Chapter Text
Arthur settles into his chair with a sigh of weariness, head pounding in his skull. Wordlessly, Merlin brings him his wine, and he takes a sip with a grateful nod. The manservant gives him a soft, affectionate smile, one of the ones that made Arthur feel like he’s done something to be proud of, and continues with his work.
He studies the flames before him and tries to reassure himself. The day had been long, the councilors screaming in his ears for the deal he made with the druids, for the marks even now being carved into the stone of the city walls. He’d listened while they flapped their mouths in squawks of tradition and safety and duty. Then they’d begun to speak of Uther’s ways, and he’d slammed his fist to the table. That had, at last, quieted them, when they saw the familiar set of rage twisted into his impassive features.
But he had to, he had to, whatever they said of his father and whatever shame he felt in so marring his legacy. The deaths could not continue. Magic was not so rare as the nobility wanted to believe. At least a third of Camelot’s population were sorcerers, or had the capability to become so, an absurd number for a kingdom that steadily lost such kinds to execution and magical attacks. It was as though magic was being called here, centered in his kingdom, and he could not fight it any longer.
The Disir had given him a choice, and he stood by his answer. He’d gone in alone before them and left with a new vow.
Magic would be free, and Arthur would honor its gods.
He’d taken to spending a few hours in the morning learning of it. Knight Mordred was an apt teacher, healed of his illness and eager to speak of everything he’d kept hidden in his heart. It had shamed Arthur, somewhat, to see how much had been missing in their relationship, how much of himself the young man hid in his desire to better serve.
Merlin putters about, turning down his sheets, “Will that be all, Sire?”
“Yes, you are dismissed.”
The manservant bows and leaves swiftly, tucking a basket of laundry under his arm and letting the door latch softly so as not to startle him. Arthur knew he would be up for hours yet, sewing and washing and polishing, but the king did not feel much pity. His own nights had grown longer as he’d continued to wrestle with his decision, turning it back, changing his mind, and then resettling it again down the only clear course he could see. There had been no other way. Not for his people, and not for his peace.
He takes a slow breath and sets his wine aside, easing himself from his chair to kneel before the fire.
Mordred had revealed his religion haltingly, reluctance slowly giving way to wonder as he spoke of the rituals and festivities his people had designed to honor their deity’s. At first, Arthur had been interested only in the actions of it, of what would be asked of him and what he must do to serve these ancient gods of the Isle. He’d thought to treat it as a lesson, or a sum. Put the proper amount in and reap out the response, but the druid knight had cautioned him otherwise. These gods, he warned, were not so different from men. They did not appreciate being patronized, and they would accept only earnest, heartfelt devotion.
The king stares into the flames, feeling the heat settle over him. He didn’t know if he had enough of a heart to give. He didn’t know if these gods deserved it. Nor did he know if the gods found him deserving of their mercy, if they had hearts they could offer to a man as plain and simple as him. Arthur was no great mind. He had no clever tongue as his sister or brilliance of strategy as Leon, but he had striven to be true in all things in his life. It was all he could do, and it was this that held him back, for he could not be true to gods he did not trust.
He takes a breath and settles his wandering mind, thinking back down the chants Mordred had taught him. He recites them under his breath, somehow self-conscious even here in his own bedchamber. He speaks first to the triple goddess, reciting her names, acknowledging her power, and surrendering his control of himself to her will. This was the easiest of them. Of them all, the goddess was least human.
Then he pauses to pray to the one’s he knows. Mordred had gone pale when he’d heard of his encounter with Anhora, guardian of the wild earth and living force, and paler still when he’d admitted to white-haired Morgause of war and sacrifice hovering her judgement at his neck before calling forth the shade of his mother. It seemed the gods had been walking in his life for a long time, shifting his choices from his hands. To the Cailleach, he does not pray. Mordred said no man prayed to death with truth in his heart, and so a silence would always be kept between them.
He recites their names and honors like a child’s primary before turning to the last. This one Mordred quailed to speak of, fearing him above even the mistress of the veil.
Emrys.
God of Magic.
His father had warred against the high one, slaughtering his followers, desecrating his temples and blaspheming his name. The druid had kept his eyes down as he murmured his warning. Arthur was the blood of Uther, and blood meant a great deal to gods. If he wished to find peace with Emrys, he should never pray from a position higher than his knees.
It rankled his pride. He was ashamed it did so, but he could not fight it. He saw again in his mind all those who had come to take his life from him, to kill him with their power and hurt those he loved, the sorcerers who wanted only to grind Camelot beneath their heels.
When he’d said that, Mordred had gaped at him, then knelt before the king and begged him to never say as much to the god, lest wrath be brought down on them all.
So Arthur, king of men, bowed his head and mumbled through his prayers, eyes trained steadily on the dancing flames.
---
Merlin muttered to himself as he walked, unaware he was doing so. The servants and guards he passed smiled indulgently, aware the usually cheerful manservant was somewhat oblivious at this hour and caught up in his rantings of the injustices of the day, mucking stables and the like.
He’d finished cleaning the king’s clothes and was making his way up the tower to the physician’s ward where he still insisted on sleeping. He should sleep in Arthur’s antechamber, but the prat would be too quick to catch him sneaking out, so he stubbornly remained with his uncle. He also refused to let anyone else wash Arthur’s clothes, or test his meals, or clean his weapons. Too many close calls had been pressed into Arthur’s capes, slipped into his soups, and scratched under his breastplate for Merlin to trust any hands but his own. He was fortunate his reputation for tenacity and efficiency allowed him to keep up the ruse of handling such a heavy workload without the assistance of other, easier methods -namely magic.
He pushed open the workroom door with his shoulder, yawning and cutting off abruptly at the sight before him. Gaius is standing at his table, speaking to a young man with dark hair settled at the hearth, their conversation stuttering to an end as he enters.
“Mordred.” He says calmly. Or coldly. Darkly, perhaps. His voice did strange betrayals when he spoke to the youth, refusing to hide what he cleverly kept from most.
The knight flushes, scampering to his feet with stammering apologies for a wrong he had not technically committed, “I’m sorry- I was just- I wasn’t- I’m sorry- I’ll go- I just-“ he pauses and forces his mouth to slow, nodding stiffly to the physician, “Thank you for the advice on flowers, Gaius.”
Merlin narrows his eyes as the boy moves past him, the other lowering his gaze as he always did, refusing to meet his glare. He edges out of the room and nearly runs down the steps.
Merlin pulls the door shut firmly, sour mood bleeding into his tone, “What did he want?”
Gaius huffs, grinding his pestle in guilty rhythm, “He had flowers to buy for a girl in the market and wanted to make a message of them. He thought I might have some knowledge to aid him.”
The manservant grumbles under his breath, the headache at his temples returning as it had for weeks now. It came near always in the evenings, and no tonic Gaius offered made any difference. They’d weakly decided on stress as the cause, and though he knew his uncle wanted him to delegate some of his duties elsewhere, he couldn’t afford to. He resigned himself to the pain, as he did to all pain he bore for Arthur’s sake.
He settles down at a table, gnawing at the cold leftovers of dinner and letting his magic mend and sort, stretching it in the little ways it can. Gaius had long given up insisting he keep it wrapped even in the high tower, especially when Merlin proved he could name each man that set foot on the first step from his bedroom.
He cleans the workroom without thinking, scrubbing pots and sweeping spilled seeds, lifting streams of spices back into their places and dusting the shelves, polishing the window to a shine. He yawns, muttering to his uncle of his day and hearing stories of the lower town in turn, the soothing voice of his family slowly lulling him downward and deep until he found himself in that strange, drifting place between dreams that so often came to him when he could catch a moment to rest. An awareness and a detachment he could not catch consciously sending part of his mind out over the skies of the Isle and ruffling the feathers of hawks on high winds.
He starts upward. Gaius is asleep, the old man snoring on his cot, likely for hours now. He groans softly, easing the ache in his neck and stretching his stiff limbs where they’d hardened in their awkward bend under the table. Shaking himself, he pushes to his feet and stumbles not to the door of his room, but the tower stairs.
Arthur had called him.
---
The king was not asleep. His mind had drifted after his prayers, and he’d caught himself in a spiral of fear and misery. He’d agonized through the wrongs in his history, old memories drawn up before him in cruel detail, images of blood and small hands and screaming split mouths. Sweat poured down his skin as the waking dream held him, a small penance for the crimes of his ancestors, those men who had come from far lands and sought to tame the earth it did not own. He saw the long-timbered boats and the hard-eyed men he echoed, saw their cruel iron weapons and the ancient copper torcs on their throats. He trembled and felt the pain of his grandfather’s conquests, of his father’s pyres.
It took him time to realize he could not free himself from the memories, longer still to know some spirit was holding him so, perhaps one of the gods he’d been asking to serve. His mouth moved silently for help, no knights or servants or friends to save him. He gasps out a new name, and the scratched cry of Emrys! breaks from his tongue and cuts as sunlight into the haze of his mind.
He sags forward onto his hands, panting, shirt soaked through. He nearly cries, then, at the fear, at the loss of control he valued so highly, and he shudders in his spine and shoulders as the minutes pass, trying to stabilize without knowing what center to search for.
His door opens, a familiar voice hitting the night air in clear exasperation, “Sire?”
He’s wrenched into motion, turning and half-falling to the side on his woven rug, staring at his manservant before snapping into a glare, demanding, “What are you doing here?”
