Chapter Text
“A priestess comes.”
Morgana raises an eyebrow at Arthur through her looking glass as Gwen flits around her. Her preparations for the knighting ceremony were slightly delayed by the unexpected rain during their evening ride, and Gwen was forced to work some sort of magic with her mistress’ damp hair.
“You’re sure?” she asks skeptically. “Now?”
Arthur hesitates, only for a moment. His gaze flicks to Merlin, who stands to the right of Arthur’s chair, distractedly threading licks of flame between his fingers. He leans against the wall, casual as can be in the presence of friends. At Arthur’s abrupt words, he drops the magic and straightens, eyes bright and alert.
Unlike Morgana, who still finds herself questioning Arthur’s abilities every now and then, Merlin takes Arthur’s word as truth. Merlin, more than any of them, understands.
“I’m sure,” Arthur says.
“Odd,” Guinevere murmurs. In her hands glitter several delicate hair ornaments set with emeralds. Arthur watches her cleverly weave them into Morgana’s hair. “What has drawn her here, I wonder?”
“I suppose we’re about to find out,” Merlin says simply, kicking out a chair and settling himself at Morgana’s dining room table. To Arthur, he asks, “How do you want to play this?”
Arthur purses his lips and stares out into the rainy night. Uncertainty pricks at him. If he can sense the priestess well before she reached the city walls, her power is nothing to trifle with, even when measured against Merlin’s considerable well of strength.
Her magical power itself isn’t quite what worries him. Power does not equate true evil, nor does the lack thereof imply so much as a grain of goodness. No, what makes him pause is something else entirely. The last of her kind to visit Camelot had not proven friendly. He and Merlin had made a lot of mistakes with Nimueh, namely due to inexperience and maybe in part due to overconfidence. Arthur is not keen to have a repeat of that particular near-catastrophe.
He focuses, willfully ignoring Morgana’s frosty tides and Merlin’s golden firestorm to expand his Sense beyond that of his city’s walls. This approaching priestess is not of the same caliber as Nimueh, Arthur thinks. But there is…something of Nimueh there. There’s the same sense of disciplined control about her magic, its inherent wildness compact, contained.
It doesn’t unnerve him, necessarily. He’s become accustomed to the unbound freedom of Merlin’s raw magic, as well as the calm, balanced peacefulness of the Druids’. He’s used to the chill overlaying Morgana’s. The odd rigidity of those who are formally trained to the Old Religion just…chafes, in comparison.
He appreciates that Merlin, at least, knows better than to ask what do you suppose she wants? For all Arthur’s natural acumen, discerning a sorcerer’s true intent and motivation is something well beyond his ability.
He supposes he can guess. It’s not hard to do that much, being the son of Uther Pendragon.
And having the prophesied Emrys in his employ, too, of course.
Which leads him back to Merlin’s question. How does he want to play this?
There’s wisdom in keeping his and Merlin’s abilities secret, especially when facing someone unknown and potentially untrustworthy. They’ve done so plenty of times, using surprise and their enemies’ ignorance to their advantage. In just as many cases, they’ve come clean from the start, using blunt honesty to disarm opponents. It was amazing how often those very same opponents, previously misguided and hurt, soon transformed into Arthur’s most loyal allies.
But this isn’t a rogue Druid looking for some small hope in a world that continuously delivers no such thing to his kind. This is a priestess of the Old Religion, likely trained by Nimueh herself, and who knows what Nimueh imparted to others before she…expired.
Instinct spurred by a healthy dose of caution informs Arthur’s decision. “She will not know of us,” he says firmly. His hand absently rubs at the phantom wound on his shoulder. Merlin tracks the movement, and Arthur immediately lowers his hand. “Any of us. We’ll play her game until we can figure out what she wants. And why she came.”
This time, it’s Gwen who raises objections. “Is that wise? Or safe? Perhaps we should not allow her to get so close.”
Arthur shrugs. “Better to spring the trap on our own terms, isn’t it?”
Merlin grumbles something nasty under his breath, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. “You see what I have to deal with, Gwen?” he complains. “You see why it’s so very difficult to keep this fool alive? He likes using himself as bait.”
“Stop complaining,” Arthur says blandly, unphased. “Besides, you know this is the best way to get to the heart of her visit.”
“That is beside the point. You’ll be the death of me, Arthur Pendragon.”
Arthur snorts and very pointedly does not think about the burn scar over Merlin’s heart. “Just keep an eye out, will you? And you, Guinevere? Our required presence at the knighting ceremony puts me and Morgana at a disadvantage here. Neither of us will have much room to act.”
