The unicorn

by The_green_fairy

Summary:

1X11 rewrite. Merlin managed to save the unicorn but in the process ends up stranded with Arthur in the forest injured, isolated, and cold in one of Camelot’s worst storm of the century. Setting off a changed future.

Chapter 1

Merlin had always harbored a deep-seated aversion to hunting. This sentiment lingered even in his formative years in Ealdor. As the summer sun bathed the village in warmth, his peers would parade about, brandishing their newly acquired weapons in eager anticipation of the hunting season. Merlin found himself preoccupied with the merchants’ sale of seeds—a matter of far greater significance to him.

His affinity for gardening overshadowed any inclination towards the hunt.

Merlin’s knowledge cultivated a sense of worth that often eluded him in Camelot. He was acutely aware of Arthur’s destiny, yet the role of a servant frequently left him feeling diminished and disheartened. More often than not, he longed for the solace of soil between his fingers, nurturing seedlings, rather than polishing armor or saddling Arthur’s steed. Using magic to create had always been preferable.

It was lamentable that he had not yet been able to devote his full energies to Gaius, for he had eagerly anticipated the opportunity to expand his healing skills. However, the majority of his time had been consumed by learning aggressive magic, perilous rescues of Arthur, and the slaying of formidable creatures.

The last place Merlin desired to find himself was amidst a hunting party, even in the company of Arthur. His magic endowed him with a profound connection to nature, and as the castle receded from view, enveloped by the embrace of the forest, he could sense the magic pulsating around them.

The forest held a reverence for both Merlin and Arthur, albeit in different ways.

On this serene day, the weather was ideal for hunting, and the forest exuded a refreshing chill that invigorated all, yet the tranquility was fleeting in the presence of a hunting party. They were on the prowl for blood, and soon the dogs picked up a scent.

Typically, Merlin would seize upon the ensuing chaos to slip away undetected, but Arthur kept him close at hand, commanding him to flush out whatever creature they were pursuing. Consequently, Merlin found himself with no choice but to comply, reluctantly assuming the role of bait.

With an assertive shove, Arthur propelled him forward. Upon breaking through the tree line, Merlin found himself face to face with a unicorn.

While unicorns were predominantly viewed as symbols of purity, Merlin understood their true essence: they embodied magic. The guardian of the forest, whose presence was meant to be a harbinger of blessings, stood before him, frozen in time. For several moments, he could only gaze in awe, rendered speechless.

Then, a wave of primal panic surged through him, seemingly emanating from the unicorn itself. In an instinctive reaction, he dashed towards the magnificent creature. The unicorn remained oblivious until he grasped its mane, imploring it to flee.

“Go, please go,” he urged desperately, but the unicorn merely sidestepped, whinnying and stamping its hooves. Though he was no expert in horseback riding, particularly without a saddle, he understood the urgency of the moment.

With a firm grip on the luxurious mane—perhaps a bit tighter than necessary—he summoned all his momentum and core strength to swing himself onto the unicorn’s back.

Finally, the unicorn sprang into motion, its speed so swift that Merlin struggled to maintain his hold. Amid the sound of crunching leaves, he heard Arthur calling his name, and he clung on tighter as the unicorn bolted forward.

The forest transformed into a vibrant blur as the unicorn accelerated, and Merlin gritted his teeth, acutely aware of his precarious grip. The wind assaulted his face, and he could hardly discern the passage of time, entrapped as he was atop one of magic's oldest beings. All he could hear was the thunderous pounding of hooves and the rapid beat of his own heart.

Eventually, the unicorn, fatigued, stumbled, sending Merlin flying off its back. He managed to save himself by tightening his hold on the mane, yet his feet dragged painfully across the ground.

For an excruciatingly lengthy moment, he dangled in this position, until he felt the inevitable slip. The unicorn reared up, shaking him off, and he tumbled to the earth, an ungainly roll that was anything but graceful.

It was only when he came to a complete halt that he became acutely aware of the pain. Breathing out was manageable, but inhaling proved to be a struggle. A ringing echoed in his ears as the unicorn regarded him with an unwavering gaze.

He struggled to rise, the world swirling chaotically around him. Pain radiated from his side, prompting him to feel blindly for the source of his injury. With sinking horror, he discovered an arrow protruding from his flesh.

As he raised his gaze to ascertain the presence of the unicorn, he was met with ominous, rolling clouds of deep black, accompanied by a rising wind. The unicorn had vanished, and the agony in Merlin’s side intensified, doubling in severity.

