guard over the upended tray as they both mopped at the spilled mead and set tankards upright to be returned to the kitchens. Arthur shook himself and smiled at Meliot in the same manner that Meliot had just smiled at him. “Well, then.” He held an arm out to urge Meliot ahead of him toward the dais. “After you.”

Meliot hesitated, showed his teeth again in a poor attempt at friendliness, and headed toward the dais. Just as Arthur managed to dismiss his suspicion about that entire episode, George hurried up behind him. “Sire.”

With only half a mind for George rushing along to gain his attention, Arthur muttered, “What is it?”

“I need to tell you something.”

“I’m sure that you can handle whatever feast-related issue has come up.” Arthur signaled to a town crier as he passed to let him know that they would begin soon.

“Please, sire. This is important,” George objected as he tried to round Arthur to cut him off and make him stop.

Arthur flared his nostrils. “Your job is to handle the mundane things so that I don’t have to. I have every faith in you.”

George slowed as Arthur pulled away and skipped up the steps to the platform set up for him near the main castle entrance. As Arthur strode across the wooden deck, he glanced back quickly enough to catch a glimpse of Leundugrance grasping George by the shoulder, mouth flapping and eyes absently roving as he talked. Arthur rolled his eyes. At some point, George would have to figure out how to effectively handle the retired king himself, especially if Leon’s house servants couldn’t manage to keep him in their sights. Arthur rummaged at his waist for the scroll hanging there with his speech neatly printed out in Merlin’s hand, and noted that George now had assistance from Lord Howel as well. They made awkward bedfellows, the three of them, and Arthur snickered under his breath at the worried expressions on all of their faces.

Once he reached the center head of the dais, Arthur held his hand up for silence. The criers on their podiums called all to hail to the king in a chain of voices echoing each other out of earshot where the assemblage spilled past the courtyard gate and down the path into the lower town. The din of voices died down, faces turned in attention to Arthur. The remaining nobles straggling around in the courtyard hurried to put down premature goblets and plates, and fumbled about in a rush to take their places behind Arthur. This included Lord Howel steadying Leundugrance on the stairs and then herding him into the group with the rest of the knights and nobles. Curiously, George was pushing through the middle of the crowd, craning his neck as if searching for someone. Probably Leundugrance’s own manservant, Arthur figured. He could spare some pity for that, as the manservant was probably panicking somewhere at losing his charge in the middle of a throng, but it wasn’t Arthur’s problem at the moment.

“People of Camelot,” Arthur shouted. As the echo of his voice faded, so did the remaining din of conversation and movement in the courtyard. Almost every face turned up toward him, attentive. “This year, you have all truly earned your day of feasting. As many of you are likely already aware, this year’s harvest exceeded every hope and expectation. It is truly a blessed year for all of us!”

The crowd cheered, faces flushed pink with mirth and good fortune. The roar moved from the front of the crowd and down past the back like a wave rolling out into the lower town, borne forward by the repetitions of the criers as they passed the king’s words to the people.

“Which is why today, all of Camelot will share in the royal feast.”

This wasn’t new information, but Arthur hadn’t made it official yet. The cheers that greeted that exceeded the earlier round.

Arthur held up his hand again to allow him to speak. “And you all have Sir Lamorak and the men of the stable and hunting kennels to thank for the two-dozen roasted boar being added to the feast set up in the lower town for all of you!”

A handful of farmers and their families waved their hats and handkerchiefs in the air throughout the next round of celebration, and called out Sir Lamorak’s name in thanks. The boar could be destructive to crops and the farmsteads spread out around the main city, and they had been known to attack people as well. Eating them meant fewer pest animals making their lives difficult. And of course, seasoned just right by the royal kitchen staff, it was likely the best meat they’d have until yule. From his place behind Arthur, toward the edge of the small stage, Lamorak gave them all a gracious bow for their gratitude. The cheering swelled louder for a moment, and then trickled happily off again into expectant silence.

