Chapter Text
Light flares behind Leon’s eyelids and he jerks awake as warmth curls in his chest.
Scrambling upwards, the cool leather of his sword meeting his palm, Leon looks around the clearing for the sign of the light. Around him, two of the other knights and Merlin are doing the same thing. Only there’s nothing to be found. Their clearing is still except for the heat of the fire in the centre of their camp, now a roaring flame instead of the banked coals it had been when he went to sleep.
The sudden flurry of activity draws the attention of Sir Owain on watch, who stalks out from behind a tree, sword out. “What happened?” he asks, alert, eyes on the fire, dying down before their eyes.
“Nothing,” Leon replies, frowning at the fire, already returning to the gentle, low burn it should be. His sword dips as the danger passes. “Something must’ve fallen on the fire. My watch will start soon anyway, you may as well come get some sleep.”
Standing slowly, Leon watches the woods around them as he takes up Owain’s position on watch. There are seven of them out on this patrol. Five knights, including Leon, Prince Arthur, who had been growing restless stuck in the castle, and Merlin, who seemingly would follow Arthur into the very bowels of hell if called upon to do so.
Strange for a servant.
He can feel Merlin’s eyes on him now, watching as he always does from the shadows. But eventually, Merlin has the good sense to poke around the fire, see if anything set it off, before shrugging and settling back into a sleep.
Leon wishes it were that simple for him to return to sleep. But he can’t help the niggling feeling in the back of his mind that he should be paying more attention to the fire. To what it means. He’s been sleeping heavily these days, ever since Morgana held him. Servants enter and leave his chambers, banking and setting his fire without his notice, where before even the gentle pattering of their feet would wake him, send him searching for the knife underneath his pillow, until he recognised the footfalls.
But they no longer wake him. Perhaps it’s a good thing. Perhaps he feels settled in a way he never has before, assured in his place as one of Arthur’s knights. Perhaps he’s simply tired.
Whatever it is, it has him ill at ease, his abrupt awakening helping little. As the night draws on, he should wake one of the other knights, let them take over watch, but he’s sure he will get no further sleep. Not even as the air around him seems to curl warm and welcome around him.
The very first hints of dawn are just creeping across the sky when the first sign of life rustles in the camp. It’s Merlin, if the way the person seems to trip over themselves is any measure.
“You didn’t wake anyone?” the servant asks in a whisper, having walked towards him on quiet feet.
Leon turns to him, a half smile on his face as he watches the woods. “No, I wouldn’t have slept anyway, and the forest has been nice tonight.”
Seeming to contemplate that for a moment, Merlin turns towards the forest, as if searching for something in the trees and brush in front of them. “You’re right,” he says after a moment, head tilted. “It feels… still and tranquil. Almost like— Like something warm hangs in the air here. Though I’m sure that will change once you knights start trampling about in it.”
“Perhaps so,” Leon acknowledges, aware more than other knights just how loud they can be in such a quiet place. With their loud voices, their clanging armour and their generally boisterous nature, it’s only natural that they fill a space as peaceful as the forest usually is. “We should be back at Camelot by noon,” he notes.
“And thank god for that, Arthur could really use a bath,” Merlin groans, scrunching his nose up.
Laughing, Leon looks back at the sleeping knights and prince. “I’m sure we all could,” he says diplomatically, on the off chance Arthur is awake. Even though the whole castle has heard the rows those two have in the mornings, and Leon is well versed in Arthur’s morning tantrums, he still would rather be safe than sorry. No reason to give Arthur an excuse to turn his eye towards him in training.
They’ve all been tense after what happened. It’s only been a month, and though Camelot is mostly physically recovered, there are still scars. The King is near comatose, Arthur is floundering under his new duties, and the knights are all tense and wary, ready to jump at the slightest hint of danger.
Gaius has not been the same either. The physician seems aged and weary, leaving Merlin to pick up after him, bustling about the castle with remedies at every hour of the day when he can get away from Arthur.
Some days Leon feels the same. Informally, he has taken on Arthur’s old mantle of First Knight as the prince plays regent, and he feels the strain of it pulling him in all different directions.
But it’s difficult. To know that he failed. That he allowed magic to blossom in the heart of Camelot for so long. That he allowed magic to harm Camelot. The way it twisted Morgana… it hardly bears thinking about. She is lost to them now, so deep has she sunk into its corruption
He has to be more vigilant in the future.
Perhaps it’s only because he’s so lost in thoughts of Morgana that he misses the dual twangs of multiple arrows being released.
But he hears the impact they make in soft flesh.
The camp turns to chaos. As he turns, he catches sight of Sir Owain, an arrow stuck in his eye and Sir Eurion, blood pouring out of his throat as he gargles around the arrow protruding from it. His heart aches for them for all of a moment before his eyes sweep across the clearing.
He spots them then, a band of only five, two of them pulling another arrow into their bows, and Leon yells, reaching for Arthur to drag him out of the way of fire. Not a moment too soon, because just as Arthur shuffles backwards, an arrow pierces the ground where he lay, mere inches from his calf.
But Sir Cadawar is not so lucky, and just before he reaches their opponents, he falls to an arrow in his chest.
Leon moves, his breath steady and even, and lets his finely honed instincts take control as he steps over his fallen comrades. He ignores Merlin running to hide behind the trunk of the large oak and bridges the distance between him and their attackers, drawing their fire from Arthur.
With one swipe of his sword, the first bow splinters in half, and he twists as a sword comes for his unprotected right side. He parries and cuts down the bandit in another swing, turning back to the archer, just in time to see him pull a sword. Behind him, he can hear the clanging of metal, and hopes that Arthur and Sir Gonwyr will protect his back.
It seems this archer is just as good a swordsman, as it takes Leon longer than it should to gain the upper hand. Blood pounds in his ears as behind him, he hears one, two bodies fall, at least one of them covered in chainmail, but before he can turn to see who fell, his opponent lunges for him wildly.
It’s a mistake. As Leon steps aside to let his opponent's sword fall past him, Leon twists and brings his own down on the man's back, cutting through the layers of linen and leather in one arc.
He hears another body fall, and Leon turns to the fight before him. Arthur is slumped on the ground, and Sir Gonwyr and Merlin stand over him. For a split second, Leon thinks they may be holding their own, but then Merlin falters and Leon lunges to intercept the sword, already knowing he’s been drawn too far to be of use. He’ll be too slow, and Merlin’s sword rises too slowly.
Yelling, Sir Gonwyr turns, catching the sword swinging for Merlin, and he at least is fast enough to save the servant's life.
“Merlin, move!” Leon yells, just as the servant turns, and stumbles over Arthur’s body — Leon can’t think on that just yet — and falls to the floor.
It takes two swings for Gonwyr to dispatch the bandit attacking Merlin, but in the end, it’s for naught. His opponent uses his distraction to plunge his sword into Gonwyr’s chest, and Leon, too slow, too far away, can do nothing but watch as he falls, and the man turns towards Merlin.
With a clash of steel, Leon takes the final step over Arthur to meet the bandit's sword and, with nary a thought, dispatches him.
He’s just turning to Merlin, bent over Arthur's prone form, when he hears the thwack of an arrow being released.
Leon doesn’t have time to think, to move, to even discern exactly where the sound comes from. He only has time to blink and hope that the arrow is coming for him, and not Merlin or Arthur.
What happens instead is so much worse.
Faster than his eyes can follow, an arrow careens straight for him, but before it has a chance to hit him, the very ground beneath him shifts, and as his chest goes warm, a root shoots up from the ground, catching the arrow faster than his eyes can follow.
He stands panting, staring at the root of a tree in front of him for a long moment. Every breath he takes feels like a million little knives are clawing their way up his throat, and he feels as if he may choke on each one. That warmth deep within him subsides just as the root seems to curl in on itself and disappear into the ground.
Merlin is staring at him wide-eyed.
It’s only the sound of boots on leaf litter that draws his attention away from his blank mind.
Leon takes after the sound. In the fray, he must’ve missed someone, a sixth attacker hiding in the trees. It’s a good plan. Take out as many of the knights in the main force, and leave a backup, just in case. But not good enough. It takes Leon only a moment to dispatch the man before he turns back to the clearing.
Putting aside everything but his concern for his prince, Leon kneels beside Arthur in the dirt, searching for a pulse in his neck. “Is he okay?” he asks Merlin.
Merlin seems to be checking underneath Arthur’s eyelids. “He should be. It looks like he’s taken a knock to the head, but I still need to check for blood.”
Underneath his fingers, Arthur’s beating a steady pulse, and it’s this more than Merlin’s words that puts him a little more at ease. The bandits are dead as long as there are no more surprises, and Prince Arthur is alive.
It’s just as Leon helps lift Arthur so that Merlin can get his pauldron off and check for bleeding, that Arthur awakens with a groan.
“Merlin,” the prince grumbles out weakly. In a flurry of motion, Merlin is back in front of Arthur, looking closely at his eyes again. He hums absentmindedly. “You idiot.”
“What did I do this time?” Merlin asks, but it’s clear his attention isn’t on Arthur. He seems to be searching for something in Arthur’s eyes, and whatever it is, he seems to find it, because he turns his attention elsewhere.
“I don’t know,” Arthur mumbles. “But surely my headache is your fault. It normally is, after all.”
“I suppose it could be this time. You were protecting me when that bandit got the drop on you, after all.”
Leon shifts, letting Merlin pull off Arthur's pauldron and simply watches as the two bicker. It’s a fascinating dynamic and certainly nothing you would expect a prince to allow, but Arthur is remarkably good-natured about it.
Arthur has changed much in the past few years. How much of it can be attributed to Merlin’s influence? The servant is extremely outspoken in public; perhaps he is even more so in private.
“I won’t do that next time,” Arthur says, leaning heavily into Leon as he droops.
“Why has no one taught you how to defend yourself properly?” Leon asks, curious despite himself.
Arthur laughs loudly and holds his head as he slumps to the ground. “Believe me, I tried. He’s completely useless with a sword. Even Morg—” he breaks off and goes silent.
It's hard. Trying to work around mentioning someone so deeply ingrained in your life for so long. Leon knows what Arthur was going to say. He knows who he was going to mention.
To break up the silence, Leon makes an offer, though he’s not sure why. “I could teach you, if you’d like. Perhaps you would do better with a different teacher than Arthur.” Quickly though, he adds, “No offence intended, my lord, it’s just—”
“I know,” Arthur says, not unkindly, waving him off.
After that, conversation is sporadic. Leon collects the bodies of his men and the bandits and builds a pyre. It takes him the rest of the day, but with Arthur’s head wound, they won’t be moving until tomorrow anyway. Arthur spends most of the day lying on the ground, Merlin staying with him, keeping him talking.
Apparently, that’s necessary. Keeping Arthur awake and alert. So when Merlin needs to find food and water, Leon takes over, keeping up a steady stream of easy conversation. The kind just a few years ago he would've felt too intimidated to do so. Before he came to know Arthur, and how he wanted to be treated, better.
It keeps him busy. Keeps him from thinking about roots and arrows and warm feelings. And what it means. Keeps him from thinking about corruption and sickness sinking down into his very bones and taking root.
But when night comes, despite the exhaustion pulling at him, he can’t fall asleep.
Perhaps it was the druids. Perhaps he owes them his life twice over now. That would be alright. He respects the druids. They believe in peace, just as he does. In the protection of life and people. His own life is a testament to that: that they would save his life, knowing he may just as well return to kill them one day.
It would be okay if it didn’t come from him. If that warmth he felt was just unrelated.
And if it is magic, why would it feel like a warm drink on a cold night? Like something deep within him blooming in the sunshine. If it were magic, should it not feel like something festering? Like something consuming and sucking, drawing the very goodness from his veins, and the life from his blood.
Or is that part of the spell of magic? It feels like something warm and comforting as it drags you down and down into the worst of you. Does it sing to your soul only so long as you feed it your hate and anger and rage, until finally, the corruption of it starts to feel like home?
Is this how it feels?
It doesn’t bear thinking of.
Leon rolls over and puts it all out of his mind best he can.
Merlin had been feeling out of sorts throughout the entire patrol. On alert, and… preternaturally aware of the world around him. As if the very air was alive with something new and different and undefinable. He had been antsy about it, but so far, nothing had happened on patrol.
Except last night, Merlin had thought he’d felt a hint of something strange in the air when the fire roared. He’d searched for its source, tracked through the trees, but there had been nothing, and he had put it out of his mind, thinking maybe he was wrong. Maybe there wasn't something else at work. Maybe this was just his magic being strange, or maybe after the invasion of Camelot, he’s just more aware.
This was, after all, the first patrol he had undertaken with Arthur since then.
But then that root had shot into the air. Uncontrolled, and wild and dangerous. Operating on little more than instinct and panic, reacting to circumstances as they come without being asked. He doesn’t think Leon knows. But Merlin certainly does.
Merlin had seen it; he had felt it. Hanging in the air around him as that root whipped into the air.
Leon has magic.
Chapter Text
Merlin shakes Leon awake late in the night. A headache pounds behind his temples, and as he sits up, he can feel new aches rising to the surface, a consequence of too little sleep and the morning's excitement. It won’t be till they’re back at Camelot that he’ll sleep properly.
Sheathing his sword, Leon stands.
Merlin is close, too close for comfort, with what happened earlier hanging between them. “Sir Leon,” he starts, grabbing Leon’s arm.
Panic courses through him, and with a harsh jerk, Leon tugs his arm free and steps over to one of the trees. “No,” he snaps, his voice a harsh whisper, not wanting to wake Arthur.
“We should talk—”
“No, we shouldn’t,” he hisses, whirling on Merlin, the headache pounding in his temple, setting him wilder than he likes to feel. Merlin stumbles back, surprised, and if Leon can make out his face correctly, a little hurt. Internally, he winces. He’s never enjoyed throwing around his station as some of the other knights have. “Not now, not later, not ever. Whatever happened out there will only spell ruin for both of us. There’s no use talking about it.
“You can’t just—”
“Leave it. Get some sleep. We’ll leave early in the morning. The Prince needs to be back in Camelot.” Turning away from Merlin, he crosses his arms and looks resolutely out into the trees. It’s too dark to see much of anything, but at least it means Merlin can only make conversation with his back.
He’ll avoid the discussion of whatever happened in the forest as long as he can. Forever, if he has anything to say about it. And luckily, he has plenty to say about it. A servant should not be so quick to stick his nose into something so dangerous, either. Especially not the prince’s manservant.
Merlin, thankfully, settles down again and seems to go to sleep.
If only Leon could be so lucky.
Maybe I was hallucinating, he thinks as he stares out into the forest. But then Merlin wouldn’t have seen it. Perhaps they shared a hallucination? He shakes his head. Even that sounds too close to magic.
There must be some explanation other than that it came from him.
Could it have come from Merlin?
But no. That’s ridiculous. The bumbling manservant of Arthur’s would have been discovered by now if he had magic. Leon has seen how horrible he is at lying for himself. It would not have slipped through their sight for so long if Merlin had magic.
Which brings him back around to the first possibility. The one that he doesn’t want to think about, but that he can’t keep out of his mind. That he, Leon, has magic.
His breath comes quicker just at the thought of it.
Magic is evil.
It’s a festering corruption of the soul. That is what he has been taught by King Uther and by his elder brother. Magic got their father killed. Magic killed Queen Ygraine. And now once again, magic has taken somebody from them. If what he felt was magic simmering in his veins, then he must resist its temptations.
Magic is evil.
Even if it was magic that once saved his life, and seemingly did so once again.
He turns to wake Arthur for his next check.
It's much easier to ignore Merlin back at Camelot. The many corridors and halls of the castle are good for ducking into the moment he sees a neckerchief coming his way. Fortunately, he also avoids George this way who always has a joke about brass for Leon.
He manages to avoid Merlin's attempts to get him alone for a whole week that way.
It’s not so easy to ignore certain other things in the relative quiet of Camelot’s bustle. Like the fire in his chambers, lighting and relighting seemingly on its own. And just the other day, he put his hands in a bucket of water, and it was as if they scrubbed themselves. The water had swirled around his hands, moving between his fingers and under his nails. The way wind seems to follow him through corridors and out on the field, and the way, when he gets dropped flat on his back by Sir Percival, the grass tickles at his ear.
But his luck runs out one afternoon. He thought he would be safe out on the training grounds without Arthur present. Normally, Merlin wouldn’t be caught dead out there without Arthur dragging him along, but it seems he can put aside his loathing when he has a bone to pick with someone.
The rest of Leon's week had been filled to the brim with armour inventory, patrol rosters, and border reports, in between training the knights and checking up on the repairs to the hall, the castle and the lower town. All he wanted was one moment of peace where he didn’t have to think about magic or his people's survival.
He barely has time to pull out a sword and assume his stance before he notices a red neckerchief bearing down on him from across the field. He considers running for all of a moment before deciding that would be the height of cowardice. He will face Merlin like a foe on a battlefield, which gives him a good idea.
“If you plan to stay, then you can pick up a sword,” he says as Merlin steps near him. He keeps his gaze trained straight ahead, picturing an enemy in front of him as he moves through a series of forms designed to smooth out the movements between parrying and slashing.
In the background, he hears a huff, but Merlin does turn away, though it’s not evident whether that's to procure a sword or give up, until he hears the groan of metal and Merlin’s footsteps once more.
In front of him, Merlin holds the sword lightly in his right hand, a wary look in his eyes. There’s a stillness to Merlin not usually present in the bumbling manservant as he gazes levelly back at Leon. He can respect that.
“Assume your stance,” he orders.
For a moment, he thinks Merlin is going to argue as he sets his face in a mullish expression. But it clears, and Merlin lifts his sword, spreading his legs wide and crouching just slightly. It’s mostly correct. But he can see where Merlin has spent too much time training just with Arthur, as instead of compensating for his height and leanness, Merlin is holding himself in a position of someone a little shorter and stockier, much like Arthur.
In a knight, Arthur would have corrected the poor stance. It’s very common in young men, when they’re growing faster than they can keep up with, shooting tall and reedy in a matter of months. So for him not to have corrected it in Merlin… It bears thought.
“I won’t tell Arthur,” Merlin mumbles as he watches Leon.
Stepping forward, Leon stands behind Merlin and places his hand on his back, straightening it slightly. “About me training you?” he asks mildly. Heat roils off Merlin, abnormally warm where he places his hands. It’s clear even through the layers of his tunic and jacket. If he weren’t Gaius’s apprentice, Leon would inquire whether he’s ill.
Merlin turns, lowering the sword as he does to pin him with a withering glance. “About the root. I won’t tell him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“That sounds like treason.” Leon doesn’t meet Merlin's eyes, instead turning him sharply by the shoulder around again. There’s no heat to his words, no threat, only mild indifference.
Merlin turns willingly and resumes his stance. Once more, Leon has to adjust his back, before his hands drift lower. “You admit there was something treasonous at work in the forest then?”
Leon's hand follows the curve of Merlin’s thigh down, adjusting his knees and his stance ever so slightly. “If you so much as suspect the work of magic, you must report it. To do otherwise is treason enough. So it’s lucky for you that there was no sorcery at work in the forest that day.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
Leon hums but otherwise doesn’t respond, stepping back to Merlin’s front and taking up his stance. “We’ll spar first, so I can work out what you need to work on most.”
He runs Merlin through a series of forms and movements, seeing how he flows between moves, how he defends and how he attacks. Starting off slowly, he ramps up his attack until Merlin is forced to concede more and more ground, ending their spar, only when he’s satisfied he has a good idea of how Merlin moves, and how he thinks with a sword in hand.
Merlin does remarkably well — better than expected. He’s not quite as terrible as Arthur has led him to believe, but he could use a lot of work. The biggest issue, however, is not one easily rectified. Merlin loses balance often, throwing too much of himself into each sharp slash of his sword.
A lot more training will fix some of it, but training will take a long time to correct the major issue. Merlin will always be off balance with a sword, because he doesn’t have the body mass to correct for the weight of a sword in his long arms. But building up that much muscle takes time. And to train him in the sword with his balance in such disarray will only allow poor habits to set in.
“One would think that with all your time spent cleaning Arthur’s armour and scrubbing his floors, you would have a little more muscle to you,” Leon notes while Merlin catches his breath.
For a moment, Leon thinks he sees a flicker of guilt pass over Merlin’s face before it settles into a scowl. It’s there and gone so briefly that he can’t even be sure it was there. “Maybe I’m incapable of gaining the sorts of muscles you knights are so fond of.”
Leon snorts, but otherwise doesn’t respond. Instead, he walks back to the small training armoury kept on the grounds and selects two quarterstaffs, both quite long ones and returns to Merlin.
“You have issues with balance that can only be fixed by putting on more muscle. But that takes time, so let's try something different before you get into bad habits.”
Merlin gives him a look. “This isn’t just another excuse not to talk to me?” It most certainly is, but Leon won't admit that to Merlin. But it will also be of use for him, to try something different, more comfortable. The puzzle also keeps his mind off thoughts of sickness bearing him down.
Leon returns his look. “I take training very seriously, or I wouldn’t be where I am today. Now, copy what I do.”
With a roll of his eyes, Merlin tries to replicate Leon’s stance.
It’s a surprisingly pleasant way to spend an afternoon. Merlin is good company when he’s not trying to force a conversation about things better left ignored. The longer they spend together, the more of Merlin’s snarky humour comes out and the less tense things get. He’s a quick study with the quarterstaff, and by the time the sky starts to break out in streaks of colour, the light waning, he’s making a note to himself to procure Merlin a proper staff. The weapon seems to fit naturally in his hands, more naturally than the sword does.
“Now why aren’t you complaining endlessly about Leon’s tutelage, Merlin?” Arthur drawls from behind them.
“Because Leon seems capable of effective communication skills, Arthur,” Merlin shoots back without missing a beat. “He actually uses his words instead of his sword.”
Leon snorts before he can think better of it, but Arthur only smiles and takes out his sword. “Well then, show me what Leon has taught you, if he’s so much better than me.”
Merlin does so, and Leon steps back to watch them spar.
Arthur has been back on his feet for a few days now. The walk back to Camelot should have been easy, but Arthur was dizzy and off balance, with an aching head. It was nearing dusk by the time they made it back that next day, twice as long as it should have taken them.
But there was little Merlin was able to do without access to the herbs and poultices he could get in Camelot, and the forest was near-bereft of anything they needed.
But Gaius had fixed Arthur up well, and if rumour is to be believed, Guinevere had been most kind in helping him heal.
It’s gratifying, then, to see Arthur so animated and able to spar without pain. They couldn’t afford to lose Arthur. Not with King Uther so indisposed.
He’s going easy on Merlin. Pulling his swings and avoiding taking the easy shots Merlin occasionally leaves open. He’s not moving with his usual speed, giving Merlin time to consider his reactions.
Arthur’s foot shifts, giving away his next move in a way he wouldn’t normally do, perhaps in a feint. Merlin catches the movement, and Leon watches as he brings his staff up, ready to catch a blow that never comes as Arthur feints, and aims for his head. But in a move that can only be accomplished with a staff, the back half flings up and catches Arthur's sword, before he drives the front forward and catches Arthur right under the ribs.
Arthur steps back with an oomph.
“Well done, Merlin,” Leon says. Fighting with a staff gives a different range of motion than a sword, and this was the first time he saw Merlin use the staff in a way you couldn't with a sword. The smile Merlin gives Leon in reply beams out of him, lighting up his entire face. There’s something almost shy, but desperately hungry in it, as if Merlin gets little enough praise for deeds.
And with Arthur as his master… well, it wouldn’t surprise Leon.
Coughing, Arthur claps Merlin on the shoulder. “It seems I shouldn’t go easy on you anymore,” he says with an ominous smile, and Merlin cringes just a little.
“These past years, that was you going easy on me?”
“Of course!” Arthur’s smile isn’t a nice one. With the hand still on Merlin’s shoulder, he starts dragging the servant away without a word to Leon. But Merlin turns, and begs with his eyes for Leon to free him. Leon only waves in return, leaving Merlin to his fate.
That very same night in his chambers, Leon is stoking the fire by hand, when a gentle breeze takes up in the middle of the room and coaxes its way towards him, breathing life into the gentle flame and filling his chambers with warmth.
It should be an innocuous thing. Castles are drafty; it's a very common problem. But there’s no breeze in here at the moment. So why would a breeze start up that flows right into his fireplace, and is just the right strength to coax the fire hotter, without blowing it out?
But it sets anxiety pumping away at Leon’s heart. Because beneath his heart, he can feel this warmth in his chest, and he can feel the wind inside him, as if he could coax it to grow fiercer with a thought.
Stumbling backwards, Leon stands and draws his sword. There must be someone here. He turns, surveying the whole room, looking for the rustle of a curtain, or a dark shadow that could conceal a magic user in his room. One who is taunting him, following him around.
Or perhaps it’s his father's ghost, angry that he didn’t fight harder for him, vengeful in his death. Perhaps he has been judged old enough to suffer the consequences of his childhood. Or maybe because now it would hurt the most. Because he’s the first knight of Camelot now, and he has so much to lose.
But there’s nothing in his room but himself. No breeze, no footsteps, no people. No ghosts even. Only the sound of his too-fast breath and the squeak of his shoes on cold stone. And no crackling of a fire.
Behind him, the hearth is cold and empty as if there had never been a fire there in the first place. His sword clatters loudly as it hits the stone. His breath shudders as it comes out of his chest.
Fear doesn’t come easy to him. He was in battles watching men get cut down, and feeling their blood and gore under his feet when he was fourteen. Barely out of boyhood. At the age of four, his father was killed in front of him. Fear is healthy. It can be invigorating. It can sharpen his senses on the battlefield.
But this isn’t fear like that. This fear quickens his breath into a pant, it narrows his field of vision, and it clouds his mind.
All because of magic. Magic is playing tricks on him, taunting him. Saving his life only to tease him with the possibility of his death by Arthur’s hand. To be caught and killed for something that happened to him. Something not his own doing.
This is what magic does to a person. It gets into and grabs hold, corrupting them from the inside. Every usage of magic only worsens its grip on them, changing them from the inside. It drags you down, deep into its waters, its siren’s call beautiful and hard to resist. But following it has consequences. Magic takes the kindest amongst us and turns them into monsters.
Just look at Morgana. She killed those she had once sworn to protect without hesitation.
But the druids… a small part of his mind whispers. Leon brushes it off, though. Just because the druids can stay peaceful, does not mean just anyone can. Perhaps they have rituals that protect you from the harmful influences of magic. Or block his own so he may resist its call, and not allow its corruption to sink any deeper into his chest. Because what can this be but magic? Magic, innocuous and small, taking little pieces from him bit by bit. Magic, doing its best to convince him that it can be helpful. Cleaning his hands, keeping him warm, tickling his ear.
Magic, trying to worm its insidious way into his heart, so that he may welcome his downfall with open arms.
If so, he should pay the druids a visit. Maybe he can get answers from them about what is happening to him. And maybe they can rescue him, before it’s too late.
Picking his sword up, Leon puts it aside and readies for bed. His decision reached, Leon plans carefully how to visit the druids without bringing suspicion upon himself. The sooner, the better. There’s no time to waste.
His heart has returned to normal now that the odd occurrences have stopped. But before he does so, he collects an extra blanket, knowing his chambers will be cold tonight. The fire will not be lit again.
Two days later, Merlin is following Arthur through the courtyard when he notices Leon saddling his horse, dressed not in his knight regalia, but instead the clothes of a commoner. He looks a little like Arthur trying to be inconspicuous, which is enough to pique Merlin’s interest.
“What’s Leon up to?” he asks Arthur.
Arthur glances at the knight fiddling with saddlebags before turning back to Merlin. “He needs to return to his family for a few days. Something to do with his mother.”
Frowning, Merlin observes Leon again, noticing the tension in his broad shoulders and the crease in his brow. That could be true, but… Merlin is suspicious. He knows suspicious. He has plenty of experience with being suspicious himself. Leon is suspicious. “Is that wise?”
“Wise?” Arthur asks distantly, before frowning at Merlin. “It will be a good test for the knights. Sir Lancelot is taking over his training duties, while Sir Eddard handles the administrative side of things. I want to see how the old guard handles taking orders from a commoner.”
Not exactly what Merlin was getting at, but an answer enough. Arthur is unconcerned at Leon’s departure. Merlin not so much.
Whatever Leon is up to, though, Merlin is sure it has to do with his newfound magic. Which means he shouldn’t be left to his own devices.
Chapter Text
Arthur capitulated to his request to return home surprisingly easily, or perhaps not, considering Leon asks for so little. Certainly not to take a leave of absence on such short notice. He barely ever mentions his family in Camelot. The less said about them, the better.
The journey to Camelot’s border is quiet, but certainly not restful. Caradoc, his horse, is a comfortable warmth between his legs, real and alive, and that at least keeps him in the present. But when he stops for the night to make camp, the fire lights itself, and Leon is reminded that he’s certainly not safe.
Not till he can get to the druids, not till they can save him from this sickness coiling in his chest, taunting him with its helpfulness. It’s all he can think about. He tries to squash it down, to break free of its hold, but how can he do that when he has no idea where the magic comes from?
He dreams that night, as the fire holds steady, of drowning.
The next morning, he wakes bleary-eyed to a still steadily-burning fire.
He remembers the general area the druids found him in easily, though whether the druids are still there is another question entirely.
The ground where he had lain near dead is still littered with corpses when his horse comes to a stop. The carrion birds have taken to their frames with abandon and there’s little more than skeletons, fabric and metal left scattered around the grounds, though by the smell, there must still be some viscera left scattered around.
He takes a moment to mourn for the patrol slaughtered. So many of his men scattered here and forgotten to nature. Their lives were slaughtered with such little care and for no good reason at all.
But he moves on, because he has to. The druid’s cave isn’t far from here. Perhaps he will get lucky and they won’t have moved on.
Unfortunately, the cave is deserted when he enters. There are no signs of life, no decorations, no curtains, no beds. Only an empty cave.
Empty except for a single bundle of twigs hanging from a string of rope from the ceiling. At first glance, it seems to be a forgotten decoration, but there’s something very particular in the arrangement of twigs. They’re in a circle, with strings of fibre running between them, arranged in a pattern he can’t make sense of.
But what it means, he can’t even begin to guess. Perhaps it tells other druids where they’ve moved to. But in that case, it’s no help to him.
“They’ve moved on,” a voice speaks into the dull light of the cave, and Leon whirls, pulling his sword from its scabbard, shifting into a ready stance.
Only as he does, fire flares up along the length of the blade, bright and hot, the light burning his eyes as it lights up the cave. With a shout, he drops the sword, the fire going out as it clatters onto the ground.
No sound moves through the cave but the ringing of his sword, and the harsh sounds of his breath. This whole situation has him as nervous as a scullery maid, sending his heart pounding at a moment’s notice. It’s as if his years of training mean nothing at all.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Merlin says from the mouth of the cave. When his sword had burst into flame, Merlin had been bathed in it too, his eyes gold and flickering, and the light of the setting sun behind him rendering his face otherwise in darkness. He had been, for just a moment, an almost otherworldly creature.
“What are you doing here, Merlin? Did you follow me?” he demands, trying to find a semblance of calm in all of this. He picks up his sword and turns back to the strange charm hanging from the ceiling.
“I thought you might be coming here. Figured you could use some company finding out why you suddenly have magic.”
He sucks in a breath at the easy way Merlin announces that, as if such a thing isn’t a death sentence. As if having magic is something so simple. Perhaps because he has never experienced what Leon feels, it’s easy for him. Melin carries no guilt for what Morgana has become, either, holding no responsibilities for the lady.
“I don’t have magic,” he hisses, wishing he believed the words for himself. “Do you want to get us both killed?”
Merlin laughs, the sound much closer than he had been before. “I’ve been sneaking around with Arthur for four years now. I know how not to get caught.”
“That may be true, but the casual way you throw around words like magic still may get us killed.” Leon grasps the hanging decoration and pulls it gently off the ceiling. It comes easily, but holds its shape well, the threads holding taut and strong.
Merlin shuffles up beside him, and Leon can feel the way he leans into his shoulder to see the druid piece as well. “It comes from being Gaius’s apprentice. When weird things happen, Uther goes to him first. After a while, the pattern becomes clear. Just like this one,” Merlin adds, pointing at the druid's bundle.
Though a part of him wants to turn and focus further on Merlin’s recklessness — and general air of suspicion — Leon lets himself be distracted. “What do you mean?”
Merlin takes the piece out of his hands, turning it sideways, before pointing at the middle. “It’s a map. We’re here, you see. The mountain we passed is here.” Merlin points to an upside-down mountain, now on the bottom of the map. “And the path follows the river upwards.” His finger traces a line upwards, following two strings of twine laid side by side, in the direction Leon knows the river is.
It will take them further into Cenred’s kingdom. But the latest word coming out of his territory is that Cenred was killed before his army marched on Camelot. With any luck, what means what little of Essetir’s army remains has its eyes far from the border.
“Where does it end?” he asks, not able to understand where the path ends. Surely that's what Merlin’s getting at. This is a map to the new hiding place of the druids. A token left behind to guide their comrades to their new camp. One displayed so innocuously that few would know what it means.
Merlin follows some of the lines in the map, before stopping at a circle. “If this is the nearest village… This is likely Ealdor.”
There's a melancholy tint to Merlin’s voice as he mentions the village, though Leon doesn’t know why. “Ealdor?” he prompts.
“My village. My mother still lives there.” He shakes his head, before following lines in the map back across and up the map, following a different line this time. “If I’m right, this river intercepts a series of caves, less than a day's walk from here. There used to be traders in the caves. Some of the older men of my village would travel there a couple of times a year. Perhaps there’s another settlement of druids in those caves.”
Leon studies the cobbled-together map, trying to bring to mind the maps he’s seen of this region. While he doesn’t know of the caves Merlin speaks about, he does remember the river he’ll follow. It ends, about a day's walk from here, at a deep ravine that seems to stretch into the ground. He shouldn’t be able to go too far out of his way.
Which only leaves one more problem to contend with.
“Right. You should head back to Camelot now. Thank you for your assistance.”
An insultingly loud snort comes out of Merlin’s mouth. “I’m coming with you.”
“Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous, and you should never have followed me in the first place. This has nothing to do with you.” He’s too involved as it is. And if this is… that, then Merlin knowing puts them both at risk. Even more at risk than they both already are.
Merlin's willingness to commit treason is frankly alarming, but Leon will save handling that for another day. It’s not every servant who will ride out with his master to fight a dragon, so in this, Leon is mostly sure that he means no harm to Arthur.
Hopefully.
“I’m pretty sure Arthur has said the same thing to me before, and I’ve never listened to him,” Merlin comments casually, walking back to the mouth of the cave. He sounds completely unconcerned. It grates on Leon, to be dismissed so casually.
“My absence has been excused already. Arthur doesn’t give you any time off, so what excuse did you give him?” He raises an eyebrow at Merlin.
“Gaius said he’ll make my excuses.”
“Gaius! What did you tell him?” Leon demands, crossing the cave to grab Merlin by the arm, wrenching him around. If he’s told Gaius anything—
“Just that I was visiting my mother,” Merlin says quickly, shrinking just ever so slightly into his jacket. It’s this that draws Leon’s attention to the harsh grip on Merlin’s arm and the way he looms over the servant.
He steps back, shaking out his hands as does. This whole situation has him so turned around that he’s intimidating servants now. He takes his oath to protect and serve seriously. Nothing is more important than Camelot and its people, and though Merlin is being a pain in his behind at the moment, he is still one of Camelot’s people.
Which means Leon can’t leave him to make his own way back to Camelot. He doesn’t even have anything to protect himself with.
“Do you think you can find these caves?” Leon asks, much softer. He may as well let Merlin come. Keep an eye on him. Merlin nods, rubbing his arm. “Then let's get going. We still have half a day of light left.”
They make good time, keeping the river on their right and following it upwards. They don’t talk much, for which Leon is grateful. He still feels terrible about pulling Merlin’s arm like that. The boy hasn’t complained, but not all of Merlin’s joviality has returned.
They spot the first sign of the druids just as the first traces of dusk streak across the sky. Scraps of cloth hang from a tree. Merlin spots a path of them leading through the forest, and they follow it eagerly.
“What do you even want with the druids?” Merlin asks as they pass yet another scrap of cloth. Hopefully, it’s not too much further from here.
“I want to understand what’s happening to me,” he says, even if it’s not quite the whole truth. He’s not sure how much he should tell Merlin. Arthur says the boy can’t keep a secret to save himself.
“Is that all?” Merlin asks, curiosity in his voice.
He pins Merlin with a quick glare, though there's very little heat behind it. Arthur also says the boy is incredibly nosy. “Yes, that’s all.”
So distracted by Merlin he is, that Leon nearly walks into a tree. It’s only seeing it in the side of his vision that stops him from walking headfirst into the rough bark of the tree. A hastily stifled laugh tells Leon that perhaps his dodging isn’t quite as graceful as he had hoped it would be.
But before he can— he’s not sure. Perhaps tell Merlin to bugger off — something changes in the air, and his hand slips down to the sword sheathed at his side. Merlin, too, perks up, drawing himself into a ready position, arms raised, and eyes alert.
He hears it then, the shifting of people on near-silent footsteps. A hunter’s footsteps. Those used to keeping quiet in the forest. He can’t make out how many people there are, and with the glare of the setting sun in his eyes, he can’t see them either.
Intelligent, whoever these people are.
But then, from between the trees, a familiar man in a brown robe steps forward.
“Sir Leon, Emrys,” he inclines his head at them each in turn.
Drawing upon his courtly lessons, Leon puts on his politest voice. “My apologies. I didn’t catch your name the last time we met.”
A faint smile crosses the druid's face. “You may call me Iseldir. What brings you here, knight of Camelot?”
With a look at Merlin, Leon turns back to Iseldir. “Ever since I drank from the cup, strange goings on have been happening to me. The fire in my chambers dowsing and lighting itself at random, wind and water acting strangely. And most recently, when a bolt was fired at my back, a root rose from the ground to catch it. I wish to understand what you have done to me when I drank from the cup.”
“And you, Emrys?” Isledir asks, turning to Merlin.
Emrys… he says it like a title. But with familiarity. Merlin is a puzzle. To be so comfortable saying Leon has magic, to be able to read the druid's map with ease, that they seem to know him… It all adds up to something Leon doesn’t want to consider.
He studies the druids around them, but especially Iseldir. There’s suspicion, wariness and anger present on their faces, which is to be expected in his presence. He searches their eyes, their faces, their bodies for a hint of that coldness Morgana had shown herself capable of. In those days he had been locked in the dungeons, she had been cajoling and courteous, but none of her smiles had reached her eyes.
But her hate, her anger, those had certainly reached her eyes. She had blazed with it. Otherwise, her eyes were dead, blank. Cold and aloof and lost.
He looks for the same on the druids here, but Isledir only watches him with a steady gaze, completely calm. Whatever it is magic did to Morgana, he finds no trace of it here in this circle, who have more cause than any to hate him for the colours he normally bears.
“I’m just here for Leon,” Merlin says with a disarming smile, but his eye contact with Iseldir is strangely intense. They linger on one another, and by some unspoken signal, the rest of the druids in the forest step forward, coming out of the trees.
“Come,” Iseldir beckons, gesturing to the trees ahead. “Join us at your camp. We can eat, and perhaps answer some of your questions.”
We will not tell him of you or your magic, Emrys, but you must consider doing so yourself. That a knight of Camelot has chosen to seek out the druids for help is a momentous thing. It may be that this one will aid you in your great task. Merlin could go without the chiding tone directly into his mind from Iseldir, but it does give him much to think on.
Iseldir isn’t finished, however. As Merlin looks away, uncomfortable, he continues. There is much raging within his heart. Anger and pain are there, yes, but most of all terror. Your friend needs a guide before his fear consumes his heart.
If it’s true what he says… Maybe Leon needs more help than he can find amongst the druids.
But experience has taught Merlin that wishes rarely come true, and that sometimes, lies are easier to bear than truth. Kilgharrah and Gaius would each tell him to hold his secret close to his chest. They would caution him against being found out. Had Morgana known of his magic, she would have ruined him in her time back at court. She would have laid waste to any progress Merlin had made with Arthur and ruined any chance of him freeing magic.
Seeing how Arthur is now, angry and brokenhearted and so unsure of himself, losing Merlin’s support too, may have been too much.
It is Arthur’s destiny to unite the lands of Albion. And it is Merlin’s destiny to help him do so. He can’t keep Arthur alive if he can’t be by his side, with an ear to any and all threats.
So as he walks through the forest amongst the druids, with Leon at his side, he knows he will stay silent in his own magic. No matter whether it means history will treat itself or not.
Perhaps this is all for naught anyway, and Merlin is wrong; Leon doesn’t have magic.
But Merlin knows he won’t put himself further at risk to help. It’s all he can do to keep Arthur alive.
Chapter Text
It turns out that Merlin was correct, as Isledir leads them to a series of caves, hidden deep within a gully. The entrance is expertly concealed; he had no hope of finding it without help. It can only be found by walking behind a certain outcropping of the rock, otherwise, the entrance is hidden from sight to all.
Inside, the cave is well lit with torches and flames, many of which seem to have no source keeping them alight. Magic then, he notes as he watches them flicker, with no source fueling them and no smoke wafting above them. The space is large and comfortable, but despite its cavernous size, the sounds within are muffled rather than magnified by the rocks.
And there’s plenty of sounds within. Children laugh and scream as they race through the cave, weaving around legs and tents alike, chasing one another happily. Around a large fire in the centre of the cave — and Leon notices only now, the great hole in the centre through which he can see the very faint traces of dusk peaking through a tangle of vines and leaves — there are a group of men and women all drinking and eating and laughing amongst them, just as the knights would laugh around a fire.
This is a place of peace and happiness. Leon can feel it in the very stones at his feet. A place where children can run freely without fear, and those used to running can let their guards down without fear.
He’s doubly pleased that he wore no traces of Camelot upon him, bar his sword. They would not be welcome here.
He knows, of course, that the druids are a peaceful people. And that it is to these people that he owes his life. But there is something very different about seeing it for himself. Experiencing it for himself. They are like any other citizen of Camelot, only instead, left to hide in caves because they are hunted, rather than free to live as they will. Whatever protections they have against the corruption of magic must be very strong, for peace to reign so strongly amongst them, that few who hate magic are convinced the druids are a threat.
“Come,” Isledir says again, stepping nimbly through the bustle of people around them. “Eat and drink with us first, and then we can discuss your questions. You have come a long way.”
Before agreeing, Leon looks to Merlin to see if he has any misgivings about following the druids and partaking of their food. He gives a small nod and a smile, and Leon turns back to Iseldir. “Your hospitality is most generous,” he says.
Instead of taking them to what seems to be the central area of the camp, Iseldir heads off, winding through the tents and paths in the settlement, deep into the cave. On the far wall, they follow a smaller corridor a little further in. Wariness creeps into Leon the further they walk from the entrance. Perhaps, he should not be trusting the druids enough to walk so far into their domain alone.
But part of him remembers being a very small boy, before the purge. One of his earliest memories is of sitting on his mother's lap as a child, while his father told him stories of the druid people who lived on their lands. People who live in the forest, one with the trees and bushes and flowers. A people who make things grow and who share their magic gladly with those willing to trade. A peaceful people who want only the prosperity of the land, so it may benefit all.
As a young man, first coming to Camelot to squire under King Uther’s First Knight, he had tried to forget those stories. To forget what he had learnt at his father's feet as he watched the carnage being wrought. Tents burned, decorations pulled down, children slaughtered. He had tried to forget that these are a gentle people, a peaceful one.
Along the way, perhaps he has managed to forget those stories, because he feels on guard as the passage they walk through ends, and another, much smaller cavern opens up before them. His eyes dart around the walls of the corridor they have journeyed through and this new cavern, alert for any threats that may appear.
This too is comfortably decorated and dressed with soft rugs of fur and the same coloured streamers all the druids use. It’s also darker, however, with only the soft glow of a single fire lighting the small space.
But following the lead of Iseldir, Merlin and the other druid who had travelled with them, Leon takes a seat on a fur before the fire.
They pass around thick loaves of fragrant bread, a hunk of cheese and the surprisingly soft and tender meat of a deer. Taking his first bite of the deer, Leon is pleased to find it seasoned and tasty, like something out of the kitchens of Camelot. The druids, it seems, are expert cooks. He doesn’t remember much about the first few hours after drinking from the cup. He knew he had been given plenty of fresh water and food to eat, but he had been too stunned and dizzy from his healing to process much else.
They had raised him from the dead, and though his duty had won out over any other concerns, a small part of him had wanted to stay longer before returning to Camelot. To soak up their hospitality and enjoy their food, before his hard journey home to face King Uther’s questions. Though the cup had healed his wounds, it hadn’t filled his belly, or given him supplies for his journey home. The druids had done that.
Eating their food now, Leon is left feeling warm and sated at the hearty and flavourful meal, though simple in ingredients.
However, it’s not long after he finishes that he remembers his pressing questions and why he came here. He can’t be too long away from Camelot without Prince Arthur wondering at his absence, not now, when so much change has happened recently.
Instead of asking directly, Leon simply drops his hands and straightens his shoulders, looking out across the fire. He does not wish to offend Iseldir in any way, lest he refuse to answer his questions. But he does wish to have them answered.
“Ask your questions, young Knight of Camelot,” Iseldir says, a gentle smile on his face as he looks across the fire at Leon. The other druid, who still remains nameless, does the same.
She is an older woman. So aged is she that the skin of her dark face hangs limp and wrinkled, and her hair is entirely grey. She must be very wise to have lived so long. Where Iseldir still has a youthfulness to his face, despite his silver hair, there is little of youth to the woman, except for the hint of mischief lingering in her eyes.
Leon opens his mouth to pose the questions he has had, but finds himself unable to speak. Where to start? He said most of what he needed to easily earlier, but now… he doesn’t.
“Shall I begin with what the Cup of Life did?” Iseldir asks after a moment when he remains silent.
Leon nods. He’s grateful to Isledir for taking the trouble out of that decision.
“When you drank from the Cup of Life,” the druid starts, “Your life was returned to you. It is only the Cup of Life that can heal the dying, keeping their souls in this world. You had not yet been marked for death, and as such, you could be brought back without requiring another to take your place.”
“But then…” Leon trails off, putting his thoughts together, before continuing. “Then why have all these strange things been happening to me? Why— why did I feel that magic inside me when the root leapt to stop that bolt? If not the cup then…”
Iseldir smiles, a proper smile this time as he surveys Leon. “Give me your hand.”
It’s not a request, and Leon, used to taking orders, stands immediately and crosses the small space to sit next to Iseldir, cross-legged. Somehow, it feels more childish sitting like this directly across from someone older. He used to sit by the roaring fire in his parents' chambers as a child and listen to their stories. His brothers and sister would be there too, sometimes. But most often, it would be just him.
Isledir’s hand is rough from work as he takes Leon’s. He holds Leon's right hand in one of his, and the other runs a finger up and down his palm. It follows the wrinkles and dips in his hand, before turning it over and surveying the other side, running a strong thumb up the length of the back of his hand
“The late Lord of Willowhall had magic, did he not?” Isledir asks after a time.
The pain the mention of his father brings is an old friend to Leon. But he can never quite avoid the memory of his death as it draws to the forefront of his mind. Of his blood and the way it gleamed on the flagstones. Of his mother's screams and the silent horror on his sister’s face.
Leon nods sharply, unable to speak an acknowledgment, even after all these years.
“The Cup of Life is a vessel of magic. Magic was used in its creation, and its every use is accomplished through magic. You were saved by that magic. In doing so, it seems your own hasawoken.” As he speaks, Iseldir’s voice is quiet and thoughtful, and in this little room before the fire, it feels like the only thing that matters.
Your own magic, Iseldir said. Awoken. Which means it was always inside him all this time. A corruption waiting for the opportunity to be brought to life, and take all that he ever wanted. But that can’t be. He’s never felt it before. He’s never been lured to magic before. “How?” is all he can manage to say.
Iseldir seems to understand the question anyway. “King Uther would have you believe that magic is a choice. That people only become magic users by seeking it out. For some, that is true. Their magic can only be used through spells or magical objects. For those, they will not have known they had magic without trying it. But for others, magic chooses them. Their magic starts uncontrolled and wild, and without training, it will stay that way. Your magic has begun this process.”
“How do I make it stop?” Leon asks, feeling hollow inside. If what Iseldir says is true, he has no choice in the matter. Magic has chosen him to be drawn into its murky depths, where only pain and suffering lie.
Iseldir gives his hand one final pat before letting it go. “With training. You must learn how to call your magic to you and how to channel it. Until you do, it will continue to slip through your fingers as it has done. With proper training, I believe you have the chance to be very powerful. In the old days, perhaps powerful enough to become a High Priest.”
For all of a moment, Leon feels as if the ground disappears beneath his feet and he’s dropped into a large, never-ending hole. But then anger swoops in to take its place. He stands, drawing himself to his full height. “For what purpose do you deceive me?” he demands.
It must be a deception. It must be. For how else is he to accept what has been done to him?
The fire leaps into the air, flames reaching above his head. Its heat sears his skin and settles deep within his chest, fierce and hot and so very wrong.
“Calm yourself, knight,” Iseldir says, arms spread wide, palms up, projecting an air of tranquillity. “I have no reason to deceive you. I only know that your father was powerful, and so too will you be.”
Leon steps backwards, turning away from the group and tugging on his hair. The pain calms him just enough to realise that the warmth deep in his chest isn't coming from the fire but from himself. It’s that same warmth he felt when the root saved his life.
Which means—
The fire burning is coming from him.
“You feel it now,” the old woman says. “The magic inside you. Control it. Feel the way it flows in your veins and make it stop before the fire grows further out of control. Breathe in deeply.”
Leon does as she says. He forces his breathing to slow and takes in one long, deep breath through his nose. He imagines the cool air settling over the warmth in his chest, until it’s no longer there. His eyes slip closed of their own accord, and he lets the darkness behind his eyes become real, too.
When his eyes open once more, the cave is dark, except for the gentle light of the coals left. His panic and anger have cooled completely, leaving him feeling heavy and ashamed. Ashamed that magic led him to such an outburst, and that he so easily gave in to the allure of its corruption.
With a gentle whoosh, the fire relights itself, and Leon can once more make out the faces before him. Merlin — and he had nearly forgotten the presence of the young servant — has a look of concern across his face, but he hasn’t moved from his position on the floor. None of them have.
“Please join us once more, Sir Leon,” the old woman says. “I believe we have more to discuss.”
Leon does as asked, sitting gingerly back onto the furs. But he returns to his position by Merlin, rather than next to Iseldir.
“Why does it scare you that you could be a powerful magic user?” the woman asks, her voice calm and even. It’s a little unnerving. She speaks as if something from outside of her is speaking through her. As if her body is merely a puppet, and something older and greater controls her.
“If I have more magic, surely that means I will succumb to its corruption sooner?”
She shakes her head. “Magic doesn’t work like that. It is not magic itself that corrupts individuals, but power, greed, and loss. The Butcher King has succumbed to corruption, just as The Unworthy Priestess has too. But magic itself does not cause corruption.”
“But then…” Leon trails off as his whole world tries to rearrange itself. He has been told his whole life that magic corrupts. Most of his life. That’s what the King has always said, and it’s why Bors—
This woman could be lying. Iseldir too. They all could be lying to him. But then, if they are, why has Merlin, who as Gauis’ apprentice knows more about magic than most, not refuted them?
“What do you know about the death of the late Lady Yrgaine?” the woman asks.
Leon gives Merlin a nervous look, remembering that day long ago when Prince Arthur and King Uther had come to blows. Arthur had been sure — so sure — that his father had used magic to conceive him and, in doing so, doomed Lady Ygraine. But it was Merlin who convinced him it was all a lie. Merlin, who sits with him now, so calm and at peace amongst this circle of magic users.
Merlin, who has agreed not to tell Arthur of his magic, and encouraged him to come to the druids with his questions. What is Merlin’s stake in all of this? Why put himself so far at risk for Leon? They are friendly, as all Prince Arthur’s circle of knights are, but he wouldn’t call them friends. They simply don't know one another well enough for that.
“I know she died due to magic,” Leon says eventually, using the simplest answer he knows.
“Perhaps,” the woman says. “Uther and Ygraine had long wished for a child and been unable to conceive. It was Uther who went to his court sorcerer of the time, the High Priestess Nimueh and asked for help. He was warned of the price for a life, and chose to have Arthur conceived anyway.
“He did not think it would be Ygraine whose life was called for. When she passed, he turned his grief and rage on those with magic. Nimueh was forced to flee, and we have been hunted ceaselessly ever since.”
“You said it was all a lie,” Leon says, turning to Merlin. “In the hall that day, you said it wasn’t true. And the King agreed. If she’s correct… Why did you lie that day?” He thinks he can see the traces of the answer in Merlin’s devotion to Arthur, but he needs to hear it said.
Merlin’s face falls, and he looks away, eyes bright with gold reflecting off the fire. “I couldn’t let Arthur kill Uther. Not like that. It was— It was the only thing I could think of to get Arthur to stop.”
He remembers that day so clearly. It was the first time Merlin had been more than just Prince Arthur’s odd servant or Gaius’s odd apprentice to him. He had seen it in Merlin's eyes that day, the depth of his dedication to Arthur and Camelot. King Uther could’ve had him killed for interrupting them like that, but Arthur’s life had come first.
Arthur had been furious. Angrier than Leon had ever seen him in his life. And that man, that knight that Leon had been back then, would never have considered opening the doors on his own. Not even as he heard their yelling, not even when the sound of swords clanging had filtered through the doors. He could never have believed they would kill one another.
But Merlin had seen it. And Arthur… Arthur had listened to him. Without question, without anger. Arthur had listened to the servant just as Leon had done.
And here Leon sits now, meeting with druids and considering using the magic running through his veins, and that same servant sits next to him.