Merlin kicks the door shut without reverence, rolling his eyes, “You tell me. You called-” He stops, taking in Arthur’s appearance, sucking in a sharp breath at his sweat-soaked shirt and limp hair, “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Before he can insist the man leave, Merlin has hurried to his side, checking worriedly at his temperature and bringing him cool water, pressing it to his lips before flitting to the wardrobe. He returns, cooing like a bird as he nudges and cajoles his bewildered king into his nightclothes, hands surprisingly strong where they offer support.
Arthur finds himself eased onto his bed, Merlin kneeling at his feet as deft fingers pry at his laces, his voice a soothing roll of faint country accent and courtly vowels, “Arthur, please, what happened? Are you ill?”
The king wants to roll his eyes and scoff, but he’s too shaken. He stares at the dark curls below him, “I’m fine. It’s the middle of the night, Merlin.”
The manservant gives him a look of such impatience it would have any other man sent to the stocks. For Merlin, it was rather typical. “Yes, sire, I am aware. Some of us actually need to sleep, you know.”
Arthur scowls, “That was my point. Why are you here?”
Merlin finished tucking his boots away, turning to him in confusion as he comes back to lift away the blankets, “You called for me, sire.”
“I didn’t.” he argues stubbornly, refusing to move.
Merlin huffs and yanks pointedly until the king stands, “Yes, you did. I’d fallen asleep at the worktable with the burn patch on the end -you know the one- happily asleep in some far dream of skies when you shouted my name.”
Arthur gets in bed slowly, pulling up the blankets as Merlin snuffs candles, bringing him fresh water to set at his side table, “Merlin…how could you have heard me from Gaius’ tower?”
The manservant opens his mouth to respond before realization seems to smack into him and annoyance is wiped over by confusion. “Huh.”
The king sighs, running a hand over his face and thinking at least the timing was well. He’d have been trapped at his fire till morning if Merlin hadn’t chosen this moment to be a fool, “Never mind, I’m too tired for this. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“And hopefully not before.” His manservant rejoins, then blows out the last candle and heads for the door, calling back gently “Get some sleep, my king.”
---
The morning is a rushed flurry of activity that leaves no time for either man to consider the events of the prior hours. Arthur had a council meeting before noon, and he spent his breakfast pouring over the documents he would be presenting and judging at the session. He took care to cover them when Merlin shuffled close under the pretext of filling his cup or clearing his plate, scowling when Arthur finally ordered him to stand in the far corner until he was done. He knew Merlin usually read through his papers, but these were pertaining to the new laws, and he wasn’t ready to have that conversation with his manservant yet. Certainly not so early in the day.
Arthur feels Merlin’s glare on him as he scans the last paragraphs and allows himself a small smile at the man’s moody huffs, arms folded in a tight knot of irritation. He’d endlessly protested being excluded from this recent series of councils, used to being behind the king’s chair and free to mutter disparaging comments. Arthur would never admit it, but he did miss the snarking wit that left him muffling a laugh into his sleeve whenever an old man with particularly loquacious speech patterns stood to address the court.
It was just…he couldn’t tell Merlin he was bringing magic back to Camelot. Magic that had wreaked such horrors in the young man’s life, from a dragon to the dorocha. Arthur knew he was terrified of magic -he could never speak of it without his pitch shaking- and he also knew that only his loyalty to first his prince and now his king overpowered his terror. He wanted to tell him what was happening, to explain himself, but he didn’t want to watch the fear touch the man’s eyes. More than that…he didn’t want him to leave.
And, if he was being truly honest, deep within himself, Arthur was afraid he was making the wrong decision, and Merlin, ever clear-sighted, would talk him out of it. Arthur wasn’t sure he could face undoing his choice.
He shoves the last of his roll into his mouth and folds his papers, pinning them under an inkwell and getting to his feet. He goes over to his wardrobe. Merlin pointedly does not budge. The king rolls his eyes, “Come help me dress, Merlin.”
The manservant stomps over, “Oh, so I’m not a piece of furniture now? I can move? My lord is so gracious.”
Arthur only sighs, long used to the moods he should not have to endure. He falls into his thoughts, running over his points again, and Merlin seems to notice his withdrawal, folding up his sleeves in sudden quiet.
He speaks as he adjusts his collar, “Arthur?”
“Hm?”
“Whatever you’re doing, I’m sure you’re making the right decision.” Merlin says solemnly.
The king nearly laughs, a half-choked sound slipping from his throat as he realizes Merlin has supported him exactly as he’d been hoping for moments before, “I pray you are.”
The manservant looks at him oddly but affixes his cape and smooths out the last wrinkles, stepping back in front of him with a nod of approval before daring, as he alone always dared, to meet his king’s eyes, “I trust you.”
It staggers him. It never failed to stagger him, the simple offering of devotion Merlin gave him each day. Dimly, he thinks how it’s the sort of devotion he will need to offer his new gods if he wished to protect his people, an unshakable faith from an unflinching heart. How was it a simple man like Merlin could give of himself so easily, while he, an educated noble, struggled to simply bow his head?
He blinks, realizing Merlin is holding his crown, the gold metal growing each day less his father’s. His manservant gives a half-bemused smile at his distraction, then with familiar reverence lifts it and settles it onto his head.
He steps back, letting Arthur get a look at himself in his mirror, make sure nothing is out of place, then bows deeply, “My king.”
Arthur huffs. He still wasn’t used to that unwavering insistence from his manservant, the man never failing to speak his title like a hallowed oath.
He brushes the moment aside, gathering his papers as Merlin cleared his dishes, mocking him for his empty plates and the growing size of his waistline. Arthur scoffs back. At least he could do something about his waistline -not that there was anything wrong with it- while Merlin was stuck with his dish-sized ears.
Merlin shoots him a look, pretending to be hurt, then dismisses himself with a call over his shoulder saying he’ll attend him at training later.
Arthur shakes his head at the casual impudence, and then grins softly, troubles, for the moment, forgotten.
---
Merlin wanders down the lanes of the lower town, waving in passing to the many who called his name, trying not to look as urgent as he feels.
He needs to get out of the city.
The gate guards let him pass without question, used to his frequent jaunts, and one even gifts him a new deck of playing cards with a broad, careless smile. Merlin takes it with a wink and soon finds himself jogging along the small road of the western gate, darting into the patch of forest kept thick for the king’s game.
He had herbs to gather for Gaius, as always, but something else was driving him here. His headache was putting a strain on his ability to focus, to think, to move. He makes his way to his usual clearing and settles down among the plants and trees, opening his eyes up to the wide blue sky and trying to clearly note the faint presences of the trees and the grass blades and the high hunting birds.
It takes him awhile to doze off, but he finds himself soon enough skipping out among the clouds, calling and shrieking with the ravens and the hunting birds, flashing though their minds as he wanders across the Isle, loosening the strain of his muscles and forgetting the pain in his head.
He’s about to turn back when something draws his attention. A shadow. A scar. The impression moves slowly towards Camelot.
He snaps awake, wrenched into his body, flinching and sitting up as a thousand old bruises and aches call themselves to his attention now that his head no longer pounds. He gets up and hurried back to the city, knowing it’s far too late to gather Gaius’ ingredients.
He’s ambling up the lower town in long strides when he catches sight of Gwaine settled in the tavern through its swinging door. He ducks in, nodding at the barkeep and shaking the knight’s shoulder.
The man turns from his latest attempts at flirting to grin jovially, “Ah, Merlin! Come to join me in wooing this fine fair lass?”
He motions back to someone who’s already vanished.
“I can’t stay Gwaine, I’m late attending Arthur. I was wondering if you could be my excuse if he asks where I’ve been?”
The knight grins, waving his hand out grandly and nearly tipping his cup, “Lie to the princess for you? Gladly!”
Merlin beams, clapping the man on the back good-naturedly before hurrying out. He glances back, the rambunctious knight already ordering another round, and feels his heart twinge. Gawine was a good friend, loyal and dedicated, and it was for that reason he could never return his affections in kind, not fully.
The memory of dark locks and deep eyes framed by an endless blackness flits through his mind, and he feels the old grief rise.
No. Gwaine could not be told. Gaius knew, and the man’s life had been in peril enough times for his sake. He would not risk another.
He jogs to the training ground.
---
Arthur swings his blade a few times, settling into its weight. The practice one wasn’t like his own. Excalibur was an extension of himself, a forged cast of his own fury, but as it had a tendency to slice through other swords, it was not useful for training his men.
Across from him, Mordred does the same. He was getting better with each passing day, the young man finally coming in to his own.
The training ground is empty, one of the smaller ones that was kept for one-on-one practice. In his days as prince, he’d trained all his men in groups, but he rarely had time for such indulgences now, trusting the task to Leon. He did, however, take a few days each week to spar with one of his Table. It unraveled his nerves and gave him an excuse to catch up with their lives. Percival was quiet, needing prodding to get into a conversational rhythm, and Leon was often distracted by his long list of duties, treating the sparring as a time to report rather than talk. Gwaine was suspicious of the sessions being makeshift confessionals where he was bludgeoned into admitting his tavern sins, more snark than information tripping from his clever tongue. Mordred was his favorite to train. The boy was eager and earnest in his questions, occasionally strategic enough to outwit even his king.
Arthur does not think of the man who is missing, does not think how Lancelot would have loved these days, and been as enjoyable to fight as he would to speak with, good for advice or story or humor at any turn.
Mordred smiles, “How was council, Sire?”
“Well.” Arthur grunts, getting into position. He has no desire to relive the two-hour shouting match that had ended with the king surging to his feet and demanding whom owed allegiance to whom, and who had the most to risk in opposing the new law.