Arthur looked down at his speech, took a gentle breath, and the whole tone of the silence changed. “Samhain is a time of harvest. It is the reaping before the long sleep of winter. A time to hold our loved ones close, and reflect on the past year. It is a time of remembrance.” He raised his eyes to find the whole crowd riveted on him, as if they themselves could feel the complicated thing lodged in Arthur’s chest. “A year and two months past…”

Unexpectedly, Arthur’s breath stalled. He looked down at the beautiful eulogy that Merlin had written for him to give. The words blurred and then snapped violently back into focus as he sucked in a harsh breath. It wasn’t grief, though, that made him breathe like that. He didn’t know what it was. Arthur swallowed and gazed up again, into the crowd that now waxed sober. Arthur lowered the scroll and let it hang from both of the hands that he kept wrapped around the ends of the dowel. A light breeze stirred Arthur’s hair around the crown atop his head, heavy with the scent of fresh-cut wheat and the dying season. He dropped his eyes and his vision caught on random scrawls of words like honor and love and missed by all. But something about those words, lovely and sincere as they were, made Arthur feel as if Guinevere would have wanted something else of him in this moment. Something better. Something that vindicated her faith in him as a better man and a good king. Something right.

Arthur took a deep breath and a moment to suck his lips while he made sense of the direction of the thoughts in his head. “My servant – Merlin. He has written me a wonderful speech, as he always does. It says all of the things I would normally ask it to say, and far more eloquently than I could manage to say them myself.” Arthur turned the scroll over in his hands as he glanced down at it. “But it’s not…it’s not fitting to what you all deserve to hear. I know that I have not been much of a king since Guinevere’s loss, and perhaps not much of one before it either. I am ashamed that I let my grief push me in a direction that I once swore I would never go. I know what many have thought – what it looked like – how I responded to her loss, and to my father’s before her. There were days I looked in the mirror and thought that I saw him there in my face. Uther. His grief, and his retribution, threatened me like a wraith every morning from the glass.”

Several of the nobles arrayed around him on the dais shifted uneasily as they realized that he was going off script. Before Arthur could continue, Merlin edged into his periphery, trying to be unobtrusive in the way that only an elephant can be. “Sire?”

Arthur extended his hand out to motion Merlin back. “It’s alright,” he murmured. He offered the crowd a reassuring gesture as well, and raised his voice again. “A year and two months, I’ve had to mourn our queen. It is the first time I think I ever really understood my father’s grief.” He crunched the scroll of parchment in his hands as he shifted his feet and raised his voice. “And the first time I have been able to look at it with shame for what he wrought out of his own guilt and failure.”

“Sire.” Merlin kept his voice low and discrete. “Perhaps you would like one of the lords to take over?”

“No, Merlin.” Arthur pressed Merlin back again, hand firm against his chest, and then faced forward once more. He peered out into a sea of faces gradually shifting from celebratory or indulgent, into concern. Again, he looked down at the scroll that he worried between his hands. The crowd rustled in a nervously shifting wave like grains of sand tumbling in succession from the edge of a dried out seacastle. Arthur took too long considering his words, and the nobles behind him murmured wordlessly too. “I made a vow.” Arthur spoke mainly to the scroll in his hands.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered. He touched a finger to the tip of Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur looked up at him. “What are you doing?”

Definitively, Arthur pushed him back again, but he maintained eye contact as he did so this time. “Stay, Merlin. Let me do this.”

Merlin stumbled back into the group arrayed behind Arthur, and Caradoc took his arm to make sure he stayed put this time as Arthur commanded. Ronhael also stood nearby, and glanced at Merlin before angling himself to block another interruption as well. Arthur gave them both a deliberate look, and then eyed Gwaine and Howel a little further down. Leundugrance actually met his gaze with unusual gravity when it reached him, and nodded back. Off on Arthur’s other side, toward the edge of the assembled nobles, Meliot fidgeted as if he had some other purpose, but Marwen and Percival both stood there next to him, so Arthur dismissed him from his thoughts. Geoffrey twitched as if he meant to take up Merlin’s cause, but at Arthur’s sharp look, he backed down and acted as if he hadn’t started forward at all. Finally assured of no further interruption, Arthur faced forward again, his eyes downcast to gather his words.

“Samhain is a time of the old religion. A time of magic. That is what we never say, isn’t it?” Arthur raised his eyes and fixed them on a succession of random people in the crowd, who each paled in response as if being called out for treason in thought. “And yet like hypocrites, we celebrate it as if this kingdom still recalls the point of it. As if we haven’t sought to eradicate the practice it was meant for, and the people who honor those practices.” He swallowed and squared his shoulders as he faced the now stunned and nervous crowd. “I owe you an apology,” Arthur announced lowly. “I made a vow upon taking this throne, and I have not kept it.”