Morgana sniffs at the reminder. Playing dutiful ward has been difficult on her, especially since coming into her magic this past year. If she had her way, she and Merlin would be practicing and honing their skills every waking hour. Arthur knows she resents most of her other responsibilities and expectations, if only because they feel worthless in comparison to her insatiable quest to learn.
“Which direction?” Merlin asks.
Good man. Arthur sometimes wonders how he’d gained such loyalty. “Southwest. She hasn’t strayed her course.”
Merlin nods. “We’ll watch,” he promises, speaking for both himself and Guinevere.
“And we’ll wait,” Guinevere agrees.
Arthur nods, turns back to the window, and hopes he won’t regret his decision.
~...~
He regrets it immediately.
Neither Merlin’s small signal nor Arthur’s own awareness of the sorceress’ magic are quite enough to prepare him for her appearance. As the chamber doors slam open, Arthur almost gapes. She’s outfitted herself head to toe in glistening armor, her stride aggressive and balanced as she approaches the dais.
An odd choice, Arthur can’t help but think, utterly baffled. Had he not known her true nature…had he not known how to identify a priestess by his Sense alone, he would not have known, or so much as guessed, she was a woman at all. Just what sort of game is she playing at?
In retrospect, he supposes he should have seen it coming.
When she tosses a gauntlet at his feet, she does not speak. The wordless challenge in the brazen gesture is as loud as a scream.
Before his father and his men; before her blood-stained sword, soaked in that of guardsmen who did nothing but stand in her path, there is no choice. Perhaps a more intelligent individual would find a way out of this, but Arthur cannot ignore the fact his honor as Camelot’s prince and protector is at risk, right here and now. If he refuses the challenge, it will be seen as weakness, cowardice. His authority will be thrown into question. All those in witness will lose respect for him, perhaps going so far as to question whether their prince is meant to hold command of their loyalty and their lives at all.
And that’s not even to mention what his father will think.
Arthur is begrudgingly impressed. The trap is sprung, and it is a bloody clever one, its jaws closing with overwhelming accuracy. The best traps are the ones that force you to lean into the role expected of you. In this, his title and all its responsibilities are their own noose.
Point to you, priestess.
Arthur feels Merlin’s gaze burning a hole into his back as he sets his jaw and bends to pick up the thrown gauntlet.
“I accept your challenge,” he announces, straightening. “If I’m to face you in combat, do me the courtesy of revealing your identity.”
The woman removes her helmet, shakes loose curls of blonde hair, and introduces herself as Morgause.
~...~
“Don’t glare at me like that, Merlin.”
“And how should I glare at you, Sire?” Merlin asks, tone tart. “Like you aren’t a pigheaded moron?” When Arthur doesn’t respond, instead raising a pointed eyebrow, his manservant sighs. He flops to a seat on the edge of Arthur’s bed. “Alright. Fine. What are you planning?”
Arthur has no plan. Not really. Or, rather, he has an inkling of one. But, see, this is why he and Merlin make such a good team. They play off each other so well they’d come up with something unintentionally brilliant.
Probably. It’s worked well in the past, in any case.
“My father’s disapproval gives us an opening,” Arthur says slowly, thinking aloud.
“To dig your own grave, maybe,” Merlin mutters. Louder, he adds, “You offered quite a bit of resistance to the king’s disapproval.”
“Because she did attack our guardsmen,” Arthur says, sobering. “I cannot let that pass unchallenged, no matter who she is. And no matter that she is a woman at all. It’s my duty.”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t mean you must duel. To the death. Why is it always to the death?”
Merlin isn’t wrong, necessarily, but Arthur is not about to cede the point so easily. “I’m beginning to wonder if you have any faith in my skills in swordplay at all, Merlin,” Arthur deadpans. He slips behind his changing screen as Merlin magically collects and throws a fresh nightshirt over the top of its panels. It almost misses, a testament to the warlock’s preoccupation with the conundrum they’re in.
“We can’t know she won’t use magic, can we?” Merlin says from the bed.
“She won’t.”
“You sound so sure.”
“I am,” Arthur says confidently. He seeks out her magic, allowing it to flood his Sense. It does not reveal much more than what he already knew. She has not moved from the “guest” chambers his father set her in. When he withdraws again, her magic leaves slick shivers that raise gooseflesh on his arms. The sensation isn’t unusual, but it bothers him, though he cannot say why.