He’s been silent too long now, just looking at Merlin. The firelight casts shadows against his cheekbones and under his brows, giving him an unearthly quality. Leon’s has never given much thought to Merlin’s appearance but he—
Shaking his head, Leon turns back to Iseldir. “This is all so much to take in. Does that mean my—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Iseldir seems to understand. “The late Lord of Willowhall disagreed with the ban on magic. When he left Camelot in anger, the Butcher pursued him. One of his own lords possessing magic could never have been allowed to stand in Uther’s new way of life.”
“When I first came to Camelot, King Uther told me my father was planning an uprising,” Leon says, hollowly. Too much information has been thrown at him tonight. Too many things that question the very ground he stands upon. “That he wanted to band together with the magic users and take over Camelot.”
The sad smile on Iseldir’s face is all the answer he needs.
But before anything else can be said, the woman claps her hands once. “That is enough for tonight. They need sleep. Tomorrow we will spend the day working with your magic, so that you may continue with it on your own.”
They all leave quietly after a round of goodbyes, leaving only Merlin and Leon in the room with the small smouldering fire and a pile of furs.
“Leon—” Merlin starts, but Leon holds up a hand, silencing him.
“I need to think and to sleep,” he says tiredly, and watches as Merlin settles down.
They settle down on opposite sides of the fire, making a nest each to protect from the hard ground of the cave. He can hear Merlin breathing slow and even on the other side of the room and the faintest noise of the druids out in the larger cave, but otherwise it’s quiet.
Despite wanting time to think, he instead falls asleep almost immediately.
Merlin disappears off to Ealdor the next morning
Gwen sits in the chair that has become her own in King Uther’s chambers. Once, she had been terrified of the man before her. Terrified of everything he held in his hands, and what he could do to her family. She had wished never to draw his eyes towards her.
But much has changed in the past few months. She now sees more of him than any other in the castle. This man, once so full of anger and hate, now gives her tired smiles when she brings food she knows he won’t eat. His hair sits limply upon his head, and his clothes hang loose on his frame.
The King of Camelot is a small man now. Sallow and broken. He spends his days looking out his window, seeing nothing. She pities him. It may be that his own choices led him here, but that reminder has little impact on her now.
“Please, Sire, you must have one more bite of your food.” She holds a forkful of softened bread up to him, but he doesn’t so much as look in her direction.
In the evenings, Arthur joins them, and he sits with her, holding her hand and brooding. On some nights, she can draw him out of his moods. But on others, they sit quietly, and Gwen tries not to feel like she’s failing in being the partner Arthur needs.
He holds her so sweetly in his arms when her own scars rise to the surface and her mind is filled with memories of Elyan leaving and her parents' deaths, and the hateful expression on Morgana’s face the last time they met. She wishes she knew how to do the same for Arthur.
The door opens, drawing her from her thoughts, and she turns, expecting to see Arthur. Instead, Elyan enters and a smile spreads across her face.
“Elyan,” she greets, clearing a chair for him. He bows to the king before sitting down next to her.
Elyan stares at the king, his eyebrows drawn together, and Gwen readies herself for the conversation she knows is to come. She waits, getting up to bustle around the room while he tries to find his words.
“I don’t understand why you watch over him with such care,” he says eventually.
A sigh falls from her lips and she fluffs the blankets of the king's bed, drawing the covers back so that he may climb in with ease later in the evening. “I do it for Arthur.”
“He had our father killed!” Elyan says, rising from his chair angrily.
“You were not here, Elyan; you do not tell me what happened to our father.” Her tone is sharp and biting, and as expected, Elyan takes a step back and drops his head. It’s acknowledgement enough of her pain.
She looks back at Uther and leans against the heavy bed frame. “When I look at him, I don’t see the man who did that anymore. All I see is the father Arthur loves. A man who is lost inside his own mind. I look after him because Arthur loves him, and I love Arthur.”
Elyan crosses the room, and his arm settles across her shoulder. “You are better than any man deserves,” he whispers into her hair, as he presses a soft kiss to her forehead.
A few tears escape her eyes, as she leans into the solid warmth of her little brother, and allows him to take some of her weight for a short while.
Chapter Text
“Stand there and feel the breeze as it moves past you,” the old woman says, whose name Leon has now learnt is Camma.
They had been woken early in the morning by Iseldir, before being fed breakfast and then split up. Merlin was ushered away from him before they had even had a chance to talk. It would’ve been preferable to have a chance to speak to Merlin, even if he’s still unsure of the servants' stake in all this.
But instead, he had been sent outside with Camma. They stand in the middle of a small clearing, the sound of birdsong and a babbling stream filling the air nearby. It would be quite pleasant if he understood what was happening. If his mind were not awash with emotions and thoughts roiling in his head.
What is to come of him back in Camelot? How can he save himself, if the druids do not believe he needs to be saved? Is magic not the corrupting force he has been led to believe? If he trains his magic, is he not becoming all that he has fought against for his entire life?
The thoughts split his skull, and a headache pounds within it, even as he tries to focus on the calm of the forest and find that calm within. A swordsman is no good when filled with doubt and anger, and uncertainty.
Looking at Camma, Leon can tell she is not a woman used to being argued with, and so he follows her instructions, despite all his misgivings. He closes his eyes and feels the way the gentle breeze moves through the clearing.
It flows past him, rustling the light layer of his tunic every so often and creating new creases in his trousers. Hair tickles the back of his neck as it shifts ever so slightly. On the breeze he can smell the forest around them: the dirt, the trees, the gentle perfume of flowers.
Perhaps he should make spending time in the forest like this part of his schedule. Despite all the reasons he should not be feeling at ease, he finds his chest loosening and the tension draining from his shoulders. His worries drain away, and his mind clears, all his earlier worries slipping away for the moment.
Though just as he truly sinks into the ease, he feels it. The way the wind changes as it passes over him. There’s something new to it now. But it’s not a new smell, and it’s not any faster. But something else…
It takes him a moment to work out that it’s magic he can feel interspersed in the air. Or he hopes it is. Something tugs inside him, as if his own magic rises to meet the magic in the air.
Panic tugs at his mind, but he breathes in deeply, mastering it, forcing aside his worries for the moment. This magic within him is his own, and he will master it, if only to keep himself and his kingdom safe. He tries to let the magic out, just a little. The memory of how he felt within when the breeze blew through his chambers is difficult to recall, but he tries anyway.
Warmth blooms within him, and this time he feels the magic dancing along his skin. He tries to imagine the wind gently lifting the leaves layering the ground. Instead, the wind in the clearing rushes at him, sending him tumbling to the ground, blinking dust from his eyes.
Deep laughter booms across the clearing from the diminutive woman off to the side. “A valiant effort, young knight,” Camma says. “But it is good that you were able to do so much anyway.”
His legs nearly give out as he tries to stand, the realisation of what he just did hitting him like a castle wall, and he stumbles across the clearing to lean against a tree. The rough bark of it digs into his back. “I just performed magic,” he breathes, scraping his hands down the side of the tree. “That came from me.”
“Did you not already know you had magic?” Camma asks quietly.
“I was never convinced, I don’t believe. I suppose because it was something happening to me. It wasn’t mine. Not like it is when I know I’m in control. I made that happen. I felt it.”
“The magic has always been your own. Even when it was acting uncontrollably.” A gentle hand touches his shoulder, drawing his attention back to Camma properly. “Now that we have begun, you must continue training even when you leave here. The outbursts will only get worse with time. But as you train, they will steadily stop, or lessen.”
Shaking his head, Leon draws away from Camma. “That can’t happen. Not while I’m in Camelot. It will be only too easy for me to be caught.”
“That is why you must train. To learn to use it properly. Magic is a force of its own, and it wishes to move from the containment it finds in you, to the chaos of life outside at any chance it gets.”
“Then why did it choose me?” Leon asks, the question feeling incredibly young on his lips. He looks up at Camma, standing on the edge of the clearing still. Her lined face is kind and understanding, and the expression is so like his mother's, Leon feels a longing for home.
“That is a question we have never been able to answer. Even among our own people, only some have magic. If magic does choose its wielders, it does so by rules we can’t comprehend.”
There’s a realisation attached to this that Leon isn’t ready to come to. He can feel it, poking at the back of his mind, wanting to show itself, make him face it. But Leon shoves it far, far down. At least for the moment.
“What else would you like me to do?” he asks Camma, hoping a task will give him the space to sort out his emotions.
They spend the rest of the day working with his magic. Leon creates more gales that weren’t meant to be such, sets a tree on fire and his belt, and spends a long time frustrated at the lack of progress.
By the end of the day, he’s cranky and annoyed and ready to return to Camelot and the routine of training with the knights, attending council meetings and spending time in the tavern. He wishes for the easy predictability of it more than anything else.
They have to leave the next day. Merlin has been gone too long, and Camelot is in need of Leon. Even if it’s the most dangerous place for him to be, his duty to his people comes before anything else. Even his own safety.
Though if he finds his magic to be a threat to his people, he only hopes he’s not so far gone, he doesn’t realise it. It would devastate him to turn his own weapons upon those who seek shelter within Camelot’s walls. Upon his men, his friends, his prince and king.
They’re sent on their way early the next morning, with enough supplies to last them the trip back. He’s glad to be leaving. Even though there was a measure of calm to be found here, he couldn’t let go of the anxiety around being in an enemy territory, committing treason.
Before they leave, Camma grasps his hand. “Do not forget what I said about your training. You must continue it when you return to Camelot, even though it will be hard to do so. Your magic will only grow more unpredictable now that you have embraced it.”
“I will,” he promises, squeezing Camma’s hand.
“When you are ready, you must return to us here. I have more to teach you. But that cannot happen until you are ready. The risk is too high.” The bones in his hand creak as Camma tightens her grip, and it’s only years of training that keep his knees from sinking at the pain of it. “Promise me,” she implores.
“I promise,” he gasps out, glad for the moment she releases his hand. He stretches it out, feeling the muscles and bones right themselves once more, perhaps not literally.
The promise weighs on him the closer they get to Camelot. Both of them. His promise to train and return later. Camma hadn’t told him when to return, only to return when he was ready. But how is he supposed to know what is considered ready?
And does he even believe her words? In the calm clearing, it was a simple matter of setting his mind aside while he worked with the magic simmering within him. He could simply close his eyes and listen to the breeze, and Camma’s calming words. But he finds his wariness returning as they journey back through Camelot. Every step Caradoc takes brings him closer to the fear and uncertainty of the castle and draws forth more of his uncertainty and fear.
Using his magic had felt so natural and so easy. But is that not part of its allure? Part of the call that draws you in until you find your heart has rotted from the inside? Is that not what he’s been taught? But these thoughts war with the part of him that wants to believe Iseldir and Camma and the gentle peace he had found with the druids.
“So what are we going to do when we get back to Camelot?” Merlin asks out of the blue.
Leon had forgotten his presence for a moment. They’d been quiet for most of the day. “We,” he emphasises, “will do nothing. I, on the other hand, will keep that to myself.”
“Maybe I can help you.”
“How Merlin?” Leon snaps perhaps a little sharply. The woods around them are taking on more familiarity with the woods that surround Camelot, and their impending return to the city is putting him on edge. “You have no magic to speak of.”
“It doesn’t mean I can’t be your lookout.”
“That will only put you further at risk, and the risk is already too high for you.” Merlin is a servant. If it ever gets out that magic is being done around the two of them together, suspicion will fall immediately on Merlin. He may be killed before Leon even has a chance to refute it.
“Then doesn’t it make sense to have support? Help to watch out where you can’t? My positions as Gaius’s apprentice and Arthur’s manservant protect me from suspicion when something odd happens near me. I’m merely investigating, with the help of the noble Sir Leon.”
Looking over at Merlin, Leon can’t help but let a small smile bloom across his lips at the innocently mischievous look on his face. Merlin may no longer be the young boy who had first come to Camelot tripping all over everything and everyone, but he can make it easy to forget that.
This treasonous streak of his is concerning; however, Leon hopes the depth of his affection for Arthur keeps it in check. If not, perhaps Leon can keep an eye on him.
His thoughts stop there for a moment. Maybe it would be better to have Merlin with him when he trains. That way, he can keep him from getting into any trouble. Leon is fond enough of him that hopefully his presence won’t be too disruptive.
“Fine,” he relents after a moment's thought. “But you have to use a measure of stealth and secrecy, or else this will never work.”
“You can trust me,” Merlin smiles benignly, before turning back to watch the trail, and Leon feels a measure of unease shiver down his spine. What has he gotten himself into?
“Merlin,” Arthur growls, coming down the steps of the castle as they arrive back in Camelot. The rest of their journey had gone by smoothly and quietly, and Leon was grateful for the peace. “Why did I have to hear from Gaius that on a whim you’d decided to visit your mother?”
Leon starts, before piercing Merlin with a furious glare. “You couldn’t have picked a less obvious cover story?” he hisses.
With a snort, Merlin turns to Leon for all of a moment. “I only told Gaius not to tell Arthur I was at the tavern. This isn’t my fault.” He turns back to Arthur. “I told you I was worried about her. Cenred’s armies would have marched right by Ealdor. Did you struggle to get dressed without me?” Merlin asks with a nod to the— now that Leon’s looking properly, he can see that Arthur’s vest isn’t tied properly, and he has to stifle a laugh.
“Merlin,” Arthur growls, his anger doing little to mask the growing redness of his cheeks. Next to him, he can hear Merlin muffling the same laughter Leon is, and as he looks over, his eyes linger on the smile on Merlin’s face and the way he hastily covers it with an ineffective look of seriousness.
“Yes, yes,” Merlin calls out, swinging himself off his horse and takes the reins of Cadoroc, and his own horse. “I’ll get these two sorted and then sort out your royal laces, shall I, my lord?”
Arthur growls, but doesn’t give any other answer, and Leon swings off Cadoroc. Stretching his legs out as he walks towards Arthur.
They clasp wrists, Arthur’s hold on him steady and strong, and some unnamed impulse within him jumps at the contact. Something warm and coming from deep within him. Leon lets go a little earlier than he normally would, but whatever that was, it needs to stay far away from Prince Arthur.
“It must’ve been a hard journey, Sir Leon,” Arthur notes.
“My lord?” he asks, confused as to why Arthur would think that.
“Well, you picked up Merlin along the way. I’m familiar with how he likes to prattle on.”
“Ah,” Leon laughs. “He was actually a decent travelling companion. Quiet.”
With a narrowed-eyed look at Leon, Arthur turns in the direction Merlin had disappeared. “I’ve never known him to be quiet in all the years he’s worked for me.”
Before Leon can reply, Arthur walks off without another word, staring after Merlin. He seems intent on following in his footsteps. With a shake of his head, Leon turns to go, leaving the two of them to their rather odd relationship.
Arthur’s grumbling has long since stopped having much of an effect on Merlin. It’s become too predictable, too normal. Merlin filters everything Arthur says through a finely tuned filter, turning his complaining prattle into, ‘Yes, Merlin. You’re brilliant, Merlin. Thank you for saving me, Merlin.’
It’s best for all concerned parties this way.
So when Arthur finds him in the stables, he prepares his filter, ready to ignore the majority of what Arthur’s about to say. It floors him when, instead, Arthur opens with, “Is Hunith okay?”
Merlin turns to where Arthur stands in the doorway, his face shadowed. His eyebrows are pulled together in that way they only do when he’s concerned about something. “She’s okay. The village was missed by Cenred’s army, so they’re fine.”
Relief seems to hit Arthur, as his frame loosens just a little. “That’s good. Leon said you were quiet on the ride home.”
There’s a question there, one that Arthur won’t ask directly. It’s always interesting watching Arthur try to manage real, true emotions. Despite Merlin’s claims to the contrary, Arthur does do a fair job at talking about this stuff. Like just now. Arthur is concerned and wants to know if Merlin is okay.
It’s a nice change that Merlin is the one who’s just fine in this situation, and someone else is the one with the crisis. “Well, you see, Arthur,” Merlin starts. “I respect Sir Leon. His dedication to the people of Camelot is admirable, and I didn’t want to annoy him during our journey home.”
“Then why do you never cease your prattle around me?” Arthur asks, exasperated.
“Well…” Merlin draws out the word, his meaning coming through perfectly, judging by the sour look on Arthur’s face.
“Merlin!” he growls, reaching for a pile of clean hay. Merlin darts backwards before realising that only sends him further into the stable, which has one entrance and one exit.
Arthur is bearing down on him, a pile of hay in hand that he clearly plans to shove in Merlin’s face, or possibly down his shirt, or whatever other strange and unusual punishments Arthur can come up with. If he’s quick, Merlin might be able to dart past Arthur and reach the exit before he can do so.
Keeping the hand already holding the hay closer to him. Merlin edges sideways, watching Arthur like he’s a dangerous predator. He waits, letting him come just another one, two, three steps into the stall, before launching himself to the side, body bending backward to avoid Arthur’s outstretched hands.
Unfortunately, Merlin forgot that Arthur is too incredibly fast and has great reflexes, because just as Merlin moves, Arthur does too, and it takes only a moment for the hand holding the hay to close around the neck of his shirt.
Merlin lurches forward, laughing, as Arthur’s other hand grabs hay and starts shoving it forcibly down his back. “This’ll— teach you,” Arthur laughs, now fully encasing him, as he shoves more hay down Merlin’s shirt.
“Stop,” Merlin laughs, trying to squiggle out of Arthur’s hold, but it’s no use. Even as Arthur bends to grab more hay, Merlin only goes with him, bending down as more itchy hay is collected to be shoved down his back.
After too long a time, Merlin manages to free himself from Arthur’s hold, and contrary to the broad smile on his face, he grumbles as he flees, rustling his shirt as he goes in the hope of dislodging the hay.
It’s no use, though, and he knows he’ll need to change before he does anything else.
Chapter Text
His promise to Camma disappears in the halls of Camelot.
He does try to practice his magic once. In his chambers, alone at night. He must’ve been louder than he anticipated, however, as he gets a concerned knock on his door from Elyan. The conversation that followed was incredibly awkward. Elyan now thinks he gets up to odd… intimate things alone, and the less said about that, the better.
It was no simple matter trying to work through all he had been taught in his life and what he had been told by the druids out in the forest. It’s near impossible when the consequences of being caught follow him at every moment. He turns down a corridor and remembers chasing a magic user down it, or steps into the courtyard to remember the smell of burning flesh and the spurt of blood from someone’s neck.
His magic taunts him all the while, waking him at night, following down corridors. It keeps his chambers at the perfect temperature and warms his baths. It laughs at him on the training ground when he gets knocked down and ruffles his hair when he enjoys a good meal.
He finds his hand drifting to itch at his chest more and often as time passes, an itch lodging itself in there that he can’t quite scratch. But he puts it firmly in the camp of things he’s not thinking about, and sets it aside to go about his business.
Months pass like this, and the cold of winter starts to melt away, giving way to the new growth of spring. He feels invigorated, and the impending harvest cheers the city.
Despite what Camma has said, his magic hasn’t been too out of control. Everything that has been happening has been affecting only him, and he’s the only one who's noticed it. He’s fine if things stay that way.
Perhaps with only that much magic, it means the corruption the druids say doesn’t exist won’t creep in. Any mention of Morgana comes with the reminder of what happened to her, but Leon worries that he feels himself sinking into the magic in his chest.
These days, when Arthur is nowhere to be found in the castle, the place to find him is in King Uther’s chambers.
It’s one such night, when Leon needs Arthur’s opinion on changes to a patrol route, that finds him seeking out Arthur in King Uther’s chambers.
The King is looking haggard these days. Worn and old, and run down. It’s to be expected, but something in Leon aches to see such a figure of his younger years in such a state. It’s hard to think of the man who stormed his home as the same one who now sits by a window all day, limp and lost and vacant.
He opens the King's chamber doors quietly, peeking his head into the room, in case he disturbs the King's sleep this late at night. But instead, the scene he finds is incredibly domestic. The room is darker than expected, but not so dark that he can’t make out the figures in front of him.
By the window, there are three chairs pulled up. In the first, Uther sits slumped, looking blankly out the window. Opposite him, Gwen and Arthur sit, chairs pulled close together and heads bent over a roll of parchment. At closer inspection, he can see Arthur and Gwen holding hands resting atop her thigh.
As he watches, Gwen turns to Arthur, a smile on her face as she whispers something to him. Arthur’s head shifts and he pecks her on the temple in a move impossibly gentle and familiar.
It brings a smile to Leon’s face, to see the two so comfortable and domestic. They’re good together. Gwen softens Arthur’s edges, and Arthur’s presence straightens Gwen’s back.
With Arthur, she’s very different to the young girl who used to run rampant through the corridors of Willowhall, laughing with him and Elyan about whatever new game they had invented.
But she’s also a far cry from the girl he knew as a squire. Freshly come to Camelot in the wake of her mother's death, Gwen had been serious and withdrawn. He had watched over her and Elyan, thinking it his duty now that their mother was dead and they had been thrust into this new, strange place together.
A part of Leon wishes they could find that early companionship they’d had as children, before their respective positions drove them apart. He and Elyan have had little trouble picking up where they left off. Though now the wooden sticks are real swords, and where they had compared strange bugs or rocks, they now trade reports and training schedules.
Feeling a little like a voyeur in such a private moment, Leon turns to leave, but as he does so, light in the room flares, and Gwen shrieks. A wave of heat hits him as the fire jumps into the air, setting alight the tapestry above the fire and the curtains of Uther’s bed.
“What?” Arthur yells, jumping up and pushing Gwen behind him, before reaching for the king.
Leon retreats quickly, as the clanging of the guards' imminent arrival echoes down the hall. He walks brisk and fast as his breath quickens in his lungs, not stopping for anything until he arrives in his chambers.
Slamming the door behind him, Leon leans back into the solid wood, catching his breath.
Magic. He had just done magic in front of the king. And Prince Arthur. If that fire had been any hotter or fiercer, he might have injured one of them. That surely would’ve meant a large search being instituted. The thought of leading the search for himself pops into his mind and he has to take a moment to shake his head and clear that thought.
He waits there, back pressed against the door, unmoving. He waits for the sound of the warning bells ringing. Even after the fire in his chambers dies down, and the footsteps out in the hall have quietened, he still waits.
But nothing comes.
That was much too close.
His magic has never done anything so public before. Nothing so close to others, so wild and unpredictable. It’s never come so close to harming others.
But has letting his magic be used caused this, or perhaps the lack of use? If Camma is to be believed, it’s been his lack of training that is responsible for such a violent outburst. The thought of giving in to the magic under his skin causes that itch to start up again in his chest, but at the same time, the lack of action makes his palms sweat.
He’s a man of action. Always has been, always will be; it comes with being a knight. He’s been cowardly, these past few months, putting aside his problem and hoping it will resolve on its own. But that’s not how these things work. Solutions take time and thought and effort, and he resolves to train the magic crawling under his skin, even if it feels like a betrayal of all he’s ever known. Better the enemy he can control than the one he cannot.
Turning on his heels, Leon decides to seek out the only person who might be able to help him in his endeavour.
Creeping through the halls of Camelot doesn’t come naturally to Leon. He’s a knight. He’s used to stalking his way through them, straight-backed and confident. Servants move out of his path, and guards bow their heads to him as he moves through the halls. In any other circumstances, Leon would simply walk through the castle, but this is not a meeting for any of the lower guards to note.
But in the dark of night, he tries to creep on silent feet. Only his shoes scuff against the flagstones, and he finds himself having to duck into corridors to avoid the patrolling guards more often than he would like. Or perhaps it’s a good thing. The only reason he so easily evades them is his familiarity with their movements.
Getting past Gaius is child’s play in comparison. The physician’s snores fill the room, and there’s just enough light that he can avoid the many obstacles littering the floor. Perhaps Gaius keeps them there to trip up any potential intruders.
Or, judging by how he is coming to know Merlin, possibly to trip up Merlin.
Merlin is sprawled across the top of his cot, somehow seeming both incredibly uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time. His limbs seem sprawled at impossible angles, and yet Leon doesn’t think he’s ever slept so hard in his life.
A shaft of moonlight runs across Merlin’s face, and despite the drool leaking onto his pillow, Leon finds it oddly endearing.
But then he remembers why he’s here, and he steps forward to shake Merlin awake.
“Merlin,” he hisses quietly and to no avail. “Merlin!” he tries again, giving him a little shake on the shoulder, and this time Merlin flinches and shakes awake.
Leon lets him come too, giving him time to blink the sleep from his eyes and come to his wits before he starts. With his hair all tousled from sleep, and his expression tired and gormless, Leon feels the urge to wrap Merlin up in a warm blanket. But he pushes that aside.
“Why are you here?” Merlin croaks after a moment.
Leon runs a hand through his hair. “I nearly set the King's chambers alight.”
“You what?” Merlin yells, too loud in the quiet of the night. There’s a strange light in Merlin’s eyes, some emotion Leon can’t quite name or place.
Leon shushes him immediately, but not before a rustle sounds from the room outside. “Do you want to wake up Gaius?” he hisses, before sitting down on the bed next to Merlin.
Blinking a few times, Merlin just stares at him for a long moment. “Did you say you nearly set Uther’s chambers on fire?”
“Not on purpose.” Leon glares at Merlin. “I intended to ask the prince about a change to patrol routes, but as I was—” he stops, realising it would be indecorous to tell Merlin of Arthur and Gwen’s intimate moment. “As I waited for him to finish talking to his father, the fireplace just… exploded. It was larger and more aggressive than any such occurrence before.”
Merlin rubs at the top of his nose. “You avoided me when we returned to Camelot.”
“I did not!” Leon refutes.
“You did. You refused to be in a room alone with me, and didn’t look at me for a month straight. You avoided me.”
Leon thinks back on that first month, and admits that perhaps he had just a little bit. Everything he needed to do was a very easy excuse for avoiding the topic of Merlin and the magic crawling around under his skin.
“Perhaps I avoided you a small amount. Which is why I’m requesting your help now.”
“With what?” Merlin asks, tone suspicious. He sits up properly now and swings his legs over the side of the bed.
“I need somewhere secluded. Somewhere quiet in the castle, where no one will come across me, and servants always know the hidden places within a castle the best.”
“Does it need to be in the castle?” Merlin asks after a long moment.
He considers the question for a moment, but ultimately decides the answer depends on where outside of the castle. “What do you have in mind?”
“There’s a large clearing outside of Camelot. The same one the dragon was fought in. You would be out of sight of Camelot and from the patrols there.”
Leon thinks on it for a moment. It would be difficult to sneak out of the castle all the time, but Leon is well familiar with all the secret exits to Camelot itself. It’s certainly doable, if not entirely devoid of risk. The only eyes that would be able to see there are the guards who walk the walls, and so long as they don’t cause too great a disturbance, eyes should remain clear of them.
He must sit on his thoughts for too long, because he’s brought back to the moment when Merlin coughs. “Do you… want to go now?” he asks, awkward.
“That might be for the best,” Leon says, though he had no prior intention of heading out now. “How would you suggest leaving?” Leon narrows his eyes.
Merlin doesn’t hesitate before answering, tumbling right into Leon’s trap. “It’s not hard to get out through the old tunnels, and then it’s not far to walk from there.”
“And just how did you learn that?” Perhaps he shouldn’t have been avoiding Merlin the past few months, and instead watching him very closely.
“Ah,” Merlin says, scratching the back of his neck, as he looks up at Leon from behind his fringe. “Helping Arthur,” he says, the phrase coming out more like a question. It’s not at all convincing, but Leon lets it go.
“Get dressed then, and you can lead the way,” he orders.
Merlin is correct about how easy it is to sneak out of the old tunnels.
Disturbingly easy. The night guards in the dungeons are too busy playing dice to notice when they sneak down the stairs, and all it took was a thrown rock to send them all scurrying down the hall. He makes a mental note to increase their training and then rethinks it when remembering it’ll make it harder for him to get out of the castle.
But it’s his duty to protect Camelot and its people, and such a glaring breach in their security can’t be tolerated, even if it will make his life more difficult.
“Are they always like that?” Leon whispers as they head down the now mostly empty tunnels. Occasionally, there’ll be the light of a torch and a guard up ahead, but it’s easy enough to duck into another tunnel to keep out of sight.
Merlin stifles a laugh. “While the knights of Camelot are the finest trained in the land, the guards of Camelot are certainly not the same. And the knights of Camelot on guard…” he trails off and looks at Leon, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Well, they’re even worse.”
Leon lets out a humph of displeasure and turns back to the tunnel ahead of them. “That certainly won't be allowed to continue.”
When they do make it to the old tunnel out of the castle, the lock is broken, and the gate swings open at just a touch. The whole process to leave the castle takes less than twenty minutes and happens without so much as a hint of their getting caught. Disgraceful and sloppy.
“You’re not actually going to fix everything that just helped us sneak out, are you?” Merlin asks as soon as they set off towards the clearing Merlin indicated.
“My duty to Camelot is more important than keeping myself safe. Such glaring issues cannot be allowed to continue. Not when it could mean her demise, or the death of her people.” Leon is resolute in this. The situation is untenable and cannot be allowed to continue.
“I’ve always admired that about you,” Merlin says, out of the blue.
He turns to him, tilting his head in question. “Pardon?”
“That your duty has always outweighed anything else. Too many of the knights care more for lining their pockets and their own comfort than for the people of Camelot. But not you. The people have always come first. I have not forgotten that when the troll was in Camelot, it was you who confronted the king.”
“I take my oath seriously,” Leon answers, because it is perhaps the only answer he has to give. He’s not sure how he feels about the criticism of the other knights. He has cause to agree with Merlin’s words. “I always have.”
“Not all do. But I suppose that is why you were the only Knight of Camelot Arthur had around that table.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you can be very insightful?”
Merlin gives him a half smile. “Gaius, though he prefers to use ‘nosy’.”
Leon’s laughter echoes through the trees.
The stress of the past few months must be greater than Leon realised, because it’s not till they get out into the clearing that Leon’s shoulders loosen. It’s a nice space. Large and open. The back of the castle faces them, but it’s far enough away that anybody looking out the window will be able to make out very little. And that side of the castle hasn’t been regularly inhabited for a long time.
The very ground at his feet seems to welcome him to the clearing, though, and he finds that any remaining worries about being found out dissipate. The same cannot be said for anxiety around welcoming the magic under his skin.
But that leaves him with the question of how to train his magic. In the glade all those months ago, Camma had told him to feel the breeze, but she had guided him to do so with her own magic. She had controlled the wind and shaped it and let it flow past him, magic in every breeze.
But there’s none of that here. Merely him and the grass and the clouds high above. Beside him, Merlin tugs some grass from the ground, and holds it in his palm. “Blow it out of my hand.” He orders.
Leon raises his eyebrows. “I ask that you not blame me if I blow you away with the grass.”
Merlin laughs, but simply holds his palm up, the blades of grass sitting still in his hands.
There’s no wind tonight, no breeze even. The air is nearly still around them, as if waiting in anticipation for his magic. But without the breeze, he feels cradled in the embrace of the air, and that makes it easier somehow to reach out with that strange sense within him.
He raises no arm, uses no gesture to feel the air around him. It simply sings to him, and as he does so, he realises that the air is filled with magic. But not just the air. The grass, too, and down deep into the ground. Magic is everywhere, in everything.
It’s beautiful. The thought comes to him unbidden and sudden. It means nothing, though. Magic has ways of twisting perceptions.
It takes only a thought for a small gale to appear in the air and sweep through the clearing. It doesn’t blow the grass from Merlin’s hand — it doesn’t even get close to doing so — but it happened with more control than anything Leon had managed before.
He laughs, giddy at the feeling of that warmth that overtakes him, not just from the magic deep within him, but also just from having used his magic so well. A smile blooms across his face and the answering one on Merlin’s face takes what little breath remains in him away.
Merlin seems to glow from within, because surely, how else could his smile be so radiant?
“Your eyes become little flames when you do magic,” Merlin says after a while, his voice slightly breathless.
“They do?” he says. That could be a problem. That is a problem if his magic continues to be so out of control. So wild and ready for release. “I shall endeavour not to use it within Camelot in that case.”
“It’s rather nice, actually,” Merlin notes. “Matches your hair.”
Leon narrows his eyes, trying to discern whether Merlin’s joking or not. As a child, his hair was a much deeper shade of red, and was the subject of much teasing by the other children. Never from Gwen and Elyan, however. That may be why he was so attached to them at a young age.
“I’m not teasing,” Merlin says, once more demonstrating just how perceptive he is.
Leon hums in response.
“Try it again,” Merlin says after a moment, nodding at the blades of grass in his hand.
This time, Leon tries to narrow his awareness. Instead of feeling the magic everywhere around him, he tries to narrow a path to just around Merlin’s hand. The air practically tingles with magic around him, as if the magic is attracted to people. Or perhaps it’s just Merlin.
But he feels it there, and tries to block out how the rest of it feels. This time, he raises his hand, straightens his fingers, and cocks it, as if wafting smoke towards Merlin.
This time, instead of a nice, small controlled gale, an almighty wind whips up the clearing, blowing past Merlin faster than his eyes can follow. Merlin’s hair is in a worse state than ever, standing on end, and the back of his jacket has been thrown over one shoulder. He stands blinking, eyes owlishly wide.
Leon is frozen, waiting for Merlin's response.
After a long moment, he shakes himself a little and brushes his jacket off his shoulder before running a hand through his hair. “Well,” Merlin says. “At least you blew the grass off my hand.”
Once more, Leon is brought to laughter as he watches Merlin right his clothes and his hair. “I did indeed,” he agrees.
Leaning down to pick up more grass, Leon watches as the long line of Merlin’s back is exposed, before he straightens again. “Try it again.”
And so they go on for far longer than is advisable. By the end, Leon is tired and achy, but he can mostly manage to conjure up a small gust of wind in a controlled manner.
But despite his tiredness, he feels light and free in a way he hasn’t in a very long time. It’s as if some unnamed pressure over him has loosened its grip, leaving him relaxed and open, and that itch deep in his chest has disappeared. It’s a nice feeling. One he would be happy to get used to. Especially if Merlin’s presence beside him becomes a staple of it.
Merlin has been a big help all night. He’s had a wealth of good ideas, and every time Leon found himself getting frustrated with the process, Merlin has had a joke or a quip to lighten his spirits. Somehow, it all seems much easier with him here.
Easier to forget that magic will drag him down, that it will eat away at parts of him. Easier to forget that he’s supposed to resist its call, and not fall for its lovely song. Easier to forget that only devastation lies down this path.
They’re lying on the grass together at the moment. A bug is trying to climb up his leg, but not even the itch of that bothers him.
They’ll have to go in soon. Leon should try to sleep some before the morning. But for the moment, Leon is content as he can be.
It’s such a shame that Merlin's going to have to find a new way to sneak out of the castle, because he knows that now that Leon has said he’ll fix the problems. They’ll be fixed.
It’s very annoying, but perhaps a good thing, that Leon is so willing to make his life more difficult to protect Camelot and her people.
If nothing else, it made a warm glow start in his heart at the knight's love for Camelot. Perhaps a little too much warmth, as Merlin can’t help but blush as his laughter rings through the trees, and that warm glow takes on a more intimate feeling.
Merlin hadn’t been quite sure when that started. Sometime on the ride back to Camelot, all those months ago, maybe? He only knows that it had hurt to be so thoroughly ignored when they returned to Camelot. After a while, Merlin had to put it out of his mind when he got back, lest he get distracted from his duties.
But sometimes he would follow Arthur out to the practice fields and see the way Leon’s hair glowed in the sun, and his wide smile and he joked around with the other knights, and his heart would clench in response.
He hasn’t picked up a staff again, to try and continue those few days of training they had had. He just sticks to getting pummelled by Arthur.
But perhaps it can start up again now. And perhaps if Leon starts to spend time with his magic, learn it, perhaps even come to love it, Merlin can share his own with Leon. But not while the knight is still so resistant to his magic. Not when Merlin is so unsure how he’ll react.
Maybe it makes him a coward to be so afraid of sharing his magic, but Merlin will be so if it keeps Arthur safe.
It’s been too quiet these past few months. There were no disturbances. Merlin is almost used to having a normal sleeping schedule. Or at least as normal as it can get. It’s strange and unusual, and Merlin feels a little uncomfortable at being so well rested. He almost hopes something strange or magical will occur so he can return to his odd kind of normal.
And the lack of word about Morgana is concerning.
His meetings with Kilgharrah here have left their mark on the ground, and it hums faintly with magic. He had breathed it in deeply when they'd arrived, letting the magic settle that place within him that starts to feel empty and tight with too much time spent in Camelot.
By the way Leon's shoulders had dropped incrementally, he must have been feeling it too, even if he hadn’t noticed it yet.
He’d been walking a fine line while they were here. Making sure to be helpful, but not too helpful. And with the progress Leon’s made, it seems to have worked.
They’re lying together on the grass now, just looking up at the clouds and the faint rays of moonlight trying to break through. The grass is slightly wet and very cold, and Merlin should be feeling displeased at this moment, but he’s so warmed by seeing someone take such pleasure in magic that it can’t touch him at all.
It would take quite a lot to break Merlin’s very good mood right now.
He’s not entirely sure how they ended up lying on the grass together, but somewhere along the way, it had happened. They’re not quite lying parallel with one another; instead, their heads and shoulders sit next to each other, Leon’s warmth leaching into him.
If Merlin tilts his head just a little, he could look into Leon’s face. But he doesn’t. Something in this moment feels impossibly fragile and vulnerable, as if the slightest movement would shatter it into a thousand pieces.
So it’s a surprise when Leon’s voice breaks through the moment. But nothing shatters at his whisper; it only shelters them in the quiet of the night. “I was raised to hate magic,” he says into the darkness, “But now that I have it, it just feels warm.”
Reaching out, Merlin searches through the grass for Leon’s hand. He grasps onto it, squeezing it tightly, but doesn’t let go. He doesn’t have the words to reply. He can’t.
How can he explain that hearing those words from Leon feels like the sun setting and rising all at once? That his own body shudders at feeling so understood in so few words. That hearing it means everything to him? How can he possibly explain it when Leon still doesn’t know he has magic?
So instead, Merlin grasps Leon's hand, and he holds onto it like a lifeline in this world too full of hatred, and prays to the triple goddess that he’ll never have to let go.
Chapter Text
They fall into a routine. They don’t go out every night. Instead, they disappear out into the forest a couple of nights a week. Nights when they can get out when sunset streaks across the sky, and their duties don’t keep them from it.
Leon trains his magic, feeling it get stronger by the day. There have been a few more close calls. Calls when fires jump or strange breezes blow through rooms, but it seems nobody thinks about it twice. Except for the day out on the pitch, when the very grass beneath his feet grows as he crunches his way across the training field, leaving long patches of grass in his wake.
On that day, he leaves training to Lancelot and disappears into the armoury to scratch at his chest and stay far away from anything living.
The guards are also improving day by day. Glaring holes in castle security are fixed, and though it makes it much harder to get out, in the end, that’s a good thing.
But things are not all around well.
By the day, it seems Arthur is handling the change in leadership worse and worse. By all accounts, his own and otherwise, Arthur is doing a magnificent job. The kingdom is strong and sure; they have refilled the knights' ranks much quicker than expected, the people have been fed, and taxes are being paid. The kingdom is flourishing.
But the strain is getting to Arthur. He spends too many nights sitting by his father's side instead of sleeping, and too many days holed up in the council chambers poring over reports and documents. He’s not sleeping and is eating too little. And these days, it’s rare that he joins training in the mornings.
Leon can see the strain it's taking on Arthur plainly. He can also see it in everyone around him. Even Leon himself feels like he must walk on eggshells around the Prince, a feeling he hasn’t had for years now. Not since Merlin has come to Camelot.
Lord Agravaine’s presence in Camelot hasn’t lessened the strain on Arthur as Leon had hoped it would. Instead, it only seems that Arthur’s problems have compounded, as more and more is put on his shoulders, and he puts greater pressure on himself.
Leon tries to help. He tries to take more work for himself. He’s been trained since birth for the kind of work that involves grain reports, inventory and rostering, and has only spent more time on it as part of Uther’s council. But it seems as if Leon’s work dwindles by the day.
But it’s not till the end of a council session, partway through the summer, that Leon truly starts to understand how and why.
“Sir Leon, if you could stay for a moment. And you too, Sir Lancelot,” Arthur requests.
Merlin shuffles around beside Arthur, stacking parchment and then unstacking them, and messing around. It brings a touch of a smile to his face at the manservant's antics.
After the room clears, Arthur turns to them. “Lord Agravaine has requested to take over organising the patrols, and I have granted his request.”
“Sire,” Leon starts, concerned and perhaps even a little upset. “If I have not been managing them adequately—”
The prince cuts him off, a kind look on his face. “It’s not that, Sir Leon, be at ease. Your work has been without issue. But my uncle has made the request and I have chosen to grant it.” Arthur looks drawn and tired. Dark circles sit under his eyes, and his shoulders are slumped with exhaustion.
It’s this more than anything else that urges Leon to make his own request. “In that case, with the added time I will have, I would like to request that the harvest reports and checks, ration allotments and filing armour orders to the blacksmiths be left to me.”
Arthur frowns, turning a considering look on him. “Will that not cut into your duties training the knights?”
“Not at all. Sir Lancelot and Sir Eddard have been doing an admirable job training the knights and guards, and can continue to do so if I am indisposed, though I don’t anticipate it cutting into my duties.”
Arthur gives him a long, loaded look, studying Leon carefully. Leon tries to allow none of his worries to show on his face, knowing Arthur won’t appreciate them. He doesn't want the prince to think he pities him, but he does wish to take on some of his responsibilities, especially if Lord Agravaine is choosing to take on Leon’s own.
He must not find anything particularly amiss in Leon’s eyes, however, as Arthur nods sharply and dismisses them both.
As he and Lancelot make their way out of the council chambers, they only have time to share a look, Lancelot’s eyes showing the same confusion as Leon’s before guards pass them and Lancelot departs to return to his own duties. He makes a mental note to ask Lancelot what he thinks of all this later in the evening.
“I don’t like him,” Merlin mutters, sidling up to Leon, and startling him from his thoughts.
“Merlin,” Leon reprimands sharply. “He’s a lord, you can’t be heard saying that.”
Merlin smirks, looking at Leon from the corner of his eye. There must be something wrong with Leon that he finds it ever so slightly charming. By all rights, he should be telling Merlin off, but he finds he’d much rather follow Arthur’s lead and roll his eyes at Merlin, before smiling where he can’t see it.
“He’s always arguing with Arthur; second-guessing him,” Merlin continues as if Leon hadn’t spoken. “And he does it in front of the whole council all the time. Arthur is always more stressed after a conversation with his uncle.”
He won’t admit it, but Leon finds Lord Argavaine's presence here intrusive as well. Especially now that he has taken over the patrol routes and assignments. Leon has been in charge of those for four years now. Ever since Uther’s right hand retired.
Uther’s First Knight, while Arthur was training and learning, had been grooming Leon from his squiring days to take over. He’s not sure why he had been chosen. He had been so young back then. But he had been learning not just what he needed to be a knight, but also how to lead.
And now it seems, his work is to become someone else's.
It rankles. But he will say nothing; that is his duty.
“That is his duty,” Leon replies, a little colder than intended. “As a council member, it is his job to ask the necessary questions, even if Arthur takes his own counsel.”
“That doesn’t make it the best thing for Arthur,” Merlin snaps.
“Sometimes what is best for Prince Arthur will not be what is best for the kingdom. That is what councillors are for.” Leon turns to continue down the corridor, not wanting this to turn into any more of an argument. But he pauses, unwilling to just leave it there. “I will be heading outside tonight if you wish to join me.”
He doesn’t wait for a response before leaving. As he walks through the halls of Camelot, intent on getting to his chambers so he may collect the necessary documents for Lord Agravaine, Leon itches.
It feels wrong to argue with Merlin. It wasn’t even a particularly bad argument. And if all is forgiven, it will be worked out tonight. But he still itches.
“Sir Leon,” Arthur says, falling in step with him from a side corridor. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with my manservant recently.”
Leon falters in his step, turning to Arthur with wide eyes. He didn’t think anybody had noticed their meetings. Or their new friendship. They’ve been so careful not to spend too much time together or meet too often. “Sire! I—”
Arthur claps him on the back. “We’ve all noticed. There’s no need to be embarrassed.”
“I— yes, Sire,” Leon says, confused and wary. Arthur is intent in this conversation. He’s looking where they’re walking, an unfazed smile on his face, but he leans into Leon, as if conveying a secret.
“What I would like to know is whether there’s anything to be worried about.”
“Worried?” Understanding flashes in his mind. “Sire, I hope you don’t think I would—”
But Arthur cuts him off again. “Merlin is always up to something suspicious, so I would hope he’s not dragging you into his nonsense? Should I be worried for your virtue?” Startled laughter claws its way out of his chest, but Arthur continues. “I will order him to leave you be if you want me to.”
“No, Sire,” Leon laughs, shaking his head. “Merlin is not bothering me, and all virtues are intact.” If that phrase feels at least a little like a lie, Leon ignores it for the sake of the moment. The issues with his own virtue have little to do with Merlin. Merlin isn’t magic itself, he can’t be held responsible.
Arthur stops in the middle of the hallway to give him a long, searching look. “If you say so,” he says eventually, unconvinced. “But if I find out my First Knight is involved in any of his strangeness, I will be displeased, you hear me.”
“Yes, Sire,” Leon says with a short bow. “I shall endeavour to be normal.”
He darts off before the prince can ask him any more uncomfortable questions, but not so quickly that he doesn’t hear Arthur call out behind him, “That sounds like something Merlin would say!”
His laughter follows him down the corridor.
Leon is heartened to find Merlin already waiting for him when he arrives in the clearing that night.
“I had the strangest conversation with Arthur earlier,” Merlin says as soon as he catches sight of Leon. He’s sitting on a log that hadn’t been there when they last visited. The nearly full moon in the sky provides plenty of light for him to see by, but Leon, in a show of control he never could have managed before, creates a little ball of flame in his palm to light the area a little better.
He’s able to use magic without his doubts clawing at his mind now. That at least has become rote. But whether that’s a good thing or not is still the subject of much thought.
“I had a rather strange conversation with Arthur earlier, too,” Leon notes, as he watches Merlin idly.
He hasn’t turned to Leon yet and instead sits poised in the moonlight, looking out across the clearing and towards Camelot. He seems serene like this, almost otherworldly in his serenity. It makes him feel a little like a voyeur, even though he’s been invited to share in the moment when Merlin spoke.
Merlin hums. “He accosted me in his chambers after I last saw you and demanded I stop corrupting his virtuous First Knight. He seemed to be under the impression that you need to be protected from me.”
“I did happen to have a conversation with him where he seemed to be hinting at that. I promised I would continue to be normal, but he was under the impression that was something you would say.” He comes to a stop next to Merlin on the log and sinks onto the wood, flame still in hand.
It’s too warm for fire. The night is abnormally hot for this early in summer, but he likes the way the light from the fire dances across Merlin’s cheeks.
“I would never claim to be normal. Only slightly average. Nobody would ever believe I could be incredibly normal. You, on the other hand…”
“I was normal until I drank from the cup,” Leon says, a stab of pain igniting in his chest. It would certainly have been easier if he had never had magic. He would have continued ignoring this whole other side of him, and the warmth that curls in his chest every time he uses his magic. He could’ve ignored its song calling to him. But that's not the hand he has been dealt in life. Instead, he now questions everything.
Which is why he’s glad of the trunk Merlin sits on. Remembering the root that had shot out of the ground, Leon has been working on trying to replicate the effect for himself. He’s had some success with it, but if his next attempt is to be better, they need to be strong and sure, not just the right size.
“You might want to stand up,” Leon warns Merlin before reaching out with the insubstantial force inside him that seems to control his magic.
The log seems to have been freshly cut down, because it still buzzes with life. Magic infuses every inch of the log in the same way the ground here is infused with magic. It must be from a tree in the clearing.
He holds in his mind what he wants. He lets the idea of it fill him, until all he knows is thoughts of strength and flexibility and the right shape and size. His magic rises within him, setting his fingers tingling and his core clenching. And then he lets it take shape.
Warmth blooms deeply within him as he feels his magic work. His eyes are screwed shut, not wanting to get distracted by how it's going to look. The magic within the log answers his own, and he feels that pull taking shape and form in front of him.
A stifled gasp rings through the clearing, and he tries not to let thoughts of Merlin take up too much space. He's found that thinking too often of Merlin while working magic has… odd effects.
It could have been mere moments, or over an hour, when Leon feels a sense of completion from the magic, as if it has worked his idea to the best of his abilities. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking away the lingering blurriness.
In front of him are two ornate quarterstaffs. They stand as tall as Leon himself. Despite being straight as an arrow, their exteriors are curled and warped, as if they took on the natural shapes and curves of the trunk itself. They’ll need leather to create handholds, but without even reaching out, Leon can see that the wood is smooth and true. There will be no splinters from these.
Despite his reservations about magic, he feels no small measure of pride in how well these have turned out.
Reaching out, Leon wraps his hand around one of the staves hovering in the air in front of him and nods his head to Merlin to take the other one.
“They’re beautiful,” Merlin whispers reverently, reaching out with delicate fingers to grab his own. “Even though I just watched you do so, I can’t believe you made them. You drew them from the log with magic.”
Leon watches as Merlin takes the staff in hand and draws it up to his face to examine it closely. With barely a thought, Leon brings a flame to life in his hand so Merlin can see better. But not before stepping in close so that he may examine it too.
To his eye, there are no discernible patterns to the curves of the wood, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something there. It flows like water.
But the final test will come only when they test the strength of the staves.
“Come, Merlin. Let us see how they fare in a spar.”
The grin Merlin provides him with is gleeful.
It was perhaps the most magnificent piece of magic Merlin had ever seen. The staves grew from the log. From just a dead log sitting on the ground. Merlin would never have thought to try something like that with his magic. Never in a million years.
But he’s seen how different their magics are. Leon’s seems rooted in the natural. He doesn’t need to use spells, and the few attempts they’ve made with “old spells he found in Gaius’s books” have yielded no results.
But this is control like nothing Merlin’s ever seen. The staves are heavy are solid, and when they spar, they move magnificently. It seemed to have been made specifically for him. And perhaps it is.
This is magic like he’s never seen.
And it came from Leon. A knight of Camelot, the head knight of Camelot. Someone raised with hate in his heart for magic users, and here he is in front of Merlin, creating things from magic. Something beautiful and useful. Ever since he’s come to Camelot, he’s just stopped using his own magic like this.
Merlin feels radiant. His heart is lit up like the hearth in the kitchen. The biggest one, which warms practically that whole section of the castle, that’s never allowed to run low or go out. The hearth that feeds an entire castle.
If not for Leon declaring they should spar, Merlin is sure tears would be gathering in his eyes, threatening to fall. As it is, he’s too shocked and in awe of the precious gift he’s been given for tears.
But he knows they’ll come.
It’s hope like Merlin's never felt before. Hope for the future, for what’s to come. Hope that perhaps Arthur won’t look upon magic as something to be feared.
Hope for his freedom.
He takes that hope and wraps it around his heart with a wish that one day his dreams will be realised.
But for now, Merlin turns to Leon and brings his staff to meet Leon’s.
Chapter Text
In the end, it takes another month for Arthur to break.
To others, it wouldn’t be clear that this is Arthur breaking. It’s a rather mild form of break, especially for a royal. But after months cooped up in the castle, with only half as much training as Arthur would normally partake in, and far too many reports, it is a breaking.
When Arthur comes to him, Leon is unsurprised to find that they’ll be riding out the next morning for a survey of the fields. All of the round table, bar Gwen and Gaius, will be going
It will be a good test for him. He’s mostly certain that his fire no longer dips up and down at night from his magic. And he hasn’t experienced a breeze in a while. But it’s easy to keep from performing magic in the middle of the council chambers or out on the training field. It might be a little different when they’re riding through the forests.
What does surprise Leon is that the call comes not after a council meeting, or the delivery of a stack of reports, but after a morning Arthur spends in his chambers with his uncle.
Perhaps there is something to be said for Merlin’s claim that his uncle only makes Arthur more stressed.
So far, all reports suggest this year's crop will be a hearty one, as long as the weather holds over the next week. Some areas have already begun harvest, but most still need a little more time.
It’s been a pleasant couple of days riding through the kingdom. Gwaine has been in fine form as usual, but the smell beginning to emanate from his socks makes him an unwelcome riding companion. Percival and Elyan have been keeping up a running commentary of stories whenever Gwaine takes a breath, displaying just how widely they’ve travelled in their time.
It makes Leon a little jealous. He is better travelled than your average person, but he rarely travels with the anonymity given to the ordinary man. Instead, he travels as a noble, or a knight, neither of which makes travelling incognito particularly easy.
Arthur is, as expected, quiet and broody, but night by night, they seem to be drawing him further out of his dark mood with every bawdy joke and anecdote they tell. By the middle of the second day, he’s even smiling in a way that reaches his eyes.
It’s not till the third morning that things go wrong.
They arrive at the small outlying village of Llanfyllin not long into the morning, but instead of the peaceful sounds of work he expects, the village is filled with the sound of shouting and crying.
It takes only a moment for the knights on their horses to break into the middle of the village and find the obvious source of the noise.
A crowd has formed in the centre of the village, a mass of angry, writhing people. Off to the side, what seems to be a small family is huddled together, crying. There’s something Leoncan’t see through the mass of people in the centre of it all, whatever it is they’re all yelling about.
It takes only a couple of hand movements from Arthur and a pointed look to have the knights all fan out around the group. Leon, in a motion he’s well familiar with, urges Caradoc forward, breaking up the mass of people to one side, while Gwaine and Arthur do the same on the other.
The people scatter at the sight of the horses and the knight's red cloaks, some returning to their homes, while others simply fall backwards and right themselves on the outside of the circle of knights.
When the dust clears, it’s immediately apparent what’s happened.
“Why have you killed this woman?” Arthur asks, his eyes locked on the sight before them.
Leon can’t make out any details other than the dark colour of her hair and the torn and ripped orange clothing she had worn. Her body is mangled beyond belief, blood and viscera everywhere, but especially her face and her hands.