An agitated murmur crested in the courtyard and then fell again like the gentle swell of a wave dying against the shore.

When Arthur realized that the lack of an echo meant his words had not been relayed beyond this one small group, Arthur angled himself toward the nearest crier and commanded, “Repeat it! Spread my words.”

The crier stared at him for a moment more, eyes unblinking, and then he turned in jerky movements to face the next crier, raised his shaking voice to pass on Arthur’s last statements.

Satisfied with the relay that he could once again hear travelling out into the lower town, Arthur faced the deathly still people in the courtyard and recited his coronation vows from memory. “I solemnly promise and swear to govern the Peoples of Camelot according to their respective laws and customs. I will, to my power, cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all my judgments.” Arthur deflated, unaware until that moment that he had straightened in his recitation just as he had the first time around. “I have not done that for all of the peoples of Camelot. I have not kept my word as your king.”

Behind him, Merlin hissed, “Arthur!” in a manner that betrayed some pale, frantic brand of panic. Arthur ignored him.

“I have continued a persecution laid down by my father, unjustly and without mercy. I have denigrated and vilified the customs of one of the oldest peoples of this kingdom, who lived and existed in these lands since long before my father or his father came here to rule. I have allowed the pervasive grief and guilty conscience of a dead man to divide us. To make us weak. To make us vulnerable. Camelot cannot be strong so long as a portion of its people are hunted and cast out, and made to suffer because of our fear.” He drew a breath to continue speaking with the force of his previous statements, but in spite of himself, the words diminished into a shamed confession. “Because of my fear. My weakness and refusal to confront the strife that I have helped inflict.” He cleared his throat and blinked back the cloud of moisture in his vision. “I accepted this crown.” Arthur touched the gilt metal that rested in his hair. “But I only paid lip service to what it means. In truth, even as I claimed to rule by my own conscience, it was my father…or his ghost, maybe, that I have been trying to placate. But the excuse of his legacy has grown tired. I have let fear and uncertainty lead me down the familiar path that my father tread because it was easier than testing my own convictions. But they have been tested. And I can no longer ignore what I see. Or the vision of the king that I once thought I would be as it threatens to become little more than dust before my eyes.” Arthur pursed his lips and glanced down briefly at the cobbled stones where he had once placed a lit torch, with his father’s help, to a pyre for the first time. The first of many. He looked up. “I cannot undo all of the wrongs I have committed, and I cannot make up for the sins of my father. But I can move forward and try to do better. I want to rule the way this kingdom deserves. For all of its peoples.”

Arthur fought to fill his lungs past the constriction that adrenaline squeezed around his chest as if he stood at the brink of a battlefield. He glanced back to find Merlin’s eyes round and riveted on him, and then let his gaze strafe a mixture of other faces on the dais that ranged from confused to supportive, to fearful and angry. As he turned back to confront the upturned faces of his people, Arthur thought, just for a moment, that he could see Morgana in the window of her room above the courtyard. And beside her, Guinevere, poised overlooking the king as they had done so many times before, lifetimes ago when they were all young and had not yet learned to give up hope for a better world.

“Most of us standing here today are too young to recall a time when magic was practiced freely. Yes, there were evils done by magic, but there was also good – good that we have lost. I don’t expect this to be easy for anyone. I don’t even expect all to welcome it. Magic is terrifying, and beyond many of our ken. But it is the lifeblood of this land, and the birthright of its peoples, and we cannot afford to let our fear and lack of understanding continue to make us unnecessary enemies through our cruelty within our own walls.”

A man in the front rows of the crowd, off to Arthur’s left, sank down and struck his knees hard on the pavement while his family clung to his shoulders. All of them appeared petrified by the hope that shone on their faces. But other people shifted to betray their uncertainty, casting distrustful looks at those around them.