The knight’s cheerful countenance slips, and Arthur curses inwardly, reminding himself of the personal stakes at play. He moves forward into his first series of strikes, smooth and easy in the patterns of his youth, “Nothing has changed, Mordred.”
The boy sends him a grateful look, and Arthur takes the opportunity to score at hit on his thigh, grinning. After that, they are all dances. The king pauses occasionally to correct form and suggest maneuvers, and the young knight soaks it all inside himself with a steady focus that Arthur found gratifying.
When they break for water -serving it themselves as Merlin was late, per usual- Mordred lowers his tone and asks how things are going on the personal end of his reforms.
Arthur shifts uncomfortably, glancing around despite already knowing there’s no one near. He cleared the grounds for these sessions. He sips from his cup, his silence prodding Mordred to descend into worry.
“What’s wrong?”
He taps his fingers on the rim, staring into the cool water, “I…had a memory. Or something similar. They weren’t all from my life.”
“A vision?” Mordred breathes, seeming awed.
Arthur didn’t think they’d been anything to wonder at, and he tightens his grip ever so slightly, “They were of the past, not the future.”
“That can be considered a vision, my lord.” Mordred informs him, “A vision is a broad term for knowledge given to men by the gods in a direct fashion. Your sister, the Lady Morgana, is a seer who sees ahead, the untied threads of fate and the knots they catch themselves in, but there are other sorts. Oracles, who give prophecies to ease the hearts of men, and-“ and here, strangely enough, Mordred stutters, “prophets also.”
“Am I one of those? A prophet?”
Mordred grins weakly, “No, my lord. Prophets are different. They are…sacred to their gods. Set aside for them.” The druid looks away, eyes dark, but shakes free from his shadows before the king can inquire further, “Your bloodline has been touched by the divine in many ways. You likely tapped into some sort of latent ability, had a psychic episode.”
“I didn’t tap into anything.” Arthur nearly snarls, “I was trapped,” he grinds out, “for close to an hour.”
The knight processes this uneasily, “Perhaps you needed to be shown something.”
Arthur recalls the blood and steel, and drinks without comment.
“Did it say anything after it released you?”
“It didn’t release me.” Arthur sighs, running a hand through the cooling sweat in his hair and setting down his cup, “Merlin barged in and it scattered away, said I’d called for him.”
He’s picking up his sword when he sees Mordred’s stillness, the druid frozen in his place.
Arthur’s brow furrows, “Mordred?”
“I-“ the young man halts, eyes skittering the side and focusing on something else.
The king turns to find his manservant jogging over, Merlin disheveled with leaves in his hair. He grins as though he isn’t late, “Hello, Arthur! Gwaine insisted I join him on his latest side-quest.”
Arthur touches his forehead in exasperation, looking to the sky as if for answers before drawling out scornfully, “And why were you with a knight instead of attending me?” Like you said you would, he tacks on mentally, too aware finishing that aloud would sound undignified.
“Oh well, you know,” Merlin shrugs, “Gwaine.” The manservant’s eyes shift, noting Mordred for the first time, and his humor drains from him, “Sir Mordred.”
“Merlin.” The young knight mumbles, eyes down.
Arthur sighs heavily. The court had long given up bothering to explain the dynamic between the two. Most accepted it as petty jealousy on Merlin’s part for Mordred’s position, but the knights of the Round Table had a better vantage point to view the strange conversations and were at a loss. One thing was certain, the two were not friendly, despite no small amount of effort by Mordred to make peace.
He motions the knight back to the ring and sets about teaching him. Arthur tries to expend motion to counter the tight atmosphere, but nothing helps. Mordred can’t concentrate, too often glancing to where Merlin leaned against the water table, watching them fight with a critical eye, never daring to go for the strikes that would see him winning. Finally, Arthur calls the session to a close, dismissing his opponent.
Merlin comes over as Mordred retreats, loosening the ties of Arthur’s armor.
“Do you have to do that?” Arthur demands crossly, yanking his arm back so Merlin will look at him.
The manservant scowls, “Help you with your vambrace? No, I do it from the kindness of my heart.” His fingers stretch out, and Arthur lets him go to work on the knots.
“Scare him like that. Mordred doesn’t deserve your ire.” The king scolds.
Merlin huffs out a scoffing laugh, “I scare him?”
Arthur blinks, the world suddenly bursting into clarity as he realizes what he’d never seen, and how could he have, without the final piece? He tugs his arm back from the manservant once more, shocked, “You know?”
Merlin stares at the space his arm had been in and then sighs, looking up at Arthur with no small amount of exasperation, “Know what, Arthur?”
“About Mordred’s magic.”
The reaction is immediate. Merlin stumbles back as though he’s been hit, eyes going wide in sudden panic, hands skittering spastically in the air and an odd choking coming from his throat.
Arthur darts, gripping the man’s hand and wrist, yanking him forward to stillness and glancing around for any watching. Their time slot was over, and guards would be trickling back to use the ring. “Calm down.” He orders, watching until Merlin forces himself into a few gasping breaths. He shakes his head, “That’s what’s been between you all this time?” a new pain springs to his heart, “My own knight had magic and you didn’t tell me?”
Merlin wrenches his hands from his king’s grip, breaking his tight hold with an unexpected ease, backing away with wide, tear-pricked eyes, “Arthur, what is going on?” he asks, throat thick, “Why aren’t you burning him?”
And there was a sentence Arthur never thought he’d hear from Merlin’s mouth. The manservant was unfailingly, foolishly kind. He’d always assumed he refused to attend his father’s pyres out of sympathetic grief for the families. Now, it seemed, true colors were showing through. He’d never expected Merlin to call for the death of someone he knew, a boy barely a handful of years younger than him who showed such brightness, even in the heart of Camelot where his life had been so long in peril. And all to serve Arthur.
Maybe it was jealousy, that someone could be as devoted to the crown as he was.
“He’s done nothing wrong, Merlin.” Arthur snarls, hackles rising in defense of one of his own. The manservant flinches, trembling head to foot. Arthur remembers again the man’s terror of magic, and this time, feels no sympathy. He speaks firmly, “You will not reveal this to anyone else, is that clear?”
Merlin doesn’t answer, arms wrapping around his stomach briefly as though to sag to the ground, before he stops, a half-sob escaping his throat, and turns away. Leaving his king to deal with his armor himself, he flees.
---
Merlin has stopped thinking. He can’t think, because nothing makes sense anymore. The simple words repeat themselves in his mind, mocking him. About Mordred’s magic.
Arthur knew. He knew. And nothing had happened. No wood was being piled in the courtyard, no rope strung from the gallows. He can hardly breathe.
He knows he’s crying only dimly. His tears fall in silence, fists tight at his sides as he storms through the castle. Servants and guards stare at him, jumping from his blind path and calling after in concern. They’ve never seen the cheerful manservant so upset, never seen him breaking. He was careful never to show himself breaking. He cannot breathe.
He finds him in the armory, laughing with the others. They go silent and horrified when he appears in the doorway, Percival’s gentle countenance collapsing into concern.
“Get out.”
There’s a snarl behind his voice he cannot control. They recoil from it. Leon dares to step forward, “Merlin, are you alright?” his eyes trail over his trembling frame, “Has something happened to Arthur?”
He laughs, then, a single, sharp bark of judgement. He settles his eyes on Mordred, looking deep into his ashen skin, relishing the growing terror in the boy’s stance.
“All of you. Now.”
And this time…they do. It’s absurd, their obedience to a servant, leaving one of their number with someone who looks so clearly enraged. But they trust him. Years of scar and skin and trust.
Mother above, he can’t breathe.
They file out slow, and when the door shuts, he wastes no time surging forward and slamming the other into the wall, hard enough to rattle the swords where they’re mounted, holding him pinned with strength and magic as his fists shake, eyes spiraling gold as his ever-perfect control begins to slip.
Mordred cuts off a scream as he hits the wall, scrabbling momentarily in terror, eyes locked on the golden light with animal whimpers in his mouth. He taps weakly at the hands holding him, brushing at Merlin’s wrists, “Please, please…Whatever I’ve done…please…” he’s sobbing around the words.
“Whatever you’ve done?” Merlin echoes, voice terribly calm, still as a mountain pool, “What have you done?”
His magic coils, snaking around the boy’s throat, curling and caressing. Mordred chokes, and his own magic flares in response. Without a thought, never knowing this was something he could do, Merlin taps into the druid’s magic, slipping his will inside it and overriding its ownership, laying it aside as he considers his choices.
Let him feel as he does in this moment. No air inside him. No way to understand.
One moment…
stretches…
to another…
He lets go, stepping back with a heaving gasp, air shuddering freely into his lungs again, their first breaths drawn in together.
Mordred coughs on the ground, wiping at his eyes and pushing himself up slightly from the stone. Merlin looks down at him, and he flinches, throwing up his hands to defend himself, “Please! Please, I’ll do anything you wish of me!”
Merlin feels his mouth twist, bitterness on his tongue. “Why’d you do it, Mordred?”
The knight shakes his head, rolling onto his knees and keeping his hands raised in surrender, head and eyes low, “Do what?”
“Tell Arthur.”
It takes him only a moment more to understand. His eyes dart up as though searching for a striking fist before he forces them down again, “I told him of my magic because he needed to learn the old religion after his dealings with the Disir.” He says in a rush.
Merlin pauses, thrown. He’d assumed Arthur had rejected the three, based off of the bane’s survival, but if his “deal” was turning his favor towards magic… his mind snags back on Mordred’s sentence, “You’re teaching him the old religion?” he asks, flabbergasted.
“I do as my king bids me.” Mordred pleads, “He asked to learn. He said he’d sworn to change the laws and his heart both.”