Merlin found it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open as the first drops of rain began to fall. He cursed his misfortune, attempting to inch his way beneath a nearby tree, but each movement sent waves of excruciating pain coursing through him. He was unable to examine his wound; even the act of breathing left him utterly fatigued.

Just as his vision began to dim, he heard his name being called out with a desperation that momentarily stirred him from his stupor. Arthur was calling for him?

The heavens opened, unleashing a torrential downpour that forced Merlin to shut his eyes against the deluge. He could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness, surrendering to it willingly, preferring this respite over the relentless pain that consumed him

With unwavering concentration and remarkable agility, he navigates the forest, skillfully avoiding any potential tripping hazards. The crossbow in his grip rattles softly against his lightweight armor, a testament to the urgency of his pursuit.

-------

Arthur, an exiled hunter with years of rigorous training in the art of tracking, accelerates his pace as he follows the trail marked by broken branches.

His senses sharpen as he approaches his quarry. Suddenly, a flash of pure white catches his eye, prompting him to swiftly draw his bow. Without a moment’s hesitation, he takes aim and releases the arrow.

The sound of the shot echoes through the trees, striking true, a triumphant affirmation of his skill and dedication.

As he emerged from the shelter of the trees, his eyes scanned the landscape with fervor, searching intently for his prey. The only sound that accompanied him was the relentless thundering of his own heartbeat.

Eventually, his gaze was drawn to a fleeting glimpse of crimson, nearly obscured by the dense foliage of the forest.

“Merlin!?” Arthur gasped, collapsing painfully to his knees upon the sodden ground. The rain poured down in torrents, drenching him to the bone within mere moments; yet, the chill of the water was the least of his concerns.

He found himself transfixed in a state of abject horror as he beheld the arrow embedded in Merlin's side—a cruel reminder that it had originated from his own bow.

Merlin's lips had already begun to exhibit a bluish hue as Arthur grappled to lift him, desperately seeking shelter. It was evident that returning to Camelot amidst this relentless downpour was no longer an option. With great effort, he stumbled over his own feet, narrowly avoiding the near calamity of dropping Merlin.

However, his gaze was drawn to a nearby rock formation that promised refuge from the now torrential rain. Although it lacked the depth of a cave, it was sufficiently sheltered to provide some respite from the deluge.

Shivering from the cold, Arthur reluctantly shed his light armor, the metal now icy and burdensome against his skin. He then turned his attention to Merlin, carefully examining the shaft of the arrow embedded in his right side. The injury appeared severe, and Arthur understood that it was likely the cause of Merlin's labored breathing.

“You fool!” Arthur muttered bitterly, uncertain whether he directed his ire towards himself or Merlin. Though he lacked healing expertise, he understood that removing the arrow would be unwise. Instead, he meticulously cleansed the wound, gently dabbing away the blood that began to pool around it.

Merlin’s skin was icy to the touch, and he shivered more violently than Arthur himself. The sound of Merlin’s chattering teeth echoed in the dimming shelter.

Arthur knew he needed to ignite a fire, yet the relentless downpour outside cast doubt on his chances of success. A wave of helplessness washed over him, but he resolutely shook it off.

Determined, he began to scour the shelter, unearthing a handful of dried leaves, some twigs, and a few larger pieces of wood. Gathering everything he could find, he set to work on kindling a fire.

They would have to endure the night together in their vulnerability, and the least he could do was provide some warmth. Guilt gnawed at his conscience as he observed Merlin’s pitiable state.

His fingers trembled as he fumbled with the flint, desperately attempting to ignite a flame. It slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground. Arthur cursed under his breath, his gaze involuntarily drawn to Merlin’s still form as he retrieved the lighter.

A profound wave of despair enveloped him, leaving him with a sense of utter helplessness. Had he, in his moment of foolishnes, extinguished the life of the very individual in Camelot who possessed the courage to challenge his authority and confront him?

This realization weighed heavily upon his conscience, rendering him both remorseful and angry. The implications of his actions loomed large. He had sent Merlin into the fray and carelessly injured him perhaps even killed him.

Suddenly, a bright flame erupted, illuminating the dimness where once lay soggy wood. Startled, he glanced at Merlin, only to catch a glimpse of the sorcerer's golden eyes fluttering shut.