Arthur couldn’t look long at any of them. The conflict right there – the horror of an olive branch, and the sneer of suspicion – was too much to contemplate just then. So Arthur forced air into his lungs instead, and continued. “What many of you don’t know is that even as we shunned and despised magic, magic never turned its back on us. If we are honest with ourselves, then we must recognize that too many times, we have been assailed by magic that defies mortal weapons, and yet lived. Swords forged by men cannot slay the beasts that have come after us, and yet they are destroyed. Determination and bravery, no matter how laudable, cannot fell an army raised by a sorceress, and yet the armies all fell. Even I don’t know the full tally of deeds done by magic to save us within my own lifetime, selflessly and without expectation of gratitude. Magic protected us, and watched over us to soften or deflect the blows of our enemies even as we cursed it. We should be ashamed for our undeserved judgement. I am ashamed. Magic owed us nothing, and yet it is magic that spared us. Not for gain or for praise, but for the simple belief that to save people is right. I watched a sorcerer rescue our hunting party just two nights ago from a hoard of Saxons, and then turn to accept execution by my hand for his service. Knowing the price of his good deed, that his reward could be nothing other than death by our swords, that sorcerer still saved us. Is that truly the Camelot we want to live in? Where men and women are murdered by us as thanks for their grace? Because that is not the Camelot that I want to rule. Not anymore. That is not Just. That is not Merciful.”

Near the center of the crowd, Arthur noticed Letha standing with her spine straight and true while others around her shrank and looked about as if for a threat. Beside her, linked by the arm, stood Elise – Elise who would have died for her devotion to her family, but for the intervention of magic. Magic that Arthur’s laws and Merlin’s fear of them nearly denied her.

“The hand of grief and loss turned us against magic. We made magic folk our enemy; they did not make us theirs. It is not a war, but a campaign of murder and persecution that we have fought for thirty years now, neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend…brother against sister. It is an injustice perpetrated on the lie that magic is what killed a man’s wife, when in truth, it was that man’s own pride and foolishness which did that. And rather than place his blame where it belonged, my father chose to enact a purge of innocents to sate his guilt over the fruits of his own selfishness. And we can afford to carry on without question no longer.”

Arthur wasn’t sure if his voice would hold up under the flood of air he couldn’t seem to hold in his chest. He breathed, and breathed again. He thought of the past year and more, and instead of recalling the tragedies and betrayals of magic that he had replayed hundreds of times before in his mind, he found himself fixated now on the unescapable potential he had seen. A dying girl restored to the arms of her mother. An autumn glade filled with spring fruit. Over a dozen knights freely choosing to defend and protect the sorcerer who dared to protect them. Servants covering for magic in the knowledge that it was good, and necessary. A pale blue orb holding back the dark so that Arthur could find his way back out from the depths of the earth. A vengeful dragon turned away. A magical sword forged in fire not so much for magic’s sake, but to bolster the confidence of a prince who lost faith in himself. A man, resigned to stolen hope and a bitter fate, steadfastly protecting his king with no expectation of thanks, out of misplaced love. A shrouded apple tree growing hidden in the dark, without sustenance, bare-rooted against stone and starved of sunlight, for Arthur. What is your choice, Arthur Pendragon?

“Magic is a tool. Just as rope can be used to hang a man, so can it be used to help a man climb to safety. Just as a sword may slay a child, so can it defend a home. My father is dead. It is long past time his purge died with him.”

Arthur watched peoples’ faces change in the crowd below him, some contorting in fear or contempt, but countless others twisted with that pale thing that had distorted Merlin’s so many times over the years: a terrible longing in men and women beaten so far down that it hurt to think that they might be teased with the thing they yearned for. It came in tears and denial and anger, and pain for the loss of ones who didn’t survive to see the day. It was ugly, that they couldn’t credit his words, not entirely. It looked like breaking and it smelled like old smoke and storms, oiled wood on pyres radiating the orange-blue heat of the undeserving dead. And it was, at the last, hopeful. Still so fervently, treacherously hopeful. After so many hurts and betrayals, the wronged and downtrodden continued to bear that hope so bitterly and with such desperation that it could only be called grotesque. Like a crumpled man begging Arthur from the floor at his feet not to burn him. Grotesque. That was the word for what Arthur had helped do to them all, each and every one.

“I hereby lift the ban on the practice of magic.”

Arthur’s words shattered over the crowd like a physical force, and struck several men and women back a step, or to their knees.

“From this day forth, let all people be judged on what they do, rather than on how they do it.”

The man who had first collapsed to the pavement now wailed and folded over to press his brow to the cobblestones as if the ground weren’t covered in the filth tracked over it by hundreds of feet and horses. His family drew close around him, their faces still riveted on Arthur.