The laws. The council meetings. The papers he wasn’t allowed to read. He reaches down suddenly, grabbing the boy’s shoulders and ignoring his soft cry of fear, the way he flinches to the side, “Mordred. Mordred, look at me. Swear you are not lying. Is the ban being lifted?”
“Yes.” Mordred gasps out, sobbing slightly, “I would never lie to you. I can’t lie to you. Magic will be free by the next full cycle. Please.” He hiccups, “please.”
Before he can think again, he embraces the boy, pulling him against his chest and pressing a hand to the back of his head. Mordred shivers and breaks into full sobs, crying fully as he relaxes into Merlin’s grip. Merlin sways a little, a rhythm matched with his words, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Mordred.”
Just then, the door bangs open. Arthur’s suddenly there, his knights no doubt having rushed to get him the moment they left the armory, grabbing Merlin and pulling him back harshly, “What do you think you’re doing?”
Merlin smacks into the floor, seeing stars. Mordred is quick to stay the king’s hand, grabbing his leg and shaking his head fiercely, hair a wild tangle and grief still in his eyes, “It wasn’t like that! He didn’t hurt me!”
Arthur looks between them, then settles his gaze onto the young knight, “Then why are there marks around your neck?”
Mordred pales, looking to Merlin.
The manservant is too rattled for an answer, looking up at his king from the floor and wondering if it’s true, the question on the edge of his tongue but not quite escaping as he sees Arthur’s expression twist into disgust.
“Leon!” the king barks, the man appearing from nothing at the call of his name, “Escort Merlin to the dungeon until I’ve decided what to do with him.”
“Yes, sire.” The knight agrees uneasily, hoisting a bewildered Merlin from the floor and guiding him from the room. Merlin twists to look back as hands settle onto his wrists, pinning them behind him, and he’s met with the sight of his furious king and the still-kneeling druid, the boy looking after him with wide, desperate eyes.
---
A week later, the king repeals the ban on magic. Celebrations sweep the citadel, spreading into the town as the revelry takes over. For the first time in a generation, men will no longer be burned in Camelot.
Merlin listens from behind the bars of his cell.
---
A week after the event, his king releases him. Arthur has him marched to his chambers and gives him a firm scolding, making it clear how much he disapproves of his manservant attacking a member of the nobility, and a knight no less. He outlines the basic freedom of magic and all it entails, how Merlin is going to have to come to accept it, how there can be no place for hatred any longer.
He listens to it all in silence, staring at his king dully. His head hurts. His headaches had only increased in strength in the dungeon, and it makes it hard for him to think. He does make the effort to furrow his brow and ask one crucial question, “Are you going to follow the old religion also?”
Mordred had made it sound that way, when they spoke, and Merlin would need to find someone to explain the particulars to him. He needed to keep his king safe.
Now, Arthur only tightens his lips and looks away, “I will do what I must for my people.”
It’s not an answer, and he tries to ask more, but Arthur dismisses him. He does not dare test the man’s patience, leaving quickly.
He wanders up to his uncle’s tower, still a bit dazed. Magic will be slow in returning, of course, decades of lost knowledge not replaceable in a few nights, but he could swear there’s something different to the stone under his feet, a thrumming of sorts that lies just below his certainty.
Gaius is overjoyed to see him. Arthur had been strict in his refusal to allow any to visit him in his time away. The physician feeds him his favorite stew and hums jauntily to himself. Merlin smiles to see it, then frowns as his head twinges again.
“Are you alright, my boy?”
“Fine, uncle.” Merlin mumbles, “Only the headaches are worse.” He forces on a smile, “It’s amazing what Arthur’s done, isn’t it?”
The physician looks on him fondly, “Yes, Merlin, it is. I never thought the day would come in my lifetime when sorcerers would again be welcomed in the court.” For a moment, the old man’s eyes drift back, falling into memories of the early days of Uther’s reign, of the first of the burnings and all that came after, “Was he surprised to hear of your magic?”
Merlin blinks, “I…haven’t told him.”
“Why not?” his uncle shakes his spoon threateningly, “This is all you’ve hoped for, Merlin.”
“I know I just…there’s a part of me that feels this is all too good to be true, somehow. Like he’s going to change his mind.” He admits, uncertain how to explain his own fears.
“Oh,” Gaius scoffs, “You’re used to hiding.”
“Maybe.” Merlin mumbles, rubbing his temples with a hand, “Anyways, he was too busy yelling for me to say anything. He’s mad about what I did to Mordred.”
The physician hums.
“What, you’re mad too?” Merlin asks flatly, annoyed his uncle won’t take his side.
“It was rather violent, my boy.”
“Violent.” Merlin stares at the old man, remembering the chandelier as it struck down on the crumpled body, the spurt and snap of blood. Remembering the high kiss of quick lightning and the scent of his bubbling flesh as it burned. Remembering his own soul being clawed at from the inside, until he could force it free and back and in, breaking through another man’s mind like it was a quill in his pressing fists.
“Violent.” He repeats, and then shakes his head, getting to his feet, “I think I need sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You haven’t finished your stew!”
Merlin waves him off, closing the door to his room firmly before collapsing onto his bed.
---
Arthur had thought it would be different after the ban was repealed. He’d expected the words to come easier, the humility to be more attainable, but if anything, he found his forced calm rankled by every new bit of magic he sees.
Mordred had been patient with him, though distracted, twitching his head toward the door as though he wished to be anywhere but the king’s rooms. Arthur refused to meet elsewhere, security ever a concern, even now after he’d allowed magic into his life.
“Could you explain a bit more, sire?” the knight asks, tearing his eyes back with an effort.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He was exhausted these days, running around after scheming courtiers and uncovering veiled threats. It had been made harder by the absence of Merlin, his washing not done in the right rotation so he spent too long searching for the shirt he wanted, his meals a slight bit too bland. He’d also been forced to endure lukewarm baths. He wrinkles his nose. Merlin managed to keep the tub water warm all the way up the stairs, certainly impeccable George should have been capable.
“I…don’t feel any different.” Arthur says finally, “I thought accepting magic would be the change I needed for something to click, but nothing’s happened aside from more nightmares. Have I displeased your gods?”
Mordred considers, thinking before he speaks, “I’ve felt nothing from the higher powers to indicate a need for atonement. From all you’ve told me, Morgause had her way with you as she wished, and Anhora gave you his approval. The Cailleach has no sway over mortal lives unless summoned.”
“But Emrys?”
There’s the slightest hesitation, “I don’t know.”
“Mordred.” Arthur scowls.
The knight glances to the door again, “You’ve made the sacrifices I suggested, and the old shrines are being renewed in the town. I do not claim to know the mind of my god, but I think, perhaps, he may be at as much of a loss on what to do with you as you are with him.”
Arthur nearly laughs, leaning back in his chair, “Oh, that’s grand, an uncertain god.”
Mordred bites his lip, eyes darting away.
“Merlin’s not coming, Mordred, you don’t have to worry.” Arthur tells him, beginning to grow frustrated with his inattention, “I dismissed him for the day after making it clear he wasn’t to behave uncivilly towards you again.”
Mordred flushes, ears reddening where they peek under his hair, “Oh. Thank you, sire, but I was actually hoping to speak with him.”
“You can find him after you explain to me what I need to do to heal my kingdom. You were telling me of Emrys.”
The druid chews his lip, “Emrys is…unusual. Special.”
Arthur motions for him to elaborate.
Mordred leans forward on his seat edge as though imparting a great secret, “I’ve told you, my lord, that the gods long ago took mortal form, shaping their bodies after the pattern the triple goddess designed for her children. Emrys was the first to pattern himself so. He is considered the firstborn of the Mother, and the other gods, while not going so far as to serve him, are careful to pay him homage. In his breath is the spirit of life, and in the ire of his eye entire nations have been felled. He is great, and terrible, and wonderful, but you must also remember, my lord, that he is a man. A man like you and I.” Mordred suddenly smiles, obviously charmed by the thought, “He walks and sleeps and dreams among us even now. You could pass him in the lower town and never notice.”
Arthur sits forward, “Then I could find him.”
“Perhaps, if he allowed you.” Mordred concedes, “If you are reluctant to submit yourself to him, I imagine he is reluctant to have you. You have been cruel to him.”
“I have been cruel to him?” Arthur snorts, suddenly sour, “And what of the harm done to me? What of the sorceress who poisoned my people, what of the dragon that attempted to raze my city? What of the questing beast that nearly killed me? Of the countless attacks I have faced?” Arthur realizes he’s nearly shouting, just barely checking his tone, “What of the magic that took my sister from me? What of my father? I have lost near everything to magic and yet still it demands more!”
Mordred gazes at him, then looks down, speaking gently, “You do not know what you say, my lord. I wait eagerly for the day Emrys meets with you, and you know him for all the wonder and beauty he is.” He gets to his feet, “With your leave, your majesty, I will go now.”
Arthur stews, the boy’s words rough in his ears. He nods curtly.
Mordred shuffles out, but a thought occurs to the king and he calls after as he touches the door, “Mordred, you said Emrys has a mortal form. Have you met him?”
The druid hesitates on the threshold, looking a long moment at his king, “I have.”
Arthur springs to his feet, “Then tell me! I need to speak with him!”
Mordred shakes his head, a wry twist to his mouth, “You would summon a god to your hand, O king? No. I will not tell you unless he gives me leave. I hope he will come to you himself, or, better than all outcomes, you will come to him, and beg forgiveness for the words you have said here tonight. I know Emrys, and walk willingly in his shadow. You have my oaths, my king, but he will always have my life.”