“She follows the Code,” Arthur continues. “To the letter. Everything she is doing is quite intentional. I cannot imagine she would go through this subterfuge only to reveal herself as a sorceress at the end of it all. It would gain her nothing.” He shakes his head. “No. She has another goal. If she wanted me dead, it’d be done already. Or in a different way. She…she wants to put me under her power, somehow.”
“Call her bluff, then,” Merlin suggests.
Arthur pokes his head around his screen. He’s half out of his shirt. “That’s…”
“Risky, I know.”
“No,” Arthur muses. “No, that’s…” He trails off and pulls his shirt back on, ignoring the other garment Merlin laid out for him. Preparing for bed is the furthest thing from his mind now.
He holds Merlin’s gaze. “You’d reveal yourself for this?”
“Would you?” Merlin asks in return. “My secret doesn’t hold nearly as much weight as yours does.”
“Not unless she holds stock in the prophecies,” Arthur argues.
“Haven’t you ever wondered why only the Druids know me on sight?” Merlin asks. He shakes his head and rests his elbows on his knees. “If she doesn’t know already, then we can assume she doesn’t take stock in the prophecies. She’s lost faith, like many of the others. Perhaps she never believed in them in the first place. Not all do.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Arthur sits down next to Merlin and flops back onto his mattress, mulling over his options. He could fight Morgause on the morrow, whereupon she’d likely get the result she desired. Arthur may or may not lose face, and he’d figure out what she wanted then. Or…
He can disarm her now, lean into his father’s public disapproval of the bout as a reason to visit her before the morrow. He can resolve this without shedding any blood or playing into her hands. No weapon required. And all it would cost…
By the light of the Goddess. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders when his sense of self-preservation had become so skewed.
He blames Merlin.
~...~
“I will not withdraw,” Morgause says curtly to Merlin.
Merlin had been announced to the sorceress as a messenger from Arthur. If the guards thought it unusual that Arthur didn’t also order them to announce the crowned prince of Camelot when he entered behind Merlin, they didn’t reveal it. They obeyed their orders without question, faces unflinching as they closed the door behind their prince.
Arthur hadn’t been wrong about her arrogance. In fact, he’d been counting on it. She hadn’t even turned to receive Merlin, having already assumed he wasn’t worth her time.
Perfect.
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” Arthur drawls, stepping forward. When Morgause spins at the sound of his voice, Arthur hardly finds it within him to fight his growing smirk. “I would think a sorceress would find the castle… stifling . Wouldn’t you agree, Merlin?”
“I suppose it depends on the sorceress, my lord,” Merlin says idly, eyes locked on Morgause. He nods his head in a measure of respect toward the priestess. “My lady.”
Morgause controls her reaction well. A mask of cold stone slides into place, barring emotion from her face, but it is not enough. Arthur feels her magic roil and rise, frigid in her shock and anger. A nearly imperceptible signal from Arthur alerts Merlin to be on guard. It isn’t necessary. Merlin’s lax, slouched posture belies his readiness to act. Merlin’s always been good at that—downplaying his own abilities, often encouraging those around him to underestimate and overlook him. He does this now to the utmost effect.
Between the two of them, however, Arthur can feel the sparks and sharp edges filling the room, terrifying and thrilling and intoxicating. The two powers are so stark in their differences, so strongly different, too, each cascading in roiling waves over him, that Arthur can’t—
No. He shuts it all out, inhaling and exhaling evenly through his nose. Keep your head, Pendragon , he tells himself. You’ve mastered this.
Morgause barks humorless laugh. “I beg your pardon?” she asks, sounding affronted. “What kind of foolishness is this, Pendragon?”
To her credit, she sounds far more mocking than she does uneasy. “It’s not a threat,” Arthur answers, rubbing his arms unconsciously. Once he realizes what he’s doing, he folds his arms and clenches his fingers. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
The priestess regards him coolly. “If not a threat,” she says, “then it is a very serious accusation you make.”
“Not an accusation either, priestess. Merely leveling the playing field.”
The growing wariness in Morgause’s eyes does not quite alleviate the harsh cast there. Her gaze flicks to Merlin and then back to Arthur. The silence extends for so long Arthur fears he may have overplayed his hand.
Finally, however, Morgause cracks. “How did you know?” she asks.
As always, Arthur's chest flutters with an inescapable and ingrained panic. Forcefully, he reminds himself that he's already made his decision. He's already weighed his options and decided that this was the best one.