“If a man kills by way of magic, then the crime shall be murder, not sorcery.”

Somewhere at the fringe of the gathering, a woman cried out in something that could have been agony or joy, or both.

“If a boy steals by way of magic, then the crime shall be theft, not sorcery.”

There were people sobbing now, but also angry grumbling interspersed within.

“If a woman enchants another to her will by way of magic, then the crime shall be assault and coercion, not sorcery.”

The prostrate man on the ground called out hoarsely for the gods to bless Arthur, his king. A few people nearby wailed in agreement.

“And if a man shall heal the injured or sick by way of magic…then that is not a crime.”

A cry of treachery reached Arthur’s ears, but it was faint, and a surge of the crowd betrayed them silencing the caller.

“If a woman blesses her crops and ends blight by way of magic, then that is not a crime.”

The crowd milled and churned about itself for a moment in a surge of indeterminate sound.

“And if a man, through magic, sees it in his heart to save us from our own ruin, knowing that we, in our blindness, would hate him for our salvation…” Arthur didn’t dare look over his shoulder where said man stood in conspicuous silence. “…then that man is not a criminal. He is a hero. And he deserves our lasting regard.”

Faint like an echo, the words that Arthur delivered sounded out down the line of criers, and an odd roar of sound lifted up from beyond the gate in the lower town. By contrast, the crowd in the courtyard had fallen silent. It was eerie, the complete hush of the people in his presence. And then rising like the morning bells on the dawn wind, Letha, calling out in a trembling voice, as loudly as she seemed able, “Hail, King Arthur! Long live the king!”

Another voice took up the call. “Hail, King Arthur!” It was a man near the center of the crowd, surrounded by stunned faces. “Long live the king!”

More voices followed in a growing surge as people broke from their paralysis. “Long live King Arthur!”

“Long live the king!”

“King Arthur!”

“Hail, King Arthur!”

“Long live the king!”

It resolved into a chant, shouts and cries in unison, and though there were holdouts wearing complicated expressions, most of the crowd joined in the calls, hands raised in celebration. The man who had first fallen to his knees, still prostrate on the ground, hailed with the force of his whole body, his voice drowned out by the collective cries and his own obvious emotions as they overcame him.

The sound behind Arthur took some time to follow, but Gwaine’s voice broke first, loud in Arthur’s ears, and others trailed him, adding to the cacophony of long live the king. The crowd below boiled within the confines of the courtyard walls as the shouts rang out, dissolving into myriad voices all calling out over each other for prominence. Many faces wore reluctance like a shield, but they seemed to know that they were outnumbered here, and most of the fear gave way like a wooden field wall under a cavalry assault. Arthur fought past the tightness of his chest and the rabbit-beat of his heart to breathe in the close air. He took a step back from it only because even with all of his hope and his precarious conviction, he hadn’t thought for a moment that it would be like this when he finally gave in to what he knew, in his heart, was right. Men took off their hats and antlered holiday headdresses to wave them in the air. Women threw the flowers from their hair to pepper the sky with chrysanthemum. But many others simply sank to the ground where they stood, overcome either from their shock or their fear, or perhaps neither of those things. It was these quietly weeping figures, helplessly wadded up on the ground at others’ feet, that struck Arthur the hardest.

Arthur wasn’t sure if he was smiling, or if his mouth were doing something else, possibly betraying a pale kind of numb terror at the magnitude of what he had just proclaimed. He felt frozen, as if the moment were suspended in time. The roar of the crowd washed over him in a dull swell like shouting underwater, until he could hear little more than a background din past the drumbeat of his own heart rushing in the blood through his ears. You don’t have to worry. Arthur blinked and tried to draw a breath that felt as if it came through a mouth overflowing with honey. Or silt. You don’t have to worry. He heard the cries below him turn shrill with alarm and tried to identify the cause as if peering through silvered glass. The crowd roiled and pulled apart, spun sugar in a barrel. For a moment, Arthur swore that Guinevere stood in the midst of it, an island in a sea of turmoil, hands outstretched in mute warning. You don’t have to worry.

“For Camelot!”