And with that, he leaves, Arthur staring after him.
---
Merlin stands in Gwen’s side yard, helping her hang her laundry. The wet sheets and garments fold easily over the line, and he clips them without much thought, a soft breeze fluttering through his hair. The wind always seemed to want to touch him, these days, one of the strange things that had been occurring around him in the weeks since the ban was lifted.
Gwen is humming softly under her breath, and he thinks it may be to pass time, but it also may be to cover up the sound of her neighbor trying and repeatedly failing to light the wood under his cookpot with a spell. Merlin’s rather tired of it himself. He turns his head away and starts the fire with a flick of intention before resuming his work. Gwen lets out a relieved breath.
The town had been slowly embracing magic over the last month, and it seemed any time someone learned a new spell they’d pass it along until entire sections of houses knew the words for “float” and “open” and “retrieve”. Not everyone had the gift, of course, but for some odd reason the citadel had a proliferation of spellcasters. Maids who huffed at high cobwebs one week found words spilling from their mouths in the next that swept the irritants away. Even the knights were slowly learning, and Merlin could still hear Percival’s delighted laugh when he’d discovered he could sharpen his sword with a touch.
And alongside the returning gifts came the shrines, prayer tables popping up across the marketplaces as the townsfolk learned anew the ways of the old gods. It wouldn’t be long now before the druids came to teach the willing populace, he felt, just as he felt the location of each new offering.
“Gwen,” he says softly, turning to his friend, “What do you think of magic?”
The woman pauses to blow hair off her lips and redo its tie. Her life had not been easy these past years. When Lancelot died, she’d lost all protection to her reputation, scorned for both bearing his child unwedded and for serving the witch all the years before. Merlin tried to visit, but he was often caught up in the schemes and disasters of court, and though Arthur cared for Gwen, both were under the notion it was best to keep their distance from one another less they repeat the slow travesty of their previous relationship.
“I think…Arthur is doing what he feels is best.” She says finally.
Most of her sweetness is hidden now, pressed beneath the callouses left behind by those that sought to wound her. He hears some of the market stalls still won’t sell to her.
“Morgana had magic.”
“Yes, I know, Merlin,” Gwen says tiredly, turning back to her washing and adjusting a lovely spring dress she hasn’t worn in years.
“I mean…she didn’t choose magic. It chose her. It didn’t make her hate us.”
“Merlin.” She says tightly, turning to him and putting on a smile, “I truly appreciate you coming to help me today, especially while Elyan is watching Galahad, but I’d really rather not talk about this.”
“It’s not your fault you didn’t realize, is all. There was nothing that could save her from herself.” He says, knowing she needs to hear it. Knowing he needed it too when Gaius had said it to him.
“Stop-!“ Gwen cuts herself off, breeze picking at her skirts as she presses the back of a shaking hand to her mouth, screwing her eyes shut.
There’s the sound of laughter and then a small shape has run to her, Galahad’s dark mop and golden skin a blur as he tugs at her dress, “Mama! Pick me up!”
Gwen takes a breath and sweeps her son into her arms, smiling for him as Elyan comes through the clothesline, ducking away from a tablecloth. He beams indulgently, waving at Merlin as he collects the little boy for more games. The man had given up his place as a knight after seeing what losing her lover was doing to his sister. Knowing she had no one left, he’d given in to her pleading and took up his father’s work, crafting war weapons and horseshoes in their family forge.
Galahad stretched his hands out to Merlin, and he takes the little boy and spins around to make him laugh, before tapping his nose and setting him back on the grass. He shrieks and runs, Elyan striding after with a happy farewell.
Merlin looks after him, smiling. Galahad was a fine young lad, with his mother’s love and his father’s honor, of that he was certain.
They go back to their chore in silence for a while, until Merlin screws his courage together to say what he’s decided to, “I need to tell you something.”
“If it’s about Morgana I won’t hear it.” Gwen says tersely, obviously still upset with him for earlier.
“Not about her.” Merlin waits until she looks his way. He ducks his head at her, trying to apologize with his eyes before he lets their color change, air rippling around them both, before letting the blue bleed back into focus.
Gwen stares, then reaches out to her side and touches the smooth cloth of a shirt, completely dry. She fingers a few others down the row, and then turns to him, eyes filling with tears, “Why would you do this?” she demands, striding towards him but hovering apart, not daring too close, “I thought this would pass well enough in a phase, that the sensible people would avoid messing with powers they had no place in. I never thought you’d be so foolish to try and learn magic!” she hisses, voice hitching.
“I didn’t learn, Gwen.” He says gently, “I’ve had magic for as long as you’ve known me and all my life before. I grew up hated for something I could not control, and my mother sent me to my uncle before my hometown decided to burn me. I never learned spells or incantations, and I can’t tell a charm from a recipe, but I know magic like it’s my own breath and I have used it all this time to protect and serve those I love.”
She looks away, “Why are you telling me this? To make me forgive that- that- witch-“
“Morgana made her choices. Magic did not make them for her.” Merlin says fiercely, “I only wanted you to understand me. I did not choose magic. And Gwen,” he lowers his tone, “Lancelot knew.”
She flinches, stepping back from him, hands coming up over her mouth, “No.”
“He knew. He was my greatest friend, my confidant. I saved his life from the gryphon and in turn he saved my sanity, helping me hide my disappearances when I snuck away to kill what threatened the city and waiting when I returned to patch any wounds I could not heal. He stood beside me, always.” He closes his eyes for a moment before forcing the words forward, “That day… I tried to get him to return to the city without me. He refused. Said I shouldn’t have to do it alone.” He swallows, “I tried to save him, and I failed. I’m sorry.”
She suddenly leans down and picks up a clump of dirt, hurling it at him. It strikes his jacket, and she throws another, “Go! Leave! How dare you come here! How dare you mar his memory! How could you do this to me, Merlin?” she sobs, “He had no secrets from me!”
He hates the shame that rises in him, and speaks as soft as he can, knowing Elyan would be returning at the sound of his sister’s shouts, “He had mine.” He takes a breath, “It’s why he never married you. He didn’t want to go the altar in anything but honesty.”
She shakes her head, crying, and stumbles into his arms, sobbing into his chest as the blacksmith and the boy reappear, both faces drawn in concern.
Merlin bows his head and holds her tight, and they grieve anew together.
---
Merlin drags himself up the stairs to his room, endlessly tired. Catching up on everything he needed to do for Arthur had been compounded by also checking over the wards he kept around the castle. Adjusting them for the growing aura of magic wasn’t difficult, but it was tedious, and he was looking forward to a warm meal and the familiar pages of his magic book, hoping to forget the pain in his head. It never stopped, now, keeping a low stream of throbbing he feared would drive him mad.
He pushes open the door and stops when, to his surprise, he finds Mordred talking earnestly with Gaius. Like the last time he found them both here, their conversation peters out when they see him.
He’d been avoiding Mordred. Not especially on purpose, but when Gaius had mentioned he’d stopped by a few weeks ago while Merlin was sleeping, hoping to speak with him, he’d found himself ashamed. He’d hurt the boy, he knew, and not just with his fists or magic, but with his hatred of him.
The young knight stands abruptly, wincing at his own awkwardness, “Merlin!”
Silence. He looks between them both, Gaius sending him a pointed stare. He sighs, running a hand over his face and bidding farewell to his chance to eat before tonight’s feast, “What is it, Mordred?”
He opens and shuts his mouth and then screws his courage together, “I was hoping you would have time to speak with me.”
Merlin sets his bag down, “I suppose I do.”
Mordred sags with relief, then speaks again after a hesitation, “Could I show you something in the lower town? It’s at the wall, but it’s a right along the road. You’ll be back in time to attend Arthur.”
The manservant has already resigned himself, “Alright. I’ll see you later, Gaius.”
The old man grumbles a farewell, and soon he and Mordred are making their way in painful silence down the steps of the tower and through the castle halls. The boy chews his lip, hands shifting and occasionally shoved into his pockets. For a moment Merlin considers how young he looks without his cape and armor, dressed in common clothes.
Merlin, for his part, is fine with the silence, nursing his headache with the patience born of years of worse.
“I apologize for my intrusion.” Mordred says slowly, breaking their peace as he glances over, “I felt… we ought to talk, after what happened last we saw one another.”
The manservant grunts, waving to a gate guard. The man lets them pass with a cheerful salute. “You mean when I nearly killed you?”
Mordred winces, “Yes.” He swallows, keeping a steady pace as they weave through the market, the last of the day’s shoppers hurrying to buy their breads and trinkets, “Arthur misunderstood the situation. I asked him to let you out, but he wouldn’t hear me, nor allow me to visit. I’m sorry.”
“Arthur is king, he can do as likes.” Merlin says stiffly.
The druid nods, “I know.” A faint, despairing smile creeps over his features, “I wish you could have seen it. The whole room went into shock, but Arthur, he sat on his throne and stared them down, in all his gold and glory till they swore to follow his law. The criers went out, and you could hear the shouts and weeping from the hall. Light was everywhere, but no star shied from it. There was this taste in the air like…like…”
“Heat.” Merlin says softly, “Summer heat and a touch of wind, an electricity to it, but no pain. Energy revealed and breathed out again from the life of the lungs.”
He turns, realizing Mordred has stopped in the road, eyes pinned on Merlin and something flickering and fighting in his expression. He shakes himself and returns to motion so they walk together again, “Exactly so.”
“I know it well.” Merlin sighs.
A pause comes as Merlin is stopped by a few tradesmen to talk shop. It’s rather surprising they hadn’t been approached before now, the manservant being well-loved by the town.