“It’s a talent of mine,” Arthur says obliquely, watching her with careful vigilance. Once it's out, the panic abates, and he feels a modicum of control return to him. “You have a very distinct magic. Nimueh held some sway in your training, did she not?”
Morgause’s widened eyes and sharp intake of breath betray her. Again, her magic spikes in alarm, icicles of power pricking through Arthur’s awareness, despite his effort to keep her out. To her credit, the instinctive response is soon quelled. “This…” she says softly. “This should not surprise me as much as it does. A unique gift, Arthur Pendragon. Unique indeed.”
Arthur almost falters, caught up in the interesting statement. His curiosity flares, but he pushes it aside. She’s off-balance now, and he cannot allow her to regain a foothold. “Why continue this farce, Morgause?” he asks, pressing his advantage. “Why fight or spill blood, when I can ask you directly what it is you wish of me?”
Morgause frowns, and her cold walls slam back into place. “That remains to be seen. Answer me this,” she says, tone dangerous and low. “Who is Nimueh to you?”
Merlin answers for Arthur. “Her hunt for revenge drove her a little too close to the sun.”
Morgause’s eyes flash with anger, and she whips to Merlin with her lips pulled back into a snarl. “You hold a high opinion of yourself to speak so dismissively of a High Priestess, serving boy!”
“Careful, priestess,” Arthur says, voice deceptively calm. “This serving boy defeated Nimueh on the Isle of the Blessed, the very seat of your proclaimed power.”
Morgause freezes in place, staring at Merlin as though she was seeing him for the first time. Eventually, she releases a strangled hiss of, "Emrys .”
Merlin inclines his head, and something cracks in Morgause’s expression. Resignation, perhaps? Bewilderment? Some measure of awe? Whatever it is, it softens her, if only in the way fog appears to soften a slab of stone in the distance.
“Well,” Morgause says, straightening. “Myths take flesh, and old powers work against me. I do believe I have been outplayed here.” A snide smile curls at her lips. “What a secret to bear, Arthur Pendragon. Your father does not know, I assume?”
“Why should he?” Arthur says, as though it doesn’t matter one way or another. “It is for me to bear, after all. And for me to use as I see fit.”
“Indeed,” Morgause muses, her gaze darting about his face. Arthur feels naked under her scrutiny, as though she can see straight through him. “Most fascinating.”
“I suppose we find ourselves at a stalemate, then, don’t we?” Arthur says. “I know a secret that would force you from the city, should I go public with the information. And I have given one to you in turn. What will you do now?”
“Will you yield to Arthur?” Merlin asks.
“No,” Morgause says slowly. She shakes off her daze, snapping into focus. She doesn’t quite sneer at Merlin, but it’s a close thing. “No, I will not. Not unless…” She eyes Arthur again, speculative.
“I am here to hear your terms,” Arthur prompts. “What will it take for you to withdraw? To leave the city in peace?”
“Come to me three days hence,” Morgause says. “And I will leave tonight.”
What an odd request. “For what purpose?”
“That is not for you to know until you arrive.”
“No deal,” Arthur snaps immediately, and he can feel the tension drain from Merlin. “I will not walk myself into a trap of this nature.”
“Peace, Pendragon,” Morgause soothes. “I will be frank: I find it difficult to reveal what I wish of you until I can show you. Some things…cannot be explained in mere words, and there are so few places left in the world that hold the power I require for this particular explanation.”
“You think I do not understand magic?” Arthur says, raising his eyebrows. “I cannot wield it, Morgause, but do not mistake me for a fool. I can feel it—in you and all around us, even as we speak, for almost my entire life—and what I cannot understand for myself, I have Emrys himself to help me do so. You will need to do better to convince me I need to see whatever it is you want me to see. Otherwise, words will have to suffice.”
“Have you never wondered, Prince Arthur?” Morgause demands, her calm shattered by a surprising and sudden blaze of passion. “Have you never wondered why? Why you are what you are?”
Arthur stills, heartbeat skipping. An old and painful yearning rises to prod viciously at ragged holes he’d long since accepted within himself. The holes are more vulnerable and raw than they have any right to be. “Speak plainly,” he growls, flushing with anger. “You did not know what I was until this very night.”
“What you’ve told me only makes it all the more vital that you meet with me!” Morgause exclaims. “It proves I am right to show you this, for now I cannot deny its truth.”