Well, damn, Arthur thought, momentarily stupefied. Did he truly witness what he believed he had seen? Was that merely a trick of light, or had Merlin just performed magic? If Merlin possessed such powers, he surely wouldn’t be in Camelot, nor would he occupy the role of the prince’s servant.

With renewed fervor, Arthur tended to the fire, coaxing it into a roaring inferno. He swiftly disrobed Merlin, leaving him clad only in his undergarments, and pulled him close to the warmth of the flames.

Outside, the storm continued to rage, and whenever the wind gusted, it would hiss menacingly against the fire, adding an ominous note to their predicament.

Arthur’s eyelids grew heavy, yet he fought to remain awake. The rain persisted, accompanied by the relentless clattering of Merlin's teeth. With a pang of guilt, Arthur inched closer to Merlin, offering his body heat as a silent apology.

He settled into a comfortable position, overcoming his embarrassment as he drew Merlin near, ever mindful of his wound. At last, the shivering subsided slightly, lulled by the warmth of the fire and Merlin’s presence, he drifted off into a troubled sleep.

--

It was the biting cold that roused him from his slumber. Outside, the tempest continued its furious onslaught, yet Arthur found himself greeted by an unobstructed view of the flickering flames. However, the presence of his loyal servant, Merlin, was conspicuously absent, leaving an unsettling void where he had once lay.

Panic surged through Arthur's veins as he meticulously scanned the confines of their modest shelter, desperately seeking any sign of Merlin's whereabouts. His heart raced as he found only emptiness, a chilling realization dawning upon him; he was utterly alone. Numbly, Arthur pulled himself upright, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach.

"Merlin!" he called out, his voice echoing into the storm as he resolved to brave the elements once more. Had his companion, perhaps driven by the delusions stemming from his injury, ventured into the merciless tempest?

With uncertainty gnawing at his mind, Arthur completed his frantic survey of the shelter, confirming his solitude. Resolute in his determination to locate Merlin, he hastily donned his chain mail and damp garments, seizing his compound bow before stepping into the howling winds.

“Merlin!” he bellowed, his voice mingling with the cacophony of the storm as he exited the shelter. His eyes darted across the forest floor, a mix of hope and trepidation flooding his thoughts as he pondered what he might discover amidst the relentless rain.

The deluge fell with such ferocity that visibility was severely compromised. Stumbling forward, Arthur sought refuge beneath a massive tree, using the brief respite from the downpour to continue his search for any trace of his friend.

Then, his keen eyes caught a glimmer of something in the distance. With an instinctive surge of urgency, he found himself racing towards it, propelled by an unwavering commitment to uncover the fate of Merlin.

Towering majestically above Merlin stood a pure white unicorn, its radiant presence seemingly commanding the storm to part around them in a display of unparalleled magic.

Arthur found himself frozen in place, captivated by the extraordinary scene unfolding before him.

Was this the work of Merlin’s magic or the unicorn’s?

Sensing the turmoil within him, the unicorn began to stomp its hooves, mirroring Arthur’s inner conflict. As he gazed into the unicorn’s wise eyes, a torrent of emotions swelled within him.

He knew he shouldn’t plead for help from a creature of such magic, yet desperation spilled forth from his lips. “Please, if you possess the power to save him, don’t let Merlin die. He doesn’t deserve this; I was the one who—” Arthur stepped closer to the unicorn, his voice trembling. “I was the one who did this. I’ve killed my…” He faltered, the weight of despair thick in his throat. “I killed my friend. I implore you.” He knelt down, bowing his head in profound guilt.

With his head lowered, he pleaded, “You must have magic, and there must be a reason you’re here. I swear to you, if you save him, I will make any harm to unicorns a punishable offense in Camelot when I’m king.”

The unicorn regarded Arthur with intelligent eyes that took his breath away. In a gesture of empathy, it knelt, mirroring his position. Arthur watched in awe as tears streamed from the unicorn's eyes, cascading down its strikingly white coat and pooling onto Merlin’s wounds.

As the tears touched the arrow embedded in Merlin’s side, the projectile was gradually expelled, escaping with a pop and falling to the ground as the wounds sealed completely.

Arthur could feel the weight of his words sway the unicorn, and he was acutely aware of the promise he had made.

At last, Merlin’s eyes fluttered open, but to Arthur’s dismay, he watched in horror as they shifted from gold to blue. Merlin appeared disoriented, his gaze glazed over as confusion marred his features.