They move on after a few minutes, Merlin with a new pressed token in his pocket, given freely with affection. Most of his possessions came to him this way. He hadn’t properly bought anything in years, sturdy boots appearing when he wore his through, new scarves weekly from the tailor’s scraps as his old ones were torn or bloodied.
“Where are we going?”
“A temple.” Mordred says quietly, “They brought in old wall stone a few weeks ago to build a small altar, since the makeshift shrines on the corners are overflowing. I thought it best to go now. The feast will draw people off.”
Merlin had watched the shrines pop up in mild amusement -more tables than proper holy places- but with a fondness as well. It had seemed right to him, that they should give to the force they sought to use. He’d not given anything himself, and he wondered if this was Mordred’s point. It did seem rather ludicrous for someone with his gifts to not know his own gods. “The shrines are important to you?”
Modred twists his mouth in a wry smile and ducks his head in a flush of shyness, “I have lived all my life for the time Camelot returned to the old ways, as was foretold. I value them, and I am grateful.”
“You said you were teaching Arthur the old religion.”
“I am.” Mordred says firmly, “Though there are those better qualified.”
“…are you dragging me out here to teach me the old religion?”
The druid gives a huffing laugh, “Not so much teach as remind. Far be it from me to tell you what you already know.”
“Mordred, I don’t know anything.” Merlin protests, “I barely know spells, let alone the runes behind them, and I can’t tell you any stories.”
“And yet…” the boy says slowly, turning his cool eyes on him as the streets clear and the stone building shows itself around the corner, pressed against the city wall, “you know the taste of magic.”
Merlin slows, the knight striding ahead, as he considers this uncertainly. He follows him into the temple. It’s stone, with no courtyard, and long windows that are more holes than views. There are a few small prayer curtains in the back of the space, and in the center a circular table with a scattered amount of items, breads and grapes and coins and knives, anything precious enough to be a loss offered on the altar.
A man bustles over to them, old with a thick beard and white hair. He glances over them, but focuses on Mordred when the boy speaks quietly and turns his wrist to show the triskelion inked over his pulse. Merlin’s only seen it a few times, the knight having long kept it covered by glamour, but he thinks there’s something off about its shape. It’s gone before he can get a better look.
The man nods and hurries over to the curtains, peeping into the few closed ones. Merlin is distracted. His head pain is starting to ease for the first time in weeks, and he tilts back to stare at the ceiling. It’s scribbled over with runes. He blinks and imagines he can hear them whispering.
A few people shuffle out, and then the stranger does as well, and Merlin suddenly realizes they’re alone. He twists to look at the man, who he thinks might be considered a priest here, settling down on the steps to turn aside any passerby.
“Mordred…what’s going on?”
The boy steels himself, taking a breath and clasping his hands in front of him to keep from fidgeting, “Do you know the names of the old gods?”
“The triple goddess, but that’s-“ he pauses, frowning slowly as knowledge seems to come from nothing, “The Cailleach was a goddess. Morgause, Anhora…”
“Emrys.” Mordred finishes, his voice soft in reverence.
The whispers swirl around him. He feels his hands tighten and loosen at his side, “God of magic, but…” he looks around as if for help, staring at the painted walls, sun falling slanted in shafts of light onto the mosaic floor.
“You’ve heard the name before.”
“That’s what Kilgharrah called me.” He mumbles. The old lizard had been a wrathful thing, spitting more death with his words than his flame. Merlin had long resented the beast for his involvement in the death of his father and the loss of Morgana, and, he was coming to realize, for poisoning him against Mordred. He’d been too wrapped up in his anger to realize how often the creature lied, how he’d sought his own gain alone in subtle manipulations of truth and falsehood, “But the dragon lied to me often.”
“Not about this.” Mordred answers him.
Merlin falters, looking at the younger man beseechingly, “He said you were fated to kill my king.”
Mordred shudders and closes his eyes, “I was taught fate was not so easily read.” He takes a small step forward and tilts up his wrist, and Merlin can see the triskelion is strange, written over with the silhouette of a bird, “Do you know this?”
“It means you serve Emrys.” Merlin says haltingly.
“It means I serve you.” Mordred touches thumb to the ink and bows his head. I am your prophet, my lord, and set aside for your use.
The sound of the words emerge, breaking off from the rising whisperings that even now are rolling and pattering in some far rhythm he can just begin to make shape of. He struggles to hear his own voice around them, to find his voice, “I don’t- I don’t understand.”
The druid looks back at him, lips unmoving. You are Emrys, god of magic. You know this.
I’m Merlin.
He barely registers his mental shift, protesting with his hands and mind together.
Your sacred creature, your animal. You did not think it strange the woman who raised you, who knows nothing of our ways, named you such? Mordred steps the slightest bit forward, tone pleading, Emrys I have known you all my life. I followed you to Camelot and fled your side only when you bid me. I have felt your power, felt the loose magic of the world give itself to your will, felt my own magic do the same. You have been in pain these last months as the time drew closer, the prophecy at hand, the prayers of your people breaking through. I know you hear them, as you hear me. Please, my lord, know me!
Merlin blinks and shudders, twitching as his magic goes frantic and strange, flowing out from him and around him in erratic motion. His breaths turn uneven. Mordred is still speaking, he thinks, but he loses him in the babble of all the other voices, the snippets of pleas and reverence. He’s light-headed, and he staggers, catching himself on the altar and gasping at the electricity arcing through his palm, at the energy within the offerings. He can taste the sweet grapes, feel soft bread on his tongue, balance the firm weight of a knife’s hilt.
He sinks to his knees, heaving. His power controls him as it never has, forcing itself through his body, up the currents of his nerves and pushing his mind away from flesh. His awareness does not extend, but rather connects to the self he already was, becoming those latent, sleeping portions of his awareness that slumbered in the rolling clouds and tumbled down mountain slopes. He can feel Albion, and he recalls the day that came before days were, when his mother called the Isle from her abundant sea and taught him to burrow into its soil so it might grow.
Mordred is beside him, gripping him by the elbow, half-sprawled on the floor in shock and terror as he uses every ounce of his precious gift to help anchor the root of his god’s soul in this awkward, wonderful human form. He delves through the boy’s magic, and it keens at his touch, crying out for him. Mordred was given the will of his path as they all were, but his magic was Emrys’ alone. Prophet indeed; a preparer of the way.
He opens his eyes. They sting with power, gold all through, and he struggles for a few minutes -or moments- until he recalls how to wrap it all away again and bury it deep and forget how to hear, until there is nothing in his mind but his own voice and the faintest whispers of a thousand others.
He sags, and Mordred begins to let go, but he grips on to him, resting his head against his shoulder and giving his breath a moment to steady, trusting his servant to hold him. He blinks and sees the lines of fate, and wonders where the boy’s road goes. Even knowing himself, and being certain of his power, he could do no more than glimpse the knots being threaded before him.
“I know you.” He murmurs, throat raw, and Mordred breaks open before him.
The boy sobs, and the manservant embraces him, gives him the peace that came after a long trial or ballad song, that cathartic rinsing of one grief to sluice off all the others in its current.
He pulls away eventually, Mordred letting him. The young knight presses his palms to his eyes and shakes his head before looking and simply gazing at him, taking solace in the sight of his god.
Merlin lets out a last breath, a soft puff of magic and air, and sinks back fully into the body he has chosen, letting his eyes fade to their blue. He looks around like a man waking from sleep, first up at the table and then further to the runed ceiling -and he can read them now, as he could before without knowing- and then trails his gaze over the walls and the low light pooling through the long windows, “Thank you,” he says quietly, turning back to the other who waits with him, “for drawing me out of the dark.”
The druid bows his head and turns up his wrists, the dark ink of the calling merlin stark against his pale skin, “I am yours always, my lord.”
“Yes.” He agrees easily, “You are.” He shakes himself, pushing to his feet and looking over the table offerings, trailing his fingers over the rippling grain of the wood. He considers himself, feeling odd, wondering how he will fit back into the life he knew, and yet certain he could find himself in no other place. Emrys was meant to be in Camelot, at his king’s side, as was written. In the same way, so too was Merlin. He can feel all the little traits of himself, the gangly reach of his arms and the quick irreverence of his tongue reassert themselves, his memories of old shaping him in equal measure with his childhood, his days under Ealdor’s bright sun harmonizing with his knowledge of the star’s true name.
He pops a grape in his mouth and tastes its sweet flavor alongside the soil and rain that gave it life, life returned within him, and the hands that gave it held in his own as he feels the earnest desires of young love and longing eyes.
“How long did you know?” he asks the boy, looking down and gesturing for him to climb up off his knees.
The knight does so, “I lived with your legend in my heart all my life. When my teacher and I crossed near the city, I was drawn to you. I was certain when your voice answered my plea for safety. Though,” he smiles faintly, “I was a bit disappointed you didn’t appear in a blaze of glory and strike everyone dead.”
He snorts, “You were always one for the dramatics.” He tilts his head, considering the dark curls, “And why you never spoke with me before now?”
“I tried.” He winces, “You never wanted to hear me.” If there’s accusation in his tone, he hides it well, “I’m not sure there was enough devotion to pull you from your slumber before now anyways. Uther all but destroyed your people, and with them all that held you to your power. Even the city returning to your way shouldn’t have been enough but… you always did hear Arthur.”
Merlin pauses, remembering the night he walked down to the king’s bedchamber because he’d thought he’d heard his name, “Arthur…” he murmurs, and what will his king think of him now? A decade of deception was not easy for a man to overlook, “What have you been teaching him?”