The sight sickens him. Even despite his many years as a knight, so rarely does he come across a body so woefully mangled by people’s hands. And the villagers… so many of them have their clothes stained red and dark with the blood of this poor woman. No matter what she did, no crime befits this punishment. None.
An older man steps forward. In comparison to the people around him, his clothes are clean and his hands free of blood. The dirt that touches him mars the very edges of his robe where it touches the ground. A village elder then. Perhaps a wise man or physician.
“I am Glent. I act as physician for this here village. The woman performed an act of magic, my Lord,” Glent says, bowing deeply to Arthur as he finishes speaking. As he rises from his bow, so do the rest of the villagers.
His blood runs cold at Glent's words. Magic. That’s all that got this woman killed. But what kind of magic, if she even used it at all? Clutching harder onto Caradoc's reins, Leon's eyes flick to Merlin, seated on his own horse behind the prince. His face is just as grave as Leon feels.
“What proof do you have of her acts of magic?” Arthur asks after a long moment. Searching his face, Leon looks for a hint of disapproval, for a moment of grief for the woman dead in front of him. Something that would give Leon hope for the future, and what his new circumstances mean for him.
“Her eyes, my lord, they turned gold or— or orange, like there was a fire burning in them. And when they did, her laundry flew into the air and wrung itself dry. Right in front of Bort, Landry and me. We all saw what happened.” Glent’s eyes are wide with fear, his face ruddy and sweaty.
Two men come forward to give their assent. Men younger than Glent, but still older than Leon, himself. They’re all men who would remember a time before the ban, and possibly have seen magic performed regularly for themselves. One has the air about him of war, and the other the steadiness of parenthood. These are dependable men. Men who the village looks to in times of strife, or when there are questions that need answers.
Men who would be unlikely to lie about something as grave as this.
But men, who, when the time came, took a rock to the fragile skin of the girl who now lies dead before them.
“That proof should have been brought, along with the woman, before the region's magister, or lord, and its knights. Not handled within your village and enacted with the brutality I see displayed before me.”
“My Lord, we couldn’t risk that. What if she had killed us on the way? Practitioners of magic are crafty and dangerous, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Glent says, his voice unsure despite his words. Leon can respect the courage it takes to speak back to your prince, if not the reason why it’s happening
After a moment, Arthur dismounts his horse. Leon follows suit, stepping in close behind Arthur, just at his right-hand side, where he belongs, even though everything inside of him wants to go to the girl and lay her to rest peacefully. This whole situation tugs at something in him.
Her death, the violence of it, and Arthur’s too-easy acceptance of the matter. She was only doing her laundry, if the men are to be believed. She got a little help from something illegal, but she was doing no harm.
“Magic users are dangerous, but even they have the right to a fair trial,” Arthur notes, interrupting Leon’s thoughts. “I will have my knights see to her burial. In the meantime, I wish for an update on your harvest.”
Leon follows Arthur, gesturing for Elyan to follow, and leaving the others to tend to the girl's body. He takes one final look at her mangled remains, and Merlin crouches down next to her, sorrow clear in every part of his bearing.
Arthur descends back into his dark mood as they sit around the campfire that night. But they all seem to feel the same, and Gwaine’s few attempts to get a conversation started dissipate into awkward silence.
But eventually, Leon can’t hold his tongue.
“It’s not right,” he says into the quiet. The only noise is the crackling of the fire before them. “What they did to her. It’s not right.”
He’s greeted by only silence for a long moment. A moment where he regrets starting the conversation just long enough for his breath to catch in his throat, and the slightest hint of panic to claw at his mind. He’s not even sure how he feels about magic; whether he believes King Uther or the druids. He still feels the magic under his skin is more corruption than gift, the way it calls to be used.
“They’re scared,” Arthur says eventually, he’s looking down, talking into his hands where he fiddles with his ring. “Magic scares them.”
“And whose fault is that?” he asks, angry now. Angry at King Uther for starting this campaign of hatred, angry at Arthur for continuing it, angry at himself for speaking out of turn, and for his own cowardice when it comes to confronting his thoughts on magic. Angry at those small-minded people for their fear and their hatred of the unknown, and himself for the same thing.
“Magic is dangerous. They’re right to be afraid.” Arthur doesn’t sound as sure as he should. As he would have only a matter of years ago. There’s no heat behind his words, no convictions. Only doubt and the desperation of someone clinging to what they’ve been taught.
Leon is familiar with the feeling.
“The druids brought me back to life. It was magic they used to do it.”
“And magic, which granted Morgana’s army the immortality that nearly destroyed Camelot.”
“Then if magic can be used for good and evil, shouldn’t we be judging people by how they use it?” Leon demands, rising to his feet. He’s not sure where this is coming from, but he can’t get the image of that girl's mangled body out of his mind. Whoever her family was, there wasn’t even enough of her face left for them to see it.
And he didn’t even learn her name. He didn’t ask. She was just doing her laundry.
Arthur’s face twists as he looks up to Leon, but he doesn't stand, and he doesn’t put any heat into his next words. “My father's laws are clear.”
“Then the law should be changed,” Leon says. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. Words are pouring out of his mouth, before he even knows he believes in them. “She was only doing her laundry.” He gives Arthur a long, tired look before turning to the trees.
He needs a moment. Just a moment to catch his breath. A moment to take everything he’s feeling right now and shove it as far down as he can. Just a moment so that the breeze starting up at his back can dissipate, and leave the air clear and still as it had been mere moments ago.
He doesn’t even know her name, her age, whether she was married, or if she worked in the fields, or as a laundress, or something else.
He didn’t bother to ask.
These laws that he’s been upholding for years did not allow him to ask, for fear he would be seen as holding sympathy for the dead. But she was one of Camelot’s citizens. One of his people.
One of his people.
Because that’s what this is now, isn’t it? He can continue thinking about magic as something in him or something happening to him, but it doesn’t change the fact that he has magic. And corruption or not, sickness or not, it chose him and it wants to be used. He is a magic user. A sorcerer. An enemy of Camelot to King Uther.
And as a knight of Camelot, he can no longer ignore that they are of Camelot, just as he is, and should be protected by her laws, just as he is. The persecution of magic users is unjust.
Leon sinks to the soft ground.
This is treason. But his very existence is treason, so perhaps it is to be expected.
Though a part of him still wants to, he can no longer ignore his changing thoughts and feelings. His magic may be corrupting him, but perhaps that’s not a bad thing. In the end, it’s not the magic that corrupts people to do evil, but power, and they already have laws against harming others.
But Leon looks towards their camp, and towards the prince he can see silhouetted by the trees. He watches the prince with his downturned gaze and his haunted eyes. And he knows that Arthur can be swayed.
The time of Uther is over. Arthur reigns now, and his time will be more just. Leon will see to it.
He is the first Knight of Camelot, and it is his duty to protect his people.
Arthur keeps his head hung.
Leon has never spoken to him like that before. Leon, who has stood resolute by his side for years now. Leon, who had bandaged up his wounds as a squire, taught him how to properly polish chainmail.
She was only doing her laundry, Leon had said, as if it were that simple. As if her usage of magic complicated nothing. Leon had once spoken in support of the druids to his father, but the druids are peaceful. Everyone knows that.
But Arthur remembers the sight of her. She was so small, and there was nothing left of her face. Nothing for her loved ones to hold onto. Surrounded by a mob of people covered in blood, rocks in their hands, and anger in their hearts.
It’s not those like Morgana who make him question everything he knows. Morgana, who by all accounts murdered Camelot’s citizens, people she had once protected with her life. Her story is expected. She fell to the corruption of magic, and it made her want nothing less than absolute power.
Her story has burned a hole in his heart that he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from.
But that girl in the village. Esther, Glent whispered to him when he asked. The village laundress, who took over from her mother when she died. Esther had only seen nineteen summers. She was to be married soon.
And she was just doing her laundry.
With magic.
Her hands crushed under rocks, hated by those who had once been her friends. All she knew.
He should hate her. He should think her evil and corrupt. He should take her to the gallows himself, or see her burnt at the stake. But all Arthur sees in his mind now, as he sits around the fire with his closest knights and Merlin, is a small girl who just took a shortcut in her chores.
He told Leon that his father's laws are clear. But he wonders whether they are just.
Especially as he looks around the camp. Gwaine’s frown, Percival's carefully blank stare, Elyan’s gaze out past the trees, towards Leon. And Lancelot, who, despite watching Merlin, has a haunted expression upon his face.
He’s not the only one who wonders. He can see it on their faces. Perhaps he should put a stop to it, carefully remind them of their treason, but that would make him a hypocrite and a—
You’re nothing but a hypocrite and a liar!
He had yelled those words at his father once. When the spectre of his mother's shadow claimed that his father started the purge after his own magic usage. He had let Merlin pull him off the brink. He had clung to the knowledge that it was a lie as a child clings to their mother's skirts.
He had let himself be blinded. But by whom? By Morgause, or by his father and Merlin?
Is he blinded by those around him? Keeping him from thinking too hard on the people just getting some help with their laundry.
He doesn’t know.
These days, when he’s unsure, he seeks out Merlin or Gwen for counsel. Or his uncle, now that he’s staying in Camelot. Well… he seeks out Gwen or his uncle when he needs counsel. Merlin seeks him out.
But Merlin doesn’t seem to be offering anything at the moment. He’s standing away from them all, on the outside of their circle of trees. Arthur can see nothing of his face. But he can see the tight way Merlin holds his shoulders, and the droop to his head that suggests Merlin is going to be quiet for at least a day.
If Merlin were looking at him, Arthur thinks he may find a frown on Merlin's face. Or perhaps a conflicted expression, or maybe the same haunted look as Lancelot. Merlin has always had a delicate constitution.
Except that's not fair. Merlin has ridden with him into battle, faced down a dragon and has never once kept his mouth shut around Arthur. He is, perhaps, the bravest man he’s ever met.
Maybe in the privacy of his chambers when they return to Camelot, he should speak his mind to Merlin. Hear what he has to say about all of this. He doesn’t have the words to name it just yet.
But maybe with Merlin’s help, he will.
Chapter Text
It’s difficult to think of treason when one is in the heart of Camelot, surrounded on all sides by its knights. When her prince is your friend and brother in arms, and her king is but a shell of a man.
It was easy to consider disregarding the man when he didn't have to look at him. But when he enters the king's chambers and sees him sitting there, a beard growing on his face and a linen shirt stained, it’s hard to think things might be better off without him. Especially as he catches sight of the conflicted and pained look on Arthur’s face.
It’s hard to think of anything other than the way his magic makes Merlin smile, and the warmth it blooms in his chest, and how he hasn’t used it even once to hurt others. How it protects him, and how it keeps his chambers warm.
He sees Uther before him, and can only think of the good things about his magic, and how this man would have him killed for it. How many others have died for doing no harm, like the girl doing her laundry?
But the man before him is not the same king who started the purge. There’s little left in him, and Leon finds he can’t dredge up enough anger, or pain or even fear before him now to feel much at all except pity.
“Did you need something, Leon?” Gwen asks. She’s sitting in front of the king, trying to coax him into eating. It speaks to her relationship with Arthur that she addresses him casually.
Arthur looks up sharply at her words, face surprised for only a moment before melting back into his courtly look. Things between them have been strained ever since they returned from the harvest tour. Stuck in courtly politeness and distance, instead of the easy companionship they had created.
“I just came to hand off the latest armoury reports before I leave on patrol tomorrow,” Leon says, smiling gently at Gwen without looking at Arthur.
Gwen is another relationship that is just a bit more strained than it used to be. When she worked for Morgana, it was easier to catch her in the hallways and share a few words before continuing with their day. But now Gwen can normally be found either in Uther’s chambers or the steward's office, now that she’s taken on those duties.
Perhaps they were never as close as they were as children, but they were certainly closer than they are now.
“Where will your patrol take you this time?” Gwen asks, moving a tray of food off a chair, so he may sit down.
Despite the tension between himself and Arthur, Leon obliges. Even as children, if Gwen wanted something, she got it. Perhaps it was that she was so many years younger than he; as a child, five years was an unfathomable distance. Or perhaps it’s her smile, but even now, Leon finds himself helpless to say no.
“Out to the Plains of Denaria. Elyan and I should be gone for around a week.”
“Oh, but you will be back in time for the feast, will you not?” Gwen asks, turning to him, a smile on her face. Though there are no dark circles under her eyes, he thinks she, too, may be more tired than usual, and her eyes stray to Arthur when she finishes speaking.
“If there is no business we must attend to, then yes, we’ll return the morning of the Samhain feast.”
“That’s good. You deserve a night of feasting,” she says, shifting in her seat, her hands twisting together as if in nerves. There’s tension in her shoulders, and the part of Leon that remembers feeling ginormous when he was still a little boy and held her in his arms for the first time wants to reach out, but he quells that impulse.
A glance at Arthur shows the prince not watching the exchange, but he doesn’t miss the frown on his brow. “So do you,” he tells Gwen after a moment.
She opens her mouth as if to speak, but then closes it again and looks away from him. After a moment, though, she seems to come to a decision and reaches across the space between their chairs to take his hand. “Are you well, Leon?” she asks, a thick concern in her voice.
He startles a little at it, a kind of uncomfortable slime crawling up his spine at being noticed in such a way, but he does his best to put a comforting smile on his face. “I’m well, Gwen. Just been busy.”
He doesn’t mention that sitting here in a room with Uther makes his stomach clench and leaves his emotions roiling. He doesn’t mention that it still makes him feel guilty.
She doesn’t seem convinced though, and Leon retreats from the room quickly before she gets any ideas. He doesn’t miss the way Arthur's eyes follow him from the room.
The patrol has been largely uneventful so far. They’ve come across travellers, visited the villages along the route, and looked for signs of anything amiss, but after four long days' ride, there’s been little of any note.
As they follow the road through the Plains of Denaria, Leon ponders the problem of Morgana. She must be around somewhere. He had seen the sheer mania with which she held Camelot. The hunger for power that drove her to murder innocents had such a hold on her, she wouldn’t be too far from Camelot. Not when she still believes it to be hers.
But so far, there has been no sign of her. It makes him uneasy everywhere he goes.
But he hopes that she won’t be this far out.
Even if the harsh landscape of this place sends a chill down his spine. The desolate surroundings and rough rocks and gravel of the area give off so little life. Magic doesn’t radiate here the way it does in the forest, or the open grassland. Instead, it sits heavy and thick in the air.
Ahead, he can make out a rough cart and a single figure dressed in a dark cloak travelling on the road.
He’s on alert immediately. Few travellers head through this area due to the terrain. There are many safer roads to take for anywhere other than the Seas of Meredor, and they have long been a home for magic users.
Even in the safety of his own mind, he still finds it difficult not to think the way he used to. Placing suspicion on anything magic or odd, or old.
“Halt!” he calls to the figure. Some instinct in him is writhing inside his chest that something is wrong here. “Stay where you are.” The woman does as ordered, dropping the cart.
He dismounts, Elyan and the others following his lead.
“Where are you headed?” he asks.
“The Seas of Meredor,” the woman answers. There’s something familiar in her voice, and that feeling of alarm grows in his chest as he feels magic in the air, as he hadn’t felt it since before they entered this area.
“What’s in the cart?” He gestures to the other knights to come forward, his instincts preparing for a fight.
But it’s not till the woman turns that he realises he’s out of his depths here.
She turns, slowly and then all at once, and he knows in a moment who this is. “Lady Morgana.”
She advances forward, hatred in her arms, and Leon starts to draw his sword, but too slowly, as with a few quick movements, Sir Bertrand and Sir Montague are thrown backwards. His magic writhes with the urge to protect him as Morgana throws her arm out again at him, but he tamps it down, even as it feels like a great fist hits him in the chest and he goes flying backwards.
He comes around to the sound of talking. Two voices speak quietly to one another.
“Are you alright?” the first asks, concerned and small.
“Yes, thank you, sister, but we must hurry.” The second answers, her voice thin and strained, as if in incredibly poor health. “Night is nearly upon us and we still have far to go.”
Morgause. The name comes to him as he groans, sitting upright. He can’t see into the cart, but he can see Morgana replace the cloth over the cart, before she returns to the front and picks it up.
He keeps still, shoving his magic down and keeping his breath steady and even, in the hope that Morgana doesn’t turn around. He’s no match for her magic, and right now, it’s more important that they return to Camelot with a warning.
But at the last moment, Morgana turns just slightly, looking back. Their eyes meet for a moment, and he reaches for the magic within him, perhaps the only thing that could save him.
But she simply turns back and continues walking.
Gaius’s assertion that Morgana and Morgause are heading to the Isle of the Blessed does not set his mind at ease. If anything, it makes his unease greater.
But all that is to be set aside for one night. It’s not every day that Camelot holds a feast as grand as the one they hold on Samhain, and this year proves to be just as lovely. The food is bountiful and diverse, piled high on all the tables. A true display of wealth, the first Arthur has undertaken on his own, without his father.
Uther’s seat sits empty in the middle of the head table, the only thing that mars the pretty picture of the feast. It sits unclaimed, giving the whole table a feeling of incompleteness. Of loneliness even, as Arthur gazes occasionally towards it, his eyes tight, and lips pursed in worry.
But as Arthur stands and raises his goblet in the usual toast, he is every bit the prince regent and leader Camelot expects him to be.
“Samhain. It is the time of year when we feel closest to the spirits of our ancestors. It is a time to remember those we have lost to celebrate their passing.” Arthur raises his goblet higher, and that sad look crosses his face ever so briefly as he looks to his father's empty chair.
“To the King!” Arthur says, right as the clock tower rings.
“To the King!” he calls in unison with the hall, surging to his feet and turning to Elyan on his left. But as he does so, a chill falls across his being and the world slows.
There in the middle of the hall, a figure stands. The room around him falls quiet, though he can feel the very slow fall of Elyan’s hand on his shoulder. It’s warm, almost hot in comparison to the air around him, which bites at his skin.
The figure is draped in a large, dark cloak, and he sees wisps of grey hair flowing out from it, as if a gentle wind blows only on the figure. In their right hand, the figure holds an ancient staff. One that has withered a grey from age.
His very bones are chilled with ice all the way down to that place deep within him where his magic seems to reside.
But maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s the hall. He can hear Elyan call his name, slowly and muffled, as if he’s speaking through water. But he can’t look away from the figure.
A clang rings out across the hall, the wine jug in Merlin’s hand dropping from his hands. He can see Merlin now, directly across the hall from him, and as time seems to reassert itself, he watches as Merlin’s eyes roll back in his head and he falls to the ground.
“Merlin!” he calls, dashing over to the servant, regardless of how it will look to the rest of the hall.
His knees crack painfully against the stones of the floor as he falls to his knees beside Merlin, but he ignores the feeling, too busy laying his hands on Merlin. His skin is cold to the touch, and when Leon shakes him, he doesn’t wake. There’s not even a flicker beneath his eyelids to suggest he felt it.
Distantly, he can feel the presence of Lancelot and Gaius on either side of him, also trying to help Merlin, but Leon stays stubbornly seated beside him. All thoughts of the strange figure in the hall, of that cold creeping over him, have ceased to exist in his mind; all he sees is Merlin, lying cold and lifeless on the floor. If not for the slow beating of his heart beneath Leon’s hand, he would think him dead.
Merlin’s skin is grey, and small shivers wrack his already thin frame. Leon has one hand over his heart and another on his shoulder, but Merlin doesn’t wake.
Some unknown instinct grips him as he feels Lancelot’s hand on his shoulder. It takes hold of him, like something else guides his entire body. Leon reaches, pushing his senses out through his fingertips, in the same way he grasps for magic in the air. But this time, he reaches, and pushes into Merlin.
He’s not sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this. Leon gasps when he comes in contact with Merlin’s magic. Magic, like nothing he’s ever felt. It’s not just within him, or flowing through him like with the trees and the grass. Merlin is made of magic. His skin, his bones, his muscles, every single flicker of his body is filled to the brim with magic. More magic than Leon’s ever seen or felt over the past year.
Merlin has magic.
He’s sure of it, as sure as he is of anything in this world. He can feel Lancelot next to him, and though the man glows, he is a candle in comparison to Merlin's raging bonfire.
Gaius has magic, too, if he’s reading the strands of magic coming off the old man correctly.
Now that he can feel Merlin’s magic, he can feel how wrong it is at this moment. He’s filled with it, but it feels… heavy. As if laying dormant. Like the animals of the forest, it’s as if his magic has holed up somewhere to ride out the winter.
Still unsure what he’s truly doing, Leon tries to light a spark in there. He pushes some of his own magic to meet Merlin’s, trying to get his magic moving, trying to wake up the servant, but he still lies cold and shivering underneath his hands.
He tries again and again, until he feels his body move and is pulled from Merlin.
Looking up, he looks at Gaius, feeling detached and distant from himself. Gaius gasps as he catches sight of him, and with strength he wouldn't expect from the old man, pushes his head down firmly between his legs.
It’s then that he notices his breath coming in short, shallow pants and the way his hands are shaking. He tries to get it under control, but they only shake harder as he focuses on them.
Over his head, he can hear Gaius talking. “I believe they both may be ill. Perhaps there’s a sickness going through Camelot. It would be a little early in the year for the flu, but perhaps the unseasonable warmth we saw has affected the sickness's progression through the populace.”
His breathing starts to slow as he listens to the calming strains of Gaius’s voice explaining away his odd behaviour. As his breathing slows, so do his thoughts. He reached into Merlin's body with his magic. Merlin who has magic of his own.
But he never told him.
Rough hands grasp him under his armpits, and he struggles to get his feet under him as he’s lifted.
Once when he was young, perhaps only six or seven summers, he had gotten sick like he’s never gotten sick before or since. It was the first time he ever met Gaius. He had been brought out from the castle by Bors when their own physician had been unable to make him better.
He doesn’t remember much about meeting Gaius. Memories of those horrible days of sickness are hazy and muffled, filled with little more than feeling colder than he’s ever felt before, shivering so hard it felt as if his very bones were rattling and the horrible sick feeling of vomiting over and over again.
He feels a little like that now, cold and shivery and like a gentle breeze will push him over, so even though it’s a little humiliating, he gladly accepts Percival’s help as he struggles to stand on his own.
The walk to Gaius’ chambers is longer than it usually feels like it is, and Percival's very concerned questions don’t help at all. Now that whatever held him in the hall has left, he feels heavy and lethargic and in need of a very long sleep.
And some space and time to come to terms with what he’s learnt.
Merlin has magic.
And he has no idea what he will say to him when he eventually wakes.
Lancelot hovers over Merlin’s cot for a long moment, still shocked by the night's events.
He had caught the slack look on Leon’s face just as he was turning away from Gwaine to lift his goblet to Merlin. Only to turn and hear the clatter of Merlin’s jug hitting the ground.
But that’s not what had shocked him to his core.
As he had knelt by Merlin, he had felt that same humming in the air that he feels when Merlin performs powerful magic. But as Leon had lifted his head to look at Gaius, he had realised immediately that it wasn’t Merlin who was responsible for it, but Leon himself.
Because when Leon had looked up at Gaius, Lacenlot had caught the distinctive golden flames dancing in Leon's eyes.
Leon has magic. Powerful magic, possibly. Whatever has befallen Merlin and Leon cannot bode well for them all. Merlin is still shivering and cold. His skin has a grey, lifeless appearance to it. Just looking at it has Lancelot reaching for another blanket to cover him with. There’s no fire in Merlin's room to light to heat it quickly.
The door to Gaius’s chambers opens and closes, and only a moment later, he hears Gaius speak.
“I believe we have much to speak on, my boy,” he says gently, his voice tired. “What happened in the hall?”
Lancelot holds his breath, sitting gingerly in the chair so as not to disturb the two downstairs. Only the sound of Merlin’s soft, slow breathing fills the room for a long moment as he waits for Leon to answer.
When he does, his voice is strained and little more than whisper. If Lancelot's hearing were not so good, he wouldn’t be able to make out the words. “Right as the clock rang, a figure appeared in the middle of the hall. It was as though time slowed around them. This… deathly chill crept over the room. I couldn’t hear if they spoke, or see their face. But it was as if the cold radiated out from the figure. As if they sucked the very warmth from the air. Then they just… disappeared.”
“And your magic?” Gaius asks afterwards. Something must pass between them, because after a moment, he adds, “Lancelot can be trusted.”
But he would feel awful hearing something that Leon does not wish him to hear, so after giving Merlin one final look, he heads down the stairs.
“Merlin is as well as I can make him,” he tells Gaius and Leon, watching Leon carefully. The knight is shivering, and his skin has gone nearly purple, it is so ashen, but his eyes are clear and bright. He watches Lancelot with guarded eyes. Just a hint of suspicion in the tilt of his head.
Lancelot only gives him a small smile. He had noticed that he and Merlin were sneaking off at night, but Lancelot will admit he hadn’t expected it to be for magical reasons. He had thought perhaps the two were engaging in a courtship, and had chosen to keep it quiet for the obvious reasons.
But magic is different.
Though, as Leon looks back towards Merlin's bedroom, worry twisting his face, perhaps the two reasons can coincide.
“Thank you, Lancelot,” Gaius says. “I believe Merlin just needs time, at the moment. He will wake when he’s ready.”
“Thank you, Gaius.” He gives the physician a small bow. “I will leave you both to talk.” As he passes by Sir Leon, however, he bends down and says quietly, “I will not speak of what I have heard and seen today to anybody. You have my word.”
Pulling away, Lancelot straightens and meets Leon's eyes, and watches as a stream of emotions runs across his face, before settling. He nods once.
Lancelot takes that as his cue to leave and heads out the door.
Chapter Text
Wrapped in a blanket, Leon sits shivering on Gaius’s bench. The physician had tried to make him lie down in the bed, but he’s at least well enough that he won’t take the old man's bed from him. Even if he has no plans to leave until Merlin wakes.
He’s still not sure what he’ll say. He’s not even sure how he feels.
Mostly, there’s just a great blankness inside of him where his emotions live.
“It started after I drank from the Cup of Life,” he says eventually, thinking of Lancelot up in Merlin’s room. He trusts that Gaius would not put him at risk, and Lancelot is devoted to Merlin, so perhaps… He brushes that thought away. “The druids say I always had magic; that it was just dormant. The cup simply awakened it. Merlin has been helping me, giving me ideas to train my magic. He never told me…” Leon trails off.
“He once considered telling the Lady Morgana of his magic. I can’t imagine the pain she would have caused if she’d known.”
“And Merlin?” he asks, referring to Merlin’s magic, but it seems Gaius understands.
“That is his story to tell. I take it you didn’t know before today that Merlin has magic?” Gaius asks.
“I— No, I didn’t. But in the hall, it was like some instinct had gripped me. I reached into him; I could feel his magic in his body. It was… like nothing I’ve ever experienced.”
“That is a very rare form of magic indeed, Sir Leon. The druids call those who can do such things weavers. There’s only been one other in recent memory who can use magic in that manner.”
Leon leans forward at the knowledge. It’s not till Gaius gives his magic a name that Leon realises just how desperate he had been for more knowledge. Knowledge of how it works, what it can do, and how to use it well. Just anything. Learning that there's a name for it, and that what he can do is so rare, is… startling. “What does it mean?”
“It means you can manipulate magic directly, without the aid of spell or thought. It will make you a very powerful healer one day, with training.” Gaius turns an eyebrow on him. “But it also makes you dangerous. One wrong move can kill a person. One misplaced movement of magic can fuse skin together with bone or stop a person's heart. You must train. Especially now that your magic is reaching for other people.”
Gaius stands and moves towards his shelves. “I will look through my records to see if perhaps I can find mention of the other weaver.”
“No,” Leon says, without thought. Gaius turns back to him sharply, looking down his nose at him, eyebrow high in his hair. He shrinks just a little at the quelling look on Gaius's face, despite their ranks. “I don’t think you’ll need to. A druid, Camma, told me to find her again when I was ready to. I believe this is what she meant.”
“You should go as soon as possible, in that case. This kind of magic can be wild and unpredictable.”
“I understand. I shall speak with Arthur tomorrow.” He stands and unwraps the blanket from around his shoulders, and as he does, movement catches his eye. Merlin stands in the doorway, blanket around his shoulders, shivering. He has a little more colour to him than he did in the hall, but he still doesn’t look well.
Gaius directs Merlin over to the same bench Leon had been sitting on only a moment before. He lays the blankets in his hand around Merlin’s shoulders. He certainly seems to need it more than Leon does.
He resumes his seat, and the room is silent for a good while as Merlin stares blankly at the floor. But after a while, he describes the same figure Leon had seen, but Merlin had seen much more of them than Leon did.
“When she spoke, her voice... it was as though it came from the depths of the earth, and her eyes... they were so sad. So much pain in them. Who is she?” Merlin asks Gaius after a long moment.
Gaius looks across Merlin, and their eyes meet. The depth of concern in Gaius’s eyes does not set him at ease. It does the opposite.
“The Cailleach, the gatekeeper to the spirit world,” he answers.
“Why was she there?”
“It was on the stroke of midnight of Samhain's Eve, the very moment when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest. It cannot be a coincidence.”
“Why was I the only one to see her?” Merlin asks.
Gaius shakes his head. “You were not. Sir Leon also saw her, though he did not hear her as you did.” Merlin turns to him, eyes wide, as if he had forgotten he was there.
“I could only see her from behind, and I felt cold as you did, but I was not affected as greatly.” He turns to Gaius. “What does it mean?”
But before he can answer, Merlin speaks again. “She called me Emrys. She knew who I was.”
Frowning, Leon turns to Merlin again, hoping for an explanation of the name. Or title. Emrys. It’s not anything that rings a bell. But Merlin stubbornly doesn’t look at him, and he doesn’t ask directly. Not yet.
Gaius stays silent for a long moment, not looking either of them in the eye. His face is troubled and drawn. “I’m not sure,” he answers eventually. “But if someone has torn the veil between the worlds, then God help us all.”
Leon leaves not long afterwards, feeling chilled to the bone once more.
Sleep does not come easy after that, and it does not come long, for he’s woken in the early hours of the morning by a page asking him to come to the council chambers. When he does, finding Lord Agravaine already there, his fear only grows.
Faceless creatures, made of shadow and smoke attacking villages. It does not bode well for Camelot. And with Gaius’s warning ringing in his mind, he is only more worried about what is to come.
If these faceless creatures make it to the castle… if they attack the keep— the casualties could be worse than anything they’ve seen before.
Merlin is exceptionally jumpy on the ride out to Howden. Leon can sympathise with the feeling, but Merlin seems to be jumping at every sound, as if some unseen force hangs in the air around him. He tries to draw Merlin into a conversation, but he stubbornly refuses to move from Arthur’s side or the side of any of the knights other than Lancelot.
He’s not sure what he would say to Merlin. Perhaps with more time, he could come up with something to say. Get his mind around his thoughts.
But he knows that he understands enough. If his own fear has been so abject these past few months, then Merlin must have felt the same way his whole time in Camelot. Perhaps even longer than that.
In no kingdom is it safe to have magic, even those where it is still legal. Suspicion is rampant, and threats hang over their heads wherever magic users go.
That is to be Leon’s future if he is ever found out. That is, until he is killed for the crime of being given magic.
But the village itself only worsens his fear. Faces made of smoke that scream as they come towards you. In a quiet corner of the village, looking for any survivors on his own, Leon feels them. He had been searching for survivors, using his magic as well as his eyes, hoping to feel a spark, or anything that might mean life, but instead, rushing through the air, nearly faster than he could follow.
Ice cold and still, the flicker of life streams through the air, and it’s not till he sees it out of the corner of his eye that he realises what it is. Coming straight for him is a face made out of smoke, and it screams and screams. That cold feeling rushes towards him, and he struggles for the only thing that feels opposite to cold.
But his magic balks within him, and as he stares down the face of smoke, he feels empty of anything useful. He feels caught in its gaze, stuck and frozen in time, just like the villagers they found frozen.
A fire flares in his hand for all of a moment before it flickers. He pours his magic into it, panic coursing through his veins as the figure descends upon him. Inside, he can feel his magic fighting that icy cold and stillness of the figure, as his flame flickers, but it holds out long enough to send the smoke fleeing.
He stands there, breath panting in his lungs as he feels the smoke depart. The flame in his hand bursts into life, and its warmth removes the final traces of cold from his veins.
Whatever they are is not good. Not at all. Not when his magic quakes at the sight of them, and Gaius’s warning rings in his mind.
He goes to find the others.
The citadel is in chaos when they make it back to Camelot. But before he can head off to go and find out whatever organisation his knights have managed, Merlin pulls him aside.
“Have you tried to use magic against one of them yet?” Merlin asks, gaze set ahead of him, as he pulls Leon into a shadowy corner.
“In the village, yes. My magic was resistant in the face of these creatures, but I could conjure enough flame to drive one away.” Leon watches as a range of emotions flits across Merlin's face, and decides to ask the same of Merlin, despite the warring emotions in his chest. “And your own?”
Merlin frowns, his face twisting as he looks up at Leon. Around them, the noise of the courtyard continues. People can be heard running across the cobblestones, yelling for wood and fire and help all around them. Horses whinny, and chainmail rustles as people rush about. The air is filled with tension that reaches them even in this little tucked-away corner bathed in darkness.
It is perhaps not a good idea to be in the shadows at the moment with no torch, but there is a greater risk in speaking openly about magic. The courtyard is well-lit enough to provide security.
The fires in the courtyard reflect off Merlin’s eyes, setting them alight. He doesn’t miss the complicated expression that flits across his face as he looks away from Leon. “My magic, it… It wouldn’t work. It was useless against them. Like I was empty inside.” His voice is hollow.
“You seem to feel their effects much greater than I do,” he notes.
A wry smile crosses Merlin’s face, but it’s something unhappy and hollow. “Well, my powers are great.” He glances at Leon before turning back to the castle. “I need to find Gaius,” he remarks before ducking away.
Leon watches him go, feeling that unnamable swirl of emotions rise within him once again. Perhaps when all this is over, he’ll have the time to work through them, understand what it is he truly feels about Merlin not telling him of his magic.
Because at the moment, it feels a little like a betrayal, but that’s hardly fair.
The next night, Leon heads out with many of the knights to protect the lower town. The night is spent moving between terror for his people, grief at the sheer level of death he finds, and the rush of running from the Dorocha, as Gaius has told them they’re called. Faces made of smoke. Spirits of the dead, if the old legends are to be believed.
He hopes he saves more lives than he finds strewn across the roads. He hopes.
Shepherding people from dark corners to brightly lit homes, filled with people who’ve never met before. He pops his head into the tavern, but finds the place sweltering with the sheer mass of bodies and the heat pouring off from the large fireplace in the kitchens. Nobody will come to harm there.
But out on the streets is a different matter entirely. The Dorocha seem to leach all warmth and light from the air, and fires that would normally stay lit for hours go out within minutes. He has to relight his torch three times before the night ends.
And it all seems to be for nothing. The Dorocha keep coming. More and more of them pour over the city, and more and more people die as braziers go out and windows swing open.
He finds more than one home ransacked, bodies piled on the floor.
He thinks that if he closes his eyes, the image of a woman holding desperately onto a young girl, their faces frozen forever in a scream of terror, will be burned into the back of his eyelids, haunting him even in his sleep.
His body is heavy and exhausted by the time he makes his way back to the castle. Dawn has set in fully now, and the sky's alight with the early morning sun. Just as he thinks there will be nothing between him and his bed at least for a moment, Merlin’s head pops up from behind a pillar, and his eyes seek him out.
“I need your help,” Merlin demands, as he grabs Leon around the wrist and drags him down a corridor. Leon blinks, but lets himself be dragged. It’s a strange feeling. Certainly, people don’t often drag Leon around like this. Actually, people never drag Leon around like this. Not since he was a small child, being dragged around by his elder brothers or Gwen or Elyan.
But he’s too tired to put up much of a fight, so he just keeps his feet under him and follows Merlin.
They stop in a quiet section of the castle, Merlin letting go of Leon’s wrist to stalk over to a window and look out over the forest. He feels strangely bereft at the lack of contact, as if Merlin’s touch was keeping him from feeling the effects of the night too strongly
“Arthur will find you soon, but we will be riding out for the Isle of the Blessed by nightfall.” Leon frowns and waits for Merlin to continue. There's an air around the servant that Leon can’t quite place. Something sad but steady. “Gaius believes that to close the veil between the worlds, a blood sacrifice will be required to close it. Arthur intends to give it himself.”
“He mustn’t!” Leon exclaims. “The kingdom needs him.”
“I know. That’s why I need your help. Arthur can’t be allowed to sacrifice himself. You must ensure it.” Merlin turns to him again, and Leon understands what the air around Merlin is all at once. And why.
“You intend to take his place.” It’s not a question. He can read the decision in Merlin’s eyes. “Let me do it.”
“You just keep Arthur from sacrificing himself,” Merlin says, dodging the matter entirely. Leon allows him to dodge that. It’s his job to keep others alive, and he will do so where Merlin is concerned, whether he wants it or not. “And if for some reason, I don’t make it there—”
“My life will close the veil instead,” Leon agrees. Though if a life is needed to close the veil, Leon hopes it will be his own, and not Merlin’s as he so clearly intends it to be.
The grief Arthur feels as they ride through his kingdom and see the mounds of bodies on the side of the road, dead as they fled for the safety of Camelot, is palpable. If he weren’t riding out to fix it, perhaps it would be overwhelming.
But he has always known his life is for this kingdom, and if this is how he must give it, then so be it. If his life is what will end his people’s suffering, then it is a price he will willingly pay. His uncle has his seal, and his father still lives, which should forestall any issues of succession and hold their enemies off for long enough.
He’ll never have the opportunity to be king. But better to die a prince than to see Camelot fall at his hands.
It’s undeniable that this is the work of the Old religion and its practitioners. The Veil between the worlds has been torn asunder with a blood sacrifice. Morgause's sacrifice if he’s right. And with the two of them spotted heading there just days ago, it can be nothing else.
If circumstances were normal, it would not take them so long to get there. But the nights are long and dangerous, and they will need plenty of time to make camp each night before it gets dark. Three nights, possibly.
And each one brings with it only more bodies. More deaths. More of his people killed for vengeance.
Is this what Camelot is to be now? Only more death and violence and rage as each side picks people off one by one? He is no friend to magic, but surely there can be something other than this?
But Morgana only seems to care for power now, so perhaps they will not know peace until she is gone. There may only be more violence while she lives. And perhaps more if she dies. She could become a martyr.
There’s one small part of his brain that knows the solution. It whispers it quietly to him from the edges of his mind, taunting and wrong.
If you were to free magic, she would lose much of her support, his traitorous mind whispers to him in moments of weakness. But who’s to say that’s what would happen? Who’s to say he would be believed? Who would trust him, after everything he has done? After all Camelot has done?
He can feel them all watching him. Merlin won’t leave his side, and his eyes bore holes into Arthur. Behind Arthur, he can feel the presence of Leon and Lancelot, watchful and present. Guinevere likely spoke to Lancelot, but there’s only one person he can think of who might have told Leon something.
The same someone whose eyes bore holes into him — Merlin, who would make a fantastic mother in another life. He has enough worry in him for five mothers.
But that still poses the question of what Leon has been told. Perhaps everything, which will be a problem.
Arthur will not allow anyone else to die for him. This is his kingdom, and his sacrifice. But Leon and the others are sworn to protect him, and will make that difficult. But Arthur is resolute. This is his sacrifice, no matter what is to come.
By nightfall, they arrive at Daobeth, the ruins looming and foreboding in front of them. If it were not the most easily defensible position on their route, he would not stay there.
He sends everyone off to gather firewood, not missing the way Leon’s eyes track to Merlin, or the glances he, Merlin and Lancelot pass between themselves. Arthur sticks by Elyan’s side, so the others pair off between them.
As the first faraway scream rips through the air, Arthur knows it’s going to be a long night.
Chapter Text
They settle in for a long night around the fire, but after their earlier encounter with a Dorocha, they don’t have nearly enough firewood to last through the night. Piece by piece, their stock dwindles as they keep the fire strong and sure enough to keep away the Dorocha. It won't be of use, though, when their supply runs out.
When Merlin volunteers to accompany Arthur out for firewood, Leon doesn’t know how to disagree without arousing suspicion. He watches them go together, prince and magic user, and feels a welling of grief in his chest, as if he has already lost one of them. Or both. He knows they will try to sacrifice themselves. They both will, but he will not allow it. Not while there is still breath in his lungs, and a beating heart in his chest.
Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Lancelot trying to catch his gaze, and drifts away from the group to allow him to say his piece.
“Is your magic of use against these creatures?” Lancelot asks lowly, appearing to examine a patch of sky far off. Leon follows his gaze and sighs.
“Not well, but yes, my fire does work against them,” he whispers in return, bending down to further muffle his words for the others.
It is a poor feeling to not trust the men at his back. Especially these men. But while he would trust them with his life, he does not trust them with his magic. Not yet. Perhaps, with time and careful positioning he can bring them around to the idea of magic, but that time is far off. And he certainly does not trust them with Merlin’s magic. Not when Merlin hasn’t even trusted him with his magic. The thought sticks in his mind, heavy and aching.
“Both Arthur and Merlin mean to sacrifice themselves,” Lancelot notes distantly, as they are not speaking of friends, but of something inconsequential.
“I am aware. I do not intend to let that happen,” he replies simply. He doesn't intend to let Lanelot put himself at risk either, but he doesn't say as much, thinking perhaps it would be counterproductive. He thinks Arthur would do well to have Lancelot with him, too. A calmer head, and a compassionate one. One who sees people for who they are.
“Then we are on the same page.”
With that, Lancelot turns and returns to the group. Leon looks around, as if in surprise, to notice how far he has drifted away.
Distantly, he can hear the screams of the Dorocha return. The hair on his arms rises and he feels his skin break out in goose flesh as a chill runs down his spine.
They’re close. Too close. Close enough that Arthur and Merlin may be in trouble, and it makes them all anxious, on edge. It’s been too long since Arthur and Merlin left with no word. The fire is getting too low, and they only have one torch remaining.
“They should’ve been back by now,” Lancelot says, speaking what they are all thinking.
Elyan turns from his watch. “Someone needs to go and look for them.” He’s right, but…
“We've only got one torch between us,” Percival notes. Only one measly torch. Hardly enough light to ward off the Dorocha. Not with how much time they still have left this night.
Lancelot takes up the torch decisively and begins to move off; Leon follows close behind. Arthur is an excellent swordsman, and recent history has taught Leon that Merlin is more capable than he believed him to be, so surely they must be okay.
Likely, they’ve hunkered down somewhere to wait for the knights to arrive and reach them. Somewhere relatively safe. Maybe Merlin has gotten a fire going. If the Dorocha aren’t too near, his magic should still be good for that.
But as they stalk through the fortress, the screaming of the Dorocha echoing down the halls, that hope feels a little too far away.
They walk through passage after passage looking for the two of them, but there are no signs to be found.
Eventually, Leon decides to risk spreading out that magical sense he doesn't yet understand to find them. He’s never tried this before while doing other tasks. It’s difficult. Every too-loud noise, every time someone speaks or stops, his concentration is broken, and he loses ground. Not to mention trying to walk and move his own body while lost within the magic.
It takes a while, but eventually he finds two figures huddled together in a passage. They’re well at the moment, seemingly. Merlin is a blazing wildfire of magic, and Arthur is… Arthur is strange. He can feel the others around him, like banked fires in comparison to Merlin or Gaius, even. But Arthur is like… like a pool of fire, only he’s outside the edge of it. Like if he dipped his hand in to disturb it, he would send ripples along the surface, just like water.
Strange.
But he puts that aside for the moment as he directs Lancelot down corridors and hallways, doing his best to keep track of Merlin and Arthur.
They’re drawing close, only a few hallways away, when he feels it.
A Dorocha, coming straight for Merlin and Arthur.
It’s bearing down on their position, and he can see now he’ll be too late. The Dorocha move faster, much faster than they can move on legs in unfamiliar corridors. The Dorocha passes freely through walls and cracks. He urges Lancelot forward, faster, reaching within himself to conjure fire so far from him, but nothing comes. It’s like there’s a wall between his magic and himself that he can’t breach.
Despair rips through him as the Dorocha gets closer. They’re only a hallway away now. If they can just get down this hallway, then everything will be fine. They’ll make it in time. But just as he thinks they may make it, he feels it.
The Dorocha moves through a wall, aiming straight for Merlin and Arthur, and at the last moment, that vibrant, bright warmth that is Merlin’s magic leaps from the ground, and everything grows cold.
They make it just in time for Lancelot to scare away the Dorocha before it can turn on Arthur.
But Leon only has eyes for Merlin.
Merlin is frozen. His skin is covered in ice, as if he’s dipped in a river and left to freeze in the mountain, and his magic— it feels frozen solid. But unlike the other victims, it’s still there. There’s still life in Merlin, and it’s this more than anything else that has Leon kneeling beside him, brushing his face clear of icicles.
Besides him, Arthur bats the hand he didn’t know was on Merlin’s chest away, and rests his head above Merlin’s heart, listening for a beat. Leon can feel it in his magic, but he lets Arthur listen anyway. It’s not like he can just tell Arthur Merlin is still alive.
Leon’s still brushing icicles from Merlin when a collective sigh of relief goes through the group. He hasn’t been paying attention, not to the others, but he does when he feels a hard palm connect with his shoulder.
“We have to get out of this corridor,” Percival tells him, his hand slipping below Leon’s armpit to pull him up. He lets Percival do so, nodding his head as he’s pulled upwards.
Though Leon itches to get his hands on Merlin, he lets Percival carry him out to the fire and the horses. The first hints of dawn are peaking over the horizon, carrying safety in its gentle light, even as it taunts them by coming all too late.
Merlin’s body hangs limply in Percival’s arms. His head, his legs, his arms ragdoll unnaturally with every step, as if they need a reminder that he may not make it back from this. That every single other victim of the Dorocha has died instantly, and it’s some kind of miracle that Merlin hasn’t done so just yet.
When they reach the fire, he lets Lancelot tend to Merlin, brushing the remaining ice from his face and his body and laying a gentle hand on his forehead. Merlin only shivers in response, his skin blue and his breath slow and ragged. Though he wishes to simply reach over and take Merlin into his arms, he quells the urge, sure he doesn’t currently have the time to think on where it comes from.
Leon hangs back, letting the others fuss and shift around him while he stands and delves deep within himself to push and shove at Merlin’s magic, see if he can find some spark of life in his ice-cold waters.
But it’s to no avail, and he only returns to himself and his surroundings when Arthur speaks.
“We have to get him back to Gaius,” Arthur says, looking away from Merlin to Leon, as if asking permission.
He knows what his role is in this moment — what he has to say and do. He knows that in this moment, he must be the protector of his people, even if it hurts some part deep within him.
And so he frowns as he looks at Arthur, though part of his heart wants to return to Camelot. “And abandon the quest?”
“He saved my life,” Arthur says, unable to keep his eyes off Merlin for more than a moment. Grim determination colours his tone. “I won’t let him die.”
“Sire,” Leon says, heart heavy, “If we don’t get to the Isle of the Blessed, hundreds more will perish.”
Leon can’t bring himself to look at Merlin, feeling as if he condemns Merlin to death with his every word. But it must be done. He just hopes Merlin will understand. Arthur looks down at Merlin, lying against the fire, with only a blanket for warmth. Arthur’s face is pulled into lines of worry, of fear. The same fear he feels is reflected in each person around the fire.
Lancelot provides the only hope they have. “Let me take him,” he says.
Arthur shakes his head. “Carrying a wounded man alone, it will take you two or three days to reach Camelot.
“Not if I go through the Valley of the Fallen Kings.” Arthur seems to be considering it, but he can feel the hesitation still within him, and Lancelot can too. “You cannot give up on the quest.”
“Sire, he’s right.” Much as it pains him to say.
Arthur nods his assent, and Lancelot and Leon share a glance, laden with meaning. Responsibilities divided up and shared with only a glance. Trust that the other will do their best.
Percival makes quick work of loading Merlin onto a horse, while Arthur ties Merlin to it. He tries to give the two some space, but he overhears the muttered conversation anyway.
“This is my fault, and I’m sorry,” Arthur says, his voice grave, he’s not looking at Merlin, instead fiddling with the straps, as if that makes the conversation easier to have.
“Take me with you, please,” Merlin croaks in response, somehow still cognisant of his surroundings.
“You would die,” Arthur replies, such resignation in his voice.
“But you don’t understand. Please, Arthur.”
“Do you ever do as you're told?” Though his voice is rough, Leon can hear the undercurrent of fondness and worry in Arthur’s tone.
“I have to come with you,” Merlin says one last time, and Leon can’t hear anymore.
He turns to Merlin as Arthur claps him on the shoulder. Bending down, Leon makes sure Merlin meets his eyes before he speaks. He may fail Merlin, but he will not fail his people, and Merlin must know this. Only once Merlin's eyes meet his own does he speak. “I will protect our prince, Merlin. You must get to Gaius.”
Before Merlin can reply or argue yet again, Lancelot speaks up. “We have to go.”
Leon steps back and looks up at Lancelot. He lets his gaze speak the worries he will not say in front of so many. And Lancelot makes those promises right back. His eyes say, I will protect Merlin with my life. I will return him to Camelot. And also make sure Arthur lives. And Leon lets his own promises shine right back.
They watch as Lancelot and Merlin trot away on horses, their party now smaller and more subdued than they began.
But before too long, Arthur turns back to them all and, without a word, heads to his own horse.
They still have a long way to go.
And now they won’t forget why their journey is so important.
Their journey continues, if in a somewhat subdued manner. The only point of levity comes from the Tunnels of Andor and the Wilderen hiding amidst them. Not to mention Gwaine's usual behaviour.
But their travels encounter few of the Dorocha over the next two days, their journey taking them through tunnels, forests and grassland, and over hills and valleys. They sleep in short bursts through the nights, between the screaming of the Dorocha. Maybe if the horses had been able to join them for the whole journey, they could’ve caught some sleep in the saddle in shifts, but it was not to be.
At least the Tunnels of Andor provided cover on the second evening of their journey, but on the third, they remain out in the air, nothing but fire to shelter them from the Dorocha.
Arriving at the fortress is a relief. At least this night they won’t spend jumping at the slightest sound, or breath of wind down their spine. This fortress they can enclose themselves in. And with a hot enough fire to chase away any remaining chill in the air, it may even be comfortable.
If they were successful, then by now Lancelot and Merlin should have made it back to Camelot, and to Gaius’ care. That is if they are all still alive. Perhaps Merlin is still alive, cold and icy as before, as Lancelot lies dead beside him, frozen by the Dorocha. Perhaps they’ve returned to Camelot, only to find that Gaius can’t help Merlin, or worse, that Gaius himself has died.
But perhaps they will make it safe and sound, and Gaius will have found some remedy to save Merlin.
The sun is still fairly high in the sky when they make camp at the fortress.
“Spread out, find as much wood as you can,” Arthur orders as they drop their few possessions in the middle of what was once a great hall. “I want us all back here, with a roaring fire, food and enough wood to last the night long before it falls. If we keep going like this, we won’t make it to the isle. We need sleep.”
There’s plenty of dry wood to be found, and even a collection of torches, and so by the time night falls, they’re all seated around the fire, a measure of safety to be found for the first time since the Dorocha appeared.
Though when Gwaine removes his socks, there’s a distinct possibility of suffocation in his future. The smell is only made worse by the burning that follows.
“Quiet,” Arthur says quickly, ending their conversation.
On alert, the sound of footsteps has everyone drawing their swords within a matter of moments. They make formation, Arthur at the front, facing the direction the sound comes from, and watch as a figure draws closer.
Leon trusts Gwaine’s swift speed and Percival’s strength to take care of Arthur as the figure approaches.
The figure steps into the light, just as Arthur speaks. “Lancelot?” he asks. “How’s Merlin?”
The grim expression on Lancelot’s face speaks for itself, and Leon feels himself go cold. It’s only worsened by Lancelot’s reply. “Bad news,” he says, and Leon feels his arm drop as Arthur takes a step back. “He’s still alive.”
It takes a moment for Lancelot’s meaning to parse, just long enough for a smile to cross Lancelot’s face, and Merlin to step out from the shadows, a broad smile spreading across his lips, and a healthy glow to his skin.
Alive. Merlin’s alive and well. Standing in the flesh in front of them. Arthur’s sigh of relief is exactly how Leon feels at that moment.
“Merlin!” Elyan exclaims, the relief and joy in his voice clear as day.
As one, they all move forward. Leon fights the urge to shove the others to get at Merlin, and feel his skin warm and full of life in his hands. But he does get his moment, and when Merlin’s eyes meet his, in this moment, Leon can no longer ignore what his heart feels.
It’s more than what he feels for the other knights, akin to what he feels for Arthur, only softer. Love. Plain and simple.
“It’s good to have you back, Merlin,” he says, bringing his hand up to jostle Merlin’s hair, as he would do for one of the young knights or squires. Only somewhere along the way, the gesture gets mixed up, and instead, he simply cups Merlin’s neck, the hair there tickling his hands.
Merlin's skin is so warm under him, and in the base of his hand, he can feel Merlin’s heartbeat, sure and strong through his neck. Alive. Alive and well.
His magic pushes at the edges of him, and he gives into the urge to let it free, feeling the fire of Merlin’s own magic meeting his. It’s no longer icy and still, once more a rumble of life.
Though his mind still wars at the knowledge that Merlin has magic, and that he never told him, there is such relief in feeling it there, healthy and hearty and alive.
Before Merlin has a chance to reply, Gwaine interrupts, pulling Merlin into a brisk hug, and Leon lets him slip away.
His heart feels too big for his chest, and joy like this isn’t something Leon is used to feeling. Not for years, not since he was but a boy, unburdened by knighthood and responsibilities. That’s the one benefit of being the youngest son of a lord. He will never inherit the title, and as such was free to live as he would, granted he didn’t besmirch their family name. And as a Knight of Camelot, that was unlikely to ever happen.
So long as his heart remembers, there is unlikely to ever be something to speak of when it comes to Merlin.