“Arthur!” Merlin gasped, taking in the bewildering situation.

Seeing him alive filled Arthur with a whirlwind of emotions, and without thinking, he pulled Merlin close. It was a miracle that he was both dry and miraculously healed. How could he possibly explain this to Merlin, let alone to Camelot?

Arthur swallowed hard, searching for the wound until he felt nothing but smooth skin beneath his fingertips. With a heavy heart, he confessed, “I shot you, Merlin.” The shame of his actions weighed heavily on his conscience as he spoke, leaving him aching with regret.

“Why am I—uh—still in my underwear?” Merlin quipped, a flush of color adorning his cheeks as he comfortingly placed a hand upon Arthur's shoulder.

Though the storm had long since dissipated, the aftermath was a stark testament to its ferocity, with the forest now a tapestry of debris and destruction. Arthur felt akin to the forest, stripped bare, even as Merlin stood before him, quite literally exposed.

“Get up, Merlin,” Arthur commanded, lending him a hand to help him stand.

A conflict raged within Arthur: should he confront Merlin directly or allow time to unveil the truth? While he felt a profound relief that Merlin had survived, he knew they owed that miracle to magic itself. It left a pit in his stomach and panic rising.

Both the unicorn and Merlin exhibited signs of magic. And he had promised, once king, he would provide a sanctuary and freedom for magical creatures. Yet he was acutely aware that such promises would likely elicit scorn from his father. Nevertheless, the prospect of his father's ire was the least of his concerns at this moment.

Arthur guided Merlin back to their temporary shelter, gesturing toward the semi-dry clothes that awaited him. As Merlin dressed in silence, Arthur was left to grapple with his turbulent thoughts.

The sun now shone brilliantly, and the sheer normality of the day felt overwhelming. Arthur's eyes began to tingle as he forced himself to breathe deeply.

He resolved not to condemn Merlin until he was certain of his magical nature. Those golden eyes could very well be a symptom of the healing magic. Yet, what could possibly explain the fire and the transformation of his gaze? The uncertainty loomed large in his mind, undefined and unresolved.

“Arthur, what transpired?” Merlin's voice was low and soothing, yet it seemed to have the opposite effect. Arthur found himself spared from answering as the remainder of the hunting party burst through the tree line.

His gaze immediately sought out Leon, who was predictably at the forefront of the group.

“There you two are,” Leon exclaimed, breathless, the squelch of his boots echoing with each step as he approached. “It seems you found more shelter than some of the others, my Lord,” he added with a hint of bemusement.

“Is everyone accounted for?” Arthur inquired, scanning the assembled party.

Leon nodded affirmatively. “Yes, sire. A few bumps and scrapes, but relatively unharmed.”

“Good,” Arthur replied, dismissing Leon with a slight gesture before turning back to Merlin. He was struck by how ordinary Merlin appeared, with his ever-present neckerchief and those endearing ears.

“Will you not tell me what occurred?” Merlin pressed earnestly.

“No,” Arthur snapped curtly, leaving Merlin standing there, momentarily frozen in place. He then proceeded to check in with the remaining members of the party as they made their way back to Camelot, albeit a day later than originally anticipated.

Upon their arrival in the city, the guards promptly escorted Arthur directly to the king. Uther, seated upon the throne, exhibited the marks of age, stirring a tide of emotions within Arthur. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on him; soon he would ascend to the throne and would need to fulfill the promises he had made, lest the blessings he currently enjoyed be rescinded.

Once Uther was assured of Arthur’s well-being, he commanded a feast to be prepared. Starving, Arthur offered no objections, yet he consumed his meal hastily, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of his own.

As Arthur’s head met the pillow that night, he resolved to scrutinize Merlin’s every action. If he were indeed a sorcerer, Arthur would unearth undeniable proof he needed before making any accusation.

Chapter 2

The days following their return from the hunt passed in a haze of normalcy that felt anything but normal to Arthur. He found himself watching Merlin's every gesture, cataloguing each moment that might betray magical abilities. Yet Merlin seemed frustratingly ordinary—fumbling with armor, spilling wine, tripping over his own feet with the same endearing clumsiness as always.

It was maddening.

"You're staring again," Morgana observed one evening as they sat in the great hall. Arthur had been watching Merlin serve dinner, noting how the servant's hands never lingered too long over any task, never showed that telltale golden flicker he'd glimpsed by the fire.

"I don't know what you mean," Arthur replied, though his eyes remained fixed on Merlin's retreating form.