Mordred tells him, and he listens, fiddling with the gifts left for him. He pockets a small blue scarf, the material silky under his calloused fingers, remarkably memorable. He reaches to examine a goblet, and promptly yelps when it touches his hand, the gold lumping and melting to rock, a sense of rage shoved inside him. He wrinkles his nose, scowling and moving on, motioning for a frozen Mordred to continue. The boy clears his throat a few times and continues nervously.
Time moves forward as the druid winds to a close, and he collects a small wind of strong silver thread and takes that also before motioning towards the entry, “The feast will be soon.”
Mordred nods, but hesitates, swaying a bit as he turns to go and then changing direction, “My lord, what now? What would you have me do?”
“No more than what you have done so far.”
He nods, seeming a bit disappointed.
Merlin grins wryly, “You’d rather I go into a blaze of glory and strike everyone dead?”
“No!” Mordred protests quickly.
He laughs, slinging an arm around the boy’s shoulder and guiding him out, “Come on. Prat’ll want his wine.” He holds his smile, but feels it twist ever so slightly in grief. The barrier between him and his friend grew ever wider, the secret a stronghold between them. It would be all the harder now to reach the man, to speak on his level and guide him to all he must become.
He puts his hand on Mordred’s back and pushes him out slightly ahead of him, and as they emerge into the fading day he glances back. Light strikes down on the altar, and for the first time he recognizes how untraditional the shape is, to have a round table as the place he met his own.
How fitting.
He grins in soft irony, and together him and Mordred make their way back up through the lower town.
---
Arthur let his gaze drift around the feast hall, mind wandering as some greying lord droned endlessly in his ear. These days with his sister gone there was no secure shield to sit at his side and guard him against the boring conversation of the court.
He sips his wine, wishing it were low enough for Merlin to make another round by his chair. He was busy over with the knights now, the men guffawing at the comments he snarked in their ears, roughhousing as much as possible in the public setting.
At that moment, his manservant glances up at him, still half-bent to pour Gwaine’s wine, speaking far too soft for him to hear even as he can see his lips curve helplessly and his eyes glint. Gwaine promptly bursts into laughter and lifts his cup towards the king, and Arthur knows the most recent jab has been aimed at him. He raises an eyebrow and does his best to look severely unimpressed, but it only sets Merlin to giggling, ducking down behind the knight’s shoulder to hide his amusement.
Arthur mumbles something to the man next to him about needing to make his speech and fingers his cup, intending to stand, but before he does his eyes snag again on his manservant as he refills the youngest knight’s cup. Mordred flushes, stuttering something, and where once there would’ve been a scowl Merlin fills the moment with a broad smile, obviously amused by whatever is being said and playfully ruffling the boy’s hair in response. After that, the other knight’s join in, Percival swinging a large arm and tugging the druid closer to him, lifting his drink in a wide gesture for Merlin to fill. The manservant rolls his eyes and obliges.
It seemed the two had finally made their peace. Maybe Arthur’s scolding had reached Merlin after all, or, maybe, and far more likely, they’d simply needed to have it out all along, one firm fight from friendship all this time.
The noble next to him ahems delicately.
He twitches, resisting the urge to turn and “accidently” smack the old, judgmental face with his cup. He takes a breath and stands, feeling his mood darken back down.
“People of Camelot…” they quiet for him, and he holds his glass out, falling into the familiar rhythms he’d memorized a few hours ago. He was more nervous than he usually would be, used to having Merlin around to look over his speech beforehand and mark anything that needed adjusting, but the manservant had only appeared in his rooms just before the feast. Arthur had found himself hurried into his clothes by a thoroughly distracted Merlin, the man suddenly oblivious to the tension that had strung uneasily between them the past few weeks. “We celebrate today the bounty granted to us by the gods…” he rambles through the rest, taking care to keep his tone strong, but inwardly feeling something tighten within him.
He bade his people drink, and they did, and he sat down again and wondered how this night could be given to gods who weren’t here to witness it. He sips his cup and recalls the many times Mordred insisted they were ever close, and heard him, but Arthur wasn’t so sure. His only interaction with those beings known as divine had become horrible memories, flashing moments of Morgause’s axe and his mother fading, the suffering of his starving people as Anhora gave his judgement, the last glance of a dear friend as the parted veil swallowed him under the cackling glee of the Cailleach.
And what of Emrys, the god he was told he must dedicate this all to, and give repayment for his bloodlines sins? Where was he? Where had Arthur seen him but in the knife of the witch who died on this very floor, the simple reflexes of a country servant, of Merlin, all that saved him from her wrath?
He had tried to do as Mordred urged, but the more he reflected back, the more he saw magic intwined in every dark moment of his life. He remembered Morgana’s sweetness -her boundless courage matched only by her fierce heart- choking and shriveling under quest for the vengeance magic decreed she claim. He remembers the terror of the lower town under the raining fire of the dragon. Remembers his father’s features going terribly still while the old sorcerer leaned over his prone form.
He was giving his kingdom to magic, but how could he offer his life to something that had only ever sought to take it?
He couldn’t. There, in the middle of his dining hall surrounded by the merriment of his court, Arthur’s crisis of faith comes to a head, and he finds himself unwilling -unable- to submit himself to the gods.
“Sire.”
He starts at Merlin’s soft whisper, looking up into the man’s amused expression. He automatically passes back his cup. The manservant refills it obediently, but lingers, looking over the nearby nobles and seeming to sympathize with Arthur’s misery. He looks back to his king and reaches into his pocket, “I got you something.”
The king frowns at him, opening his mouth to protest whatever gleaming stone or colorful button Merlin had found and decided to bring to him like a trained raven, but what slips out instead is a small square of silky blue cloth, cool as its presented to his hands and giving him a sense of…something, like a dream he can’t quite recall.
“Where did you get this?” He asks, unsure how Merlin, though he was paid well enough, could afford something of this quality.
“It was a gift, and now I give it on to you.” The manservant smiles at him in his fond way.
Arthur wants to protest, the cloth catching his eyes again, radiant and beautiful. He can’t accept this. Merlin has likely never owned something so precious, but when he looks back up the man is still looking on him with easy affection, and Arthur would do anything to keep that expression on his face.
He opens his mouth to thank him, and the feast hall doors fly open with a resounding bang.
Merlin jerks back, splashing wine over himself, but Arthur is already turning and leaping from his chair over the table, his knights swarming to his side as courtiers rush to flee using the servants’ exit.
Before more than a handful can escape, the intruder lifts her arms and snaps her wrists, and there’s cries of despair as the heavy wood doors are slammed shut, no lock or force capable of opening them for as long as the spell holds.
Arthur takes in the young woman striding toward him. He’d expected Morgana, his sister always one for a grand entrance, but this is someone he does not know, a thin whip of a girl with dark hair and wiry limbs.
At his side, Mordred breathes out a soft gasp of recognition, “Kara.”
“You know her?” the king murmurs.
“We grew up together.” He answers, and Arthur is reminded how young Mordred truly is in that moment, that he could be so bewildered and hurt by such a betrayal, while Arthur had known little else from those he drew close to his heart.
She lifts her chin, and he knows he must play his part as king. He steps slightly out from his knights, Excalibur grasped firmly in his fist, “Who are you, and why have you disturbed the peace of my hall?”
“I am Kara of the druids,” her voice is cool and filled with disdain, a near perfect imitation of tone, and he knows her next words before she says them, “servant of the rightful queen of Camelot, and I have come to kill you for your presumption, Arthur Pendragon of the tyrants blood.” She snarls his name like a curse.
There is still time. She is still talking, not fighting, he can save them. “Kara. I know wrongs have been committed against your people and those of magic in the past by my father and myself. I have regretted those actions and taken steps to ensure they are never repeated. I have repealed the ban on magic, and I follow the old ways.”
She laughs at him, high and cruel, “You, a servant of magic, high-born king? No,” she smiles, “Magic could never accept you, would never give you the escape you crave in your cowardice.” She lifts her hands suddenly, and the servants and nobles flinch back, shrieking as her eyes burn gold and she calls on her power, “I will shake this citadel to ruin and end this slander before it can begin!”
Arthur tries to rush forward, but his legs stick fast to the stone. Around him, the knights seem in a similar problem, beginning to panic as their boots won’t lift from the floor. His court is screaming. He glares at her fiercely, trying to fight the power pressing in on him, hating it, clawing at it with all his mind and might, wishing magic had never been and he’d never had cause to know of it or of Emrys or of any petty god who wanted to use him so viciously, give him such despair.
Her chant lifts higher, voice rising till it echoes off the stone, slowly raising her arms until, suddenly, with a snap like brittle steel, everything is thrown back into motion. She gasps and falls to the ground.
Arthur staggers as his men run towards her, doors open once again and the room emptying in moments.
“She’s asleep!” Leon calls, sounding disturbed.
The king pauses, glancing at his young knight who is staring dumbly at the girl’s slumped body, sagging as he hears his comrades’ words. He’d thought her dead and been frightened. It was not his spell, then. She must have simply overtaxed herself.
“Put her in cold iron and take her to a cell.” He orders.
After that, there’s a flurry of activity, the hall needing to be sorted and a few minor injuries being rushed up to Gaius from the chaos of the fleeing scramble. The king feels his fists slowly curl.
“Sire?”
He looks over at his manservant who has suddenly appeared at his side, “You’re dismissed for the night, Merlin.” He decides suddenly.
“Sire!” he protests, following as the king makes to leave the hall, “What’s going on? What are you doing?”
“I’m going back to the Disir.” He growls over his shoulder.