He doesn’t find time to speak with Merlin before they leave the next day. His exhaustion caught up with him, and it was only early in the morning when Leon found himself once more awake, long after Merlin himself had fallen to sleep.
And as they set off, Leon knows he won’t speak to Merlin before this night ends. They are nearing the Isle of the Blessed, and their journey is moving quickly. Merlin keeps himself pinned to Arthur’s side, practically inseparable from his prince. Few words pass between them, but what words are spoken are in low tones with grave voices.
Leon exchanges a glance with Lancelot, but there is little they can do. By now, they both have enough experience with both Merlin and Arthur’s particular brand of mullish stubbornness that they know there’s no convincing either of them.
The others seem to have picked up on the strange air between them all, casting glances at Lancelot and Leon, and Merlin and Arthur. But the grave air of silence within the group keeps their tongues held in check, and they are saved from having to offer more explanations. Even if Gwaine does make one attempt to broach the subject early in the day. But both Elyan and Percival shush him, and he settles back down.
Before long, they stop at the edge of a ridge, the Isle of the Blessed in the distance.
Arthur couldn't control what happened while they journeyed to the Isle of the Blessed. But he will give whatever it takes to put a stop to all of this, now that he’s there.
Even if it means his death.
The day has been cloudy and grim. The sun has hardly shone from between the clouds at all, leaving them cast in a perpetual darkness. It suits their journey and their destination, but it also puts Arthur ill at ease. It feels too much like the weather is setting the tone for the day. Like it signals his upcoming sacrifice.
He hadn’t missed the looks shared between Lancelot and Leon. He hasn’t missed the way Merlin clings to his side. He knows they will all do their best to keep Arthur from making this sacrifice. But he won’t lose them either. Nor Gwaine, Elyan or Percival either. He came far too close to losing Merlin.
At this point, Arthur is partially assured that Merlin must be immortal, or at least extremely hard to kill. He’s like a cockroach. Why is it that everyone else has died to the Dorocha, but Merlin, his bumbling, idiotic, wise and loyal manservant, hasn’t died? Why did he survive when no other has?
As the Isle of the Blessed looms in front of them, just as night starts to fall, Arthur knows that for better or for worse, he won’t be returning from the island. No matter what anybody tries.
They stumble down to the waters edge, to find a man in a boat standing on a small dock, as if waiting for their arrival. He does not seem surprised to find the Prince of Camelot and his knights on his dock, nor does he seem to recognise them.
The man looks just enough like Gaius, that Arthur's anxiety only heightens at the sight of him. He holds an old, weathered hand out to him. Arthur procures a single gold coin for their passage.
“Is that enough?” he asks.
The man doesn’t respond. He simply takes the gold and tucks it into his cloak, his expression never changing. He simply waves an arm out slowly to the boat and waits.
Arthur is dubious as he looks at the small rickety vessel; he seems to expect eight full-grown men — warriors even — to hop into it.
“We won’t all fit,” he says to the man, but once more, he gives no reaction.
The others offer no help, looking just as bemused at this as he is. It’s Merlin who finally decides for them. He shoves past Arthur with a sigh, and climbs into the very back of the boat, taking up the last row. It doesn’t so much as rock as his weight moves through the boat.
“It’s magic,” he says in a deadpan, as if it should be obvious. Perhaps it should be.
Percival shrugs and climbs in the front. Behind the man, the others follow his lead. With a raised arm, the boat moves forward, taking them further into the lake.
And closer to his death.
Chapter Text
The sound of a loud screech fills the air. They could already be no more tense than they are, but it has the knights grabbing for their weapons. It’s as if carrion birds circle above their heads, just waiting for the moment the magical forces awaiting them at the Isle send them all to their graves.
Perhaps the veil between the worlds would make a kinder death than the carrion would give them.
Leon turns back to glance at Arthur when the screeching doesn’t let up, but Arthur gives no reaction. Behind him, Merlin is on edge, looking to the sky.
He lets his magic spread out in the hopes of seeing what is to come before them, but at the barest hint of his magic spreading out, he gasps. Around him, there is such a thick, icy chill, like the Dorocha, but far colder. And older. As if this place is filled with a magic so old, it has seen civilisations rise and fall. Older than all civilisations, possibly.
He tucks his magic as far into himself as he can, steadying his breathing as he does so. Whatever it is that’s out there, he wants no part in learning about it. He wants to keep it far from himself. Far from Merlin and Arthur and the rest of the knights.
Something so old will not be kind or forgiving.
The boat comes to a stop at a small set of stairs set into a wall. Arthur takes the lead, but Leon follows close behind, ready to come between Arthur and death at the first opportunity. He takes a moment to glance back, finding Merlin in the middle and back of the group. Good. Better that he be kept back and safe.
Just as they step out of the small tunnel, a deafening screech fills the air, much louder than any that have come before.
And much, much closer.
“What is that?” he yells, pulling his sword. The sliding of metal is heard over the loud screech, and they all look upwards, to whatever it is that’s up there.
“I really hope I’m wrong,” Gwaine calls back, and Leon feels the same wave of apprehension fall over him.
He remembers the sheer size of the Great Dragon that attacked Camelot, and prays for just a moment that it isn’t another one. Especially not one so large and mighty. It nearly destroyed Camelot single-handedly, against the might of her armies. Six knights and two poorly-trained magic users couldn’t hope to stand against one.
But as they walk, moving as one well-trained group, checking the skies from all sides, Arthur’s call at least settles that fear.
“Wyvern!” he yells, drawing their attention to where he looks. The figure that drops from the sky in front of them doesn't have the sheer size of the Great Dragon, but that comfort matters little in the face of such a mighty foe.
The wyvern comes straight for Arthur, but dances back as he swings his sword in one mighty swipe. He misses, and so do the swings of Percival, Lancelot and Leon as the wyvern drops down for a second go. But just as he’s distracted by watching Arthur, a second wyvern drops through the sky, heading straight for Leon.
It’s only a couple of decades of training that moves his arm fast enough to try and strike, but it dances forward, knocking Lancelot out of the way, and clipping Merlin’s arm.
The two wyverns hover in the air before them, and Leon holds his sword aloft, waiting for the next attack. They haven’t managed to leave a single scratch on the wyverns yet.
But then Leon feels a hotter magic vibrate in the air, and he watches as Merlin stands tall, yelling in a language Leon doesn't understand. Whatever he says or does, the wyverns retreat with a final screech.
“See?” Gwaine says, a grin in his voice, “That’s how you deal with them.”
Staring at Merlin, Leon knows it has nothing to do with their swords. Whatever Merlin did has driven the wyvern off for a moment, but he doesn’t know how long.
“We need to keep moving,” Arthur orders, and they all take off after him at a quick pace, heading deeper into the ruins. But they don’t get very far before the wyverns screech again, and they notice them circling high above them in the sky, as if readying for another attack.
If it were any other situation, Leon would send Arthur off to continue the quest, but in this, Leon will not leave Arthur's side. Instead, he catches Elyan’s eye and, with a couple of quick gestures, makes his plea.
“Sire, you must continue; we’ll fend them off,” Elyan calls out, drawing Gwaine and Percival to his side. With a quick nod to Elyan in thanks, Leon follows after Arthur, Lancelot and Merlin at his side.
The ring of metal behind him is grim, but he can't think of it now.
The wyverns don’t follow them into the ruins of the castle, and without their presence slowing them down, they make quick work of their journey through the ruins. Arthur stays in the lead, but it’s obvious that Merlin is leading the way, seemingly familiar with the Isle itself.
Leon makes a note to ask that tale if they both happen to make it off the isle.
The cold grows around him with every step deeper into the isle. That ancient magic grows ever more oppressive the closer they come. And when they step through an old doorway, into what once may have been a grand hall, it’s immediately clear they’ve arrived.
In the middle of the room, stands a rip in the world, and in front of it, an altar. The rip is a real thing, dark and malevolent, and unnatural. Leon can feel its wrongness pouring off in waves. A gaping wound ripped through the very fabric of reality.
This never should have happened. It never should have been allowed to happen. He can feel just how very wrong the tear in the veil is, and the sight of it… It’s like nothing he’s ever seen.
Tearing his eyes away from the veil, Leon notices Merlin is similarly preoccupied by the veil. But Arthur glances around the room as if he can’t see it, and Lancelot watches behind them, and around them. Neither of them seems to sense the same thing Merlin and Leon do.
Just how much of the world was closed to him while his magic remained dormant? Just how much did he miss? It’s as if he were blind, or deaf, a whole sense missing, that now has been lifted. Like the whole world has been shown to him. And right in time for him to feel this gigantic gaping hole as it is.
An abomination.
Uther would have them think it is magic itself that is the abomination, but magic knows this is wrong. It is people who rip the very fabric of the world, and people who rape and pillage and murder with impunity, all without the need for magic.
It’s now, standing in front of the veil, that Leon knows things cannot continue as they are. Uther’s laws must not be allowed to continue, but while the kingdom remains in this state of waiting — waiting for Uther to wake from his illness, waiting for Uther to die — they will never change.
But then the Cailleach speaks, and Leon’s thoughts are returned to the here and now.
“It is not often we have visitors.” Her voice is of the magic suffocating Leon, ancient and cold, darkly humoured.
“Put an end to this,” Arthur calls, his voice ringing with authority. “I demand you heal the tear between the two worlds.”
“It was not I who created this horror. Why should it be I that stops it?” The Cailleach's words are simple; harsh in how abrupt they are. Callous in how unforgiving they are.
Behind him, another voice speaks up, and the tone of it is so different, so low and raw and pained, that he needs to see it’s Merlin who spoke. “Because innocent people are dying.” he’s never heard Merlin sound like this before. It’s a voice that speaks and demands to be heard. So very different from Merlin’s usual voice.
The Cailleachs' reply sends a chill down his spine. “Indeed,” she says, as if this were all some great game. Whoever the Cailleach is, she is no human. Perhaps she is the other world. Ancient and cold. Death given human form. Or perhaps she has simply been its keeper so long she has forgotten how to be human.
When she laughs, her eyes are cold and lifeless.
“I know what you want,” Arthur declares.
“Do you? And are you willing to let me have it?”
He can see the deep breath Arthur takes in, as if to steady himself before he responds. “I’m prepared to pay whatever price is necessary.”
Cold shoots down Leon’s veins at that response. He won't allow it. Not even as the Cailleach lifts her arm, and with one crooked finger, beckons Arthur forward.
Arthur takes a step, and another, and with every step forward he takes, the Cailleach crooks her finger again, as a smile spreads across her ancient face.
He considers simply tackling Arthur to the ground or hitting him in the back of the head with the hilt of his sword, but just as he steps forward, Merlin’s voice stops him.
“Forb fleoghe,” he whispers, and Arthur stops in place before flying backwards, his back hitting the ground with a great clanging of metal against stone.
The smile drops from the Cailleach's face. Leon wants to check on Arthur, but his body remains frozen at the displeasure written across this ancient creature's face. It hasn’t escaped his notice that, despite it being nighttime, there are no Dorocha in their sight. As if even the Dorocha flee from her presence.
The Cailleach steps forward, crossing the distance between her and the altar. After a moment, Merlin follows, sharing a long look with Lancelot as he does. Merlin doesn’t so much as glance in his direction. Leon can’t hope to read what emotion is written across his face.
“So Emrys,” she says. “You choose to challenge me after all.” As they each reach the altar, they circle it and each other. It’s at this moment that Leon understands just how powerful Merlin is. Powerful enough that this ancient creature would consider him a threat — and not just a plaything. Leon has stood across the battlefield to know what it looks like when someone is sizing up an opponent they aren’t sure they’ll defeat.
This is it.
They stop, now poised on either side of the altar from one another, neither closer to Lancelot and Leon, nor the veil than the other.
“Will you give yourself to the spirits to save your prince?” The Cailleach asks.
“It is my destiny,” Merlin answers. But Leon will ensure that is not the case. He must. He can see it now, the role Merlin is to play in the future. If there is any hope of magic being freed, Merlin will be the key. If he can just convince him to trust in Arthur for long enough for it to happen.
“Perhaps.” She says it as if Merlin’s destiny is not yet clear. Or perhaps as if the manner in which Merlin dies for his prince is not yet set. “But your time among men is not yet over, Emrys, even if you want it to be.”
Leon’s frown mirrors the one that spreads across Merlin’s face. But as the Cailleach turns her head towards the veil, Leon realises just what he missed while he watched the two so intently.
Lancelot is no longer beside him, watching on, too. No. Lancelot now stands poised in front of the veil, ready to walk through it.
He turns back to them and smiles at Merlin just once before he turns and steps forward.
“No!” Leon yells and, with all his might, throws his magic towards Lancelot, grasping desperately until he has Lancelot's body within his control, and he makes him stop.
It's the same feeling as looking into Merlin and seeing his magic, but instead, Leon can feel the blood rushing through Lancelot's body, he can feel the movement of each muscle and bone, and he can make them stop.
And so he does. He stills Lancelot before he steps through the veil, even as that icy, ancient magic hangs in the air, stealing the very air from his chest, and the warmth from his veins. But he refuses to let go. No more of his people will die to these creatures. And Arthur and Merlin both need Lancelot.
“No,” Leon repeats, calmer this time, even as Lancelot looks back at him with betrayal on his face.
The Cailleach's neck creaks audibly as her head whips round to look at him so quickly.
“You are unexpected,” she says, her eyes narrowed as she looks at Leon for the first time. “Let the prophesied knight go.”
“No,” he repeats. He has looked upon soldiers made of bones and the immortal dead without quailing, and he will not quail under her gaze. He straightens his back, holding the sword in his hands tighter. “There has been enough death. Take those who died from the Dorocha as payment. Not him.”
“That is not how this works. Let him go, lest I decide to take your prince anyway.”
Merlin steps forward. “Take my life, not Arthur’s, not Lancelot's. Mine,”
“No,” both Leon and the Cailleach say at the same time. But only she continues. “You do not die here, Emrys.”
If he were dealing with anybody else, Leon would think perhaps the Cailleach seems discomfited, as if the negotiation is not taking place as she planned. But surely it must not be so simple to throw off something like her. But she has dropped the games, and the riddles and the smiles, so perhaps…
“Why can the lives already claimed not be payment?”
The Cailleach laughs, long and drawn out. “It would take many more lives forcefully taken to equal that of a High Priestess, even one near death.”
Merlin has stayed quiet through their conversation, his eyes frozen on Lancelot. Leon can feel the way the knight fights against his hold, but his struggles are like those of an ant, compared to the weight of the magic around, pressing in from all sides. He can't even tell if it’s intentional, but it’s doing everything it can to break Leon’s hold on Lancelot. He won’t let it.
“Then why is Lancelot’s life worth Morgause's?”
“A knight of prophecy willing to walk through the gate is worth much.” She pauses for a moment before continuing, apropos of nothing. “You drank from the cup.”
Leon can’t tell from her voice whether that is a statement or a question, but he answers as if it were a question. “I did.”
“Your life would be worth that of Morgagues. If you will not allow your friend to sacrifice himself, why not do so yourself?” A chilling smile spreads across her face.
It’s what he came here to do. Sacrifice himself for Arthur, Merlin, Lancelot and all the people of Camelot. Do whatever it takes to put a stop to the Dorocha. And so that’s what he will do. He takes a deep breath and steps forward.
“No!” Merlin yells, reminding Leon of his presence. He had almost forgotten about the other magic user.
“Merlin,” Leon says, turning to him. Devastation is written across his face like a blow. “One of us must walk through that veil. I will not allow it to be any but myself.”
“You have been pulled from the veil once before, knight of prophecy.” The Cailleach says before Leon can argue. “Your life already belongs to it. You cannot repay another with what has already been given.”
For just a moment, Leon falters, losing his grip on Lancelot long enough for the knight to take a step closer to the veil. But Leon regains himself enough to grab hold of Lancelot once more, gently this time. Pleading, rather than demanding.
It’s as if the floor has dropped out from under him. His whole world has shifted on an axis. Every plan he had put together to get everybody else out of here alive has fallen to pieces.
His life is worthless.
He’ll be walking out of here. To most, that would be a comfort. But it is not.
He must choose who to let walk through the veil. And it is hardly a choice at all. As he turns to look at Lancelot, he sees that the knight makes the same choice. His eyes are pleading, and his lips shape the words, let me. Let me. Please.
Leon knows he will let him walk through the veil. He knows that the longer they linger here, the more people die. But it is no easy decision. No easy choice.
He’s never learnt why Lancelot feels such a depth of duty towards Merin. It goes beyond friendship, beyond the trappings of knighthood. Lancelot believes in Arthur. He is loyal and steadfast. But he thinks that if the choice ever came down to Arthur or Merlin, Lancelot would choose Merlin with hardly a thought.
If Lancelot walks through that veil, Leon may never know. Merlin could recount their tales until his face turned purple, and Leon would never know. It’s the nature of a bond like that. Merlin could never explain why he was worthy of it. Only Lancelot could.
They will be worse off for Lancelot’s death. Not only is he an excellent knight, but he is also a patient teacher, an organised and natural leader, and a good friend. Not just to Merlin, but to all of them. Lancelot has been his sounding board on more than one occasion now. He is Percival’s support, Elyan’s companion, the other half of Arthur’s right hand, and — in a move that surprised all of them — Gwaine’s partner in crime.
But he must let Lancelot go if the kingdom is to be saved.
He is a knight and a leader. Sacrifice is a necessity of war. It should be a simple decision. But he finds nothing easy in this choice.
Next to him, Merlin is yelling, begging him, not to let Lancelot walk through the veil. But as if he senses something too, Merlin has yet to move, to step towards Lancelot and take his place. As if deep down, Merlin knows it is not to be as well.
And so, Leon takes a deep breath and smothering himself in the guise of the First Knight so no other part of him holds sway, and meets Lancelot’s eyes. He can only see so much of his face from this distance, but he thinks there is thanks in Lancelot’s eyes. Maybe it is only wishful thinking as he loosens his hold on Lancelot and lets him go.
They will be worse off for his death. All of them. But the same would be said if anybody from the Round Table were to die.
The only person whose death would be of benefit is—
No, he thinks for all of a moment, the thought coming to him so suddenly and so completely it stops him in his tracks.
Uther’s death would benefit the kingdom at this time. The thought is so treasonous, everything in him rebels at it. Everything he has ever known fights the thought with everything in him, but the seed has been planted, and he can’t forget it.
He stops Lancelot at the entrance to the veil.
“What is the life of a king worth?” he asks the cailleach.
“Leon,” Merlin breathes next to him, his voice shrouded in a heavy blend of awe and fear.
“There is no king amongst you. Not yet,” she answers, her voice cold and hard, impatient. “One must walk through the veil.”
All in a rush, so he has no time to rethink his decision, Leon blurts, “What if I offer you the life of Uther Pendragon in payment. The life of a mad king for that of a near-dead High Priestess.”
The air around them grows ice cold as the Cailleach's eyes widen in genuine surprise. The first true emotion he has seen from her yet. There is nothing feigned in her appearance, no mask of ancient uncaring. He has done something completely unexpected. Offered something she never imagined.
Nobody moves even an inch as she thinks. Even if he hadn’t been holding Lancelot so tight he can feel the way his head sparks with thoughts, he doesn’t think Lancelot would move towards the veil.
“I accept,” the Cailleach says, her expression giving away nothing of her decision.
Mingled relief and horror flood his veins. The ice cold of the air retreats just a touch. The Cailleach turns to the veil, and Leon follows her eyes.
Lancelot is still much closer to that awful rip than Leon is comfortable with, and so Leon loosens his hold on him just enough that he can walk back towards them.
Just as Lancelot passes the cailleach, the screaming of the Dorocha fills the air, and with a burst of cold, King Uther appears before the veil in a cloud of Dorocha. No ice coats his clothes, and his skin is still pink with life. He stands tall on his own two feet.
He looks every bit the man he was before Morgana’s betrayal. Like the king Leon has served without faltering for a decade now.
His heart aches at the sight, and as Uther turns to face them, Leon holds his eyes, asking forgiveness in the only way he knows how. But Uther is looking past him, to the crumpled up form of Arthur, still unconscious on the stone. He doesn’t say a word, and nothing in his expression changes, but Leon knows that’s love in his eyes. More than he’s been capable of for the past year.
But then Uther turns, and as if he knew why he was brought here, steps through the veil.
When Arthur comes to, he watches his father step through the veil.
When Arthur comes to, he thinks this must be a nightmare.
He yells. He thinks he yells a lot.
Most of it he won’t remember in the future. Most of it will become a blur of pain and rage and anguish.
But he’ll never forget the hard lines of Merlin’s face, as he stared down Arthur and said with deadly calm, “The Cailleach said it was you or him, Arthur. And I would never have chosen him.”
It’s not anything he didn’t know before. It’s not a decision he would accept from anybody else. But he knows that with Merlin, there was never any other choice.
But it doesn’t make coming to terms with it any easier.
He has no body to mourn over. No face to look upon.
Traditionally, his father would have lain in state for a day and a night for Arthur to mourn. Instead, Arthur mourns in an empty room. Sitting upon the dais lay his father's cloak, crown and sword. But no body.
Gaius could not tell him whether his father would have suffered. Apparently, he has no idea what awaits him beyond the veil. Whether there was pain or suffering, or even bliss.
All Arthur knows is that his father is dead, and he has nothing to show for it.
Arthur feels lonelier than ever, kneeling in that empty room. The kingdom now rests entirely on his shoulders. No more the Prince, or the regent, playing at king. Once his coronation is over, he will be the King of Camelot, and all that comes after will be his fault and his responsibility.
He has the Round Table and his uncle. But in this moment, all Arthur wishes is for his father.
As the sun begins to rise, Arthur stands on wobbly legs and leans over the dais, his head resting just above his father's crown. A tear slips down his chin as a shaft of light falls over the crown.
He allows himself one more moment. When he leaves this room, he will be alone. So he allows himself one more moment with his father, before turning and leaving the hall.
When he opens the door, he finds Merlin asleep on the ground. He can’t forget that it was Merlin who put him in this situation, though he knows his father would have made the same choice. But he understands
“Merlin,” he says, drawing the attention of his dearest friend. When Merlin turns to look at him, his eyes are rimmed with dark, but alert. Perhaps not asleep after all. “It’s a new day.”
Merlin’s eyes flick to him for all of a moment before sliding away as they have done since the Isle. But he stands, and when he does, he looks Arthur straight on.
“Have you been here all night?” he asks his manservant.
“I didn’t want you to feel that you were alone.”
So he can’t forget. But he can forgive. “You are a loyal friend, Merlin.”
Chapter Text
Arthur’s coronation is held on his birthday.
The weeks between have been fraught with tension. Leon can’t forget that he made the decision to sacrifice Uther. And he can’t forget that Merlin took the fall for it. Arthur swings wildly between snapping at everything and everyone that moves, locking himself in his chambers and roaming the castle and the city as cheerfully as if nothing had happened.
He’s clearly trying to provide a pillar of strength. Trying to be the beacon of hope for his kingdom that the people need him to be. But grief does not allow that.
Nor does the terror Arthur tries to hide from them all.
He, Gwen and Lancelot follow Arthur with their eyes wherever he goes. He’s refusing to allow any of them too close when there’s no business to be discussed, even Gwen. Merlin dogs his heels every step of the way, but Arthur finds convenient excuses to avoid the rest of them in turn.
It feels dishonest and dishonourable to not tell Arthur the truth about what occurred on the isle. It’s on the tip of his tongue every time the slightest moment of silence comes between them. But then Merlin’s eyes will bore into him, and in them he finds a command he can’t help but follow. He shouldn’t, he knows that. But Merlin’s eyes speak that he has this handled, and with Merlin being the only person Arthur can stand in more than short bursts, perhaps he does.
The two of them are so rarely found apart. If Merlin’s alone, he’s fetching Arthur’s breakfast. If Arthur’s found alone, he’s in a council meeting where he’s not truly alone, but may as well be for all they can try and say to him. It wouldn’t be unusual if Leon hadn’t been there for their return journey to Camelot together.
The way Merlin couldn’t so much as look at Arthur, and the way that Arthur would stare directly into the side of Merlin’s head, like he’s trying to turn him inside out with only the force of his gaze. Leon’s seen Arthur pin that gaze on Merlin before, but never for three days in a row. Never with such intensity and such unending devotion to his cause.
He just watched Merlin. All day long. Even from the saddle, when Merlin was doing everything he could to ignore Arthur, he would still be staring. And staring. And staring.
If Leon’s guilt hadn’t been choking him from the inside out, perhaps he would’ve said something. But every time he opened his mouth, he would remember the noise that came from Arthur as the veil closed with his father on the other side of it. A broken, confused, desperate noise. And a noise of pain and anguish, choked from a person too used to these things. A small noise. A noise you may expect from a child.
And when he looked at Merlin, all he could see was the deep inhale of breath he took before telling Arthur it was his choice. His decision.
And so, Leon’s guilt eats him up from the inside, and he watches as day by day Merlin and Arthur cling to one another, like two people lost in the ocean, far from shore and all alone.
Merlin, who has magic and never thought to tell Leon that. Merlin, who watched Leon struggle with his for nearly a year. Merlin, whom the druids call Emrys. Merlin, who didn’t trust him, not enough to share their mutual secret.
There has been no midnight rendezvous out in the clearing since they’ve gotten back. No magic training sessions. No chance for Leon to ask all the burning questions in his mind. How long? Why Camelot? Why Arthur? Just Merlin, growing paler by the day, and Leon choking on the magic running through his veins.
It’s starting to ache. To fight him. But before the magic, before the cup, Leon was a different person. A person who never would’ve made the decision he had. A person who would’ve let Lancelot walk through the veil, and never considered his life as worth more than the king’s.
Leon can’t regret his decision.
But it doesn’t lessen the guilt he feels. Perhaps that’s why his guilt chokes him. Renders him quiet and immobile. He works, he trains. Sometimes he sleeps.
And when the guard rotation for Uther’s funeral is brought up, he chooses to stand guard at the doors, his lungs tight and empty, and his throat trying to crawl its way out of his mouth as he’d listened to the mourning sounding from within the hall. He could only manage to grasp the hilt of his sword tightly and stare straight ahead, Lancelot on his other side.
The two had never spoken about that day since. Not once. Since they had made it back to Camelot, their days had been filled with the hive of activity necessary to organise a funeral and coronation, resettle entire villages and manage the usual day-to-day activities of the castle and the army.
But when Leon had offered to guard the doors for the funeral, Lancelot's voice had followed right after, offering the same. And he knows that Lancelot hasn’t forgotten, nor arrived at any measure of actualisation with their actions that night. He thinks he has come to know the commoner well over the past year, and he knows that even though it was Leon’s idea, his choice, his decision, Lancelot too chokes on the guilt of not making a different one.
So there is no peace in his days. No forgiveness. Only the cold and harsh knowledge that if the choice came to him again, he would make the same choice every time. A choice for change and freedom. A choice to do something different. To keep Arthur from drowning under the weight of disappointment from a man no longer able to even feed himself properly.
And so there can be no forgiveness, because there is no regret.
But he finds a little of it, standing in the hall as he watches Arthur swear himself to this kingdom and its people once again. He finds a little as his voice rises with every other voice in the hall to yell, “Long live the King!”
And he finds just a little more, as he looks across the aisle, and sees Merlin there, not joining in with the call, but his eyes fixed, intent and hard on Arthur’s face for a long moment, before he too joins the chorus, his voice the loudest of all.
He finds a little forgiveness, as he remembers why it is he did this. And as he affirms himself to the man he has long known is his king. His own voice rises to match Merlin’s.
“Long live the King!”
Chapter Text
Merlin finds him in his chambers two days after Arthur’s coronation.
“Lord Agravaine is working with Morgana,” Merlin tells him after closing the door behind him. He does so much as give Leon any kind of greeting. Leon had only been reviewing the week's reports from patrols when Merlin entered his chambers without even knocking, so it could’ve been worse.
“What?” Leon splutters, dropping the parchment he was reading. “Merlin, that is a serious accusation, you can’t just—”
“A few nights after we returned from the Isle, Agravaine came into Gaius’s chambers and asked if he had ever heard word of a sorcerer called Emrys. Only the druids call me by that name. And the Cailleach.”
“Morgana?” Leon whispers, for confirmation, even if it doesn't seem like it’s needed.
“Morgana,” he confirms. Merlin stands poised near the door, awkward and unsure, scraping the stones with the toe of his boots. He hasn’t looked Leon in the eyes since bursting into his chambers. Actually, Leon thinks it may have been much longer than that, since Merlin has looked at him directly. “Mere days after ripping the veil between the worlds apart, too. The Cailleach must’ve paid her a visit.”
“Is it not possible he could’ve heard it from somewhere else?” Leon asks.
Merlin scoffs, and darts his eyes out the window. “If he was so worried about a possible sorcerer as to go to Gaius, why would Agravaine not tell Arthur? Or alerted you and the guards to the danger? No. He doesn’t want Arthur to know about this. And you yourself have said—”
“I have said nothing,” Leon says, more harshly than intended. But he cannot have it spread around that Leon has no faith in Lord Agravaine. Not after the Isle. Arthur needs his people around him now that he is king. He needs them all more than ever. Even if a part of Leon takes umbrage at the way Agravaine makes Arthur doubt himself.
“Sure, right,” Merlin says, his tone showing his disdain for Leon’s words. He turns abruptly, hand on the door, before stopping. Leon picks up his parchment, hoping that it will deter Merlin from saying whatever it is that has his eyes looking so troubled.
But of course, it was not to be. “Why did you do it?” Merlin whispers.
Leon sighs and drops the parchment. A throbbing asserts itself between his eyes, and he drops his head into his hands so that he may rub away the pain. He knows what Merlin is asking.
He just doesn’t know the answer.
Well, not exactly. He knows a million different answers for why. But every single one rings just a little bit hollow. Just a little bit false in his mind. So he chooses the one that rings the least hollow, and chooses that.
“Because while Uther was still alive, Camelot could never move forward.” Only once he starts talking, the words seem to fall out of his mouth, each coming just a little bit faster. “Because Arthur could never be a true king while his father still lived, and Camelot needs a true king. Because our people will never be free under Uther, and the senseless killing needs to stop. Because Lancelot has a steadying effect on Arthur, and he needs people like that around him if he is to make a truly good king. Because I believe Arthur will be a great king. A greater king than Uther.”
By the time he finishes speaking, he’s risen to his feet at some point and stepped out from behind his desk. He’s panting ever so slightly at the force with which the words have been ripped from his chest. But he doesn’t regret saying them. Especially as Merlin is finally, finally, looking at him, his eyes so dark they may as well be brown, and it's setting his heart just a little alight.
Merlin is looking at him, and if he were a man more comfortable with boasting, he might even call the look in Merlin’s eyes awed. But he puts that thought far away, where it belongs, in the back of his mind to be ignored.
But then Merlin’s face shifts, and any trace of awe is replaced by suspicion. “It wasn’t your choice to make. It was not for you to make Arthur king.”
There’s something in his voice. Not quite anger, not quite pain. Something hidden deep down that Leon can’t quite parse. “Arthur was already king, in all but name. I didn’t make him anything.”
But the suspicion drops out of Merlin’s face, and he slumps, nodding his head. He has long suspected Merlin does more for Arthur than everybody else knows. But now he thinks Merlin must have done more for Arthur than even Leon has been told or suspected. Years now, Merlin has been in Arthur's service. Years of Merlin having more power behind him than he ever guessed.
Years for Merlin to have been Arthur’s fiercest defender, toiling from the shadows with nothing to show for it.
“I want him to free magic,” Leon tells Merlin. “I don’t know how, but I’m going to work on it. Change his mind to magic. Little by little, if I have to. But magic users are citizens of Camelot, and I have the same duty of care to them as I do to any other of Camelot’s citizens, and I will not renege on my duty.”
For a long moment, Merlin simply looks at him before turning and leaving the room. Leon slumps, any remaining energy from the day draining out of him.
He didn’t even ask Merlin about his magic.
Part of him wishes this had never happened. That the veil had never torn, and they could go back to late-night rendezvous outside of Camelot. Calm nights practising magic and just… talking. Enjoying each other's company. And that Leon could look at Arthur without feeling ashamed.
But that’s not the hand life has dealt him.
Life continues. Work continues.
Leon has been officially sworn in as Arthur’s First Knight. The honour of it is like no other Leon has felt in his life. He has worked hard for the position, and will work even harder in the position, but some small part of him had thought it wouldn’t happen. That someone else would swoop in, and Arthur would choose another.
But the position is not without its problems. The old guard of knights, those who have worked and served Uther for decades, have been getting nervous. They can sense the changing times, and the worry that they will lose their positions has made them antsy. And their worries are not without due cause.
Arthur’s council is a very different thing from Uther's. Gaius, Geoffrey, and a few of the other elder wise men still sit on the council, but the nobility has been near completely replaced. Of them, Leon is one of only a few people to still hold his place. And while Uther's old first knight is still on the council, he doesn’t hold the place that Leon now does. Lancelot, Elyan and Gwen are also among Arthur’s newest appointees to the council. There had been mutterings about Gwen’s position, but given her new status as castle steward, they had no formal means of denying her a position.
But it has certainly ruffled some feathers.
Somedays in council, Leon finds Arthur looking to his left, at the spot now taken by Agravaine, a faraway look in his eyes. Perhaps to most on the council, it's nothing worthy of note. Simply a king taking the time to think through his decisions.
But Leon has spent enough time guarding the royal family to know who Arthur is thinking of. That had been Morgana’s chair. Her spot when they dined or were allowed to join the council together.
Leon remembers a time when they were still young. Leon was a brand new knight, tasked with doing little more than watching doors. Arthur had been only fourteen then himself. Stubborn and reckless and a full knight of his own, overburdened with the heavy head of future rule.
Morgana herself had been nearing sixteen and upset that while Arthur had been granted a position on Uther’s council at fourteen, Uther had scoffed and laughed when Morgana had thought she would get the same.
Leon had overheard Arthur, awkward and a little too kind for his own good, declare to Morgana, “When I’m king, you can have a spot on my council. You can be right up the front, so I will hear every suggestion you make.”
At the time, Leon had thought it was cute. He knew enough to know that by the time Arthur was king, Morgana would have been married off and too far away to sit on Arthur’s council, but he wasn't going to tell them.
He thinks Arthur is thinking of that declaration too.
If only things could have been as simple as that promise made between children. Maybe it would’ve turned out better.
Eventually, the clawing in Leon’s chest draws him to seek out Arthur.
It’s a symptom of spending so much time with Merlin, the way he hardly even uses the prin— kings honorifics or titles in his head. It feels like respect. Viewing the man for the king he is, rather than the other way around. But the rigid structures of noble life tell him true respect can only be found in the use of titles and positions. Respect comes from titles. It is owed to them.
But if Leon has learnt anything recently, it’s that titles do not promise duty, or goodness or honour. What is in one's heart is more important. That’s why Lancleot, Elyan, Percival and even Gwaine make truer knights than many he has known in his time. They embody the honour of a knight and his duty to his people.
It’s this that makes Leon find Arthur.
He does eventually, late at night, when the castle is quiet but for the rustling of servants and guards. When the air is cold and still, and the flickering of torches is the only light source to be found. He finds Arthur not in his chambers as he should, but in the great hall, sitting in the same spot he takes every council meeting now.
He looks lonely like this. And sad, though the word feels too small for the feeling Arthur evokes. Melancholy. His head bowed with weariness, his shoulder slumped under the strain of a kingdom. A single sliver of moonlight illuminates Arthur’s form, and the room looks so large like this. Like it could swallow Arthur up, and no one would even know.
But Arthur’s not asleep. Merlin is tucked away in the corner of the room, his head pillowed on his jacket. They must’ve been here a long while. All night possibly
The scuffing of Leon’s boot against the floor draws Arthur’s attention. He’s on his feet in a moment, sword in hand, eyes wild and blurred. But as he notices Leon, the sword drops immediately.
“Leon,” he says blankly.
Leon says nothing, only strides into the room, and falls to his knees in front of Arthur.
His head feels so heavy, and so he lets it drop, fall to the ground, his posture now one of supplication. But it feels right for what he is going to do. To say. It needs to be said.
“Sire,” he says, his voice filled with far greater awe than he intended. He coughs and starts again. “Sire. For many years now, you have been my brother in arms and my prince. Now, as my king, I pledge myself to you once more. I swear upon the old gods and the new to honour you through service to your kingdom. I pledge to protect your life, your people and your kingdom with my life. To serve you with faithfulness and humility, and do honour by your people, to the end of my days, or yours.”
“Leon,” Arthur breathes out, unsure. Leon can picture him standing above, a crease between his eyes and perhaps an arm outstretched to Leon. He would look younger like this. Perhaps still the man Leon knew before Merlin. Before Arthur had been asked to question his place in history.
But then a harder, surer note enters Arthur’s voice, and Leon hears the shifting of cloth. “I accept your oath, Sir Leon, in the spirit with which it was given.”
The press of a palm against his cheek tilts Leon’s head up. All he can see in front of him is Arthur, resplendent in the moonlight, the very crease between his eyes that he had imagined seeing. For all that Leon is older than Arthur, he feels every bit a child on his knees in front of him, impossibly young, and impossibly sorry.
But Arthur simply draws him to standing again, tugging gently on his chin, and Leon follows, for a moment, unsure how to do anything else. “What brought this on?” Arthur asks quietly, his voice not disturbing the stillness of the room.
Leon shakes his head as a tear slips down his face. He can’t say. Whatever it is that Merlin understands better than him, he won’t disregard it, even if it makes him feel cowardly, hiding behind a servant, even one who is far more than he appears to be.
But he can’t tell Arthur how sorry he is for the isle, and for what it meant, so instead he shakes his head again and sighs. “Arthur, I know you feel as if you are alone in this. But I have followed you for a decade now, and I will follow you for decades more, if I am given the chance. It is my wish that you understand that.”
It’s not enough. Leon can see that immediately. He can read it in the deepening crease between Arthur’s eyes, and the way he grips Leon’s shoulder, fingers tight and clawing into the dip of his shoulder. He feels wrong-footed, overly emotional, and perhaps Arthur is feeling the same thing.
After a moment, the tension seems to drop from Arthur, and the crease smooths out, replaced by a smile. “I have always known I can count on you, my old friend. Especially in these last few years. What you have done for me— for Camelot. What you have sacrificed… There can be no forgetting your loyalty and your friendship.”
It’s a relief. Perhaps it should be something that Leon has long known, but the crack in Arthur’s voice, the emotion… It’s more than Leon is accustomed to, and exactly what he needed to hear. Arthur trusts him. He believes in him. Perhaps that will be enough, for when he inevitably finds out. Perhaps that will carry them through uti.
It will have to be.
The strangeness of the night seems to drift into the room then, because the air turns tense and uncomfortable.
Leon steps back. “You should get some rest, Sire. The night grows short and tomorrow there will be more to be done.” He shoots a look over Arthur’s shoulder and lets a smile grace his face. “Plus, surely Merlin would find his own bed more comfortable than the floor.”
Laughing, Arthur turns and shoots a look back at Merlin. Merlin is still curled up in the corner, fast asleep. Moonlight glints off a line of drool dripping down his chin. However young Leon felt earlier, he is nowhere near as young as Merlin looks, curled into such a tight ball, arms curled up to his chin. It almost makes him forget the still swirling emotions in his chest from the revelation of Merlin’s magic.
With a snort, Arthur shakes his head. “I almost want to leave him there; he looks so peaceful.”
“I can escort him back to Gaius’s chambers, Sire,” Leon offers. The smile on Arthur’s face is as fond a one as he’s ever seen.
“That’s probably a good idea. He might fall flat on his face like this.”
Arthur says his good night and departs, so Leon walks on quiet feet over to Merlin. The closer he gets, the more details he can pick out from him. The creases deeply embedded in his shirt, as if he hasn’t had a chance to wash it recently, the stain on his neckerchief, speaking to the same thing. His hair is unkempt and knotted.
Perhaps his current relationship with Arthur requires a little bit more moderation than it’s been getting. Merlin needs at least enough time to wash properly. Perhaps he will draw Arthur down to training tomorrow morning to give Merlin a reprieve. If nothing else, Leon hopes tonight has shown Arthur he doesn’t need to wrap Merlin around himself like a blanket. That there are others here for him.
Leon bends down and, with a gentle hand, shakes his shoulder. “Merlin,” he whispers into the dark.
Merlin shoots awake, coming to all at once, hands braced. Taking a hasty step back, Leon holds up his hands. “Whoa.” He gentles Merlin as he would a horse.
Blinking, Merlin turns and catches sight of Leon. But he only stays there a moment before looking behind him, into the hall itself. “What? Where’s Arthur?”
“I sent him off to sleep. Now I’m doing the same for you. Up you get.” A hand under Merlin’s armpit is enough to drag him up and standing. A small smile slips onto Leon’s face unbidden as he watches Merlin blink, coming more awake.
But he doesn’t let him get more of his bearings before he shifts his hand to rest between Merlin’s shoulders and nudges him forward, beginning the long walk back to his chambers.
“What are you doing awake?” Merlin asks as they slip from the hall into the castle proper. They pass a couple of guards standing down the hall, but after catching sight of who exactly it is, they let them pass without question.
“I’ve been restless recently. And so while stuck awake, I took the opportunity to speak to Arthur alone.”
At his words, Merlin is instantly on alert, a frown on his face as he stares deeply at Leon. “Is everything alright?”
Huffing out a laugh, Leon turns, cutting across the courtyard. “Yes, Merlin. Everything's fine.”
“Then where are we going?”
“Back to your chambers. I’m walking you home, as it were. Ensuring you make it to the door without taking a tumble down the stairs. You have a reputation as someone quite clumsy. And half asleep as you were… well, we thought it best.” Leon lets the smile hang around his lips, hoping Merlin picks up the teasing element to this exchange.
Merlin scoffs. “If I’m clumsy, it’s only because I’m constantly having to hide and cover for my—” he looks around, voice dropping, “—magic.”
Saying the word out loud still has Leon’s hackles raising with paranoia and a healthy, ingrained fear of gathering suspicion. Even as a child and a knight, the word still hung over every occasion, a constant fear. Of it appearing and of being accused of it.
It’s long been an unspoken understanding that simply just because someone is accused of magic, it doesn’t mean they have magic. But too many years of all those accused being killed with little to no trial, has everyone afraid. Saying it in his head, or out in the clearing, has become nearly normal. But in the middle of Camelot, where even at night there are eyes and ears everywhere, it’s still not something comfortable for Leon.
Perhaps one day it will be fine to say and experience. Perhaps one day it will become normal. But until that day, saying magic within the walls of Camelot will always carry risk.
They come to a stop at Gaius’s door soon. It’s so dark here, with only what few shafts of light come through the small windows, or drift up from the ground to light the way. Merlin stops at the door and turns back to Leon.
“I’ve missed our training sessions this past month,” Merlin remarks, his eyes focusing somewhere behind Leon’s shoulder, and not his face. His cheeks darken, as if staining red with blush.
Leon finds himself leaning into Merlin, as if sharing a secret. Or as if sharing an embrace.
He feels comforted, protected, in this far-off hallway, out of sight of anybody else. If any guard were to see them, they would hear their steps on the stairs long before seeing them. It makes Leon braver, surer.
“I have too,” Leon whispers.
“Perhaps tomorrow night?” Merlin’s words are little more than a breath, but Leon finds himself far closer than he anticipated, and that breath dances across his chin. Merlin’s eyes in the near dark, are bright, so impossibly bright. Pools of blue that draw him closer and closer.
It’s like nothing Leon’s ever felt before. Not seriously, not how the other knights describe it. He has always known the male body holds a fascination for him, but never like this. Never like Leon wants to grab hold of Merlin’s hips, and keep him right here, in this quiet, silent moment, just the two of them and this still, strange night.
He can almost understand what they all mean. What Gwaine boasts of. Perhaps if it had been accompanied by the thickening in his trousers they’re so fond of, it might be the same.
“Tomorrow night sounds wonderful,” Leon whispers, and he gives in to Merlin’s impossibly blue eyes, and that force drawing him inexorably closer.
Merlin’s lips are softer than they have any right to be when he bends down and closes that final gap between them. But after only a moment's hesitation, he arches up into the kiss. Where Merlin’s lips are as soft as a delicate pastry, the hand that cups his chin is firm and rough from years of hard labour, and it scrapes against his neck where his beard ends.
It’s both terrifying and exhilarating, as Merlin kisses back with a certainty Leon had not expected, but one he welcomes. Perhaps if he had let himself think, he might have been floundering at his own inexperience, but he melts into the kiss, and softens it again when his hands start to feel useless at his sides. Drawing back, Leon ends it before it’s really had a chance to start. The air hangs between their lips heavy and warm.
Merlin’s panting, ever so slightly. But as Leon opens his eyes, a small smile graces his lips. Any remaining worry he felt melts away, even as Merlin pulls away and slips into his chambers.
The sudden onslaught of night air feels distinctly warmer than it had earlier.
Merlin ducks into his room quicker than he thinks he’s ever done so before.
Closing the door gently behind him, he leans back, a smile set firmly on his face, and his cheeks hot.
Leon kissed him.
It was… perhaps quite unexpected. But Merlin wouldn’t change it for anything.
The way Leon had leaned into him, the dark of the night, the way everything was soft and hazy from sleep… it was wonderful. Perfect even.
He really hasn’t kissed many people in his life. Too busy hiding and protecting Arthur. There were a few kisses between him and Will, that Will always said were for practice. And the few he shared with Freya, soft and sad as they were.
This was better. No pretence, no hiding from guards. Just Merlin and Leon and what little space lay between them.
Tomorrow, Merlin will have questions. Oh, so many questions. But for tonight, he shrugs off his boots and collapses in bed, a smile still firmly spread across his face.
Chapter Text
He doesn’t end up seeing much of Merlin during the day. And certainly not alone. But he does pass Merlin in the hall and enjoys the sight of red staining his cheeks. During the day's council meeting, Leon can’t help but let his eyes wander to Merlin at random times, and far too often, he finds Merlin’s eyes already on him.
It gets so bad, Gwaine elbows him at one point, a sly grin on his face at Leon’s no doubt red cheeks. The beard can only hide so much.
But he believes overall he holds it together remarkably well for how his mind keeps returning to the feel of Merlin’s lips and his rough fingers. For how he looks for a trace of a red neckerchief in the halls and a teasing grin.
The night finds him arriving later than usual to their meeting post, having been dragged down to the tavern for a few rounds of drink by Lancelot and Gwaine. It only serves to improve his mood overall.
So by the time he arrives at the clearing, ready to spend the remainder of the night working his magic and possibly stealing another kiss or two, his hopes are high and his mood is very good.
But the sound of wings in the distance sets him alert as he steps into the clearing. Deep, thrumming wings, beating long and hard against the sky, and there Merlin stands in the middle of the clearing, head raised, watching as a large figure disappears into the sky.
“Merlin!” Leon yells, concerned, and pulls his sword as he rushes to the middle of the clearing. He can feel traces of magic, heavy and old, and far too much like the Cailleachs for his liking, hanging in the air, and it makes him grit his teeth harder.
But Merlin doesn’t seem to hear him, not till Leon arrives beside him and shakes his shoulder. Merlin turns and blinks at him, once, twice, slowly, before life returns to his face. He looks up at Leon and pastes a distant smile on his face.
“I— I have to go,” Merlin says, looking back to the sky. “I have to go.”
He leaves then, disappearing into the trees faster than Leon thought him capable.
“Merlin!” he calls after him, hoping for something — anything. But Merlin doesn’t even turn, just continues his run through the trees.
Leon is left standing in the middle of the clearing, a hole in his chest where there had been joy only earlier today.
What did I do?
Leon sees nothing of Merlin the next day, only a rather odd story about Arthur’s pants dropping, and Merlin tackling him to the ground in his haste to help. Leon smiles, hearing it for all of a moment, before remembering the night before and how Merlin had run from him.
He doesn’t see Merlin at all until late the next morning, while he, the other knights and Arthur are readying their horses to pursue a man on the hunt for a dragon's egg.
“Sire, is Sir Lancelot not joining us?” Leon asks when he notices the conspicuous absence. When all of Arthur’s Round Table have ridden out, Lancelot has always been amongst them. For him to be left out now seems odd.
The way Arthur’s face shutters at the question confirms his suspicions. Something has happened between them. “No, Sir Lancelot is needed here in the castle.”
And there, Leon notices him now, standing at the top of the stairs, face drawn and tired, watching as they pack their bags. His eyes catch on Leon, and he can see the unspoken request in them. Keep them safe, his eyes say, and Leon nods in return. Perhaps this is to be their relationship now. Sharing custody of care for their strange mix of knights and Merlin.
He will always protect them.
“Hurry up, Merlin!” Arthur yells.
Leon finishes tightening the strap on his horse, and swings himself into the saddle. Merlin stands under the walkway, a bag slung across his back. There’s the beginnings of a smile on his face, but it’s his eyes Leon watches. His eyes are dark and grave, and there is an intensity to them that sets Leon on edge.
He could almost believe Merlin has a personal stake in this.
Whatever it is that has that expression on Merlin’s face, it can’t be good. Leon intends to watch him. Maybe try to lighten his obvious dark mood. Perhaps it will help.
But as the day draws on, it becomes clear that there is no drawing Merlin from his mood. He’s intent, focused on their hunt, refusing to joke or be drawn into conversation. Like this, Merlin is a predator, the facade of lovable manservant dropping away.
The others don’t seem to notice much off about him, simply sharing a few glances at his odd behaviour. But nothing truly concerning. But Leon sees it. He remembers the soft grins on Merlin’s face the other night, the way he shines, and he knows this isn’t simply odd behaviour.
That night, as Merlin is handing out the food, he throws a smirk down the line at Gwaine, and when Merlin dishes out his portion, he throws his most charming smile on his face and says, “Ah, I’m famished.” With a wiggle of his eyebrows, he’s hoping for… something from Merlin. A sense of camaraderie, a smile backs.
But Merlin only grimaces and serves him another spoonful.
Leon thanks him, but Merlin just continues down the line. Picking up on it, Gwaine does the same, getting himself an extra bit of food, with a grin. The mood shifts amongst the group, and as Merlin bends down to serve himself some food, Arthur turns a grin on the group.
“As a point, Merlin, have you fed them?” Arthur asks, and without waiting for Merlin’s answer, he continues, taking spoonfuls of food in between. “The horses. Come on, they must be starving.” When Merlin shows no sign of moving, Arthur tries again. “On your toes.”
The displeasure on Merlin’s face is almost enough for Leon to speak up, tell him to get some dinner first. But despite their positions, Arthur is rarely overzealous in his treatment of Merlin. He bites his tongue, spooning a new bite of food into his mouth and waits.
Once Merlin is far enough away that he can’t hear them, Arthur turns to the group. “He’s being very odd today. Has anyone else noticed?”
“Isn’t he always odd?” Gwaine quips, speaking through a mouthful of food.
Leon would normally have an agreement on the tip of his tongue, but with the knowledge of Merlin’s magic, he thinks perhaps there’s a little more to Merlin’s strangeness. Not that Merlin has let them have a conversation about his magic.
“Well, yes,” Arthur agrees. “But today he’s been extra odd. I thought at one point he was going to start sniffing the ground like a dog.”
“He was unusually on edge,” Leon says after a moment. But there must be something else going on with their search. Something Merlin is involved with, or interested in, and so instead, Leon turns their attention away. “Shall we separate a bowl of food for Merlin, perhaps let him think the pot is empty?”
The others grin and their plan is set in motion. Upon Merlin’s return to camp, he lets a reluctant smile cross his face as Gwaine and Percival show their appreciation.
“Me too,” Leon says, letting all his sincerity show. He grips Merlin’s shoulder and lingers a little too long, trying to find… something to say. To set Merlin at ease, or perhaps show him it will all be fine. But he doesn’t find the words, and so steps away to let Arthur pile Merlin high with dishes and the pot.
Stepping up to the group of huddled knights, Elyan hands Leon the full bowl of food, a grin on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches for just the right moment to get Merlin’s attention.
A grin spreads across his lips as Merlin’s face tugs into his signature, I’d rather like to set Arthur's pants on fire, glare and Leon chuckles. “Merlin,” he calls out. “There’s another plate here.”
A smile spreads across Merlin’s face, and he laughs as he puts down all the bowls and the pot and crosses the camp to grab his bowl of food. As he takes it from Leon’s hands, their fingers brush, and Merlin’s smile turns soft and just for him.
Finding himself in a good mood, Leon takes the bowls and the pot down to the nearby river. The work of washing them out is soothing, the cool water of the river washing over his hands, soothing the light ache of holding the reins all day. Merlin joins him with the last two bowls after a time, but Leon lets the quiet moment settle between them and doesn’t broach conversation. It’s nice after the tense flight of the day.
But the peace can’t last forever, and eventually Arthur calls them back. “Are you two finished yet?” he yells through the trees, spooking a couple of birds out of their perches.
Leon is woken from his sleep later that night by a voice calling out Emrys in his sleep.
“Emrys,” it repeats. The voice is familiar somehow. Sitting up, the sleep disappears from Leon’s head in a moment, and he finds Merlin doing the same, blinking awake.
“Did you hear that too?” he asks.
Merlin nods, and they stand nearly as one. The voice calls for Emrys again, and their heads snap to the left. With a nod, they make their way quietly through the camp, following the voice.
As they walk, they seem to naturally find themselves back to back, each watching one side of the forest for whoever calls for Merlin. Perhaps it’s all the years of following Arthur that have Merlin falling so quickly into a battle-ready position.
As they climb up a bank, a whole host of figures seems to appear out of the fog. Leon recognises them instantly.
“Do not be afraid,” Iseldir says, lowering his hood. “We know your quest.”
“How?” Merlin asks.
“The man you seek also stole from us. He passed through these woods not three hours before you.” The other druids do not speak, and barely move. Letting Merlin carry the conversation, Leon keeps his eyes on the rest. No matter his new understanding with the druids, late-night conversations make him wary.