The moment shattered and Arthur staggered forward at the impact of a body against his shoulder. He caught at Merlin to stop him falling off the edge of the dais without even thinking, and found himself caught in a staring contest with Meliot, who stood too close over Merlin's shoulder.

Meliot’s face contorted with something that tried to be fury but couldn’t break past terrified. “Long live King Arthur!”

Merlin didn’t even acknowledge Meliot. He was too busy staring at Arthur, his eyes huge. “You…”

From Arthur’s other side, a furious shriek eclipsed whatever else Merlin might have tried to say, and a shining blur of chainmail shot past Arthur to careen into Meliot. Gwaine didn’t slow at all, and his momentum bore them both over the side of the dais. Meliot landed hard on his back with Gwaine on top, and the now screaming crowd fought against itself to back away. A stream of people already poured toward the gates to get out into the lower town, and it took Arthur far too long to identify the abrupt shift from celebration to panic. On the ground below, Gwaine slammed his fist into Meliot’s face, words twisting into an indecipherable howl matched only by his rage as he struck again and again until Caradoc and a guard leapt down to pull him off.

Arthur panted in shock and looked up, back at Merlin standing improbably still before him. He hadn’t moved – he didn’t even seem to register the chaos around them as the people ran and a group of knights tried to surround them with their swords pointed out against the threat of attack. On the ground below, Percival finally wrestled Gwaine into a headlock, and Lamorak held Meliot against the ground, likely in an effort to both restrain him and stop him aggravating his injuries. At the periphery of that circle of people stood the guard who had been speaking with Meliot earlier, covering his mouth and staring up in horror to where Arthur stood. The guard that Arthur now recognized as the one who had overheard him in the corridor with Merlin on the night of Merlin’s celebratory dinner.

“No…” Arthur still had his hands on Merlin, one clutching his forearm and the other braced under, against the soft itchy place at the edge of the bone.

“Arthur.” Merlin’s voice came out winded, his eyes too bright.

Arthur looked down at the hand braced against Merlin’s back and pulled it away to reveal the hot, sticky sight of the fresh blood that he could feel pulsing against his fingers. “No.”

“You did it. You – you did it.” It seemed to be all he was capable of getting out through the shock and awe on his face.

“Someone help!” Arthur could see the dagger on the wooden planks near Merlin’s feet – the filigree of the hilt he’d seen sketched in pencil just that morning in Geoffrey’s inventory book – the magical one missing from the vaults. There was blood all over it. An enchanted blade fit to kill creatures of magic. “Help!” He pressed his hand into the vulnerable spot at the base of Merlin’s shoulder blade where even in armor, there would be a gap in the plate where a blade might slip through to pierce a lung from behind. “Merlin…”

Merlin coughed wetly and craned his neck as if he could see Arthur’s hand on his back. He seemed to lose his breath as he wavered on his feet, his upper body slumping against Arthur as he gasped and pressed thin fingers to his chest in a gesture now sickeningly familiar, rubbing over his heart. His next exhalation spattered slick and red against the bright shine of Arthur’s armored breastplate.

“Help! Get help! Somebody!” Arthur tried to slow Merlin’s collapse and suffered the impact himself in an effort to cushion Merlin’s fall. “Someone get a healer!”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin slurred against Arthur’s chest as he crumpled. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things…in the wheat field…I was wrong. I was wrong.” He could have been ecstatic to judge by the quality of his voice, or it could have just been the lack of breath and shock from being stabbed in the back.

Arthur heard his own incredulity warbling out frantic from his chest like a bird held down in a bucket of water, unable to turn itself into a fish just to keep from drowning. “Don’t speak – you’ll be fine. You have to be fine – SOMEONE HELP!” Arthur’s voice cracked and broke off sheer like an ice sheet as he heaved air into his lungs and cried out a desperate, “Please.”

“What does it feel like, Arthur Pendragon?”

Arthur lifted his gaze from the man in his arms but he couldn’t focus for the flood of salt in his vision. “What?” He shook his head and looked down to find Merlin watching him with the besotted smile of an idiot, eyes like shards of blue crystal surrounding a pinprick pupil. His fingers tapped a staccato rhythm against Arthur’s chest before catching at the laces and hanging there. The blood pulsed too fast through the tight clutch of Arthur’s fingers. “Please.” Arthur leaned forward and tried to focus enough to recognize the face before him, old and wizened with the contempt of a disappointed old woman twisting the gash of her mouth. “Wynn.”