Morgana's laugh held no humor. "You've been watching him like a hawk watches a mouse. What happened on that hunt, Arthur?"

Before Arthur could deflect, their conversation was interrupted by a commotion near the castle gates. Raised voices, the clatter of hooves, and then—screaming.

They rushed outside to find chaos. Tom, the blacksmith, lay bleeding in the courtyard, surrounded by guards and his daughter Gwen. A crossbow bolt protruded from his shoulder.

"Assassin!" someone shouted. "He tried to kill the king!"

Arthur's blood ran cold as he took in the scene. This felt orchestrated, too convenient. His father emerged from the castle, face thunderous with rage.

"Seize him," Uther commanded. "This sorcerer will burn for his treachery."

"He's not a sorcerer!" Gwen cried, clutching her father's hand. "He's innocent!"

But Arthur could see his father's mind was already made up. Tom would die, guilty or not, as an example. The king's paranoia had only worsened with age.

Later that night, as the castle settled into uneasy sleep, Merlin slipped through the shadows toward Morgana's chambers. He'd been wrestling with his conscience for hours, knowing what he had to do even as every instinct screamed against it.

He found her by her window, staring out at the courtyard where Tom's blood still stained the stones.

"He's going to execute an innocent man," she said without turning around.

"I know." Merlin's voice was barely a whisper. "Morgana, I need to tell you something. Something that could get us both killed."

She turned then, and he saw his own desperation reflected in her eyes. Here was someone else who saw the injustice, who felt the weight of Uther's tyranny.

"I have magic," he said simply. "And I think... I think you might too."

The words hung between them like a bridge neither could uncross. Morgana's sharp intake of breath told him everything he needed to know.

"The nightmares," she whispered. "They come true. I dreamed of Tom's arrest three nights ago."

"We can save him," Merlin said urgently. "Together. But we need to get him away from Camelot before dawn. I know a place—my village, Ealdor. He'll be safe there."

Morgana studied his face in the moonlight. "Why are you trusting me with this?"

"Because," Merlin said, thinking of the unicorn's wise eyes, of Arthur's desperate plea for magic to save rather than destroy, "sometimes we have to choose who we want to become. And I'd rather face that choice with someone who understands what it's like to hide what you are."

As they began planning Tom's escape, neither noticed the figure watching from the shadows of the corridor—Arthur, who had followed Merlin through the castle, finally getting the answers he'd been seeking, though not in the way he'd expected.

Arthur's blood ran cold as he pressed himself against the stone wall outside Morgana's chambers, his heart hammering so loudly he was certain it would give him away. The conversation he'd just overheard replayed in his mind like a nightmare he couldn't wake from.

Merlin having magic—that he had suspected, even prepared himself for after witnessing those golden eyes by the fire. But Morgana? His father's ward, the woman he'd grown up alongside, who sat at their table every night and laughed at Uther's stories while magic users burned in the courtyard below?

"We have to be careful," Morgana's voice drifted through the door, barely audible. "If your magic can heal Tom's wounds from the branding, we might be able to get him out of the city before—"

"Before they execute him for something he didn't do," Merlin's voice finished, bitter with frustration. "I know. But Morgana, if we're caught—"

"Then we face the consequences together."

Arthur's hands clenched into fists. Together. How long had they been conspiring? How many times had he sat between them at feasts, completely oblivious that two of the people closest to him possessed the very power his father had spent decades trying to eradicate?

The irony wasn't lost on him. Just days ago, he'd knelt before a unicorn and sworn to protect magical creatures when he became king. Now he discovered that oath might extend to protecting the two people who meant more to him than he'd ever dared admit—even to himself.

But the betrayal cut deep. Every moment they'd shared felt tainted now. Every time Morgana had comforted him after a particularly brutal execution, every time Merlin had looked him in the eye and deflected questions about unexplained occurrences with that insufferable grin—they'd been lying to him.

And yet... hadn't he been preparing to lie to them as well? His promise to the unicorn was something he could never share with his father, something that would brand him as a traitor to everything Camelot stood for.

Arthur closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the cold stone. Tom the blacksmith was innocent—he knew this in his bones, just as he knew his father would never listen to reason when it came to magic. If Morgana and Merlin could save an innocent man's life, did it matter that they were using the very power that had taken his mother from him?