But then a figure steps forward, one familiar to Leon. “Camma,” he says in surprise.
“Young knight,” she greets, stepping forward, hands outstretched. “Your powers have grown since I last saw you.”
Shame pools low in his stomach at the implicit chiding, and he bows his head. “My apologies, I have yet to find the time to visit with you once again, though I have meant to.”
“Reach out to me,” she commands, and Leon knows she does not mean with a physical touch.
Closing his eyes, Leon reaches out with that other sense and gasps at what he finds. It’s like nothing in Camelot. Merlin is a blazing sun of magic, as usual, but around him, all the druids gathered also have that fire within them that Leon recognises now as being unique to magic users. Camma has it too, and for the druids, her fires are banked, roiling quietly. But he can feel the strength within her.
“Your gift is strong,” she says. “That is a blessing and also dangerous. Do not allow yourself to slip too deeply into the river of another. Wounds must heal from the inside out, and most will be beyond you without teaching and practice. Be wary of your gift, young knight, lest it overwhelm you. You could easily put others in danger with the strength of your magic.”
Leon opens his eyes, drawing himself back in. “Yes, Camma,” he promises.
“You must visit with me soon. But remember what it is I have told you, until you can.”
Leon nods, and Merlin tugs on his shirt, “We should get back before the others wake.” Merlin turns immediately to return to camp, his shoulders hunched up high, and ears alert.
“Emrys,” Isledir calls. Drawing Merlin’s attention. He stops, but his head only half turns back towards the druids. It is more hostility towards them than Leon was expecting. More paranoia than he had expected, considering how easily Merlin walked into that druid camp with him.
“There is one other thing the legends say,” Isledir continues. “Only when the way ahead seems impossible will you have found it.”
Merlin turns and leaves without acknowledging Iseldir’s words.
Leon mutters out a quick, “Thank you,” and follows behind him, throwing one last look over his shoulder at Camma. A promise and an acknowledgement.
Leon catches up to Merlin quickly, and pulls him aside before they make it too close to camp. “What was that?” he demands.
Eyes darting towards the trees they just came from, Merlin scowls at Leon, pulling his arm from his grip. “What was what?”
“That,” he says, pointing. “With the druids. You were practically hostile to them when they were trying to help. Why?”
Merlin starts to trudge back to camp, pace brisk. “I wasn’t hostile. I was wary. It’s late at night, and I’m drawn from sleep to a secret meeting with people who want something from me. And they always want something from me. Everybody wants something from me. Arthur wants me to be his servant, his friend and his punching bag. Gaius wants me to be quiet and keep out of trouble.” His ranting is gaining both speed and volume, and Leon worries they’ll gain the attention of the knights if it gets any louder.
But Merlin doesn’t take any notice of that. “Lancelot wants me to be honest. The druids want me to do their bidding. Kilgharrah wants me to free magic. And I’m still not sure what exactly it is that you want, but you certainly want something.”
Merlin whirls, his long legs taking him across the little space between them, getting right up in Leon’s face. If it wasn’t for the anger painted across his features and the way Merlin’s eyes glint dangerously in the night, it might remind him of the other night in the stairwell.
“But this,” Merlin continues, voice low and hard, barely a whisper. “This is just for me. This is about what I want. So I’m going to go and get some rest, so that tomorrow, we can continue the hunt for Borden and the Tomb of Ashkanar.”
Without another word, Merlin turns and stalks off, leaving Leon feeling unsettled and a whole lot more worried than he was just mere hours ago.
Their journey the next day continues with only a few minor stumbles, and that tense moment in the valley as they took fire from above. Merlin gets more agitated the later the day gets on, practically barking orders at Arthur as they track Borden through the forest.
Camp that night is a quieter, more solemn affair than the previous night. They’re all on edge after being held down in the valley, and Percival’s leg, while not severely injured, does keep him subdued and quiet.
Nobody wrestles over food that night. Instead, they all take their serves and eat quietly, Leon watching intently as Merlin heads off to feed the horses before eating himself, without direction. If it weren’t for the rumble Leon had heard from Merlin's stomach, he might think him not planning on eating that night. Leon spoons him out a large helping anyway, leaving it off to the side, ready for Merlin to eat when he returns.
The stew is good yet again. Rich and hearty, and with a depth of flavour they don’t always manage when trekking out into the forests of Camelot like this. Merlin’s stews are always good. He has a knack for understanding flavour. Perhaps it is a skill he acquired from being Gaius’s apprentice. Though the concoctions Gaius has him drinking when needed are rarely a flavour he wants in excess.
Leon takes another spoonful of stew, feeling a lethargy come over him. Perhaps when he returns to Camelot, he will plan that trip out to see Camma. It might be nice to get away from the castle for a few days, perhaps even have a little time to relax.
His eyelids start to feel heavy and droopy right as he wonders whether Merlin would like to come too.
He could use a break.
When Merlin returns to the campsite, his spirits are a little healthier after some time with the horses. They always manage to cheer him up. There’s just something about them he finds soothing when he’s not having to muck out their stables. The horses make sense in a way little else does. He can understand their habits; he knows why they act the way they do. And they don’t want anything from him.
He feels a little bad about his words to Leon the previous night. He had simply wanted to help, or maybe was even just curious. It wasn’t his fault that Merlin had such a poor experience with being woken to calls of his name. It’s never something good. Vengeful dragons, or orphaned druid children who may grow up to kill your best friend, or something to do with Morgana.
It sets his teeth on edge. Makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. And now that he has an audience for it in the form of Leon… It makes his skin crawl.
But that’s no fault of Leon's.
Though he forgets that just a little when he returns to the campfire and finds all the knights seemingly asleep over their bowls of food.
So much for them not playing a prank on him today. He thought they were acting like real live people, but it seems not. “All right, don’t tell me. It was too salty,” he calls to the group, waiting for one of them to make some pithy remark or laugh about the food. “Typical,” he mutters.
He drops the firewood by the fire and throws a glare at the knights for their pig-headed stubbornness. It turns to anger when he spies the empty pot of food, left by the fire for him to clean.
He bends down to do so when he notices a bundle inside.
Arthur’s breath wheezes in his chest. Merlin’s ears perk up, and he looks at the other knights; their breaths come weak in their chests, too.
Poison.
Arthur’s pulse is thready and irregular. The other knights need his help, too.
“Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare!” he mutters over Arthur’s chest, feeling the magic take effect. His breathing clears immediately, but Merlion hovers over Arthur for a second longer, just to be sure. He can’t be too careful with Arthur.
But the sound of Percival wheezing has Merlin flying into motion, and he half crawls across the first floor to Leon to get his hands on his chest. Merlin performs the spell on Leon, too, but he can feel his breathing already starting to grow stronger. Whatever that magic is inside Leon, it’s strong like nothing Merlin has encountered before. To heal poison within his own body…
He needs to get back to training with Leon. Now that they can be honest with one another.
It takes only a short while for the other knights to get the spell too, and Merlin sets his sights on the forest.
Borden has taken things too far.
Merlin pursues.
Chapter Text
When Leon comes to, there’s a pounding in his head that makes him groan as he curls upwards. For all of a moment, he wonders when his bed had gotten so uncomfortable, before the gentle light filtering through the trees reminds him where they are.
Borden. Merlin. The dragon egg, hidden in the depths of a castle.
Leon stumbles to his feet as he surveys the knights around him. They’re all seemingly slumbering contentedly, and he stands, feet rooted to the ground as he debates waking them up.
As a knight, it is his duty and the smartest choice. He’s walking into a trap of unknown danger. He can’t be sure the knights are all hale and hearty until he sees them awake. It’s his duty to his king.
But the rest of him is remembering the look in Merlin’s eyes as he spoke of this quest being for him. Being something he wants.
And he worries.
His magic is telling him their bodies are fine, or at least, they appear as normal. And his mind watches the way Arthur snuffles just a little with his hand, and recognises the gesture from years of patrolling and quests. It’s familiar and comforting.
But his heart is reminding him of his duty. His duty to these knights, and his king, and his good sense.
He turns and leaves them behind. Merlin needs his support in this, even if he doesn’t want it.
The trees blur as he runs through the woods. His legs, normally so sure and capable, are slow and sluggish to respond to his whims, especially in these unfamiliar woods. But he keeps on, running until the trees part before him, and the tomb of Ashkanar stands before him.
He takes a moment for his mind to boggle at the sheer size of the tomb, and how it could’ve remained hidden all these long years. Surely something so large must have been seen before. But he takes only a moment to marvel before ducking into the entrance he can see in front of him.
He runs through the halls, following the single staircase up and up, deeper into this great space. The sound of yelling makes him double his speed, his thighs screaming as he climbs further upwards.
The passage leads to a great hall, so impossibly tall, Leon can hardly make out the ceiling. He watches it in awe, the sheer size rivalling anything they have in Camelot. And for its age, it is in remarkably good shape. Leon would expect more cobwebs, but perhaps there is magic keeping it clean at work.
“What do you know, huh? You are but a serving boy.” The words, spoken with such malice in them, draw him out of his wonder. Surveying the hall, Leon’s eyes first catch upon the glowing egg in the centre of the room, the sheer magic encased within it drawing his eyes at once. But then he looks further, and there huddled on the floor is Merlin, and standing above him, the man who can only be Julius Borden.
Something in Merlin’s face shifts, and before him. Leon sees not a serving boy lying huddled on the ground, but the man he had seen traces of last night. His features are pulled taut, and there is a gravity to him that Merlin hides behind grins and looks of confusion. Behind his neckerchiefs and stumbling and poor form, this person hides. A leader, and a man. Someone rife with duty.
And when he speaks, Leon feels the power in his words. “I am the last dragonlord. And I am warning you… leave this egg alone.”
It all falls into place now. The pieces of Merlin Leon has been stubbornly trying to organise. His magic, the strength of it, why this is so important to him, and the wings from the other night. He remembers the heat of fire and the smell of brimstone clogging his face, and the sheer terror he had fought to control as the Great Dragon lay waste to Camelot.
The Great Dragon, who surely still lives, ordered to leave Camelot in peace by Merlin.
But the last question lingers.
Why Camelot?
Or perhaps it’s two questions. Why Camelot? And why Arthur?
But he has no time to linger on these thoughts as Borden eyes the egg and attempts to turn the torch in his hand upon Merlin. Leon moves only a step before, with one great burst of magic from Merlin, Borden flies backwards, and hits the ground hard. Dead — the life in his veins dissipating quickly.
There is silence in the hall for a moment.
“Merlin,” Leon says, or perhaps whispers, his voice coming out quiet and breathy.
The glare Merlin turns on him turns his insides to ice. “Don’t try to stop me, Leon. That egg—”
Leon can’t let him continue. “That’s not—” He stumbles over a loose chunk of stone as he steps forward. “I understand. That egg is…” He can’t find the words to explain. “You have a duty, as solemn as my own.”
With a wary look back at him, Merlin nods and turns back to the egg. Leon steps forward gingerly, trying to keep his steps light and silent over the stone. There is a feeling in the air, something of great weight that Leon does not wish to disturb with clumsy footprints or loud noises.
This moment is momentous. The first dragon egg to be found since the Purge.
Merlin’s hands shake as he reaches out to the egg. This close, Leon can feel the way the egg pulses and shifts. The magic inside it feels not too dissimilar to how Arthur feels. Banked and charred. Only there’s so much more of the little dragon’s magic.
“It’s alive,” he can’t help but whisper as Merlin reaches out to touch it. The little dragon’s magic shifts too, tentative, like a wary cat sniffing an outstretched hand.
He’s not sure what he expects to happen as Merlin touches the egg, cradling it in gentle hands. Maybe for the magic of the egg to surge? Or for a crack to appear, maybe a burst of light.
Instead, the whole room rumbles, and a chunk of stone falls from the ceiling.
“We have to get out of here,” Leon says, watching as Merlin cradles the egg against his chest.
On impulse, Leon pulls Merlin in close, keeping him tucked under his shoulder, one arm above his head and shoulders, to shield him and the egg from falling rock. They make their way out of the tomb quickly, dodging rocks as they go, as the whole place shakes itself into pieces.
When they make it out of the tomb, Merlin leads him off to the trees, and there his pack lies waiting.
As Merlin bundles the egg into his satchel with gentle hands, Leon broaches the question burning in his mind. “Is this the last of your secrets, Merlin? Or am I to find out you are the personification of magic itself, or Morgana in disguise as well?”
He’s aiming for levity, something to cut the tension of the moment before they return to the knights and Arthur, but even he can hear that it skirts too close to the truth. The dirty look Merlin shoots him confirms that.
Merlin is just standing once more, watching the tower crumble before them, when the knights emerge from the trees, Arthur in the lead.
“What the hell happened?” Arthur yells, looking up at the tower as more and more of it breaks off into dust. There’s a strange sort of sadness in watching such an old and storied piece building crumble to dust before they’ve had any chance to explore it. Maybe it was just that hallway and that central room, but what if there was more?
“The tomb is a trap,” Merlin says, his voice conveying none of the emotion Leon feels. Maybe it doesn’t feel the same way to Merlin as it does to Leon. “He set it off. He never got out.”
“What about the egg?” Arthur demands, looking only a moment from rushing into the crumbling building. Leon shifts, putting himself between Arthur and the building, ready to grab him at a moment's notice.
Merlin shrugs, shaking his head as he does. There’s something sad about the motion in the twist of his shoulders. But there’s something sad about Arthur wanting so badly to see destroyed something that is part of Merlin, a part of who he is. “It would’ve perished with him.”
“Are you sure? We need to be certain.” The stones start to fall faster now, the ground around them reverberating with the feeling of impact of each one.
“Nothing could survive under all that,” Leon says, looking at the bag at Merlin’s feet, and feeling just a little bit grateful that they got it out at all. If it were up to Borden…
The rest of the tower falls to pieces, blanketing the sky in a cloud of dust. They all choke on it as they return to camp.
“You were with Merlin,” Arthur says, like it’s a question, something Leon should know how to answer. The sky darkened quickly after they returned to camp, and Leon stands on watch now, ensuring the tower's destruction brings nothing to their doors.
Leon turns his head to glance at Arthur, face drawn tight before him. “Sire?”
Arthur is silent for a long moment. “You and Merlin went after Borden. Together.”
“No, Sire,” he refutes, turning to Arthur so he can explain. But only so much. “No. When I awoke, Merlin was gone, and you were all asleep. I did not wish to leave Merlin on his own, but… I also did not wish to put you all in further danger.”
Arthur shifts on his feet, his eyes boring into Leon. “I don’t need another Merlin.”
There’s an acknowledgement in there. Something uncomfortable and unacknowledged. Not his magic — or Merlin's. But… He looks at Arthur and the careful way he’s holding himself, eyes heavy and serious. Arthur doesn’t ever talk about what Merlin means to him. Not even to their current crop of knights. Sometimes he makes little jokes, little remarks, but they’re spoken in jest.
It’s hard to miss the way his eyes follow Merlin. The way he guards him and protects him from harm. He’s fought so many times to keep Merlin from the cells or his father's retribution. He allows Merlin to follow him everywhere. But he never acknowledges the way Merlin does the same for him. Until now. Because the more Leon thinks about it, the surer he is that’s what this is. Arthur recognises that Merlin is also his fiercest defender.
Of course, he simply isn’t going to just say that.
“I need a First Knight, and a head of my guard. I—” Arthur stumbles over his words, looking away finally. “I know Merlin sometimes acts without my say so, I know he’s sometimes in the background working things out on my behalf, things I should know. I don’t need more people working in my shadow like that. Certainly not you.”
He doesn’t say it like Leon couldn’t be trusted to do it. He says it like Leon is the one who trusts not to do so.
He tries to find something to acknowledge that he understands the gravity of what Arthur says. That he understands it to his core. But he can’t find the words, all of them muddled up in this growing frustration with lying to Arthur. With not trusting his king.
So instead, he just replies, “Yes, Sire.”
The silence grows between them before Arthur speaks again, quietly. “This whole journey has been something my father would have wanted. I went after this dragon egg to preserve the work he did to eliminate the dragons. But still, somehow…” he trails off, his voice a little lost.
Leon thinks he understands it completely. “It still feels… There is something to the loss of a whole species. Especially of something as magnificent as a dragon.” Leon thinks of the crest he wears on his shoulder every day. Of how proud he was the first time he got to wear one of those red cloaks that mark a knight of Camelot. Of how he carries that symbol with him every day. “I think I would’ve liked to have seen one in better circumstances. The Great Dragon was terrible but… magnificent nonetheless, soaring through the skies, blotting out the stars.”
A small smile lingers around Arthur’s lips. “They say the kings of old would ride atop the dragons when they would consent to allow it. And the dragonlords, too. Some dragonlords would spend their lives following after the dragons, living in the skies, beholden to no one place. It would’ve been quite the life.”
The others can’t understand it, not the way two sons of Camelot’s nobility can, what it means to have this conversation. Under Uther, it never could’ve happened. Not for fear of being caught. Not even out in the woods, because what if one of the other knights were awake? But it gives Leon hope for Arthur’s reign that he speaks of it, even under the cover of night, as it is. Hope that maybe Arthur will see reason, see what Leon knows is the truth.
They both stay awake far too long, simply taking in the night around them, when they should have given up watch to another much sooner.
But Leon’s heart is full with the knowledge of the dragon egg safely ensconced in Merlin’s grip, hidden within his satchel.
When they return to Camelot, Merlin ducks off, but not before letting Leon know he’s going to show the egg to Gaius and telling him to come to the clearing that night.
It’s hard to go about his usual routine after returning from patrol or a quest. He first reports to Lord Agravaine, then has the servants draw him a bath. Though he would next normally head out to the training fields to enquire about the days without him, he instead heads to Lancelot’s little office, tucked away in a quiet corner of the knights barracks.
Leon almost envies him the space, if not for how small it is. His own office is in the middle of a busy corridor, and when he uses it, he finds his day interrupted by passing knights and nobles.
He finds Lancelot bent over a scroll, hair mussed as if he’s run his hands through it numerous times. Tension coils in Lancelot’s shoulders, and he grimaces at the report before him. He hasn’t forgotten about the tension between him and Arthur before they left, and while he had originally hunted down Lancelot to get a report on the knights, at the sight of him, he decides that can wait.
With a knock against the wooden door, Leon enters and takes a seat before Lancelot without waiting for an invitation. The knight looks up, and Leon pins him with a stare.
Though Lancelot puts up a valiant effort, he eventually sighs and begins to speak without Leon needing to pose the question. It’s the tactic he normally takes with the squires and the very youngest knights, but he’s found it works well when occasionally applied to those older, too.
Lancelot hangs his head. “Arthur has been… callous since we returned from the Isle. I don’t think he has forgotten that I was so close to the veil when his father stepped through. And he has been trying so hard not to blame Merlin.”
“It is me he should blame,” Leon says quietly.
When he looks up, Lancelot’s eyes are heavy on him. He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think it is. I think this is the best we could’ve hoped for, though I do wish it were my death we mourned. I think it would’ve been simpler all round.”
“I feel as though I should agree, but…” Leon trails off and looks down at his hands. His hands, which find comfort in steel and leather. His hands, which have become used to the gentle warmth of a fire hanging in the air above them.
His hands which kept a friend from sacrificing themself for the good of the kingdom. Perhaps it would’ve been easier to let Lancelot die to close the veil, but Uther’s time has come to an end, and he cannot be sorry for facilitating it. Not when Arthur has the chance to move past Uther’s bigotry.
“Perhaps it would’ve been simpler. But also perhaps, not right.”
After leaving Lancelot’s chambers, Leon heads out to the training grounds with extra energy to burn off. He’s spoiling for a good spar.
Elyan is already there, standing in a group of the current batch of knight hopefuls, demonstrating a series of forms. The other commoner knights aren’t seen amongst the group, and Leon wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Gwaine has dragged Percival down to the tavern for the rest of the night. It would be just like him to do so.
The surprise comes from Arthur’s presence, sparring off against Sir Gwynryl, one of the younger knights. The man is arrogant and too sure of himself, and as expected, it doesn’t take long for Arthur to draw him through a long series of forms, ending with the knight on his backside looking up at Arthur.
Leon plants himself on the edge of the field, in case Arthur decides he’d like a stronger opponent.
Arthur does, and Leon settles into the familiar routine of sparring against a greater opponent. He shares a matching grin with Arthur and enjoys the familiarity of the moment, a return to how things were when Arthur was only a prince.
There’s a chill in the air as Leon makes his way out to the clearing, hoping he hasn’t missed anything. It’s still early compared to their usual meeting time, and the faint sounds of life are still coming from Camelot far in the distance. He can see it, Gwaine and Percival holding court in the tavern, while the guards roam the streets and hallways, and the servants skitter about with their final duties for the night.
So he settles down on the tree stump and amuses himself with rushing air across the grass, and trying to gain better control of his fire. He can make the flames dance upon his fingertips fairly well now, and has better control of them when spreading far, but he hasn’t managed any fine details yet.
But he forgets all that when Merlin comes out of the trees, a satchel at his side, and trepidation bleeding across his features.
“You came,” Merlin breathes out, stopping in front of Leon.
“Of course I did. I—”
Merlin cuts him off, shaking his head. “Not now. Now… Now is about this egg, and my duty as a dragonlord.”
Leon nods and steps back, watching silently as Merlin takes a deep breath and places the egg on the stump. He turns to the sky and opens his mouth, but before he gets a chance to speak, a great beating in the air draws his attention.
Awed, Leon watches as the Great Dragon flies out of the sky and drops to the ground with a thud. The air grows thick and heavy with the magic it gives off. Only Merlin has ever compared to the magic he feels in the dragon, hot and roiling and pouring off it in waves.
And it’s a familiar magic. It’s the same magic he’s been immersed in for months now, here in this very clearing. The Great Dragon’s magic pervades every part of this clearing, sunk deep into the ground, and sings in the air.
There is awe on the face of this great creature, too, a pleasure Leon couldn’t possibly hope to understand. It pays him only a glance before turning back to Merlin and the egg.
“Is it alive?” Merlin asks.
“It can live for more than a thousand years.” The dragon’s voice is not as Merlin expected it to be. Old and wry, and higher than he’d thought. Perhaps he had expected such a mighty creature to have a voice as deep as the depths of the ground, or thick like gravel.
When Merlin speaks next, there is joy in his voice, too. He speaks to the dragon like an old friend. A companion. Something, or someone, that he respects greatly. They are familiar with each other, and Leon wonders just how long Merlin has known the dragon.
“So, you are no longer the last of your kind.”
The dragon chuckles. “It would seem not.”
“When will it hatch?”
“Young dragons were called into the world by the dragonlords. Only they had the power to summon them from the egg. As the last dragonlord, this solemn duty falls to you, Merlin.” If Leon is hearing things right, he would almost think the dragon is proud to have Merlin specifically perform this task. It shows a depth of fondness Leon doesn’t know how to parse.
Magic and strange creatures and druids he can understand, nd come to terms with. But this… This makes him pause.
“How do I summon it?” Merlin asks.
“You must give the dragon a name.”
The air grows thick as Merlin thinks for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice comes out like Leon has never heard it before.
“Aithusa.”
The effect is immediate. Leon stumbles back a step as the egg's magic bursts out in a wave. It dances through the air, joyful and light, and Leon finds himself laughing at the sensation of it around him. The little dragon's magic suffuses everything, and when it pokes its little head out of the shell, Leon can’t help but think how cute it is.
It makes these little growls as its head shifts the egg out of the way, happy and light, like it knows no evil. Truly a baby in every meaning of the word.
“A white dragon is, indeed, a rare thing… and fitting. For in the dragon tongue, you named him after the light of the sun. No dragon birth is without meaning.” As the dragon talks, the little dragon pokes further out of the shell, so now he’s sitting in just the bottom of it.
Leon steps forward so he can watch the proceedings better, not missing the shine of tears in Merlin’s eyes or the glorious smile on his face.
“Sometimes the meaning is hard to see, but this time I believe it is clear. The white dragon bodes well for Albion, for you and Arthur, and for the land that you will build together.”
As Aithusa stretches his wings, Leon only has eyes for Merlin, his joy incandescent.
Aithusa departs with Kilgharrah, and a small part of Merlin aches at the loss of the little dragon. A part of him wants to call him back, steal away from Camelot with him and raise the dragon himself.
But he remembers his words from earlier. That dragons must go free, and he keeps himself in check, watching as the little figure disappears into the night sky. Kilgharrah will keep Aithusa safe for now. And Aithusa will branch off to live his own life when he is ready. This is the way of things, Merlin can feel it in his bones.
But most of all, he is still thrumming with joy. When he told Leon the other day that this was something he had done for himself, he meant it. He just didn’t realise how much it would make him feel.
Ever since arriving in Camelot, things have been so messy. There’s never a clear answer and rarely a correct thing to do. Decisions are made on hair triggers, and too often come out worse than he hoped. Everything is murky, clogged and always a great, damn mess.
There’s only been one thing he’s been completely sure of.
Arthur. His belief in Arthur, and in making him the king, Merlin has hoped he will become. Merlin has never had cause to doubt that belief. He remembers standing on the Isle of the Blessed, vowing to Nimueh that he will make Arthur king. Arthur is king now, and Merlin is still just as sure then as he is now.
But that dragon egg… Merlin was every bit as sure that getting it was the right thing to do. More than that, it was something he wanted to do.
Something just for himself.
And standing here, knowing that Aithusa is out there, a second dragon in the world, strong and alive, it’s worth everything Merlin has ever suffered.
And when he turns to Leon, standing next to him. Leon, who has magic and wants to see it returned to Camelot, has yet to have the joy of discovering it ripped from his fingerprints. Leon, who had smiled with such light in his eyes at the sight of the dragon, and who had reminded Merlin to fight not just for Arthur, but for magic itself.
When he looks at Leon, with his heart practically growing in size out of sheer happiness of this moment, Merlin can’t help but launch himself at Leon, arms coming up to wrap around Leon’s neck with a laugh, feeling freer than he ever has before.
Breath hits his ear as Leon joins him, and then Merlin’s feet are lifted from the ground as his chest is squeezed by the force of Leon’s hug. He feels weightless, like he could just float off the ground right now, light as a feather.
Perhaps with magic, it could really happen.
Merlin pulls away with that thought, feeling happy and alive, but only far enough away so he can capture Leon’s lips in a kiss.
And while maybe this feeling can’t quite compare with the birth of a new baby dragon, it’s pretty damn close.
Chapter Text
The thing about sharing a kiss over the broken shell of a new dragon, is that it doesn’t leave much room for conversation. They had stolen away into the night following their kiss, sharing laughter and smiles as they went, but Leon is left lurching, wondering just what they are now.
He should know; he started this himself, in that hallway. But Merlin is a hard figure to track down just for a chance to speak, and over the next few days, they’re both kept busy with their duties, following which Leon is sent out on patrol for a week.
It gave him a chance to think at least. Sitting at the campfire in the evenings, or standing at the perimeter on watch. In the end, there’s only one conclusion he has been able to come to.
He wants Merlin in whatever manner Merlin will have him. Whether that's simply stolen kisses in the hallways now and again, sneaking into one another's chambers to sleep, or taking the steps to begin a rather slow and public courtship, Leon will take all he can get.
But not first without a little honesty.
He wants to know about Merlin and his magic. He wants to know what it is that Merlin was up to all through his time at Camelot. He wants Merlin to be able to practice his magic with Leon.
Mostly, he wants Merlin to be free within the walls of Camelot, but that won’t happen just yet.
But it only sharpens his resolve to find some way to convince Arthur of the rights of magic users. To free them from persecution and fear. And if that means telling Arthur of his own magic, then so be it. Who better than a dedicated knight of Camelot, who has fought by Arthur's side for years and has proven his dedication and commitment to Camelot time and time again, to broach that subject?
Leon will make that sacrifice for Camelot
So it happens that when he returns from patrol, the very first thing Leon does after all the official things is search for Merlin.
He finds him, amusingly enough, hidden in the laundry, sitting over a bucket of clothes with Gwen, giggling. It’s Leon’s understanding that neither Merlin nor Gwen is supposed to be doing laundry themselves. Merlin is only supposed to deliver it, and Gwen should have far too much other work to do so much as look at laundry.
So it’s only more confusing to find not Arthur’s clothes, but what seems to be a set of curtains in the tub. And not the ones from Arthur’s chambers.
Stranger still is the smile that creeps over Gwen’s face as she notices him, and the look she shoots at Merlin. Though as Merlin’s cheeks go red, and he sends a glance Gwen’s way, Leon perhaps understands. His face goes hot at the thought that Gwen may know of their kisses.
“I was just looking for Merlin,” he blurts out, suddenly uncomfortable in the small space, with both of these people he admires greatly watching him and knowing what they know.
“I imagine you were,” Gwen says, and there’s just enough insinuation in her voice that his ears join the growing heat on his face, and he wishes that he could sink into the floor and disappear.
He has faced undead armies without balking, but the insinuations of one woman are too much for him.
“Gwen,” Merlin throws over his shoulder at her, before standing in a heap of limbs and elbows and knees.
When he straightens, Merlin’s nose ends up at about the level with Leon’s chin, and he’s sure now that the blush suffusing his face must be creeping further down, spreading across his neck and chest, with how warm everything feels, and how on display this seems to be.
Leon steps back quickly and ducks out into the hall for a measure of privacy.
“I hope it’s okay that I told— She’s my best friend,” Merlin blurts in a rush.
“Of course,” Leon mumbles, still trying to calm his racing heart and quell the blush on his cheeks. He feels like a lady left too long in the sun and wishes suddenly for a fan to cool himself and hide his face. Perhaps that’s why they carry them so often. “I don’t mind. I hoped we could meet tonight?”
A small smile spreads across Merlin’s face, his eyes lighting up, making them practically sparkle. “Yes. Yes, I would really like that. The usual place?”
He nods. “The usual place.” He keeps smiling at Merlin, watching the way a blush spreads across his face, and how his eyes crinkle in the sides as his cheeks grow.
Merlin ducks his head and throws a gesture over his shoulder to the room behind him. “I should get back,” he says, and Leon realises he’s simply been standing here grinning at Merlin.”
“Of course. Should I ask about the…” he trails off.
Merlin laughs and pushes open the door again. “Probably not.”
“Okay then.” Then he raises his voice and speaks into the laundry. “It was lovely to see you, Gwen.”
A muffled laugh is all the reply he gets, and Leon feels as if that’s his cue to leave before this lesson in humiliation can get any worse.
But not without throwing one last glance at Merlin’s retreating figure.
Merlin is waiting for him in the clearing that night when he arrives.
Only, unlike usual, Merlin isn’t simply waiting. In front of Merlin is a wreath of fire, which, when Leon looks closer, isn’t simply that. In the circle, there is, clearly and beautifully, a dragon. But not just any dragon. The crest of the Pendragons hangs there, made out of flames.
Leon is speaking before he even realises he intended to. “I want to learn how to do that.”
The crest disappears instantly as Merlin shoots to his feet, spooked.
Leon surges onwards, ignoring his surprise. “I want to learn how to do that. And I want to learn everything. You must have so much you can teach me, now that I know about your magic.”
“I can try,” Merlin says, trepidation on his face. “Our magic works so differently, though. That’s all I can do. You can’t even use spells, and my training since coming here has been about how to hone my magic so I can use spells. It helps keep me from using it on instinct. When I first got here, I spooked Gaius, and he fell from his balcony. I had slowed time before I even knew what was happening so that I could get his cot underneath him.”
“You can slow time?” Leon asks, stunned. He feels so much power in Merlin, but this… this is beyond anything he ever expected. To be able to slow time… Merlin must be one of the most powerful sorcerers alive. He says as much.
“Warlock. I’m actually a warlock, not a sorcerer. Still not sure what that means, though.” A rueful expression crosses his face, and he steps to the side, his back towards Leon and looks back at Camelot. The city is beautiful at night. Glittering from amongst the trees, only the lights of torches and fires lit it.
Something to be protected and preserved.
“What I do know is that when I don’t use spells, my magic is uncontrolled. More destructive.”
They lapse into silence for a moment, but Leon has so many questions bubbling up inside of him that he can’t keep silent for too long. There’s so much he wants to know. He’s been so blind these past years, and he wonders just how many strange circumstances Merlin has had a hand in over the years.
“You must have done so much for Camelot,” he says eventually, the words feeling small and not enough.
“I have,” Merlin replies, a hint of pride colouring his tone. “I’ve fought magical creatures, uncovered trolls and goblins, stopped Morgana, battled sorcerers, and kept Arthur alive even when it feels like everything is fighting me on that goal. But I did it.”
Merlin trails off, and Leon turns to watch him out of the corner of his eye. Before he finds his reply, Merlin speaks again. “Do you know. When we started meeting out here, I couldn’t remember the last time I had just… used my magic for the fun of it. Just as something to do, something easy. Probably when the witchfinder was here. I conjured a horse from smoke, and I was caught.”
Leon remembers that time. They had questioned everyone, and Gaius had been sent to the dungeons. And he had— “I apologise for my part in that.”
A wave of his hand is all the answer Merlin gives. “Gaius was nearly killed for my bit of fun. And after that… my magic has become little more than a weapon.”
Leon thinks of his own magic. It had felt like a death sentence in the beginning. But he thinks about how his whole body goes warm whenever he uses it. How it curls in his chest. And how much he can make and do with it. He thinks of that joy of discovery, and a little part of him aches for Merlin to lose that warmth.
“You’ve helped me remember it can be more than that,” Merlin finishes. “That it can be something beautiful.”
“I’m glad,” Leon says, the words feeling insignificant and like not enough. Especially because Merlin was part of the reason Leon realised his magic wasn’t a curse, and wasn’t something that would corrupt him in the end. “It was you who did so for me.”
Merlin smiles at him before darting out of reach, across the clearing. He stands, legs spread apart, at the ready.
“Throw me some fire,” he calls, a wicked grin Leon can see from all the way on the other side of the clearing, spreading across his face.
Leon assumes his own ready position in return, feeling warmth that has nothing to do with his magic down to his toes.
It would have been a nice time to talk about what they are. Leon had intended for it to be that way. But they had spent the night throwing magic back and forth between them, Leon learning how to better shape and guide the magic into shapes of his choosing, and by the time they were finished, they had only the energy to trudge exhausted back to the castle together.
Since then, the reports of raids on the outer villages bordering Caerleon had kept him busy.
But when they hear word of a large group of bandits in the heart of Camelot, Arthur, Leon, the knights and Merlin all trek out on horses to ready a confrontation.
Lancelot gives Leon a sharp look when Merlin comes out dressed as a knight, red cape sitting regally on his shoulders. But he can’t look away from the sight. There’s something so… arresting about Merlin bedecked in the knight's regalia, holding his shoulders tall. He wants to wipe the smudges of dirt from Merlin’s cheeks, and not necessarily with his thumbs. He wants to kiss Merlin's lips as red as the cape and see if they glow the way his skin glows.
A nudge to his ribs draws his attention.
Right, Lancelot. They have a job to do. Only Lancelot’s eyes are hard when they meet Leon’s and he doesn’t think it has anything to do with the oncoming trap they’re setting.
“You won’t hurt him?” Lancelot asks, though it doesn’t sound much like a question at all.
Leon can only look back at Merlin and shake his head. He’ll certainly try not to. But something deep within him tells him someone will get hurt in the end. Something is going to bend and break and snap, tearing everything apart.
And he thinks he knows the culprit.
That one of their prisoners turns out to be King Caerleon himself is a surprise to them all.
That Arthur would have such a treaty drawn up, and kill another king over it is a surprise to only a select few.
Merlin’s eyes hold those of anyone who will meet them, and he notices as he and Lancelot in particular are their victims. He knows what Merlin wants from him. He may even agree with it. But Leon has taken too many liberties recently, and this is one he will not take. Agravaine is a lord and Arthur’s closest counsel. If he and Arthur agree that this is the right path to take, Leon will allow it to happen.
Lancelot seems to be of the same mind, though his displeasure is evident by the way he stands far from the proceedings, not watching.
Arthur notices too.
As Caerleon’s head is removed from his body, Leon doesn’t miss the small smile on Agravaine’s face, and he remembers Merlin’s words, and his growing unease around the man. This is an act that will most certainly lead to war. Good people will die from it. There can be no pleasure in that.
In the coming days, Camelot is tense and wary, and Leon is no stranger to it.
Merlin finds him on the second day, drawing Leon down corridors until dust wanders in their wake.
“I’m worried about him,” Merlin says when he comes to a standstill. His shoulders are drawn and tense where he stands, hands resting against the wall, facing away from Leon.
He doesn’t fight the impulse to go to Merlin and rest a hand on one of those shoulders. There’s a surprising amount of muscle under it, not bulk like a knight, but coiled and tightly woven. Merlin shifts slightly, leaning into the touch, and Leon feels emboldened to step a little closer, drawing into the inexorable heat of Merlin.
“It was not his counsel he took in the decision with Caerleon,” Merlin continues. “He didn’t want to do it, and he refuses to listen to anybody else. Anybody but Agravaine. He was the one who talked Arthur into doing it, killing that man in cold blood.”
His hand has started rubbing at Merlin’s shoulder without permission, but Leon lets it continue, holding silent, waiting for Merlin to continue. He can see the words still to come bubbling through him, in the posture of his head, hanging low and the way his fingers clench against the stones of the castle walls.
“He wasn’t the man I knew that day. And I have yet to find that man again. I’m worried what will happen if we ride off to war, and Arthur is still feeling the guilt he won’t admit to.”
Merlin turns then, Leon’s hand slipping from his shoulder as he leans back into the wall, looking up at Leon through hooded eyes.
There’s much he could say now. There are those who would have Leon tell Merlin he is only a servant and the matters of the king and kingdom are none of his business. But Leon knows much better than they, how little difference that will make to Merlin’s actions. He could tell Merlin just to be there for Arthur, their relationship being what it is, providing support may be all the king needs at the moment. Or, he could speak on how Arthur might be feeling.
He chooses to go with a mix of the last two.
“Being a king must be an exceptionally lonely burden to bear,” Leon starts, following Merlin’s gaze out the tall window, where far below them, their small clearing is visible in the distance. “The fate of all those who live here rests on his shoulders. And he has a legacy of kings to uphold. He has the pressures of his father to live up to, who, by all accounts, is a great and strong king.
“But Arthur has never been the same kind of man as his father. I have seen that for years. For far longer than perhaps I am willing to admit, Arthur has been the man I followed, not his father. But with Uther’s death, he now has to wonder if the man he has been is a man worthy to be king. I believe it is. You do too. But Arthur needs to realise that.”
The cool press of air down his side as Merlin pulls away leaves Leon sitting strangely in his skin, but he lets it happen.
“How is Arthur supposed to remember what kind of man he is, if we’re not here for him? Aren’t we supposed to help him with that?”
“Merlin, he already knows what we think of him. He already knows what the right thing to do is. But he can never be the king he’s destined to be, if he doesn’t listen to what he knows is right, and not what others believe to be right.”
A harsh expression pulls at Merlin’s features, and Leon feels his spine straighten in response. “So what? That was a test to you, then, was it? A test to see if Arthur would do the right thing? Be the king we know him to be?” Merlin scoffs. “People will die for this test.”
They will. Leon knew that as soon as he saw the treaty. Agravaine’s treaty was an insult. It was a spit in the face of a king, and Arthur knew that good and well. But it was not his place to say so.
“More will die under an unworthy king. I have recently taken too many liberties when it comes to making decisions that were not my own. That was not a place for me to speak or to disagree with Arthur’s decision. If he is to only listen to his uncle, then that is what will be.”
“A lot of people could die for that silence.”
There is a hollowness in his chest when he answers. “I will give my life for the consequences of Arthur’s decision.”
Merlin walks away without another word.
That hollowness follows him for the next few days while they prep the army to move out. It follows him through the forests and the march. It follows him while they set up camp.
But as Leon spies the group of knights outside Arthur’s tent, it dissipates somewhat. Lancelot, Elyan, Gwaine and Percival sit there with Merlin, a show of silent support for their king. Not just a guard, but a waiting sounding board if their king so chooses to use it.
This is what Arthur is forgetting he has. Not an uncle playing his own games, but this group of men who have fought by his side.
Leon hadn’t once questioned their loyalty or their place by Arthur’s side. Not once, though he had perhaps the most right to do so. But in those terrible times while Camelot was besieged by Morgana, they had shown all they needed to, and Leon welcomed them with open arms.
He only hopes that Arthur remembers that, too.
The knights all have mugs of ale, but Merlin sits holding a stick and looking far too grim for Leon’s liking. Their last conversation hadn’t been his best, but he hopes, under the circumstances, Merlin can forgive. Leon grabs a mug for Merlin, too, as he joins them.
He passes it over as he sits, watching Merlin’s face carefully. And he’s rewarded with a grin and a muttered thanks as he sits.
He takes Leon’s breath away, the firelight reflecting in his eyes and his hair as he does, and Leon feels the urge to touch, to run his fingers through Merlin’s hair and sit close to him. So under the guise of doing so, he reaches out and roughs up Merlin’s hair, drawing a laugh from him and the others, and sits just a little closer, knocking their knees together.
Merlin’s answering smile is shy, but he shifts too, digging an elbow into Leon’s side as he does.
But then Merlin’s eyes catch on something, and the mood shifts.
Arthur stands in front of the tent, just watching them, something sad and lonely in his eyes. He feels very far away from them all, the barrier of their positions practically a gulf between them. Were they out on patrol, Leon would not hesitate to ask him to join them.
He does so anyway, but as he opens his mouth, Arthur speaks.
“We should all get some sleep,” he says, and turns away from them, back into his tent. They all watch him go, and as Gwaine turns back to the group, he knows they’re all sharing the same thought.
“Is he all right?” Gwaine asks, none of his usual levity in his voice. He’s asking Merlin directly, and nobody questions why he would be the one to know.
“He's our king,” Merlin answers, and if the words feel like a reminder for them all, perhaps they’re meant to. “If anything were to happen to any of us, he'll hold himself responsible.”
Leon just hopes none of that will be necessary.
After his visit from his sister just the night before, Elyan had hoped that perhaps Arthur would not cut them off, too. That he would know he needs better men on his side than his uncle. That he needs more than just himself if he is to rule this kingdom.
But the want Elyan had glimpsed on Arthur’s face before he knew he was being watched was too raw, too sharp, for him to truly grasp that. He looked like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. And after Merlin’s reminder, he knows it’s more than that.
Arthur won’t join them, because they are his men. Because they are who will fight at the head of his armies tomorrow. If Camelot is to go down fighting, they all will go down with it, fighting until they can live to fight no more battles.
And they will do so gladly.
Arthur’s brothers, his round table, that is what this circle is, Merlin included. Merlin, who slips away with only a lingering squeeze to Leon’s knee for a goodbye, heads into Arthur’s tent.
There are no accompanying words spoken as he enters, so Elyan takes heart in knowing that at least Merlin can provide silent companionship for their king.
The mood is sombre, and quiet as the night continues. They wait till morning. Arthur had told them to sleep, but in the quiet before the storm, sleep is not easy to come to. It will be hours before the stillness will become too much for them, and sleep will be all they can stand to do.
Only Elyan can’t leave it like this. He can’t quite shake the image of Arthur’s face, and the guilt he knows he must feel.
They all knew that day that Arthur was treading wrong. But they hadn’t spoken up. Not one of them.
Elyan stands. “We give our lives freely to Arthur. He should be reminded of that when he will not accept it for himself,” he says to the group, without preamble. They will join him, or they will not. But he knows it is what Gwen would want, and he knows it is the right thing to do.
They join him, and Elyan leads them into Arthur’s tent. Merlin polishes Arthur’s armour off to the side, while Arthur stares down at the map, lost in thought. But he notices their entrance.
“Elyan.”
“Sire.” He nods, turning back to the others to ensure they will allow him to speak for them.
“Well?” Arthur asks as they all stand to attention.
“We just want you to know there isn't a man among us who would not die for you,” Elyan says simply, but not without gravity. “We made our pledge, and we wear the Pendragon crest with pride. Tomorrow, we fight in your name, sire. For freedom and justice in this land.”
“Thank you, Elyan. Thank you all,” Arthur says, his voice thick with emotion.
Elyan nods and leaves the tent, watching as the others follow him out.
Lancelot lingers in the tent a moment longer, and though he speaks quietly, Elyan hears his words.
“Arthur. It is you whom we follow. Your heart who we would all die for. It is my hope that you remember that.”
Chapter Text
Their return to Camelot in the following days is busier and more complex than their leaving. Once the dust settles, Arthur calls all the Round Table knights to his chambers.
The six knights and Merlin, sit around the table waiting. Before them is a sumptuous meal, perhaps not so grand as a feast, but greater than is typical for an ordinary night. Arthur has yet to join them; instead, he stands by the window, arms crossed, surveying Camelot.
Confusion wars within them all, and they have traded glances between each other, but no one has yet broached why they are all here.
“Arthur, are you going to spend all night brooding, or would you like to tell us why we’re here?” Merlin complains from his spot next to Lancleot.
Arthur pins a glare on Merlin, but he does sigh and move across the room to them. They’ve left the head of the table clear for him, but he doesn’t take it, instead standing just behind Gwaine's shoulder.
It doesn’t take an expert in his behaviour to see just how uncomfortable Arthur is, but he straightens his shoulders and looks at them directly anyway.
“I am not so proud a man that I can’t admit that the way Caerleon was treated was wrong. You all put your trust in me, and I nearly led you to your deaths. I can’t…” he trails off and looks away, turning back to the window, before taking a deep breath. “I can’t lead alone. I want to know, if I had asked for your counsel, what would you have said?”
Leon’s eyes flick to the others around the table, looking just as confused as Leon is. This is an unexpected turn of events, and it’s clear they all feel the same trepidation as he does about speaking out of turn. “Sire—” Leon starts, but Arthur cuts him off.
“Sir Leon.” Arthur pins him with a quelling glance. “If I had been acting as a true king, I would have sought the counsel of those around this table at the time. I didn’t. But I want to do so now.”
Seeing in Arthur what Leon had been hoping for, he decides to say his piece. At least then, if there is punishment to be had, it will be his, not the other men.
“Well… I would have bartered only the outlying villages Caerleon had taken since your coronation for his imprisonment. A return to the previously treated lands, for the chance at peace.”
“Imprisonment?” Arthur asks.
“The same terms can be dictated to his queen.”
The others around the table are nodding, all except for Merlin, who seems lost in thought. Arthur is watching him closely, and soon the others all notice and all eyes on the table fall to Merlin.
Merlin doesn’t seem to notice the eyes on him, though, as he speaks, slowly, thoughtfully. “How is lasting peace to be accomplished when terms are dictated by the winning party? Would it not have been better to have sat down with Caerleon, face each other as two kings, and work out the terms together, in a civilised manner?”
“Caerleon was caught trespassing on our land, Merlin, that is not a deed which can be forgotten,” Arthur says, but his brows are drawn together and he looks thoughtful.
Merlin waves it off. “But that’s just ego. That he made it so far was a blow to your pride, but there’s no wall around Camelot’s borders, so it’s not unexpected that he can make it far into our lands. The real issue is the people whose lives have been affected by the theft, and more wars and posturing will only make their lives worse.”
The mood around the table is sombre, and Leon can’t help but watch Merlin. Merlin has spoken about the good he hopes Arthur will do as king, but Leon thinks Merlin will have a much greater hand in it than he thinks.
“My father would never have done things that way.”
It is, surprisingly, Gwaine who responds. “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
“Sire,” Lancelot says, “Did you agree with how you handled Caerleon? Did you believe it was the best thing to do, or did you believe it was what King Uther would have done?”
Arthur doesn’t respond, and Lancelot doesn’t seem to be expecting one.
“When we said we would die for you,” Elyan continues, picking up where Lancelot left off. “We meant for you. Apart from Leon, none of us chose to follow your father. We chose to follow you.”
“I have long since known I follow you, Sire,” Leon says. While this meeting wasn’t planned by them, they all seem to agree with what this meeting is really about. There’s no question that Arthur has been unsettled and unsure since his father's death. He had been resolute through his illness, but losing Uther had changed things for Arthur. Only in his decision to fight Annis’s champion did Arthur seem like his old self.
And it was that decision that showed Leon that the man they all chose to follow will win out in the end, so long as Arthur doesn’t allow his doubt to overcome his judgment.
It’s good that Arthur chose this group of knights to follow him. This group of knights, who will allow themselves to speak a little more than others will. Who hasn’t been raised on courtly politics outside of Leon himself, and who will be more forthcoming with Arthur, as he needs. Even Leon remembers that day years ago, when Arthur had been frustrated at Leon not using the advantage he had been given.
He can’t imagine doing the same now. Perhaps, he would never seek to injure Arthur, but in a spar, he doesn’t hold back now, pitting himself against Arthur to his fullest.
“Thank you all,” Arthur says, finally coming to sit down at the table with them. “I know my Uncle’s way of handling court matters may seem foreign or traditional to you all, but I value his counsel anyway. Perhaps we shall hold a smaller council regularly. Just those at this table, my Uncle, Gwen and Gaius. Those I trust implicitly.”
The table goes quiet, and Leon can feel a chill in the air, the ripple of unease that comes from Lancelot and Merlin, and perhaps, the others too. He feels that same unease, remembering the way Agravaine had smiled as the sword came down on Caerleon’s neck. That he pushed for the worst outcome and was so willing for it to come down to war.
Merlin believes him to be working with Morgana. Leon doesn’t know if he believes it. He was Ygraine’s brother, but does that mean he would work for the daughter of Uther Pendragon, if it would tarnish his lineage and legacy?
It's conflicting, the thoughts swirling in his head, but Leon keeps coming back to that smile, replaying it in his mind. The sheer satisfaction imbued in it.
“He was smiling,” he mutters, without looking up at the rest of the table. All movement stops, and Leon realises that they had started serving dinner while he was lost in thought.
When Arthur scrunches his brow in question, Leon takes a deep breath and explains. “I keep coming back to it. Lord Agravaine was smiling when the sword was brought down on King Caerleon’s neck. I can’t—” He stops, and looks up at the others. “I keep coming back to that smile, as our kingdom was plunged into the possibility of war and a man was killed, and I—”
Arthur’s frowning. “What are you trying to insinuate, sir Leon?”
“I don’t intend to make insinuations, sire. It slipped out. It’s likely I simply misread the expression on his face.” But Leon is quite sure he didn’t. He saw the smile, and when he gets a moment alone with Merlin, he hopes to find out if he has any more information on the man, and whether he really is working for Morgana.
“I have never known you to speak when you are unsure,” Arthur says, but there’s no anger in his voice, only a marked concern as he looks at Leon. “You said he was smiling? As I killed a man who refused to be humiliated.”
Leon opens his mouth to fumble out something that isn’t quite an agreement, but Arthur quells him with a look. “Yes, Sire,” He says simply instead, hoping the raw honesty of the words has some kind of effect on Arthur.
After that, dinner is a sombre affair, with Arthur lost in thought, and the others making conversation around him. Merlin is unusually quiet, especially. He spends most of dinner staring resolutely at Leon, something unreadable in his face.
So it’s no surprise, then, that once Arthur dismisses them all, Merlin seeks out Leon in his chambers later that evening.
“Do you believe me now?” he asks directly as he moves across the room like he owns it.
“I believe that Lord Agravaine isn’t in Camelot with the best of intentions. But I don’t see what he has to gain by working with Morgana, other than tarnishing Uther’s name.”
“Gaisu and I have spoken about that, but the only conclusion we have come to is that he hates Uther enough for the death of his sister that he’s willing to side with whoever works against him. Perhaps he views Arthur as uther’s in a way that Morgana isn’t.”
Leon makes his way over to the two short armchairs and settles in by the fire, gesturing for Merlin to join him in the other one. He hopes that after this conversation, there’s a chance he can speak with Merlin about something else. Something he’s been trying to speak of to Merlin for a long time now.
“I would hope that Arthur, being Ygraine’s, too, would overcome that,” Leon says, sighing. “But maybe that he was raised by Uther is all Agravaine sees. My father was only ever a few scattered memories and a figure to me. I was raised by my mother and my elder siblings. Arthur never even had that much. He had his father and a nursemaid as a child, and by the time I had come to the castle, he only had a few scattered tutors outside of Uther.”
He looks sideways at Merlin. “You’ve been good for him in that respect. Treating him like a person, and like family, rather than a prince or a leader. He needed that more than he would perhaps admit himself.”
Merlin smiles and looks into the fire. Leon can’t tell if it's on purpose, but the fire rises and falls with Merlin’s breath as he watches it, something deep and instinctual, and strangely comforting, feeling the brush of warmth every time Merlin exhales.
“Sometimes I can forget, but… I know exactly how important I am to Arthur. Which is why I won’t give up on him, especially now that he needs it most.” Merlin blushes then, his cheeks turning red and flushed, and he looks to Leon out of the corner of his eye. “I have been meaning to find time to spend with you, but—”
Leon smiles. “I understand. I have been trying too. I—” He takes a deep breath, and looks at Merlin directly, remembering that he’s a knight, and the foes he has faced are much greater than this one.. “I would like to kiss you again. But… it would be nice to know what you would like this to be, beforehand.”
“I don’t know,” Merlin says simply, and for a moment, Leon’s heart drops, and he turns away, but then Merlin continues. “All I know is that the last time I felt like this, I would have run away with her. From all of it. Camelot, Arthur, magic, even if it was necessary. And that terrifies me.”
Leon shakes his head and reaches out to Merlin, grasping for his hand, if only so he can make him understand this here and now. He must understand that Arthur is more important, else nothing will ever work between them. “Arthur will always— I can never— There will always—”
He can’t string a sentence together; the words are too big, too much. Sitting in between them like a shield, ready to ricochet blows back at themselves.
But Merlin seems to understand because he’s nodding and gripping onto Leon’s hands just as desperately. “It would’ve been a mistake,” he says. “If I had left, it would’ve been a mistake. Maybe this destiny of ours is too much for me to handle alone, but I will give it anything.”