“You wished to show me something that could have proven false?” Arthur demands with a bite of dark humor. Morgause doesn’t rise to the bait, her jaw set. Arthur snorts, intentionally dismissive. “Why am I not surprised.” He waves a hand. “Come, Merlin. Let’s not waste any more of our time.” To the priestess, he says, “I’ll see you on the field, Morgause.”
Morgause steps after Arthur as he turns. “I couldn’t have known if it were true or false,” she says. “How could I? I did not bear witness to this information firsthand. But now? After what you’ve revealed to me, now I know. This is something that cannot remain hidden from you any longer."
Arthur pauses, finally hearing what he had intended to coax out of her. Conviction. Not a half-answer or a misleading promise. Not a hint of further deception. She believes what she says.
What it would be like, Arthur wonders, to finally understand. To experience the peace Merlin had when he first shook Arthur’s hand, or when he finally decided for himself that he accepted the prophecies tying him and his magic to Arthur, or when he finally found the purpose for all the power he’d been given.
Arthur does not believe he’s ever faced temptation such as this. By the gods, he thinks, a sense of anticipation and desire opening its maw deep within his chest. To finally know. To have an answer to a question he no longer dared to ask, for fear of disappointment and the ever-beckoning rabbit hole of obsession.
He isn’t sure he trusts Morgause, not entirely. He cannot forget that this may not end well for any of them. He still isn’t sure he understands why she’s offering to answer his questions in the first place. Agreeing to go to her will likely be the stupidest thing he has ever done, in all truth, but this is also an opportunity he cannot ignore. When will a chance like this ever come again?
Back to the priestess, Arthur meets Merlin’s clear blue eyes, begging him to understand.
He finds no judgment or censure there.
Grateful beyond words for Merlin’s unwavering support and careful not to show it, Arthur faces Morgause again. “Three days,” he concedes. “Leave the city by dawn, and Merlin and I will be there.”
Morgause cuts a sharp look at Merlin. “I never agreed to Emrys’ presence.”
“He goes where I go,” Arthur says. “This is nonnegotiable.”
A light sneer distorts Morgause’s face, and Arthur can hear what she’s thinking. The impotent prince and his pet sorcerer , the others have said, time and time again. This is the Once and Future King? So weak without the might of Emrys at his beck and call? And Emrys, so foolish to choose this prince as his destiny?
Well, let her think it. She is not the first to see Merlin and Arthur’s relationship as a crippling codependency or a weakness to be exploited. Arthur doesn’t expect she’ll be the last.
“I don’t see why it matters if I’m there,” Merlin points out, “so long as you’re true to your word and bear Arthur no ill will.”
“Your presence is an unwelcome complication,” Morgause says flatly.
“Great,” Merlin says, far more cheerful than the situation calls for. “I always strive for that.”
Morgause stares at him, more incredulous than frustrated. “Your magic may impact what it is I wish to show the Pendragon, simply by being in the mere vicinity. I cannot know. You are a wild card I did not anticipate.” She folds her arms, fingers of her left hand tapping contemplatively against her right bicep.
“There is one more thing I would ask of you,” Morgause finally says, “if I am to allow both of you to come.”
“I think we’re done bargaining,” Arthur says curtly. “Your departure from Camelot for my promise to come to you in three days. That is all there is to it.”
“Then think of this as a friendly request,” Morgause counters. “A show of good faith. I am going to be allowing a strange, powerful sorcerer into my domain, after all. You have little reason to trust me. I understand. I see you do not distrust me because I possess magic. You distrust me because I am still a stranger to you. As are you to me. You must understand I am compromising my safety by meeting you as well.”
Arthur grimaces. She does have some ground to stand on there, he supposes, especially since Merlin…well, Merlin did blast her mentor with lightning.
“The request?” Arthur asks hesitantly.
Morgause draws herself up. “I would speak to Uther Pendragon’s ward.”
Arthur’s eyebrows rise. What? “Morgana? ” he repeats, just to be sure he’d understood. “What could you possibly…?”
He trails off. Suspicion lashes at his skin like a brisk winter wind coming in off the mountains, and it clicks, somehow, at once impossible and also all too obvious to him now that he has made the connection.
No wonder. No bloody wonder. Morgause’s magic didn’t just remind him of Nimueh’s. Oh no. At its core, beyond the inflexible and demanding control she’d been trained into, it…it reminded him of Morgana’s.
“You’re kin,” Arthur realizes aloud. He sees the confirmation in Morgause’s stunned look, in the flood of vulnerability in her eyes. “Hell,” he breathes. “How?”