The sound of movement from within the chamber made him straighten. He needed to decide, and quickly. He could walk away, pretend he'd heard nothing, and let events unfold as they would. He could burst in and confront them, demand answers and explanations that might destroy the fragile bonds between them forever.

Or...

Arthur's jaw tightened as a third option crystallized in his mind. One that terrified him even as it felt inevitable.

He could help them.

Footsteps approached the door, and Arthur quickly stepped back into the shadows, his mind racing. If he was going to become the kind of king who protected magical creatures, perhaps it was time to start protecting magical people as well.

Even if those people had been lying to him all along.

Arthur waited until their voices faded down the corridor before slipping away, his mind already formulating a plan. If Merlin and Morgana were going to save Tom, they'd need more than magic—they'd need a distraction, a way out of the city, and most importantly, they'd need someone to ensure the guards weren't looking too closely at the right moment.

By the time he reached his chambers, Arthur had decided on his approach. He wouldn't confront them—not yet. Instead, he would become their unknowing accomplice, smoothing their path while gathering the proof he needed to understand the full extent of their abilities.

The next morning, Arthur made his way to the throne room where his father was reviewing Tom's case with the court physician.

"Father," Arthur said, approaching with calculated casualness. "I've been thinking about the blacksmith's execution."

Uther looked up, surprised. "What about it?"

"Perhaps we should move the execution to the afternoon instead of dawn," Arthur suggested. "Make it more... public. Let the people see what happens to those who consort with sorcerers." The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he pressed on. "A morning execution might be missed by many."

"Hmm." Uther nodded approvingly. "Good thinking. The people need these reminders." He turned to the guard captain. "Move the execution to the afternoon courtyard."

Arthur felt sick, but the delay would give Merlin and Morgana precious hours. As he left the throne room, he nearly collided with Morgana in the corridor.

"Arthur!" She looked startled, guilty even. "I was just... I wanted to speak with your father about Tom. Surely there's been some mistake—"

"I'm afraid father's mind is made up," Arthur said carefully, watching her reaction. "But perhaps..." He paused, as if the idea had just occurred to him. "Perhaps if someone were to visit Tom in the dungeons, ensure he's... comfortable... in his final hours. I could arrange for the guards to be less vigilant during the midday meal change."

Hope flashed across Morgana's features so quickly Arthur almost missed it. "That's... very kind of you."

"Tom served Camelot faithfully for years. The least we can do is show him some mercy in his final hours." Arthur's voice was steady, but inside he wondered if she could see through his carefully constructed concern.

Later that day, Arthur positioned himself strategically in the training yard, where he had a clear view of the route between the castle and the dungeons. He made a show of drilling with his knights, but his attention was focused on the subtle movements he'd begun to notice.

Merlin appeared first, carrying what looked like medical supplies—likely stolen from Gaius's chambers. Arthur watched as his servant moved with a purpose he'd never seen before, all traces of his usual clumsiness gone. Moments later, Morgana swept through the courtyard, her own timing suspiciously precise.

"Leon," Arthur called suddenly. "Take the men through sword forms. I need to... check on the horses."

It was a flimsy excuse, but it got him closer to the dungeon entrance just as he heard the tell-tale sound of guards changing shift. Through a narrow window, he glimpsed golden light flickering in the depths below—the same golden light he'd seen by the dying fire in the forest.

Arthur's breath caught. There it was—undeniable proof of Merlin's magic. And yet, instead of the horror he'd expected to feel, he found himself hoping desperately that whatever they were doing would work.

When Tom emerged from the dungeons an hour later, supported by Morgana and walking under his own power despite wounds that should have left him bedridden, Arthur felt something shift inside his chest. The man's burns were gone, his back straight, his eyes clear.

Arthur turned away before they could spot him, but not before he saw Merlin stumble slightly, clearly drained from whatever healing magic he'd performed. Without conscious thought, Arthur found himself heading toward the stables.

"Merlin will need a horse," he murmured to himself, then called out to the stable master. "Prepare a mount for the road—something swift but not too conspicuous. And ensure the east gate guards take their evening meal early today."

He didn't examine too closely why he was making these arrangements. All he knew was that if they were caught, he'd never forgive himself for standing by and doing nothing. Whatever questions he had about their magic, whatever lies they'd told him—none of that mattered as much as keeping them alive.

As the sun began to set and he watched three figures slip quietly through the east gate—Tom looking remarkably healthy for a man who'd been at death's door—Arthur realized there would be no going back from this moment.