“You speak of destiny as something that haunts you. Will you explain it to me? Now that I know so much more?” Leon asks, putting aside their other conversation for a moment.
Merlin recoils, just a little, taking his hands out of Leon’s, but he doesn’t leave, and though his expression flickers, it doesn’t close up. He takes that as a good sign, as Merlin sighs and sits back in his seat.
“When I first came to Camelot, the Great Dragon called me to the depths of the castle, to where he was imprisoned. He told me that I am a warlock, and that it was my destiny to help Arthur become the Once and Future King, and free magic. He said the druids have prophecies of me, and as I would come to find out, that’s why they called me Emrys.”
Emrys. It’s not a title he had before Merlin. But the Once and Future King reminds him of his childhood, and sitting by the fire in his parents' rooms listening to the rumble of his father's voice and feeling his mother’s hands in his hair. He thinks that possibly he had begged for more stories of the king who would unite the lands of Albion.
And there that word. “Albion,” he mutters, looking up at Merlin. Arthur is the king to bring about Albion?”
Merlin looks at him with a wry smile on his lips. “I didn’t believe it at first. Told Kilgharrah that Arthur was an ass and I wouldn’t do it. But… along the way, he proved it to me over and over again. He showed that he believes in doing what is right, and in treating people with kindness and respect first, before worrying about class or rank.”
“He didn’t at first,” Leon says, thinking about the Arthur he knew as a snotty prince. Still too young to have learnt how to pick his friends better, and despite his already impressive battle record, too young to know better. “He used to spend his days picking on servants, taunting Morgana and generally strutting about the castle. He cared little for the people in the city and villages beyond the walls of the keep. He rarely thought to question his father.”
“I think that’s what I was seeing when I first arrived here.”
Leon laughs. “I’m sure it is. The tale of your first days in Camelot is still told to this day. I believe only Morgana would have called him a prat back in those days.”
“One day I will have so successfully corrupted Camelot that even you will call Arthur a prat.” Merlin turns those blue eyes on him, mischief dancing in them, and for a moment, Leon thinks maybe he will, if Merlin asks it nicely.
But then the well ingrained courtly manners assert themselves again, and just the thought of it makes Leon wince, his features twisting.
The sound of Merlin’s laughter is at least a pleasant reward for his troubles.
They lapse into silence for a while, and Leon takes the opportunity to watch Merlin. He can see the fire dancing in his peripheral vision and thinks Merlin must be doing something with it, but Leon has only eyes for the way the fire dances across his features. The gold of his eyes, glowing from his magic, is only made more beautiful by the reflection of the flames.
“I want to court you. Properly,” Leon says out of the blue, surprising even himself with the words. There are proper words to be said, a declaration of intent, a gift of pure intentions, and Leon skips over all of that to get to the heart of the matter. He thinks maybe this is more in line with what Merlin would like anyway.
His cheeks flare red at Leon’s words, and the heat coming from his own cheeks has little to do with the fire as well, now.
A brilliant smile spreads across Merlin’s whole face as he turns slowly to Leon. “I’d love that.”
There’s something about the sight of Camelot at night that always puts Arthur at ease. Especially the sight of it from his window. The rows of banked fires, the steady movement of torches flickering with guards, the quiet hum in the air. The knowledge that out there in the streets, his people are as safe as he can hope they’ll be.
When there’s no threat breathing down Camelot’s neck, nighttime is his favourite time to just watch the city.
But it also reminds him of what he nearly lost. Camelot’s armies weren’t ready for a confrontation like the one they found themselves in. Too much has happened, and too many losses have been faced for them to have won that battle.
And Arthur had sent them to it anyway.
His Uncle had made a bad suggestion. But it was Arthur who decided it was the course of action to take. Arthur, who swung that sword over Caerleon’s neck, severing his head from his body. The responsibility lies with Arthur, and the blame for what followed, too.
It takes a lot of resources to move an army. Resources they couldn’t afford to lose. Resources that he saw wasted on a fool’s errand. The conversation earlier tonight showed him that once and for all. They had options. So many options where Arthur had only seen his uncle’s words and his father's shadow standing over him.
But the crux of it all is that Arthur doesn’t actually think his father would have chosen to handle it like that. Not now that he’s had time to think. Not now that he’s looked at what was to have followed.
His father was harsh and cold and brutal. He was fearless and effective. But the only humiliation he ever sought for his opponents was to see them humiliated on the battlefield. He wanted to see them sent packing, wondering how they ever thought to challenge the might of Camelot and her armies.
But putting that treaty in front of Caerleon was the work of a coward. Of someone afraid and looking to find power, not in their own might, but in their own weakness. That’s not the action his father would have taken. For all of his faults, he wanted peace. There was some other route that Uther would have taken, likely none that were spoken around the table.
It’s this that is the root of Arthur’s shame. That even when trying to live up to the memory of his father, he has failed him worse than he can imagine.
It’s not Uncle’s shame. It’s Arthur’s.
So why can't he stop thinking about Leon’s words?
He was smiling.
His uncle is intelligent enough to know where this was heading. Arthur knew. The others all knew, too, even Merlin. So why the pleasure in the death of a man widely purported to be a great king? Why the suggestion that will lead to war in the first place?
All men are allowed to make mistakes. Surely that’s all his uncle's actions were. A mistake. Were it not for the constant support of Uncle, Guinevere and Merlin at this time, Arthur would have been lost and floundering.
He’s not sure what he’ll do if any one of them is taken from him.
Why was he smiling?
He believes Leon. Leon has never seen fit to lie to him, and his uncle has a very grave face. It would be quite difficult to mistake another expression on it for a smile. And Leon would make a terrible first knight if he were so easily misled.
His uncle is all he has left of his family. There’s no other.
“Arthur,” a gentle voice says, and a pair of hands slide up his back. Were it any other voice, Arthur would have swatted them away from him and gone scrambling for his sword. But that it is Guinevere means he only allows a small smile to creep onto his face as he turns to greet her.
“Guinevere,” he whispers, looking down at her face. Her eyebrows are pinched together, that look she gets when he broods, and she is concerned for him. That he is so familiar with the expression means he should spend less time brooding, if only so that she never has cause to look upon him with such worry.
There should only ever be good things for Guinevere. Of course, if she is to be his queen, there is little chance of that coming to fruition, but he still can endeavour not to add to her load.
“The worst did not come to pass, Arthur,” she reminds him, her warm hands gliding over his shoulder and coming to rest on his chest.
He pulls her into his arms, feeling as she curves up into him. Soft and strong and everything he adores. From her nose to her curls, to the muscles of her arms, to her soft waist and everything in between. Guinevere is exquisite, and he knows that were her heart ever made visible, it would be the most spectacular thing he has ever seen.
“I know. But I will carry the burden of how close it came for as long as I am king,” he whispers into the dark, the strength of Guinevere's hands doing as they always have — letting him whisper secrets he normally never would.
“Let it remind you to listen to your heart, Arthur Pendragon, not just to your head.”
“Our knights have already reminded me today of my heart,” he says and then drifts off, as his mind circles the question he can’t seem to put aside. “I think my Uncle is a man from a different era. From a time we no longer live in. Traditional and stalwart. But I have hope for the present and for the future, that men like him won’t be needed anymore. It’s why I chose my knights as I did.” Then he smiles down at Guinevere. “That's why I chose you.”
“I have faith you will be a great king,” she whispers, and finally — finally — Arthur gives in to the urge to lean down and capture her lips.
There will be time to brood more later. For now, Guinevere is here, so how could anything possibly be wrong?
Chapter Text
The next weeks pass quickly, too quickly for Leon’s liking.
There are days when Leon feels impossibly old and run down. Days following a long battle, days where he feels like he has failed. Days when the horrors of his past run like shadows through his mind. Days where his vision is filled with blood spreading over flagstones and the dull look in his father’s eyes.
This day is one of them.
Merlin has returned to Camelot, free of all traces of the fomorrah, but everything he missed over the past week has caught up with him. Losing Merlin and Arthur in the forest, the days of searching for any sign of Merlin, the worry of keeping track of Merlin with Gaius, Gwen and Lancelot, it’s all too much.
But nothing makes him feel worse than remembering that conversation in the armoury with Merlin, and wondering what could have happened if Merlin hadn’t made such a terrible assassin.
He had laughed! Laughed, as Merlin, acting just a little bit strangely, said he was going to kill Arthur. But he was so wrapped up in thinking about his first courting gift for Merlin that it hadn’t registered.
Merlin hadn’t been able to look at him without a small lingering smile on his lips or a blush creeping up his neck since their conversation in his chambers. And he hadn't even noticed.
It was a failure of his training, of his position, and of himself.
The gratifying thing to come out of the whole horrible situation is that Arthur has been pulling away from his uncle since he suggested they end the search for Merlin. It’s not obvious. Not to anyone who doesn’t know Arthur well, but he can see the way Arthur watches him out of the side of his eye, and the way Arthur turns to him, Lancelot and Elyan first, before his uncle for advice.
But it’s not enough to stop the heavy feeling in his frame as he works through training with the knights. He has a group of new recruits in front of him, all working on their form. None of them are so far looking like strong recruits, but Leon has learnt not to put much stock in how they operate while new to the knights. Leon himself hadn’t seemed like he would come to much to most of the knights until only a few years ago. Only his old mentor had seen what Leon could become.
Merlin and Arthur are at training today, and there's a part of Leon that hopes that Arthur will take an interest in his group so that Leon can find a pair of stave’s and get Merlin to a quiet part of the field.
Only it’s not Arthur who trudges over, but Lancelot.
He smirks at Leon, not an expression he normally finds on the mild-mannered knight. “I’ll take over here. Arthur says he’s going to be here all morning.”
A weight lifts, and Leon smiles gratefully at Lancelot, glad that at least for now, it seems the day won’t be quite so heavy. He nods and takes all of a moment to grasp two staves, sending one flying to Merlin sitting mullishly on the sidelines.
At the very last second, Merlin’s hand whips up to grab the staff flying for him, and he gapes at it for a moment before whipping round to pin Leon with a scorching glare. Leon only indicates an empty section of the field, and heads off.
“A little heads up next time would be appreciated,” Merlin says, taking up a ready position opposite Leon. They’ve already had the ‘I should have known’ conversation, complete with Merlin kissing his apology away and then running from it with a cheeky quip about Leon making a public declaration of their courting. So things are a little easier than they were the previous night, but Leon still feels like he has more to do.
But at least he can do this. Merlin has been steadily improving with the staff, but he still refuses to carry one when leaving the castle, making it completely useless. If Leon could just understand why, he might be able to offer suggestions, but Merlin refuses to even discuss it.
“How’s George?” Leon asks, letting a smile tug along his face.
Merlin growls and opens their spar. “If I have to hear one more joke about polishing brass, I’m going to polish Arthur’s brass with this very staff.” Merlin follows this up with a great swing with his staff right at Leon’s head, a feint as he draws the other end up from below to aim for Leon’s knees.
Leon applies both moves and retaliates. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”
“The man is the most boring person I’ve ever encountered. I made a joke about chests, and he stared blankly at me. I made jokes about laundry, and he only blinked. He jokes about nothing but polishing. So, I thought, alright, well I’ll try something new, and made a joke about polishing his wood, and still nothing.”
When Merlin gets like this, frustrated and angry, he’s a sight to behold. Focused and sweating and glorious, a fire in his eyes. He uses it well, running through a series of moves, and forgetting about thought, letting himself just be. If he fought like this all the time, Arthur wouldn’t have cause to laugh.
“And of course, every chance I get, Arthur’s smirking about my supposed two-day trip to the tavern, as if I wasn't out there risking my life, so I couldn’t be made to kill him!”
Ah, and there’s the other revelation Leon had. “Was it truly necessary to step on me?” he asks.
Merlin stumbles, tripping over his foot for a moment, and though he rallies valiantly, Leon has him flat on his back in three moves. “How did you know?”
They hadn’t let Leon in on this little part of the plan, and a part of him still smarts, but the old man’s disappearance is still a spot on Leon’s record, so he chooses to forgive this time round. “I know the shape of your magic, Merlin; no one feels the way you do.”
Merlin frowns and drops his voice. “I hadn’t realised you had such control.”
With a hand out, Leon helps Merlin to his feet, shaking his head. “It’s not so much about control. It’s just there now, always present. I can feel everyone on this field, the same way I can see them or hear them. It doesn’t require much effort. But you blaze like the sun. I always know when you come and go.”
Before Merlin has a chance to reply, Leon swings and lets their spar resume. There may be no one near them. But that doesn't mean it’s any safer to continue the conversation here. Instead, he endeavours to enjoy the morning and his time sparring with Merlin.
“Sire,” he implores, looking at Arthur as he watches him struggle internally with himself. One moment, everything had seemed not quite so heavy, but now Gaius had been questioned without his knowledge and Agravaine endeavours to pin him as the traitor. Gaius’s disappearance isn’t helping matters in that regard. “You know as well as I that Gaius would sooner see himself dead than betray Camelot, betray you, betray Merlin.”
He had heard the conversation between Arthur and Agravaine, and also Merlin and Arthur that followed. He had seen the tears in Merlin’s eyes as he stormed out of the hall, and his heart had tugged painfully, drawing his feet into the hall, and the sense from his mind, as he strode into the hall himself.
Arthur is slumped in the throne, his eyes dark and haunted.
“Morgana betrays me, my father is dead, my uncle smiles at dead men, and now Gaius brands himself a traitor. Merlin won’t be able to look at me soon, and now I have my first knight speaking for him, too. What am I to think, Leon?”
He's never seen Arthur like this before. With such defeat in his eyes, a tiredness older than his age— weighed down by duty and responsibility and more loss than most people see. He thinks that perhaps this is what Arthur looks like when he’s lost. Lost and unsure and can't find his way. And Leon isn't seeing the man, the king, anymore. He’s seeing the boy he once knew. Young and fierce and with a desperation to make his father proud, who could no more swing a sword than the average baby.
And he thinks that maybe he should be talking to Arthur, the child now. Not the man, not the king. This isn’t his sire. This could be his little brother, if he’d ever had one.
He takes a seat next to Arthur. “I remember when we were young. I had little more than a decade in years to me, newly come to Camelot to continue my training. Lord Bors believed me too attached to my sister and other brother, and I wanted to get out of the hall, with all its eyes and expectations. And there you were, practically spitting at all of us older boys, while simultaneously dismissing us with your eyes. I thought you were a bit of a snot back then. A prat.”
He has to stop for a moment as Arthur snorts a laugh, and Leon realises it didn’t take long at all for Merlin to have corrupted him too. He just called Arthur a prat to his face.
“You’re starting to sound like Merlin,” Arthur notes. “I should separate you both.”
Shaking his head, Leon leans back into his chair. “You didn't stay that young boy. And occasionally, I saw glimpses of who you are now. You’ve learnt to listen to your head, and not your pride, since then. But you can’t forget your heart in all of this. You can’t forget your backbone.
“You know, you know, Gaius is completely devoted to Merlin. And you know that Merlin is completely devoted to you. You know that neither of them could be the traitor. And you know this is all too neat. The book, not hidden even a little, the horse, the disappearance. It’s neat and tidy, designed to show you exactly what you need to think badly of Gaius.”
“Because I’ve been watching my uncle.”
Leon starts. He hadn't expected Arthur would be able to say that. To admit, plain and simple. But now that he has, Leon will press that advantage.
“He said it himself when he spoke of Caerleon. With Uther ill, he believed Camelot weak and unprepared, the perfect time to take advantage.”
He watches something in Arthur break at his words, and he knows Arthur can't ignore it any longer. Arthur slumps forward, his arms bracketing his head as it rests against the table. It speaks to his trust in Leon that he’s willing to do so in his presence. Unexpected and gratifying is how Leon feels about that, and if this moment weren’t so grave, he might be feeling a wealth of warmth that he’s been chosen for such an honour.
But now's not the time.
Arthur lets out a wet laugh, no humour in his voice. “The thing is, I’ve seen this song and dance before. With Aredian, the witchfinder and the troll, and apparently the whole year after we got Morgana back. I’ve seen it before. So why did I fall for it so easily?”
“Because the other option is being betrayed by a family member. And at the moment, that’s sure to be a sore subject.”
“I don't want to believe it,” Arthur sighs, but he lifts his head and looks Leon in the eye for the first time since he entered the room. “I don’t know who he would be working for. And I can’t simply make him leave Camelot; he’s still lord of Tintagel.”
“Merlin believes he’s working with Morgana,” Leon offers.
Another of those sad, humourless laughs leaves Arthur. “Of course, Merlin is involved in this. I’m going to declare a law that puts strictures on the maximum amount of time you two spend in the same room together.”
“That would put quite the damper on our courtship, sire,” Leon says absently, still thinking over what can be done about Agravaine. It may involve needing to send him on a diplomatic fool’s errand. Something to get him out of the castle and away from Arthur for the time being.
But his attention is drawn back by the feeling of eyes on him, and he looks over to see Arthur practically gaping at him. He runs back over the conversation in his head and blushes.
“Ah, I had planned for you to find out when I formally asked him,” Leon says sheepishly, ducking his head so he doesn't have to look at Arthur.
“This is going to be a very bad thing for my sanity, isn't it?” Arthur asks. But then his face drops, and he remembers the problem at hand. “I don’t know how to solve this.”
“I don’t either, Sire.”
In the end, Gaius is returned to them, and before they can put anything else in action, they’re called out to a village with many falling ill, and Leon spends the next few days in a haze of confusion. He’s being pulled in two directions, one part of him lost in worries for Lamia, and wanting everything to go right by her, and the other screaming, knowing something's wrong, that he would never normally yell at Merlin like that, nor put aside the safety of his men and a whole village in such a way.
He only comes out of it later, when he finds Merlin's face hovering above his, a worried frown across his features.
“You’ve been a prat,” Merlin says when Leon’s eyes meet his. Leon wants to reach up and wipe the frown away with his thumb, but his arms are sluggish and heavy, and he finds the effort needed is too great for him.
So instead, Leon settles for smiling gently at Merlin until the frown recedes just a little on its own. “I didn’t mean to,” he says weakly. “Could feel what was wrong with her. Like a giant hole pulling and sucking from the world. Couldn’t stop though.”
And he couldn't. He remembers catching sight of her for the first time, and feeling how, instead of a woman there, there was instead this sucking, mawing hole trying to rip the magic from his body. He could remember trying to pull his sword, trying to say no. But he couldn't do it. He could feel a smile on his face, feel his heart beating with concern for this thing in front of him. Like he was two people trying to ride the same horse.
It was only once he had seen Percival lying prone with Lamia above him that he could break free from whatever thrall she had him in. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to Merlin, thinking of the horrible way he treated him.
Shame coils in his gut that he was too weak to fight her influence. He should’ve done better. Merlin didn't succumb to it.
“Not your fault,” Merlin says, and Leon feels warmth blossom along his chest as Merlin’s eyes flare gold. He doesn’t quite catch what Merlin mutters to make it happen. But he feels the warmth spreading and where pain had lanced across his chest, now instead, itching blooms where damage is being healed. “You big dumb knights are susceptible to a pretty face.” A cheeky grin spreads across Merlin’s lips.
“Yours is much lovelier,” Leon replies, hearing the soft tone of his voice as it comes out and feeling grateful the other knights aren’t here.
“Gwen had to kill the lamia for me, so you can imagine how Arthur’s being about it. It's going to take more than that to make up for being a prat worthy of the king.” But despite his words, a blush spreads across Merlin’s cheeks. Leon grins a little smugly.
Sitting up isn’t pleasant, his ribs barking at the movement, but it makes him feel a little less vulnerable and a little more like himself. He can see Gwen leaning over Percival further down the corridor, and there, in the middle of the floor, the corpse of Lamia, but otherwise, the others aren’t around.
“Is everyone—” Leon only gets out a few words before Merlin interrupts him.
“Everyone else is fine, Arthur is escorting Gaius to Elyan and Gwaine, and once everybody has their feet under them again, we’re going to head back to Camelot. Gaius is going with a few of the knights to return to the village first, though.”
Merlin turns, and Leon moves before thinking about it, reaching out to grab Merlin’s wrist. “I didn’t mean it,” he repeats from before, more strongly this time. “To be a servant is not a bad thing. But you are more than that to me, anyway.”
Though he doesn't turn to look at Leon, he can see the tension drop out of Merlin’s frame. “And you are not nearly as arrogant and obedient as I believed you to be at first, either.”
Merlin disappears then, heading over to the other side of the room to Gwen and Percival. Still feeling out of sorts, Leon closes his eyes and focuses on honing the other sense of his to check on the others. He can feel them, all arranged in a huddle together, Arthur, Gaius, Gwaine and Elyan. It sets his mind at ease, even with Argavaine’s presence there too.
His knights will all come out for this well. But Leon can’t help but wonder if it all would’ve worked out better if they had been able to call the illness magical in the first place. If there were no fear of a witch hunt, no worry about more innocents dying, would they have been able to do better? Merlin could’ve fought Lamia openly, without fear of retribution, before others got hurt.
The same could be said of the fomorrah, the dragon egg, even the veil. If they could be open and honest with one another and with Arthur, would it not turn out for the better? Fewer hurt, fewer lost to the growing tension between the magical and the non-magical. Morgana’s power only grows, and if she is not stopped, she will not be stopped without magic on their side. Would he and Merlin not have more of a chance if they could work openly?
He feels as Percival comes awake, but he doesn’t make any move to help Gwen.
Perhaps things could be better were Leon honest with Arthur. Arthur won’t ever change his mind about magic if he doesn't have the opportunity to learn. If he only sees magic as something that moves in the shadows behind and around him, risking the lives of his people. He can never grow if he never learns.
And the citizens of Camelot die for that.
They die for his cowardice.
As he sits in the rubble of a forgotten castle, his friends scattered around him, Leon knows this situation is no longer tenable and that it's within his power to do something about it.
So he will.
Gwen doesn’t think they know she could hear their whole conversation. It was rather sweet at times, but there was one part of it she couldn't quite ignore.
Could feel what was wrong with her. Like a giant hole pulling and sucking from the world.
That’s how Leon had described Lamia. Gwen had felt none of that. She had thought Lamia was just a normal girl, until the knights had all started going strange. It has been quite a time since Gwen has felt that powerless; that small.
To have all these knights, men she trusts with her life, looking at her like so. Her brother and one of her oldest friends, even, were so aggressive with her and Merlin, she had felt the insecurity she had almost forgotten was once normal in her life. Most of the castle has been so good to her these past few months. Nobody has forgotten what Gwen did during Morgana's invasion. And though she had expected whispers from the other servants about her relationship with Arthur, there had been very little.
She’s glad Arthur made it when he did. And she’s glad she had Merin there with her the whole time.
She’s known from the beginning that there’s something a little… queer about Merlin. And though she had thought Leon quite normal, she wonders if perhaps the reason they have become such good friends recently is that there’s something a little queer about him, too.
It’s been there recently, in the way they sneak off at night, Merlin making the occasional reference to it, or how they had both been overcome on Samhain. Despite being First Knight, there had been no hesitation in Leon when they were dealing with the Fomorrah and Merlin. He hadn't seemed surprised that it was Morgana’s work, or that magic was at hand.
Gwen was too young to have known Leon’s father, but everybody knew the story. The tale of his flight from Camelot, his pursuit by Uther, and how, when he caught up to Lord Lionel in the great room of Willowhall, Bors, his own son, had held his father by the shoulders, so Uther could behead him, in front of his children and wife.
Lionel had magic. Perhaps in the years to have passed, Leon has become sympathetic to those with magic. She knows Merlin is. That he always has been. She can’t fault him for it, not really. Sometimes she, too, looks at the kingdom Uther has built and wonders what it could have been if he had never started the purge.
She wonders about it, especially now, after all that happened with Morganba.
She had seen the way hate twisted Morgana’s features, but she had seen it before as well. Before the fire and the nightmares and her year away. She had been a victim of it herself. But maybe it could’ve been tempered. Let free by her magic, being embraced. By having teachers and support. Maybe things never would’ve turned out this way.
Leon could feel what was magical about Lamia.
Gwen isn't one to poke her nose where it doesn’t belong, but she can’t help but wonder if maybe, maybe, Leon has magic.
And she wonders what she will do if she finds out he does.
Her oldest friend, though, too often their positions come between them.
And if her instinct is correct, that Arthur will soon propose to her… it complicates matters even more. It’s her duty to tell the king of suspicions around magic, and it will only be more so, if she is his wife and queen. If Arthur finds out that Gwen had her suspicions and didn’t bring them to him…
He is a fair man, though, and not his father. He will understand she could not put an old friend at risk in that way.
Merlin drops down beside her, putting his hand to Percival’s chest, and watching the rise and fall of it, and Gwen puts her thoughts aside. Once she’s back in Camelot, there will be more time for these thoughts.
Chapter Text
Though Leon returns to Camelot intent on telling Arthur of his magic, his courage fails him, and the matter goes unremarked.
He would be putting his life in Arthur’s hands. It’s supposed to be a familiar feeling. Out on the battlefield, they have put their lives in each other's hands many times. Trusted the other to watch their back. But Leon finds it doesn’t feel the same. He trusts Arthur to protect his back, but does he trust Arthur to defy everything he’s ever known?
Does he trust Arthur to fight the feeling of betrayal he knows he will be feeling? After Uther and Morgana, and now Agravaine too. Or at least his suspicions of Agravaine
Lancelot finds Leon out on the battlement overlooking the lower town.
The roof of the tavern caved in a couple of nights ago, and repairs are ongoing. The great beam that supported most of the weight of the roof was cleaved in half — wood rot, they said — and the lower town has come together to get a replacement and get it in place. They’re hauling the beam up now, using a complicated contraption of thick leather rope and pulleys.
Lancelot leans on the cool stone next to him, his eyes following Leon’s. He doesn’t say anything, just joins Leon in the silence.
“I could do so much more if I could freely use my magic,” Leon says after a while. The beam is up and in place, notches being carved into the bottom to situate it securely. “I grew quarterstaffs out of wood. I’m sure I could work out how to grow the new beam into the old wooden frame, so they could never grow apart. Perhaps with Merlin’s help, we could raise the beam to the roof ourselves, hold it in place while others work.”
“Do you not think you already do enough for Camelot?” Lancelot asks.
“Not until magic is free in Camelot will I have done enough. Not till this campaign of fear is over.”
He watches as a man falls from the roof of the tavern, knocked over by the shuddering of the beam as it falls into place. The man gets up soon after, but he’s sure to have a few new bruises. Were Leon free to practice his magic, perhaps he would’ve learnt by now how to soothe bruises, freeing the man from his pain. But he can’t do so, because he is not free; he and every other magic user within the borders of Camelot.
“I need to tell Arthur of my magic. I cannot continue as I have, keeping silent out of fear, as others are put in danger by my own inaction. Nothing will change until we make it so, but I fear the consequences so greatly.”
It’s easier to speak openly like this. Lancelot, a mostly silent companion as they stand side by side, not looking at one another.
“It is not on you alone,” Lancelot says eventually. “Merlin—”
“Merlin has lost sight of the fact that it is Arthur who must free magic, and so it is Arthur’s opinion we must change. He cares only that Arthur lives.”
Lancelot doesn’t reply for a long moment. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, searching for a response, before sighing. “Arthur wishes to speak with you. He sent me to find you, and send you to his chambers.”
With one final look at the progress of the tavern roof, Leon turns and nods, mumbling his thanks to Lancelot as he leaves.
Arthur has chosen Leon for a confidant, perhaps in place of his uncle.
“I think I’m going to ask Gwen to marry me,” he says to Leon in his chambers one evening. Merlin is by the fire, polishing away, but Leon can see the eye he tilts towards the conversation. “Not yet. Soon, though, once everything with my uncle is squared away.”
“You deserve to be happy,” Leon says, feeling the guilt rise in him that he’s keeping such a secret from Arthur. “You both do.”
They’re sharing a meal, the food mostly picked clean before them, leaving them each to nurse a glass of wine. The mood for the evening is quiet. It’s felt like Camelot has been in a waiting period these past few weeks, since their encounter with the lamia. Waiting for something to happen. They’ve been training and attending council meetings, patrolling and writing reports, and maintaining their armour and weapons, and little else.
He and Merlin have been finding small moments and quiet evenings to duck out, spend some time together out in the clearing. His magic work is improving steadily with someone else to practice with properly. And in between it, Leon has learnt little bits and pieces about Merlin’s time in Camelot. About the creatures he's fought, and the magic he’s performed. He’s learnt about quests and chases and everything in between, and it galls him just a little to know that all of this was going on right under his nose.
But it also brings a smile to his face, knowing that means it was all going on under Uther’s nose as well. So perhaps it’s okay.
Though Merlin has an eye on their conversation, he’s still completely focused on his polishing. He’s watched Merlin do it before. Despite Arthur’s insistence that Merlin is a terrible servant, this is at least one thing that he excels at. Arthur’s armour and weaponry are always polished to a shine, and so well mended that every piece is rounded perfectly. The leather is kept oiled, the buckles free from anything more than cursory scratches. And watching Merlin, you can see his dedication to the task.
He takes Arthur’s safety seriously.
“I think I expected there to be greater pushback against our relationship.” Leon turns back to Arthur and tilts his head, waiting for Arthur to keep speaking. He's lost in thought, looking into his wine goblet and tilting it this way and that. “I keep expecting the nobility or the council to bring their complaints to me. My uncle did. But there were only minor grumblings.”
“You made her brother a knight. Along with those of three other commoners. You did not allow the nobility to overrule you or change your mind then, when your father was still alive, perhaps they believe you won’t do so on this either. Or perhaps they have decided that her brother's position protects her. Or quite possibly, they’re simply waiting for the proposal to raise their complaints.”
Arthur turns to him and raises an eyebrow at Leon, amused and a little chiding. “You’ve thought about this?”
“You may not see it as such, but I consider keeping pace with the nobility's whims a part of my job.” Leon leans back in his chair and allows a hint of a smile to dance in the corner of his lips.
Arthur laughs loudly. “You can just admit you enjoy the gossip as much as a laundress, Leon.”
“Were you to ask my brother, Sire, I would be the most obstinately unobservant person in all of Camelot.”
“Do you speak to Lord Bors much?” Arthur asks.
“Not often these days. We trade letters, mostly pleasantries, a few times a year. I do my best to avoid him when I visit Willowhall. But he’s known for longer than I’ve been a knight, I don’t trade in secrets.”
Secrets, secrets, secrets. Leon’s starting to hate secrets, as he looks over at Arthur, sitting with a small smile on his face now.
The clanging of metal on stone ruins the quiet of the evening. “Sorry, sorry!” Merlin yells, scrambling for the greave that’s dropped to the floor, only more pieces of armour follow it, and the noise gets even worse.
Arthur laughs again, but there’s nothing unkind in it as he gets up to help Merlin. “You’re an idiot, Merlin,” he says, voice thick with fondness. Merlin ducks his head, a small laugh coming out of him too, and Leon watches these two people, so important to his life now, together. They laugh and smile, and though Arthur is the king, it is his first instinct to go and help Merlin clean up his armour.
Despite the trouble his magic has brought, Leon doesn’t wish it gone. He’s not sure he would’ve found this without it. It wasn’t till it came in that he woke up to how his life was, to the problems with the magic ban and his failure to recognise the injustice within their land.
He would choose the path his life has taken over any other. Once Arthur's armour is picked up, Arthur dusts himself off. “Leave the armour for the night, Merlin. I’ll send for someone else to collect the plates.” Then he turns to Leon and holds out a hand to shake. “Good night, Leon. I’ll see you in two mornings, bright and early for patrol.”
With a smile, Leon shakes Arthur’s hand firmly and smiles, looking forward to being out in the fresh air, away from the castle and all of its eyes.
Once outside the door, Leon turns to Merlin. “May I walk you home?” he asks, pleasantly, and doesn’t miss the quirk of Arthur’s eyebrow at him as he turns to the guard positioned outside his door.
Leon firmly refuses to blush red, but he’s fairly certain he doesn’t succeed, judging by the heat creeping up his cheeks. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Merlin and enjoys the smile on his face.
Although he doesn’t give a verbal response, Merlin does turn in the direction of his chambers and waits, so Leon takes that as assent. Walking alongside Merlin, Leon hopes that one day they can be open and honest about all of themselves with the castle. And he hopes that day isn’t too far away.
“Are you to accompany us on patrol in two days time?” Leon enquires pleasantly, stepping in close to Merlin, so that his shoulder hovers just behind Merlin’s, putting his lips right at the level of Merlin’s hair.
Turning just enough so that his lips now brush along Merlin’s temple instead, Merlin smirks. “Arthur will be on that patrol, and so too will I.”
The corridors of the castle are quiet for the evening, but Leon still withdraws just a little, so that there can be nothing indecent found in their movements. He misses the warmth of Merlin’s fire as he retreats, but in the dark of the night, and the peace of the corridors, the quiet intimacy of the moment isn’t lost.
“Shall we meet out in the clearing tomorrow evening? We haven’t had a moment of peace for what feels like weeks.”
Merlin’s hand slips into his own as they pass the courtyard and find themselves in the quieter corridors leading to the physicians' quarters.
“If Arthur complains I’m tired the next morning, are you going to take the blame for it?” Merlin asks, turning at the start of the stairs leading to their door.
Cheeks flaming, Leon laughs and pulls Merlin in closer. “I don’t think you want Arthur to be making assumptions about why we were together late at night.”
Blushing red, Merlin ducks his head, laughing. “No, I suppose not.”
With the evening growing dark around them, the quiet and the location, it feels so very much like that first night, when Leon had kissed Merlin in the dark of the night for the very first time. He takes a step forward, grasping Merlin’s waist so he doesn’t fall as they traverse the stairs step by step.
Merlin’s laughter rings out through the staircase, but he can see the lights still on under the door to Gaius’ chambers, so he hopes they don’t disturb the old physician. But Leon just has the urge to hold Merlin in his hands, and so he does so, stopping by the door, and pulling Merlin in. He has to let go of his hand to do so, but instead, he gets to run his hand down Merlin’s back, so it’s a good compromise.
“Is this for when Arthur yells at me?” Merlin asks, his breath warm against Leon’s neck, where his head has dipped.
“Yes, Merlin, I’ve embraced you for Arthur,” he says with a measure of humour in his voice. Mostly, he’s enjoying the warmth of Merlin in his arms and the knowledge that there is currently nothing wrong at Camelot that he must immediately attend to.
Merlin sighs deeply and pulls back. “Tomorrow night,” he says, smiling gently.
“Tomorrow,” Leon agrees, and leans in to bestow a gentle kiss upon Merlin’s lips, before he turns and departs.
The smile on his lips follows him all the way back to his chambers.
The patrol they’re taking is only a short one, merely a trip overnight to survey the forests surrounding Camelot. But it remains critical to the security and protection of Camelot. The forests could hide any number of threats, and so they change up the route for this patrol every time they do so. This time on their second day on patrol, partway through the day, Arthur takes them down a path Leon doesn’t think he’s ever travelled.
Today, the butt of the joke is on Elyan, and a game of keep away with the water skin keeps the mood light. Leon’s not entirely sure whether the grim mood he can feel is coming from himself or whether something is lingering in the edges of his sense that he can't quite parse.
That is, until Arthur goes on alert.
“Shh,” he whispers, and they all settle as one, forming ranks around Arthur as he stares into the forest.
“What is it?” Merlin whispers.
“I saw something in the trees. There,” Arthur says, pointing, but as he says so, Leon catches sight of what he’s seen.
He ventures into the space, and there strung all around them are lines with ribbons hanging off them. It looks like something out of a druid settlement. But the further in he gets, the worse that grim mood sets in, and a chill runs down his spine. Thai space is not merely an old settlement. There’s something unhappy in the air. No. greater than that. There’s grief here, and pain, so much pain.
“This is a shrine,” Merlin says. “In the time of the Old Religion, they built shrines like this to appease restless spirits. We shouldn't be here.”
Leon agrees and is about to say so, ice creeping up his spine, when Gwaine smiles and grabs Merlin's shoulders, the other knights joining in. All around them in the trees, ribbons are blowing in the wind, and as Leon walks through, he tries to locate where the despair he feels is coming from.
Only it’s not quite despair. There’s too much anger and pain wrapped up in that icy coldness, and it’s only when Merlin speaks again that he realises where he’s felt it before.
“It isn't funny. Gaius told me about places like this, and they're cursed,” Merlin says, and terror claws at Leon’s heart.
This place, he has felt it's like only once before.
In the presence of the Dorocha. That same icy chill clawed down his spine, and though the pain is sharper and younger, the presence is too much like that of the Cailleach, for his liking.
A raven bursts through the brush, startling all of them.
“We should go,” Leon says, speaking through the grip on his throat.
He can feel the presence now that he's had time to sit with it, and it lingers around the well, clinging to its edges. The Cailleach had felt so old, and this presence feels the opposite. The pain he feels is like that of one young and so, so afraid.
He shudders to think why it would cling to the well.
Arthur takes one long look into the forest, before, in a tone as grim as Leon feels, Arthur says, “There’s nothing here for us. Move out.”
They leave quickly, but Leon feels almost as if the presence follows them. He can’t get his muscles to relax, can’t get his mind to stop thinking about the shrine and what he felt within it.
A year ago, he would’ve laughed at the thought of a spirit being something real and tangible. He would’ve scoffed at it, said they’re being ridiculous, listening to ghost stories. But he knows now just how real they are. And just how dangerous they can be.
They’re not far from Camelot, but the thought doesn’t make Leon feel any better, as that grim spirit trails them to Camelot. Leon can’t work out just where it sits, only that he feels its presence and thinks maybe they disturbed the poor spirit just by being in its grove.
He hopes they haven't. He hopes it’s allowed to rest in peace.
When they arrive back in Camelot, Leon spends some time around the others, but he slips away as soon as possible to make his way to Gaius’s chambers. Whatever it is that he feels, he hopes Gaius will have more answers.
He meets Merlin on the way there, and they slip in, filling Gaius in on what they found.
“I am surprised that such a shrine exists so close to Camelot,” he says.
“And it was cursed, I could feel it,” Merlin adds, and Leon nods.
“It felt like the Dorocha. Cold, but with so much pain inside it. Pain and anger and grief,” he says. Now that they're in the castle, it feels further away. Not so immediate. Leon can think properly without that cold so near to him.
Gaius frowns at him, but doesn’t comment on that. “You were right to be wary. The druids built shrines to bring rest to tormented souls; souls that were so badly wronged they could find no peace in the other world.”
Leon remembers the way the spirit had hung around the well, and that dread from earlier makes its reappearance. If he’s right that the spirit had felt young… who would drown a child like that? The conversation continues around him, but Leon pays it little mind.
“Why do they hang all the ribbons and flags?” Merlin asks.
“The ancient rituals heal the ground so the souls of the victims can find rest, but the magic that binds the earth is delicate and is easily undone. So the ribbons and flags act as a warning.”
There’s a memory hanging on the edge of Leon’s mind. It tugs and pulls, like a thread that he should unravel. Something half-forgotten and pushed aside. But he thinks that maybe this isn't the kind of memory one wants to unravel.
“I should've known that earlier,” Merlin mutters, shame in his voice, as if it could be his fault that they wandered into a shrine.
“Did anyone touch anything?” Did they? He doesn't think they did, doesn’t remember anybody doing anything more than brushing against a ribbon. Nobody bent to pick up a rock, and nobody went near the well.
“Uh, no, I don't think so. Why? What is it?”
“Anyone who disturbs a resting place risks releasing the spirit. Merlin, you must promise me you'll never return to that place.”
“What would that feel like?” Leon interjects, startling the two of them. Gaius frowns, and Leon continues. “Releasing the spirit. What would it feel like if it had been released?”
Gaius looks Leon full in the face, then stares intently into his eyes. “What is it you believe you feel, Sir Leon?”
He shakes his head, feeling a little lost. “Even after we had left, it was like I could still feel it there, with us. It followed us all the way to Camelot, but now that I am here, it feels further away, not so present.”
Gaius lapses into silence, lost in thought. “I can’t guess what it means. Perhaps it was only an impression staying with you all, perhaps it has left. We must all keep our eyes open for anything strange happening within the castle in that case. But please, you both must not return to the shrine.”
“Oh, don't worry,” Merlin says, but he’s watching Leon, a frown marring his features. “I've no intention of going back there. And for once, I'm not lying to you.”
Leon nods in agreement, too. He doesn't think he wants to return to that place ever again. The cold stays with him, and he remembers his desperation as he offered up Uther’s life in return for Lancelot's. He never wants to experience that again.
Leon gets up, says goodnight to Merlin and Gaius on route and takes his leave, heading down the corridor to his own room.
He only gets a little way before he feels a presence next to him, and notices Merlin has followed him.
“Are you okay?” Merlin asks quietly, as they slip through corridors. It’s late enough that the castle is mostly quiet, only the last few stragglers to bed remain out in the halls.
Leon shakes his head. “I don’t know. I feel… disquiet. Like the cold of the Isle of the Blessed is hanging around the castle. It sets my teeth on edge, and I can’t help but worry that we released that spirit, and it followed us back to the castle.”
“Gaius isn’t sure that’s the case. It may simply be an impression, as he says,” Merlin rests a hand on Leon’s arm, but he doesn’t slow his pace, still marching determinedly to his chambers. Every step feels like a tolling bell, carrying him closer and closer to warmth.
“I had told myself the same thing, but now with each step I grow colder, and the presence grows stronger. Like it’s lying in wait for me in my chambers.” It’s too honest. Speaks too much of the fears deep within his heart that he keeps under wraps, but the words slip out, and Leon wishes he could shove them back down.
Merlin stops him, with two hands on either side of his shoulder, and Leon notices for the first time that Merlin isn’t quite the slip of a thing that he once was. There's a stability to his frame, something dense and sure, that he would normally associate with a knight. His days of servitude have filled out his frame, and though he doesn't quite have the muscles of a knight, his arms are set with strength.
“Let me come with you.”
His eyes widen. “Merlin!” Darting his eyes from side to side to check no one's around, Leon pulls him into a shadowy corner, away from any prying eyes. “If you were to be found there, the castle would speak about the impropriety of it all. It would reflect poorly on you.”
Merlin shakes his head. “I rise early. I always do, I have to be there to greet Arthur in the mornings, don’t I? Please, Leon. I haven’t seen you like this before, so on edge, except on the field of battle. Let me be there to ease your heart, just for tonight.”
Leon lets out a deep sigh and shakes his head. “I don’t want to—” He cuts himself off, blushing.
A blush spreads across Merlin’s cheeks. In the dark of the night, it simply looks like his skin darkens, but Leon knows. “I don’t either. I don’t know that I ever will. Just sleep.”
“I—” he wants to say no again, but in the cold of winter, on patrols, the knights huddle up for warmth, letting their body heat chase away the chill, and Leon can't help but wish for that feeling now, the ice spreading down his veins. He’s not sure he’ll sleep otherwise if the presence grows any stronger.
And he wants to feel it. To feel Merlin’s body under his hands, see if they fit together the way he hopes. He wants in a manner he has never let himself want before. It’s not as the other knights describe it, thickening his cock and setting his skin on fire, but he wants nonetheless.
He lets his honour slide for just a moment as he nods his assent, unable to quite speak the words.
Merlin takes his hand and squeezes, and as Leon steps back into the corridor, he lets go.
They slip into bed in silence, both of them still dressed in their trousers and shorts, but Merlin feels excitement race down his spine anyway.
He can feel it too, the lingering traces of sorrow hanging in the air that he felt in the shrine. But Leon seems to feel so much more of it, and with how he's described his magic, Merlin is glad that he doesn’t. There’s a small part of Merlin that is almost jealous Leon can feel magic in a way he can't. He’s just always had so much of it; he’s used to being the one who hears warning bells first.
But the rest of Merlin is mostly just overwhelmed with gladness that he has been able to speak so freely of his magic to Leon now. It’s so freeing, knowing that someone else understands. Lancelot has always done his best to try, but he doesn't have magic, and can’t quite parse it the way Leon does.
And now, sliding into the soft down of Leon’s mattress beside him, Merlin can’t help but mutter a quick spell to warm the sheets.
He feels the way Leon listlessly melts into them, the warmth of it hopefully sinking into his bones. Leon has yet to speak since they left the alcove, but Merlin hopes it’s just his lingering sense of honour worrying.
A few scattered kisses stolen around the castle and in the field are a world away from sharing a bed, and though Merlin has bunked with Arthur before, and Will and his mother, it feels different to do so alone in a room together.
Leon stretches out before Merlin, and his cheeks are pink in the gentle light from the banked fire. His hair is mussed against the pillow, and without his armour or normal attire, he looks soft this way. Soft and far more approachable than normal. A gentle smile curves around his lips, and Merlin feels the urge to kiss it off.
So he does. There’s no one else here to catch them.
Leon’s lips are soft, and they curve further upwards as Merlin kisses them, soft and short, little more than a brush across the surface.
He pulls away, his heart full as he takes in the dazed, closed-eyed look on Leon’s face.
“Sleep,” he whispers. “I’ll be here all night.”
Leon reaches across the bedding and takes Merlin's hand in his own.
Merlin falls asleep with a smile spread across his lips.
Chapter Text
Leon wakes the next morning when he feels Merlin press a kiss to his forehead and slip out of bed. He doesn't remember much of the previous night, but he does remember an impression of cold and warmth, like his mind was fighting two different battles.
He doesn’t miss the way his whole side goes cold as Merlin leaves, as he was pressed up against Leon the whole night, chasing away the bad dreams with his mere presence. It’s a nice feeling, and Leon thinks perhaps he could get used to it if allowed to do so. It’s certainly nicer than waking up to a fire gone cold and a chill drafting through his chambers.
But too soon, another servant slips into his room to tend to the fire and leaves breakfast, and he knows he can’t put off getting out of bed any longer. Dawn is streaking over the castle, sending orange rays through his windows and training with Arthur awaits
The rest of the knights all make it there first, and Lancelot pulls Leon aside to report on what they’ve dubbed Agravaine watch. Apparently, he spent a very quiet evening in his chambers and had duck for dinner. The quiet of the past few weeks is odd, but not unexpected. Keeping a low profile in the wake of Arthur’s growing suspicion would be Leon’s play too.
Arthur is not normally so late to training, and for a moment, Leon worries something waylaid Merlin, but just as the knights are getting antsy, Arthur arrives, looking strangely rumpled, Merlin as usual in tow.
Merlin idles his way over to Leon, a smile on his face.
“Pair off!” Arthur yells. “Concentrate on counter-cutting. Gwaine, you’re with me.”
The knights all follow Arthur as one, none of them moving off because something odd catches their eye. Arthur’s hair is pasted down on one side of his head, and with his rumpled appearance, the impression he gives is not altogether kingly.
“What’s that in your hair?” Gwaine asks, a frown on his face.
“It’s stew,” Merlin supplies unhelpfully.
“Why have you got stew in your hair?” Leon asks, looking sideways at Merlin. He wouldn’t put it past Merlin to be the cause of this.
“Well, because he was reading,” Merlin says. It doesn’t help answer Leon’s question. Until that is, Merlin sidles up to Leon and whispers out of the corner of his mouth, “Fell asleep at his desk last night.”
Leon stifles a grin as Arthur pins Merlin with a glare.
“Change of plan. I think we’ll try something different,” he says, and his tone of voice calls for trouble. Judging by the look on Merlin’s face, he senses it too. Trouble is, at least, amusing, and keeping the mood light helps chase off the growing feeling of malice Leon feels on the field. Their restless spirit still feels amongst them, but a good night's sleep makes it feel much further away than it did yesterday.
Ever since taking on Merlin as his manservant, Arthur has been much better about not pummelling servants into the ground in training. And though Leon does try, rebuking Arthur with a short, “Sire,” it has little to no effect on Arthur, who only smiles and continues to kit Merlin out in shield and helmet.
Leon does, however, try something he’s been practising out on the field, and as he watches, reaches out to Merlin with his magic and soothes all those little connections in his arm that have been hurt by Arthur’s sword. He’s still not entirely sure how it works, and what exactly it does, but he can feel as his magic soothes and repairs under the skin. It’s a strange sensation, and one he thinks perhaps Camma could tell him more about. But until Agravaine leaves Camelot, Leone won’t risk leaving to go and train more with her.
But he does remember her directive to heal from the inside out, and as he does so, it almost feels like the skin is made up of different layers.
If he so desired, Leon wonders if this ability would make him a good physician. He thinks perhaps he should seek out Gaius, learn what he can to help his magic along.
Merlin takes the pummelling from Arthur with good sport, and Arthur soon gets bored and wanders off, clapping Elyan on the shoulder as he does, sending him up to face Merlin. Leon knows Elyan will go easy on Merlin; he’s never found any fun in the games Arthur plays. He proves exactly so, taking a couple of half-hearted swings at Merlin.
But then something changes in their, and Leon feels it, as that presence that’s hung around them since the shrine grows and coalesces almost, and Eylan’s swings get more and more aggressive, the pain and grief and hurt in the air growing and thickening. He hears Arthur call out, but is too focused on trying to work out just where the presence is, that he doesn't realise just how wrong things have gone until Merlin’s on the ground, curled up under the shield.
Leaping into action, Leon grabs Elyan's arm, feeling Arthur on the other side do the same.
But as he does so, he gasps, jerking backwards.
It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. As he touched Elyan’s arm, it was like he was touching a Dorocha, or the Cailleach herself. It was like he was touching something cold and lost and alone. Something not of this world.
He watches as Elyan walks away in horror, understanding why it feels like the spirit has been following them since the forest.
Elyan must have disturbed the shrine.
A touch to his elbow draws his attention. “Are you alright?” Merlin asks.
Leon shakes his head. “We must get Elyan to Gaius.”
“What?” Why?” he hears Merlin say, but Leon follows Elyan off to the side, not wanting to let him get too far away.
Training wraps up quickly, Arthur taking the opportunity to spend more time with the youngest knights, leaving Leon and the others to enjoy a rare afternoon free. Or at least that's what they would normally do, if not for Leon asking Elyan if he’s okay, and Elyan freaking out and starting a tussle with Gwaine.
Leon helps bring Elyan to his chambers, sending Percival and Gwaine to fetch Gaius.
Hurrying them out of the room as he does, Gaius slams the doors in their faces. Though Leon doesn't wish to alert the others to what he knows, he also doesn’t wish to wait too long to tell Gaius. He waits outside while Gwaine and Percival head off to the armoury.
Gaius comes not too long after. “Gaius,” he starts, spooking the old man, who jumps and turns to him. “My apologies. I did not wish to say so while the others were around. I believe Elyan may have disturbed the spirit in the shrine.”
Appearing solemn, Leon’s worry is reflected in the lined face of Gaius. “I have wondered the same. Tell me why you think so.”
“Out on the field, I could feel the spirit stronger and stronger as he fought Merlin, and when I grabbed him to get him to stop, it was like touching a Dorocha; the feeling of icy cold and pain and grief was so strong it overwhelmed me.”
“That is troubling,” Gaius muses. “Do you know how I might have found a ring of salt at the foot of his bed?”
“Gwaine made a joke yesterday about it dispelling evil spirits,” Leon says, then breathes out, realisation hitting. “Oh no.”
“That’s utter nonsense,” Gaius grumbles and begins the walk back to his chambers. Leon follows along, unsure whether he’s supposed to, but doing so nonetheless.
“What will happen to Elyan?”
“I’m unsure. You'd best come along. I have reading to do, and we’ll need to wait for Merlin. If we are correct, Arthur will need to be told. If I could be sure that Elyan were not listening to what was happening around him, I would ask you to examine him, tell me what it is you feel. But I’m afraid I can’t be certain of it, and I wouldn’t put you at risk.”
“Perhaps if Elyan sees no improvement soon, I will do so anyway.”
Gaius gives him a grim expression and pushes open the door to his chambers. “Please, take a seat. I must find a book, and then I’ll need you to explain to me exactly what it is you felt.”
Doing his best to talk through the shock he’s felt and the way the presence had coalesced as Elyan’s rage grew, he does so. He also explains how last night, the closer he got to his quarters, the stronger it had felt. Elyan is mere doors down from Leon’s chambers, and that too makes more sense to him now.
Merlin joins them as the night starts to grow dark, slipping into the room, complaints about Arthur falling from his lips. He doesn’t seem to notice the sombre tone of the room, or even Leon’s presence. Gaius looks up from his book slowly, his eyes appearing over his glasses.
“I fear we have more important things to worry about than Arthur shouting at you,” Gaius interrupts him, now that Merlin’s lost steam in his complaints.
Merlin finally seems to notice the room, his eyes meeting Leon’s quickly before focusing on Gaius. “What is it?”
“I’m deeply concerned for Elyan,” Gaius says. “He hasn’t spoken a word since he regained consciousness, and I can find no physical symptoms to explain it. The only thing I could find was a pile of salt at the foot of his bed, which Sir Leon tells me he believes to be able to ward off evil spirits.”
“Do you think he—” Merlin starts.
Taking his glasses off slowly, Gaius folds them with old, weathered fingers, before placing them on the table with care. “I fear he may have disturbed the spirit in the shrine. Did either of you see him do so?”
Merlin and Leon share a glance. He hadn’t seen Elyan do anything the others hadn’t also done. They’d all walked through the shrine and touched at least one ribbon in their wake, disturbing the leaves on the forest floor. But he doesn’t remember Elyan doing anything else.
Standing slowly, Gaius wanders over to his other desk, while Merlin takes up the bowl of food left sitting on the table and begins to eat, pulling off chunks of bread.
“He had been the last to leave the shrine, but I did not see him do anything else,” Leon says.
“What will that do to him?” Merlin asks.
Gaius shakes his head slowly. “I dread to think what horror it might unleash. You just tell Arthur what happened at the shrine. You must tell him that Elyan is possessed.”
He and Merlin speak at the same time.
“Well, I’m not sure he’ll believe me, not in the mood he’s in.”
“How will we excise the spirit from Elyan?”