“Does it hurt?”

“You have magic,” Arthur breathed, frantic. He clutched at Merlin’s body as the tension bled from his frame along with his life. “Please. Please, help him. Please. He’s like a brother to me. I’ll give you anything.”

“I had a brother once too,” Wynn sneered. “He had magic, just like your Merlin. And I cried just as you are for someone to help him. You lit that pyre yourself as I wept. And you dare ask me to help you now?”

“The fault is mine,” Arthur pleaded. “If you want to punish someone, punish me.”

“This is punishing you!” Wynn stepped closer, until she eclipsed anything else happening in the courtyard around them. “There is no pain worse than this, Arthur Pendragon, and I want you to feel it. As I felt it. As so many others felt it while you turned away.”

Arthur choked on his denial as Merlin’s fingers slipped away from his collar and fell with a sharp thud to the bloodstained wooden boards beneath his body. “He’s done nothing to you.”

“Nothing?” Wynn scoffed. “Yes. Exactly as my brother did to you. That is the justice you asked for.”

Arthur choked on a wretched sob and shut his eyes as he bowed his head over Merlin’s. “No…” he moaned. All of his sins. All of his sins come home to roost. Not his father’s. Not Uther’s. Arthur’s wrongs. The pains Arthur caused. “Oh, god.” He had shunned and vilified and degraded magic all of his life, even when he knew better. And now look. Look at what his moral failings brought.

“Now you know how we felt. Now you understand. Don’t you, Arthur Pendragon.”

“I’m sorry. Oh god, I’m sorry.” Arthur couldn’t feel breath in the body in his arms anymore, and when he held his vambrace in front of Merlin’s face, nothing clouded the bright shine of the metal. “Merlin…” He shut his eyes at the sight of the smile still painting Merlin’s lips, happy lines caught in the crinkles of sightless eyes that remained trained in Arthur’s direction. This was the price of the evil that Arthur helped inflict. This was his penance: a good man dead. A man he loved. A man who believed in the best part of him, and finally died for it. But not for Arthur. Because of him.

Wynn stepped up to the edge of the dais and Arthur bowed his head for whatever blow she wished to inflict. It couldn’t have been worse than what he’d already done himself. But it didn’t come. She extended her hand and pressed it against the blood-sodden fabric covering Merlin’s frightfully still shoulder blade. “Tídrénas.”

The sudden expansion of Merlin’s chest startled Arthur upright. Merlin coughed up a thick bubble of dark, drying blood, his body twitching hard a few times in an effort to expel the death knell. After a dozen such gurgling breaths, his respiration evened into a slow but steady slough of air. Arthur watched his eyes shine bright for a moment before fluttering closed as he lost consciousness, sprawled limp in Arthur’s arms. But that horrifying stillness, like clay, was gone. Arthur inhaled too many times, too sharply, as he dared to touch a bristly cheek, motile with renewed life. Barely a whisper, Arthur breathed, “Merlin.” Then he looked up, bewildered even as the depth of his gratitude threatened to swamp whatever composure he had left. “…why?”

Wynn regarded him for a long moment in silence, and gone was that ugliness that had first painted her features. In fact, she seemed more poised and possessed of her wits in that moment than Arthur might have expected, after their last encounter. Finally, something in her face gave way, like the sky after a storm, even if the severity remained. “Because my brother was a better person than I am, and I made him a promise: a life no longer my own to live. And however much I despise you, I’ll be damned before I let my hatred create another Uther out of you.” She relented, and the sharp angle of her body swayed with age and the weight of a hard life. “You held your hand out in peace today. Someone has to be the first to take it.”

Arthur felt faint as the blood drained from his face and his lungs faltered. “That was life magic. He was dead, and that was…”

“Yes,” Wynn nodded. She backed up a step. “My life has been long, and not the one I should have had. But I think… I think, perhaps, that I don’t regret it after all. You are not the same man who put fire to my brother. Not anymore, if you ever actually were. And that may be worth the sacrifice to finally see.”