He was no longer just the prince who'd promised to protect magical creatures. He was now an active accomplice to magic itself.

And strangely, that thought didn't terrify him nearly as much as it should have.

The alarm bells began ringing just after sunset.

Arthur was in his chambers, staring out the window toward the east gate, when the frantic clanging echoed across the courtyard. He closed his eyes briefly, steeling himself for what was to come, then made his way toward the inevitable summons to the throne room.

"The prisoner has escaped!" The guard captain's voice carried down the corridor as Arthur approached. "Tom the blacksmith—gone without a trace, my lord. The guards swear no one passed their posts, but the cell is empty."

Arthur entered to find his father's face purple with rage, Morgana standing to one side looking appropriately shocked, and Merlin hovering near the back of the room with that carefully blank expression he wore when trying to appear invisible.

"How does a man barely able to walk simply vanish from a locked cell?" Uther's voice was deadly quiet, which Arthur knew was far more dangerous than his shouting.

"Perhaps..." Arthur stepped forward, his heart hammering. "Perhaps he had help. Magic could have aided his escape—or healed his wounds enough for him to flee on his own."

It was a calculated risk, deflecting suspicion toward magic rather than human accomplices. Uther's eyes blazed with familiar fury at the mention of sorcery, but Arthur caught the barely perceptible relaxation in both Merlin's and Morgana's postures.

"Magic," Uther spat. "Of course. Search every inch of this city. If there's a sorcerer hiding in Camelot, I want them found and burned."

"I'll lead the search myself," Arthur offered, knowing full well he would do everything possible to ensure it yielded nothing. "If Tom had magical aid, the sorcerer may still be close."

Over the next several days, Arthur found himself walking a knife's edge. He organized search parties that avoided the areas where he suspected a magical accomplice might actually hide. He questioned citizens with just enough thoroughness to satisfy his father while carefully avoiding any line of inquiry that might actually prove fruitful.

The most difficult part was interacting with Merlin and Morgana as if nothing had changed.

"You look tired," Morgana commented one evening as they dined. "The search is weighing on you."

Arthur met her eyes across the table, wondering if she was fishing for information or genuinely concerned. "I feel responsible," he said honestly. "A man escaped justice under my watch."

"Perhaps," Morgana said carefully, "justice isn't always the same as the law."

The words hung in the air between them, loaded with meaning Arthur wasn't supposed to understand. He saw Merlin shift uncomfortably in his peripheral vision, clearly wanting to warn Morgana against saying too much.

"Careful, Morgana," Arthur replied softly. "That sounds dangerously close to treason."

But his tone was gentle, almost teasing, and he watched as understanding flickered in her eyes. Not full comprehension—she couldn't possibly know that he was aware of her magic—but perhaps a recognition that Arthur Pendragon was not quite the same man he'd been a week ago.

Later that night, as Merlin helped him with his armor, Arthur found himself studying his servant's face in the candlelight. The golden eyes were blue again, but Arthur could see the exhaustion that lingered around them, the way Merlin's hands trembled slightly as he worked the buckles.

"The healing magic Tom received," Arthur said suddenly, causing Merlin to freeze. "It must have been powerful to heal the branding wounds so completely.

"I—what makes you think magic was involved?" Merlin's voice was carefully neutral, but Arthur could hear the panic underneath.

"A man doesn't recover from iron brand wounds overnight without magical intervention." Arthur kept his own voice casual, as if discussing the weather. "Whoever helped him... they must have risked everything."

Merlin's hands stilled completely. "Why are you telling me this?"

Arthur turned to face him fully, and for a moment considered telling him everything—about the unicorn, about overhearing the conversation, about orchestrating Tom's escape route. Instead, he simply said, "Because whoever saved that innocent man... they did the right thing. Even if it was dangerous."

The words hung between them like a bridge half-built. Arthur could see Merlin struggling with them, trying to understand what Arthur was really saying without revealing anything himself.

"The right thing isn't always the legal thing," Merlin said finally, echoing Morgana's earlier sentiment.

"No," Arthur agreed quietly. "It isn't."

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken truths filling the space between them. Arthur knew this careful dance couldn't continue indefinitely. Eventually, he would have to confront what he knew, and they would have to decide whether to trust him with the full truth of who they really were.

But for now, it was enough to know that when the moment had come to choose between his father's law and protecting the innocent, all three of them had chosen the same side.

Even if none of them were ready to admit it out loud.