Morgause hesitates, then unravels her arms to dangle her left wrist before Arthur. He steps forward and studies the band of metal she wore there. It’s a beautiful piece, and Arthur’s immediately captivated by the delicate lacework of enchantment wrought into the band.
“Blessings?” he muses aloud, cocking his head. His fingers ache to touch the artifact, but he withstrains himself. “Not full protection charms, I should think? I’ve not seen anything like this.”
“I–” Morgause starts. She pauses, staring at him. She looks discomfited, uncertain. “I am showing you the markings, Arthur Pendragon. The physical ones.”
Heat floods Arthur’s cheeks. He ignores Merlin’s huff of laughter at his side. “Oh. Right.” Refocusing, he traces the marks with his eyes and recognizes them. “The Great House of Gorlois.”
“Yes,” Morgause whispers.
“Sisters?” Merlin asks in an undertone to Arthur.
Arthur jerks a nod, stunned. It must be the case. Morgana’s father had no male siblings, he recalls in a rush. His nearest cousins were women. As such, he was the only male heir to pass on his family name, the last to claim any right to the estates of Tintagel. Morgause is no cousin, either, and he doubts she could be an illegitimate child. Gorlois famously only ever loved one woman, and it is said that Vivienne was a woman whose grace and beauty was immortalized in many a bard’s ballad.
He wonders what happened. Why Morgause was never claimed as a legitimate heir. Why Morgana never knew, why and how Morgause ended up on the Isle of the Blessed while Morgana ended up in the Pendragon household.
The entire business sings of conspiracy and secrets, and Arthur knows how he must answer.
“If Morgana wishes to meet you,” Arthur says slowly, “I will not stand in her way. This is between you and she. It is not for me to decide.”
A true smile, broad and gleaming, splits Morgause’s face, but Arthur is not done, protectiveness rising like a flood within him. “But I will ask you to wait to approach her until after our bargain is complete.”
Morgause’s smile sours, but it does not necessarily look any less genuine. “You really do not trust me.”
“I do not,” Arthur admits openly. “I will give Morgana a full account of what happens here between us. And then she can decide.”
A sly gleam alights Morgause’s eye. “I see you do not trust her either.”
“I trust that she’d jump into your arms without a second thought if it meant you could teach her more about her magic and heritage,” Arthur deadpans.
“Is that not what you are doing yourself, right now?” Morgause asks, amused.
Arthur snorts. “I never said I don’t understand why she would, or that I’d begrudge her that, if that’s what she chooses,” he says. “But here’s the thing, priestess. I know her. I do not know you. I will, though, by the end of this.”
To Arthur’s surprise, Morgause tosses her head back and laughs. Her laughter is a quiet thing, like an autumn breeze rustling through the upper boughs of a tree. “I am pleased she has someone to care for her as you do, Arthur Pendragon,” Morgause admits, once she’s done laughing. “It is a comfort. I did not expect that, in this place.”
“Most don’t,” Merlin says, and after a brief hesitation, he admits, “I didn’t either.”
Morgause and Merlin hold each other’s eyes. Before, they behaved like two strange cats, backs arched as feral hisses built in the backs of their throats. Now, Arthur thinks he sees blossoming interest and a modicum of respect when Morgause looks upon the other sorcerer.
Her magic has settled, in any case. Arthur considers that progress.
“This does change much,” Morgause muses. “It may change everything.” To Arthur, she says, “Three days, princeling.”
“I will keep my word,” Arthur promises, and with a short nod, Morgause begins collecting the few items strewn about the room, obviously preparing what she needed to leave. “Stop by the kitchens before you go,” he adds, on impulse. “I’ll send word to Audrey to leave you something for your journey.”
Morgause starts, shooting Arthur a surprised glance. “You do me a kindness,” she says.
Arthur nods and turns to leave. He doesn’t turn back when Morgause gently calls, “ Emrys? A moment?”
Merlin hangs back, somewhat reluctant, and Arthur steps from the room, gesturing to one of the guards. He almost spins in his tracks when he senses a brief flare and spiral of cool and crisp magic from within, but in the presence of the guards, he’s forced to stay still and keep his tongue. By the time he gives them half-distracted orders to see Morgause to the kitchens and out to the stables, Merlin has returned to his side, palming something in his right hand.
Whatever it is, it has the taste of dusty roads, the sensation of mist spraying against skin, and the feeling of wanderlust about its magic.
Arthur smiles. Something to show them the way.