Gaius turns to Merlin first. “You must make him believe you.” Then he turns to Leon. “Only powerful magic can do so. But Arthur must be warned.”
With a shared glance, Leon steps towards the door, Merlin hot on his heels.
The warning bells start ringing as they walk through the corridors, and Merlin and Leon pick up the pace, breaking into a jog as they watch the flurry of guards and knights moving swiftly through the castle. Percival tries to grab Leon’s attention, but he shakes his head, intent on getting to Arthur.
His chambers are in disarray when they burst in, a chair splintered across the floor, and the papers strewn. Arthur is donning his sword.
“What happened?” Merlin demands.
“Elyan. He attacked me,” Arthur says, looking just as grim as he feels.
Before they can reply, the doors open again and Gwen pours into the room.
“Arthur!” she yells, her tone desperate. “What happened? They’re saying— Lancelot, he told me Elyan attacked you. What happened?”
Arthur drops his sword, the metal clanging against the stones, to take Gwen into his arms, holding her tightly. “I don’t know. He— I don’t understand. You should stay here, for now, stay safe.”
“Arthur, he wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t. Please, you can’t—”
Arthur shakes Gwen, just a little, just enough to draw her attention, raise her eyes. “I know. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“I think he's been possessed,” Merlin says, interrupting the two.
Arthur turns to look at Merlin, as Gwen lets out a small sob. “What do you mean possessed?”
“He may have disturbed a spirit at the shrine. We think that a spirit possesses him,” Merline explains further, but Leon can’t just leave it there, not when attacking the king carries a penalty of death. Not with Agravaine leading the hunt for Elyan, and scheming, always scheming. Not while Arthur looks like that — tired and harrowed and resigned.
“Sire, he is possessed,” he says. “A presence has been following us since we left the shrine, but I did not realise that it inhabited Elyan until I touched him out on the field earlier.”
Arthur frowns, his hands going slack on Gwen’s shoulders, and he stares intently at Leon. “How would you…” He trails off, and Leon takes a deep breath as he watches Arthur piece together Leon’s words and what they mean.
Merlin gasps. “Arthur—” he starts, but says nothing else. Because what is there to say? Leon understood exactly what he was doing, but Elyan’s life is more important.
In a flurry of motion, Arthur pulls away, grabs the sword on the table, and thrusts it at Merlin. “Both of you, out. Now,” he orders, hard and sharp. “Merlin, do not leave Guinevere’s side, or so help me, I will have you in the stocks for a month. Any harm comes to her, and on your head be it. Guards!”
“Arthur don’t,” Merlin says, but he stops as the clatter of guards enters the room.
Arthur doesn’t look away from Leon as he speaks, and Leon keeps himself still, and his hands free of his sword. “Tell Lord Agravaine to spread the word that Elyan is not to be harmed. Do not allow anybody into this room unless there is news of Sir Elyan.”
“Yes, sire,” the guard says, and leaves the room.
“Arthur,” Gwen says, and though her voice is soft, it carries a command. Arthur looks away from Leon, and turns his eyes on Gwen only long enough for her to speak. “Whatever Leon is about to tell you, remember that he has remained loyal and steadfast for many years. Remember that he has long since been one of your most trusted knights.”
Arthur nods and turns back to Leon, a clear dismissal.
“Merlin,” Gwen calls, reaching for him. “Come.”
They leave the room, Leon sensing Merlin’s reluctance, but he does so anyway. He’s known for a time now, that Merlin’s desire not to hurt Arthur or shake the foundations of their long-held friendship. He’s seen it written across Merlin’s face, but the knowledge that he won't stand with Leon now does shake him, just a little.
Is he doing the right thing?
If not even Merlin, who has been so scared for so long, thinks this is the way to pave their future and keep Elyan safe, then perhaps he should find some way to speak around what he had revealed. Perhaps Arthur will even believe it.
But as he turns to catch Merlin's eye, he sees the terror behind them. That soul-deep worry that maybe this won’t turn out for the best.
He can do this, if only because he hasn't been so afraid for so long. He can do this to spare Merlin and so many others the fate of having to do so himself.
He turns back to the room, and to Arthur and straightens his shoulders, head back and high. Merlin may not think this is the right thing to do, but Leon can see what Merlin can’t. That this is the only right thing to do.
For magic, and for Elyan. Elyan, who used to follow him everywhere as a young boy, his little shadow watching Leon play at training with the guards. Elyan, whom he never had enough time for, once they came to Camelot. And Elyan, the faithful, he who amongst them feels the highest honour in his duty to Camelot.
For Elyan, he will do this.
Arthur stands hunched over his table, arms wide, and his head drooped. He's no longer staring down Leon, and somehow, that’s worse. So much worse. Arthur isn't someone who loses the fight in him. Who lays his head and his sword down, but he willingly gave his sword to Merlin. And now, with the candlelight lighting the room, and the slump of Arthur’s shoulders wearing him down, Leon thinks he’s never looked so tired.
But Leon doesn’t open his mouth to speak. This needs to come from Arthur. Leon will reveal his secret, but Arthur must be willing to hear it.
He lets the silence of the room hang in the air, even when it seems to pull tight and hard, and the tension robs the room of what little air remains. Not even as Arthur takes in long, deep breaths, and he watches the tension in his shoulders racket up and up.
Not even as he hears the clanging of guards and knights outside, and the shouted orders, knowing both he and Arthur should be out there helping, looking for Elyan. And in Leon’s case, doing what he can to keep him safe. He didn’t miss that Agravaine was to give the order not to harm Elyan, and it would be only too easy for the man to ignore that order as it stands right now.
But Leon waits.
When Arthur does speak, his voice is tired and hard.
“Please, explain to me exactly what you mean. Because I think I know what you’re saying, and…”
It’s only three simple words. Just three words.
I have magic.
That’s all he needs to say.
But… as he stands here in front of Arthur, the words on the tip of his tongue, he realises he’s never thought of this moment. He’s thought around it — to showing Arthur, to it having already been said. He’s thought about how Arthur will react, what circumstances will draw him there.
He’s thought of the look on Arthur’s face, on whether he’ll need to protect Merlin. He’s thought of how the other knights will react, and whether they’ll become a threat.
He’s thought of how the sword will feel on the back of his neck. On whether he’ll let it happen or fight the whole way there. He thought about how it might feel to be brought into the circle of Arthur’s arms and be told that it’s okay.
He’s thought about how it might feel. For both of them. Will Arthur be angry, or hurt, or betrayed, or a million other emotions he could name if given the time?
But he’s never thought about just saying the words. He hasn’t ever actually said them before. He didn’t think it would feel unnatural or odd. He didn’t think he would choke on them, having come to terms with his magic. But he tries to speak, and his throat closes up, and he stands there, likely looking every bit as scared as he is.
Arthur can’t even look at him. And nothing has been confirmed yet.
But he is not a knight for nothing, and so with a deep breath, Leon rolls his shoulder back, wiggles his fingers, shifts his feet, and says those three little words.
“I have magic.”
Arthur flinches, but he doesn't otherwise move or react. His hands stay firmly planted, and his shoulders hold no more tension than they did before. The silence goes on so long, Leon fills it.
“After I drank from the Cup of Life, it was in the following months that I started experiencing strange occurrences. The fire in my chambers lit itself, odd winds, and once, while out on patrol, a root grew from the ground to plant itself in the path of an arrow, saving my life. I couldn’t ignore it after that.”
Arthur hasn’t stopped him, or otherwise given any indication that he’s listening, so Leon continues.
“At first, I thought I was cursed or was going to be corrupted by the magic. I tried not to use it. I fought it at every turn, but it only got wilder, harder to control. So I went to the druids. And they showed me that I wasn’t cursed, and talked me through using it. And Arthur, it is wonderful.”
His mind is blank.
Why does this keep happening to him?
Has somebody written on his forehead, ‘Arthur Pendragon, please lie to me and betray me.’
First, Morgana, then his father, now there’s the possibility of his Uncle’s dishonesty, Elyan attacking him, and Leon announcing his magic.
His own men are out there, at this very moment, chasing down another of his men, and Leon chooses this very moment to open his mouth and speak words Arthur just… doesn’t have it in him to hear.
He’s so tired.
So very tired. It’s hard to run a kingdom. So many lives depend upon him. So many people want things from him.
He has to deal with nobles, and daughters, and counsellors, and knights, and servants, tavern owners, and farmers all day, every day, and every single one of them wants something from him. His manservant thinks he should have all the answers, and his own uncle thinks he has none of them.
Leon has at least been as self-sufficient as he was before. He was able to leave the knights in his very capable hands. The only problem has been watching his growing friendship with Merlin, and wondering just how long it’ll be until he has to deal with the two of them teaming up on him.
And now this.
Magic, under his nose the whole time. Or at least, for the last year.
And Merlin—
Merlin!
Only since he apparently found magic has Leon taken an interest in Merlin. Arthur raises his head to lock eyes with Leon. “What is your business with Merlin?” he asks, sharp and suspicious. If Leon wants to hurt Merlin…
Leon’s eyes go wide, and he takes a step back. “Merlin has— He’s been a good friend in a time when I sorely needed one. But he has nothing to do with this.”
“If you’ve hurt him, or done anything to him…”
Hurt flickers across Leon’s face, but it disappears quickly. “I would never hurt him. I would never hurt anyone who poses no danger to Camelot or her citizens. I meant every vow I have ever made to you and this kingdom.”
The memory of a night what feels like a whole lifetime ago flashes in his mind. Leon, near tears, kneeling at his feet in benediction, head bowed and pledging himself to Arthur personally, desperately.
Leon must remember it too, because he kneels, pose just as it was that night.
“I am still loyal to you.”
Arthur wishes he still knew what that means.
Chapter Text
Leon had expected to have words thrown at him. Perhaps about his loyalty, or his allegiances, or whether he has been secretly working against Camelot.
But never had he thought Arthur would think he was looking to hurt Merlin. He had never thought that would be part of this. Part of all of this. He’d never considered it. And if Arthur thinks he would… He’s not sure how he can prove his loyalty to Arthur. And without his loyalty being assured, how can he ever convince Arthur that his magic isn’t a threat? That magic isn't the threat he thinks it is.
How can he protect Elyan?
Elyan!
“Sire, my magic can feel things others cannot. I can feel the spark of life in people, and magic in the air. And I can feel a spirit, very like the Dorocha, in Elyan. He is not acting of his own volition. He is not acting of his own mind.”
Arthur explodes. He sweeps his arm out, brushing the papers from the table and knocking a chair over, with a resounding crash of splintering wood on stone.
“How can I trust what you say?” he yells, face twisted in anger, chest heaving. Arthur takes a step forward, and Leon steps back in response. “You have been lying to me for an entire year. You say you have magic — that which killed my mother and my father. Magic, which corrupted Morgana into hatred. How can I trust anything you say?”
And that is the crux of every problem Leon has expected here, not helped by the warning bells ringing, and the clanging of guards in the hall, looking for Elyan. This puts into doubt everything Leon has said before. But he won’t let it stop him. He can do so much more for his people – magical and not – if they can speak openly.
“I would speak falsely if I said I haven’t changed. That magic hasn’t changed me,” he says, and with a raised hand, he pulls at the magic within him, lifts the chair and the splintered legs. He keeps speaking and as he does, he brings them together and pushes just a little, to grow this long-dead wood back together more securely than any other repair would be able to. “I have become a different person since the Cup of Life woke up my magic.
“But I don’t think it’s a bad change.” Arthur is watching the chair knit itself back together, his eyes flicking between it and the fire he knows sunburn hot in his own eyes. “It opened my mind to the ways in which the law is wrong. And to the wrong done to those with magic. We judge those who own a hammer, not by their ownership of one, but by how they use it. We sentenced to death a man who bashed in the skulls of a young family with a chair. And here I have used magic to fix one.”
The chair floats down to the ground, and Leon slots it in gently. It screeches as it does so, the sound too loud in the room. Leon is still not so practised as to do so flawlessly just yet.
“Why do we not judge magic users by the same merits? Magic can do good, just as easily as it can do evil.”
“Magic corrupts, Leon,” Arthur says firmly, the words practically a rote memorisation. He doesn't sound wholly convinced by them, and that at least is familiar to Leon. The repeated saying justifies all manner of sins. All manner of terrible acts in the name of justice.
“Power corrupts. Magic is a tool.”
Arthur turns and heads towards the open window. His body is tightly coiled, tension radiating from every muscle in his body. Wound tight and ready to burst. But he hasn't called for the guards, and he hasn’t called for Leon to be sent to the dungeons.
And he stood through Leon’s demonstration, which was more than he was expecting.
Though there are doubtless myriad weapons scattered around the room, hiding in pots and drawers, Arthur hasn’t reached for them either. He seems assured at least that Leon isn’t a threat. Perhaps that will be enough.
“What is it you want?” Arthur asks, looking down at the courtyard.
He asks it like that's a simple question. As if there could ever be a simple answer to that question. He wants his people to be free. All of them. Every single person who calls Camelot home. And that includes the druids and all others with magic.
He wants Arthur to see him, to see Merlin too. To know what Merlin has done and look upon him with pride.
But mostly… “I want you to listen with an open mind, and set aside what King Uther has taught you, in favour of what’s in your heart.”
Arthur scoffs. “My father…” His voice is thick with bitterness, and he trails off. “My father's life was taken to repair a hole that magic ripped in this world. A hole from which the dead poured forth to take the lives of my people.
“My sister wishes me dead, and my uncle undermines me at every turn. My manservant would sooner stick his hand in the fireplace than keep his opinions to himself, and my closest knights pledge themselves to me at every turn for my heart. You want me to listen to you. And you want me to judge by what’s in my heart.” Arthur turns his eyes on Leon again, and he can see in them the very depths of Arthur’s pain, but more than that, just how lost he is. Arthur is floundering in the wake of the upheaval.
“How can I trust anything that’s in my heart, when I don’t know what’s there in the first place? How can I lead, when I can hardly think?”
Ever since that faithful night, Leon has desperately wanted to confess to his role in Uther’s death. He has wanted to unburden his heart of that devastating secret. If he is to do so, now is the moment for it to happen. So that Leon may lay every last piece of himself on the table for Arthur.
But he can’t bring himself to do so. He can’t bring himself to lay anything more at his feet.
Perhaps he should stay quiet, let Arthur work through this moment on his own, but Arthur looks so young, and so old at the same time, that he can't help but think of a much younger child.
“I know that your heart is that of a young prince who found the king's ward, a squire, a serving girl and the son of a blacksmith playing together in a forgotten corridor, and instead of telling them off, you joined them. In your heart, is the young prince who took the time to teach the king's ward and a serving girl how to properly hold a sword. Who led a raid on a druid village at far too young an age, and never forgot it.” A memory tugs at Leon’s mind, but he pushes it aside as Arthur flinches slightly. “A man who was angry at a knight for not beating him soundly when he had the opportunity to do so. A man who took the time to learn the name of a young sorceress killed for doing her laundry. A man who forgave a servant for letting a king die. A man who knighted commoners, and wants to see a serving girl made queen. A man who would forgive his sister if she so wished for it to happen, no matter the pain she’s caused.”
“Enough.” Arthur’s voice rings through the room, for all the single word is spoken quietly, his tone small.
Leon closes his mouth. Arthur is just looking at him. Staring at him, without the piercing intensity of earlier, but still carrying that same focus. He’s just watching, before he sighs and makes his way to the table. The chair he pulls out is the same one Leon fixed. He drops into it.
“Everything I have ever been taught tells me that I should have you sent to the pyre.” The words are stark, and Leon can't help but flinch at them and the image they provoke. The smell of burning flesh fills his nostrils for a moment, and he chokes on the memory. “Or, that you are too dangerous to leave in the dungeons even overnight. That I should take my sword and run you through, right here and now. Put down the threat in my midst.
“But I’d like to think that I know you, know the man I chose for my First Knight. I think about the past year, and the only conclusion I can come to is that you started to care more. That the knight’s oath and your duties became more than just duties. That they became part of how you view this kingdom. You have always been of the most honourable of my knights. I noticed it before tonight. But this change in you, I had simply chalked up to Merlin’s influence. He has that effect on people.
“How can I even think that magic has made you more honourable, with all that my father taught me?”
He lapses into silence again, running a nail down the grain of the table, following a line Leon can’t see from here. He doesn't think Arthur wants a response, and doesn’t know how he would respond anyway. It’s a level of frankness, or emotional depth, Leon has never been privy to in Arthur before, and it makes him a little uncomfortable. He shifts on his feet.
“If I believe you,” Arthur says out of the blue after a while. “That Elyan is possessed. How can we rid him of the other presence?”
The change in topic reminds Leon of why this conversation started. “Gaius said it would take powerful magic to do so.”
“Then there is no hope?” Arthur asks, uncertainty crossing his features.
Gaius had said the spirit was restless. “Perhaps there is some way to appease a restless spirit. To find out what it wants and grant its wish.
“Elyan tried to kill me.”
Ah. That is likely to be a problem.
“Do you know why it might have asked that? Do you know anything about the location we disturbed? Something that could help?”
Arthur looks at him long and hard, and though there are many aspects of Arthur he’s unsure of, this isn’t one of them. Arthur does have an answer, but it’s not something he’s willing to share. After a long, silent moment, he speaks. “What am I to do with you?”
Leon shakes his head. “I don’t know, Sire.”
“Go back to your chambers,” Arthur says and waves to the door. “Do not leave them until I send for you. Do not talk to anybody.”
“Sire—” he starts, not knowing how to finish that sentence.
“Go!” Arthur yells. “I don't have the time to spend on dealing with you right now. So, just go!”
Leon moves, the instinct to obey Arthur’s orders, a well-honed one. But it feels wrong to leave it here. Nothing has been finished or decided. His fate, and the fate of so many others, hang in the air, and nothing has been resolved. But he also recognises this isn’t the time to deal with it.
It doesn’t stop him from leaving with one final word, though.
“Arthur,” he says, pausing near the doorway. “There is a great injustice being perpetrated in this kingdom. I will no longer be a participant in it.”
And then he leaves.
His chambers are cold and dark when he arrives in them. A thought has the fire and candles lighting, warming the room in an instant. It doesn’t drive the chill from his bones, though. Not the lingering worry from his mind.
What have I done?
He hangs his head and sinks to the edge of his bed, his legs going weak beneath him. Everything is going to change now. He can't just go back to being a knight after this. Not now that Arthur knows. Not now that Arthur knows, and a decision will need to be reached.
Exile will likely be the kindest option. As long as he knows he’s fought for the people of Camelot, he can leave knowing he did his best. Perhaps Arthur will allow him to return to Willowhall. Live out his days under his brother's watchful eyes with his mother. Uther would never have allowed him to live, but Arthur has never been his father.
His door flies open before he can really get settled into a good, long panic.
“Leon!” Merlin yells, his face mottled and red with fury. Leon stands up automatically just in time for Merlin’s palms to connect with his chest, shoving him roughly. “What the hell made you get such a stupid idea into your head?”
And that, Merlin’s fury, sets his own alight. Merlin rounds on him spectacularly, getting up into his space, crowding him against the bed, and Leon steps forward, so they’re chest to chest. He won't take this sitting down.
“It was the right thing to do.” He takes another step forward, putting space between him and the bed, forcing Merlin to take a step back, and another one. “It’s been the right thing to do since this whole matter started. I made an oath to this kingdom that I live by, and unless those of us close to Arthur do our part, magic will never be free. I’m not afraid of the consequences.”
Melin looks up at him, eyes impossibly blue and wide and afraid, and that’s really what it comes down to, isn’t it? Merlin’s not angry, he’s terrified. His greatest fear is that Arthur will die, but his second greatest fear is that Arthur will find out about his own magic. And Leon just revealed his, openly and willingly.
“He’s going to kill you,” Merlin says, and he grabs hold of Leon’s shoulder with both hands, his grip tight and bruising.
“If he does, then he’s not the man I thought he was, and he's not a man I want to serve. But I don’t think he will. And it’s worth whatever comes to have the chance to show him that he’s been wrong about magic this whole time.”
“You can’t leave me to do this on my own.” Merlin’s voice breaks and he leans in, head dropping to rest on Leon’s chest. It makes him seem impossibly small, hunched over like this, and Leon’s arms come up on impulse to hold him.
“Don't you see?” Leon asks, and he takes Merlin's chin gently in his hand, and lifts it, cradling it as he does. Merlin looks back at him, red riming his eyes. “That’s why I had to do this. Because out of the two of us, Arthur can’t afford to lose you. Not yet. Not after Morgana and Agravaine. And because I haven’t been hiding my magic for my whole life, it was easier for me to do.”
Merlin shakes his head. “It wasn’t your decision to make.”
“It was my magic, I revealed. Your secret is safe, and I will take it to my grave if I have to.”
“It wasn't your decision, the prophecy is mine—”
Leon cuts him off. “And Arthur’s. And nobody’s expecting him to bear it alone, so neither should you.”
The clatter of guards in the hall reminds Leon of the world around them.
“You should go, Merlin,” he says, gently pushing Merlin away, much as it pains him to do so. “Arthur says I wasn't to speak to anybody, and I don’t want suspicion to fall on you if you're found here.”
“So I don’t have to bear things alone, but you do?” Merlin quips, a tremulous smile on his face. But he follows it by leaning up and kissing Leon softly on the lips. Despite that, his hand is firm where it cups Leon’s cheek, and it settles something in his chest.
“I need to go, update Gaius, and find out how to fix this with Elyan. I’ll come back when I can.”
Leon nods and lets Merlin slip out of his chambers quietly, even though a part of him wants to grab hold and not let Merlin leave, but Leon knows he can’t do that.
If nothing else, Merlin’s visit has stopped the panic from crowding his thoughts. Instead, he looks around his chambers, as if mapping them out, memorising them for the future. It’s silly, probably, but he does so anyway. It’s better than worrying about the future.
What Arthur will do, what he’ll say. How he’ll face him next.
He leans back on his bed after removing all of his armour and settles in.
The thing about being locked in his chambers is that it’s boring. Leon pulls out his sword to run through drills for a while, but that loses its shine. Servants have brought him breakfast, lunch and dinner, and Merlin popped in for a quick update, but otherwise, Leon passes the time by worrying.
Agravaine pushed for Elyan to be killed on sight, but the way Merlin tells it, Arthur shut that down quite thoroughly. Agravaine may not realise it, but his actions only serve to further reinforce his guilt.
He doesn’t hear anything until late in the evening, when a knock draws him to his chamber doors before he plans to go to bed.
Arthur stands in front of him, damp, red-eyed and looking so weary that Leon has the urge to feed him soup and make him sleep, as his mother would do for him when he’s sick as a child.
Without a word, Arthur enters his chambers and sits down in one of the chairs at the table. He sits and, for a long moment, does nothing but stare at the table in front of him.
Leon waits. He stands by the door, feeling the metaphorical sword hanging over his head, just waiting for the moment Arthur brings it down upon him. There's no blood marring his clothes, and no sword hanging at his waist, and Leon hopes that’s a good sign.
Outside the castle is quiet, the ever-present guards of the day no longer clamouring about.
Arthur takes a deep breath.
Arthur listens to his uncle advocate for the death of his friend, and he can’t help but want to yell at him. Even were his uncle not under heavy suspicion, Arthur wonders how he could possibly listen to the man. Is there no room for compassion in his world? No room for justice and due process? Elyan may not be operating under his own mind, and that, more than anything, is worth investigation.
He has no reason to have attacked Arthur. None whatsoever. Elyan has made his loyalty to Arthur abundantly clear, and put more trust in him than— than his uncle ever has!
He makes them both — Agravaine and Merlin — leave, but he knows what needs to happen here.
The spirit craves peace. He wishes to find his proper place in the other world, but the unjust nature of his death has denied him that.
Those are the words Gaius spoke. Only the atonement of the perpetrator can bring him peace.
He doesn’t remember the boy. Not really. He remembers a boy in that druid camp. Someone young and blue-eyed, who had run screaming when the knights attacked. He doesn't know if it’s the same boy.
But he remembers the sounds of his screams. The battle had raged around them, druids falling to the swords of his men one by one. He remembers yelling orders, demanding that the women and children be left alone. He remembers the feel of blood pooling at his feet, and the squelch his shoes had made as they fell upon the body of a woman curled around a small child.
Not even a child. A baby. Both of them were drenched in blood.
And he remembers looking up and hearing the gargling scream of a young boy and looking desperately for the source of it. The splashing had been out of place amongst the sounds of metal and the other screams, and he had found the source too late. The screaming had stopped, and he watched as one of his men laughed and stepped back from the well, guffawing, “That’ll teach you, druid scum,” falling from his lips.
That boy's death was on his hands. He led that raid, and it was his weakness that led to the deaths of too many people. Innocents.
As Arthur stands in the same clearing he had visited only days before, Elyan in front of him, he begs the boy for forgiveness. Not for his own sake. But for his kingdom's sake. If he dies now, it is Camelot who will suffer for his sins. His people who will die in the power vacuum. And so he begs and promises the druids their peace and freedom.
It’s nothing. He had already ended the raids and the search for the druids. They had long since stopped. And he knows that as practitioners of the Old Religion, they will never see peace so long as the magic ban is in effect.
But it’s all he has to give. It’s all he can offer.
“From this day forth, the druid people will be treated with the respect they deserve,” he promises. And though the very words are treason, he can’t help but continue, for this young boy, slaughtered cruelly by as good as his own hands. “And I want to learn about magic. Truly. And review the laws with my own opinions in mind. I give you my word.”
He doesn’t flinch as Elyan draws his sword, just says, as sincere as he has ever said anything, “I am truly sorry for what happened to you.”
And he finds forgiveness in the arms of his friend, even though he doesn't deserve it.
Now, sitting at Leon’s table, he can’t find the words to say. To tell him Elyan is fine, and to ask Leon to show him, to tell him what he himself has learnt.
But he must. It’s the next step to take, if he is to be the king Camelot deserves.
He looks at Leon and asks for something he would never have asked before.
“I want you to tell me about magic. About your magic, and what it means. I want to learn.”
Chapter Text
“My Lady,” Agravaine says as he hands over the siege plans to Morgana. He watches the smirk spread across her face as she unravels the document, and feels an answering warmth bloom in his chest. He’s done very good work on this.
“My helpers are in place and ready to join me when we lay waste to Camelot. The whole castle is distracted by the celebrations of Arthur and Guinevere’s impending marriage.”
A snarl spreads across Morgana's face at his words, and she advances on him, hate in her eyes. “I will not see that woman upon my throne!” But then something changes in her face, and she takes a step back, her gown shifting in the low light, the dark fabric soaking up the flames, as if she thrives within them. Rage makes her beautiful. Cunning makes her radiant.
And it’s that cunning and that darkness he finds pointed at him now. “Perhaps your utter failure to keep yourself within Arthur’s graces will amount to nothing after all. I will have Helios move up our siege plans by a few days to ensure we pay them a visit before the serving girls' coronation.”
Then she pins him with a look full of displeasure. “You should consider yourself lucky. Return to Camelot, keep by Arthur’s side, and tell me if anything changes.”
He had killed the map maker's apprentice and absconded from Camelot with plans. There is enough suspicion laid upon him already. Though he hid the boy's body well, it is only too likely suspicion will fall upon him again.
The forest would be safer. He can return to Morgana in two days.
Leon is allowed out of his chambers now. Elyan is doing better, and Arthur’s questions have dried up.
They seem to be at some kind of stalemate. Arthur has given no indication that Leon is to be arrested or even exiled. And Leon has run out of knowledge to give Arthur. So instead, Leon returns to his duties, and Arthur broods.
And broods, and broods.
Agraviane has kept his nose far out of sight, holing up in his chambers and sitting quietly through council meetings, offering up only the bare bones of pleasantries and insights. The change is welcome, though it sets him on edge, wondering what he is planning now. Agravaine must be aware that his position in Camelot is tenuous at best, and it’s only a matter of time before he will be cast out. That would make anyone nervous, and readying contingencies.
Arthur’s eyes sometimes follow his uncle, and Leon knows on those days, his brooding has more to do with Agravaine than Leon’s magic. He has quite a lot to brood upon, and Merlin finds him in corridors to complain about the sheer amount of it that’s happening.
That is, until the day he arrives at training to announce his engagement to Gwen, and his intentions to host a melee in her honour.
The knights all crowd Arthur, offering their congratulations, and Elyan clasps Arthur by the arm and calls him brother.
The melee goes well, most of the knights doing their best to show off for their soon-to-be queen. Lancelot is the only one who tries to temper his vanity, though his smile for Gwen is most genuine. It must be difficult for him to see his old love marry a king, but Leon has no recourse to talk to him about it. He keeps mostly to himself over the course of the three days.
The most glaring omission is Agravaine. There’s no sight of him throughout the three days the melee runs for, and Leon hopes it's mainly his displeasure with their marriage that is keeping him away and not something worse.
On the final night, they hold a great feast in the hall. Arthur finds him mid-way through the day with a request.
He grasps Leon by the shoulder and pulls him off to the side of the melee field. “Sir Leon,” he starts, his voice carrying the weight of a king, and not just that of a friend. “I would be honoured to have you sit by my side for the evening's feast.” Arthur looks into Leon’s eyes as he says so, but in a way that clearly shows he’d rather be looking anywhere else.
Though a small smile quirks Leon’s lips at Arthur’s reticence, warmth blooms in his chest at the offer, knowing all the baggage that comes with it. At a feast like such, Arthur would be expected to have a parent or close relative at his side, and it speaks volumes that, though Agravaine will not sit with him, he’s asking Leon to join him.
Leon and his magic, though nobody else will know of that significance. It’s not a promise. It’s not a declaration of anything. But perhaps it’s an acknowledgement that they’ll be okay.
Or possibly, it just means Leon was the last one he had left to ask who wasn't Gwaine and is fit for public appearances.
As Leon nods his head, they’re interrupted by a page. “Sire,” the boy says, bowing at the hips. “The master mapmaker requests your presence. He has grave news for you.”
Leon frowns, and Arthur casts him a sideways glance, his face grim too. The master mapmaker of Camelot is responsible for some of the most secure documents in the kingdom. For there to be trouble is grave news.
In the scroll vaults, they find the mapmaker seemingly lost in thought, staring at an open cabinet. He startles at the sound of a boot scraping on stone.
“Sire,” the man says, and bows deeply to Arthur. “My apprentice has not been seen in two days. And when I performed an inventory to see if any plans were missing, I found but one document unaccounted for.”
“Which is it?” Arthur asks, just as a second page boy runs into the room.
“I’m sorry, master,” the boy pants. “I haven’t been able to find Lord Agravaine.”
The mapmaker frowns. “It’s no matter, boy,” he says, before turning back to Arthur. “The map of the siege tunnels, Sire. It’s missing.”
Arthur asks after the apprentice boy just as a young knight arrives at the gates. Sir Edrid has been on patrol the last few days, and the grim expression on his face brings bad news if ever Leon has seen it. He pulls the knight aside.
“Sir Leon. When we passed them, there was agitation on the borders of Lot’s kingdom. Near where the Southrons have been reported. But my lord, that's not all. We heard whispers from the villagers that the lady Morgana had been seen in the area. Whispers only, my lord, but their descriptions of her were credible.”
Leon thanks Sir Edrid and dismisses him, turning back to Arthur. Arthur is already looking at him.
“Tonight we feast for Guinevere,” Arthur says. “Tomorrow, we ready the men.”
Leon nods.
Though Leon tries to keep the mood light out of respect for Guinevere, the tension at the head table is palpable. The round table knights have all been read in on the situation, and there are enough of them sitting at the head table to keep the mood sombre. Lancelot sits to Leon’s left, with Arthur to his right, and beside him, Gwen, Elyan and Gaius make up the rest of the table. Merlin is the only one managing a smile as he flits around the head table, pouring wine into goblets, and watching like a hawk as servants bring over new dishes. Arthur keeps glancing over to Leon, and every time he does, his face goes grim and thoughtful.
While there are things of more import happening around them, he knows Arthur hasn't forgotten about his magic, nor their conversation.
Leon had spoken of his early feelings around his magic, of the fear of corruption, the growing realisation that his magic felt like a warm hug. He spoke of his time with the druids and of what he had learnt since then. He spoke of how it has been of use, and what more he could do with it.
In turn, Arthur had asked thoughtful questions and listened intently. But he had otherwise spoken little himself, giving no indication of his thoughts on the whole matter.
Merlin brings over a tray of food, reminding Leon of the feast arrayed before them.
“Ah!” Arthur exclaims, sounding as pleased as Leon’s heard him all night. “My favourite. Herb-crusted caper.”
As he goes to reach for them, Merlin tugs the tray away with a laugh. “Easy now, we don’t want any more holes in that belt.”
Percival spits his drink out where he sits at the edge of the closest table, a laugh bubbling out. Leon’s only glad he wasn’t drinking himself as something approaching an inappropriately loud snort comes out of his nose. Gwen doesn't bother to hide her amusement, and her ringing laugh echoes through the hall.
However, Arthur is less pleased. A grumpy “ha ha,” slips out of his mouth, and he grabs Merlin by the jacket, pulling him in close.
Leon is close enough to hear his muttered words.
“Merlin,” he hisses. “It’s a good job you don’t have anything of any actual importance to keep a secret, isn’t it?”
He catches Merlin’s eye, and Leon has to turn away to hide a laugh at the irony of the statement. Unfortunately, he only manages to meet Lancelot's eyes, instead, which are lit up with the same mischief Leon feels, and it takes only a moment for his lips to twitch and a laugh to fall from them.
On the other side of Gwen, Gaius joins them, just as Arthur glares and stares down the table at them. “I feel like I’m the butt of some great joke here.”
Gwen pats his arm. “I don't quite understand what's so funny there either, Arthur.” Her voice, though kind, is just condescending enough that he knows she’s only saying so to make Arthur feel better.
The sight of their king pouting at being the butt of the joke is a welcome one, a hint of their camaraderie here in this hall, for all to see, and it only makes them all laugh harder. Merlin is near falling over, clutching the side of Arthur’s chair, his eyes sparkling when he looks at Leon.
The laughter dies in his throat as he stares at Merlin, entranced by the sight of him.
But then a guard enters the hall and heads straight for the head table.
“Sire,” he says, “there’s a fire in the lower town. The warning bells have not been rung.”
Leon jumps in before Arthur can pull himself away from this happy occasion. “I will go,” he says, and turns to the others. “Lancelot and Elyan, too. We’ll report back when the fire is contained.”
Arthur seems likely to argue for a moment, but Leon won’t back down, not tonight. Tonight is a night for merriment for Arthur and Gwen, and with trouble looming, it may be the last they'll see for a time. Arthur deserves this moment.
The fire has spread far by the time they arrive, covering buildings and the ground as they run through the streets. They lost Lancelot somewhere in their journey to the lower town. It’s far too close to the gates for Leon’s liking, and he runs down to get it in his line of sight before anything else.
“We need more water!” Elyan yells. “Now!”
But something catches Leon’s eye, and dread coils in his gut. “Forget about the water.”
“But if we can’t—”
Leon grabs Elyan by the arm roughly and points at the army walking through their streets. Already through the gate. Too late for them to do much of anything at all.
Camelot will fall tonight. Tomorrow would’ve been too late to make preparations.
“How did they breach the gate?” Elyan asks, distantly, as he draws his sword.
Rolling his shoulder back, Leon takes a deep breath, focuses on his magic, and lifts one arm, palm facing the ground. He feels the fires surrounding them in his mind's eye, feels the magic of the earth they gobble up in their wake. Feels the way they dance and sing, feeding on everything in sight, wood and homes and hay and food that his people need. He finds each and every one, holding the magic of them in his mind.
He drops his arm, and with it douses every fire he can get his hands on at once. Every light in his surroundings goes out at once, plunging the lower town into darkness. Not even the advancing Southrons' torches stay lit.
Camelot will not burn just yet. Not while he has the strength to stop it. Dread coils in his gut as he watches the army advance. The darkness will give them cover to get as many of her citizens out as possible.
“We can’t worry about that yet,” he tells Elyan, as the knight exclaims, his name and something else lost in the roar. He turns to Elyan, feeling the fire still burning in his eyes. “Quickly. Sound the alarm!”
He draws his sword as he turns to face the invading army, only a handful of knights at his side.
The warning bells start to ring and Gwen’s head snaps up from where it had been watching the darkness spread over Camelot, the fires going out.
Arthur gets to his feet, just as the doors fly open, and Gwaine enters the room. “Sire! We’re under attack. They’re within the city walls.”
Dread coils in her gut as Arthur pulls her up with one arm. He’s frowning, and she has only a moment to blink before his lips crash into hers, and he’s pulling away, to bodily hand her over to Merlin.
As Merlin’s arm comes to grip her side, Arthur pulls a sword from somebody whose name Gwen doesn’t know and hands it off to Merlin, pulling off his cape as he does.
As Merlin's grip on her doubles, Arthur turns to him, now every bit the commander she knows him to be in battle. “Merlin, I don’t have to tell you, you guard her with your life. Get everybody to the inner chamber.” Then he looks down at her, and there’s such a resignation in his eyes, Gwen aches with it too. “I love you,” he tells her, simple and heartbreaking.
“I love you too,” she says, like it's the last chance she’ll ever have to do so. Maybe it is.
“Yes, Sire,” Merlin says, and then his voice rises above her. “Everybody follow me.”
She’s pushed gently forward to lead the way into the inner chamber by Merlin, and the last view she gets of Arthur is him leaping over the table, pulling his sword as he barks orders.
She’s becoming far too used to the sight of his back as he goes off to battle.
Bodies pour into the chamber, knights already down and injured, castle staff suffering from the smoke, too many wounded, too few ready to stand and fight or help the injured. Gwen flits between people, bandaging wounds and handing out water.
They know it’s Agravaine. He doesn't need Gaius to tell him that. But Agravaine means Morgana, and she is a much larger problem.
He’s got to find Arthur. But as he looks over at Gwen, he thinks of the promise he made, and that vow to Arthur tugs at his chest.
Gwen catches his eye. “Go!” she mouths at him, knowing exactly what’s in his eyes already. “Find him.”
Merlin turns and runs for the doors.
Arthur directs his knights to spread out, keeping only a few with him as they make their way through the castle, cutting down body after body of invading southron warriors. He has to get to the front, to the town, to the keep. Has to find out what’s happening. How this happened.
They’re overwhelmed too quickly. Even in the dark, the fledgling group of knights Leon has is overwhelmed quickly. But Lancelot has arrived, and the two of them fight side by side, planting their feet, and giving their people as much time as possible to get out.
The floor runs slippery with blood, and there’s a small pile of southrons at their feet, but it’s not enough, not enough. He has to keep stopping to put out fires the Southrons' light, and as another one flares, he catches sight of a man cutting through his knights like butter.
He’s not sure how he knows. Maybe it’s the steely determination on his features, or the way the army moves around the man, but he knows the man coming towards them is Helios, the famed swordsman.
“We can't hold them for much longer!” he yells to the knights behind him. “Lead the people to the woods!” He throws off his nearest attacker and turns, starting the run backwards. “Retreat! Retreat!”
Lancelot doesn’t follow. He catches sight of the knight planting his feet and staring down Helios, but he has no time to stop him, no time to make him follow.
His people come first.
Fire lances down his back as a southron gets a good hit down his side, and Arthur stumbles as he takes the man down, before heading down the corridor, intent on getting to the keep.
Only an arm grabs his, and he’s thrown. The world turns to a blur as his back hits stone, and Merlin’s familiar well-worn jacket hits his cheek.
“Been hiding in the broom cupboard as usual, Merlin?” he quips, mostly because if he pretends things are normal, maybe he won't feel like his kingdom is crumbling before him.
“We need to get out of here,” Merlin yells, and shoves him down the corridor. He tries to fight, but the arc of pain down his back ruins that plan, and it’s only a moment before Merlin grabs him again and they’re running, smoke filling his lungs.
Running helps the pain at least, and he brushes off Merlin’s concern, leading the way through the halls of the castle as they arrive at the keep.
He hits the column too hard and grunts as pain lances his side, forcing the breath from his chest. He has to take a moment to catch it again.
“Maybe a broken rib or two,” he says offhandedly, before turning and seeing the situation in the keep.
His blood runs cold as he watches the army walking through his kingdom, but it’s not the sight of Morgana or Helios that has ice flooding his veins.
It’s Agravaine, walking next to them, sword red with blood as he strides confidently through the destruction of his kingdom.
He knew. He did. Arthur had realised in bits and pieces and watched the way his uncle tried to play him like a fiddle. He’s listened to those around him, and he’s seen it himself. But he didn't believe it. Not completely. Not truly. Doubt still lingered in his heart.
He remembers being five years old, while his uncle read to him at night. He remembers Agravaine sparring with him as a squire, a proud grin on his face. He remembers the summer he spent out there in Tintagel, running through the castle, and listening to his uncle's tales of his mother. He remembers the sadness that had overtaken his uncle, remembering her.
He hadn't believed his uncle would betray him. Not in his heart.
But the proof is right in front of him.
It’s only Merlin’s hand on his shoulder, strong and unyielding, that keeps him from running out to confront them.
Somewhere along the way, Leon had run out of the energy to keep putting out the fires. It was all he could do to keep putting his feet in front of him, as he herded as many people out of the lower town and through the forests as he could.
So now, as he stands on the hill on the outskirts of Camelot, he watches as the castle burns behind him.
“Quickly!” he yells at the people. “Go on!” But his eyes are only for Camelot, the place he’s called home for so long now. The place he’s defended all that time, as she burns.
Merlin, Arthur, Gwen, and the knights. They’re all still there. And he has no clue whether they’re alive.
He doesn’t know whether he’s gotten all these people out, only to have them picked off one by one in the woods by the southrons. Whether they’ll have a king to follow again. All he knows is that what remains of the kingdom he’s bled for is scattered throughout the woods here, and he can keep them alive at least.
Even if he failed in his duty in every other way.
Chapter Text
Arthur hangs limply from Percival’s arms, and Merlin’s hand is a vice around her wrist as the four of them run through the woods. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong with Arthur, more than his ribs and the loss of his kingdom.
He didn't even fight them. He didn't fight to bring Gwaine and Gaius with them. He didn't fight not to leave Camelot.
As they reach the road, a body comes careening out of the woods, and a sob lances in her throat as Elyan’s face appears, a grin stretching across his lips. She doesn't hesitate to throw her arms around him.
“Elyan!” she exclaims, as his arms wrap around her, steadying her and holding her close. This, at least, is a good thing. To find Elyan out here, know that at least for his moment, he’s safe.
But as he lets go, she catches sight of Arthur, staring back at Camelot. Elyan and Percival begin to run, and Gwen watches as Merlin smiles and, in a kind voice, says, “Come on, Arthur.”
When he turns, his face is blank and vapid; none of the pain and rage she expects.
Something's wrong!
She grabs Merlin’s wrist as they run. “What happened to him?” she hisses.
Merlin just shakes his head, and they start running again.
But they’re being followed, and they lose Percival, and she screams as Elyan stays behind, and still they’re running, her and Merlin holding an arm each of Arthur’s as she leaves behind everything she’s ever known.
Enough of the people brought food with them that, between them all, they have enough for the next few days. Longer, if the knights hunt enough to supplement it. Leon’s taken charge of their little settlement, ensuring everybody has family or friends around them, the elderly and the young have support and that what wounds they can treat are being done so.
A group of knights have gone out to hunt, and another roams the forests around them, on the lookout for any Southrons who may catch sight of their little camp. They’re hiding out in one of the larger caves around Camelot, one with a back exit that will take them further into the kingdom if need be.
But he doesn't want to go too far. He wants to keep them here, near Camelot, because leaving feels too much like accepting they won’t get their kingdom back, and Leon’s not ready for that just yet.
Not till he gets confirmation.
Not till he knows whether Arthur is alive or dead. Whether he— they made it out alive.
They’ve had no word. No sign of any other survivors from the castle. Even the castle itself is quiet. The sentries he sent out reported that, though patrols had been running all through the night and through the next day, they found only one prisoner. They couldn't make out who it was, only the red cloak of a knight.
That the patrols are still running gives Leon some measure of hope. Hope that they’re out there looking for Arthur, looking for the other knights too. Hope that they’re not all languishing in the dungeons, or worse.
The call of his name draws Leon’s attention back to what he can deal with at the moment,
The agony of the nathair is like nothing Elyan’s ever felt before. It’s all-consuming, unending. Every single nerve in his body is on fire and under ice at the same time, the pain sharp and hot and never-ending, and Elyan only hopes he’s held out a long time.
It could have been hours or only minutes that he screamed and screamed. It went on forever and for no time at all, the pain tearing him down into little strips until he felt like there was nothing left of him at all.
He held out long enough that he’d voided his stomach, his bowels, his bladder, and all the air in his lungs, and he still held out until even his own will bent.
He yells out Ealdor, and whispers a prayer for Gwen, before the darkness consumes him.
Gaius wipes the rag he’d pulled off his robe across Lancelot’s brow, the heat coming from it concerning him greatly. The deep wound to his thigh is still sluggishly producing blood when he checks the makeshift bandages, and the skin around it is hot and feverish.
He doesn’t think Lancelot will last more than a few days, and even that may be too long.
Helios had smiled as he brought him in personally, throwing Lancelot’s body onto the hard stone.
“He fought well,” he had smirked, the words cruel. It had taken all his strength to keep Gwaine from rushing the man.
Having Elyan added to their cell in similar condition only worsens worries.
Arthur follows Merlin like a puppy, doing as he’s told and watching Merlin with a childlike deference.
As they stumble through the woods, Arthur dressed like an utter simpleton, and Merlin giving orders, Gwen waits for her chance to get Merlin alone. She sees it when Merlin goes on to check on something before them, telling Arthur to wait.
She tugs harshly on his jacket, forcing him to stop and look at her. “What is wrong with him, and do not lie to me, Merlin,” she says, forcing an authority she still struggles with into her voice.
Merlin flicks a glance in her direction, but he doesn't look at her properly, and even before he’s started speaking, she knows it’s going to be more lies that fall from his lips. “I— You know he—”
“Merlin,” she demands, tugging him again, forcing him to look upon her. To lie to her face. “Tell me the truth.”
“Gwen…” he says, and there’s such guilt in his eyes, and such a depth of regret. “He wouldn't leave the castle willingly, you know that as well as I do.”
“So what?” she asks, before it dawns on her, Merlin’s strangeness, his newfound friendship with Leon, all the many, many little weird things she’s noticed about him over the years. “You— You have magic? You did this to him?”
“It was the only option, Gwen,” he says, grabbing hold of her wrist. “The spell won’t last forever, but it was all I could think of to get him out of the castle. He would’ve died if he hadn't left.”
She narrows her eyes, only years of watching Merlin run after Arthur keeping her from panicking. “What did you do to him?”
“I only… made him more suggestible. It’ll wear off, probably while he sleeps.”
More suggestible. He has no will of his own. Gwen looks at the man she loves for his brave heart and his unyielding dedication, and sees only a shell of him. A body with no will of its own, bar what Merlin gives to him.
She tries to find some kind of response, when the slide of metal at her neck silences her effectively.
Percival! The sight of the knight being escorted to him draws a smile to Leon’s face, and he jogs over, meeting him in the middle of the cave and beating him firmly on the back as they embrace.
“Aren't you a sight for sore eyes,” he says, pulling back so he can grasp Percival by his large biceps and check him over for injuries. He finds none.
“I lost Arthur, Merlin, Gwen and Elyan in the woods. We were being pursued by Southrons, but I don’t know what happened to them. They were heading to a village called Ealdor, beyond the white mountains, when I lost them.”
Leon nods. “I know of it. Merlin’s village.” He looks back at the camp before him, all these people, too many of them injured or old, or too young. “We can’t move them all out there.”
The resignation in Percival’s eyes tells him he knows the same. That they can't go after their king. They must stay here with their people. Keep them safe.
He sends Percival off to get some food, and makes his way out to the mouth of the cave.
It’s been a day and a night since Camelot was taken. Still, there has been no word of anything.
They had sent a couple of volunteers out this morning to one of the nearby villages, and they had not heard word that Arthur was dead; only that Camelot was under the control of Morgana.
It’s something at least.
Gwaine will sing for his supper if that's what Morgana requires of him. He’s done it before. He’s done it for tavern owners, warlords, and slave traders. He’s done it for kings, too. If a little sword action is what it takes to get food for Gaius, Elyan and Lancelot, then so be it. One of them needs to do so.
It may as well be him.
A simpleton.
He feels it at the moment, sitting by the fire, Tristan and Isolde curled up together, while he and Merlin sit by the fire. Gwen is curled up against him, her head resting in his lap, a position that at any time would be indecent for two who are unmarried, but it brings him enough comfort that he lets it be.
Merlin had branded him a simpleton, and Arthur doesn't have it in him to argue with it.
The Simpleton King, that’s what they should call him. Too stupid to see the betrayal of his sister or his uncle.
“You knew,” he tells Merlin. “You knew Agravaine was betraying me. You were sure.”
Merlin looks at him, but Arthur only stares at the fire. He feels more than sees Gwen shift closer to him, her side pressing against his.
“I couldn’t be sure,” Merlin says, and Arthur shakes his head sharply. He was the one who couldn't be sure. He was the one who never believed it. Merlin knew. Leon knew.
“Don’t do that,” he says, sharply. He doesn't want Merlin to make him feel better. All this time, Merlin had been his true friend. And all this time, Arthur had doubted him, as he’s always done. Merlin is always right. “I feel like such a fool. I put such trust in him. All this time, I was blind to his treachery as I was to Morgana's.”
“You were deceived, Arthur. That could happen to anyone.”
“Yet it keeps happening to me. I cared about these people. I… don't understand. What have I done wrong? Why do they hate me?” It must be hate. There must be something in him to hate. Something dark and awful.
“No, they don't hate you. They just… crave your power for themselves.”
“Perhaps. Would they still want that power if I were the king my people deserve? Maybe Tristan's right—”
He thinks of Leon. Leon hating himself, thinking he was being corrupted. Leon, finding the strength to stand up to him, to Camelot’s laws, when he felt an injustice was being done. He thinks of himself, too cowardly to do anything about it. Too cowardly to make a decision. Instead, he’d put it off, buried himself in marrying Gwen, as if that would put the issue further away.
“Tristan was angry and… afraid,” Merlin says, looking over at the two curled up together. They look peaceful like that. In love. “He needed to blame someone, but it's not you who's to blame.
“You seem very sure about all this.” He wishes he had Merlin’s certainty. Merlin has always been certain of him. Certain that he will be a great king. Certain that he will do the right thing in the end.
It would be easier if he could have Merlin’s certainty. If he weren’t so mired in doubt and grief. The Simpleton King.
“All I know is that, for your many faults, you are honest and brave and truehearted, and one day you will be the greatest king this land has ever known.” There it is again, that certainty Merlin has in him. Belief that he’s never understood. At his feet, Gwen curls up a little further into him, and he runs a hand down her hair.
He smiles a little. “Well… good to know I have the support of my servant at least.”
“I'm not alone. Believe me.”
They lose four people overnight. One to fever, two from their wounds, and they lost a knight to the sword of a Southron. Even with the hunting they’ve been doing, food will grow scarce over the next few days. He organises an extra hunting party and sends out a group of civilians to scavenge for edible plants with a guard.
It helps a little. But more than anything, he wants to know what to do. Soon — within the next few days — they’ll need to decide whether to go or stay. Whether to split the people up within villages, try and slot them into a life they can claim for themselves, somewhere they’ll be fed and safe. The knights will be harder. They’ll have to be sent to various lords and holdings; try to rally up a force to retake Camelot. Whose banner they will fly under will be the work of meetings and political squabbling, and will take too long, leaving their people to die in the meantime.
Though Leon is currently the leader of their settlement, they’ve cobbled together a council of knights and leaders among the people. It helps to have others to split duties between, and to have a sounding board for his thoughts, for what is to come.
They’re all worried. The sound of children's laughter echoing in the caves is perhaps the only thing keeping their fears at bay. Keeping them from losing hope entirely. Too many fights have broken out, and too many people have fought over rations so far. They’re spread too thin, trying to keep scouts, patrol, hunting parties and order within the cave.
But they’re managing. For now.
Too close to the castle for safety, and in too close quarters to be comfortable, but they’re managing.
Revealing his magic to Agravaine is terrifying.
But killing him? Merlin doesn't like to kill. He takes no pleasure in it. But there’s a certain satisfaction in seeing the cause of so much of Arthur’s recent uncertainties lying dead on the ground, killed by the magic he has hidden for so long. There’s a freedom in it.
He knows his magic will come out sooner rather than later. Arthur knows of Leon’s, and Gwen knows of his.
It's bound to happen.
So he gets used to the idea of it and breathes in the power of his magic, remembering that it is a force to be reckoned with.
Not even a High Priestess stood against him.
Arthur’s worry for him puts a smile on his face, and though Arthur plays off his little slip that he couldn't face losing Merlin, he knows deep down that Arthur really means it.
As Elyan’s strength returns, Gaius and Lancelot get worse. Gaius loses his strength quickly, and Lancelot’s fever worsens. He weakens by the hour, and Elyan worries they will lose him. And soon.
Lancelot mumbles in his sleep, thrashing weakly against the stone at his back. His wound has stopped weeping blood, but it stands red and inflamed, weeping a thick white mucus that Elyan knows isn’t good.
Lancelot may not make it out of this. Not as the days seem to grow longer, and rescue seems further away than ever.
As they make camp for the night out in the forest, having left the tunnels far behind them, Arthur helps to collect firewood to make everything go quicker. The sooner they can return to Camelot, the better. Even if he has little hope of finding survivors.
The sooner he can sleep, the easier it will be to hide from the swirling thoughts in his mind, the eddies of guilt and betrayal and the blinding knowledge of his own inadequacy.
“Well, well, well, look at you,” Tristan says, a cruel note in his voice. “First, you go back to rescue your servant; now you're getting your hands dirty. But then again, why shouldn't you? You're just like everyone else. There's nothing special about you, is there?”