He escapes as Merlin is distracted by another, forgoing all delay to gather his horse. In minutes, Arthur has left behind a half-asleep stable boy and a confused gate guard in a fast gallop toward the forest, cape streaming out behind him and crown still gleaming on his head.
He’s done being tormented by gods.
---
Merlin scrambles after his king, “Sire! What’s going on? What are you doing?”
Arthur’s next words punch all the air from his gut, “I’m going back to the Disir.”
He stumbles to a halt. Before he can regain his momentum, a hand grabs his arm and he’s spun to face a tense Mordred, the young man’s eyes wide, “Please. Please, let her live.”
The manservant blinks at him dumbly, the young sorceress already buried under thoughts of his king, “The girl? I did. She’s asleep.”
“I meant,” the knight begs, wincing, “I meant don’t let Arthur kill her. Violent magic is as much a crime as any magic once was, please, we were children together, and I’ve loved her always.”
He uses his hand to free himself from the boy’s grip, taking care to be gentle, “It is the king’s decision alone, Mordred.” He’s unsure the boy will understand, his faith ever certain. He lets go of the other’s fingers, “I need to go now. If you can speak with her when she wakes, tell her I have seen her.”
He’s not quite sure where the words come from, but he knows them to be true. He hurries away from the distraught druid, running to the stables in desperate bid to catch his king.
The horses are still half-mad from the chaos of the previous minutes, the stable hands distracted. It is easy work to sooth Llamrei with a touch, noting Hengroen’s absence as he swings into the saddle. He flings open the shut gate with a snap of his hand and is raging out into the night.
---
He catches him soon enough, seeing the red cape flaring out ahead, but checks his mount when he catches a glimpse of the king’s passionate rage. He knew Arthur in this mood, knew better than to try and reason. They gallop recklessly in the dark, and Merlin knows it’s his magic alone that clears the way, roots and stones drawing back before them.
The cave waits for them on the mountain slope, and the king jumps from Hengroen before he can stop fully, freeing his sword with a bright sting and marching into the cave.
Merlin, taking a moment to calm the animals and request their patience, scrambles after, fear stirring in his stomach.
The Disir were not to be demanded of by mortal men.
Arthur sought to play with fate, and in doing so, risked his life.
---
Arthur all but runs into the cave, sword out and gleaming, ignoring Merlin as he darts after him, snagging at his cape in desperate protest. He drives forward like a bull, swinging his arm and knocking down the wooden ornaments with each furious swipe. They clatter under his boots, and he stomps down on them, crushing their delicate frames, “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Merlin flinches at the king’s roar, following and trying to be as gentle as possible in the wake of the man’s destruction. He looks sorrowfully down at the bent and broken rune-shapes, their magic already dispersing away.
The king stands where he once knelt, glaring at the empty space before him, “SHOW YOURSELF!”
“Arthur!” Merlin protests, “Stop this!”
“WILL YOU NOT FACE ME?”
Arthur refuses to turn, shrugging his hand from his shoulder. Merlin feels his frustration begin to simmer over his worry, “The Disir are not to be called by you!” He snaps, “You’d be a fool to test the god’s mercy a second time!”
“Mercy?” Arthur suddenly hisses, rounding on him, lifting his blade almost unconsciously to point at the manservant’s chest, “What mercy have I been given? Stripped of my choice of faith, summoned here like a dog for my life?” he steps forward, forcing Merlin back, features twisted in his rage, “They nearly killed my knight!”
“They wanted you to know magic!” Merlin fires back.
“Oh,” Arthur breathes out, low and certain, “I know magic, I know what it is and all it pretends to be, forcing me to bow before it without a word of acknowledgement, making me humble my pride for the thing that stole my father from me! My sister!” his eyes are wide, breaths quick, desperate as he backs Merlin to the wall, “I know the nature of magic and it has offered me nothing but cruelty!”
The manservant stares at him, ears ringing, struggling to stay calm, “Magic has done more for you than you will ever know.” And there’s something dangerous in his voice, if Arthur could turn beyond himself to hear it.
“Then where was magic when the singer of my father’s hall threw a knife in my chair? Where was magic when Valiant tried to kill me in my first tournament? Where was magic when the lower town was poisoned by a monster, when Sigan pulled himself back from the grave to take over my kingdom, when the bastet killed my knights, when the dragon razed my city? Where was magic when I fought the wyverns of the Fisher King? Where was magic when Lancelot died?” Arthur shouts, leaning in, blade pricking Merlin’s chest, “What has magic ever done for me while I have suffered and lost and been force to watch those I love dearly do the same? I cannot follow what has abandoned me! You say it has helped me, but I’ve never seen it offer anything but pain! Where, Merlin, tell me that! Where was magic through all I faced if not far, far-“
The words are cutting into him, and he can’t any longer.
With a shuddering breath his hands snap out and take Excalibur by the blade, blood blooming over his skin as he wrenches it from his king with impossible strength and surges forward, Arthur stumbling back a step as Merlin feels his eyes burn gold, feels his power burst forth and fill the air around them, flowing up the runes of the walls in licks of light, the wooden charms shifting on the floor and rising to hover, mended, in slow motion, “HERE!” Emry’s screams back at him, voice a breaking throb, “Here and always at your side! I saved you from the witch’s knife, I revealed Valiant’s treachery, I broke Sigan’s mind! I gave the cursed girl her peace and I killed my kin the dragon for the blood you were owed! I commanded the wyverns to spare you, and Lancelot died because I told him you could not!”
Arthur is dimly aware his mouth and eyes are stretched wide in shock, knowing he should defend himself from the creature his friend has suddenly become but unable to move.
Merlin lifts Excalibur and throws it to the stone, the sound echoing between them as tears pool in his eyes, “I forged your sword and set it to rest in the waters of Avalon, brought it forth when it came time for you to begin your place on your throne, passed over the sins of your forefathers for your sake! You want to know what magic has ever done for you, Arthur?” he spits, “I left the home of my mother and lived in the city that hunted my people. I chose to clean the boots of the son of the man who razed my temples to the ground! I left the druids to be persecuted and hunted by your men! I have taken arrows meant for your heart and knives for your throat, whipping lashes for your spine and chain scars for your wrists!” with the words, he pushes up the sleeves of his thin, rough shirt, revealing the pale white of spiderweb scars up his forearms, the peppered, uneven line of circular brands from a fire poker, the deep, uneven gash of a blade. “I have withstood fire, venom, and torture. I carry the mark of the serket’s sting and the Formorahh’s hatred, and on my hands is the blood of every sorcerer I would have loved as my own had they not set their will against your life!” The manservant looks on his king with every second of the years of his devotion, and swears his next words like an oath, “I am Emrys, I am magic, and you ask what I have given you? Nothing but mercy, Arthur Pendragon.”
The king collapses. His knees give way in a heavy thud, strength leaving him, hands splayed on the stone as he stares into the cool gleam of his own blade and does not reach to take it.
The power withdraws as quickly as it came, the heat of it leaving them shivering, and Merlin too falls to the stone, heaving as he tries to steady himself, thrumming in the back of his mind as the sacred magic of this place trills within him. He closes his eyes, takes a few slow breaths, and opens them to find Arthur staring back.
The king is at a loss. His mind has gone horribly blank. He cannot think of a word he can offer, a phrase he can say, to fix this. All his anger drains into terror, “I never- I didn’t-“ he chokes and trembles, “All this time? How? Why?”
And Merlin, lovely and sweet and familiar, smiles, eyes sad, “You are my king.”
He cannot accept that, “No. No, you are…you are a god. You are above me, beyond me. I owe you my life a hundred times over, for all you have endured for my sake, when I am not worth suffering for.” Not when he’s been so blind, callous to all he’s been offered, dismissive of the pain of the man who stood beside him every day of his life.
“You asked me,” Merlin takes a shaking breath, “not long ago, why the Disir chose to judge you. I answered it was because you were worthy enough to be judged. Do you see?” he holds his hands out, blood still pooling over his skin from Excalibur’s cuts, “You are a man of honor, a living embodiment of all I hope the people of the Isle will one day be. You are my king, mine to raise, mine to set above, and mine to serve.”
Arthur stretches out his shaking hands and lays them over Merlin’s, blood pressing over them as their fingers curl together, “I didn’t understand.” The king murmurs, throat a raw scratch, “Mordred told me I would see you one day and beg repentance for my blindness, for my misplaced anger. I didn’t believe him.” He swallows, “I see now the barest hint of all you’ve done for me. All this time, I thought I was walking alone.”
“You have never been alone.” He answers softly.
The young king curls one hand, but releases with the other, snaking it into his pocket and freeing the square of silk cloth. He briefly meets the other’s eyes, and with silent motions, the two knot the blue length around their joined fingers.
“What oath would you have of me?” Arthur asks, throat raw.
“Whatever you wish to give. What you offer, I will echo a thousand times.”
The king steadies himself, “Then to you my blade, my voice, and my heart, Merlin Emrys, god of magic.”
“Then to you my hand, my knowledge, my affection, for you and all your house, Arthur Pendragon.” Emrys answers, smile faint and sweet, “As it has always been.” His eyes flame, and the silk burns to white ash, dissolving in the air without heat.
Arthur breathes out shakily, rubbing his palms against his eyes. When he looks up Merlin is standing above him, Excalibur loose by the hilt in one hand, reaching down with the other. Slowly, half-dreaming, Arthur takes the hand of his god and is raised to his feet.
The manservant embraces him, and though he carries still the king’s sword, Arthur feels no fear. He knows Merlin, has lived beside him, holds the memory of his laughter and his tears.
This trust is easy to give.