Unnoticed until then, the madam from the brothel rushed across the courtyard from a side door and up behind Wynn to steady her as she staggered on her feet. A young girl, barely old enough for such trade, hurried along in her wake to catch Wynn’s other arm. Their holiday clothes were dirty and rumpled from the earlier stampede, and tears streaked their faces, leaving tracks through the colorful paint around their eyes. Broken chains of flowers hung limp and crushed about their necks. And off to one side stood George, out of breath and bent with his hands on his knees. Dust and mud painted his trousers and he looked more disheveled than Arthur thought possible for a man so poised, as if he had scrambled and run unheeding to get somewhere. No, to get here, Arthur realized. To get Wynn here in time.

Arthur’s mind stuttered to a halt as he realized whose life she had traded. He didn’t think that the other women had yet reached the same conclusion. “Wait!” Arthur called, his voice grating against the back of his own throat. “Wait, please. Your brother. Who was he? You must tell me his name.”

Wynn went still while the other two women fluttered on either side of her, clearly at a loss as to how they could help. Arthur watched her smile, a private thing kept between herself and whatever memory crossed her mind in that moment. Finally, she looked up, and the gentleness of youth, of innocence, seemed to rise to the surface of her face just long enough to color her cheeks with the illusion that time had, perhaps, not passed for her after all. “Merlin,” she told him. “His name was Merlin.”

Arthur’s chest spasmed, and it felt as if his sternum cracked with the flood of comprehension. He watched Wynn – the Lady Gwendydd – Hunith’s mother – close her eyes and fall, poorly supported by the madam and the young maid as the gift she gave her grandson came to fruition. She didn’t move again, and even at a distance, Arthur could see death steal grey over the lines of her face as the women holding her let out cries and denials of unexpected grief. The smattering of guards and knights still standing witness to the scene looked around at each other, trying to see who understood what had just happened, and could explain to the rest of them. Among them stood Leundugrance, a hayfork in his gnarled hand, and Lord Howel with a proper sword, their faces pale and sad. On the ground beyond them, Meliot lay gasping, repeating over and over as Lamorak held him still, “I thought I was saving him. I thought I was saving him. I thought I was saving him…” …from the secret sorcerer at Arthur’s side.

It was too much. Too much. Arthur let his composure crumble at the impossible and intricate magnitude of all of this. He could feel his muscles quake and vibrate from the culmination of adrenaline and horror, and unexpected relief as he looked down. Shaking as if from palsy, Arthur touched the pads of his fingers to a prickly cheek stained with flecks of drying lifeblood. There was blood everywhere, actually – drying tacky on the wooden boards of the dais, coloring Merlin’s fancy new clothes black and stiff, smeared all over Arthur’s chainmail and cloak, darkening to rusted stains beneath the beds of Arthur’s fingernails. He could even taste it on his lips where he must have pressed them at some point to Merlin’s face or neck or hands as he huddled over him, believing him forever dead.

There were people talking around them in hushed tones, moving about to secure the scene, but Arthur hardly noticed any of them. Nor did he care just then. So many stresses had snapped at once that Arthur felt wrung out and deaf within his own mind. All he could do in that moment, the only thing his strangled heart and mind could manage, was to clutch Merlin to his chest like a rag doll and count the fog of his breath as it clouded the metal of Arthur’s vambrace over and over and over…

 

~fin~

 

 

[Part two coming soon]

Notes:

Off-screen major character deaths: Mordred (because Arthur accepted the Disir's demands, and they rewarded him by letting his would-be killer die), and Guinevere (because Mordred was dead and didn't follow them to the cauldron of Arianrhod, and no one came to help Arthur and Merlin). Illness: epilepsy, by old timey-names and with old-timey kinds of attitudes towards it. Merlin has been hit over the head so many times, knocked unconscious, and gets barely any treatment for any of it. Eventually, it has to have some kind of cumulative effect. S5 was especially bad for it. The head wound in Another's Sorrow was may have been in part magical, but it was physically serious too - he wasn't waking up and Gaius needed to use magic on him to help him recover, and he ran right off afterwards without any recovery time. Then the The Hollow Queen, being poisoned with black sludge, pushed off a cliff, there was blood in his hair from another head wound, and the herbal tincture caused a seizure (it seems, or it was just an untimely thing caused by the poison or the head wound, or hell, all of the above combined). Then falling off the path to the Cauldron of Arianrhod, with Arthur kicking at him but he didn't wake up, was just the last straw. IMHO.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of The Hands of a Hundred Winters