He says it like Arthur is going to argue with him. Perhaps a matter of days ago, he would’ve. Before he lost his kingdom. “Well, maybe you're right. Maybe I don't deserve to be king.”
“Well, that's all right, 'cause you're not. Not anymore.”
It sends a hollow pang through him. Those words, spoken so simply, and yet true. Truer than he’s really accepted yet.
The Simpleton King, a king no more. King only of his own stupidity.
He turns his back on the camp and heads up the bluff, hoping for a measure of privacy to lick his wounds.
“Arthur,” he hears behind him, Gwen following along. He promised her a castle and a kingdom, and all she’s got is pain and suffering, being separated from her brother and forced to run for her life.
“Arthur,” she repeats when he doesn't turn to face her.
It makes him a coward, but he whirls on her, his anger and pain lancing to a point. “Don’t,” he snarls. “Just don’t.”
She doesn’t stop, though. She advances on him with two quiet steps, a hand out. “Don’t push me away when you’re hurting, Arthur. Maybe I never got the chance to make my vows before the kingdom, but they’re still as true as they would be if I had got the chance. Let me share your burdens.”
The fight goes out of him as Gwen's hand closes on his wrist. Her hands have always been rough, well-worn with calluses that come from hard work. He loves them, reminding him that though she is no knight, her service is no less worthy or necessary. If he wishes to share his kingdom with her, then how can he not trust her to carry some of his burdens? But he has never wished to burden her.
He speaks before he even knows he’s decided to. “Leon has magic.”
Gwen's grip tightens on his wrist, but she doesn’t respond, simply waits. He tilts his head to look at her as the silence goes on. There’s something there… “You already knew.” It’s not a question.
She draws him closer and tugs him down with her as she sits on the edge of the rise they just came over, knees tucked into her side as she shifts her grasp, so she holds his hand now. Arthur lets her arrange him as she wishes. “I suspected,” she says, before adding when he glances sideways at her, “Strongly.” A small smile graces her features. “But I couldn’t be sure.”
“He says… He tells me that there is no corruption in magic. That magic is a tool that could be used for good, too, if only we let it. He showed me a little knight made of fire.” he smiles at the memory. “It was a little wonky and not a very good swordsman, but it was… it was fun to watch.”
Leon had blushed red as the swordsman had turned back into regular fire and then fizzled out, embarrassed at losing its shape, but somewhere in amongst his exhaustion and anger had been amusement at the sight. Something he’s seen out on the training grounds a hundred times, from one of the young men still learning.
“I don’t know how to reckon all I’ve ever known against what he told me — what he showed me. I didn't even know,” he says, tugging his hand out from Gwen’s. “My own knight, my First Knight, one of my closest confidants, and I didn’t even know that he had magic and had been sneaking off to practice it. I’ve been so blind.”
Gwen stands. “Did you know what was in Morgana's heart?”
“I thought so,” he answers, thinking of the young girl he knew, fierce in her determination to learn how to wield a sword, sticking up for those who can’t do so.
“Did you know what was in your uncle’s heart?”
He doesn't answer, and that is answer enough. As a child, he loved his uncle. As an adult, he did so too. But he was always just a little closed off. He never really thought his uncle truly loved him. Desperate for his approval, he remembers being a child.
“Do you know what’s in Leon’s heart?” Gwen asks again.
This, he’s more sure of. He remembers Leon speaking on injustice. He remembers his anger at the death of that young girl, Esther. The way he fights for the people of Camelot. The hand he’d lain on Arthur’s shoulder, so he remained at Gwen’s party.
He doesn’t answer Gwen, but it seems he doesn’t need to. She kneels for a moment, places a kiss upon his brow. “Arthur, he was your family. The only family you had left. Of course you didn’t want to believe he would betray you.”
She stands and leaves him be
They lose Lancelot as the day turns to night.
Elyan begs at the bars for water to clean his wound, for a physician, for bandages, anything to help him as lines of illness grow in Lancelot’s leg and his breath wheezes in his chest. The guards standing at the door to their cell ignore him.
They all ignore him, even as bruises bloom on his knuckles from hitting the gates, and his knees grow red with blood from where he knelt on the stones for so long.
Lancelot chokes on a breath, and when the next one doesn't come, Elyan scrabbles across the floor to get to him.
Asleep in the cot, Gaius clutches the mouldy bread in his hand, uneaten, and Gwaine…
Gwaine sits against the wall of their cell, just watching. Still and silent as his eyes stay fixed on Lancelot’s prone form, unmoving. He hasn't moved since being returned to the cell. Gwaine ate the bread in small bites and said nothing since.
Tears drip down Elyan’s face as he grabs Lancelot's body, and holds his head in his lap. “Stay with me, pal,” he sobs, as Lancelot’s chest rises and falls once more. “Just another breath. One after another, come on. Just one more.”
He waits, and waits, a sob sticking in his throat as he holds Lancelot, and he waits for just another breath.
And waits.
And waits.
“He looked at me like I was worth something,” Gwaine says, voice hollow. “He looked at me like I had something to contribute. Something more than swinging a sword or a quick lay. Something more than what I could do for others.”
“He was the best of us,” Elyan sobs, stroking Lancelot’s dirty hair back from his forehead. There’s not going to be another breath in his chest.
“Come on, I'll take watch,” Merlin tells Arthur, dropping down next to where he’s sitting alone against a tree. Arthur doesn't respond, and he doesn’t look away from the fire. “Arthur, what's the matter? Don't listen to Tristan, he doesn't know you.”
“I trusted the wrong people.” Arthur’s voice is hollow, lost. He sounds hopeless. Normally, at this point, Merlin would try to rib Arthur a little, perhaps nudge him or make a joke, but he can sense that’s not the thing to do today.
He shakes his head. “They betrayed you. That wasn't your fault.”
“No. I was a fool. I misjudged everyone… my uncle… Morgana. Every decision I've made has been wrong.”
“You are being too hard on yourself.” If Merlin could take this pain from Arthur, he would.
“I should be more discerning, wise. A statesman, a king. Tristan's right, there's nothing special about me. I'm just like everyone else.” If only that were true, perhaps Merlin could’ve saved himself some pain along the way. But he’s known for too long now, that there’s something in Arthur found in very few other people. Something strong and true. Something good.
“You're not. You're a worthy king.” But as he says it, he knows it won’t be enough.
“I didn’t even know about—” Arthur cuts himself off and shakes his head.
“Leon didn’t want you to know,” Merlin says, and when Arthur doesn't even flinch, finding out Merlin already knew, he knows it’s bad. Worse than it’s ever been before. “Your people love you,” he tries.
“Most of them are dead. Thanks to me.”
But Merlin doesn't believe that. Leon was down in the lower town. He has to believe he got them out. Got himself out, too. “No, most of them escaped. They'll be here in the forest, I'm sure of that.”
“Well, if they are, they'll have to find themselves a new king,” Arthur says and gets up and walks away.
Merlin despairs, feeling that pronouncement like a knife to his chest.
No. They won't have to get themselves a new king. Merlin will just have to remind Arthur that he’s the king they deserve to have. He has to remind Arthur why he’s followed him for so many years. He’s the other side of Arthur’s coin, and as a plan forms in his mind, he remembers why that is.
He’s going to need the help of an old friend for this one.
Nobody comes to take away Lancelot’s body.
Chapter Text
“Sir Leon!” The call rings through the camp, waking Leon from a sleep. Years of battle readiness have him blinking awake and reaching for his word without question.
“Sir Leon,” the knight repeats, jogging through camp towards him.
“What is it?” he asks, crossing the distance.
“It’s Merlin, sir. He’s waiting outside for you.”
The knight hardly finished speaking before Leon’s breaking out into a run. He sprints through the camp, dodging sleeping people, guards standing watch, and packs and limbs hanging into the paths, but he pays them no mind.
Merlin is here.
The dim light of the moon reaches his eyes first, and then he sees him, a frown edging his face and neckerchief wrapped firmly around his neck, standing there in the moonlight, a little tired looking but all in one piece.
Alive! And only a little worse for wear for it.
He stops short at the exit of their cave. “Merlin,” he breathes out. “Is Arthur—” is all he gets out before Merlin’s lips are crashing into his own, and his arms are circling Leon’s neck.
He staggers back, holding tight onto Merlin’s elbows and returns the kiss for a long moment, his eyes slipping closed, even as his cheeks grow red at the knowledge of their audience. But Merlin’s here and he’s okay, and Leon ignores them, focusing instead on the hot line of Merlin’s body pressed up against his own, and how soft his lips feel.
Merlin pulls back just as abruptly. “Arthur’s fine— We’re—” he stops to stare for a moment, before taking a deep breath. “Arthur, Gwen and I are okay. But what of the others?”
Leon shakes his head. “Percival is with me, but we’ve had no word of any of the other knights, nor of Gaius or Geoffrey.” Merlin’s shoulders droop. “But it heartens me to know that you are all safe.”
With a nod, Merlin reaches out to grasp Leon’s hand, drawing him further from the mouth of the cave, and the ears of the knights on watch. “I need your help,” Merlin says, as they come to a stop underneath a tree. “Arthur has lost faith in himself. He says he will no longer be king.”
His hand clenches around Merlin’s wrist at his word, but he doesn’t interrupt, lets Merlin keep talking. Merlin draws his hand into his grip.
“I have a plan, though. Sort of. And I need you to get everyone to a certain spot in the woods, sometime in the early morning. Arthur is going to— I just need everyone there, so I can show Arthur that his people are alive and well, and that he deserves to rule this kingdom.”
Leon nods. “I can do that. Just show me where, and I will see everybody safely there by morning.”
Nodding, Merlin tugs him along, heading through the thick trees of the Forest of Ascetir. His hand is a firm weight in his own, and Leon won’t give it up without a fight. “Percival said you were heading to Ealdor when you got separated?” Leon asks.
“We made it there. Picked up a couple of smugglers to travel with us along the way. Agravaine found us there, but he’s dead now.”
Leon turns sharply at that. “Dead? How?”
Without turning to look at him, Merlin says, “I killed him. In the cave, the same system of caves we met the druids in all that time ago. It’s not the first time I’ve killed for Arthur.” The knowledge that it won’t be the last goes unspoken, but Leon can hear it in there.
He doesn't tell Merlin it will be okay or that he did the right thing. They both know that it is what it is. In this respect, he treats Merlin as he would any of the other knights, sure in the knowledge that their watch will continue, and the deaths on their hands will number many more in service of their king and kingdom.
They come to a stop in a clearing not too far from their cave. In the middle of it perches a rock, and from that rock, a sword plunged deep within it. He can feel power in the sword. Power not unlike that of Merlin or the Great Dragon, but condensed, focused. Not so much a blaze of fire, but a concentrated ray of sunlight.
“That’s Excalibur. A sword forged in Kilgharrah’s breath. We made it for Arthur to wield, and Arthur alone. Lancelot and I used it to empty the Cup of Life of the blood of Cenred and Morgana’s armies, and after that, I placed it out here. I wanted Arthur to be able to wield it when he was ready, but for no other to be able to wield it. I intend for him to pull the sword tomorrow, with all of Camelot watching.”
Leon takes a deep breath as Merlin’s words wash over him. A sword of that power… Arthur will do well to yield it. And perhaps, with the right encouragement, it will remind him of his right and his duty.
“I will make sure we all arrive. Have the people spread out, across the hills here, ready to remind their king why they follow him.” He can see it in his mind's eye, the red capes of his knights, side by side with the townspeople, appearing from the valley, ready to honour their king.
Merlin crooks a small smile and turns back to Leon. “I have to get back before they realise I’m gone.” Leon nods and steps closer. “Tomorrow, we’ll see each other again.”
A smile spreads across his lips. “Tomorrow,” he agrees, and leans down to share one more kiss with Merlin before departing.
It’s easier than he expected to get the people moving. They leave behind some of the elderly, the wounded and the children, and some to watch over them before departing for the woods. In the end, Leon decides to bring all the food that can be spared, perhaps in the hope they will be making a play for Camelot after this. If Arthur's hope can be restored… they will be in for a chance.
The wait for Arthur and Merlin to arrive takes little time. In the end, he hears Arthur before he sees them.
“No, I’m calling you an idiot,” he’s saying, and it brings a smile to Leon’s lips, which he shares with Percival. Things are apparently just as usual, if Arthur’s bringing out that tone with Merlin. But he holds his hand up, keeping the others from moving just yet. Footsteps grow nearer, and he waits till they stop before he signals for the group to move.
And there, in front of him, as he walks over the rise, is his king. Alive and well. Merlin’s grin is wide as he stares at them all.
Arthur catches his eye, and Leon nods, just once.
Merlin and Arthur have a whispered conversation. Merlin is resolute and sure, and Arthur, for once, is the party that seems smaller. He sees what Merlin means. Perhaps Arthur is wearing his usual mask, but he can see the cracks in it. The way Arthur balks from their attention. He keeps looking between the sword and Merlin, clearly needing to be convinced, and Leon waits with bated breath.
But Arthur pulls his sword and forces it into the ground at Merlin’s feet and walks up to the rock.
It’s the perfect time of day to do it. The morning sun is warm and bright, and it creates shafts of light where it dances between the trees. Arthur stands poised in one, his hair radiant and golden, shining almost as bright as the sword itself, as he takes its pommel in both hands.
For a long, drawn-out moment, he wonders what Merlin’s playing at, as the sword doesn't budge when Arthur takes a good, long pull on it. His shoulders shake with the effort of it, and his face goes red as he pulls and pulls and nothing happens.
He can hear Merlin speak from here. His voice is quiet, but carrying a weight that sends it across the clearing.
“You have to believe, Arthur.” Arthur shakes more, doubling his attempt to pull the sword from the stone. Leon’s hesitance grows as he watches. “You're destined to be Albion's greatest king.” Arthur steps back, and something in him sharpens, the man he knows settling back into his skin. “Nothing, not even this stone, can stand in your way.”
Arthur steps forward, and this time, he wraps only one hand around the sword, holding it as he would his own blade, as if drawing it not from stone, but from his scabbard.
His heart settles and Leon sighs, knowing exactly what is to come. Arthur is returning to himself, and his king will pull that sword from that stone, proving to them all here that he is the king Camelot deserves.
Arthur closes his eyes. “Have faith,” Merlin says, and Leon knows that everybody in the clearing with them has faith, too. He knows it.
With one long, smooth tug, the sword slides from the stone, as if it were never stuck fast at all. He holds the sword aloft, above his head, looking at it in awe, and Leon feels that same awe deep inside his chest.
A laugh that’s more a sigh bubbles out of his chest at the sheer strength of his pride, and he feels much as he did watching Arthur’s coronation.
“Long live the King!” he cries, and Arthur’s people join him in the chorus.
“Long live the King!” they chant as tears gather in Arthur’s eyes, and Leon knows deep within his heart that they will get Camelot back. For their king, they will do the impossible.
“Long live the King!”
Chapter Text
Leon follows behind Arthur as the others all make camp, here near the outskirts of Camelot, closer than they’ve dared to tread yet. Arthur is revitalised. Full of confidence and ready to storm Camelot. Despite Percival's protestations and negative attitude, he knows they will do so, and he knows they will all go willingly.
What they witnessed in the clearing… they will all willingly face down hell for Arthur.
“Arthur, even if we can get inside, she has an army,” Percival says as he, Merlin and Arthur walk through the new camp.
“And we have, what? A few hundred?” Arthur replies, a smile on his face. He keeps swinging his fancy new sword, like a kid with a toy.
“And they still outnumber us.”
“Yeah, but only three to one,” Arthur replies, and Leon snorts at his flippant tone and the arrogant grin on Arthur’s face.
Then the woman who’s been travelling with Arthur, Merlin and Gwen speaks up. “And do you think they'll fight?”
“Well, they'll fight for Arthur,” Leon says, perhaps a little sharply. But he doesn't know this woman, and she doubts his knights, all of whom he has trained and fought with. They will fight, and they will fight for Arthur. Their pride in Arthur is just as strong as his own, and the clearing had been so thick with it, it felt like something real and tangible. Like he could reach out and grab that pride with his hands. They will fight for Arthur.
“It's not me they have to fight for. It's for Camelot.” Arthur says, and Leon can’t let that lie. Not while the weight of his magic still lies between them, and he’s seen just the impact Arthur’s return has had on everyone. Gone is the reticence and the apathy of the last few days. Gone are the people’s worries and their fears.
Their king is here, and he has come to reclaim their home.
“No, Arthur,” he returns. He catches Arthur’s eyes and holds them, making sure he understands. “It is you that people love, and you that they will lay down their lives for. I know that I would ride into the mouth of hell for you.”
Arthur nods in return, and his eyes flit away from the intensity of Leon’s own, but he knows Arthur has heard what he’s saying. That’s enough.
“And I,” Percival agrees.
After a long moment, Merlin surprises him by speaking up too. “And I.” Leon smiles at him. He knows Merlin is equipped to handle himself. He knows Merlin fights like a knight. And he hopes Arthur remembers that, and cherishes it.
Arthur draws his sword, and he looks back at Leon. “Into the mouth of hell it is.”
Merlin finds him late into the night. Leon is taking watch, perched with Camelot in his sights. Tomorrow, they will do their best to retake Camelot. They will fight for her freedom, and hope all their friends come out for it.
“Do you want to hear something funny?” Merlin asks as he leans in close to Leon.
He’s pressed down the side of him, warmth radiating through his jacket. Despite his skinny nature, Merlin is always warm to the touch. Perhaps it comes with being a dragonlord. The fire of a dragon contained within one man. Perhaps that’s why his magic seems like such a raging inferno.
Leon looks sideways at Merlin, and shifts his arm so Merlin's body is pressed against his, but gives no other reaction.
“Morgana thinks Emrys is the old man, the old me, I mean. And she’s terrified of him.”
“Of the old Merlin with the crotchety voice and the bad temper? The one who stood on me?”
Merlin nods, and a grin spreads across his lips. “That one exactly. I was taught about an old way of robbing someone of their power. A talisman imbued with a spell, placed under a bed. So long as she sleeps there and my power is greater than hers, by tomorrow she will be powerless.”
“And what does that have to do with the old man?”
“Ah, well, I was thinking that it might unnerve her to catch sight of me in the halls of Camelot. See that her doom is wandering the halls.”
Leon ponders it for all of a moment. Devious and underhanded, sure, but Morgana has such power that she could render their efforts useless with a single spell. “Do you need any help getting into the castle?”
“I can get around better on my own,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “I keep an old robe stuffed in a hidden corner of the castle. Hopefully it's still there.”
He quirks his lips but doesn't comment. Merlin slinks off, and though he feels a spike of worry to have Merlin in danger, he lets him go, knowing Merlin will do this no matter what.
Instead, Leon stays on watch and awaits his return.
Merlin is gone for a couple of hours, but he does indeed return, and return unharmed. He slips in next to Leon again. “You should’ve seen the look on her face when she saw me. Went even paler than usual. Morgana won't be a problem for tomorrow.”
“Good. Get some sleep.” Leon leans over and plants a lingering kiss upon Merlin’s brow, before sneaking a quick one on his lips.
“You too,” Merlin replies, and wanders off to Arthur’s campsite.
In the end, the plan to retake Camelot goes off without a hitch. Knights fight alongside the townspeople, donning whatever weapons they can scavenge, and Leon leads a group of men through the halls of Camelot. It goes well.
Mostly.
He leads his group of men through the Southron armies and meets up with Percival along the way to empty the dungeons. They find Elyan in decent health, Gwaine weak, but nothing a little sleep and some good food won’t fix, and a Gaius alive, though not in good health.
Finding Lancelot’s body with them is a shock.
Elyan tries for light-hearted. He hears the quip he makes about living with Gwaine for a week, but there's a strained quality to his voice, and as Leon moves to get his arm under Gwaine, he doesn't miss the looks Elyan keeps darting in his direction.
The body on the floor — Lancelot, dear gods — is in rough shape. Long gone by the looks of the grey cast to his skin, and the smell coming off him. God, and Elyan, Gwaine and Gaius have been living with it— him. This spectre of their now dead friend.
But as he looks at Percival and Elyan supporting Gaius and Gwaine, who are struggling to stand, he knows they have to leave Lancelot behind and hope nobody touches his remains till Camelot is theirs.
One doesn’t leave a brother in arms behind, but there’s nothing of Lancelot left in his remains.
He looks over his shoulder just once before they stagger out of the dungeons to find Arthur.
It was easier than Arthur expected to make his way to the throne room. The Southrons number greater than them. But still not enough to pose a significant risk, not with the swords Arthur has in his stead and by his side.
And this new sword of Merlin’s is really quite good. The balance on it is excellent, and it’s sharper than he’s expecting, but for all that, it shows no signs of being too weak. Not even the expected nicks from armour or other swords.
Remarkable.
“You know, this thing’s not bad,” he tells Merlin as they stop for a moment before entering the hall. The commotion outside wouldn’t have been missed, but the pain in his ribs is enough that he needs a moment to breathe before he enters, even if it allows their adversaries to close ranks.
“Thought you might like it,” Merlin replies, a grin on his face.
And that’s as long as he allows for the moment to continue, as he takes one more deep breath and turns to the group.
“Ready?” he asks, without really asking. He turns back to the doors as a series of nods answers him. He just wants a chance to talk to Morgana. Even if he must fight his way through a hall full of Southrons to do so. He wants a chance.
“For the love of Camelot!” he yells, as he throws open the doors, stumbling inside a little at the sight that greets them.
No guards. Only Morgana and Helios, Morgana perched atop his fath— his throne, Helios lounging at her side. They look the very picture of indulgence, displayed like such, unbothered. The lack of guards is worrying, but he supposes Morgana doesn't need any guards. She’s powerful enough to kill them all herself.
“Welcome, dear brother. It's been far too long,” Morgana says, smirking. His sword droops at the lack of guards and the unconcerned way she gets up. “I apologise if you had a difficult reception. It's hard to know who to trust these days.”
It’s the voice she used to use for patronising old men and teasing Arthur. But twisted, made cold and angry. There’s none of the warmth she used to feel for him, even as they fought like cats and dogs. It makes him unreasonably sad to see. To know that she now looks at him with such hatred in her eyes, when they were once close. Maybe not close like brother and sister, but they had one another’s backs, even when the whole castle wished they hadn’t.
She stops mid-way through the hall, waiting for him to say something.
All of a sudden, he has no wish to fight her. No wish to bear arms against this woman who was once his friend. The only person in the castle with a hope of understanding the pressures on his shoulder. The only person who knew his father as he did.
He holds his sword up slowly, raising it, clutching it only between a finger and a thumb, before replacing it in his belt. Maybe he can talk to her. Get through to her. Maybe he’ll be able to see just a little of what he once knew in her.
He steps forward, stopping only when he’s close enough to reach out and hold her. He doesn’t, much as the urge does strike him. “What happened to you, Morgana?” he asks sadly. Her face changes, the hurt spreading across it clear as day. She may act unconcerned, but it seems their circumstances hurt her just as badly as they hurt him. “I thought we were friends.”
“As did I,” she replies, her voice breaking. Then something changes, and he knows he’s lost her. Knows the hate and the thirst for power have too strong a grip on her. Her voice hardens. “But alas, we were both wrong.”
“You can't blame me for my father's sins.” He has to try. Has to try once more. He doesn’t want to pull his sword on her. Doesn’t want to have this fight. Not when it could lead to his death. Guinevere's too— Merlin’s. He’s so tired of fighting. It’s all he’s done since he was little more than a boy. He was born and bred for it, but sometimes he still dreams of that farm in a small village with him and Merlin.
“It's a little late for that,” Morgana scoffs. “You’ve made it perfectly clear how you feel about me and my kind. You're not as different from Uther as you'd like to think.”
“Nor are you,” he says before wincing. He opens his mouth to try again, and words he didn't even know he decided to fall from his lips. “But I’m going to right my father’s wrongs, best I can. When I return to my throne, I will see magic freed in this land.”
It feels right. The right thing to do. He looks at Morgana, this spectre he’s built up on his head for over a year now, and knows that it’s not magic that did this to her.
It was fear. And hatred. And revenge.
She felt scared and alone when her magic came in, and when she learnt enough to be powerful, she turned that fear into hate. Hate for Uther, which he can’t blame her for. He was responsible for her fear. He can’t even really blame her for hating him. As far as she knows, he’s going to continue his father’s hatred.
But he knows now. He knows better. And he can see the choice he has to make here.
He can see that allowing magic to return to Camelot is the right thing to do. So no one else has to be scared like Morgana was. Like Leon was. Like the druid boy, like Esther.
Morgana recoils at his words, stumbling backwards.
“You lie!” she near screeches, pointing a finger right at his face. “You dare claim something so ridiculous to me? Me! Who has suffered more than anyone at the hands of Uther Pendragon? You dare—”
“My father’s hands,” he cuts her off. “Not my own. I have seen what magic can do. From you and others. I have seen and I have made my own decisions about magic. Not my father's, my own.”
Face twisting with rage, Morgana takes a step closer to him. “I’m going to enjoy killing you, Arthur Pendragon.” She steps back again, this time controlled and smooth. The movement of a predator, not prey. “Not even Emrys can save you now.”
So be it.
He tried. He's tried to reach across to her. To make her understand — to find something of the woman he once knew.
And though it pains him to do so, he draws his sword.
“Your blades cannot stop me,” Morgana laughs, and she steps back, a spell falling from her lips.
Only for nothing to happen. He waits, frowning as he watches her closely, waiting for… something. She lifts her arms and repeats the spell, stronger this time, but once again, nothing happens.
Her face falls, fear spreading across it. It pains something inside him to see her so spooked, but he puts it aside for the moment, and pastes on a cocky grin, something familiar from before the crown weighed so heavily upon him. “Not so powerful now, my lady.
As Morgana’s face falls more, that fear spreading wider, Helios pulls her behind him, and she turns, running from the room.
“After her,” he yells, and watches as Merlin and Gwen take off after her. He sends up a silent prayer for their safety. He focuses back on Helios, and watches as the man assumes a ready stance. Arthur crouches slightly and prepares to face this famed swordsman with two broken ribs to slow him down.
Merlin is dazed as they follow after Morgana. Perhaps that’s why he loses sight of her and Gwen so quickly.
Dazed from fending off her magic, and dazed from Arthur’s pronouncement. Dazed that Arthur just spoke words he’s wanted to hear nearly as long as he’s known him.
I will see magic free in this land. Simple words. Life-changing words.
But he can't afford to stay dazed so long as Morgana is still out there, Gwen on her heels. He follows the sound of their voices, and arrives just in time to hear the clatter of a sword falling and see Morgana pointing a sword right at Gwen.
He doesn’t think or stop to formulate a spell, just pushes and feels the rocks crumble as Morgana is blown back.
“What happened?” Gwen asks as he pushes past her to find Morgana. She’s breathing heavily.
But as the dust clears, there’s no sight of Morgana on the ground or otherwise, and he curses internally. “I did,” he tells Gwen simply as they survey the hallway. She shouldn't have been able to get up and leave so quickly. Not after that blast, but the ground is bare of anything but dust, and Gwen turns away.
He lingers a moment longer, but follows Gwen. They have to get back to Arthur.
Only when they do, they find not a happy sight, but Arthur slumped against a pillar, tears in his eyes, as he looks upon Tristan and Isolde lying on the floor together. Tristan holds Isolde, as Isolde holds her stomach in place. He can see the blood seeping from between her fingers.
He looks at Arthur, so wounded by the woman dying in front of him, and he thinks of Isolde, and her wide, ever-present grin. He thinks of her kindness and of how in love with Tristan she is. He thinks of Leon’s smile, and the way Leon stood so calmly and placed himself in harm's way for Elyan.
The Merlin of a year ago would let this woman die to keep his secret. The Merlin of a month ago would stand back and watch, knowing it would mean everything changes if he steps forward to heal her.
The Merlin of today has been changed like he never thought he could be by Arthur’s words.
I will see magic free in this land.
Merlin could stand by and watch Isolde die.
Or he could step forward, and reveal himself to Arthur. Reveal the greatest secret of his lifetime. That which has cause to hurt Arthur perhaps worse than he’s ever been hurt.
But he steps forward and trusts in the king he knows him to be.
He bends down beside them and moves to gently shift Isolde and Tristan’s hands from her stomach. His back is to Arthur. “Let me,” he says gently, and moves their hands upwards, to the top of her chest. It smears blood on her skin there, but they remain connected, holding on tight. “I have magic. I can fix this.”
He hears Arthur’s gasp, and he ignores it, resting his hands over her stomach and whispering a spell, imbuing as much power as he can into it. It’s not a spell he’s used before. It’s one he learnt from Morgana, though she wouldn't have known it was of use to him. It’s powerful, more powerful than any he knows. Isolde may have lost too much blood, but he thinks this is the best hope for her.
“Ic ðe ðurhhæle ðinu licsar mid ðam sundorcræft ðære ealdan æ. Drycræft ðurhhæle ðina wunda ond ðe geedstaðolie."
He feels, more than sees, the way the skin knits together under his hands. He only hopes that it heals all the damage inside, too. He doesn't know how to fix anything more than what he has. But under his hands, her skin pinkens, and a healthy flush enters her cheeks, and there, he finds Isolde’s blue eyes meeting his.
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” she quips, looking at him. A smile spreads across her face, and she looks up at Tristan, pure joy radiating from her, as Tristan kisses her soundly and thanks Merlin.
He stays crouched beside them, too cowardly to turn around and face Arthur before he says anything. He can see Gwen in front of him, and she’s staring at Arthur, waiting for something.
The silence stretches on, and even Tristan and Isolde look up at Arthur, though Isolde reaches out and grasps Merlin’s hand in his, giving him a kind smile.
The silence stretches so long Merlin starts to sweat, but he doesn't move. Not till Arthur says, in a strained voice, tight with concealed emotion, “Merlin, if you could do that this whole time, then why have I been walking around with broken ribs for a week?”
A smile breaks out across Merlin’s face as he coughs out the breath he’d been holding, laughter falling from his lips as he turns to Arthur. There’s no levity on Arthur's face. It’s too still, too blank for that. But there’s no anger there either. Merlin steps in close to him, and places a hand over his ribs, looking into Arthur’s eyes for permission.
Arthur looks at him for a long moment, before nodding.
Another spell, and Merlin watches as the tension leaves Arthur’s frame and he straightens, the pain from his ribs leaving him at once. He watches Merlin as he does so, and he doesn't thank him, but of all the nightmares he’s had about Arthur finding out about his magic, this is not one of them.
He knows there’s going to be questions. He can read it in Arthur’s face. It’s not acceptance, not yet. But there’s not the soul-crushing betrayal Merlin had expected. No anger either.
But it doesn’t set Merlin’s heart completely at ease either. Not till he knows Arthur forgives him for years of lies. The years of deceit.
The doors bang open again, and in pours the knights. Leon, Percival and Elyan all seem unharmed, and as well as can be expected, but Gwaine is slumped against Leon, and between them, Elyan and Percival are nearly carrying Gaius.
Gwaine groans as he spots them all unconcerned. “Did we miss all the fun?” he drawls.
But someone’s missing.
“Where’s Lancelot?” he asks.
Chapter Text
Leon stands vigil over Lancelot’s body for the rest of the day. He should be… doing something. Securing the castle, helping the knights rout out the remaining southrons, patrolling for Morgana, or at the very least following Arthur around the castle, ensuring his safety.
But he left Lancelot behind. He was the one who didn't force him to come. It was Leon’s fault that Lancelot faced down Helios on his own, and so he will stand here ensuring their downed friend isn’t left alone, even in death.
His body, along with the bodies of all the other knights lost in the fighting, have been brought out to the courtyard, rows upon rows of red capes laid out on the ground. Some of them aren’t even knights, but townspeople who fought with them to save their home. They will all be given the same honours. The mass funeral is set for the day after next, at dawn— enough time to find all amongst the rubble.
But Leon stands by Lancelot’s body, and he stands watch, vigil and guard over it throughout the afternoon.
He’s joined at times by the other knights, and by Merlin, Arthur and Gwen.
Arthur hasn't been able to look at the body. He stands out in the courtyard, surveying it, and his eyes skip over the mounds at his feet, every last one of them, but Leon sees the devastation in his eyes. Gwen stands by his side, tears streaking down her cheeks, but utterly silent. And Merlin… he runs through the courtyard, but his eyes never leave Lancelot’s body.
He had wept as they had told him the news. Curling in on himself and batting away the hands of any who came near.
It was only many hours later that he was seen again.
But as the day turns to night, Leon spots Merlin and Arthur walking through the courtyard, Arthur’s eyes pinned in front of him, not looking at the bodies, and Merlin's eyes darting in his direction, a forced cheer on his face as he babbles at Arthur.
“Leon!” Merlin calls and beckons him over with a wave. Leon surveys the courtyard, finding Percival and Elyan standing nearby and cedes his position. Before he does, he lays one hand over Lancelot’s chest and closes his eyes.
I’m sorry, he tells his friend.
He jogs to catch up with Merlin and Arthur as they head out, seemingly towards the training grounds. They pass a pile of bodies belonging to Southrons on the way.
As he catches up, he starts to hear part of their conversation, and it seems he is dropping in in the middle of it.
“I was never taught any of this, Arthur. I found I was to be a dragonlord on the same day my father died. I just…” Merlin trails off while trying to find the right words. Arthur nods as he falls into step with them. “I just know that Aithusa will have only stayed with Kilgharrah for a few days, the same way I know that dragons are meant to be free, to be independent. I just know it.”
“So it’s some instinct you have then?” Arthur asks, and Leon doesn't miss the anxiety that spreads across his face as he speaks. Long-held fears rising within him, the same that Leon fights every time he speaks on his own magic.
“I— yeah, I suppose that’s it. I just know things.” Merlin looks out at the training field rising in front of them, and something distant enters his eyes. They’re rimmed with red, and shining. Leon reaches out and grasps his hand, only to have it tugged away.
Merlin doesn’t look at him.
He aches. Just enough that Leon lets himself drift a little further out. He knows it’s not personal. The upheaval of the day, losing Lancelot and revealing his magic to Arthur, will take an emotional toll on him. He knows that.
It doesn’t quite stop the hurt in his heart.
As they come to a stop in the middle of the deserted training field, Merlin turns to Arthur. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.
Arthur snorts and turns away. “I’m sure, Merlin. I was the one who asked about the dragon egg in the first place.”
Ah, that at least explains how the conversation came to be. Not so much, why it needs to happen out on the training ground, and why Leon is here. But Merlin asked for him, so though he feels weighed down by the day’s fighting, and though he wished to continue his vigil, he will be here.
Merlin studies Arthur's face for a long moment before nodding and turning to the sky. Leon realises what he intends, a moment before Merlin calls, his voice turning low and husky and brimming with power.
“O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!" Merlin calls, or summons possibly. Leon isn’t entirely sure. The language isn’t one he’s ever heard before.
They wait silently. Leon watches Merlin and Arthur, noting the distance between them, the way Arthur keeps watching Merlin, eyes heavy. Merlin, in comparison, can't seem to keep his eyes on Arthur for longer than a moment. They keep darting away, looking around him, as if keeping watch for threats.
It’s not their normal easy friendship. Nor how they are when things are strained between them. There’s too much distance between them, like an insurmountable rift. But that Arthur asked… that he is here now… It will not be one left for long. Arthur will try. Try to push down the betrayal and the anger for Merlin.
After a long wait, the sound of wings flapping appears in the distance. Two sets of them. The heavy thud, thud, thud of Kilgharrah, and between them, a lighter, faster rhythm.
Aithusa has come too. It sets a smile on his face even though he can't see him yet.
Arthur turns to Merlin, his expression severe. “So I didn’t kill the dragon then?” he asks, tone imperious, but not carrying any anger or hurt, or at least none that doesn't seem completely feigned.
The guilty look Merlin shoots him answers every question, and Leon laughs as Arthur rolls his eyes and looks heavenward. “This is how the rest of my life is going to feel, isn't it? Is there any part of it you haven’t had a hand in?”
Merlin thinks for a moment. “Your father married that troll all on his own.”
The two dragons touch down right as Leon breaks out into laughter, and Arthur groans.
The ground shudders in their wake, reminding them all of exactly how momentous this occasion is, and Leon straightens, turning to face Kilgharrah and Aithusa.
Kilgharrah seems much larger here in the training fields of Camelot, than he did out in the clearing. Perhaps it is that, standing tall, he is nearly as tall as the castle itself. Or perhaps, it is how small Aithusa looks in comparison. The young dragon is dwarfed by Kilgharrah, so small he could fit under one of the Great Dragon’s paws.
“I see you were successful in raising Arthur’s spirits,” Kilgharrah says in greeting. Arthur startles at the sound of his voice, reaching for the sword at his side, and remembers feeling much the same way the first time he heard the dragon speak.
Merlin inclines his head. “I could not have done so without your assistance in the matter. Thank you. I’d like to formally introduce you to King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot,” Merlin says, and gestures to Arthur, who steps forward, seemingly of no accord of his own.
This, at least, is one conversation Leon is happy to stay in the background of.
Arthur nods his head, a very slight bow, to Kilgharrah.
“The Once and Future King,” Kilgharrah muses, staring fixedly at Arthur. “Are you ready to listen? To move past the sins of your father and fulfil your destiny?”
“I’m trying to.”
Leon’s eyes are caught by Aithusa, snuffling at the ground under Kilgharrahs' paws, nose searching for something in the grass. He can’t help but send a little rustle of air to caress the young dragon’s back, and is pleased by the answering shiver running down the little dragon's spine. The sound of the others speaking drifts off as he focuses on the little dragon.
Aithusa lifts his head, and his eyes lock on Leon immediately, the little dragon leaping across the field to get to him. Leon braces himself, unsure what the reception will be, but Aithusa comes to a stop in front of him and arches his back, wings shaking a little as if in pleading. Leon laughs and does the same thing, running a wind down his spine, before searching for the little dragon with his magic.
Fire brims within the little dragon, excited and eager, like a pup. He does something he’s never tried before, and runs his magic along the shape of Aithusa’s as if he were running a hand down his spine. He feels that same warmth he feels deep in his chest when he performs magic, but this time it comes from outside of him.
With a loud caw, Aithusa jumps, and his heavy weight lands against Leon’s side, knocking the wind from him. The only reason he doesn’t fall to his feet is the steady hand he lays on one of Aithusa’s back spikes. Laughter falls from his lips at the hopeful look Aithusa gives him. “Did you like that?” he asks, running another magical hand down the shape of Aithusa’s magic.
A sound nearly like the purring of a cat starts up, and Leon takes the hand steadying him on Aithusa and runs it down the dragon's back in time with his hands.
“Did a dragon just adopt you, Leon?” Arthur asks, reminding him of the others around him. Leon looks up at Arthur and, upon noting the reflective smile on his face, he laughs.
“It seems like it,” he says and punctuates the statement by running another hand down Aithusa’s back. Aithusa’s legs give out on him, and the dragon crushes Leon’s foot under its heavy mass.
Despite the curse that falls from his lips, he runs another magical hand down the little dragon and basks in the feeling of Merlin’s laughter and the gentle smile Arthur has on his face.
The funeral for all the fallen knights, and Lancelot, is a sombre affair. Nearly the entire city turns up for the burning.
Leon stands back with Elyan, Percival and Gwaine. At the head of the procession, Arthur and Gwen stand alone, Merlin their shadow.
He’s no longer sure where Lancelot’s body is in the pile. The pyre is so large, and the bodies number so many that after a while, he couldn’t keep them straight in his mind. Is Lancelot there on the right, the body closest to the castle? Or is he in front of Arthur? Or had Leon lost track earlier, and he’s somewhere near the bottom?
It doesn't really matter. All that matters is that their comrade in arms, their friend, their brother is dead. And none of them could’ve done anything to stop it.
“I begged them for medicine,” Elyan says quietly. “Just as I begged Morgana for respite from the pain of the Nathair.”
“You couldn’t have done anything,” Leon says quietly. “You were locked in the dungeons. It was I who left him to Helios’s blade.”
“He wouldn’t have come,” Percival says. “When we met, he planted himself between a raiding party and myself. I had been wounded and was of little help. Even when I yelled for this stranger to leave, he stood and he faced them down. It was not in his nature to run from a fight.”
“He was a stubborn bastard,” Gwaine says, and a sad smile lifts Leon’s lips. He hadn’t known Lancelot as well as he wished he did. Perhaps if Leon had never developed magic, he would’ve continued to think of Lancelot as the noble, stalwart man he first met. The one who did his duty without question, honourable and sure.
And not as the man with a wicked smirk, and a playful streak Leon hadn’t had cause to see beforehand.
The stench of burning flesh never gets any easier to bear. It never becomes familiar. How can it, when one knows so intimately what it is that fills the nostrils? A man’s friends, brothers, but more than that, simply other people. Someone once met on the field of battle, someone young or old, someone unlucky, or someone sick. Someone who should never have been there in the first place.
The sound of Gwen’s weeping fills the courtyard as the smoke burns high into the sky. Fear has cost this kingdom too much. But as Arthur silently takes Gwen’s hand, he has hope that it will not cost the kingdom more.
Days pass. Leon finds himself looking for Lancelot in council meetings, and across the training field. He hadn't realised just how much he was relying on the other knight to support him. He finds himself looking to Elyan to fill that gap. Elyan the faithful, whose fidelity to this kingdom held out against hours of torture, as they have come to find out. Hours of the worst pain imaginable.
His chambers are near enough to Leon that he knows the other man wakes screaming some nights in remembered pain. Some nights, Leon sits with him. Other nights, Gwaine or Percival do. They keep the knowledge of it from Gwen and Arthur.
Merlin and Arthur walk through the castle on each other's heels. Some days, they remain locked in Arthur's chambers, the occasional sound of yelling ringing down the hallway. On those days, Leon stays close by and keeps the guards far from hearing. There has been no proclamation made about magic yet. There has been no word passed in council meetings.
But other days, Merlin and Arthur are found walking through the halls, side by side, easy grins passing between them.
Leon wishes he shared the same with Merlin, but instead, he finds Merlin’s eyes turn from him swiftly, nervous and worried. He knows not what it is Merlin worries about. The man is so damned hard to track down. He slips through the corridors of Camelot like smoke, impossible to hold down or follow, disappearing down cracks and long forgotten hallways.
He hopes it’s grief. The loss of Lancelot and the loss of his easy friendship with Arthur. Until such a time as Merlin decides to grace him with his presence, he stays close, passing smiles Merlin’s way, and leaving trinkets at his door. A scrap of fabric to tie around his neck, a loaf of bread, a small sweet. Gaius smiles at him each time he does so.
The physician is still weak, and he spends much of his day in bed. The ordeal took a lot out of him. A man of his age should never be made to last so long without water or food.
So when Gwen’s coronation arrives, a month after the funeral, the castle rejoices at the chance to celebrate. The halls are clear of debris, and rebuilding is once again steadily underway. Leon itches to use his magic to help, but he knows it’s not yet time.
The halls become filled with flowers, and they send parties out to hunt and scavenge to prepare a feast. He ducked his head into the kitchen just the other day to find Cook practically singing as she danced through the kitchen, barking orders and buzzing in excitement. Everyone seems thrilled for Gwen and excited for the chance to celebrate.
When he spots Merlin outside the hall, dressed in a new jacket fitted to his size – finer clothes than Leon’s ever seen Merlin in — his breath leaves him in a punch at the sight before him.
“You should wear this all the time,” Leon says reverently as he comes to stop before Merlin, mostly unaware of their audience.
Merlin blushes red as he turns to Leon. “Gwen had it commissioned for me,” he mumbles, and Leon gives in to the urge to reach out and take his hands.
Distantly, he hears Elyan shushing Gwaine, and he feels a hand pound against his back, but he has only eyes for Merlin. The padded Pendragon red, knee-length jacket is nicer than Merlin’s usual clothes, and Leon feels the same way he did seeing Merlin adorned in a knight's cloak at the sight of him.
Red does wonders for Merlin.
Were it not for their audience, Leon would lean down to kiss him, but he’s not quite so self-assured to do so. But it doesn’t stop him from gazing into Merlin’s eyes as they meet his own, the blue of them so blue against the red of his cheeks, and lit up by the late morning sun streaming through the windows.
“I’ve missed you this past month,” Leon says, squeezing Merlin’s hands.
“I—” Merlin starts, but he stops, seeming unable to find the words.
Leon shakes his head. “You don't have to explain or apologise. I only wish to remind you that I am here to share your burdens.”
Merlin smiles a happy, hopeless smile and squeezes Leon’s hands right back. “I needed time.”
“I know.” Leon really does know. No matter the hurt he felt this past month, he understands that Merlin needed time. He just… He doesn’t want to waste any more time. He wants to grasp Merlin by the hands and not let go. He wants to drag Merlin around the castle on his arm. He wants to hold him in his arms. Perhaps speak his own fears into Merlin’s ears.
“Arthur’s going to announce it at the feast.” Merlin doesn’t say what it is, but Leon knows without it being said — the reason why they would find shared joy, and why Merlin and Arthur have spent so many days stuck to one another's side. Joy fills his heart at the prospect that soon they’ll be free. Properly free.
But then the doors open, and Leon lets go of Merlin’s hands with a final squeeze so they may make their way into the hall.
Gwen is resplendent in a purple dress with fine lacing and beading. She walks with a smooth, steady grace, just as worthy as any noble woman to walk down the aisle. More worthy, perhaps, for her part in freeing Camelot.
She kneels at the head of the dais, and Arthur’s smile is just as radiant as Gwen's as he gazes upon her. As she raises her chin, though Leon can see little of her face, he can see the girl he once knew in this woman in front of him. The same intensity she put into ensuring he tied his laces and breeches properly, she holds in her now. That same tilt of her chin, familiar and beloved.
“By the sacred laws vested in me,” Arthur says, holding a beautiful crown of gold and jewels. Arthur’s voice is thick with pride. “I crown you Guinevere, Queen of Camelot.”
As they kiss and Arthur places her in front of her throne, he leads the room in a chorus.
“Long live the Queen!”
Though Leon joins in gladly and with gusto, he knows no voice is louder than that of Elyan.
“Long live the Queen!”
Chapter 28
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The great hall is filled with laughter throughout the feast. Gwen and Arthur sit at the centre of it all, grins across their faces as they hardly look away from one another throughout the entire evening. Their joy is infectious, and the hall is filled with it, the people all grateful for the crowning of their new queen.
Merlin stands behind them, a jug in hand, but he has done little through the evening. The happy couple only have eyes for one another and not the food.
But as the night begins to wind down, Arthur stands once more. The hall has already been led in a round of cheers for Gwen, but this time, when Arthur stands, his face is solemn. Anticipation runs down Leon’s spine, and his eyes fall upon Merlin as they share a secret grin.
The hall falls silent.
“For as long as I have lived, Camelot has undertaken a reign of terror on those with magic. My father, though he was a strong king, was wrong in his beliefs about magic.” No one dares speak, though he’s sure many of the nobility present are balking in their seats. He knows his brother is somewhere in the hall, though as Leon hasn't seen him, he must be far from the main table.
“I have watched what his hatred of magic has done to this kingdom. And I have aided him in his cause, believing him right. But I have learnt and been shown time and time again that he was mistaken. Magic is a tool. And its practitioners deserve the same rights all other citizens of Camelot hold. To be judged not for their circumstance, but for their actions. The right for their crimes to be judged. And the right to live in peace.
“Magic offers us resources, and defending against its practitioners uses copious amounts of resources. Resources that can be put to better use keeping our people fed and clothed.
“That is why I intend to lift the ban on magic.” Whispers break out across the hall. Near the doors, he hears a shout, but it's hastily muffled and suppressed.
“The process will not be quick, and it will not be simple. It will involve more than rewriting old laws. New ones will need to be put in place, and the minds of many changed. But it is a cause I believe in, and one I feel will be to the benefit of all Camelot’s citizens.”
Leon locks eyes with Merlin across the hall, and he watches as mischief spreads across Merlin’s face. He mouths one word at Leon and cocks his eyebrow.
With an answering grin, Leon delves within himself to that well of magic and draws it forth. He watches as Merlin whispers, and as his eyes flare gold, he lets his own magic fly free, remembering the shape of Aithusa and Kligharrah, and he lets little fiery versions of them materialise in the middle of the hall.
Exclamations of surprise break out in the hall as the four dragons of fire fly around the room, circling the tables and letting out little plumes of flame. Merlin’s are a little better than Leon’s, swift and practised and sleek. His own flicker around the edges, and they don't move so quickly, but the beauty of them is still there.
Some of the shouts are in anger, others pure surprise, but amongst them, he hears awe. A pleased awe, to see magic performed openly once more in the halls of Camelot.
People look around for the source of them, but neither he nor Merlin raises a hand. The only testament to their actions is the rings of fire in their eyes, and it’s easy enough to put that down to the fires surrounding them in the hall, lighting the night.
Distantly, he hears Arthur speak again. “Long has magic protected Camelot, even now, when to do so would mean the death of those who wield it. Camelot will once again welcome magic into its hall, so we may repay what has been freely given.”
He only has eyes for Merlin, though, and the joyous smile on his face as he watches their dragons dance through the hall.
Leon feels it too. Pure joy, to know that someday soon they will be accepted for who they are. With a grin, he turns to his king and queen. And sets crowns flaming above their heads.
It’s that joy that sends him down to the lower town the next day in search of an artist. And that joy that later follows him back to the knight's quarters in search of Elyan.
It’s that same joy that has him hanging around the courtyard, waiting for Merlin to arrive. He should have gotten his message by now and be near.
And just as Leon starts to get truly anxious, Merlin appears at the top of the stairs, and as he walks down them with a hop, his eyes search for Leon. In answer, he steps out from behind the fountain and strides across the courtyard to Merlin. He keeps his hand behind his back.
“What did you wish to speak to me about?” Merlin asks, coming to a stop in front of him.
Leon takes a deep breath and reaches out with one hand to grasp Merlin’s.
“I find my mind lost to thoughts of you every day. Thoughts of how you are doing, whether Arthur is treating you well, and whether you’ve slept enough. Thoughts of running my hand through your hair, or of your eyes. Thoughts of how your laugh brings a smile to my face, and how, when a crease appears between your eyebrows, I wish to smooth it out. Thoughts of your deeds, your bravery, and your humour.”
Merlin’s cheeks have reddened as Leon has spoken, but he hasn’t pulled his hand away, nor hidden himself away. Instead, there is hope blossoming on his face. The same hope Leon feels worming its way into his heart.
“I wish to extend to you a token of my affections, and extend to you a fervent wish to court you, openly, and before the kingdom.”
He can see out of the corner of his eye that Gwen and Arthur have arrived in the courtyard, but they hang back, standing at the top of the stairs.
Leon brings his other hand from behind his back and presents Merlin with the same staff he had grown from a trunk all that time ago. He’s had it appointed in shades of green and brown, and reinforced it with magic. Elyan has tipped both ends in heavy iron, and wrapped around the middle, supple leather provides a handle.
Merlin gasps as he catches sight of it, and his hands reach for the staff. “It’s beautiful,” he breathes out, running his hands up and down the carvings. He holds it gingerly, as if the staff is something precious and cherished already.
Leon waits as Merlin admires the staff, and he waits as Merlin looks up at him, and breathes out, “Thank you.”
He waits as Merlin looks back at the staff, and then turns to Arthur and Gwen and holds it aloft.
He waits as Arthur raises his eyebrows and gestures meaningfully with them.
Merlin whirls around, and in a rush, he says, “Yes,” and surges up to kiss Leon.
Of their own accord, Leon’s hands wrap around Merlin’s waist, and he draws him close, pressing them chest to chest as he deepens the kiss for a long moment, luxuriating in the moment, before he pulls away, smiling widely.
His grin only grows as Arthur brings his hands together, and the courtyard breaks out in applause.
It doesn't come easily. They spend much of their free time poring over old documents, from before the purge, learning about the old laws and rules that govern magic. They spend weeks in large and small council meetings, arguing with the nobility, securing their support and butting heads with those who disagree.
Every day brings a new battle, from Merlin taking over much of Gaius’s duties as the old man recovers his strength, and a small rebellion from one of their lords, to magic users throwing themselves at the castle, desperate for revenge on Arthur for what they see as a trick.
But it happens in bits and pieces. Iseldir and the rest of his druid tribe come to Camelot to assist in the writing of laws, and with it comes Camma. When he has a spare moment, Leon finds himself locked in the physicians' quarters, learning from Gaius and Camma how to use his magic to heal, and how to hone that strange ability he has to see within a person.
He and Merlin struggle to find moments to spend together. They spend every night they can tangled up asleep in Leon’s bed because it’s the only spare moment they can find to see one another.
It’s not enough, but he holds onto hope that things will settle down soon.
However, despite all the trials, the long nights and the headaches from reading small print, nearly a year to the day after it was announced, Arthur signs into law the new rules governing magic use.
And with them, he dubs Merlin his Court Warlock.
It’s a much more restrained ceremony than a coronation or even a knighting ceremony.
But Leon doesn’t miss the fierce pride in Arthur’s eyes, or the tears that fill Merlin’s as he pledges himself to his king and kingdom.
And as Arthur leads the hall in a round of applause, Leon makes sure that his voice rises above all others in the hall, and he does his level best to make bruises appear on his palms as he claps.
Merlin stands in front of the dais, a cloak of Pendragon red upon his shoulders, clothed in a deep blue doublet. He looks beautiful and every bit as powerful as Leon knows he is. And as his eyes seek out Leon’s in the hall, Leon lets every ounce of pride he feels shine through for Merlin, finally getting the recognition he deserves.
Merlin’s eyes when they meet him, and blue and watery, but light — so light — without fear to darken them.
Leon raises his arms, and showers the room in sparks of light and watches as Merlin laughs, and showers the hall with his own magic, joyous and free.
Notes:
Whew! There's five months of my life and about two years of thoughts finished! If you enjoyed the fic, please consider leaving a comment!
Also........ Listen, I'm not going to promise anything. I don't even know how I managed to finish this one. But like..... I've been having Sequel Thoughts. Sooooo no promises, but who knows ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
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